Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 54, No. 333, July 1843
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| Table of Contents | |
| Section | Page |
| Start of eBook | 1 |
| PART II. | 1 |
| ENGLISH MUSIC AND ENGLISH MUSICIANS. | 31 |
| PHILHELLENIC DRINKING-SONG. | 59 |
| THE PRAIRIE AND THE SWAMP. | 60 |
| THE ARISTOCRACY OF ENGLAND. | 71 |
| JACK STUART’S BET ON THE DERBY, AND HOW HE PAID HIS LOSSES. | 95 |
| CHAPTER II. | 105 |
| SCROPE ON SALMON FISHING. | 113 |
| THE WHIPPIAD, A SATIRICAL POEM. | 144 |
| CANTO FIRST. | 144 |
| CANTO THE THIRD. | 147 |
| CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES. | 151 |
| EARLY GREEK ROMANCES—THE ETHIOPICS OF HELIODORUS. | 154 |
| PAST AND PRESENT, BY CARLYLE. | 171 |
PART II.
“Have I not in my timeheard lions roar?
Have I not heard thesea, puft up with wind,
Rage like all angryboar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard greatordnance in the field,
And heaven’s artillerythunder in the skies?
Have I not in the pitchedbattle heard
Loud ’larums,neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?”
Shakspeare.
My entertainer received me with more civility thanI had expected. He was almost fashionably dressed;his grim features were smoothed into an elaboratesmile; and he repeated his gratification at seeingme, in such variety of tones that I began to doubtthe cordiality of my reception. But I could haveno doubt of the elegance of the apartment into whichI was shown. All was foreign, even to the flowersin the vases that filled the windows. A few bas-reliefsin the most finished style; a few alabasters as brightas if they had been brought at the moment from Carrara;a few paintings of the Italian masters, if not originaland of the highest value, at least first-rate copies—caughtthe eye at once: the not too much, thenot too little, that exact point which it requiresso much skill to touch, showed that the eye of tastehad been every where; and I again thought of the dungeonin the city, and asked myself whether it was possiblethat Mordecai could be the worker of the miracle.
Naturally making him some acknowledgment for his invitation,and saying some civil thing of his taste, he laughed,and said, “I have but little merit in the matter.All this is my daughter’s. Moorfields ismy house; this house is Mariamne’s.As our origin and connexions are foreign, we makeuse of our opportunities to indulge ourselves in theseforeign trifles. But we have a little ‘reunion’of our neighbours this evening, and I must first makeyou known to the lady of the fete.”He rang the bell.
“Neighbours!” said I; “all roundme, as I came, seemed solitude; and yours is so beautiful,that I almost think society would injure its beauty.”
“Well, well, Mr Marston, you shall see.But this I advise you, take care of your heart ifyou are susceptible.”
A servant announced that his mistress would attendus in a few minutes, and I remained examining thepictures and the prospect; when a gay voice, and theopening of a door, made me turn round to pay my homageto the lady. I had made up my mind to see oneof the stately figures and magnificent countenanceswhich are often to be found in the higher orders ofthe daughters of Israel. I saw, on the contrary,one of the gayest countenances and lightest figuresimaginable—the petit nez retrousse,and altogether much more the air of a pretty Parisianthan one of the superb race of Zion. Her mannerwas as animated as her eyes, and with the ease offoreign life she entered into conversation; and ina few minutes we laughed and talked together, as ifwe had been acquaintances from our cradles.
The history of the house was simply, that “shehated town and loved the country; that she loved thesea better than the land, and loved society of herown selection better than society forced upon her.—Onthe sea-shore she found all that she liked, and escapedall that she hated. She therefore lived on thesea-shore.—She had persuaded her fatherto build that house, and they had furnished it accordingto their own recollections, and even their own whims.—Capricewas liberty, and liberty was essential to the enjoymentof every thing. Thus, she loved caprice, andlaid herself open to the charge of being fantasticwith those who did not understand her.”
In this sportive way she ran on, saying all kindsof lively nothings; while we drank our coffee outof Saxon porcelain which would have shone on the tableof a crowned head.
The windows were thrown open, and we sat enjoyingthe noblest of all scenes, a glorious sunset, to fulladvantage. The fragrance of the garden stolein, a “steam of rich distilled perfumes;”the son of the birds, in those faint and interruptednotes which come with such sweetness in the partingday; the distant hum of the village, and the low solemnsound of the waves subsiding on the beach, made a harmonyof their own, perhaps more soothing and subduing thanthe most refined touches of human skill. We wantednothing but an Italian moon to realize the lovelinessof the scene in Belmont.
“The moon shines bright.In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gentlykiss the trees,
And they did make no noise—insuch a night
Medea gather’d the enchantedherbs
That did renew old Jason.”
As I glanced on the little, superbly dressed Jewess,sitting between her father and myself, I thought ofthe possibilities to come.
——“Insuch a night
Did Jessica steal from thewealthy Jew,
And, with an unthrift love,did run from Venice.”
We soon after had the moon herself, rising broad andbright from the ocean; and all was romance, untila party were seen coming up the avenue, laughing andtalking very sportively.
“I beg a thousand apologies; but I had forgottento mention that we have a small dance this evening,chiefly foreign, and, as you may perceive, they keepearly hours,” said Jessica, rising to receivethem.
“They are French, and emigrants,” addedMordecai. “All is over with them and theirsin France, and they have made the best of their wayto England, therein acting more wisely than thosewho have stayed behind. I know France well; the‘tigre-singe,’ as their countrymandescribed them. These unfortunates have beenconsigned to me by my correspondents, like so manybales of silks, or barrels of Medoc. But herethey come.”
I certainly was not prepared for the names which Inow heard successively announced. Instead ofthe moderate condition from which I had supposed Mordecaiand his pretty daughter, aspiring as she was, to havechosen their society, I found myself in a circle ofnames of which the world had been talking since Iwas in my cradle, if not for a dozen centuries before.I was in the midst of dukes, counts, and chevaliers,marechals and marchionesses, the patrons and patronessesof the Marmontels and D’Alemberts, the charmof the Du Deffand soirees, and the originalsfor the charming piquancies and exquisite impertinencesof L’Espinasse, and the coterieisme ofParis.
All that I had seen of the peerage of our haughtycountry was dim and dull to the gay glitter of thecrowd around me. Nature never moulded two nationalcharacters so distinct in all points, but the Frenchexterior carries all before it. Diamonds anddecorations sparkled on every side. The dressesof the women were as superb as if they had never knownfear or flight; and the conversation was as light,sportive, and badinant, as if we were all waitingin the antechamber of Versailles till the chamberlainof Marie Antoinette should signify the royal pleasureto receive us. Here was stateliness to the verysummit of human pride, but it was softened by thetaste of its display; the most easy familiarity, yetguarded by the most refined distinctions The bon-motwas uttered with such natural avoidance of offence,and the arch allusion was so gracefully applied, thatthe whole gave me the idea of a new use of language.They were artistes of conversation, professorsof a study of society, as much as painters might beof the style of the Bolognese or the Venetian school.
I was delighted, but I was still more deeply interested;for the chief topics of the evening were those onwhich public curiosity was most anxiously alive atthe moment—the hazards of the revolutionarytempest, which they had left raging on the oppositeshore. Yet, “Vive la France!” wehad our cotillon, and our songs to harp and piano,notwithstanding the shock of governments.
But we had scarcely sat down to the supper which Mordecai’shospitality and his daughter’s taste had providedfor us—and a most costly display of plateand pine-apples it was—when our entertainerwas called out of the room by a new arrival.After some delay, he returned, bringing in with hima middle-aged officer, a fine soldierly-looking figure,in the uniform of the royal guard. He had justarrived from France with letters for some of the party,and with an introduction to the Jew, whom I now beganto regard as an agent of the French princes. Theofficer was known to the whole table; and the enquiriesfor the fate of their friends and France were incessantand innumerable. He evidently suppressed much,to avoid “a scene;” yet what he had totell was sufficiently alarming. The ominous shakeof the Jew’s head, and the changes of his sagaciousvisage, showed me that he at least thought the evilday on the point of completion.
“Living,” said he, “at this distancefrom the place of events which succeed each otherwith such strange rapidity, we can scarcely judge ofany thing. But, if the king would rely more onhis peasantry and less on his populace, and more onhis army than either, he might be king of France still.”
“True!—true!” was the generalacclamation.
“He should have clung to his noblesse, likeHenri Quatre,” said a duke.
“He should have made common cause with his clergy,”said a prelate, with the physiognomy of one of Titian’scardinals.
“Any thing but the Tiers Etat,” was utteredby all, with a general voice of horror.
“My letters of this evening,” said Mordecai,“tell me that the fete at Versailleshas had dangerous consequences.”
“Ciel!” exclaimed a remarkablyhandsome woman of middle age, with the “airnoble” in every feature. “Pardon me,it must be an error. I was present. It wasthe most brilliant of all possible reunions. Itwas a pledge to the salvation of France. I hearthe sound of ’Richard, O mon Roi!’ inmy ear at this moment. When, oh when, shall Ihear it again!” She burst into a passion oftears.
The name was electric. All began that very charmingair at the moment. Sobs and sighs stole in betweenthe pauses of the harmony. Their rich and practisedvoices gave it the sweetness and solemnity of a hymn.Fine eyes were lifted to heaven; fine faces were buriedin their clasped hands; and the whole finished likethe subsidence of a prayer.
But madame la duch*esse was full of her subject, andwe were full of curiosity. We implored her togive us some idea of a scene, of which all Europewas thinking and talking. She required no importunity,but told her tale with the majesty of a Clairon.It was at first all exclamation. “O myking!—O my unhappy but noble queen!—Omy beloved but noble France! O Richard! Omon Roi!—Le monde vous abandonne!”She again wept, and we again sympathized.
“For weeks,” said she, “we had beentortured at Versailles with reports from the capital.We lived in a perpetual fever. The fury of thepopulace was terrible. The wretches who inflamedit constantly threatened to lead the armed multitudeto the palace. We were almost without defence.The ministers could not be prevailed on to order theadvance of the troops, and we felt our lives from hourto hour dependent on chance.”
“It was my month of waiting as lady of honour.I found the queen always firm; or, if she ever trembled,it was at the want of firmness in others. Shehad made up her mind for the worst long before.She often said to me, in those revolutionary nightswhen we sat listening for the sound of the cannonor the tocsin from Paris—’France isan abyss, in which the throne must sink. Butsovereigns may be undone—they must notbe disgraced.’ The world never possesseda more royal mind.
“At length an opportunity seemed to offer ofshowing the true feeling of the court to the army.The regiment of Flanders had come to take its tourof service at the palace, and the garde du corpshad sent them an invitation to a grand military banquet.There was nothing new, and could have been nothingsuspicious, in the invitation; for it was the customof the garde, on the arrival of any regimentat Versailles, as a commencement of mutual civility.The regiment of Flanders was a distinguished corps—butthe whole army had been tampered with; and the experimentwas for the first time a doubtful one. As if tomake it still more doubtful, the invitation was extendedto the national guard of Versailles.”
Every eye was now fixed on the narrator, as she wenton with increasing animation.
“Never was there a day of greater anxiety.We were sure of the garde du corps; but treacherywas roving through France, and the banquet might onlyproduce a collision. The entertainment, by beingin the opera salon, was actually within the palace,and all the royal suite remained in the royal apartments,in fear and trembling, during the entire day.
“But as the night advanced, the intelligence,which was brought to us every five minutes from thesalon, became more tranquillizing. The coldnesswhich had existed in the beginning between the gardeand the troops of the line had vanished, and loyalhealths, gay speeches, and charming songs succeeded.At length a gallant young lieutenant of the garde,in a fit of noble enthusiasm, cried—’Weall are the soldiers of France—we all areloyal, all are happy—Why shall not our kingwitness our loyalty and our happiness?’ The tidingswere instantly conveyed to the royal apartments.The king rose—the court followed. Weentered the salon. Oh, that sight!—sonew, so touching, so indescribable!”
Her voice sank for a moment. She recovered herself,and proceeded—
“The queen leaned on the arm of the king, thedauphin and dauphiness followed; Madame Elizabeth,that saint on earth if ever there was one, headedthe ladies of the court. All rose at our entrance;we were received with one acclamation. The sightis still before me. I had seen all that was brilliantin the courts of Europe. But this moment effacedthem all. The most splendid salle on earth,crowded with uniforms, all swords drawn and wavingin the light, all countenances turned on the king,all one shout of triumph, loyalty, and joy! Alas!alas! was it to be the last beat of the national heart?Alas! alas! was it to be the last flash of the splendourof France; the dazzling illumination of the catafalqueof the Bourbons; the bright burst of flame from thefuneral pile of the monarchy?”
Her voice sank into silence; for the first time unbrokenthroughout the room.
At length, to relieve the pause, Mordecai expressedsomething of a hope that the royal family slept inpeace, for that one night at least.
“I really cannot tell,” briskly said thefair narrator. “But I know that the ladiesof the court did not. As the king retired, andwe remained in the opera boxes to amuse ourselvesa little with the display, we heard, to our astonishment,a proposal that the tables should be cleared away,and the ladies invited to a dance upon the spot.The proposal was instantly followed by the officersclimbing into the boxes, and by our tearing up ourpocket-handkerchiefs to make them co*ckades. Wedescended, and danced loyally till daybreak.”
“With nothing less than field-officers, I hope?”said a superb cavalier, with a superb smile.
“I hope so too,” laughed the lady; “thoughreally I can answer for nothing but that the cotillonwas excessively gay—that our partners, ifnot the best dancers upon earth—I alwayshonour the garde du corps,”—andshe bowed to the captain; “were the most obligedpersons possible.”
“Ah, but roturiers, madame!” said a stiffold duke, with a scorn worthy of ten generations ofribands of St Louis.
“True; it was most melancholy, when one comesto reflect upon it,” said the lady, with anelevation of her alabaster shoulders to the very tipsof her ears. “But on that evening roturierswere in demand—popularity was every thing;the bourgeoisie of Versailles were polishedby their friction against the garde du corps.And I am sure, that if the same experiment, distressingas it might be, were tried in every opera salon inthe provinces, and we had longer dances and shorterharangues, more fiddles and fewer patriots, all wouldbe well again in our ’belle France.’”
“But—your news, monsieur le capitaine,”was the demand all round the table.
“I almost dread to allude to it,” saidthe captain, “as it may seem to contradict theopinion of madame la duch*esse; yet I am afraid thatwe shall have to regret this fete as one of the mostdisastrous events to the king.” He stopped.But the interest of the time overcame all other considerations.“Ah, gallantry apart, let us hear!” wasthe general voice; and, with every eye instantly fixedon him, and in the midst of lips breathless with anxiety,and bosoms beating with terror at every turn of thetale, the captain gave us his fearful narrative:—
“The banquet of the 1st of October,” saidhe, “had delighted us all; but its consequences,which, I quite agree with madame, ought to have restoredpeace, were fatal. It lulled Versailles into afalse security, at the moment when it roused Parisinto open rebellion. The leaders of the populace,dreading the return of the national attachment to ourgood king, resolved to strike a blow which shouldshake the monarchy. Happening to be sent to Parison duty next day, I was astonished to find every thingin agitation—The workmen all in the streets;the orators of the Palais Royal all on their benches,declaiming in the most furious manner. Crowds
of women rushing along the Boulevards, singing theirbarbarous revolutionary songs; some even brandishingknives and carrying pikes, and all frantic againstthe fete. As I passed down the Rue St Honore,I stopped to listen to the harangue of a half-nakedruffian, who had made a rostrum of the shoulders oftwo of the porters of the Halle, and, from this movingtribune, harangued the multitude as he went along.Every falsehood, calumny, and abomination that couldcome from the lips of man, were poured out by thewretch before me. The sounds of ’Vive Marat!’told me his name. I afterwards heard that he livedon the profits of a low journal, in a cellar, witha gang of wretches constantly drunk, and thus wasonly the fitter for the rabble. He told themthat there was a conspiracy on foot to massacre thepatriots of Paris; that the troops from the provinceswere coming, by order of the king, to put man, woman,and child to the sword; that the fete at Marseilleswas given to the vanguard of the army to pledge themto this terrible purpose; that the governors of theprovinces were all in the league of blood; and thatthe bakers of Paris had received an order from Versaillesto put poison in all their loaves within the next twenty-fourhours. ‘Frenchmen,’ exclaimed thislivid villain, tearing his hair, and howling withthe wildness of a demoniac, ’do you love yourwives and children? Will you suffer them to diein agonies before your eyes? Wait, and you willhave nothing to do but dig their graves. Advance,and you will have nothing to do but drive the tyrant,with his horde of priests and nobles, into the Seine.Pause, and you are massacred. Arm, and you areinvincible.’ He was answered by shouts ofvengeance.“I remained that night at the headquarters ofthe staff of Paris, the Hotel de Ville. I wasawakened before daybreak by the sound of a drum; and,on opening my eyes, was startled by lights flashingacross the ceiling of the room where I slept.Shots followed; and it was evident that there wasa conflict in the streets. I buckled on my sabrehastily, and, taking my pistols, went to join thestaff. I found them in the balcony in front ofthe building, maintaining a feeble fire against themultitude. The night was dark as pitch, cold andstormy, and except for the sparkle of the musketsfrom below, and the blaze of the torches in the handsof our assailants, we could scarcely have conjecturedby whom we were attacked. This continued untildaylight; when we at last got sight of our enemy.Never was there a more tremendous view. Everyavenue to the Place de Greve seemed pouring in itsthousands and tens of thousands. Pikes, bayonetson poles, and rusty muskets, filled the eye as faras it could reach. Flags, with all kinds of atrociousinscriptions against the king and queen, were wavingin the blast; drums, horns, and every uncouth noiseof the raging million filled the air. And infront of this innumerable mass pressed on a columnof desperadoes, headed by a woman, or a man disguisedas a woman, beating a drum, and crying out, in theintervals of every roar, ‘Bread, bread!’
“To resist was evidently hopeless, or only toprovoke massacre; but I had already dispatched anexpress to the officer in command at the Tuileries,to come and save the arms and ammunition depositedat the Hotel de Ville; and we expected the reinforcementfrom minute to minute. While my eyes turned,in this fever of life and death, towards the quarterfrom which the troops were to come, a sudden shoutfrom the multitude made me look round; a fellow, perhapsone of the funambules of the Fauxbourg theatres,was climbing up to the belfry by a rope, with theagility of a monkey. His purpose was seen by usat once, and seen with fresh alarm; for, if he hadbeen able to reach the great bell, the terrible ‘tocsin’would have aroused the country for ten leagues round,and have poured a hundred thousand armed peasantryinto Paris. I pointed him out to the guard, andthey fired a volley at him as he swung above theirheads. They missed him, the populace shouted,and the fellow, taking off his cap and waving it intriumph, still climbed on. I next fired bothmy pistols at him; which was the luckier of the twoI cannot tell, but I saw him stagger just as he plantedhis foot on the battlement; he was evidently hit,and a general yell from the multitude told that theysaw it too; he made a convulsive spring to securehimself, fell back, lost his hold, and plunged headlongfrom a height of a hundred and fifty feet to the ground!Another tried the same adventure, and with the samefate; three in succession were shot; but enthusiasmor madness gave them courage, and at length half adozen making the attempt together, the belfry wasreached, and the tocsin was rung. Its effectwas terrible. The multitude seemed to beinspired with a new spirit of rage as they heard itsclang. Every bell in Paris soon began to clangin succession. The din was deafening; the populaceseemed to become more daring and desperate every moment;all was uproar. I could soon see the effect ofthe tocsin in the new crowds which recruited our assailantsfrom all sides. Their fire became heavier; still,in the spirit of men fighting for their lives, we keptthem at bay till the last cartridge was in our muskets.But, at the moment of despair, we saw the distantapproach of the reinforcement from the Tuileries;and breathed for an instant. Yet, judge of ourastonishment, when it had no sooner entered the crowd,than, instead of driving the wretches before them,we saw the soldiers scatter, mix, and actually fraternizewith the canaille; a general scene of embracingand huzzaing followed, the shakos were placed on theheads of the rabble, the hats and caps of the rabblewere hoisted on the soldiers’ bayonets; andto our horror alike at their treachery and our inevitabledestruction, the troops wearing the king’s uniform,pushed forward, heading the column of insurrection.We fired our last volley, and all was over. Themultitude burst into the hotel like a torrent.
All our party were either killed or wounded.For the last half hour we had not a hundred men ableto pull a trigger against a fire from the streets,from windows, and from house tops, on every side ofthe squares. That any one of us escaped fromthe showers of bullets is a miracle. My own escapewas the merest chance. On the first rush of thecrowd into the hall, I happened to come in contactwith one of the leaders of the party, a horrid-lookingruffian in a red cap, who roared out that he had markedme for bringing down the citizen climber up the belfry.The fellow fired his pistol so close to my face thatit scorched me. In the agony of the pain I rushedon him; he drew his sabre and attempted to cut me down;but my sword was already out, and I anticipated himby a blow which finished his patriotism, at leastin this world. In the next moment, I was trampleddown, and we fell together.”I can of course offer but an imperfect transcriptof the brave guardsman’s narrative; secondedas it was by an intelligent countenance, and thatnational vividness of voice and gesture which oftentell so much more than words. But, to describeits effect on his auditory is impossible. Everycountenance was riveted on him, every change of thoseextraordinary scenes was marked by a new expressionof every face round the table. Sighs and tears,wringing hands, and eyes turned on heaven, were universalevidences of the interest excited by his fearful detail.Yet, unused as I was to this quick emotion among myown sober countrymen, I could scarcely wonder evenat its wildness. They were listening to the fateof all that belonged to them by affection, loyalty,hope, and possession, on this side of the grave.Every hour was big with the destinies of their king,their relations, and their country. On the eventshappening, even at the moment, depended, whether adeluge of blood might not roll over France, whetherflame might not be devouring their ancient castles,whether they might not be doomed to mendicancy ina strange land, wanderers through the earth, withouta spot whereon to lay their head, fugitives forever.Yet the anxiety for those left behind was of a stilldeeper dye; the loved, the familiar, the honoured,all involved in a tide of calamity, irresistible byhuman strength or skill.—All so near, yetall so lost; like the crew of some noble ship hopelesslystruggling with the winds and waves, within sightof the shore, within reach almost of the very voicesof their friends, yet at the mercy of a tremendouselement which forbade their ever treading on firmground.
But there was still much to tell; the fate of theroyal family was the general question; and the remainderof the melancholy tale was given with manly sensibility.
“When I recovered my senses it was late in theday; and I found myself in humble room, with onlyan old woman for my attendant; but my wounds bandaged,and every appearance of my having fallen into friendlyhands. The conjecture was true. I was inthe house of one of my father’s gardes dechasse, who, having commenced tavern-keeper inthe Fauxbourg St Antoine some years back, and beinga thriving man, had become a ‘personage’in his section, and was now a captain in the Federes.Forced, malgre, to join the march to the Hotelde Ville, he had seen me in the melee, and draggedme from under a heap of killed and wounded. Tohis recollection I probably owed my life; for the patriotsmingled plunder with their principles, stripped allthe fallen, and the pike and dagger finished the careerof many of the wounded. It happened, too, thatI could not have fallen into a better spot for information.My cidevant garde de chasse was loyal to themidriff; but his position as the master of a tavern,made his house a rendezvous of the leading patriotsof his section. Immediately after their victoryof the morning, a sort of council was held on whatthey were to do next; and the room where I lay beingseparated from their place of meeting only by a slightpartition, I could hear every syllable of their speeches,which, indeed, they took no pains to whisper; theyclearly thought that Paris was their own. Lyingon my bed, I learned that the attack on the Hotel deVille was only a part of a grand scheme of operations;that an insurrection was to be organized throughoutFrance; that the king was to be deposed, and a ‘lieutenantof the kingdom’ appointed, until the sovereignpeople had declared their will; and that the firstmovement was to be a march of all the Parisian sectionsto Versailles. I should have started from mypillow, to spring sabre in hand among the traitors;but I was held down by my wounds, and perhaps stillmore by the entreaties of my old attendant, who protestedagainst my stirring, as it would be instantly followedby her murder and that of every inmate of the house.The club now proceeded to enjoy themselves after thelabours of the day. They had a republican carouse.Their revels were horrible. They speedily becameintoxicated, sang, danced, embraced, fought, and werereconciled again. Then came the harangues; eachorator exceeding his predecessor in blasphemy, tillall was execration, cries of vengeance against kingsand priests, and roars of massacre. I there heardthe names of men long suspected, but of whom theynow spoke openly as the true leaders of the nationalmovement; and of others marked for assassination.They drank toasts to Death, to Queen Poissarde, andto Goddess Guillotine. It was a pandemonium.
“A drum at length beat the ‘Alarme’in the streets; the orgie was at an end, and amida crash of bottles and glasses, they staggered, aswell as their feet could carry them, out of the house.They were received by the mob with shouts of laughter.But the column moved forward; to the amount of thousands,as I could judge by their trampling, and the clashingof their arms. When the sound had died away inthe distance, my humble friend entered my room, thankinghis stars that ’he had contrived to escape thismarch.’
“‘Where are they gone?’ I asked.
“‘To Versailles,’ was his shudderinganswer.
“Nothing could now detain me. After oneor two helpless efforts to rise from my bed, and anhour or two of almost despair, I succeeded in gettingon my feet, and procuring a horse. Versailleswas now my only object. I knew all the importanceof arriving at the palace at the earliest moment;I knew the unprotected state of the king, and knewthat it was my place to be near his person in allchances. I was on the point of sallying forthin my uniform, when the precaution of my friend forcedme back; telling me, truly enough, that, in the fermentof the public mind, it would be impossible for meto reach Versailles as a garde du corps, andthat my being killed or taken, would effectually preventme from bearing any information of the state of thecapital. This decided me; and, disguised as acourier, I set out by a cross-road in hope to arrivebefore the multitude.
“But I had not gone above a league when I fellin with a scattered platoon of the mob, who were ramblingalong as if on a party of pleasure; tossing theirpikes and clashing their sabres to all kinds of revolutionarysongs. I was instantly seized, as a ’courierof the Aristocrats.’ Their sagacity, onceat work, found out a hundred names for me:—Iwas a ‘spy of Pitt,’ an ‘agent ofthe Austrians,’ a ‘disguised priest,’and an ‘emigrant noble;’ my protestationswere in vain, and they held a court-martial, on meand my horse, on the road; and ordered me to deliverup my despatches, on pain of being piked on the spot.But I could give up none; for the best of all possiblereasons. Every fold of my drapery was searched,and then I was to be piked for not having despatches;it being clear that I was more than a courier, andthat my message was too important to be trusted topen and ink. I was now in real peril; for theparty had continued to sing and drink until they hadnearly made themselves frantic; and as Versailleswas still a dozen miles off, and they were unlikelyto annihilate the garrison before nightfall, theyprepared to render their share of service to theircountry by annihilating me. In this real dilemma,my good genius interposed, in the shape of an enormouspoissarde; who, rushing through the crowd,which she smote with much the same effect as an elephantwould with his trunk, threw her huge arms round me,called me her cher Jacques, poured out a volleyof professional eloquence on the shrinking heroes,and proclaimed me her son returning from the army!All now was sentiment. The poissarde wasprobably in earnest, for her faculties were in nearlythe same condition with those of her fellow patriots.I was honoured with a general embrace, and shared theprivilege of the travelling bottle. As the nightwas now rapidly falling, an orator proposed that theoverthrow of the monarchy should be deferred tillthe next day. A Federe uniform was provided forme; I was hailed as a brother; we pitched a tent,lighted fires, cooked a supper, and bivouacked forthe night. This was, I acknowledge, the firstnight of my seeing actual service since the commencementof my soldiership.
“In ten minutes the whole party were asleep.I arose, stole away, left my newly found mother tolament her lost son again, and with a heavy hearttook the road to Versailles. The night had changedto sudden tempest, and the sky grown dark as death.It was a night for the fall of a dynasty. Butthere was a lurid blaze in the distant horizon, andfrom time to time a shout, or a sound of musketry,which told me only too well where Versailles lay.I need not say what my feelings were while I was traversingthat solitary road, yet within hearing of this tremendousmass of revolt; or what I imagined in every roar, asit came mingled with the bellowing of the thunder.The attack might be commencing at the moment; theblaze that I saw might be the conflagration of thepalace; the roar might be the battle over the bodiesof the royal family. I never passed three hoursin such real anxiety of mind, and they were deepenedby the total loneliness of the whole road. I didnot meet a single human being; for the inhabitantsof the few cottages had fled, or put out all theirlights, and shut themselves up in their houses.The multitude had rushed on, leaving nothing but silenceand terror behind.
“The church clocks were striking three in themorning when I arrived at Versailles, after the mostexhausting journey that I had ever made. Butthere, what a scene met my eye! It was beyondall that I had ever imagined of ferocity and rabbletriumph. Though it was still night, the multitudethronged the streets; the windows were all lightedup, huge fires were blazing in all directions, torcheswere carried about at the head of every troop of thebanditti; it was the bivouac of a hundred thousandbedlamites. It was now that I owned the luckychance which had made me a Federe. In any otherdress I should have been a suspicious person, andhave probably been put to death; but in the brown coat,sabre, and red cap of the Sectionaire, I was fraternizedwith in all quarters. My first object was toapproach the palace, if possible. But there Ifound a cordon of the national guard drawn up,who had no faith even in my mob costume; and was repelled.I could only see at a distance, drawn up in frontof the palace, a strong line of troops—theregiment of Flanders and the Swiss battalion.All in the palace was darkness. It struck meas the most funereal sight that I had ever beheld.
“In my disappointment I wandered through thetown. The night was rainy, and gusts of windtore every thing before them, yet the armed populaceremained carousing in the streets—all wasshouting, oaths, and execrations against the royalfamily. Some groups were feasting on the plunderof the houses of entertainment, others were dancingand roaring the ‘Carmagnole.’ Oneparty had broken into the theatre, and dressed themselvesin the spoils of the wardrobe; others were drilling,and exhibiting their skill by firing at the king’sarms hung over the shops of the restaurateurs.
Those shops were crowded with hundreds eating anddrinking at free cost. All the cafes andgaming-houses were lighted from top to bottom.The streets were a solid throng, and almost as brightas at noonday, and the jangling of all the Savoyardorgans, horns, and voices, the riot and roar of themultitude, and the frequent and desperate quarrelsof the different sections, who challenged each otherto fight during this lingering period, were absolutelydistracting. Versailles looked alternately likeone vast masquerade, like an encampment of savages,and like a city taken by storm. Wild work, too,had been done during the day.“As, wearied to death, I threw myself down torest on the steps of one of the churches, a processionof patriots happened to fix its quarters on the spot.Its leader, an old grotesque-looking fellow, dressedin a priest’s vestments—doubtlessa part of the plunder of the night—andseated on a barrel on wheels, like a Silenus, fromwhich, at their several halts, he harangued his followers,and drank to the ’downfal of the Bourbons,’soon let me into the history of the last twelve hours.‘Brave Frenchmen,’ exclaimed the ruffian,’the eyes of the world are fixed upon you; andthis night you have done what the world has neverrivalled. You have shaken the throne of the tyrant.What cared you for the satellites of the Bourbon?You scorned their bayonets; you laughed at their bullets.Nothing can resist the energy of Frenchmen.’This flourish was, of course, received with a roar.The orator now produced a scarf which he had wrappedround his waist, and waved it in the light beforethem. ‘Look here, citizen soldiers,’he cried; ’brave Federes, see this gore.It is the blood of the monsters who would extinguishthe liberty of France. Yesterday I headed a battalionof our heroes in the attack of the palace. Oneof the slaves of the tyrant Capet rushed on me swordin hand; I sent a bullet through his heart, and, ashe fell, I tore this scarf from his body. Seethe marks of his blood.’ It may be conceivedwith what feelings I heard this narrative.—Thepalace had been sacked, the queen insulted, my friendsand comrades murdered. I gave an involuntarygroan; his fierce eye fell upon me as I endeavouredto make my escape from this horrible neighbourhood,and he ordered me to approach him. The fiftypikes which were brandished at his word made obediencenecessary. He whispered, ’I know you well;you are at my mercy; I have often played the barrelorgan outside the walls of your corps-de-garde;you are acquainted with the secret ways of the palace,and you must lead us in, or die upon the spot.’He probably took my astonishment and silence for acquiescence;for he put a musket into my hand. ‘Thisnight,’ said he, aloud, ’will settle everything. The whole race of the Bourbons are doomed.The fry may have escaped, but we have netted all thebest fish. We have friends, too, in high quarters;’
and he shook a purse of louis-d’ors at my ear.’We are to storm the palace an hour before daybreak;the troops must either join us or be put to death;the king and his tribe will be sent to a dungeon, andFrance, before to-morrow night, will have at her head,if not the greatest man, the richest fool, in Europe.’He burst out into an irrestrainable laugh, in whichthe whole party joined; but the sound of cannon brokeoff his speech; all shouldered pike or musket; I wasplaced under the especial surveillance of a pair withdrawn sabres, which had probably seem some savageservice during the night, for they were clotted withblood; and with me for their guide, the horde of savagesrushed forward, shouting, to join the grand attackon the defenders of our unfortunate king.“My situation had grown more trying at everymoment, but escape was impossible, and my next thoughtwas to make the best of my misfortune, enter the palacealong with the crowd, and, when once there, die bythe side of my old comrades. I had, however,expected a sanguinary struggle. What was my astonishmentwhen I saw the massive gates, which might have beenso easily defended, broken open at once—afew random shots the only resistance, and the staircasesand ante-rooms in possession of the multitude withina quarter of an hour. ‘Where is La Fayette?’in wrath and indignation, I cried to one of the woundedgarde-du-corps, whom I had rescued from theknives of my sans-culotte companions. ’Heis asleep,’ answered the dying man, with a bittersmile. ’Where are the National Guard whomhe brought with him last night from Paris?’ Iasked, in astonishment. ‘They are asleep,too,’ was the contemptuous answer. I rushedon, and at length reached my friends; tore off my Federeuniform, and used, with what strength was left me,my bayonet, until it was broken.
“I shall say no more of that night of horrors.The palace was completely stormed. The splendidrooms, now the scene of battle hand to hand; the royalfurniture, statues, pictures, tossed and trampled inheaps; wounded and dead men lying every where; theconstant discharge of muskets and pistols; the breakingopen of doors with the blows of hatchets and hammers;the shrieks of women flying for their lives, or hangingover their wounded sons and husbands; and the huzzasof the rabble, at every fresh entrance which theyforced into the suites of apartments, were indescribable.I pass over the other transactions of those terriblehours; but some unaccountable chance saved the royalfamily—I fear, for deeper sufferings; forthe next step was degradation.
“The rabble leaders insisted that the king shouldgo with them to Paris. Monsieur La Fayette wasnow awake; and he gave it as his opinion that thiswas the only mode of pleasing the populace. Whena king submits to popular will, he is disgraced; anda disgraced king is undone. It was now broadday; the struggle was at an end; the royal carriageswere ordered, and the garde-du-corps were drawnup to follow them. At this moment, the barrel-organman, my leader of the night, passed me by with a grimace,and whispered, ’Brother Federe, did I not tellyou how it would be? The play is only beginning;all that we have seen is the farce.’ Helaughed, and disappeared among the crowd.
“There was one misery to come, and it was theworst; the procession to Paris lasted almost twelvehours. It was like the march of American savages,with their scalps and prisoners, to their wigwams.The crowd had been largely increased by the nationalguards of the neighbouring villages, and by thousandsflocking from Paris on the intelligence of the rabblevictory. Our escort was useless; we ourselveswere prisoners. Surrounding the carriage of theking, thousands of the most profligate refuse of Paris,men and women, railed and revelled, sang and shoutedthe most furious insults to their majesties. Andin front of this mass were carried on pikes, as standards,the heads of two of our corps, who had fallen fightingat the door of the queen’s chamber. Loaves,borne on pikes, and dipped in blood, formed othersof their standards. Huge placards, with the words,’Down with the tyrant! Down with the priests!Down with the nobles!’ waved above the headsof the multitude. ’Make way for the baker,his wife, and the little apprentice,’ was shouted,with every addition of obloquy and insolence; andin this agony we were forced to drag on our wearysteps till midnight. One abomination more wasto signalize the inhuman spirit of the time. Withinabout a league of Paris, the royal equipages wereordered to halt; and for what inconceivable purpose?It was, that the bleeding heads of our unfortunatecomrades might be dressed and powdered by the villagebarber—to render them fit to enter Paris.The heads were then brought to the carriage windows,for the approval of the royal prisoners; and the hugeprocession moved onward with all its old bellowingsagain.
“We entered the city by torchlight, amid thefiring of cannon; the streets were all illuminated,and the mob and the multitude maddened with brandy.Yet the scene was unlike that of the night before.There was something in the extravagances of Versailleswholly different from the sullen and frowning aspectof Paris. The one had the look of a melodrame;the other the look of an execution. All was funereal.We marched with the king to the Place du Carrousel,and when the gates of the palace closed on him, Ifelt as if they were the gates of the tomb. Perhapsit would be best that they were; that a king of Franceshould never suffer such another day; that he shouldnever look on the face of man again. He had drainedthe cup of agony; he had tasted all the bitternessof death; human nature could not sustain such anotherday; and, loyal as I was, I wished that the descendantof so many kings should rather die by the hand ofnature than by the hand of traitors and villains;or should rather mingle his ashes with the last flameof the Tuileries, than glut the thirst of rebellionwith his blood on the scaffold.”
The story left us all melancholy for a while; brighteyes again overflowed, as well they might; and statelybosoms heaved with evident emotion. Yet, afterall, the night was wound up with a capital cotillon,danced with as much grace, and as much gaiety too,as if it had been in the Salle d’Opera.
* * * * *
I rose early next morning, and felt the spirit-stirringpower of the sea breeze. In those days, Brightoncovered but the borders of the shore. It wasscarcely more than a little line of fishermen’scottages, fenced against the surge by the remainingtimbers of boats which had long seen their last adventure.Scattered at distances of at least a quarter of amile from each other, lay some houses of a better description,a few deeply embosomed in trees, or rather in suchthickets as could grow in the perpetual exposure tothe rough winds and saline exhalations of the Channel.Of those, the one in which I had taken up my presentresidence was amongst the best; though its exteriorwas so unpresuming, that I was inclined to give Mordecai,or rather his gay heiress, credit for humility, orperhaps for the refinement of striking their visiterswith the contrast between its simplicity of exteriorand richness of decoration within.
It was a brisk, bright morning, and the waves werecurling before a lively breeze, the sun was glowingabove, and clusters of vessels, floating down theChannel, spread their sails like masses of summercloud in the sunshine. It was my first sight ofthe ocean, and that first sight is always a new idea.Alexander the Great, standing on the shores of thePersian Gulf, said, “That he then first feltwhat the world was.” Often as I have seenthe ocean since, the same conception has always forceditself on me.
In what a magnificent world do we live! Whatpower, what depth, what expanse, lay before me!How singular, too, that while the grandeur of theland arises from bold irregularity and incessant changeof aspect, from the endless variety of forest, vale,and mountain; the same effect should be produced onthe ocean by an absence of all irregularity and allchange! A simple, level horizon, perfectly unbroken,a line of almost complete uniformity, compose a grandeurthat impresses and fills the soul as powerfully asthe most cloud-piercing Alp, or the Andes clothedwith thunder.
This was the ocean in calm; but how glorious, too,in tempest! The storm that sweeps the land issimply a destroyer or a renovator; it smites the surface,and is gone. But the ocean is the seat of itspower, the scene of its majesty, the element in whichit sports, lives, and rules—penetratingto its depths, rolling its surface in thunder on theshore—changing its whole motion, its aspect,its uses, and, grand as it is in its serenity, givingit another and a more awful grandeur in its convulsion.Then, how strangely, yet how admirably, does it fulfilits great human object! Its depth and extentseem to render it the very element of separation;all the armies of the earth might be swallowed upbetween the shores of the Channel. Yet it is thiselement which actually combines the remotest regionsof the earth. Divisions and barriers are essentialto the protection of kingdoms from each other; yetwhat height of mountain range, or what depth of precipicecould be so secure as the defence so simply and perpetuallysupplied by a surrounding sea? While this protectingelement at the same time pours the wealth of the globeinto the bosom of a nation.
Even all this is only the ocean as referred to man.How much more magnificent is it in itself! Thricethe magnitude of the land, the world of waters! itsdepth unfathomable, its mountains loftier than theloftiest of the land, its valleys more profound, thepinnacles of its hills islands! What immenseshapes of animal and vegetable life may fill thoseboundless pastures and plains on which man shall neverlook! What herds, by thousands and millions,of those mighty creatures whose skeletons we discover,from time to time, in the wreck of the antediluvianglobe! What secrets of form and power, of capacityand enjoyment, may exist under the cover of that mightyexpanse of waves which fills the bed of the ocean,and spreads round the globe!
While those and similar ramblings were passing throughmy mind, as I sat gazing on the bright and beautifulexpanse before me, I was aroused by a step on theshingle. I turned, and saw the gallant guardsman,who had so much interested our party on the nightbefore. But he received my salutation with agravity which instantly put an end to my good-humour;and I waited for the denouement, at his pleasure.He produced a small billet from his pocket, whichI opened, and which, on glancing my eye over it, appearedto me a complete rhapsody. I begged of him toread it, and indulge me with an explanation.He read it, and smiled.
“It is, I own, not perfectly intelligible,”said he; “but some allowance must be made fora man deeply injured, and inflamed by a sense of wrong.”
I read the signature—Lafontaine, Capitainedes Chasseurs legers. I had never heard thename before. I begged to know “the natureof his business with me, as it was altogether beyondmy conjecture.”
“It is perfectly probable, sir,” was thereply; “for I understand that you had neverseen each other till last night, at the house of yourfriend. The case is simply this:—Lafontaine,who is one of the finest fellows breathing, has beenfor some time deeply smitten by the various charmsof your host’s very pretty daughter, and, sofar as I comprehend, the lady has acknowledged hismerits. But your arrival here has a good dealderanged the matter. He conceives your attentionsto his fair one to be of so marked a nature, thatit is impossible for him to overlook them.”
I laughed, and answered,
“Sir, you may make your friend quite at hisease on the subject, for I have not known her existencetill within these twenty-four hours.”
“You danced with her half the evening—yousat beside her at supper. She listened to youwith evident attention—of this last I myselfwas witness; and the report in the neighbourhood is,that you have come to this place by an express arrangementwith her father,” gravely retorted the guardsman.
All this exactness of requisition appeared to me tobe going rather too far; and I exhibited my feelingon the subject, in the tone in which I replied, thatI had stated every thing that was necessary for thesatisfaction of a “man of sense, but that I hadneither the faculty nor the inclination to indulgethe captiousness of any man.”
His colour mounted, and I seemed as if I was likelyto have a couple of heroes on my hands. But hecompressed his lip, evidently strangled a chivalricspeech, and, after a pause to recover his calmness,said—
“Sir, I have not come here to decide punctilioson either side. I heartily wish that this affairhad not occurred, or could be reconciled; my countrymenhere, I know, stand on a delicate footing, and I amperfectly aware of the character that will be fastenedon them by the occurrence of such rencontres.Can you suggest any means by which this differencemay be settled at once?”
“None in the world, sir,” was my answer.“I have told you the fact, that I have no pretensionwhatever to the lady—that I am wholly unacquaintedeven with the person of your friend—thatthe idea of intentional injury on my part, therefore,is ridiculous; and let me add, for the benefit ofyour friend, that to expect an apology for imaginaryinjuries, would be the most ridiculous part of theentire transaction.”
“What, then, am I to do?” asked the gallantcaptain, evidently perplexed. “I reallywish that the affair could be got over without fracas.In fact, though the Jewess is pretty, Lafontaine’schoice does not much gratify any of us.”
“What you ought to do, sir, is sufficientlyplain,” said I. “Go to your friend;if he has brains enough remaining to comprehend thenature of the case, he will send you back with hisapology. If he has not, I shall remain half anhour on the sands until he has made up his mind.”
The captain made me a low bow, and slowly paced backto the lodging of his fiery compatriot.
When I was left alone, I, for the first time, feltthe whole ill-luck of my situation. So long asI was heated by our little dialogue, I thought onlyof retorting the impertinent interference of a strangerwith my motives or actions. But, now, the wholetruth flashed on me with the force of a new faculty.I saw myself involved in a contest with a fool ora lunatic, in which either of our lives, or both, mightbe sacrificed—and for nothing. Hope,fortune, reputation, perhaps renown, all the prospectsof life were opening before me, and I was about toshut the gate with my own hand. In these thoughtsI was still too young for what is called personalperil to intervene. The graver precaution ofmore advanced years was entirely out of the question.I was a soldier, or about to be one; and I would haverejoiced, if the opportunity had been given to me,in heading a forlorn hope, or doing any other of thoseshowy things which make a name. The war, too,was beginning—my future regiment was orderedfor foreign service—every heart in Englandwas beating with hope or fear—every eyeof Europe was fixed upon England and Englishmen; and,in the midst of all this high excitement, to fallin a pitiful private quarrel, struck me with a suddensense of self-contempt and wilful absurdity, thatmade me almost loathe my being. I acknowledgethat the higher thoughts, which place those rencontresin their most criminal point of view, had then butlittle influence with me. But to think that,within the next hour, or the next five minutes, Imight be but like the sleepers in the rude resting-placeof the fishermen; with my name unknown, and all theassociations of life extinguished—
“This sensible warmmotion to become
A kneaded clod”—
was an absolute pang. I could have died a martyr,and despised the flame, or rather rejoiced in it,as a security that I should not perish forgotten.But a fancied wrong, an obscure dispute, the wholefuture of an existence flung away for the jealousdreams of a mad Frenchman, or the Sport of a coquette,of whom I knew as little as of her fantastic lover,threw me into a fever of scorn for the solemn folliesof mankind.
The captain returned. I had not stirred fromthe spot.
“I regret,” said he, “that my friendis wholly intractable. He has convinced himself,if he can convince no one else, that he has whollylost the good opinion of his fair one, and that youare the cause. Some communication which he hadfrom London, informed him of your frequent intercoursewith her father. This rendered him suspicious,and the peculiar attention with which you were treatedlast night, produced a demand for an explanation;which, of course, heightened the quarrel. Theinamorata, probably not displeased to have more suitorsthan one, whether in amusem*nt or triumph, appearsto have assisted his error, if such it be; and hereturned home, stung to madness by what he terms herinfidelity. He now demands your formal abandonmentof the pursuit.”
All my former feelings of offence recurred at thewords, and I hotly asked—“Well, sir,to whom must I kneel—to the lady or thegentleman? Take my answer back—thatI shall do neither. Where is your friend to befound?”
He pointed to a clump of frees within a few hundredyards, and I followed him. I there saw my antagonist;a tall, handsome young man, but with a countenanceof such dejection that he might have sat for the pictureof despair. It was clear that his case was onefor which there was no tonic, but what the wits ofthe day called a course of steel. Beside himstood a greyhaired old figure, of a remarkably intelligentcountenance, though stooped slightly with age.He was introduced to me as General Deschamps; andin a few well-expressed words, he mentioned that heattended, from respect to the British, to offer hisservices to me on an occasion “which he deeplyregretted, but which circ*mstances unfortunately renderednecessary, and which all parties were doubtless anxiousto conclude before it should produce any irritationin the neighbourhood.”
To the offer of choice of weapons, I returned an answerof perfect indifference. It had happened, thatas my father had destined me for diplomacy, and hadconceived the science to have but two essentials,French and fencing, I was tolerably expert in both.Swords were chosen. We were placed on the ground,and the conflict began. My antagonist was evidentlya master of his art; but there is no weapon whose usedepends so much upon the mind of the moment as thesword. He was evidently resolved to kill or bekilled; and the desperation with which he rushed on
me exposed him to my very inferior skill. At thethird pass I ran him through the sword arm. Hestaggered back with the twinge; but at the instantwhen he was about to bound on me, and perhaps takehis revenge, a scream stopped us all; a female, wrappedin cloak and veil, rushed forward, and threw herselfinto Lafontaine’s arms in a passion of sobs.An attendant, who soon came up, explained the circ*mstance;and it finally turned out, that the fair Mariamne,whatever her coquetry might have intended at night,repented at morn; recollected some of the ominousexpressions of her lover; and on hearing that he hadbeen seen with a group entering the grove, and thatI, too, was absent, had conjectured the truth at once,and flown, with her femme de chambre, to therendezvous. She had come just in time.The reconciliation was complete. I was now notonly forgiven by the lover, but was the “verybest friend he had in the world;—a man ofhonour, a paragon, a chevalier sans peur et sansreproche.” The wound of the gallantchasseur was bound up, like an ancient knight’s,with his mistress’s scarf. She upbraidedme, with her glistening eyes, for having had the audacityto quarrel with her hero; and then, with the same eyes,thanked me for the opportunity of proving her faithto cher et malheureux Charles. Her littleheart poured out its full abundance in her volubletongue; and for a quarter of an hour, and it is a longlife for happiness, we were the happiest half dozenin Christendom.
How Mordecai would admire all this, was yet to betold; but my casual mention of his name broke up therapture at once. Mariamne suddenly became sensibleof the irregularity of alternately fainting and smilingin the arms of a handsome young soldier; and in thepresence, too, of so many spectators, all admirersof her black eyes and blooming sensibilities.She certainly looked to me much prettier than in herfull-dress charms of the evening before, and I almostbegan to think that the prize was worth contendingfor; but the guardsman and the old general had feltthe effects of the morning air, and were unsentimentallyhungry. Mariamne and her attendant were escortedto the edge of the plantation by her restored knight;and I accepted the general’s invitation to breakfast,instead of drowning myself in the next pond.
The general was lodged in the first floor of a fisherman’sdwelling, which, in more polished parts of the land,would have been pronounced a hovel; but in Brighton,as it then was, bore the name of a house. Weentered it through an apartment filled with mattersof the fisherman’s trade,—nets, barrels,and grapnels; and in a corner a musket or two, whichhad evidently seen service, though probably notin his Majesty’s pay. The walls were coveredwith engravings of British sea-fights and favouriteadmirals, from the days of Elizabeth; patriotic inthe highest degree, and most intolerable specimensof the arts; the floor, too, had its covering, butit was of nearly a dozen children of all sizes, fromthe bluff companion of his father down to the crierin the cradle; yet all fine bold specimens of thebrood of sea and fresh air, British bull-dogs, thatwere yet to pin down the game all round the world;or rather cubs of the British lion, whose roar wasto be the future terror of the foreigner.
The general welcomed us to his little domicile withas much grace as if he had been ushering us into thethrone-room of the Tuileries. I afterwards understoodthat he had been governor of the “Invalides;”and the change from the stately halls of that militarypalace must have severely taxed the philosophy ofany man; yet it had no appearance of having even ruffledthe temperament of the gallant veteran. He smiled,talked, and did the honours of his apartment with asmuch urbanity as if he had been surrounded by allthe glittering furniture, and all the liveried attendance,of his governorship. I have always delighted inan old Frenchman, especially if he has served.Experience has made me a cosmopolite, and yet to thishour a young Frenchman is my instinctive aversion.He is born in coxcombry, cradled in coxcombry, andeducated in coxcombry. It is only after his coxcombryis rubbed off by the changes and chances of the world,that the really valuable material of the nationalcharacter is to be seen. He always reminds meof the mother-of-pearl shell, rude and unpromisingon the outside, but by friction exhibiting a fineinterior. However it may be thought a paradoxto pronounce the Frenchman unpolished, I hold to myassertion. If the whole of “jeune France”sprang on their feet and clapped their hands to thehilts of their swords, or more probably to their daggers,to avenge the desecration of the only shrine at whichnine-tenths of them worship, I should still pronouncethe Frenchman the most unpolished of Europeans.What is his look of conscious superiority to all thatexist besides in this round world? The toss ofhis nostril, the glare of his eye, the contempt ofhis gathered lip? Give me the homeliest mannersof the homeliest corner of Europe—nay,give me the honest rudeness of the American savage,in preference to this arrogant assumption of an emptysuperiority. Why, the very tone in which everyFrenchman, from fifteen to five-and-forty, uttersthe words “la France,” is enough to raisethe laugh, or make the blood boil, of all mankind.
Nearly twenty years after this, I happened to be sittingone day with Gentz, the most memorable practical philosopherof his age and country. Germany was then in themost deplorable depression, overrun with French armies;and with Napoleon at Erfurth, in the pride of that“bad eminence” on which he stood in suchTitanic grandeur, and from which he was so soon tobe flung with such Titanic ruin. Our conversationnaturally turned on the melancholy state of things.
“I think,” said the great politician,“that this supremacy must fall. I mightnot think so if any other nation were the masters ofEurope; but France, though often a conqueror, hasnever been a possessor. The insolence of theindividual Frenchman has been the grand obstacle tothe solidity of her empire.”
To my remark, that her central position, her vastpopulation, the undaunted bravery of her troops, andthe military propensities of her people, fitted herto be the disturber of Europe.
“Yes,” was the sage’s answer; “butto be no more than the disturber. Her power isthe whirlwind; for purposes which man may never beable fully to define, suffered, or sent forth, tosweep the Continent; perhaps, like the tempest, topunish, nay, perhaps in the end to purify; but thetempest is scarcely more transitory, or more differentfrom the dew that invisibly descends and silentlyrefreshes the land.”
“But Napoleon,” said I, “with anarmy of a million recruited from thirty millions,opposed to the worn-down force and exhausted treasuresof the Continent! What an iron wedge driven inamong their dilapidated combinations! What amountain of granite, with the cloud and the thunderfor its crown, domineering over the plain!”
“True—perfectly true,” he replied,throwing back the long locks from a broad foreheadwhich reminded me of a bust of Plato. “True.Man may be as little able to decide on the means bywhich the power of France will fall, as on the purposesfor which that tremendous fabric of splendid iniquityfirst rose. But, look into that street.”
It happened that a French regiment of cuirassiers,with the fine clangour of its drums and trumpets,was passing under the window at the moment.
“You see there,” said he, “the kindof feeling which that really striking show produces;not a window is open but our own. The blinds ofevery window have been let down, not an eye looks atthese troops. Yet the public of Vienna are extravagantlyfond of display in all its shapes; and punchinello,or a dance of dogs, would bring a head to every paneof glass, from the roof to the ground. The Frenchare individually shrunk from, hated, abhorred.
“Naturally enough, as conquerors,” I observed;chiefly from a desire to hear more of the sentimentsof the celebrated German.
“No—no!” said he, almost ina tone of vexation. “The Germans are asmuch alive to the merits of their enemies in the field,as any other nation in the world. They acknowledgethe soldiership of the French. I even believethat the talents of their extraordinary emperor aremore sincerely acknowledged in Vienna than in Paris.But it is the intolerable insolence of the nationalcharacter, that makes its bravery, its gaiety, andeven its genius detested. Trust me; this feelingwill not be unfruitful. Out of the hut of thepeasant will come the avengers, whom the cabinet hasnever been able to find in the camp. Out of theswamp and the thicket will rise the tree that willat once overshadow the fallen fortunes of Germany,and bring down the lightning on her aggressors.In this hope alone I live.”
I once more asked him, “From what quarter isthe restoration to come?”
“I know not—I care not—Iask not,” said he, starting from his chair,and traversing the room with huge strides. “Thetopic feels to me as if a sword was now griding itsway through my frame. But France will never keepAustria, nor Prussia, nor the Rhenish Provinces, norHolland, nor any spot on earth beyond the land inhabitedby Frenchmen. It is true,” said he, witha stern smile, “that she may keep her West Indiaislands, if your ships will let her. The negroesare her natural subjects. They have backs accustomedto the lash, and black cheeks that will not reddenat her insolence.”
“Are the German sovereigns of your opinion?”
“To a man. It is but this morning thatI was honoured with a reception by our good emperor.His conviction was complete. But you will notsee Austria stir a single step, until war is the outcry,not of her court, but of her people. The trumpetthat leads the march will be blown not from the paradeof Vienna or Berlin, but from the village, the pasture,the forest, and the mountain. The army will bethe peasant, the weaver, the trader, the student,the whole of the pacific multitude of life turnedinto the materials of war; the ten thousand rills thatsilently water the plain of society suddenly unitedinto one inundation; the eyes of every man lookingonly for the enemy; the feet of every man pursuinghim; the hands of every man slaying him. The insolenceof the Frenchman has contrived to convey a sting ofthe bitterness of conquest into every heart of ourmillions, and our millions will return it with resistlessretribution.”
“You have cheered and convinced me,” saidI, as I rose to take my leave. “It certainlyis rather strange, that France, always mad with thelove of seizure, has been able to acquire nothingduring the last hundred years.”
“You will find my theory true,” said Gentz.“The individual insolence of her people hasbeen the real impediment to the increase of her dominions.She is not the only ambitious power on the face ofthe earth. Russia has doubled her empire withinthose hundred years, yet she has kept possession ofevery league. Prussia has doubled her territorywithin the same time, yet she has added the new solidlyto the old. I am not an advocate for the principleor the means by which those conquests have been accomplished;but they have been retained. Austria has beenfor the same time nearly mistress of Italy, and thoughthe French arms have partially shaken her authority,it was never shaken by popular revolt. And whyis all this contradistinction to the flighty conquestand ephemeral possession of France? The obviousreason is, that however the governments might be disliked,neither the Austrian soldier, nor the Prussian, noreven the Russian, made himself abhorred, employed hisstudy in vexing the feelings of the people, had a perpetualsneer on his visage, or exhibited in his habits aperpetual affectation of that coxcomb superiorityto all other human beings, that pert supremacy, thatgrotesque and yet irritating caricature, which makesthe Moi, je suis Francais, a demand for universaladoration, the concentrated essence of absurdity,the poison-drop of scorn.
“When will this great consummation arrive?”
“When the tyranny can be endured no longer;when the people find that they must depend upon themselvesfor its redress; when a just Providence finds thevindication of its laws required by the necessitiesof man.”
“From what quarter will the grand effort firstcome?”
“From the nation most aggrieved.”
“What will be its result?”
To this moment I remember the sudden light which flashedinto his cold grey eye, the gasping lip, and the elevationwhich even his stooped form assumed; as he answeredwith a tone and gesture which might have been imaginedfor one of the prophets of the Sistine Chapel—
“The result,” said he, “will bethe fall of the French empire, for it is a house builton the sand;—the extinction of Napoleon,for it is his creation, and the one cannot survivethe other;—the liberation of Europe, forits united strength can be chained no longer;—perhapsthe liberty of man, for the next step for nationswhich have crushed foreign dominion is to extinguishdomestic despotism. Europe once free, what isto come? A new era, a new shape of society, anew discovery of the mighty faculties of nations,of the wonders of mind, of matter, and of man; a vastshaking of the earth and its institutions; and outof this chaos, a new moral creation, fiat lux etfugient tenebrae.”
The prediction has been partly realized. Muchis yet to be fulfilled. But, like Gentz, I livein hope, and think that I see an approach to the consummation.
But the party to whom I was now introduced were ofa different order from the generality of their country.Originally of the first education and first societyof France, the strictness of the military service hadproduced on the the most valuable effect of years.The natural vividness of their temperament was smootheddown, their experience of English kindness had diminishedtheir prejudices; and adversity—and no menbear the frowns of fortune better than their nation—gavethem almost the manly calmness of the English gentleman.I found the old general all courtesy, and his friendsall good-humour. My conduct in the affair ofthe morning was after their own hearts; I had, by commonconsent, earned their good graces; and they gave meon the spot half a dozen invitations to the regimentsand chateaus of themselves and their friends, withas much hospitable sincerity as if they had only torecross the Channel to take possession of them again.Lafontaine was still moody, but he was in love; and,by this fact, unlike every body else, and unlike himself,from one half hour to another.
The conversation soon turned on a topic, on whichthe emigrants every where were peculiarly anxiousto be set right with English feeling, namely, theiracquittance from the charge of having fled unnecessarily.
“Men of honour,” observed the general,“understand each other in all countries.I therefore always think it due, to both Englishmenand Frenchmen, to explain, that we are not here inthe light of fugitives; that we have not given upthe cause of our country; and that we are on Englishground in express obedience to the commands of oursovereign. I am at this moment, in this spot,on the king’s duty, waiting, like my gallantfriends here, merely the order to join the first expedition
which can be formed for the release of our monarch,and the rescue of France from the horde of villainswho have filled it with rebellion.” Allfully accorded with the sentiment. “Thecaptivity of the king,” said he, “is theresult of errors which none could have anticipatedten days since. The plan decided on by the councilof officers, of which I was one, was the formationof a camp on the frontier, to which his majesty andthe princes should repair, summon the chief authoritiesof the kingdom, and there provide for the generalsafety with a deliberation which was impossible inParis. I was sent off at midnight to take thecommand of the District of the Loire. I foundmyself there at the head of ten regiments, in thehighest order, and, as I thought, of the highest loyalty.I addressed them and was received with shouts of Vivele Roi! I gave an addition of pay to the troops,and a banquet to the officers. A note was handedto me, as I took my seats at the head of the table.It simply contained the words, ‘You are betrayed.’I read it aloud in contempt, and was again answeredby shouts of Vive le Roi! While we werein the midst of our conviviality, a volley was firedin at the windows, and the streets of Nantz were inuproar—the whole garrison had mutinied.The officers were still loyal: but what was tobe done? We rushed out with drawn swords.On our first appearance in the porch of the hotel,a platoon posted in front, evidently for our massacre,levelled by word of command, and fired deliberatelyinto the midst of us. Several were killed onthe spot, and many wounded. Some rushed forward,and some retreated into the house. I was amongthose who forced their way through the crowd, andbefore I had struggled to the end of the long street,the cry of ‘fire’ made me look round—thehotel was in a blaze. The rabble had set it onflame. It was this, probably that saved me, bydistracting their attention. I made my way tothe chateau of the Count de Travancour, whose sonhad been on my staff at the Invalides. But thefamily were in Paris, and the only inhabitants wereservants. I had received a musket-ball in my arm,and was faint with loss of blood. Still, I wasdetermined to remain at my post, and not quit my districtas long as any thing could be done. But I hadscarcely thrown myself, in weariness and vexation,on a sofa, when a servant rushed into the room withthe intelligence, that a band of men with torcheswere approaching the chateau. To defend it witha garrison of screaming women was hopeless; and whileI stood considering what to do next, we heard thecrash of the gates. The whole circle instantlyfell on their knees before me, and implored that Ishould save their lives and my own, by making my escape.A courageous Breton girl undertook to be my guideto the stables, and we set out under a shower of prayersfor our safety. But, as we wound our way alongthe last corridor, I saw the crowd of soldiers andpopulace rushing up the staircase at the oppositeside of the court, and calling out my name joined toa hundred atrocious epithets. My situation nowobviously became difficult; for our advance wouldbe met at the next minute by the assassins. Thegirl’s presence of mind saved me; she flew backto the end of the gallery, threw open a small doorwhich led to the roof; and I was in the open air, withthe stars bright above me, and a prodigious extentof the country, including Nantz, beneath.“Yet you may believe that the landscape wasnot among my principal contemplations at the moment,though my eyes involuntarily turned on the town; where,from the blazes springing up in various quarters, Iconcluded that a general pillage had begun. Thatpillage was the order of the day much nearer to me,I could fully conceive, from the opening and shuttingof doors, and the general tumult immediately underthe leads where I stood. “Situation, gentlemen,”said the old general, smiling, “is something,but circ*mstances are necessary to make it valuable.There never was a finer night for an investigationof the stars, if I had been an astronomer; and I daresay that the spot which formed my position would havebeen capital for an observatory; but the torches whichdanced up and down through the old and very dingycasem*nts of the mansion, were a matter of much morecurious remark to me than if I had discovered a newconstellation.
“At length I was chased even out of this spot—mydoor had been found out. I have too much gallantryleft to suppose that my Breton had betrayed me; thougha dagger at her heart and a purse in her hand mightbe powerful arguments against saving the life of anold soldier who had reached his grand climacteric.At all events, as I saw torch after torch rising alongthe roofs, I moved into the darkness.
“I had here a new adventure. I saw a feeblelight gleaming through the roof. An incautiousstep brought me upon a skylight, and I went through;my fall, however, being deadened by bursting my waythrough the canopy of a bed. I had fallen intothe hospital of the chateau. A old Beguine wasreading her breviary in an adjoining room. Sherushed in with a scream. But those women areso much accustomed to casualties that I had no sooneracquainted her with the reasons of my flight, thanshe offered to assist my escape. She had beenfor some days in attendance on a sick servant.She led me down to the entrance of a subterranean communicationbetween the mansion and the river, one of the old workswhich had probably been of serious service in thedays when every chateau in the West was a fortress.The boat which had brought her from the convent wasat the mouth of the subterranean; there, the Loirewas open. If you ask, why I did not prefer throwingmyself before the pursuers, and dying like a soldier,my reason was, that I should have been numbered merelyamong those who had fallen obscurely in the variousskirmishes of the country; and besides, that if Iescaped, I should have one chance more of preservingthe province.
“But, at the moment when I thought myself mostsecure, I was in reality in the greatest peril.The Loire had long since broken into the work, whichhad probably never seen a mason since the wars of theLeague. I had made no calculation for this, andI had descended but a few steps, when I found my feetin water. I went on, however, till it reachedmy sword-belt. I then thought it time to pause;but just then, I heard a shout at the top of the passage—onthe other hand I felt that the tide was rushing in,and to stay where I was would be impossible. Theperplexity of that quarter of an hour would satisfyme for my whole life. I pretend to no philosophy,and have never desired to die before my time.But it was absolutely not so much the dread of finishingmy career, as of the manner in which it must be finishedthere, which made the desperate anxiety of a strugglewhich I would not undergo again for the throne ofthe Mogul. Still, even with the roar of the wateron one side, and of the rabble on the other, I hadsome presentiment that I should yet live to hang someof my pursuers. At all events I determined notto give my body to be torn to pieces by savages, andmy name to be branded as a runaway and a poltron.”
A strong suffusion overspread the veteran’sface as he pronounced the words; he was evidentlyovercome by the possibility of the stigma.
“I have never spoken of this night before,”said he, “and I allude to it even now, merelyto tell this English gentleman and his friends howgroundless would be the conception that the soldiersand nobles of an unfortunate country made their escape,before they had both suffered and done a good deal.My condition was probably not more trying than thatof thousands less accustomed to meet difficultiesthan the officers of France: and I can assurehim, that no country is more capable of a bold enduranceof evils, or a chivalric attachment to a cause.”
I gave my full belief to a proposition in which Ihad already full faith, and of which the brave andintelligent old man before me was so stately an example.
“But I must not detain you,” said he,“any longer with an adventure which had notthe common merit of a Boulevard spectacle; for it endedin neither the blowing up of a castle, nor, as youmay perceive, the fall of the principal performer.As the tide rushed up through the works, I, of coursereceded, until at length I was caught sight of by therabble. They poured down, and were now withina hundred yards of me, while I could not move.At that moment a strong light flashed along the cavernfrom the river, and I discovered for the first timethat it too was not above a hundred yards from me.I had been a good swimmer in early life: I plungedin, soon reached the stream, and found that the lightcame from one of the boats that fish the Loire atnight, and which had accidentally moored in frontof my den. I got on board; the fisherman carried
me to the other side; I made my way across the country,reached one of my garrisons, found the troops, fortunately,indignant at the treatment which the king’scolours had received; marched at the head of two thousandmen by daybreak, and by noon was in the Grande Placeof Nantz; proceeded to try a dozen of the ringleadersof the riot, who had not been merely rebels, but robbersand murderers; and amid the acclamations of the honestcitizens, gave them over to the fate which villainsin every country deserve, and which is the only remedyfor rebellion in any. But my example was notfollowed; its style did not please the ministers whom*our king had been compelled to choose by the voiceof the Palais Royal; and as his majesty would not consentto bring me to the scaffold for doing my duty, hecompromised the matter, by an order to travel fora year, and a passport for England.”* * * * *
“Toutes les belles dames sont, plus ou moins,coquettes,” says that gayest of all old gentlemen,the Prince de Ligne, who loved every body, amusedevery body, and laughed at every body. It is notfor me to dispute the authority of one who contrivedto charm, at once, the imperial severity of MariaTheresa and the imperial pride of Catharine; to bafflethe keen investigation of the keenest of mankind, theeccentric Kaunitz; and rival the profusion of the mostmagnifique and oriental of all prime ministers, Potemkin.
Mariamne was a “belle dame,” and a remarkablypretty one. She was therefore intitled to allthe privileges of prettiness; and, it must be acknowledged,that she enjoyed them to a very animated extent.In the curious memoirs of French private life, fromPlessis Les Tours down to St Evremond and Marmontel—andcertainly—more amusing and dexterous dissectionsof human nature, at least as it is in France, neverexisted—our cooler countrymen often wonderat the strange attachments, subsisting for half acentury between the old, who were nothing but simplefireside friends after all; and even between the oldand the young. The story of Ninon and her Abbe—theunfortunate relationship, and the unfortunate catastropheexcepted—was the story of hundreds or thousandsin every city of France fifty years ago. It arisesfrom the vividness of the national mind, the quicksusceptibility to being pleased, and the natural returnwhich the heart makes in gratitude. If it sometimesled to error—it was the more to be regretted.But I do not touch on such views.
As the Jew’s daughter had been rendered by herlate adventure all but the affianced bride of Lafontaine,she immediately assumed all the rights of a bride,treated her slave as slaves are treated every where,received his friends at her villa with animation, andopened her heart to them all, from the old generaldownwards, even to me. I never had seen a creatureso joyous, with all her soul so speaking on her lips,and all her happiness so sparkling in her eyes.
She was the most restless, too, of human beings; butit was the restlessness of a glow of enjoyment, ofa bird in the first sunshine, of a butterfly in thefirst glitter of its wings. She was now continuallyforming some party, some ingenious surprise of pleasure,some little sportive excursion, some half theatricscene, to keep all our hearts and eyes as much aliveas her own. Lafontaine obviously did not likeall this; and some keen encounters of their wits tookplace, on the pleasure which, as he averred, “shetook in all society but his own.”“If the charge be true,” said she oneday, “why am I in fault? It is so naturalto try to be happy.”
“But, to be happy without me, Mariamne.”
“Ah, what an impossibility!” laughed thelittle foreigner.
“But, to receive the attentions even of thegeneral, old enough to have married your grandmother.”
“Well, does it not show his taste, even in yourown opinion, to follow your example, and admire whatyou tell me you worship?”
“You are changed; you are a girouette,Mariamne.”
“Well, nothing in the world is so melancholyas one who lets all the world pass by it, withouta thought, a feeling, or a wish. One might aswell be one of the pictures in the Louvre, pretty andcharming, and gazed at by all the passers-by, withouta glance for any of them, in return. I have nokind of envy for being a mummy, covered with clothof gold, and standing in a niche of cedar, yet withall its sensations vanished some thousand years ago.”
“Was this the language you held to me when firstwe met, Mariamne?”
“Was this the language you held to me,when first we met, Charles? But I shall losemy spirits if I talk to you. What a sweet evening!What a delicious breeze! Bon soir!” Andforth she went, tripping it among the beds of flowerslike a sylph, followed by Lafontaine, moody and miserable,yet unable to resist the spell. Of those scenesI saw a hundred, regularly ending in the same conclusion;the lady always, as ladies ought, gaining the day,and the gentleman vexed, yet vanquished. Butevil days were at hand; many a trial more severe thanthe pretty arguments of lovers awaited them; and Lafontainewas to prove himself a hero in more senses than one,before they met again.
It happened, that I was somewhat a favourite withMariamne. Yet I was the only one of whom Lafontainenever exhibited a suspicion. His nature was chivalrous,the rencounter between us he regarded as in the strongestdegree a pledge of brotherhood; and he allowed me tobask in the full sunshine of his fair one’ssmiles, without a thought of my intercepting one oftheir beams. In fact, he almost formally gavehis wild bird into my charge. Accordingly, wheneverhe was called to London, which was not unfrequentlythe case, as the business of the emigrants with Governmentgrew more serious, I was her chosen companion; andas she delighted in galloping over the hills and valesof Sussex, I was honoured by being her chief equerry;she repaying the service by acting as my cicerone.
“Come,” said she one day, at the end ofan excursion, or rather a race of some miles alongthe shore, which put our blood-horses in a foam, “haveyou ever seen Les Interieurs?”
“No.”
“I saw you,” she remarked, “admiringthe duch*esse de Saint Alainville at our little ballthe other night.”
“It was impossible to refuse admiration.She is the noblest looking woman I ever saw.”
“One of the noblest, sir, if you please.But, as I disdain the superb in every thing”——Shefixed her bright eyes on me.
“The fascinating is certainly much superior.”A slight blush touched her cheek, she bowed, and allwas good-humour again.
“Well, then,” said she, “since youhave shown yourself rational at last, I shallpresent you to this superb beauty in her own palace.You shall see your idol in her morning costume, herFrench reality.”
She touched the pane of a window with her whip, anda bowing domestic appeared. “Is her Graceat home?” was the question. “Her Gracereceives to-day,” was the answer. My companionlooked surprised, but there was no retreating.We alighted from our horses to attend the “reception.”
The cottage was simply a cottage, roofed with thatch;and furnished in the homeliest style of the peasantsto whom it had belonged. We went up stairs.A few objects of higher taste were to be seen in theapartment to which we were now ushered—apendule, a piano, and one or two portraits superblyframed, and with ducal coronets above them. But,to my great embarrassment, the room was full, andfull of the first names of France. Yet the wholeassemblage were female, and the glance which the duch*esscast from her fauteuil, as I followed my rather startledguide into the room, showed me that I had committedsome terrible solecism, in intruding on the party.On what mysteries had I ventured, and what was tobe the punishment of my temerity in the very shrineof the Bona Dea? My pretty guide, on findingherself with all those dark eyes fixed on her, andall those stately features looking something betweensorrow and surprise, faltered, and grew alternatelyred and pale. We were both on the point of retiring;when the duch*ess, after a brief consultation withsome of the surrounding matronage, made a sign toMariamne to approach. Her hospitality to all theemigrant families had undoubtedly given her a claimon their attentions. The result was a most gracioussmile from Madame la Presidente, and I took my seatin silence and submission.
“Is France a country of female beauty?”is a question which I have often heard, and whichI have always answered by a recollection of this scene.I never saw so many handsome women together, beforeor since. All were not Venuses, it is true; butthere was an expression, almost a mould of feature,universal, which struck the eye more than beauty.It was impossible to doubt that I was among a highcaste; there was a general look of nobleness,a lofty yet feminine grace of countenance, a statelysweetness, which are involuntarily connected with highbirth, high manners, and high history.
There were some whose fine regularity of feature mighthave served as the model for a Greek sculptor.Yet those were not the faces on which the eye restedwith the long and deep delight that “drinks inbeauty.” I saw some worthy or the sublimespell of Vandyke, more with the magnificence of stylewhich Reynolds loved, and still more with the subdueddignity and touching elegance of which Lawrence wasso charming a master.
On my return to French society in after years, I wasabsolutely astonished at the change which seemed tome to have taken place in the beauty of high life.I shall not hazard my reputation for gallantry, bytracing the contrast more closely. But evil timeshad singularly acted upon the physiognomy even ofthe nobles. The age of the roturier hadbeen the climacteric of France. Generals fromthe ranks, countesses from the canaille, legislatorsfrom the dregs of the populace, and proprietors fromthe mingled stock of the parasite and the plunderer,naturally gave the countenance, formed by their habits,to the nation formed by their example.
Still there were, and are, examples of this originalbeauty to be found among the elite of the noblefamilies; but they are rare, and to be looked on asone looks on a statue of Praxiteles found in the darknessand wrecks of Herculaneum. In the words of theold song, slightly changed—
“I roam’d throughFrance’s sanguine sand,
At beauty’saltar to adore,
But there the sword had spoil’dthe land,
And Beauty’sdaughters were no more.”
* * * * *
ENGLISH MUSIC AND ENGLISH MUSICIANS.
Musical taste, as we observed in a former article,has undergone fewer mutations in England, than inmost other countries where the art has been cultivatedand esteemed. In order, therefore, to acquirean accurate knowledge of the state of musical tasteand science which now prevails among us, it will benecessary to take a brief retrospect; and as muchof the music still popular was composed during theearliest period of the art in England, we shall rapidlytrace its history from the times of those early masters,whose names are still held in remembrance and repute,down to the present century.
When England threw off the Papal yoke, music was littleknown beyond the services of the church. Thoughthe secular music of this period was barbarous inthe extreme, yet masses were universally sung, andmusic had long formed a necessary element in the dueperformance of the services of the Romish church.During the reign of Henry VIII. few alterations weremade in public worship; and the service continued tobe sung and carried on in the Latin language, as before.From Strype’s account of the funeral of thismonarch, it appears that all the old ceremonies wereobserved, and that the rupture with Rome had causedno alteration in the obsequies performed on such occasions.
In the reign of his successor, the church servicewas entirely changed, and the Protestant liturgy wasfirst published for general use. Four years afterthis event, on the accession of Mary, the “oldworship” was again restored. But when,at length, the reformed religion was firmly establishedby Elizabeth, and the ritual permanently changed, themusic of the old masses, suited to the genius andstructure of the Romish service, was no longer availablefor the simpler forms of worship by which it was replaced.During the holiest and most solemn portions of theancient worship, the organ had for centuries been heardin the cathedrals, while the choruses of praise andadoration resounded through the aisles. Men’sopinions may undergo a change, but the feelings andideas created by early association, and fostered byhabit, are far more lasting and enduring. Thepoet must have lamented the loss of the music, which,in the stern ascetic spirit of Puritanism prevailingat a later period of our history, he assisted to banishfrom our churches, as he sang—“But let my due feetnever fail
To walk the studious cloisterspale,
And love the high embowedroof,
With antique pillars, massyproof,
And storied windows richlydight,
Casting a dim religious light,
There let the pealing organblow
To the full-voiced choir below,
In service high, and anthemclear,
As may with sweetness, throughmine ear,
Dissolve me into extasies,
And bring all heav’nbefore mine eyes.”
At the period of which we speak, the want of musicin the services of the church seems to have been severelyfelt, though perhaps the simpler forms of the newritual were comparatively but little adapted for musicaldisplay. Great exertions were made throughoutthe kingdom by the deans and chapters to restore theefficiency of the choirs; and Elizabeth, in the exerciseof what then appeared an undoubted prerogative ofthe crown, issued her warrant for the impressment ofsinging men and boys for the castle of Windsor.The churches and cathedrals still, indeed, retainedtheir organs; “the choirs and places where theysing” were still in being; all the materielwas at hand; but, with the exception of the productionof John Marbeck, called “The Book of CommonPrayer Noted,” which was printed in 1550, therewas as yet no music for the new services in the Englishlanguage. Two years after the accession of Elizabeth,and one year after the bill for the uniformity ofcommon prayer had passed the legislature, a choralwork, “very necessarie for the church of Christto be frequented and used,” was published, amongthe authors of which the name of Tallis appeared.The musical necessities of the newly established churchappear to have stimulated or developed talents which,under other circ*mstances, might perhaps have beenless prominently brought forward: at all events,the demand for this music would seem a principal reason
why the early English masters should have devotedthemselves so exclusively to sacred composition.Tallis and his pupil Byrd, both men of original genius,produced many compositions for the newly introducedritual, which, by their intrinsic merit and comparativesuperiority, aided also by a constant demand for newmusic of the same character, gave a permanent directionto the exercise of musical talent; and the servicesof Tallis and Byrd became the classic objects of emulationand imitation, and sacred music became, in a peculiarmanner, the national music of England. The compositionsof these “fathers of our genuine and nationalsacred music,” are still preserved, the latterof whom, Byrd, died in 1623, at the age of probablynear eighty years.The year 1588 forms an epoch in our musical history.An Italian merchant, who, by his mercantile connectionwith the Mediterranean, had opportunities of obtainingthe newest and best compositions of his native country,had, for some years, been in the frequent habit ofprocuring the best singers of the day, to perform them,privately, at his house in London. This gentlemanhad at length the spirit and enterprise to publisha volume of Italian madrigals, entituled, “MusicaTransalpina, Madrigales translated of four, five, andsix parts, chosen out of divers excellent authors;with the first and second parts of La Virginella,made by Maister Byrd, upon two stanzas of Ariosto,and brought to speak English with the rest.”These pieces seem to have given birth to that passionfor madrigals which was afterwards so prevalent, andthus became the models of contemporary musicians.The next composer of any note was Orlando Gibbons.He died at an early age, soon after the accessionof Charles I., to whom he had been appointed organist.This master composed several madrigals, but, likehis predecessors, he devoted himself principally tosacred composition. The secular productions ofTallis, Byrd, and Gibbons, together with those ofcontemporary composers of inferior note, are, for themost part, now forgotten; but the sacred music ofthese three masters still forms a part of every collectionof church music. Canons and fugues were the favouritemodes of that early period; vain substitutes for melody,rhythm, and correct accentuation, in which particularsmusic was then greatly deficient. The meritsof the compositions of the Elizabethan age, vauntedby the lovers of antiquity as the golden age of Englishmusic, are thus summed up by Dr Burney: “Itis, therefore, upon the church music, madrigals, andsongs in parts, of our countrymen during the reignof Elizabeth, that we must rest their reputation; andthese, in point of harmony and contrivance, the chiefexcellencies of such compositions, appear in nothinginferior to those of the best contemporary compositionsof the Continent. Taste, rhythm, accent, andgrace, must not be sought for in this kind of music;indeed, we might as well censure the ancient Greeks
for not writing in English, as the composers of thesixteenth century for their deficiency in these particulars,which having then no existence, even in idea, couldnot be wanted or expected; and it is necessarily thebusiness of artists to cultivate or refine what isin the greatest esteem among the best judges of theirown nation and times. And these, at this period,unanimously thought every species of musical compositionbelow criticism except canons and fugues. Indeed,what is generally understood by taste in music, mustever be an abomination in the church; for, as it consistsof new refinements or arrangements of notes, it wouldbe construed into innovation, however meritorious,unless sanctioned by age. Thus the favouritepoints and passages in the madrigals of the sixteenthcentury, were in the seventeenth received as orthodoxin the church; and those of the opera songs and cantatasof the seventeenth century, are used by the gravestand most pious ecclesiastical composers of the eighteenth.”Of the skill of the performers, for whom this music,still listened to and admired, was written, he alsoobserves, “that the art of singing, furtherthan was necessary to keep a performer in tune, andtime, must have been unknown;” and that “ifL500 had been offered to any individual to performa solo, fewer candidates would have entered the liststhan if the like premium had been offered for flyingfrom Salisbury steeple over Old Sarum without a balloon.”For ourselves, we do not hesitate to acknowledge that,in our opinion, the services of these patriarchs ofthe English school surpass the great majority of similarproductions by our later masters. They may, indeed,suffer when compared with the masses of the greatcontinental masters; but they nevertheless possessa certain degree of simple majesty, well suited tothe primitive character of the ritual of that churchwhich disdains the use of ornament, and on principledeclines to avail herself of any appeal to the sensesas an auxiliary to devotion. We have been themore particular in our notice of these early masters,because, long without any rivals, their church musiceven now stamps the public taste, and is still heldin the highest esteem by many among whom their namesalone suffice to hold the judgment captive.It is needless to advert to Humphrey and other composers,some of whose productions are still in vogue; enoughhas been said to show with what reason the absolutecorrectness of English taste in sacred music, in whichwe suppose ourselves so peculiarly to excel, may becalled in question.
We proceed to sketch the history of the other branchesof the art in England, and commence at once with HenryPurcell, the greatest of our native masters, previouslyto whom music is said to have been manifestly on thedecline during the seventeenth century. It hasbeen often remarked of Purcell, that he had “devanceson siecle.” Many of his faults, defects,or crudities, may undoubtedly be attributed to theage which he adorned. The tide of public approbationhas of late set strongly in his favour; and couldthe fulsome panegyrics, of which he has been the object,be implicitly received, Purcell would be consideredas nothing less than a prodigy of genius. Severalattempts at dramatic music had been made before Purcell’stime. Matthew Lock had already set the songsof Macbeth and the Tempest, and had alsogiven to the world “The English Opera, or thevocal music in Psyche,” in close imitation ofLulli, the long famed composer of Louis XIV. Purcellfollowed in the new track, taking for his models theproductions of the first Italian composers. Thefact, that Purcell was under obligations to the Italians,may startle many of his modern admirers; but with acandour worthy of himself, in the dedication of hisDioclesian to Charles Duke of Somerset, hesays, that “music is yet but in its nonage,a forward child. ’Tis now learning Italian,which is its best master.” And in the prefaceto his Sonatas, he tells us that he “faithfullyendeavoured at a just imitation of the most famed Italianmasters.” An able critic has also remarked,that he thinks he can perceive the obligations whichPurcell had to Carissimi in his recitative, and toLulli both in recitative and melody; and also thatit appears that he was fond of Stradella’s manner,though he seems never to have pillaged his passages.Many of our readers are doubtless aware, that Purcell’sopera of King Arthur has been lately revivedat Drury-Lane, where it has had a considerable run.The public prints have been loud in its praise; andthis work has been styled “the perfect modelof the lyric drama of England.” The interventionof spoken dialogue, by many in their innocence hithertosupposed to be a defect in the construction of a musicaldrama, is strangely metamorphosed into a beauty inKing Arthur. In short, from some of thesecritiques, King Arthur would appearto be the only perfect drama or opera which the worldhas ever seen. To show the real value of thesecriticisms, we may mention the fact, that in an elaboratearticle of a journal now before us, in which manyof the pieces of this opera are enumerated and highlycommended, the writer has curiously enough passedby in silence two airs, of which Dr Burney observesthat they contain not a single passage which the bestcomposers of his time, if it presented itself to theirimagination, would reject; and on one of which healso remarks, that it is “one of the few airs
that time has not the power to injure; it is of allages and all countries.” There is doubtlessmuch in Purcell, which, though quaint and antiquated,the musician may nevertheless admire; but excellenceof this kind is necessarily lost upon a general audience.Melody in his day was rude and unpolished; for therewere no singers to execute, even if the composer hadthe ability to conceive. Thus Percell’smelody, though often original and expressive, is neverthelessmore often rude and ungraceful. In the words ofa recent writer on this subject, “We are oftensurprised to find elegance and coarseness, symmetryand clumsiness, mixed in a way that would be unaccountable,did we not consider that, in all the arts, the tasteis a faculty which is slowly formed, even in the mosthighly gifted minds.” We suspect that thepageant saved King Arthur; the scenic illusionsby which contending armies were brought upon an extendedplain, together with the numerous transformations,continually commanded that applause which the musicalone failed to elicit. With many, however, themere spectacle was not all-sufficient; butOpinion was written down, and independently of theprestige attached to the name of Purcell, thepress would have effectually put down all exhibitionof disapprobation. The theatre might be seento become gradually deserted, and party after party,stunned by the noise and blinded by the glare, mightbe observed to glide noiselessly away as the performanceproceeded, while an air of fatigued endurance, anddisappointment, was plainly visible on the countenancesof those that remained behind. This opera hasbeen frequently revived; how much of the success whichit has met with may be attributed to what Rousseau,when speaking of the operas of that period, terms “afalse air of magnificence, fairyism, and enchantment,which, like flowers in a field before the harvest,betokens an apparent richness,” may bematter of speculation; but it is recorded that evenon its first introduction on the stage, itcaused a heavy loss to the patentees, in consequenceof which their affairs were thrown into Chancery, wherethey remained some twenty years. Even Purcell’sfame is confined to our own shores, and we are notaware that his music was ever known upon the Continent.Arne, who established his reputation as a lyric composerby the music of Comus in 1738, is the nextcomposer whom we think it necessary to mention.To this master belongs the singular glory of havingcomposed an English opera—a term by which,as will be seen hereafter, we mean a musical dramain which the whole of the plot is carried on withoutthe intervention of spoken dialogue. Artaxerxes,the only work of the kind which we possess, was firstproduced in the year 1762. Though the music isof a form now obsolete, this opera has seldom beenlong a stranger to our stage, having been from timeto time revived for the debut of new and ambitious
singers. One of these revivals has recently takenplace; the piece, however, was performed for a fewnights only, and perhaps popularity may be, at length,deserting Artaxerxes. This “standardwork of the English school” appears to be ofmore than doubtful parentage. Arne is statedto have crowded the airs, those of Mandane in particular,with all the Italian divisions and difficulties ofthe day, and to have incorporated with his own propertyall the best passages of the Italian and English composersof his time. With the exception of Comusand Artaxerxes, none of his pieces or operasmet with great success; and he seems to be principallyremembered by those compositions which were the leastoriginal. “Rule Britannia,” by thecombined effect of the sentiment of the words andthe spirit and vivacity of the music, now become anational song, does not possess the merit of originality.Long before it was nationalized—ifone may use such a word—by Englishmen,it was observed that in an Italian song, which maybe seen at page 25 of Walsh’s collection, theidea—nay, almost all the passages—ofthis melody might be found. In the well-knownsong, “Where the bee sucks, there lurk I,”passages occur taken almost note for note from a cantabileby Lampugnani. According to Dr Burney, Arne mayalso claim the glory of having, by his compositionsand instructions, formed an era in the musical historyof his country. The former relates that music,which had previously stood still for near half a century,was greatly improved by Arne in his endeavours “torefine our melody and singing from the Italian;”and that English “taste and judgment, both incomposition and performance, even at the playhouses,differed as much from those of twenty or thirty yearsago, as the manners of a civilized people from thoseof savages.” Dr Busby, on the other hand,remarks, that “it is a curious fact that thevery father of a style, more natural and unaffected,more truly English, than that of any other master,should have been the first to deviate into foreignfinery and finesse, and desert the native simplicityof his country.” But it is by the compositionsin which this degeneracy may be most particularly remarked,that Arne’s name as a musician has been preserved.This fact has undoubtedly a double aspect. Wemay therefore, indeed, be permitted to ask,“Who shall decidewhen doctors disagree?”
Either the public taste has erred, or the bastardItalian was superior to the genuine English.Either way there is something wrong, and it matterslittle whether we elevate the composer at the expenseof the public, or whether we commend the nationaltaste while we depreciate and decry the excellenceof the music or the merit of the musician.
To Arne succeed several masters, many of whose compositionsare still popular. Arnold, Boyce, Battishall,Shield, Horsley, Webbe, and Calcott, are the leadingnames of a numerous class who are chiefly rememberedfor their anthems and glees, amongst which may befound the chefs-d’oeuvres of a schoolof which we shall more particularly speak hereafter.The dramatic compositions of these masters are, forthe most part, consigned to oblivion; nor has anypermanent impression been made upon the public, bya native opera, for many years. While our nationalschool has been thus barren, the Italian opera hasbeen long cultivated and esteemed. The firstopera, performed wholly in Italian, was given at theHaymarket theatre in 1710. Handel began to writefor this theatre in 1712, and continued to produceoperas for many years. The Italian opera appearsto have been in the most flourishing state about theyears 1735 and 1736. London then possessed twolyric theatres, each managed by foreign composers,carrying on a bitter rivalry, and each backed by allthe vocal and instrumental talent that could be foundin Europe. Porpora, by Rousseau styled the immortal,at the Haymarket, and Handel at Covent-Garden—theformer boasting the celebrated Farinelli and Cuzzoniamong his performers, the latter supported by Caustiniand Gizziello. The public, however, appears tohave been surfeited by such prodigality; for Dr Burneyobserves, “at this time”—about1737—“the rage for operas seems tohave been very much diminished in our country; thefact was, that public curiosity being satisfied asto new compositions and singers, the English returnedto their homely food, the Begger’s Operaand ballad farces on the same plan, with eagernessand comfort.” In 1741, Handel, after producingthirty-nine Italian lyric dramas, and after strugglingagainst adversity, with a reduced establishment ina smaller theatre, was compelled by ruin to retirefor ever from the direction of the Italian stage.The opera then passed into other hands, and was continued,with various success and few intermissions, down tothe present time. It has been the means of introducingto our countrymen the works of an almost innumerablehost of foreign composers. Bach, the first composerwho observed the laws of contrast as a principle,Pergolisi, Gluck, Piccini, Paesiello, Cimarosa, Mozart,Rossini, and Bellini, are the principal names, amonga long list of masters, of whom we might otherwisehave remained in utter ignorance. Performersof every kind, singers of the highest excellence, havecome among us; the powers and performances of Farinelli,Caffarelli, Pachierotti, Gabrielli, Mara, and others,are handed down by tradition, while all remember thegreat artists of still later times. These havebeen our preceptors in the art of song, and to them,and them alone, are we indebted for our knowledgeof the singer’s, powers; and but for their guidanceand instruction, our native home-taught professors
would have been centuries instead of years behind.It may, however, be some consolation to reflect, thatwe have not been alone in our pupilage; for Italy,herself the pupil of ancient Greece, has in her turnbecome the preceptress of the modern world in music,as well as the other branches of the fine arts, inall of which her supremacy has been universally acknowledged.Besides the native musicians whose names we have enumerated,many ephemerae of the genus have fluttered theirshort hour, and been forgotten. On turning overthe popular music of the early years of the presentcentury, or the music which may, perhaps, have formedthe delight and amusem*nt of the last generation, themusician will marvel that such productions shouldhave been ever tolerated. Native skill has undoubtedlyadvanced since this period; and however worthlessmuch of our present music may be considered, it isnevertheless superior to most of the like productionsof our immediate predecessors. We have some livingcomposers whose works are not without some merit;but they can scarcely be placed even in the secondclass. Their compositions, when compared withthe works of the great continental masters, are tame,spiritless, and insipid; we find in them no flashesof real genius, no harmonies that thrill the nerves,no melodies that ravish the sense, as they steal uponthe ear. Effort is discernible throughout thismusic, the best of which is formed confessedly uponItalian models; and nowhere is the universal law, ofthe inferiority of all imitation, more apparent.These observations apply with especial force to thedramatic music, or compositions of the Englishschool. The term opera, is incorrectly used inEngland. The proper meaning of the word is, amusical drama, consisting of recitative airs and concertedpieces; without the intervention of spoken dialogue,it should consist of music, and music alone, fromthe beginning to the end. With us it has beenpopularly applied to what has been well characterizedas “a jargon of alternate speech and song,”outraging probability in a far higher degree than theopera properly so called, and singularly destructiveof that illusion or deception in which the pleasurederived from dramatic representations principallyconsists. Music is in itself no mean vehicle ofexpression; but, when connected with speech or language,it gives a vast additional force and power to theexpression of the particular passion or feeling whichthe words themselves contain. It appears, as onelistens to an opera, as if the music were but a portion,or a necessary component part of the language of thebeings who move before us on the scene. We learnto deem it part of their very nature and constitution;and it appears, that, through any other than the combinedmedium of speech and song, the passions, we see exhibitedin such intensity, could not be adequately expressed.The breaking up of this illusion by the intervention
of mere dialogue, is absolutely painful; there isa sudden sinking from the ideal to the real, whichshocks the sense, and at once destroys the fabricof the imagination. Rousseau says of the lyricdrama, that “the melodies must be separatedby speech, but speech must be modified by music; theideas should vary, but the language should remainthe same. This language once adopted, if changedin the course of a piece, would be like speaking halfin French and half in German. There is too greata dissimilarity between conversation and music, topass at once from one to the other; it shocks boththe ear and probability. Two characters in dialogueought either to speak or sing; they cannot do alternatelyone and the other. Now, recitative is the meansof union between melody and speech by whose aid, thatwhich is merely dialogue becomes recital or narrativein the drama, and may be rendered without disturbingthe course of melody.” Recitative is peculiarlyadapted to the expression of strong and violent emotion.The language of the passions is short, vivid, broken,and impetuous; the most abrupt transitions and modulationswhich are observed in nature, may be noted down inrecitative. Writing recitative is but committingto paper the accent and intonation, in short, thereading of the language to be delivered bythe performer; and the composer may almost be consideredas a master of elocution, writing down that readingof a passage which he thinks may best express thepassion or the sentiment of the words. The effectof this reading or intonation is often aided and increasedby the sound of instruments, sometimes, expressingthe harmonies of the passages or transitions notedfor the voice, at other times, perhaps, performinga graceful independent melody or harmony, in whichcase it is said to be “accompanied:”It may be easily conceived, how powerful an instrumentof dramatic effect, this species of composition maybecome in the hands of a skillful composer. Wehave already given two examples of its power, one,of recitative in its simplest form, the other, of accompaniedrecitative.[1] It would seem scarcely credible thatso powerful an agent of the lyric drama should beutterly neglected, among a people who undoubtedlyclaim to be considered a musical nation, andwhose composers certainly esteem themselves amongthose to whom musical fame might be justly awarded.But such is nevertheless the fact, and we are notaware of any modern composer of the English schoolwho has fully availed himself of its powers and capabilities.It has been said of Artaxerxes, that the attemptthen made to apply recitative to the English languageis unsuccessful; but it may be asked, whether the longcontinued popularity of this work may not, in somedegree at least, be owing to the absence of the incongruousmixture of speech and song. However this maybe, it is at least a singular coincidence, that thesingle opera of our language, in which dialogue doesnot break and interrupt the unity and consistent actionof the drama, should be the only musical work whichhas been distinguished by such constant and enduringmarks of popular favour and approbation. Anotherspecies of dramatic music, the cantabile ofthe Italians, is equally neglected among us.The cantabile includes much of the most exquisitemusic of the Italian masters, and we know of nothingmore touchingly beautiful, throughout the whole rangeof musical composition, than many of the andantecantabili of this school. This, also, hasbeen rarely attempted by the English masters, andtheir puny efforts will bear no comparison with therich, graceful, flowing measure of the true Italian.[Footnote 1: No. cccxxvii, p. 137.]
All music is, in a greater or less degree, essentiallydramatic. Its beauty often depends, entirely,upon the fidelity and truth with which nature is followed.Even instrumental music aims at dramatic effect, andfanciful incidents, and catastrophes are often suggestedby the melodies and harmonies of a symphony, or concerto.These creations of the imagination are in themselvesa source of interest and delight, wholly different,in their nature, from the pleasure conferred by meresounds. How beautiful are the scenes, about tofollow, depicted in the overtures to Der Freyschutzand Oberon; what wild diableries arenot suggested by those wonderful compositions!There are sounds of awful mystery, proceeding, asit were, now, from the dread rites of dark malignantbeings of another world, now, from the mad frolicsof mischievous and reckless imps; in the midst ofwhich a stream of beauteous, gentle melody—likea minister of grace—breaks forth; now,gliding smoothly along, now, rushing on impetuously,or, broken and interrupted in its course, as thoughthe powers of good and evil were striving for themastery; and at length, as if the former were victoriousin the strife, that melody again bursts forth, loudand expanded in the bold exulting tones of triumph,with which the imaginary scene is closed.
Similar observations might be made of many other piecesof instrumental music; but these effects depend uponthe imagination of the hearer, there being no wordsto convey definite ideas to the mind. In vocalmusic, where the words express no passion or emotion,the voice becomes little more than a mere instrumentof the composer or the performer. Now, the nationalmusic of our country is for the most part adapted towords of this description, and the anthem, the madrigal,and glee, are thus necessarily deficient in dramaticpower and expression. The glee has been describedas “quelque chose bien triste,”and few but the fanatics of the school who have listenedto a succession of glees, will, we think, deny theaccuracy of the description. The oratorio is oftenhighly dramatic; but we have few, if any, oratoriosof merit, of native production. Our operas wehave already designated as plays, with songs scatteredabout at random. Thus, music of the highest classis rarely attempted in this country; and the neglectof the one great requisite of musical excellence,may have prevented our composers from assumingthat rank, to which they might otherwise have shownthemselves entitled.
There is, however, another class of composers whomwe must not omit to notice: we mean the song-writersof the day, the authors of those ballads and vocalcompositions, with knights and ladies fair, houris,sentimental peasants, or highborn beauties, as thecase may be, lithographed upon the title-page.This class is entitled to notice, not because of themerit or ability they possess, but because these masters(!) really produce the popular music of the day, andbecause at present we literally possess no other newmusic. The first object of the publisher of asong is, or used to be, to have it sung in public bysome popular performer. This is not done withoutfee and reward; but the value of the subject of thepublisher’s speculation, is greatly increasedby the publicity gained by the introduction of thesong at the theatre or the concert-room. Whenthis event takes place, claqeurs are active,the friends of the singer support them, the playbillsannounce “a hit,” and a sly newspaperpuff aids the delusion; copies of the ornamented title-pageare distributed among the various music-sellers, tobe exhibited in their windows, and the song is popular,and “sells.” Modest merit is unknownamong us now. Thus songs and ballads withoutnumber, which would otherwise remain in well-meritedobscurity on the shelves of the publisher, are forcedinto notice and repute. The trade, no doubt,benefits by this system, the commercial end of thesespeculations may indeed be answered, but the publictaste is lowered by each and every of these transactions.
We may here notice the extravagant price of musicof every description in England. For a pieceof four or five pages, the sum of 2s. is commonlydemanded. Even where there has been an outlayin the purchase of the copyright, this sum can scarcelybe considered reasonable; but when the same priceis asked for music which has become common property,it is out of all reason. The expense of engravingfour or five pages of music, the cost of the plates,together with the expense of paper and printing ahundred copies of a song of this description, doesnot amount to L5; therefore the sale of fifty copieswill reimburse the publisher; while, if the wholehundred are disposed of, he is an actual gainer ofcent per cent upon his original outlay, while the profitupon every copy subsequently struck off is necessarilyenormous. On the Continent, music may be purchasedfor about one-third the sum which it would cost inEngland. In Paris, Pacini’s “partitions,”an excellent edition of the popular Italian operas,are sold for twelve francs each. The whole setmay be purchased at the rate of eleven francs the opera.While in London, the identical copies purchasableabroad by those not in the trade for about 8s. 6d.of our money, are sold at two guineas each. Theprofits of “the trade” on musical instruments,are also enormous. On the pianofortes of mostof the London makers, a profit of at least thirtyor thirty-five per cent is realized by the retailer;and on a grand piano, for which the customer pays130 guineas, “the trade” pockets on thevery lowest calculation upwards of L40.
English performers next claim our notice and attention.In this new field of observation we find little tocommend; defective training is the great cause ofour inferiority in the practical performance of music,in all its branches. This is especially manifestin the home-taught singers of the English school.The voice is never perfectly formed nor developed,and brought out in the correct and scientific mannerpossessed by the accomplished artists of other countries.Some of the most popular of our singers sing withthe mouth nearly closed, with others the voice isforced and strained, proceeding not from the chest,but from the throat, the muscles of which are necessarilycontracted in the effort. We have, no doubt,many difficulties to overcome in the structure ofour language, in which the accent is thrown on theconsonants rather than on the vowels. Unlike theItalian, which is thrown out, ore rotundo,directly from the chest, the English language is spokenfrom the throat, and, in general, also with the mouthnearly closed. The Italian singer finds no difficultyin bringing out his voice; but the Englishman hasfirst to conquer the habit of his life, and to overcomethe obstacles his native tongue opposes to his acquirementof this new but necessary, mode of using the voice.The difficulty, of laying this only foundation ofreal sterling excellence in the vocal art, is verygreat, and much care and study is indispensable.Those who have occasion to use the voice loudly inthe open air, insensibly acquire the power of thuseliciting the voice. The chest tones in whichmany of the “Cries of London” are oftenheard in the streets of the metropolis, are a familiarexample of nature’s teaching; another instanceof which may probably still be found among the “bargees,”of Cambridge, whose voices, in our younger days, wewell remember to have often heard and admired, as theyguided or urged forward their sluggish horses alongthe banks of the still more sluggish Cam, in tonesproceeding imo profundo of the chest, and magnificentenough to have made the fortune of many a singer.These men, indeed, seemed to pride themselves upontheir vocal powers; and many of them could executea rapid shake, with accuracy and precision. Thevoice is nature’s instrument, but, like theinstruments fashioned by the hand of man, it willnot yield its best tones to the unskilful. Thereare many instrumental performers whose chief excellencelies in their tone, and who could call forth tones,from even an ordinary instrument, far superior tothose which an inferior performer would be able toproduce from the best Straduarius or Amati. Tothe singer, tone is even of greater value than tothe instrumental performers; for the method of instructionwhich improves the qualities of the vocal organ, alsoimparts a power and certainty of expression and execution,which cannot be otherwise acquired. The finestsingers are ever found to be those, who have best
studied and developed the powers of the instrumentwhich nature had bestowed upon them. This isthe first grand requisite for the singer; withoutit, respectable mediocrity may occasionally be attained,but real excellence never can be gained. We knowof no English-taught singer who possesses it.So little are the voice and its capabilities understoodin this country, that instances might be mentionedwhere basses were mistaken for barytones, barytonesfor tenors, and contraltos for sopranos. Howeverincredible this may appear, it is, nevertheless, strictlyand literally true. The consequence of such strangeblunders is what might be naturally expected; thevoice, forced out of its natural compass, prematurelygives way, and at a period of life when the vocalorgan, if properly trained and developed, should havearrived at maturity and perfection, the singer’spowers are gone, and, in the prime of life, he iscompelled to abandon his profession, and subsides intothe mere singing-master, to misinstruct therising generation, and to mar the prospects of otherswho succeed him, as his own hopes were blighted bythe errors of his own instructors. To what othercause can be attributed the constant and mysteriousdisappearance of new singers? How many youngvocalists appear from time to time; lauded at firstto the skies, for a few seasons listened to and admired,but whose reputation gradually decays, and who atlength disappear from the stage and are forgotten.There are some who endure for years; but they fulfilno promise of their early youth. Under these circ*mstances,we could ill afford to lose an artist who seemed destinedto achieve a lasting reputation. Our musicalstage has but now sustained a heavy loss in one ofthe brightest ornaments it ever possessed; the charmsof a happy home have withdrawn her from public life—butthe genius of Miss Adelaide Kemble will not be soonforgotten. Another bright ornament of our stage,however, still remains. Possessing less physicalenergy and tragic power than her contemporary, MrsAlfred Shaw is, nevertheless, the most pure, polished,and cultivated English singer we ever heard on theboards of our national theatre. The finish andrefinement of her style, and the clear distinctnessof her enunciation, make her the worthy model for theimitation of all who are desirous to excel. Wereour future debutanti trained on the systemwhich has thus developed the powers and capabilitiesof these eminent artists, less frequently would beobserved the musical disappearances of which we havebeen speaking.The English tenor is a nondescript animal; singingfrom some unknown region, his voice possesses no naturalcharacter, but its tones are forced, strained, andartificial. Our tenors and counter-tenors—asort of musical hermaphrodite, almost peculiar tothis country, and scarcely recognized by classicalcomposers—delight in what is called the“pure,” or, “the good old English”
style. This style, coldly correct, tame, dull,flat, and passionless, requires but little in the singer.The bass of this school is a saltatory creature; heis, for the most part, either striding through thirds,or jumping over fifths and octaves, much as he dida hundred years ago. During this period, the artof singing has made immense advances elsewhere; theexecution of Farinelli, in 1734, thought so wonderful,would not suffice for even a third-rate singer now;and the powers of B. Ferri, described by Rousseau,are scarcely more than would be expected of everysinger of the Queen’s Theatre. Rossini’smusic, replete with difficulties of execution, hascompelled even the unwieldy bass to overcome his reluctanceto rapid motion, and he is now obliged to condescendto runs, arpeggios, and other similar feats of agility.In an opera buffa at a Neapolitan theatre, called IlFondo, we once heard Tamburini execute the well-knownsong “Ma non fia sempre odiata” in hisfalsetto, with a taste and expression scarcely surpassedby Rubini’s performance of the air. On anotheroccasion, at the same theatre, the prima donna wastaken suddenly ill in the midst of a terzetto, inwhich Tamburini had the bass, and, while supportingher on the stage, this accomplished musician actuallytook the soprano in his falsetto, and performed thepart of the indisposed lady in a manner which drewdown universal applause. The English school, “stilltardy,” and “limping after” theItalian, is yet far behind. It has, undoubtedly,made some advances, but it is still the child, followingindeed, but,“Haud passibusaequis.”
With us, the pupil commonly begins where he shouldend; songs are placed before him almost as soon ashe has mastered the elements of music. At a time,when his whole study and endeavour should be to formand cultivate the voice, and by long, patient, andpersevering exercise, to develop and command its powers,and to acquire flexibility and certainty of execution,his efforts are expended in learning—asit is called—songs. This process maybe carried on ad infinitum; but none of theobjects of the pupil’s study can be ever sung,in the real acceptation of the term, on this methodof instruction. The well-known anecdote of theearly youth of one of the greatest singers the worldhas ever known, who, after the drudgery of a dailypractice of exercises alone for seven years, was biddenby his master to go his way, the first singer in Europe,is an example of the advantages of the opposite system.The compass of an ordinary tenor is about two octaves,from C below the line, to C in alt. Within thiscompass, the tenor makes use of two voices; the chestor natural voice—which ranges over the wholeof the lower octave and the lower half of the higheroctave—and the head-voice or falsetto,which is commonly used throughout the whole of theremainder of the upper octave, the higher notes ofwhich can be reached only in the falsetto. In
passing from one ‘voice’ to the other,especially while descending the scale, a break or crackmay be observed in the untutored and uncultivatedvoice. When this defect has been overcome, andthe student has acquired the power of passing fromone ‘voice’ to the other without thisbreak, the voice is said to be joined. The sopranoalso has to contend with a similar difficulty.It often requires many months of constant and unremittingpractice to overcome this natural defect of the vocalorgan, and in some voices it is never entirely conquered.An acute ear might often detect the faulty joiningof the voice, in both the Grisis, when executing adistant descending interval. This obstacle meetsthe student at the very threshold of his career; butwe have met with many English taught amateurs, whowere altogether ignorant even of what was meant byjoining the voice. In fact, the art of singing,or of acquiring a mastery and control over the voice,of remedying its defects, and developing its latentpowers, is comparatively unknown in England; our professorsare for the most part entirely ignorant of the capabilitiesof the human voice, as an instrument, in thehands of the performer. Many of these observationsapply to our instrumental performers. With fewexceptions, defective training has, in this branchof the musical art, long prevented us from producingperformers of equal celebrity with those who have visitedus from the Continent. From them we have becomeacquainted with effects, which we should have deemedthe instruments on which they played wholly incapableof producing. Our young professors now often followthese men to their own country, there to learn ofthem that proficiency which they would seek in vainto acquire at home.In the midst of all this ignorance, with our one opera,our anthems, madrigals, glees, and ballads, we neverthelessesteem ourselves a musical people, and every one isready to exclaim with Bottom, “I have a reasonablegood ear in musick!” Music certainly is the fashionnow, and no one would dare to avow that he had nomusic in his soul. It may be thought, that nonebut a people passionately devoted to music, couldproduce a succession of patriots ready to sacrificehealth and wealth, rather than their countrymen shouldfail to possess an Italian opera. Some one isever found equal to the emergency; there is seldomany lack of competitors for the “forlorn hope”of the management of the Italian opera, and, undismayedby the ruin of his predecessors, the highest bidderrushes boldly on to the direction of the Queen’stheatre. Forty thousand pounds of debt has beenknown to have been incurred in a single season; andit has been calculated that a sum little short of amillion sterling, besides the produce of the subscriptionsand admissions, has been sacrificed to the desireof an Italian opera. Every autumn is rich inmusical festivals, as they are called, by which, thoughthe temples of God are desecrated, and the church,
in common with the theatre and the concert-room, becomesthe scene of gaiety, frivolity, and amusem*nt; andthough the speculation is a charitable one, by whichit is hoped that the funds of the benevolentinstitutions of the town or county may be increased,a considerable loss is nevertheless often incurred,which falls upon the committee, or upon the boroughor county members, according to the equity of thecase. These gentlemen also furnish another proofthat there are at least some among us who will incurany risk, and make any sacrifice, rather than foregothe indulgence of their musical tastes and inclinations.Are there not also choral and madrigal societies,glee-clubs, and concerts innumerable, in every partof the country? It is surely a mistake to suppose,“Que les Anglois ont peu d’aptitudepour la musique;” we agree that the remainderof the sentence, “Ceux-ci le savent et nes’en soucient guere,” is altogetherinapplicable now, however true it might have been whenthe lively Jean-Jacques framed the sentence.Our ambition has been roused, or our vanity has beenpiqued, and we are now pretty much in the same conditionwith the French, when it was said of them, that they“would renounce a thousand just rights, andpass condemnation on all other things, rather thanallow that they are not the first musicians of theworld.” This is one of the signs of thetimes, and we hail it as a symptom of better things.In the metropolis, music has advanced with far greaterrapidity than in the provinces. This appearsthe natural and inevitable result of causes to whichwe have already alluded. Ten or fifteen yearsago, the street-music of London consisted of suchtunes as Tom and Jerry—an especial favourite—theCopenhagen Waltz, and other melodies of thesame class. Now we have instruments imitatinga full orchestra, which execute elaborate overturesin addition to the best airs of the first mastersof Europe. The better the music the greater theattraction, even in the streets of London; and thepeople may be seen daily to crowd around these instruments,and to listen with attention to Italian and Germanmelodies. We have, of late, repeatedly heard thejuvenile unwashed, whistling airs learned from theseinstruments, which, however humble, thus appear toinfluence the taste of the poorer classes. Duringseveral weeks of the present year, operas in an Englishdress were simultaneously performed at three of ourtheatres. The very gods in the galleries nowlook benignly down upon the Italian strangers, which—touse a theatrical phrase—draw better housesthan any other performances would command.
In the country, the advancement is less manifest.A provincial musical party is generally a fearfulthing. In the society of the metropolis, nonebut the really skilful musician is ever heard; in thecountry, these are rare beings; or, if the scientificperformer is sometimes found, like the diamond inthe mine, he shines in vain, there are none to appreciatehis excellence. It is truly painful to see a numberof fair young creatures, one after another, broughtup to the instrument; there to exhibit, not tasteor skill, but ignorance and inability. It iseven still more painful to be condemned to listen tothe performance of the best specimens, selected fromthe stock of school-taught pieces, beyond which manyof the fair performers know little or nothing.We beg pardon of our fair young countrywomen; thefault lies not with them. The indiscriminateteaching of music cannot make all musicians. Manyhave no warm taste for music, and many more, who,under other circ*mstances, might have pursued theart as an amusem*nt and recreation, are disgustedfrom their earliest youth by its being made a task,the difficulty of which is immeasurably increasedby imperfect instruments. The general taste ofthe provincial world has advanced but little, for manyyears. There is a certain class of music, whichhas been respectfully listened to for upwards of acentury; which, having been admired before, is thereforeproper to be admired again. Few would dare tocriticize, or avow a distaste for, music which hasso long been popular. Handel and some othersstill meet with universal deference, and their verynames alone suffice to silence any one who, more hardythan the rest, should be disposed to find fault.This music, however, is heard with cold indifference;it calls forth no feeling, and excites no enthusiasm.It is, indeed, seldom adequately performed. Manyof Handel’s songs are truly dramatic; but thepurists of “the good old school,” sternlyadhering to their—self-styled classic—insipidity,never condescend to a meretricious display of dramaticpower. The Italian and German schools are notunderstood by the “million.” We haveon many occasions observed a large audience, who,after having listened with an air of puzzled stupidityto the performance of the most beautiful cavatineby the first singers of the day, would the next moment,one and all, be thrown into apparent ecstasy by awretched ballad, wound up by the everlasting ponderousEnglish shake. This mode of conclusion, to whichtrue taste is an utter stranger, is still consideredindispensable; though, in the Italian school, it hasbeen exploded upwards of a century. Such is themusic which calls forth the latent enthusiasm of anEnglish assembly, and a very respectable degree ofexcitement is often thus produced. There aremany, who believe this music to be of the highest classof excellence, and who affect to despise the musicof every other school. There are also many, who
assert that all other music is artificial and meretricious—whocontend that the Italian and German schools are usurpingan undue ascendency over the genuine, but modest, meritof our native music. That Bishop, Calcott, Webbe,Arne, and the rest, had reached the perfection oftheir art, would seem a bold assertion; and theirmost enthusiastic admirers would probably hesitateto state it as their conviction, that the compositionsof their favourites contain the elements of universalpopularity. Such, however, is the logical deductionfrom these premises, and the necessary conclusion fromopinions, which those who hold them will not easilyevade. If the music of our country does indeedpossess the excellence, so fondly asserted by itsnumerous admirers, we might naturally expect, amidthe general demand in Europe for musical entertainments,that its beauties should not be entirely neglectedand unknown. But while the Italian opera hasfound its way over nearly the whole of Europe, andis absolutely naturalized in England, France, andSpain, our musical productions are unknown beyondthe limits of their native shores. This, beinga negative proposition, is not capable of direct proof.Michael Kelly gives an amusing account of the performanceof the celebrated hunting song at Vienna, in whichthe discordant cries of “Tally-ho, Tally-ho,”are said to have driven the Emperor in indignationfrom the theatre, a great part of the audience alsofollowing the royal example. “The ladieshid their faces with the hands, and mothers were heardcautioning daughters never to repeat the dreadfulexpression of Tally-ho.” We have, ourselves,heard a no less air than “Drops of Brandy,”performed by a military band, stationed on the balconyof the palace of the King of Naples, on the eveningof the royal birthday. The crowds enjoying thecool air on the Stª Lucia, exclaimed “Inglese,Inglese!” English, English! as this odd reminiscenceof our countrymen was first heard. We are notaware of any other instances in which English musichas been introduced upon the Continent. Moresuch instances may undoubtedly exist; but the broadfact, that our music makes no way among other nations,cannot be disputed. The judgment of the civilizedworld can scarcely be in error; and it is difficultfor the most ardent admirer of his country’smusic, to account for the fact on any hypothesis whichis not founded on the real inferiority of the Englishschool.This inferiority can be no matter of surprise, whenwe consider the energy with which the tuneful artis cultivated, and the importance with which it isinvested, by the Italians. In the freedom happilyenjoyed by Englishmen, all pursuits are open to individualenterprise and ambition; and every path to fame oropulence is thronged with busy eager aspirants, allrunning the race of eminence and distinction, withthat strong purpose of the will which leaves but littleopportunity for the indulgence of tastes, which, though
they often exist among the individuals of these classes,are for this reason seldom cultivated. In Italy,insurmountable barriers are erected across these paths,which, in England, all are invited to pursue.The jealousy of despotic governments is ever on thewatch to stifle and put down the genius that wouldbusy itself on the serious affairs of men. Instancesmight be mentioned in which this monstrous systemhas been carried into effect. The smothered energiesof these restless spirits must somewhere find a vent,and Arteaga has eloquently described one of the effectsthus produced upon the Italians. “The loveof pleasure,” he remarks, “the only recompensefor the loss of their ancient liberty which the Italianspossess, and which in every nation decreases in proportionas political virtue diminishes, has caused an excessivefrequency of theatrical pageants and amusem*nts.In every small town, in every village, a theatre maybe found. Subsistence may fail the indigent,the rivers may want bridges, drainage may be necessaryto fertilize the plains, hospitals may be needfulfor the sick and infirm, there may even be no provisionto meet a public calamity, but a species of Coliseumis nowhere wanting for the idle and unemployed.”Operas are the national entertainments at these numeroustheatres. The impresario, or manager, isgenerally one of the most wealthy and considerablepersonages of the little town which he inhabits.He forms a company, and he engages a composer to writean opera for the opening of the season, which generallyconsists of twenty or thirty nights, during whichperiod seldom more than two operas are performed.The first night of one of these seasons is most amusinglydescribed by the biographer of Rossini. “Thetheatre overflows, the people flock from ten leagues’distance; the curious form an encampment round thetheatre in their calashes; all the inns are filledto excess, where insolence reigns at its height.All occupations have ceased; at the moment of theperformance the town has the aspect of a desert.All the passions, all the solicitudes, all the life,of a whole population, is concentrated at the theatre.The overture commences; so intense is the attention,that the buzzing of a fly could be heard. On itsconclusion, the most tremendous uproar ensues.It is either applauded to the clouds, or hissed, orrather howled at, without mercy. In an Italiantheatre, they shout, they scream, they stamp, theybelabour the backs of their seats with their canes,with all the violence of persons possessed. Itis thus that they force on others the judgment whichthey have formed, and strive to prove it a sound one;for, strange to say, there is no intolerance equalto that of the eminently sensitive. At the closeof each air the same terrific uproar ensues; the bellowingsof an angry sea could give but a faint idea of itsfury. Such, at the same time, is the taste ofan Italian audience, that they at once distinguishwhether the merit of an air belongs to the singer,or composer.”Contrast the scene here described with the appearancepresented on similar occasion by the Queen’sTheatre in the Haymarket. There, few are boldenough either to applaud or disapprove. Many simple,perhaps, but beautiful and refined, characteristicsof the composer or performer, may pass unnoticed;but some common-place embellishment, which is consideredsafe, will command the expression of approbation whichthe trait of real genius had failed to elicit.After a few representations, the fear of applaudingunwisely is diminished, but still, as was oncesaid of the French under similar circ*mstances, “theyaffirm with the lips, but with the eye they interrogate;”and it is not till a sort of prescription has beenestablished in favour of certain airs and passages,that the Englishman banishes doubt and distrust, andclaps his hands, and shouts bravo—accentingthe word strongly on the first syllable—withan air of confidence and decision. We would,nevertheless, entertain the hope, that our nationalreserve, or the mauvaise honte, which our countrymencontrive to exhibit on every possible occasion, isone cause of this apparent dulness; at all events,it would seem highly probable that a people amongwhom music is a necessity, should, in the unbiassedjudgment of contemporary nations, be our superiorsin the art.
In the north of England, musical taste is much morewidely diffused than in the south. The Committeeof the Privy Council on Education, report favourablyalso of the musical attainments of the people of Norfolk.Mr Hogarth, in his excellent and able work, observes,that “in the densely peopled manufacturing districtsof Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Derbyshire, music iscultivated among the working classes to an extentunparalleled in any other part of the kingdom.Every town has its choral society, supported by theamateurs of the place and its neighbourhood, wherethe sacred works of Handel and the more modern mastersare performed, with precision and effect, by a vocaland instrumental orchestra, consisting of mechanicsand work people; and every village church has itsoccasional oratorio, where a well-chosen and well-performedselection of sacred music is listened to by a decentand attentive audience, of the same class as the performers,mingled with their employers and their families.Hence, the practice of this music is an ordinary domesticand social recreation among the working classes ofthese districts, and its influence is of the most salutarykind.” We can ourselves bear witness tothe truth of many of these remarks. In some ofthe more rural portions of the manufacturing districtsof Lancashire, we have often listened to the voicesof little bands of happy children, who, while returninghome after the labours of the day were over, weresinging psalms and hymns to tunes learned at the nationalor Sunday schools. A highly interesting exampleof the superior musical capacity of the inhabitants
of this county, came under our observation a few yearsago, at a large and populous village situated on theborders of one of the extensive fields of industryof which we speak. On the anniversary of theopening of the school, the children frequenting it—innumber nearly 300—had been long accustomedto march in procession up to the mansion of the neighbouringsquire, the founder and endower of the school.Ranged upon the lawn in the presence of their agedbenefactor and his family—children, grandchildren,and great-grandchildren, were among them—ledby no instrument, and guided only by the voices oftheir teachers, they performed an anthem, in parts,with an accuracy and precision which was truly wonderful.As their young voices rose in simple beauty to theskies, tears coursed down the old man’s cheek,and though already bowed by the weight of nearly ninetyyears, he bent still lower, to hide the emotion whichovercame him. Six months after this occurrence,those children were drawn up to pay their last tributeof respect to their benefactor, as his remains passedto their final resting-place. In the churchesof the north, the school-children may be seen singingwith evident delight, not the mere passive instrumentsof the masters or teachers, but joining heart andsoul with the congregation. The Lancashire chorussingers have long enjoyed an extended reputation;at the last festival at Westminster Abbey, they provedthe principal strength of the choral band. Inother parts of the kingdom, far less aptitude formusic is shown among the working classes. Thesinging in the churches is, for the most part, ofthe lowest order. In many parishes considerablepains have, of late, been taken in order to improvethe psalmody, but no corresponding effect has beenproduced. In the agricultural districts of thesouth of England, no songs are heard lightening thedaily toil of the labourer, and the very plough-boyscan hardly raise a whistle. It is impossible toaccount for this; but the fact will be acknowledgedby all who have had the opportunity of observation.In speculating upon the future prospects of musicand musical taste and science in England, the tworival systems of teaching which have been recentlyintroduced, must necessarily become the subjects ofremark and observation. The names of the teachersof these systems are no doubt well known to all ourreaders. Mainzer, who is himself the author, aswell as the teacher, of one system, and Hullah, theteacher of the system of Wilhelm. Wilhelm’smethod has been stamped by authority, and the Committeeof the Council on Education, after “carefullyexamining” manuals of vocal music collectedin Switzerland, Holland, the German States, Russia,Austria, and France, in order to ascertain the characteristicdifferences and general tendency of the respectivemethods adopted in these countries, at length decidedin favour of Wilhelm. The accounts received ofthe success of this system in Paris, induced the Council
to secure the assistance of Mr Hullah, who was knownto have given much attention to the subject, and tohave been already engaged in making trials of themethod. The system of Wilhelm has, therefore,acquired the ascendency, and Mr Hullah has been investedwith the character or office of national instructor,in which capacity he is said to realize upwards ofL.5000 per annum—almost as many pounds,according to Mr Barnett, as Wilhelm, the inventor ofthe system, received francs. The prominent stationand the large income realized by a junior in the profession,has naturally roused the jealousy and excited theenvy of his elder brethren, many of whom, perhaps,found “their occupation” almost “gone.”The vast amount of the bitterness thus engendered,may be conceived, when the reader is informed, that,in London alone, it has been computed that music affordsa livelihood to more than 5000 persons. In themidst of such a host of bitter rivals, the imperfectionsand defects of this all-engrossing system are sureof exposure. Many grave and serious charges havebeen advanced against the mode in which a superficialand deceptive success has been made to appear real,sound, and healthy. These charges have been reiteratedin a pamphlet, recently published by one who is, perhaps,the first of our native living masters—MrBarnett. Those great exhibitions at Exeter Hall,in the presence of the magnates of the land, at whichnone but the pupils of Mr Hullah were stated to beallowed to attend, have been declared to be “packed”meetings. There is an equivoque in theterms pupil and classes; with the public they wouldnaturally be taken to mean those persons, and thoseonly, who had commenced their musical careerin the classes taught by Mr Hullah: but accordingto the official interpretation of the terms, theyappear to mean, all who now are or ever have beenreceiving instruction in Wilhelm’s method.Now, it must be remembered, that Mr Hullah has instructedin Wilhelm’s method many who had, for years,gained their bread by teaching music; who, havingbeen induced to abandon their old system, and to adoptthe new method from the superior remuneration it affords,were probably all able to take as efficient a partin the performance, when they commenced the nine lessonswhich entitle them to the certificate of competency,as when their course of instruction was concluded.Hundreds of such pupils may, for aught we know, havebeen judiciously disposed among the remainder of the1700 who performed on the grand occasions to whichwe allude. But to enable us to judge of the efficiencyof a system of instruction, we must not only witnessthe performance of the pupil, but we must also knowthe point from which he started. Now, these demonstrationshaving been got up expressly for the purpose of exhibitingthe skill and progress of Mr Hullah’s classes,all, therefore, that was necessary in order to forma judgment upon the question thus submitted to thepublic, though not directly asserted, was neverthelessnecessarily implied. At all events, the publicwere simple enough so to understand the matter.But when the mistake was at length discovered, insteadof at once correcting the error, if such indeed itwas, recourse was had to a disingenuous quibble onwords, which would, therefore, seem to have been purposelyrendered obscure. It will thus be seen how fallaciousa test these performances afford, either of the realmerits of the system, or of the actual progress orefficiency of those who have received instructionfrom no other source. But, besides this charge,the truth of which is thus virtually admitted, it hasalso publicly been charged against the conductorsof the Exeter Hall performances, that many able musicians,who never were the pupils of any teacher of the Wilhelmmethod, were surreptitiously introduced among theclasses at these great choral meetings. This isa grave accusation; it has been made not anonymouslynor in the dark, but backed and supported by the opendisclosure of the name and address of the several partiesby whom it has been publicly brought forward.Of the truth or falsehood of this serious imputationwe know nothing more than that it is raised by facts,which have been stated, but which, so far as we canlearn, have never received any denial or explanation.On one of these occasions we were present. Wecan bear testimony to the effect produced by much ofthe music then performed. Mr Hullah certainlyappeared to possess great power over the numerousassembly, and the facility with which he hushed themalmost down to silence, or made them raise their voicestill there seemed no limits to their united power,was almost magical. But beyond this, in the wordsof an able weekly journalist, “no means of formingany opinions were before us—the whole affairmight be a cheat and a delusion—we hadno test by which to try it. We have hitherto,”continues the writer, “spoken of these exhibitionsat Exeter Hall as realities, as being what they wereaffirmed to be. This is no longer possible.If Mr Hullah has any real confidence in his ‘system,’he will eagerly seek a real scrutiny into its merits;hitherto there has been none.” Our ownpersonal observation does not enable us to be veryenthusiastic in the praise of the Wilhelm system.A few weeks only have elapsed, since we attended ameeting of a class, whose progress we had watched,from time to time, from its earliest infancy.This class had gone through the course of sixty lessons,but continued still to receive instruction. Theirpower of singing at sight was tested in our presence—apiece of music they had never seen before was placedin their hands. The first attempt to executethis at sight was lame, and halted terribly; the secondwas somewhat better, but as we moved about, from onepupil to another, to ascertain, as far as possible,the individual accuracy of the class, we heard manyvoices, in a subdued tone, making a number of admirableguesses at their part, but the owners of which couldnot, by the utmost courtesy, be considered to be singingat sight. The basses missed many a “distance,”the tenors were interrupted by the master, and worked,in the defective passages, separately from the restof the class for a while, by ear!! A thirdattempt was made with somewhat better success, andthe piece was accomplished in a rambling uncertainmanner. During the whole of this trial, the trebleswere led by the master’s apprentice, a sharpclever boy, who retained a voice of peculiar beautyand power to the unusually late age of sixteen, andwho had commenced his musical studies six or eightyears before. We considered this experiment afailure; it may be said the fault lay in the teacher,not in the method; true, the master was not Mr Hullah,but he was one of the “certificated,” andthe partisans of Mr Hullah, in the language of thelawyers, are estopped from asserting his incompetency.We have known pupils, not deficient in general ability,who, having attended the greater part of “thecourse,” during which they paid great attentionto their studies, were unable to read more than afew bars of the simplest music, beyond which they werelost and confused. Without naming the notes Do,Re, &c., they were utterly unable to proceed atall, and it appeared to us that, by seeing those syllableswritten on paper, they would have gathered a morecorrect idea of the music, than by attempting to readfrom music written in the ordinary manner. Thisis the result of the invariable use of those syllablesin exercising the voice. In the best continentalschools, they have long been obsolete for such a purpose.Still, the Hullah-Wilhelm mania will, no doubt, produceconsiderable effect, even though the system shouldfall short of the expectations of its friends andpromoters. We have now commenced our first nationaleffort in this direction; either, the prejudices whichso long delayed this effort have been overcome, or,the “National Society” is now too strongto bow, entirely, to the opinions or prejudices ofone of its earliest and most influential patrons—onewho long resisted the introduction of musical instructioninto the schools of the society; and who, some twentyyears ago, is said, on one occasion, actually to havethrown out of the windows of the central school somecards and boards on which the elements of music wereprinted, and which had been introduced by some ofthe committee. But for the influence of this noblemanthe effort had, perhaps, been made many years ago.The “premier pas” has, however,at length been taken. The public mind is roused;all, from the highest to the lowest, frequent theclasses of Mr Hullah. Royalty itself deigns tolisten. “THE DUKE” himself takes delightin the peaceful notes of Exeter Hall, and the Premierhas found leisure, from the business and service ofthe State, to scrutinize the performance of “theclasses.” It must surely be a pleasantthing to sing to princes, warriors, and statesmen—allthat the country holds most in honour, love, and reverence.The impulse thus given is felt throughout the land.Classes are formed in every town, almost in everyvillage; the labourer, the mechanic, young men andmaidens, old men and children, may be seen, aftertheir daily toil is done, busy with the do, re,mi, fa, &c., of the class-book. Althoughthe system may not prove all that might be desired,yet much is taught and learned, and the desire of acquiringmore is created. The general standard of music,and musical taste, must necessarily be raised farabove its previous resting-place. It must, however,be ever borne in mind, that the system professes onlyto teach sight-singing, or, in other words, the powerof reading music. This power is wholly distinctfrom that of singing, as we have above defined theart; those who having attended, and profited to theutmost by the course, will be grievously disappointedif they expect at its close to find themselves accomplishedsingers. The management of the voice is stillrequired, and many vicious habits, contracted duringthe practice at the class, will have to be forgotten.This, however, cannot be felt by the million, to whomany musical instruction will be a gift of unspeakablevalue, in a social and moral point of view. TheCommittee of the Council well observe, that “amusem*ntswhich wean the people from vicious indulgences arein themselves a great advantage; they contribute indirectlyto the increase of domestic comfort, and promote thecontentment of the artisan. The songs of any peoplemay be regarded as important means of forming an industrious,brave, loyal, and religious working-class.”Mr Barnett calls this, “nothing but egregiouscant, got up by the teachers of the Wilhelm plan,both in France and here.” In this we cannotagree with Mr Barnett, and we scarcely understand whyhe should be betrayed into so much heat upon the occasion.For ourselves, we rejoice to see any system at workfor the purpose of instructing the working classesin the elements of music; and it seems to us a monstrousproposition, and nothing short of an insult to ourcountrymen, on the part of the prominent opposer ofthe Wilhelm system, to assert that the knowledge orcultivation of an art, which throughout all historyhas advanced hand in hand with civilization and refinement,should, among the labouring classes of England, beproductive only of idleness, drunkenness, or debauchery.The instruction of the lower classes in vocal music,however beneficial and important as an element incivilization, or however advantageous as a means bywhich the general taste of the people may be elevatedand refined, will not be found all-sufficient, initself, to raise our musical reputation as a nation.Native music is at a low ebb at present; and, whilemusical entertainments are in such general requestas almost to have excluded the “legitimate”
drama from the stage, no attempt to introduce anyEnglish opera has been recently made. Into suchoblivion or disrepute have English composers fallen,that some of the most eminent have actually left London.One well-known veteran now lives in honourable retirementin the Modern Athens. Another, once popular andadmired, “disgusted with London and the profession,”and “having given up all thoughts of again appearingbefore the London public as an operatic composer,”is said to have migrated in the capacity of singing-masterto a fashionable watering-place; while a third, onceequally well known, has left the kingdom altogether,and has settled himself in Paris. The publicear has learned to appreciate music of a high class;and, judging from the past, the manager perhaps darenot incur the risk of bringing out a new native opera.It is certainly much to be regretted that the existingdemand should not be supplied from native sources,and thus serve the purpose of national advancementin the art; but English music does not take.Does the fault rest with the public or with the musician?It is easy, and no doubt convenient, contemptuouslyto apply the epithet, “hacknied,”to the operas recently adapted to the English stage;but how is it that the old “hacknied”music of the Italians should be preferred to the noveltiesof our native school? Here again the public tastehas advanced too fast, and, owing to the inferiorityof our home productions, the foreigner has gainedpossession of the market.[2] Where is the remedy forthis unfortunate state of things? Some master-mind,some musical Napoleon, may rise up and takethe world by storm; but such an event is particularlyunlikely now. The hour generally makes the man,and the necessities of the moment often call forthtalents and energies, the existence of which was whollyunsuspected by their possessors. For aught weknow, many a hero may be now among the ranks, and manya gallant officer now before the mast, undistinguishedfrom lack of opportunity, unknown because circ*mstanceshave not developed his dormant powers. How thencan the hour be hastened, and the opportunity of developingour musical powers be afforded? The answer is,by the establishment of a National Opera. Ithas been observed that every nation that has risento musical greatness, possesses a musical opera.Even the French, who, according to Mr Hullah, “havethe least possible claim to a high musical organization,”have, nevertheless, long possessed a national opera,boasting the best orchestra in Europe, and producingmasters whose works have been successfully transplanted,and singers who have met with universal admiration.At the present moment, Paris has two national musicaltheatres, the Academie Royale, and the OperaComique: and the establishment of a thirdis said to be in contemplation. The possibilityof forming such an establishment at the present timein England, may be reasonably called in question.The attempt made some ten years ago, though commendedby the minister of the day, was signally abortive;and the subsequent endeavour of a popular musicianto open a theatre for the performance of English operas,was equally futile and unsuccessful. One thingof primary importance—the patronage of thehigher classes—was wanting to both theseefforts. Were the stamp of fashion once impressedupon such an undertaking, success would be certain,did the fiat of the great world once go forth,the thing would be accomplished. The marvellousimpulse recently given to musical instruction throughoutthe kingdom, shows the vast power, for good, possessedby the higher classes of aristocratic England.We have often lamented the apathy of the fashionableworld on this subject, and we can entertain no hopeof aristocratic support and encouragement for theEnglish opera. There may, however, be some hope,though faint and distant, for our musicians.In consequence of a national musical education, anational opera may become a national want; and we canscarcely conceive it possible, that the wide diffusionof musical taste and knowledge should fail ultimately,to produce a large and never-failing demand for dramaticmusic. Then would our musicians have a wide,fair field for the development of their resources,success, the highest and most brilliant, would bewithin their reach, and would depend entirely on themselves.If, under such circ*mstances, the reputation of ourcountry did not quickly rise, bright and resplendentin the musical horizon, our hopes of universal excellencewould indeed be crushed for ever.[Footnote 2: No. cccxxvii. p. 130.]
It might be long before we rivalled either of thegreat continental schools, each of which would doubtlesslong retain its ancient worshippers. Of thesetwo schools, of a character and style so different,we confess a preference for the smooth, voluptuous,peaceful flow of the Italian, rather than the stern,but sublimer, beauty of the German. The one,like the soft and glowing landscape of its nativeland, refreshes the spirit, warms the heart, and kindlesthe affections; the latter, like the wild and oftensavage grandeur of the scenery of Switzerland, chills,while it awes and subdues the soul. There isa smiling kindliness about the former, which fascinatesand attracts; the latter often pains and distracts,by an intense and varied action which admits of norepose. It is as the tranquil elegance of theVenus of the Tribune, or the calm dignity of the Apolloof the Vatican, contrasted with the nervous energyof the works of Buonarroti, or the sublime but fearfulagony of the Laocoon.
The more enthusiastic admirers of the productionsof the Germans, that race of musical Michael Angelos,often despise the lamer attributes of the music ofthe “sweet south.” Such spirits delightin the storm and the whirlwind; peace and repose haveprobably no charms for them.
“Musicwas ordain’d,
Was it not, to refresh themind of man,
After his studies, or hisactual pain?”
Many fly to music to soothe and compose the mind,others seek it as a means of new and fresh excitement.Neither are now able, in the music of their country,to find all they seek. We are not, however,without hope for the future. Never till now hasmusic formed an element in national education; andthe movement now extending throughout the land, mustof necessity be the means of elevating and refiningthe musical taste of our countrymen. Improvements,like those already manifest in the sister arts ofpainting and sculpture, may be now about to show themselvesin music. Even our sons may wonder at thetaste which could tolerate the music which their fathershad applauded and admired; and England, long pre-eminentin the useful arts and sciences, and the serious andmore weighty affairs of life, may at length becomeequally distinguished in the fine arts, and all thoselighter and more elegant pursuits, which, throughoutthe history of mankind, have ever formed the peculiarcharacteristics of a high degree of civilization andrefinement.
* * * * *
PHILHELLENIC DRINKING-SONG.
BY B. SIMMONS.
Come let us drink their memory,
Those gloriousGreeks of old—
On shore and sea the Famed,the Free,
The Beautiful—theBold!
The mind or mirth that lightseach page,
Or bowl by whichwe sit,
Is sunfire pilfer’dfrom their age—
Gems splinter’dfrom their wit.
Thendrink we to their memory,
Thoseglorious Greeks of yore;
Ofgreat or true, we can but do
Whatthey have done before!
We’ve had with THE GREATKING to cope—
What if the scenehe saw—
The modern Xerxes—fromthe slope
Of crimson Quatre-bras,
Was but the fruit we earlywon
From tales ofGrecian fields
Such as the swords of Marathon
Carved on theMedian shields
Oh,honour to those chainless Greeks,
Wedrink them one and all,
Whoblock’d that day Oppression’s way
Aswith a brazen wall!
Theirs was the marble landwhere, woo’d
By love-born Taste,the Gods
Themselves the life of stoneendured
In more divineabodes
Than blest their own Olympusbright;
Then in supremerepose,
Afar star glittering, highand white
Athene’sshrine arose.
Sothe days of Pericles
Thevotive goblet fill—
Infane or mart we but distort
Hisgrand achievements still!
Fill to their Matrons’memory—
The Fair who knewno fear—
But gave the hero’sshield to be
His bulwark orhis bier.[3]
We boast their dauntless blood——itfills
That lion-woman’sveins,
Whose praise shall perishwhen thy hills,
JELLALABAD, areplains!
ThatLADY’S health! who doubts she heard
OfGreece, and loved to hear?
Thewheat, two thousand years interr’d,
Willstill its harvest bear.[4]
The lore of Greece—thebook still bright
With Plato’sprecious thought—
The Theban’s harp—thejudging-right
Stagyra’ssophist taught—
Bard, Critic, Moralist to-day
Can but theirspirit speak,
The self-same thoughts transfused.Away,
We are not Gaelbut Greek.
Thendrink, and dream the red grape weeps
Thosedead but deathless lords,
Whoseinfluence in our bosom sleeps,
Likemusic in the chords.
Yet ’tis not in thechiming hour
Of goblets, afterall,
That thoughts of old HellenicPower
Upon the heartshould fall.
Go home—and pondero’er the hoard
When night makessilent earth:
The Gods the Roman most adored,
He worshipp’dat the hearth.
Then,drink and swear by Greece, that there
ThoughRhenish Huns may hive,
InBritain we the liberty
Sheloved will keep alive.
CHORUS
Andthus we drink their memory
Thoseglorious Greeks of old,
Onshore and sea the Famed and Free—
TheBeautiful—the Bold!
[Footnote 3: “Return with it or uponit” was the well-known injunction of a Greekmother, as she handed her son his shield previous tothe fight.]
[Footnote 4: The mummy-wheat.]
* * * * *
THE PRAIRIE AND THE SWAMP.
AN ADVENTURE IN LOUISIANA.
It was a sultry September afternoon in the year 18—.My friend Carleton and myself had been three dayswandering about the prairies, and had nearly filledour tin boxes and other receptacles with specimensof rare and curious plants. But we had not escapedpaying the penalty of our zeal as naturalists, inthe shape of a perfect roasting from the sun, whichhad shot down its rays during the whole time of ourramble, with an ardour only to be appreciated by thosewho have visited the Louisianian prairies. Whatmade matters worse our little store of wine had beenearly expended; some Taffia, with which we had replenishedour flasks, had also disappeared; and the water wemet with, besides being rare, contained so much vegetableand animal mater, as to be undrinkable unless qualifiedin some manner. In this dilemma, we came to ahalt under a clump of hickory trees, and dispatchedMartin, Carleton’s Acadian servant, upon a voyageof discovery. He had assured us that we musterelong fall in with some party of Americans—orCochon Yankees, as he called them—who,in spite of the hatred borne them by the Acadiansand Creoles, were daily becoming more numerous in thecountry.
After waiting, in anxious expectation of Martin’sreturn, for a full hour, during which the air seemedto get more and more sultry, my companion began towax impatient. “What can the fellow be about?”cried he. “Give a blast on the horn,”he added, handing me the instrument; “I cannotsound it myself, for my tongue cleaves to my palatefrom heat and drought.”
I put the horn to my mouth, and gave a blast.But the tones emitted were not the clear echo-awakeningsounds that cheer and strengthen the hunter.They were dull and short, as though the air had lostall elasticity and vibration, and by its weight crushedback the sounds into the horn. It was a warningof some inscrutable danger. We gazed around us,and saw that others were not wanting.
The spot where we had halted was on the edge of oneof those pine forests that extend, almost withoutinterruption, from the hills of the Cote Gelee tothe Opelousa mountains, and of a vast prairie, sprinkledhere and there with palmetto fields, clumps of trees,and broad patches of brushwood, which appeared meredark specks on the immense extent of plain that laybefore us, covered with grass of the brightest green,and so long, as to reach up to our horses’ shoulders.To the right was a plantation of palmettos, half amile wide, and bounded by a sort of creek or gully,the banks of which were covered with gigantic cypress-trees.Beyond this, more prairie and a wood of evergreen oak.To the east, an impenetrable thicket of magnolias,papaws, oak and bean trees—to the north,the pine wood before mentioned.
Such was the rich landscape we had been surroundedby a short hour before. But now, on looking around,we found the scene changed; and our horizon becamefar more limited by rising clouds of bluish grey vapour,which approached us rapidly from the wind quarter.Each moment this fog appeared to become thicker; thesun no longer dazzled our eyes when we gazed on it,but showed through the mist like a pale red moon; theoutlines of the forest disappeared, veiled from oursight by masses of vapour; and the air, which, duringthe morning, had been light and elastic, althoughhot, became each moment heavier and more difficultto inhale. The part of the prairie that remainedvisible, presented the appearance of a narrow, mistyvalley, enclosed between two mighty ranges of greymountains, which the fog represented. As we gazedaround us and beheld these strange phenomena, oureyes met, and we read in each others countenance thatembarrassment which the bravest and most light-heartedare apt to feel, when hemmed in by perils of whichthey cannot conjecture the nature.
“Fire off your gun,” said I to Carleton.I started as I spoke at the alteration in my own voice.The gun went off, but the report was, as it were,stifled by the compressed atmosphere. It did noteven alarm some water-fowl that were plashing andfloundering in the creek a few hundred paces fromus.
“Look at our horses!” exclaimed Carleton.“They are surely going mad.” Theanimals were evidently uneasy at something. Theypricked up their ears, turned half round, and gazedwith startled eye behind them; then strained withtheir heads and necks in the opposite direction tothe vapour, snorting violently, and at last tryingto break away from the trees to which they were tied.A short time previously they had appeared much fatigued,but now they were all fire and impatience.
“It is impossible to remain here,” saidCarleton.
“But whither shall we go?”
“Wherever our horses choose to take us.”
We untied the animals and sprang upon them. Butscarcely were we in the saddle when they started offat a pace as frantic as if a pack of wolves had beenat their heels; and taking the direction of the creek,which ran between the palmetto plantation and a cypresswood, continued along its banks at the same wild gallop.As we advanced, the creek began to widen; in placeof palmettos, clumps of marsh reeds, and rushes showedthemselves here and there. An unearthly stillnessprevailed, only broken now and then by the cry ofa wild-goose; and even that appeared strange and unnaturalin its sound.
“What can be the meaning of this?” criedCarleton. “I am burning with heat, andyet I have not the slightest moisture on my skin.All these signs are incomprehensible. For God’ssake, sound the horn again.”
I did so, but this time the sound seemed to be forcedback through the horn, and to die away upon my lips.The air was so hot and parching, that our horses’coats, which a short time previous had been drippingwith sweat, were now perfectly dry, and the hair plasteredupon them; the animals’ tongues hung out oftheir mouths, and they seemed panting for cooler air.“Look yonder!” cried Carleton, and he pointedto the line of the horizon, which had hitherto beenof grey, lead-coloured vapour. It was now becomingreddish in the south-west quarter, and the vapourhad taken the appearance of smoke. At the sametime we heard a sort of distant crackling, like aheavy running-fire of musketry, and which was repeatedat short intervals. Each time it was heard, ourhorses appeared scared and trembling.
The creek was getting rapidly wider, and the groundso swampy that it was impossible to proceed further.Seeing this, we agreed to return to the prairie, andto try if it were not cooler among the palmettos.But when we came to the place where we had crossedthe creek, our horses refused to take the leap again,and it was with the greatest difficulty we at lengthforced them over. All this time the redness inthe horizon was getting brighter, and the atmospherehotter and drier; the smoke had spread itself overprairie, forest, and plantations. We continuedretracing our steps as well as we could to the spotwhere we had halted. “See there,”said Carleton; “not half an hour ago those reedswere as fresh and green as if they had just sprungout of the earth, and now look at them—theleaves are hanging down, parched and curled up by theheat.”
The whole prairie, the whole horizon to the south-west,was now one mass of dense smoke, through which thesun’s disc looked scarcely brighter than a paper-lantern.Behind the thick curtain which thus concealed everything from our view, we heard a loud hissing, likethat of a multitude of snakes. The smoke wasstifling and unbearable; our horses again turned pantinground, and tore madly towards the creek. On reachingit we dismounted, but had the greatest difficulty toprevent them from leaping into the water. Thestreaks of red to our right became brighter and brighter,and gleamed through the huge, dark trunks of the cypress-trees.The crackling and hissing grew louder than ever.Suddenly the frightful truth flashed upon us, andat the very same moment Carleton and I exclaimed,“The prairie is on fire!”
As we uttered the words, there was a loud rustlingbehind us, and a herd of deer broke headlong througha thicket of tall reeds and bulrushes, and dashedup to their necks into the water. There they remained,not fifty paces from us, little more than their headsabove the surface, gazing at us, as though imploringour help and compassion. We fancied we couldsee tears in the poor beasts’ eyes.
We looked behind us. On came the pillars of flame,flickering and threatening through the smoke, lickingup all before them; and, at times, a gust of so hotand blasting a wind as seemed to dry the very marrowin our bones. The roaring of the fire was nowdistinctly audible, mingled with hissing, whistlingsounds, and cracking noises, as of mighty trees falling.Suddenly a bright flame shot up through the stiflingsmoke, and immediately afterwards a sea of fire burstupon our aching eyeballs. The whole palmettofield was in flames.
The heat was so great, that we every moment expectedto see our clothes take fire. Our horses draggedus still nearer to the creek, sprang into the water,and drew us down the bank after them. Anotherrustling and noise in the thicket of reeds. Ashe-bear, with her cubs at her heels, came towardsus; and at the same time a second herd of deer rushedinto the water not twenty yards from where we werestanding. We pointed our guns at the bears; theymoved off towards the deer, who remained undisturbedat their approach; and there they stood, bears anddeer, not five paces apart, but taking no more noticeof each other than if they had been animals of thesame species. More beasts now came flocking tothe river. Deer, wolves, foxes, horses—allcame in crowds to seek shelter in one element fromthe fury of another. Most of them, however, wentfurther up the creek, where it took a north-easterlydirection, and widened into a sort of lake. Thosethat had first arrived began to follow the new-comers,and we did the same.
Suddenly the baying of hounds was heard. “Hurra!there are dogs; men must be near.” A volleyfrom a dozen rifles was the answer to our explanation.The shots were fired not two hundred yards from us,yet we saw nothing of the persons who fired them.The wild beasts around us trembled and crouched beforethis new danger, but did not attempt to move a step.We ourselves were standing in the midst of them upto our waists in water. “Who goes there?”we shouted. Another volley, and this time notone hundred yards off. We saw the flashes of thepieces, and heard voices talking in a dialect compoundedof French and Indian. We perceived that we hadto do with Acadians. A third volley, and thebullets whistled about our ears. It was gettingpast a joke. “Halt!” shouted we,“stop firing till you see what you are firingat.” There was a dead silence for a moment,then a burst of savage laughter. “Fire!fire!” cried two or three voices.
“If you fire,” cried I, “look outfor yourselves, for we shall do the same. Havea care what you are about.”
“Morbleu! Sacre!” roared half a scoreof voices. “Who is that who dares to giveus orders? Fire on the dogs!”
“If you do, we return it.”
“Sacre!” screamed the savages. “Theyare gentlemen from the towns. Their speech betraysthem. Shoot them—the dogs, the spies!What do they want in the prairie?”
“Your blood be on your own heads,” criedI. And, with the feelings of desperate men, we levelledour guns in the direction in which we had seen theflashes of the last volley. At that moment—“Halt!What is here?” shouted a stentorian voice closeto us.
“Stop firing, or you are dead men,” criedfive or six other voices.
“Sacre! ce sont des Americains,”muttered the Acadians.
“Monsieur Carleton!” cried a voice.
“Here!” replied my friend. A boatshot out of the smoke, between us and our antagonists.Carleton’s servant was in it. The next momentwe were surrounded by a score of Acadians and half-a-dozenAmericans.
It appeared that the Acadians, so soon as they perceivedthe prairie to be on fire, had got into boat and descendeda creek that flowed into the Chicot creek, on whichwe now were. The beasts of the forest and prairie,flying to the water, found themselves inclosed in theangle formed by the two creeks, and their retreatbeing cut off by the fire, they fell an easy preyto the Acadians, wild, half savage fellows, who slaughteredthem in a profusion and with a brutality that excitedour disgust, a feeling which the Americans seemedto share.
“Well, stranger!” said one of the latter,an old man, to Carleton, “do you go with themAcadians or come with us?”
“Who are you, my friends?”
“Friends!” repeated the Yankee, shakinghis head, “your friendships are soon made.Friends, indeed! We ain’t that yet; butif you be minded to come with us, well and good.”
“I met these American gentlemen,” nowput in Martin, “and when they heard that youhad lost your way, and were out of provisions, theywere so good as to come and seek you.”
“You be’n’t much used to the prairie,I reckon?” observed the American who had spokenbefore.
“No, indeed, my friend,” said I.
“I told you a’ready,” replied theman with some degree of pride, “we ain’tyour friends; but if you choose to accept Americanhospitality, you’re welcome.”
We glanced at the Acadians, who were still firing,and dragging the beasts they slaughtered into theirboat and to the shore. They appeared perfectsavages, and there was little temptation to seek guidanceor assistance at their hands.
“If it is agreeable to you, we will accompanyyou,” said I to the American, making a steptowards the boat. We were eager to be off, forthe heat and smoke were unbearable. The Yankeeanswered neither yes nor no. His attention seemedtaken up by the proceedings of the Acadians.
“They’re worse than Injuns,” saidhe to a young man standing by him. “Theyshoot more in an hour than they could eat in a yearin their tarnation French wastefulness.”
“I’ve a notion o’ makin’ ’emleave off,” replied the young man.
“The country’s theirs, or their masters’at least,” rejoined the other. “Ireckon it’s no business of ours.”
This dialogue was carried on with the greatest possibledegree of drawling deliberation, and under circ*mstancesin which, certainly, none but a Yankee would havethought of wasting time in words. A prairie twentymiles long and ten broad, and a couple of miles ofpalmetto ground, all in a blaze—the flamesdrawing nearer every minute, and having, in some places,already reached up to the shores of the creek.On the other side a couple of dozen wild Acadians firingright and left, without paying the least attentionwhere or whom their bullets struck. Careltonand myself, up to our waists in water, and the Americans,chatting together as unconcernedly as if they had beensitting under the roofs of their own blockhouses.
“Do you live far from here?” said I atlast to the Yankee, rather impatiently.
“Not so far as I sometimes wish,” answeredhe, with a contemptuous glance at the Acadians, “butfar enough to get you an appetite for your supper,if you ain’t got one already.” Andtaking a thin roll of tobacco out of his pocket, hebit off a piece of it, laid his hands upon the muzzleof his rifle, leant his chin upon his hands, and seemedto have forgotten all about us.
This apathy became intolerable to men in our situation.
“My good man,” said I, “will youput your hospitable offer into execution, and take——”
I could not continue, for I was literally suffocatedwith the heat and smoke. The very water of thecreek was getting warm.
“I’ve a notion,” said the yankee,with his usual drawl, and apparently only just perceivingour distress, “I’ve a notion we had betterbe movin’ out o’ the way o’ thefire. Now, strangers, in with you.”And he helped Carleton and myself into the boat, wherewe lay down, and became insensible from heat and exhaustion.
When we recovered our senses, we found ourselves inthe bottom of the boat, and the old Yankee standingby us with a bottle of whisky in his hand, which heinvited us to taste. We felt better for the cordial,and began to look around us.
Before us lay an apparently interminable cypress swamp,behind us a sheet of water, formed by the junctionof the two creeks, and at present overhung by a massof smoke that concealed the horizon from our view.From time to time there was a burst of flame that litup the swamp, and caused the cypress-trees to appearas if they grew out of a sea of fire.
“Come,” said the old Yankee, “wemust get on. It is near sunset, and we have farto go.”
“And which way does our road lie?” I asked.
“Across the cypress swamp, unless you’drather go round it.”
“The shortest road is the best,” saidCarleton.
“The shortest road is the best!” repeatedthe Yankee contemptuously, and turning to his companions.“Spoken like a Britisher. Well, he shallhave his own way, and the more so as I believe itto be as good a one as the other. James,”added he, turning to one of the men, “you gofurther down, through the Snapping Turtle swamp; wewill cross here.”
“And our horses?” said I.
“They are grazing in the rushes. They’llbe took care of. We shall have rain to-night,and to-morrow they may come round without singeinga hoof.”
I had found myself once or twice upon the bordersof the swamp that now lay before us but had alwaysconsidered it impenetrable, and I did not understand,as I gazed into its gloomy depths, how we could possiblycross it.
“Is there any beaten path or road through theswamp?” enquired I of the old man.
“Path or road! Do you take it for a gentleman’spark? There’s the path that natur’has made.” And he sprang upon the trunkof a tree covered with moss and creepers, which roseout of the vast depth of mud that formed the swamp.
“Here’s the path,” said he.
“Then we will wait and come round with our horses,”I replied. “Where shall we find them?”
“As you please, stranger. We shall crossthe swamp. Only, if you can’t do like yourhorses, and sup off bulrushes, you are likely to fastfor the next twenty-four hours.
“And why so? There is game and wild-fowlfor the shooting.”
“No doubt there is, if you can eat them raw,like the Injuns. Where will you find, withintwo miles round, a square foot of dry land to makeyour fire on?”
To say the truth, we did not altogether like the companywe had fallen amongst. These Yankee squattersbore in general but an indifferent character.They were said to fear neither God nor man, to trustentirely to their axe and their rifle, and to be littlescrupulous in questions of property; in short, tobe scarce less wild and dangerous than the Indiansthemselves.
The Yankee who had hitherto acted as spokesman, andwho seemed to be in some way or other the chief ofthe party, was a man apparently near sixty years ofa*ge, upwards of six feet high, thin in person, butwith such bone and muscle as indicated great strengthin the possessor. His features were keen andsharp; his eye like a falcon’s; his bearing andmanners bespoke an exalted opinion of himself, and(at least as far as we were concerned) a tolerabledegree of contempt for others. His dress consistedof a jacket of skins, secured round the waist by agirdle, in which was stuck a long knife; leather breeches,a straw hat without a brim, and mocassins. Hiscompanion was similarly accoutred.
“Where is Martin?” cried Carleton.
“Do you mean the Acadian lad who brought usto you?”
“The same.”
The Yankee pointed towards the smoke. “Yonder,no doubt, with his countrymen; but I reckon theirinfernal hunt is over. I hear no more shots.”
“Then we will go to him. But where areour horses?”
“I’ve a notion,” said one of theyounger men, “the stranger don’t rightlyknow what he wants. Your horses are grazing halfa mile off. You would not have had us make thepoor beasts swim through the creek tied to the sternof the boat? ’Lijah is with them.”
“And what will he do with them?”
“Joel is going back with the boat, and whenthe fire is out he will bring them round,” saidthe elder Yankee. “You don’t suppose—?”added he——He left the sentence unfinished,but a smile of scornful meaning flitted over his features.
I looked at Carleton. He nodded. “Wewill go with you,” said I, “andtrust entirely to your guidance.”
“You do well,” was the brief reply.“Joel,” added he, turning to one of theyoung men, “where are the torches? We shallwant them?”
“Torches!” exclaimed I.
The Yankee gave me a look, as much as to say—Youmust meddle with every thing. “Yes,”replied he; “and, if you had ten lives, it wouldbe as much as they are all worth to enter this swampwithout torches.” So saying, he struckfire, and selecting a couple of pine splinters fromseveral lying in the boat, he lighted them, doing everything with such extraordinary deliberation, and sooddly, that in spite of our unpleasant situation wecould scarce help laughing. Meantime the boatpushed off with two men in it, leaving Carleton, myself,the old man, and another American, standing at theedge of the swamp.
“Follow me, step by step, and as if you weretreading on eggs,” said our leader; “andyou, Jonathan, have an eye to the strangers, and don’twait till they are up to their necks in the mud topick them out of it.”
We did not feel much comforted by this speech; but,mustering all our courage, we strode on after ourplain-spoken guide.
We had proceeded but a very short distance into theswamp before we found out the use of the torches.The huge trunks of the cypress-trees, which stoodfour or five yards asunder, shot up to a height offifty feet, entirely free from branches, which then,however, spread out at right angles to the stem, makingthe trees appear like gigantic umbrellas, and coveringthe whole morass with an impenetrable roof, throughwhich not even a sunbeam could find a passage.On looking behind us, we saw the daylight at the entranceof the swamp, as at the mouth of a vast cavern.The further we went the thicker became the air; andat last the effluvia was so stifling and pestilential,that the torches burnt pale and dim, and more thanonce threatened to go out.
“Yes, yes,” muttered our guide to himself,“a night passed in this swamp would leave aman ague-struck for the rest of his days. A night—ay,an hour would do it, if your pores were ever so littleopen; but now there’s no danger; the prairiefire’s good for that, dries the sweat and closesthe pores.”
He went on conversing thus with himself, but stillstriding forward, throwing his torchlight on eachlog or tree trunk, and trying its solidity with hisfoot before he trusted his weight upon it—doingall this with a dexterity and speed that proved hisfamiliarity with these dangerous paths.
“Keep close to me,” said he to us, “butmake yourselves light—as light at leastas Britishers can make themselves. Hold your breath,and——ha! what is that log?Hollo, Nathan,” continued he to himself, “what’scome to you, man? Don’t you know a sixteenfoot alligator from a tree?”
He had stretched out his foot, but fortunately, beforesetting it down, he poked what he took for a log withthe butt of his gun. The supposed block of woodgave way a little, and the old squatter, throwing himselfback, was within an ace of pushing me into the swamp.
“Ah, friend!” said he, not in the leastdisconcerted, “you thought to sacumvent honestfolk with your devilry and cunning.”
“What is the matter?” asked I.
“Not much the matter,” he replied, drawinghis knife from its sheath. “Only an alligator:there it is again.”
And in the place of the log, which had disappeared,the jaws of a huge alligator gaped before us.I raised my gun to my shoulder. The Yankee seizedmy arm.
“Don’t fire,” whispered he.“Don’t fire, so long as you can help it.We ain’t alone here. This will do as well,”he added, as he stooped down, and drove his long knifeinto the alligator’s eye. The monster gavea frightful howl, and lashed violently with its tail,besprinkling us with the black slimy mud of the swamp.
“Take that!” said the squatter with agrim smile, “and that, and that!” stabbingthe brute repeatedly between the neck and the ribs,while it writhed and snapped furiously at him.Then wiping his knife, he stuck it in his belt, andlooked keenly and cautiously around him.
“I’ve a notion there must be a tree trunkhereaway; it ain’t the first time I’vefollowed this track. There it is, but a good sixfoot off.” And so saying, he gave a spring,and alighted in safety on the stepping place.
“Have a care, man,” cried I. “Thereis water there. I see it glitter.”
“Pho, water! What you call water is snakes.Come on.”
I hesitated, and a shudder came over me. Theleap, as regarded distance, was a trifling one, butit was over an almost bottomless chasm, full of thefoulest mud, on which the mocassin snakes, the deadliestof the American reptiles, were swarming.
“Come on!”
Necessity lent me strength, and, pressing my leftfoot firmly against the log on which I was standing,and which was each moment sinking with our weightdeeper into the soft slimy ground, I sprang across.Carleton followed me.
“Well done!” cried the old man. “Courage,and a couple more such leaps, and we shall be gettingover the worst of it.”
We pushed on, steadily but slowly, never setting ourfoot on a log till we had ascertained its soliditywith the butts of our guns. The cypress swampextended four or five miles along the shores of thecreek: it was a deep lake of black mud, coveredover and disguised by a deceitful bright green veilof creeping plants and mosses, which had spread themselvesin their rank luxuriance over its whole surface, andover the branches and trunks of trees scattered aboutthe swamp. These latter were not placed withany very great regularity, but had yet been evidentlyarranged by the hand of man.
“There seems to have been a sort of path madehere,” said I to our guide, “for”——
“Silence!” interrupted he, in a low tone;“silence, for your life, till we are on firmground again. Don’t mind the snakes,”added he, as the torchlight revealed some enormousones lying coiled up on the moss and lianas closeto us. “Follow me closely.”
But just as I stretched forward my foot, and was aboutto place it in the very print that his had left, thehideous jaw of an alligator was suddenly stretchedover the tree-trunk, not six inches from my leg, andthe creature snapped at me so suddenly, that I hadbut just time to fire my gun into his glittering lizard-likeeye. The monster bounded back, uttered a soundbetween a bellow and a groan, and, striking wildlyabout him in the morass, disappeared.
The American looked round when I fired, and an approvingsmile played about his mouth as he said somethingto me which I did not hear, owing to the infernaluproar that now arose on all sides of us and at firstcompletely deafened me.
Thousands, tens of thousands, of birds and reptiles,alligators, enormous bull-frogs, night-owls, ahingas,herons, whose dwellings were in the mud of the swamp,or on its leafy roof, now lifted up their voices,bellowing, hooting, shrieking, and groaning. Burstingforth from the obscene retreat in which they had hithertolain hidden, the alligators raised their hideous snoutsout of the green coating of the swamp, gnashing theirteeth, and straining towards us, while the owls andother birds circled round our heads, flapping and strikingus with their wings as they passed. We drew ourknives, and endeavoured to defend at least our headsand eyes; but all was in vain against the myriadsof enemies that surrounded us; and the unequal combatcould not possibly have lasted long, when suddenlya shot was fired, followed immediately by another.The effect they produced was magical. The growlsand cries of rage and fury were exchanged for howlsof fear and complaint; the alligators withdrew graduallyinto their native mud; the birds flew in wider circlesaround us; the unclean multitudes were in full retreat.By degrees the various noises died away. But ourtorches had gone out, and all around us was blackas pitch.
“In God’s name, are you there, old man?”asked I.
“What! still alive?” he replied with alaugh that jarred unpleasantly upon my nerves, “andthe other Britisher too? I told ye we were notalone. These brutes defend themselves if you attackthem upon their own ground, and a single shot is sufficientto bring them about one’s ears. But whenthey see you’re in earnest, they soon get tiredof it, and a couple more shots sent among them generallydrive them away again; for they are but senselesssquealin’ creturs after all.”
While the old man was speaking, he struck fire, andlit one of the torches.
“Luckily we have rather better footing here,”continued he. “And now, forward quickly;for the sun is set, and we have still some way to go.”
And again he led the march with a skill and confidencein himself which each moment increased our relianceon him. After proceeding in this manner for abouthalf an hour, we saw a pale light glimmering in thedistance.
“Five minutes more and your troubles are over;but now is the time to be cautious, for it is on theborders of these cursed swamps the alligators bestlove to lie.”
In my eagerness to find myself once more on dry land,I scarcely heard the Yankee’s words; and asthe stepping places were now near together, I hastenedon, and got a little in front of the party. SuddenlyI felt a log on which I had just placed my foot, giveway under me. I had scarcely time to call out“Halt!” when I was up to the arm-pits inthe swamp, with every prospect of sinking still deeper.
“You will hurry on,” said the oldman with a laugh; and at the same time, springingforward, he caught me by the hair. “Takewarning for the future,” added he, as he helpedme out of the mud; “and look there!”
I did look, and saw half a dozen alligators writhingand crawling in the noxious slime within a few feetof us. I felt a sickening sensation, and fora moment I could not utter a word: the Yankeeproduced his whisky-flask.
“Take a swallow of this,” said he; “butno, better wait till we are out of the swamp.Stop a little till your heart beats quieter. So,you are better now. When you’ve made twoor three such journeys with old Nathan, you’llbe quite another man. Now—forward again.”
A few minutes later we were out of the swamp, andlooking over a field of palmettos that waved and rustledin the moonbeams. The air was fresh, and oncemore we breathed freely.
“Now then,” said our guide, “a dram,and then in half an hour we are at the Salt Lick.”
“Where?” asked I.
“At the Salt Lick, to shoot a deer or two forsupper. Hallo! what is that?”
“A thunderclap.”
“A thunderclap! You have heard but fewof them in Louisiana, I guess, or you would know thedifference betwixt thunder and the crack of a backwoodsman’srifle. To be sure, yonder oak wood has an almightyecho. That’s James’s rifle—hehas shot a stag.—There’s another shot.”
This time it was evidently a rifle-shot, but re-echoedlike thunder from the depths of the immense forest.
“We must let them know that we’re stillin whole skins, and not in the maw of an alligator,”said the old man, who had been loading his rifle,and now fired it off.
In half an hour we were at the Salt Lick, where wefound our guide’s two sons busy disembowellingand cutting up a fine buck that they had killed, anoccupation in which they were so engrossed that theyscarce seemed to notice our arrival. We sat down,not a little glad to repose after the fatigues anddangers we had gone through. When hind and forequarters, breast and back, were all divided in righthuntsman-like style, the young men looked at theirfather. “Will you take a bite and a suphere?” said the latter, addressing Carleton andmyself, “or will you wait till we get home?”
“How far is there still to go?”
“How far? With a good trotting horse, anda better road, three quarters of an hour would bringyou there. You may reckon it a couple of hours.”
“Then we would prefer eating something here.”
“As you will.”
Without more words, or loss of time, a haunch wascut off one of the hind-quarters; dry leaves and branchescollected; and in one minute a fire was blazing brightly,the joint turning before it on a wooden spit.In half an hour the party was collected round a roasthaunch of venison, which, although eaten without breador any of the usual condiments, certainly appearedto us to be the very best we had ever tasted.
* * * * *
THE ARISTOCRACY OF ENGLAND.
Both the nobility and gentry of this country standupon a basis so entirely peculiar, that, were it forthat cause only, we could not greatly wonder at theperverse misconstructions upon these institutionsso prevalent abroad. Indeed the peculiarity ofour aristocracy is so effectual for obscurity, thatwe also, as a nation, are ignorant upon much whichmarks it characteristically; our own ignorance partlyexplains, and partly has caused, the continental ignorance.Could it, indeed, be expected that any people shouldbe sensible of their own peculiarities as peculiarities?Of all men, for instance, a Persian would be the lastman from whom we could reasonably look for an accountof Persia; because those habits of Persians as Orientals,as Mussulmans, and as heretic Mussulmans, which wouldchiefly fix the attention of Europeans, must be unexcitingto the mind of a native.
And universally we know that, in every community,the features which would most challenge attentionfrom a stranger, have been those which the nativessystematically have neglected. If, but for twodays’ residence, it were possible that a modernEuropean could be carried back to Rome and Roman society,what a harvest of interesting facts would he reapas to the habits of social intercourse! Yet theseare neglected by Roman writers, as phenomena too familiar,which there was no motive for noticing. Why shoulda man notice as a singularity what every man witnessesdaily as an experience? A satirist, like Juvenal,is obliged, indeed, to notice particular excesses:but this is done obliquely, and so far only as toidentify the case he means; besides that often theyare caricatured. Or an antiquarian observer, likeAthenaeus, finds, after ten centuries of social lifeamongst the same race, a field of observation in thepresent, which he sees as contrasted with the pastwhich he reads of. It is in that way only thatwe English know any thing of our own past habits.Some of these are brought forward indirectly in theevidence upon judicial trials—some in dramaticscenes; and, as happened in the case of Athenaeus,we see English historians, at periods of great consciousrevolution, (Holinshed, for instance,[5] whose youthhad passed in the church reformation,) exerting themselvesto recover, through old men’s recollections,traditions of a social life which they felt to bepassing away for ever. Except, however, in thesetwo cases, the one indirect, the other by accident,coinciding with an epoch of great importance, we findlittle in the way of description, or philosophic examination,toward any sustained record of English civilizationas intermitting from one era to another, and periodicallyresumed. The same truth holds good of civilizationon the Continent, and for the same reason, viz.that no nation describes itself, or can do so.To see an object you must not stand in its centre;your own station must be external. The eye cannotsee itself, nor a mechanic force measure itself, asif it were its own resistance.
[Footnote 5: An introduction, prefixed to Holinshed,descriptive of domestic life amongst the English,as it may be presumed to have existed for the centurybefore, (1450-1550,) was written (according to ourrecollection) by Harrison. Almost a century earlier,we have Chief Justice Fortescue’s account ofthe French peasantry, a record per antiphrasinof the English. About the great era of 1688, wehave the sketch of contemporary English civilizationby Chamberlayne. So rare and distant are theglimpses which we obtain of ourselves at differentperiods.]
It is easy, therefore, to understand why, amongstthe writers of any given nation, we are least entitledto look for an account of the habits or separate institutionsdistinguishing that nation: since the stimulationof difference least of all exists for those who neversee that difference broadly relieved in adverse habitsor institutions. To such nation its own aristocracy,like its own climate, seems a positive fact, neithergood nor bad, and worthy of little notice, as apparentlyopen to little improvement. And yet to each nationits own aristocracy is often the arbitrating cause,but always the exponent or index of its future politicalwelfare. Laws are important; administration oflaws is important; to be Protestant or Popish is important;and so of many other agencies: but, as was saidby Harrington in his Oceana, there is somethingin the original idea and in the executive compositionof a gentry which cannot be created artificially,and (if wanting) cannot be supplied by substitution.Upon the quality of an aristocracy in critical periods,in those periods when the national stability is menacedby revolution, or the national independence by aggression,depends the national salvation. Let us lay beforethe reader an illustration.
It is our deliberate conviction, that, from the foundationsof civil society, human annals present no second caseof infamy equal to that which is presented by thecondition of Spain and Portugal from the year 1807up to our own immediate era. It is a case themore interesting, because two opposite verdicts havebeen pronounced upon it by men of the greatest abilityamongst ourselves. Some, as the present and thelate Laureate, have found in the Peninsular strugglewith Napoleon, the very perfection of popular grandeur;others, agreeing with ourselves, have seen in thispretended struggle nothing but the last extravaganceof thrasonic and impotent national arrogance.Language more frantically inflated, and deeds morefarcically abject, surely were never before united.It seems therefore strange, that a difference, eventhus far, should exist between Englishmen standingupon the same facts, starting from the sane principles.But perhaps, as regards Mr Wordsworth, he did notallow enough for the long series of noxious influencesunder which Spain had suffered. And this, atany rate, is notorious—he spoke of the
Spanish people, the original stock (unmodified by courtlyusages, or foreign sentiments, or city habits) ofthe Spanish peasantry and petty rural proprietors.This class, as distinguished from the aristocracy,was the class he relied on; and he agreed with us inlooking upon the Spanish aristocracy as traitors—thatis, as recreants and apostates—from anyand every cause meriting the name of national.If he found a moral grandeur in Spain, it was amongstthat poor forsaken peasantry, incapable of politicalcombination, who could not make a nationalparty in the absence of their natural leaders.Now, if we adopt the mild temperament of some Spanishwriters, calling this “a schism in thenatural interests,” how shocking that such aschism could have arisen at so dreadful a crisis!That schism, which, as a fact, is urged, in the wayof excuse, merely as a possibility, is already itselfthe opprobrium for Spain never to be washed out.For in Spain, what was the aristocracy?Let us not deceive ourselves, by limiting this termto the feudal nobility or grandees; the aristocracycomprehended every man that would naturally have becomea commissioned officer in the army. Here, therefore,read the legend and superscription of the nationaldishonour. The Spanish people found themselveswithout a gentry for leading their armies. Englandpossessed, and possesses a gentry, the noblest thatthe world has seen, who are the natural leaders ofher intrepid commonalty, alike in her fleets and inher armies. But why? How and in what sensequalified? Not only by principle and by honour—thatglorious distinction which poor men can appreciate,even when less sternly summoned to its duties; notonly by courage as fiery and as passively enduringas the courage of the lower ranks, but by a physicalrobustness superior to that of any other class takenseparately; and, above all, by a scale of accomplishmentsin education, which strengthen the claim to command,even amongst that part of the soldiery least capableof appreciating such advantages. In France again,where no proper aristocracy now exits, there is, however,a gentry, qualified for leading; the soldiers havean entire reliance on the courage of their officers.But in Italy, in Spain, in Portugal, at the periodof Napoleon, the soldiers knew to a certainty thattheir officers could not be depended on; and for areason absolutely without remedy, viz. that inSpain, at least, society is not so organized by meansof the press locally diffused, and by social intercourse,as that an officer’s reputation could be instantaneouslypropagated (as with us) whithersoever he went.There was then no atmosphere of public opinion, forsustaining public judgments and public morals.The result was unparalleled; here for the first timewas seen a nation, fourteen millions strong, so absolutelypalsied as to lie down and suffer itself to be walkedover by a body of foreigners, entering in the avowedcharacter of robbers. Colonel Napier, it is true,has contradicted himself with regard to the valueof the guerillas; alternately ridiculing then as animbecile force, and yet accrediting them as neutralizersof regular armies, to an enormous amount. Butcan a more deplorable record be needed of Spanishignominy, than that a nation, once the leader of Europeas to infantry and military skill, should,by mere default of an intrepid gentry, be thrown uponthe necessity of a brigand force? Equally abjectwas the state of Portugal. Let any man read theFrench general Foy’s account of the circ*mstancesunder which Junot’s van, separated by some days’march from the rest of the army, entered Lisbon in1807. The rural population of Portugal, in mostprovinces, is a fine athletic race; and foreignerstake a false estimate of this race, from the depravedmob of Lisbon. This capital, however, at thattime, contained 60,000 fighting men, a powerful fortress,and ships in the river. Yet did Junot make hisentry with 6000 of the poorest troops, in a physicalsense, that Europe could show. Foy admits, thatthe majority were poor starveling boys, who could scarcelyhold their muskets from cold and continual wet, hurriedby forced marches, ill fed, desponding, and almostripe for the hospital. Vast crowds had assembledto see the entry. “What!” exclaimedthe Portuguese, “are these little drowned ratsthe elite of Napoleon’s armies?”Inevitably, the very basest of nations, would, onsuch an invitation to resistance, have risen thatsame night, whilst the poor, childish, advanced guardwas already beaten to their hands. The Frenchofficers apprehended such an attempt, but nothinghappened; the faint-hearted people threw away thisgolden opportunity, never to be retrieved. Andwhy? Because they had no gentry to lead, to rally,or to counsel them. The populace in both countries,though miserably deteriorated by the long defect ofan aristocracy whom they could respect, were stillsound at the heart; they felt the whole sorrow oftheir own degradation; and that they would have fought,was soon proved in the case of the Portuguese, whenwe lent them officers and training; as it was provedalso thirty years afterwards in the case of the Spaniards,when Don Carlos, in a time of general peace, obtainedgood officers from every part of Europe. Eachcountry was forced into redeeming itself by the overflowingupon it of a foreign gentry. And yet, even atthe moment of profoundest degradation, such was themaniacal vanity still prevailing amongst the Spaniards,that at one time the Supreme Junta forwarded the followingproposal to the British Government:—Menthey had; their own independence of foreign aid, inthat sense, they had always asserted; money it was,and not armies, which they needed; and they now proposedan arrangement, by which the Spanish armies, as sonotoriously the heroes of Europe, should be rendereduniversally disposable for the task of facing the Frenchin the field, whilst the British (as confessedly unequalto duties so stern) should be entrusted with the garrisonduty of the fortresses. “Illa se jactet inaula Anglia;” and, since the help of theEnglish navy (which really was good) wouldbe available as to the maritime fortresses, doubtlessEngland might have a chance for justifying the limitedconfidence reposed in her, when sheltered from thefiercer storms of war by the indomitable lions ofOcana. It is superfluous to say, that the gratitudeof Spain, at the close of the war, was every thingthat ought to have been expected from this moonstruckvanity at its opening.Such are the results for nations, when they betrayto the whole world an aristocracy bankrupt of honour,emasculated, and slothful. Spoliators so recklessas Napoleon, are not always at hand for taking advantageof this domestic ruin; but it is impossible that anation, absolutely rich as Spain was in the midstof her relative poverty, can advertise itself forcenturies as a naked, defenceless waif, having neitherleaders nor principles for organizing a resistance,but that eventually she will hear of a customer forher national jewels. In reality, Spain had beenprotected for 150 years, by the local interpositionof France; had France not occupied the antechamberto the Peninsula, making it impossible for any buta maritime power to attack Spain in strength, Madridwould have echoed to the cannon of the spoiler, atleast a century before the bloody 3d of May 1808.[6]In the same way, Austria has furnished for centuriesa screen to the Italian Peninsula. Yet, in thatcase, the want of unity amongst so many subdivisionsthat were independent states, might be pleaded asan excuse. Pitiable weakness there was in bothcases; and “to be weak is to be miserable;”but degradation by degradation, universal abasem*ntof the national energies, as an effect through wilfulabasem*nt as a cause; this miserable spectacle hasbeen exhibited in mellow maturity by no Christiannations but those of Spain and Portugal. Bothhave degenerated into nations of poltrons, and fromwhat ancestors? From those who once headed thebaptized in Europe, and founded empires in the otherhemisphere.
------“Into what depth thou see’st,From what height fallen!”------
So that, if this gloomy shadow has crept over luminariesonce so bright through the gradual eclipse of theiraristocracies, we need no proof more pathetic or terrificof the degree in which great nations, with the wholeburden of their honour and their primary interests,are dependent, in the final extremity, upon the qualityof their gentry—considered as their solenatural leaders in battle.
[Footnote 6: To say the truth, during the Marlboroughwar of the Succession, and precisely one hundred yearsbefore Murat’s bloody occupation of Madrid,Spain presented the same infamous spectacle as underNapoleon; armies of strangers, English, French, Germans,marching, and counter-marching incessantly, peremptorilydisposing of the Spanish crown, alternately placingrival kings upon the throne, and all the while nomore deferring to a Spanish will than to the yelpingof village curs.]
With this previous indication of the unrivalled responsibilitypressing upon aristocracies, it is our purpose todwell a little upon those accidents of advantage arisingout of constitution, and those differences of quality,experimentally made known to us in a thousand trials,which sum and express the peculiarities of the Britishnobility and gentry.
This first point, as to the constitution of our aristocracy,the basis on which it reposes cannot be better introducedthan by a literary fact open to all the world, butnever yet read in its true meaning. When it becameadvisable, after the violent death of Charles I., thatsome public exposure should be applied to the pastdisputes between the Throne and the Parliament, andsome account given of the royal policy—thefirst question arose naturally upon the selection ofa writer having the proper qualifications. Twoof these qualifications were found in a French scholarof distinction, Monsieur de Saumaise, better knownby his Latinized name of Salmasius. He was undoubtedlya scholar of prodigious attainments: and thefirst or unconditional qualification for such a task,of great ability and extensive information, couldnot be denied to him. Here was a subject fittedto fix attention upon any writer, and on the otherhand, a writer brilliantly qualified to fix attentionupon any subject. Unhappily, a third indispensablecondition, viz.—that the writer shouldpersonally know England—was entirely overlooked.Salmasius had a fluent command of Latin; and, supportedby a learned theme, he generally left a dazzling impressioneven upon those who hated his person, or disputed hisconclusions. But, coming into collision with politics,personal as well as speculative, and with questionsof real life, fitted to call for other accomplishmentsthan those of a recluse scholar, it seemed probablethat this great classical critic would be found pedanticand scurrilous; and upon the affairs of so peculiara people, it was certain that he would be found ignorantand self-contradicting. Even Englishmen haveseldom thoroughly understood the feud of the greatParliamentary war: the very word “rebellion,”so often applied to it, involves the error of presumingthat in its principles the war was unconstitutional,and in its objects was finally defeated. Whereasthe subsequent Revolution of 1688-9 was but a resumptionof the very same principles and indispensable purposesunder more advantageous auspices—was buta re-affirmation of the principle votes from 1642to 1645. The one capital point of a responsibility,virtual though not formal, lodged in the crown, andsecured through a responsible ministry—thisgreat principle, which Charles I. once conceded inthe case of Lord Strafford, but ever afterwards tohis dying day repented and abjured, was at length forever established, and almost by acclamation.In a case so novel, however, to Englishmen, and asyet so unsettled, could it be looked for that a foreigner
should master new political principles, to which onthe Continent there was nothing analogous?[7] This,it may be alleged, was not looked for. Salmasiuswas in the hands of a party; and his prejudices, itmay be thought, were confluent with theirs. Notaltogether. The most enlightened of the Englishroyalists were sensible of some call for a balanceto the regal authority; it cannot be pretended thatHyde, Ormond, or Southampton, wished their king tobe the fierce “Io el rey” (so pointedlydisowning his council) of Castile, or the “L’etat?C’est moi” of France, some few yearslater. Even for a royalist, it was requisitein England to profess some popular doctrines; andthus far Salmasius fell below his clients. Buthis capital disqualification lay in his defect offamiliarity with the English people, habits, laws,and history.[Footnote 7: It may be thought, indeed, thatas a resident in Holland, Salmasius should have hada glimpse of the new truth; and certainly it is singularthat he did not perceive the rebound, upon his Dutchprotectors, of many amongst his own virulent passagesagainst the English; unless he fancied some specialprivilege for Dutch rebellion. But in fact hedid so. There was a notion in great currency atthe time—that any state whatever was eternallypledged and committed to the original holdings ofits settlement. Whatever had been its earliesttenure, that tenure continued to be binding throughall ages. An elective kingdom had thus some indirectmeans for controlling its sovereign. A republicwas a nuisance, perhaps, but protected by prescription.And in this way even France had authorized means, throughold usages of courts or incorporations, forlimiting the royal authority as to certain known trifles.With respect to the Netherlands, the king of Spainhad never held absolute power in those provinces.All these were privileged cases for resistance.But England was held to be a regal despotism.]
The English aristocracy furnished a question for drawingall these large varieties of ignorance to a focus.In coming upon the ground of English institutions,Salmasius necessarily began “verba nostra conari,”and became the garrulous parrot that Milton representshim. Yet, strange it is, that the capital blunderwhich he makes upon this subject, was not perceivedby Milton. And this reciprocal misunderstandingequally arose in the pre-occupation of their mindsby the separate principles on which, for each side,were founded their separate aristocracies. Theconfusion between the parties arose in connexion withthe House of Commons. What was the Houseof Commons? Salmasius saw that it was contrastedwith the House of Lords. But then, again, whatwere the Lords? The explanation givento him was, that they were the “noblesse”of the land. That he could understand; and,of course, if the other house were antitheticallyopposed to the Lords, it followed that the House of
Commons was not composed of noblesse. But,on the Continent, this was equivalent to saying, thatthe Commons were roturiers, bourgeois—infact, mechanic persons, of obscure families, occupiedin the lowest employments of life. AccordinglySalmasius wrote his whole work under the most sereneconviction that the English House of Commons was tantamountto a Norwegian Storthing, viz. a gathering fromthe illiterate and labouring part of the nation.This blunder was committed in perfect sincerity.And there was no opening for light; because a continualsanction was given to this error by the aristocraticscorn which the cavaliers of ancient descent habituallyapplied to the prevailing party of the Roundheads;which may be seen to this hour in all the pasquinadesupon Cromwell, though really in his own neighbourhooda “gentleman of worship.” But forSalmasius it was a sufficient bar to any doubt arising,that if the House of Commons were not nobles, thenwere they not gentlemen—since to be a gentlemanand to be a titled man or noble, on the Continent,were convertible terms. He himself was a manof titular rank, deriving his title from the territoryof Saumaise; and in this needy scholar, behold a noblemanof France! Milton, on the other hand, quite incapableof suspecting that Salmasius conceived himself tostand on a higher level than an English senator ofthe Commons, and never having his attention drawn tothe chasm which universally divides foreign from Englishnobility, naturally interpreted all the invectivesof Salmasius against the Lower House as directed againsttheir principles and their conduct. Thus arosean error, which its very enormity has hitherto screenedfrom observation.What, then, is this chasm dividing our nobilityfrom that upon the Continent? Latterly that pointhas begun to force itself upon the attention of theEnglish themselves, as travellers by wholesale on theContinent. The sagacious observers amongst themcould not avoid to remark, that not unfrequently familieswere classed by scores amongst the nobility, who,in England, would not have been held to rank with thegentry. Next, it must have struck them that, merelyby their numbers, these continental orders of nobilitycould never have been designed for any thing higherthan so many orders of gentry. Finally, upondiscovering that there was no such word or idea asthat of gentry, expressing a secondary class distinctfrom a nobility, it flashed upon them that our importantbody of a landed gentry, bearing no titularhonours of any kind, was inexpressible by any French,German, or Italian word; that upon the whole, andallowing for incommunicable differences, this orderof gentry was represented on the Continent by the greatmass of the “basse noblesse;” that ourown great feudal nobility would be described on theContinent as a “haute noblesse;” and thatamongst all these perplexities, it was inevitable
for an Englishman to misunderstand and to be misunderstood.For, if he described another Englishman as not beinga nobleman, invariably the foreigner would presumeit to be meant that he was not a gentleman—notof the privileged class—in fact, that hewas a plebeian or roturier, though very possiblya man every way meritorious by talents or public services.Whereas, on the contrary, we English know that a manof most ancient descent and ample estates, one, inthe highest sense, a man of birth and family, may choose,on a principle of pride, (and not unfrequently haschosen,) obstinately to decline entering the orderof nobility. Take, in short, the well-known storyof Sir Edward Seymour, as first reported in Burnet’sOwn Times; to every foreigner this story isabsolutely unintelligible. Sir Edward, at theRevolution, was one, in the vast crowd of country gentlemenpresented to the Prince of Orange, (not yet raisedto the throne.) The prince, who never had the dimmestconception of English habits or institutions, thoughtto compliment Sir Edward by showing himself awareof that gentleman’s near relationship to a ducalhouse. “I believe, Sir Edward,” saidthe prince, “that you are of the Duke of Somerset’sfamily?” But Sir Edward, who was the haughtiestof the human race, speedily put an extinguisher onthe prince’s courtesy by replying, in a roar,“No, your highness: my lord duke is of mine.”This was true: Sir Edward, the commoner, wasof that branch which headed the illustrious houseof Seymour; and the Duke of Somerset, at that era,was a cadet of this house. But to all foreignersalike, from every part of the Continent, this storyis unfathomable. How a junior branch should beennobled, the elder branch remaining not ennobled,that by itself seems mysterious; but how theunennobled branch should, in some sense peculiarlyEnglish, bear itself loftily as the depository of ahigher consideration (though not of a higher rank)than the duke’s branch, this is a mere stoneof offence to the continental mind. So, again,there is a notion current upon the Continent, thatin England titular honours are put up to sale, asonce they really were, by Charles I. in his distresses,when an earldom was sold for L.6000; and so prorata for one step higher or lower. Meantime,we all know in England how entirely false this is;and, on the other hand, we know also, and cannot butsmile at the continental blindness to its own infirmity,that the mercenary imputation which recoils from ourselves,has, for centuries, settled upon France, Germany,and other powers. More than one hundred and thirtythousand French “nobles,” at the epochof the Revolution, how did most of them come by theirtitles? Simply by buying them in a regular marketor bazar, appointed for such traffic. Did Mr St——,a respectable tailor, need baronial honours?He did not think of applying to any English minister,though he was then actually resident in London; headdressed his litanies to the chancery of Austria.Did Mr ——, the dentist, or Mr R——,the banker, sigh for aristocratic honours? Bothcrossed the Channel, and marketed in the shambles ofFrance and Germany.Meantime the confusion, which is inveterate upon thissubject, arose out of the incompatible grounds uponwhich the aristocracies of England and the Continenthad formed themselves. For the continental thereseemed to exist no exclusive privilege, and yet therewas one. For the English there existedpractically a real privilege, and yet in law therewas none. On the Continent, no titledorder had ever arisen without peculiar immunitiesand powers, extending oftentimes to criminal jurisdictions;but yet, by that same error which has so often vitiateda paper currency, the whole order, in spite of itsunfair privileges, was generally depreciated.This has been the capital blunder of France at alltimes. Her old aristocracy was so numerous, thatevery provincial town was inundated with “comptes,”&c.; and no villager even turned to look on hearinganother addressed by a title. The other day wesaw a return from the Legion of Honour: “Suchin these moments, as in all the past,” France,it appeared, had already indorsed upon this suspiciousroll not fewer than forty-nine thousand six hundredand odd beneficiaries. Let the reader think offorty-nine thousand six hundred Knights of the Bathturned loose upon London. Now ex adversoEngland must have some virtual and operative privilegefor her nobility, or else how comes it, thatin any one of our largest provincial towns—townsso populous as to have but four rivals on the Continent—astranger saluted seriously by the title of “mylord,” will very soon have a mob at his heels?Is it that the English nobility can dispense withimmunities from taxation, with legal supremacies, andwith the sword of justice; in short, with all artificialprivileges, having these two authentic privilegesfrom nature—stern limitation of their numbers,and a prodigious share in the most durable of the nationalproperty? Vainly does the continental noble flourishagainst such omnipotent charters the rusty keys ofhis dungeon, or the sculptured image of his familygallows. Power beyond the law is not nobility,is not antiquity. Tax-gatherers, from the twolast centuries, have been the founders of most titledhouses in France; and the prestige of antiquityis, therefore, but rarely present. But were itotherwise, and that a “noblesse” couldplead one uniform descent from crusaders, still, ifthey were a hundred thousand strong—and,secondly, had no property—and, thirdly,comprehended in their lists a mere gentry, havinggenerally no pretensions at all to ancient or illustriousdescent, they would be—nothing. Andexactly on that basis reposes the difference betweenthe Continent and England. Eternally the ridiculouspretence of being “noble” by family, seemsto claim for obscure foreigners some sort of advantageover the plain untitled Englishman; but eternallythe travelled Englishman recollects, that, so far asthis equivocal “nobility” had been reallyfenced with privileges, those have been long in acourse of superannuation; whilst the counter-vailingadvantages for his own native aristocracy are preciselythose which time or political revolutions never cansuperannuate.
Thus far as to the constitution of the British nobilityand those broad popular distinctions which determinefor each nobility its effectual powers. The nextpoint is, to exhibit the operation of these differentialpowers in the condition of manners which they produce.But, as a transitional stage lying between the twohere described—between the tenure of ouraristocracy as a casual principle, and the popularworking of our aristocracy as an effect—wewill interpose a slight notice of the habits peculiarto England by which this effect is partly sustained.
One marked characteristic of the English nobilityis found in the popular education of their sons.Amongst the great feudal aristocracies of Spain orof Austria, it was impossible that the heirs of splendidproperties should be reared when boys in national institutions.In general, there are no national institutions,of ancient and royal foundation, dedicated to educationin either land. Almost of necessity, the younggraf or fuerst, (earl or prince,) condeor duca, is committed to the charge of a privatetutor, usually a monk. The habits of continentaluniversities have always been riotous and plebeian;the mode of paying the professors, who answer to thecollege tutors of Oxford and Cambridge, has alwaysbeen degrading—equally degrading to themand to literature; whilst, in relation to all academicauthority, such modes of payment were ruinous, bycreating a systematic dependence of the teacher uponthe pupil. To this account may be added, thatin all countries, where great elementary schools arewanting, the universities are improperly used as theirsubstitutes. Consequently these pupils are toooften boys, and not young men, in age; whilst in habits,not belonging to the aristocracy, they are generallygross, unpolished, and illiberal. The great bulkare meant for the professions of the land; and hence,from an early period, the education has been too ecclesiasticalin its cast. Even at this day, it is too strictlyprofessional. The landed aristocracy resort tosuch institutions in no healthy proportions; and thereason lies in their too exclusive dedication to themilitary service. It is true that, in therude concussion given to all Germany and Spain bythe French revolutionary aggressions, many changeshave occurred. In particular, for North Germany,viz. Prussia, Russian Poland, and Saxony,such a new and vast body has arisen of civilfunctionaries, that a new name and classification forthis order has been found necessary amongst Britishtravellers and German economists. But this changehas not commensurately affected the German universities.The military character still overshadows the professional.The law is in no esteem, and leads to no politicalconsideration. The church is in the same degradation.The German pastor is too essentially humble in hissocial condition to present any resistance to feudal
or military arrogance. A German clergyman isnot, in that emphatic sense which makes itself feltamongst ourselves, a gentleman. The rural pastorof Germany is too often, in effectual weight of character,little more than the “Amen” clerk of ourEnglish establishment. If he is treated courteously,as amongst very elevated persons he is, this concessionhe owes to their high bred refinement, andnot to any dignity which clothes himself. Therewe speak of the reformed churches, whether Calvinist,Lutheran, or the new syncratistic church, manufacturedby the present government of Prussia. But inPopish countries, the same tendency is seen on a largerscale: the whole ecclesiastical body, parochialor monastic, retires from the contests of life; andfails, therefore, to contribute any part of the civilresistance needed for making head against the militaryprofession. On the other hand, in England, throughthe great schools of Eton, Harrow, &c., children evenof ducal families are introduced to public life, andto popular sympathies, through the discipline of whatmay be called miniature republics. No countryon earth, it is rightly observed by foreigners, showsso much of aristocratic feeling as England. Itcannot, therefore, be denied—that a Britishduke or earl at Eton, and more especially in his latterstages when approaching the period of his majority,is the object of much deference. Entering uponthe time when practically he becomes sui juris,he has far too much power and influence to be treatedwith levity. But it is equally true, that a spiritof republican justice regulates his childish intercoursewith his fellow alumni: he fights battleson equal terms with any of them, when he gives orreceives offence. He plays at cricket, he sailsor rows his boat, according to known generalregulations. True, that his private tutor moreoften withdraws a patrician boy from the public sports:but, so long as he is a party of them, he neitheris, nor, from the nature of such amusem*nts, couldbe indulged with any special immunities. TheCondes and Ducas of Spain, meantime,have been uniformly reared at home: for thiswe have the authority of Spanish economists, as alsoof many travellers. The auspicious conductorof the young grandee’s education are usuallyhis mother’s confessor and his mother’swaiting-women. Thence comes the possibility thata Spanish prince should have degraded himself in theeyes of Europe as a sempster and embroiderer of petticoats.Accordingly, the highest order of the Spanish nobilityis said to be physically below the standard of theircountrymen, in a degree too apparent to escape generalnotice; whilst in the same relations our own nobilityhas been generally pronounced the finest animalrace amongst us.Another great feature in the system of our Englishtraining, is the severe separation of children fromservants. Many are the families of mere Englishgentry, totally removed from the nobility, who neverpermit their children to enter the servants’hall nor the kitchen. And the probable remarkupon so rigorous a separation, which an inconsiderateperson will make, that it is founded upon aristocraticarrogance, happens to be in the very teeth of thetruth. We shall content ourselves with saying,that the comfort as well as benefit of both partieswere promoted by such an arrangement; whilst, so farfrom arguing hauteur, it was the high civil conditionof the English servant, which, by forcing respectfrom his master, first widened the interval betweenthe two ranks, and founded a wholesome repulsion betweenthem. In our own times, we have read descriptionsof West India planters admitting the infant childrenof their slaves to play and sprawl about their saloons:but now, since the slave has acquired the stationof a free man, and (from the fact of not having wonthis station meritoriously, but passively receivedit as a boon) is too generally disposed to use it ina spirit of defiance, does any man expect such scenesfor the future? Through the prevalence of habit,old cases of that nature may happen to survive locally:but in the coming generation, every vestige of theseindulgent relations will have disappeared in the gloomyatmosphere of jealous independence. That infant,who had been treated with exemplary kindness as acreature entirely at the mercy of his master, and theliving monument of his forbearance, will be thrownsternly upon his legal rights when he has the powerof enforcing those rights in so many instances againsthis patron. This case, from its abruptness, involvesunamiable features: but the English case had developeditself too gradually and naturally to be otherwisethan purely dignified for both parties. In theage of Beaumont and Fletcher, (say 1610-1635,) gentlemenkicked and caned their servants: the power todo so, was a privilege growing out of the awful distanceattached to rank: and in Ireland, at the openingof the present century, such a privilege was stillmatter of prescriptive usage, and too frequently furnishedthe matter for a menace. But the stealthy growthof civilization and of civil liberty in England, movedonwards so surely, under the stimulation of manufacturingindustry, (making menial service a secondary objectfor the poor,) that before 1750, a gentleman, forgettinghimself so far as to strike a servant, would havebeen recalled to better thoughts by an action forassault. On the Continent, for the very reasonthat no such rights had been matured for servants,it was possible to treat them with much more indulgence:because the relations between the two parties wereless honourable, allowing to the servant nothing inthe way of absolute right; for that very reason, itwas possible to treat him as a child who founds his
power upon his weakness. In fact, the whole philosophyon this subject will be found practically embodiedin the household economy of Rome about the time ofHannibal, as unfolded by Plautus. The relationsof master and servant are there exhibited in a stateof absolute pessimism: any thing worse, it isbeyond the wit of men to imagine. Respect ordeference on the part of the slave towards his master,there is none: contempt more maliciously expressedfor his master’s understanding, familiaritymore insolent, it is difficult to imagine. Thiswas in part a tendency derived from republican institutions:but in part also it rests upon the vicious independencein the master of all authority founded upon moralforces. Instant physical coercion, the powerof cross, gallows, pistrinum, and the domesticscourge—these were the forces which madethe Roman master careless of verbal disrespect, indifferentto censure, from them whose opinions were as impotentas those of an infant. The slave, again, on hisside, is described as so thoroughly degraded, thathe makes the disfiguration of his own person by theknout, the cancellation of his back by stripesand scars—a subject of continual merriment.Between two parties thus incapacitated by law andusage for manly intercourse, the result was exactlysuch by consummation as on many parts of the Continentit still is by tendency. The master welcomedfrom his slave that spirit of familiar impertinencewhich stirred the dull surface of domestic life, whilst,at any moment, a kick or a frown could silence thepetty battery when it was beginning to be offensive.Without a drawback, therefore, to apprehend whereexcesses too personal or stinging could be repressedas certainly as the trespasses of a hound, the Plautinemaster drew from his servant, without anxiety, thecomic services which, in the middle ages, were drawnfrom the professional “fool.” Thisoriginal vice in the constitution of society, thoughgreatly mitigated, in the course of two centuriesfrom the era of Plautus, by the progress of intellectualluxury, was one main fountain of that coarseness which,in every age, deformed the social intercourse of Romans;and, especially, it was the fountain of that odiousscurrility and tongue-license which defeated the majesticimpression else sure to have waited on the grand positionof the senate. Cicero himself was as great aruffian in his three functions of oratory, viz.at the bar, in the popular assemblies, and in thesenate—he was as foul a libeller—asmalignant—and as plebeian in his choiceof topics—as any “verna” inRome when sparring with another “verna.”This scandal of Roman society was not, undoubtedly,a pure product, from the vernile scurrility of whichwe hear so much in Roman writers—othercauses conspired; but certainly the fluency which menof rank exhibited in this popular accomplishment ofBillingsgate had been at all times sustained by themodels of this kind resounding for ever in the streetsof Rome, and in the purlieus of great mansions.Mr Coleridge, who had seen nothing but superior amiablenessin the familiar sort of friendship existing betweena French gentleman and his servant, where, in fact,it had survived as a relic from old political degradations,might consistently proclaim in rapture, when writingto a lady upon the Philosophic Dialogues ofCicero, “What perfect gentlemen were[8] theseold Romans!” He who suffers a single featureof amiableness to screen the general misconstructionof social relations, may easily find a spirit of chivalrouscourtesy in what, after all, was only a self-protectingmeanness, applied to one special case of private intercourseunder a brutalizing system applied to all other intercoursebetween men of public distinction. It is certainthat the prevailing relations upon the Continent betweenmaster and servant, did, before the French Revolution,and do still, express a vicious structure of society;they have repeated, in other forms, the Romantype of civilisation; whilst we, with a sterner exterior,have been the first to stamp respectability upon menialand mechanic labour.[Footnote 8: And, in reality, this impression,as from some high-bred courtesy and self-restraint,is likely enough to arise at first in every man’smind. But the true ground of the amiable featureswas laid for the Roman in the counter-force of exquisitebrutality. Where the style of public intercoursehad been so deformed by ruffianism, in private intercourseit happened, both as a natural consequence, and asa difference sought after by prudence, that the tendenciesto such rough play incident to all polemic conversation(as in the De Oratore) should be precludedby a marked extremity of refined pleasure. Henceindeed it is, that compliments, and something likemutual adulation, prevail so much in the imaginarycolloquies of Roman statesmen. The personal flatteriesinterchanged in the De Oratore, De Legibus,&c., of Cicero, are often so elegantly turned, andintroduced so artfully, that they read very much likethe high bred compliments ascribed to LouisXIV., in his intercourse with eminent public officers.These have generally a regal air of loftiness aboutthem, and prove the possibility of genius attachingeven to the art of paying compliments. But else,in reviewing the spirit of traffic, which appearsin the reciprocal flatteries passing between Crassus,Antony, Cotta, &c., too often a sullen suspicion crossesthe mind of a politic sycophancy, adopted on bothsides as a defensive armour.]
Perhaps, however, the one capital force, operatingfor good upon the British aristocracy, is—theparamount reference of all accomplishments, of ambitionthrough all its modes, and of party connexions, tothe public service. This, again, which constitutesa fourth head amongst the characteristics of Englishsociety, may be viewed as both cause and effect withreference to our civil institutions. Here we regardit as a cause. It is a startling assertion tomake, but we have good reason to think it true, that,in the last great war with Jacobinism, stretchingthrough very nearly one whole quarter of a century,beyond all doubt the nobility was that order amongstus who shed their blood in the largest proportionfor the commonwealth. Let not the reader believethat for a moment we are capable of undervaluing thepretensions of any class, whether high or low.All furnished martyrs to that noblest of causes.And it is not possible that this should be otherwise;because amongst us society is so exquisitely fused,so delicate are the nuances by which our ranksplay out and in to each other, that no man can imaginethe possibility of an arrest being communicated atany point to the free circulation of any one nationalfeeling whatsoever. Great chasms must existbetween social ranks, where it is possible for a sentimentof nationality to be suddenly frozen up as it approachesone particular class; as a corollary from which doctrine,we have always treated with derision the scurrilousnotion that our rural body of landowners, our countrysquires, could, by possibility, differ essentiallyfrom the rest of us. Bred amongst us, educatedamongst us, intermarrying with us indiscriminately,how by any means apparent to common sense should itbe possible for them to maintain an inheritance ofseparate ignorance, separate prejudices, or separatepurposes, such as interested manufacturers and trivialsatirists assume? On the same principle, it isnot possible that, in questions of elementary patriotism,any palsy should check the electric movement of thenational feelings through every organ of itssocial life—except only in the one casewhere its organization is imperfect. Let therebe a haughty nobility, void of popular sympathies,such as the haute noblesse of Russia or Hungaryis sometimes said to be, and it will be possiblethat jealousy on behalf of privileges should operateso noxiously as to place such a body in oppositionto the people for the sake of what it holds separately,rather than in sympathy with the people for the sakeof what both hold in common. With us, this isotherwise; the very highest and most feudal amongstour nobles are associated by common rights, interests,and subjection to the laws, with the general bodyof the people. Make an exception for the rightof demanding an audience from the sovereign, for theright of entree at St James’s, for theright of driving through the Horse Guards, or for
Lord Kinsale’s right of wearing his hat in theroyal presence—reckon off the petty discountfor privileges so purely ceremonial, and absolutenothing remains to distinguish the nobility.For as to the practice of entails, the legal benefitof primogeniture, &c., these have no more essentialconnexion with the nobility, than the possession ofland or manorial rights. They are privileges attachedto a known situation, which is open equally to everyman not disqualified as an alien. Consequently,we infer that, the fusion and continuity of our ranksbeing perfect, it is not possible to suppose, withrespect to a great patriotic interest, any abruptpause in the fluent circulation of our national sympathies.We, therefore, cannot be supposed to arrogate forthe nobility any separate privilege of patriotism.But still we venture to affirm, that, if the totalnumbers of our nobility and their nearest connexionswere summed; and if from that sum were subtracted allofficers, being brothers, sons, nephews, of Britishpeers, who laid down their lives, or suffered incurablewounds in the naval or military service of their country,the proportion will be found greater than that uponthe aggregate remainder belonging to the rest of thenation. Life is the same blessing for all ranksalike. But certainly, though for all it is intrinsicallythe same priceless jewel, there is in the setting ofthis jewel something more radiantly brilliant to himwho inherits a place amongst the British nobility,than to him whose prospects have been clouded originallyby the doubts and fears of poverty. And, at allevents, the libation of blood in the course of thelast war was, we must repeat, on the part of the higharistocracy, disproportionately large.In that proportion are those men unprincipled whospeak of the English nobility as an indolent class—detachedfrom public employments, and taking neither sharenor interest in the public service. Such representations,where they are not deliberate falsehoods, point toa fact which is not uncommon; from the limited numberof our nobility, and consequently the rare opportunitiesfor really studying their habits, it is easy to seethat in sketches of this order, (whether libellousamongst mob-orators, or serious in novels,) the pretendedportrait has been founded on a vague romantic abstractionof what may be supposed peculiar to the conditionof a patrician order under all political circ*mstances.Haughtiness, exclusiveness, indolence, and luxury,compose the romantic type which the delineator figuresto his mind; and at length it becomes evident to anyman, who has an experimental knowledge of this order,that probably the ancient Persian satraps, or theomrahs of Hindostan, have much more truly been operativelypresent to the describers than any thing ancient ormodern amongst the realities of England. A candidperson, who wishes to estimate the true, and not theimaginary nobles of England, will perceive one fact
through the public journals, viz. that no classtakes a more active share in that sort of the publicbusiness which naturally commends itself to theirsupport. At least one-half of the deliberativemeetings connected with the innumerable charitiesof London, very many of the public dinners by whichsuch charities are promoted or commemorated, obtainthe benevolent aid of noblemen as chairmen and presidents.Provincial assemblies for the same purposes, and,still more frequently, assemblies growing out of theendless political questions incident to a nation inour circ*mstances, receive the same influential countenance.These labours, by no means slight, added to the eveningParliamentary attendance through half the year, andthe morning attendance on Parliamentary committees,together with the magisterial duties of many lords-lieutenant,sufficiently attest that in this point of public duties,(exercised without fee or compensation,) our own nobilityis the only one in Europe having almost any connexionat all with the national service, except through thearmy. Some of this small body are pretty constantlyattached to the cabinet; others act as ambassadors,as under-secretaries, or as colonial governors.And so far are they from wishing, apparently, to limitthe field for their own exertions, that the late Dukesof Manchester and Richmond spontaneously extended it,by giving the countenances of their high stationsto the governments of Canada, and even of Jamaica.A marquis of ancient family has lately accepted thegovernment of Madras; and gradually, as our splendidcolonies expand their proportions, it is probable thatmany more of them will benefit at intervals, (in theircharities and public works,) from the vast revenuesof our leading nobles acting as their governors.Add to these the many cases of junior nobles who sitin the House of Commons; of those who keep alive thepublic spirit of great provinces by standing costlycontested elections; of those professionally pursuingthe career of arms in the naval or land service; andthen, collating all this activity with the very limitedextent of our peerage taken even with their families,not the very bigotry of democracy will deny that thecharacteristic energy of our nation is faithfully reflectedfrom its highest order.Is there a feature in foreign circles odious beyondall others? It is the air of pretence, the cravingafter effect, the swell, the system of coquettingwith accomplishments, the tumid character of bravura,which characterises the principle, and (to borrowan affected word from connoisseurs of art) the motivoof their social intercourse. Is there a featureof manners in the English nobility, absolutely inimitableby art, and renewing for ever the impressions of simplicityand truth? It lies in that winning retirementfrom the artificial, the studied, the theatrical,from all jealousy of design or collusive deplay, whichgood sense and chastity of taste have suggested to
them, as the sole style of demeanour on a level withtheir dignified station. Continental societyis bad by its ideals. In the execution, theremay be frequent differences, moderating what is offensivein the conception. But the essential and informingprinciple of foreign society is the scenical, andthe nisus after display. It is a stateof perpetual tension; while, on the other hand, theusual state of English society, in the highest classes,is one of dignified repose. There is the samedifference in this point between the two systems ofmanners, as between the English and French tone ofnational intercourse, in the matter of foreign relations.In France, when the popular blood is up, nothing isto be heard but bounce, menace, and defiance; for England,all the hurricanes of foreign wrath that ever blew,could not disturb her lion port of majestic tranquillity.But when we distinguish between what is English andwhat is foreign, it becomes proper that we should saymore specifically what it is that we mean by the term“foreign;” what compass we allow to thatidea. It is too palpable, and for many reasons,that the French standard of taste has vitiated thegeneral taste of the Continent. How has thisarisen? In part from the central position ofFrance; in part from the arrogance of France in everyage, as pretending to the precedency amongst the kingdomsof Christendom; in part from the magnificence of theFrench kings since the time of Louis XII.—thatis, beginning with Francis I.; and in part, sincethe period 1660-80, from the noisy pretensions ofthe French literature, at the time creating itself,followed by that natural consequence of correspondingpretensions for the French language. Literatureit was that first opened to the language a Europeancareer; but inversely the language it was that subsequentlyclenched and riveted the diffusion of the literature.Two accidents of European society favoured the change.Up to the restoration of our Charles II., diplomacyhad been generally conducted in Latin. Effortshad been made, indeed, as early as Cardinal Richelieu’stime, to substitute French. His pupil, Mazarine,had repeated the attempt; and Cromwell had resolutelyresisted it. But how? Because, at that period,the resistance was easy. Historians are apt toforget that, in 1653, there was no French literature.Corneille, it is true, was already known; but theimpression which he had as yet made, even upon Paris,did not merit the name of a popular impression—andfor this decisive reason, that, as yet, Louis XIV.was a boy. Not until seven years later, did hevirtually begin to reign; whilst, as France was thenconstituted, nothing could be popular which did notbear the countersign and imprimatur of a kingand his court. The notion, therefore, adoptedby all historians of English literature, (notexcluding the arrogant Schlegel,) that Charles II.,on his restoration, laid the foundation of a “Frenchschool,” being already nonsense by the verytenor of the doctrine, happens also to be chronologicallyimpossible. English writers could not take fora model what as yet had no collective existence.Now, until the death of Charles II., no French literaturecould be said to have gathered or established itself;and as yet no ostentation of a French literature beganto stir the air of Europe. By the time, however,that Racine, La Fontaine, Boileau, Bossuet, and Fontenelle,had begun to fix the attention of foreign courts uponthe French language, a necessity, no longer to be disguised,for some modern language as the common organ of diplomacy,had made itself universally acknowledged. Notonly were able negotiations continually neutralizedby ignorance or unfamiliar command of the Latin; butat last, as the field of diplomacy was daily expanding,and as commerce kept ahead of all other interests,it became simply impossible, by any dexterity of evasionsand compromises, to make a dead language do the officesof negotiation without barbarism and reciprocal misunderstanding.Now was commencing the era of congresses. TheWestphalian congress, in 1648, had put up with Latin;for the interests which it settled, and the boundarieswhich it counterbalanced, were political and general.The details of tariffs were but little concerned.But those times were passing away. A modern languagemust be selected for international treating,and for the growing necessities of travellers.French probably would, by this time, have gained thedistinction at any rate; for the same causes whichcarried strangers in disproportionate numbers to Paris—viz.the newly-created splendour of that capital, and theextensive patronage of the French kings—musthave commensurately diffused the knowledge of theFrench language. At such a critical moment, however,we cannot doubt that the French literature would givea determining impulse to the choice. For besidesthat the literature adapts itself beyond all othersto the classes of society having little time for reflection,and whose sensibilities are scattered by dissipation,it offers even to the meditative the high quality ofself-consistency. Springing from a low key ofpassion, it still justifies its own pretensions togood taste, (that is, to harmony with itself and itsown principles.) Fifty years later, or about the middleof the eighteenth century, we see a second impulsegiven to the same literature, and therefore to thesame language. A new race of writers were atthat time seasoning the shallowest of all philosophieswith systematic rancour against thrones and Christianity.To a military (and therefore in those days ignorant)aristocracy, such as all continental states were cursedwith, equally the food and the condiment were attractivebeyond any other. And thus, viz. throughsuch accidents of luck operating upon so shallow abody of estimators as the courtiers and the littleadventurers of the Continent, did the French literatureand language attain the preponderance which once theyhad. It is true, that the literature has sincelost that advantage. Germany, the other greatcentre of the Continent, has now a literature of herown, far more extensive, and better fitted for herpeculiar strength and weakness. But the Frenchlanguage, though also drooping, still holds its groundas the convenient resource of lazy travellers andlazy diplomatists. This language, acting throughthat literature, has been the engine for fusing thepeople of the Continent into a monotonous conformityto one standard of feeling.In this sense, and with a reference to this deduction,we ascribe unity to the foreign system of mannersand social intercourse. Had every state in Europebeen resigned to her own native temper and habits,there could have been no propriety in talking of “foreign”manners, as existing by way of antithesis to English.There must have been as many varieties of what mightbe called “foreign,” as there happen tobe considerable kingdoms, or considerable territoriesinsulated by strong natural boundaries, or capitalcities composing separate jurisdictions for the worldof manners, by means of local differences continuallyripening into habits. But this tendency in Europeto break up and subdivide her spirit of manners, waswithered and annihilated by the unity of a Frenchtaste. The ambition of a French refinement hadso thoroughly seized upon Germany, and even upon theVandalism of arctic Sweden, by the year 1740, thatin the literature of both countries, a ridiculous hybriddialect prevailed, of which you could not say whetherit were a superstructure of Teutonic upon a basisof French, or of French upon a basis of Teutonic.[9]The justification of “foreign,” or “continental,”used as an adequate antithesis to English, is thereforebut too complete.
[Footnote 9: In the days of Gottsched, a Germanleader about 1740, who was a pedant constitutionallyinsensible to any real merits of French literature,and yet sharing in the Gallomania, the ordinary tenorof composition was such as this: (supposing Englishwords substituted for German:) “I demandewith entire empressem*nt, your pardonfor having tant soit peu meconnu, or at leastegare from your orders, autrefois communicated.Faute d’entendre your ultimate but,I now confess, de me trouver perplexed by unmauvais embarras.”—And so on.]
Having thus explained our use of the word “foreign,”we put it to any considerate man, how it should havebeen possible that any select tone of society couldgrow up amongst a body so comprehensive and so miscellaneousas the soi-disant nobility of continental states?Could it be expected that 130,000 French “nobles”of 1788, needy and squalid in their habits as manyof them were, should be high-bred gentlemen? InGermany, we know that all the watering-places are infestedwith black-leg gamblers, fortune-hunters, chevaliersd’industrie, through all varieties of thiscategory. Most of these bear titles of baron,compte, &c. Are they spurious titles? Nobodyknows. Such is the obscurity and extent of anaristocracy multiplying their numbers in every generation,and resting upon no basis of property, that it isequally possible for the true “baron” tolie under suspicion as a pretender, and for the falseone to prosper by imposture. On the other hand,who could hope to pass himself off for six weeks asan English earl? Yet it is evident, that wherecounterfeit claims are so easy, the intrusion of personsunqualified, or doubtfully qualified, must be so numerousand constant that long ago every pure standard of whatis noble or gentlemanly, must have perished in sokeen a struggle and so vast a mob. Merely byits outrageous excess numerically, every continental“noblesse” is already lowered and vitiatedin its tone. For in vast bodies, fluctuatingeternally, no unity of tone can be maintained, exceptexactly in those cases where some vulgar prejudicecarries away all alike by its strength of current.
Such a current we have already noticed in the styleof scenical effort manifested by most foreigners.To be a “conteur,” to figure in “proverbs,”to attitudinize, to produce a “sensation”—allthese are purposes of ambition in foreign circles.Such a current we have noticed in the general determinationof the Continent towards French tastes; and thatis a worse tendency even than it used to be, for thetrue aristocracy of France is gone for ever as itformerly existed in the haute noblesse; andthe court of a democratic king is no more equal tothe task of diffusing good manners, than that of theAmerican or Haytian president. Personally, theking and his family might be models of high breeding;but the insolence of democracy would refuse the example,and untrained vulgarity would fail even in tryingto adopt it.
Besides these false impulses given to the continentaltone of society, we have noticed a third, and thatis the preposterous value given amongst foreignersto what is military. This tendency is at oncea cause of vulgarity and an exponent of vulgarity.Thence comes the embroidery of collars, the betasseling,the befrogging, the flaunting attempts at “costuming.”It is not that the military character is less fittedto a gentlemanly refinement than any other; but thetruth is, that no professional character whatsoever,when pushed into exclusive esteem, can continue tosustain itself on the difficult eminence of pure naturalhigh breeding. All professions alike have theirbesetting vices, pedantries, and infirmities.In some degree they correct each other when throwntogether on terms of equality. But on the Continent,the lawyer and the clergyman is every where degraded;the senator has usually no existence; and the authenticlanded proprietor, liberated from all duties but thesplendid and non-technical duties of patriotism, comes
forward at foreign courts only in thee character ofa military officer. At some courts this is carriedso far, that no man can be presented out of uniform.Has the military profession, on the other hand, benefitedby such partiality? So far from it, that, werethe continental armies liable to that sort of surveillancewhich our own Horse Guards exercises over the socialmorals of the officers, we do not believe that oneof those armies could exist for five years. Thefacts placed beyond denial by the capture of foreignofficers’ baggage, by the violated parole ofhonour, and by many other incidents of the late war,combine to prove the low tone of gentlemanly honourand probity in the ill-paid armies of the Continent.Our purpose has been, to insist on the capital patrioticuses to which so splendid an aristocracy as ours hasbeen applied, and will be applied, so long as it issuffered to exist undisturbed by the growing democracy(and, worse than that, by the anarchy) of thetimes. These uses are principally four, whichwe shall but indicate in a few words.
First, it is in the nobility of Great Britain thatthe Conservative principle—which cannotbut be a momentous agency wheresoever there is anything good to protect from violence, or any thing venerableto uphold in sanctity—is chiefly lodged.Primogeniture and the church are the two corner-stonesupon which our civil constitution ultimately reposes;and neither of these, from the monumental characterof our noble houses, held together through centuriesby the peculiar settlements of their landed properties,has any power to survive the destruction of a distinctpatrician order.
Secondly, though not per se, or, in a professionalsense, military as a body, (Heaven forbid that theyshould be so!) yet, as always furnishing a disproportionatenumber from their order to the martial service ofthe country, they diffuse a standard of high honourthrough our army and navy, which would languish ina degree not suspected whenever a democratic influenceshould thoroughly pervade either. It is lessfor what they do in this way, than for what they prevent,that our gratitude is due to the nobility. However,even the positive services of the nobilityare greater in this field than a democrat is awareof. Are not all our satirical novels, &c., dailydescribing it as the infirmity of English society,that so much stress is laid upon aristocratic connexions?Be it so: but do not run away from your own doctrine,O democrat! as soon as the consequences become startling.One of these consequences, which cannot be refused,is the depth of influence and the extent of influencewhich waits upon the example of our nobles. Werethe present number of our professional nobles decimated,they would still retain a most salutary influence.We have spoken sufficiently of the ruin which followswhere a nation has no natural and authentic leadersfor her armies. And we venture to add our suspicion—thateven France, at this moment, owes much of the couragewhich marks her gentry, though a mere wreck from herold aristocracy, to the chivalrous feeling inheritedfrom her ancestral remembrances. Good officersare not made such by simple constitutional courage;honour, and something of a pure gentlemanly temper,must be added.
Thirdly, for all populous and highly civilized nations,it is an indirect necessity made known in a thousandways, that some adequate control should preside overtheir spirit of manners. This can be effectedonly through a court and a body of nobles. Andthence it arises, that, in our English public intercourse,through every class, (even the lowest of the commercial,)so much of respectful gravity and mutual considerationis found. Now, therefore, as the means of maintainingin strength this aristocratic influence, we requestevery thoughtful man to meditate upon the followingproposition. The class even of our gentry breedsa body of high and chivalrous feeling; and very muchso by unconscious sympathy with an order above themselves.But why is it that the amenity and perfect polishof the nobility are rarely found in strength amongstthe mass of ordinary gentlemen? It is because,in order to qualify a man for the higher functionsof courtesy, he ought to be separated from the strifeof the world. The fretful collision with rivalshipand angry tempers, insensibly modifies the demeanourof every man. But the British nobleman, intrenchedin wealth, enjoys an immunity from this irritatingdiscipline. He is able to act by proxy: andall services of unpleasant contest he devolves uponagents. To have a class in both sexes who toilnot, neither do they spin—is the one conditiosine qua non for a real nobility.
Fourthly as the leaders in a high morality of honour,and a jealous sense of the obligation attached topublic engagements, our nobility has tightened thebonds of national sensibility beyond what is alwaysperceived. “This is high matter,”as Burke says in a parallel case; and we barely touchit. We shall content ourselves with asking—Couldthe American frauds in the naval war, calling sixty-four-gunships by the name of frigates, have been sufferedin England? Could the American doctrine of repudiationhave prospered with us? Yet are the AmericansEnglishmen, wanting only a nobility.
The times are full of change: it is through theConservative body itself that certain perils are nowapproaching patrician order: if that perishes,England passes into a new moral condition, wantingall the protections of the present.
* * * * *
JACK STUART’S BET ON THE DERBY, AND HOW HE PAID HIS LOSSES.
Cotherstone came in amid great applause, and was thewinner of the poorest Derby ever known. Whilstacclamation shook the spheres, and the corners ofmouths were pulled down, and betting-books mechanicallypulled out—while success made some peopleso benevolent that they did not believe in the existenceof poverty any where, and certainly not in the distressof the wretched-looking beggar entreating a penny—whilstall these things were going on, champagne corks flying,the sun shining, toasts resounding, and a perfecthubbub in full activity on all sides, Jack Stuartdrew me aside towards the carriage, and said, “’Ponmy word, it must be a cross. How the deuce couldone horse beat the whole field?”
“Oh, you backed the field, did you?”
“To be sure. I always go with the strongestside.”
“And you have lost?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
No wonder Jack Stuart looked blue. A fifth partof his yearly income gone at one smash—andin such a foolish way, too.
“If the excitement could last three or fourdays, it would almost be worth the money,” hesaid; “but no sooner do you hear the bell—seethe crush of horses at the starting-post—bang—bang—offthey go!—and in a minute or two all isover, and your money gone. I will have a raceof snails between London and York. It would beoccupation for a year. But come, let us leavethe abominable place.” He hurried me intothe stanhope, gave the rein to his active grey mare,and making a detour towards Kingston, we soon leftthe crowd behind us.
“I will never bet on a horse again,” saidJack, ruminating on his loss. “Why shouldI? I know nothing about racing, and never couldunderstand odds in my life; and just at this moment,too, I can’t spare the coin.”
At the same time he did not spare the whip; for youwill always observe, that a meditative gentleman ina gig is peculiarly impressive on his horse’sshoulder. The grey trotted along, or burst intoan occasional canter.
“I’ll back this grey against Cotherstonefor fifty pounds.”
“To stand flogging? I think you would win.”
“No, to jump. See how she springs.”
Hereupon Jack touched the mare in a very scientificmanner, just under the fore-arm, and the animal, indignantat this disrespectful manner of proceeding, gave aprodigious rush forward, and then reared.
“You’ll break the shafts,” I said.
“I think she is going to run away, but thereseems no wall near us—and I don’tthink any coaches travel this road. Sit still,for she’s off.”
The mare, in good truth, resented her master’sconduct in a high degree, and took the bit in herteeth.
“If she doesn’t kick, it’s all right,”said Jack.
“She has no time to kick if she goes at thispace,” I answered; “keep her straight.”
The speed continued unabated for some time, and wewere both silent. I watched the road as far inadvance as I could see, in dread of some waggon, orcoach, or sudden turn, or even a turnpike gate, forthe chances would have been greatly against an agreeabletermination.
“I’ll tell you what,” cried Jack,turning round to me, “I think I’ve foundout a way of paying my losses.”
“Indeed! but can’t you manage in the meantime to stop the mare?”
“Poh! let her go. I think rapid motionis a great help to the intellect. I feel quitesure I can pay my bets without putting my hand intomy pocket.”
“How? Pull the near check. She’llbe in the ditch.”
“Why, I think I shall publish a novel.”
I could scarcely keep from laughing, though a gardener’scart was two hundred yards in advance.
“You write a novel! Wouldn’t youlike to build a pyramid at the same time?”
“We’ve given that old fellow a frighton the top of the cabbage,” said Jack, goingwithin an inch of the wheels of the cart. “He’llthink we’ve got Cotherstone in harness.But what do you mean about a pyramid?”
“Why, who ever heard of your writing a novel?”
“I did not say write a novel—Isaid publish a novel.”
“Well, who is to write it?” I enquired.
“That’s the secret,” he answered;“and if that isn’t one of Pickford’svans, I’ll tell you”——
The mare kept up her speed; and, looming before us,apparently filling up the whole road, was one of themoving castles, drawn by eight horses, that, comparedto other vehicles, are like elephants moving aboutamong a herd of deer.
“Is there room to pass?” asked Jack, pullingthe right rein with all his might.
“Scarcely,” I said, “the post isat the side of the road.”
“Take the whip,” said Jack, “andjust when we get up, give her a cut over the leftear.”
In dread silence we sat watching the tremendous gallop.Nearer and nearer we drew to the waggon, and preciselyat the right time Jack pulled the mare’s bridle,and I cut her over the ear. Within a hairbreadthof the post on one side, and the van on the other,we cut our bright way through.
“This is rather pleasant than otherwise,”said Jack, breathing freely; “don’t youthink so?”
“I can’t say it altogether suits my taste,”I answered.
“Do you think she begins to tire?”
“Oh, she never tires; don’t be the leastafraid of that!”
“It’s the very thing I wish; but there’sa hill coming.”
“She likes hills; and at the other side, whenwe begin to descend, you’ll see her pace.I’m very proud of the mare’s speed.”
“It seems better than her temper; but aboutthe novel?” I enquired.
“I shall publish in a fortnight,” answeredJack.
“A whole novel? Three volumes?”
“Six, if you like—or a dozen.I’m not at all particular.”
“But on what subject?”
“Why, what a simpleton you must be! Thereis but one subject for a novel—historical,philosophical, fashionable, antiquarian, or whateverit calls itself. The whole story, after all, isabout a young man and a young woman—heall that is noble, and she all that is good. Everycirculating library consists of nothing whatever butLove and Glory—and that shall be the nameof my novel.”
“But if you don’t write it, how are youto publish it?”
“Do you think any living man or any living womanever wrote a novel?”
“Certainly.”
“Stuff, my dear fellow; they never did any thingof the kind. They published—that’sall. Is that a heap of stones?”
“I think it is.”
“Well, that’s better than a gravel-pit.Cut her right ear. There, we’re past it.Amazing bottom, has’t she?”
“Too much,” I said; “but go on withyour novel.”
“Well, my plan is simply this—butmake a bet, will you? I give odds. I betyou five to one in fives, that I produce, in a weekfrom this time, a novel called ‘Love and Glory,’not of my own composition or any body else’s—agood readable novel—better than any of James’s—anda great deal more original.”
“And yet not written by any one?”
“Exactly—bet, will you?”
“Done,” I said; “and now explain.”
“I will, if we get round this corner; but itis very sharp. Bravo, mare! And now we’vea mile of level Macadam. I go to a circulatinglibrary and order home forty novels—anynovels that are sleeping on the shelf. That isa hundred and twenty volumes—or perhaps,making allowance for the five-volume tales of formerdays, a hundred and fifty volumes altogether.From each of these novels I select one chapter anda half, that makes sixty chapters, which, at twentychapters to each volume, makes a very good-sized novel.”
“But there will be no connexion.”
“Not much,” replied Jack, “but anamazing degree of variety.”
“But the names?”
“Must all be altered—the only troubleI take. There must be a countess and two daughters,let them be the Countess of Lorrington and the LadiesAlice and Matilda—a hero, Lord Berville,originally Mr Lawleigh—and every thingelse in the same manner. All castles are to beLorrington Castle—all the villains areto be Sir Stratford Manvers’—all theflirts Lady Emily Trecothicks’—andall the benevolent Christians, recluses, uncles, guardians,and benefactors—Mr Percy Wyndford, theyounger son of an earl’s younger son, very rich,and getting on for sixty-five.”
“But nobody will print such wholesale plagiarisms.”
“Won’t they? See what Colburn publishes,and Bentley, and all of them. Why, they’reall made up things—extracts from old newspapers,or histories of processions or lord-mayor’sshows. What’s that coming down the hill?”
“Two coaches abreast”—I exclaimed—“racingby Jupiter!—and not an inch left for usto pass!”
“We’ve a minute yet,” said Jack,and looked round. On the left was a park paling;on the right a stout hedge, and beyond it a grass field.“If it weren’t for the ditch she couldtake the hedge,” he said. “Shallwe try?”
“We had better”—I answered—“ratherbe floored in a ditch than dashed to pieces againsta coach.”
“Lay on, then—here goes!”
I applied the whip to the left ear of the mare; Jackpulled at the right cheek. She turned suddenlyout of the road and made a dash at the hedge.Away she went, harness, shafts, and all, leaving thestanhope in the ditch, and sending Jack and me flying,like experimental fifty-sixes in the marshes at Woolwich,halfway across the meadow. The whole incidentwas so sudden that I could scarcely comprehend whathad happened. I looked round, and, in a furrowat a little distance, I saw my friend Jack. Welooked for some time at each other, afraid to enquireinto the extent of the damage; but at last Jack said,“She’s a capital jumper, isn’t she?It was as good a flying leap as I ever saw. She’sworth two hundred guineas for a heavy weight.”
“A flying leap!”—I said; “itwas a leap to be sure, but the flying, I think, wasperformed by ourselves.”
“Are you hurt?” enquired Jack.
“Not that I know of,” I replied; “you’reall right?”
“Oh! as for me, I enjoy a quiet drive, likethis, very much. I’m certain it gives afilip to the ideas, that you never receive in a familycoach at seven miles an hour. I believe I owethe mare a great sum of money, not to mention allthe fame I expect to make by my invention. Butlet us get on to the next inn, and send people afterthe stanhope and the mare. We shall get intoa car, and go comfortably home.”
We did not go to the Oaks on Friday. We wereboth too stiff: for though a gentleman may escapewithout breaking his bones, still an ejectment sovigorously executed as the one we had sustained, alwaysleaves its mark. In the mean time Jack was busy.Piles of volumes lay round him, scraps of paper wereon the table, marks were put in the pages. Hemight have stood for the portrait of an industriousauthor. And yet a more unliterary, not to sayilliterate, man than he had been before the runaway,did not exist in the Albany. “Curriculocollegisse juvat”—are there any individualsto whom their curricle has been a college, and whohave done without a university in the strength of afast-trotting horse? Jack was one of these.He had never listened to Big Tom of Christchurch,nor punned his way to the bachelor’s table ofSt John’s, and yet he was about to assume hisplace among the illustrious of the land, and havehis health proposed by a duke at the literary funddinner, as “Jack Stuart, and the authors ofEngland;” and perhaps he would deserve the honouras well as some of his predecessors; for who is morequalified to return thanks for the authors of Englandthan a person whose works contain specimens of somany? Your plagiarist is the true representative.
Jack’s room is rather dark, and the weather,on the day of the Oaks, was rather dingy. Wehad the shutters closed at half-past seven, and satdown to dinner; soused salmon, perigord pie, iced champagne,and mareschino. Some almonds and raisins, hardbiscuit, and a bottle of cool claret, made their appearancewhen the cloth was removed, and Jack began—“Idon’t believe there was ever such a jumper asthe grey mare since the siege of Troy, when the horsegot over the wall.”
“Is she hurt?”
“Lord bless you,” said Jack, “she’sdead. When she got over the hedge she grew tooproud of herself, and personal vanity was the ruinof her. She took a tremendous spiked gate, andcaught it with her hind legs; the spikes kept herfast, the gate swung open, and the poor mare was sodisgusted that she broke her heart. She was worthtwo hundred guineas; so that the Derby this year hascost me a fortune. The stanhope is all to atoms,and the farmer claims compensation for the gate.It’s a very lucky thing I thought of the book.”
“Oh, you still go on with the novel?”
“It’s done, man, finished—perfect.”
“All written out?”
“Not a word of it. That isn’t theway people write books now; no, I have clipped outhalf of it with a pair of scissors, and the half isall marked with pencil.”
“But the authors will find you out.”
“Not a bit of it. No author reads any body’swritings but his own; or if they do, I’ll denyit—that’s all; and the public willonly think the poor fellow prodigiously vain, to believethat any one would quote his book. And, besides,here are the reviews?”
“Of the book that isn’t published?”
“To be sure. Here are two or three sentencesfrom Macauley’s ‘Milton,’ half apage from Wilson’s ‘Wordsworth,’and a good lump from Jeffrey’s ‘WalterScott.’ Between them, they made out my bookto be a very fine thing, I assure you. I sha’n’tsell it under five hundred pounds.”
“Do you give your name?”
“Certainly not—unless I were a lord.No. I think I shall pass for a woman: ayoung girl, perhaps; daughter of a bishop; or the divorcedwife of a member of parliament.”
“I should like to hear some of your work.I am interested.”
“I know you are. We have a bet, you know;but I have found out a strange thing in correctingmy novel—that you can make a whole storyout of any five chapters.”
“No, no. You’re quizzing.”
“Not I. I tell you, out of any five chapters,of any five novels, you make a very good short tale;and the odd thing is, it doesn’t the least matterwhich chapters you choose. With a very littlesagacity, the reader sees the whole; and, let me tellyou, the great fault of story-writing is telling toomuch, and leaving too little for the reader to supplyto himself. Recollect what I told you about alteringthe names of all the characters, and, with that singleproviso, read chapter fifteen of the first volumeof this——”
Jack handed me a volume, turned down at the two-hundredthpage, and I read what he told me to call the firstchapter of “Love and Glory.”
THE WILDERNESS.
“A tangled thicket isa holy place
For contemplation liftingto the stars
Its passionate eyes, and breathingparadise
Within a sanctified solemnity.”
Old Play
["That’s my own,” said Jack. “Whenpeople see that I don’t even quote a motto,they’ll think me a real original. Go on.”]
The sun’s western rays were gildingthe windows of the blue velvet drawing-room ofLorrington Castle, and the three ladies sat insilence, as if admiring the glorious light which nowsank gradually behind the forest at the extremityof the park. The lady Alice leant her cheekupon her hand, and before her rose a vision theagitating occurrences of yesterday. The firstdeclaration a girl receives alters her whole characterfor life. No longer a solitary being, shefeels that with her fate the happiness of anotheris indissolubly united; for, even if she rejectsthe offer, the fact of its having been made, is abond of union from which neither party gets free—SirStratford Manvers had proposed: had sheaccepted him? did she love him? ay, did she lovehim?—a question apparently easy to answer,but to an ingenuous spirit which knows not howto analyze its feelings, impossible. SirStratford was young, handsome, clever—butthere was a certain something, a je ne scais quoiabout him, which marred the effect of all thesequalities. A look, a tome that jarred withthe rest of his behaviour, and suggested a thoughtto the very persons who were enchanted with hiswit, and openness, and generosity—Is thisreal? is he not an actor? a consummate actor,if you will—but merely a great performerassuming a part. By the side of the bright anddashing Manvers, rose to the visionary eyes ofthe beautiful girl the pale and thoughtful featuresof Mr Lawleigh. She heard the music of hisvoice, and saw the deep eyes fixed on her with thesame tender expression of interest and admiration asshe had noticed during his visit at the Castle.She almost heard the sigh with which he turnedaway, when she had appeared to listen with pleasureto the sparkling conversation of Sir Stratford.She had not accepted Sir Stratford, and shedid not love him. When a girl hesitatesbetween two men, or when the memory of one ismixed up with the recollection of another, itis certain that she loves neither. And strangeto say, now that her thoughts reverted to MrLawleigh, she forgot Sir Stratford altogether.She wondered that she had said so little to MrLawleigh, and was sorry she had not been kinder—sherecalled every word and every glance—andcould not explain why she was pleased when sherecollected how sad he had looked when he hadtaken leave one little week before. How differentlyhe had appeared the happy night of the countyassembly, and at the still happier masked ballat the Duke of Rosley’s! Blind, foolishgirl, she thought, to have failed to observe thesethings before, and now!——
“I have written to Lorrington,my dear Alice,” said the Countess, “ashead of the family, and your eldest brother, it isa compliment we must pay him—but it is merecompliment, remember.”
“To write to William?”mamma.
“I presume youknow to what subject I allude,” continued the
Countess. “Hewill give his consent of course.”
“Oh, mamma!” cried Alice,while tears sprang into her eyes, “I wasin hopes you would have spared me this. Don’twrite to William; or let me tell him—letme add in a postscript—let me”——
“You will do whatI wish you, I conclude—and I have told Sir
Stratford”——
“Oh, what? whathave you told him?”
“That he is accepted.I trust I shall hear no more on the
subject. The marriagewill take place in two months.”
“But I don’tlove him, mamma—indeed.”
“I am glad to hear it,”said the mother, coldly. “I rejoice thatmy daughters are too well brought up to love any one—thatis—of course—till they areengaged; during that short interval, it is rightenough—in moderation; though, even then,it is much more comfortable to continue perfectlyindifferent. Persons of feeling are alwaysvulgar, and only fit for clergymen’s wives.”
“But Sir Stratford,mamma”——
“Has twenty thousanda-year, and is in very good society. He
almost lives with theRosleys. The Duke has been trying to get
him for his son-in-lawfor a whole year.”
“And Lady Maryso beautiful, too?”
“I believe, mydear, Lady Mary’s affections, as they are
called, are engaged.”
“Indeed?”enquired the daughter, for curiosity in such subjects
exists even in the midstof one’s own distresses.
“May I ask whohas gained Lady Mary’s heart?”
“I believe it is that young MrLawleigh, a cousin of the duch*ess—oldLord Berville’s nephew; you’ve seen himhere—a quiet, reserved young man.I saw nothing in him, and I understand he isvery poor.”
“And does—doesMr Lawleigh—like—love—LadyMary?” enquired
Alice with difficulty.
“He never honoured me with hisconfidence,” replied the Countess—“butI suppose he does—of course he does—SirStratford, indeed, told me so—and heought to know, for he is his confidant.”
“He keeps the secret well,”said Lady Alice with a slight tone of bitterness;“and Mr Lawleigh could scarcely be obliged tohim if he knew the use he makes of his confidence—andLady Mary still less”—she added.
“Why, if girls will be such foolsas to think they have hearts, and then throwthem away, they must make up their minds to be laughedat. Lady Mary is throwing herself away—herinamorato is still at Rosley House.”
It was lucky the Countessdid not perceive the state of
surprise with whichher communication was received.
Lady Alice again placedher cheek upon her hand, and sank into
a deeper reverie thanever.
“Sir Stratford also is at Rosley,and if he rides over this evening, I have givenorders for him to be admitted. You will conductyourself as I wish. Come, Matilda, let us leaveyour sister to her happy thoughts.”
Her happy thoughts! the Lady Alicewas not one of those indifferent beings panegyrizedby the Countess; she had given her whole heartto Henry Lawleigh—and now to hear that heloved another! She gazed along the magnificentpark, and longed for the solitude and silenceof the wilderness beyond. There, any wherebut in that sickening room, where the communicationhad been made to her, she would breath freer.She wrapt her mantilla over her head, and walkeddown the flight of steps into the park.Deeply immersed in her own sad contemplation, shepursued her way under the avenue trees, and, openingthe wicket gate, found herself on the littleterrace of the wood—the terrace solonely, so quiet—where she had listened,where she had smiled. And now to know thathe was false! She sat down on the benchat the foot of the oak, and covered her facewith her hands, and wept.
A low voice was at herear. “Alice!”
She looked up, and saw bending overher, with eyes full of admiration and surprise,Harry Lawleigh. Gradually as she looked,his features assumed a different expression, his voicealso altered its tone.
“You are weeping,Lady Alice,” he said—“I scarcelyexpected to
find you in so melancholya mood, after the joyous intelligence
I heard to-day.”
“Joyous!”repeated Alice, without seeming to comprehend the
meaning of the word.“What intelligence do you allude to?”
“Intelligencewhich I only shared with the whole party at
Rosley Castle.There was no secret made of the happy event.”
“I really can’tunderstand you. What is it you mean? who
communicated the news?”
“The fortunatevictor announced his conquest himself. Sir
Stratford received thecongratulations of every one from the
duke down to—to—myself.”
“I will not pretendto misunderstand you,” said Lady Alice—“my
mother, but a few minutesago, conveyed to me the purport of
Sir Stratford’svisit.” She paused and sighed.
“And you replied?”enquired Lawleigh.
“I gave no reply.I was never consulted on the subject. I know
not in what words mymother conveyed her answer.”
“The words are of no greatimportance,” said Lawleigh; “the factseems sufficiently clear; and as I gave Sir Stratfordmy congratulations on his happiness, I must nowoffer them to you, on the brightness of yourprospects, and the shortness of your memory.”
“Few can appreciate the valueof the latter quality so well as yourself—yourcongratulations on the other subject are as uncalledfor as your taunts—I must return home.”She rose to depart, and her face and figure hadresumed all the grace and dignity which had formerlycharacterized her beauty.
“One word, Lady Alice!”said Lawleigh; “look round—it washere—one little year ago, that I believedmyself the happiest, and felt myself the mostfortunate, of men. This spot was the witnessof vows—sincerer on one side than any everregistered in heaven—on another, ofvows more fleeting than the shadows of the leavesthat danced on the greensward that calm evening inJune, when first I told you that I loved you:the leaves have fallen—the vows arebroken. Alice!—may you be happy—farewell!”
“If you desire it, be it so—butbefore we part, it is right you should know all.Whatever answer my mother may have given to SirStratford Manvers, to that answer I am no party.I do not love him: and shall never marryhim. Your congratulations, therefore, toboth of us, were premature, and I trust the same descriptionwill not apply to those I now offer to Mr Lawleighand Lady Mary Rosley.”
“To me?—toLady Mary?—what does this mean?”
“It means that your confidentialfriend, Sir Stratford, has betrayed your secret—thatI know your duplicity, and admire the art withwhich you conceal your unfaithfulness by an attemptto cast the blame of it on me.”
“As I live——Alice!Alice! hear me,” cried Lawleigh, stepping
after the retreatinggirl; “I will explain—you are imposed
on.”
A hand was laid on hisarm——
“He!—fairly caught,by Jupiter! whither away?” said Sir StratfordManvers. “Thou’st sprung fair gamei’ the forest, ’faith—Iwatched her retreat—a step like a roebuck—aform like a Venus”——
“Unhand me, villain,or in an instant my sword shall drink the
blood of thy cowardlyheart.”
“Fair words! thou’st beenstudying the rantipoles of Will Shakspeare, Hal.What is’t, man? Is thy bile at boiling heatbecause I have lit upon thee billing and cooingwith the forester’s fair niece—poh!man—there be brighter eyes than hers,however bright they be.”
“Now then, we have met,”said Lawleigh, in a voice of condensed passion—“metwhere none shall hear us—met where noneshall see us—met where none shallpart us—Ha! dost thou look on me withouta blush—the man you have injured—thefriend who trusted—the enemy who willslay?—draw!”
“This is sheer midsummer madness—putup thy toasting-fork, Hal. This is no timenor place for imitations of Ben Jonson’s Bobadil.Zounds! man, you’ll startle all the game withyour roaring—and wherefore is allthe disturbance?”
“’Tis that you have traducedme, and injured me in the eyes of one, for asmile of whose lip thou well knowest I would lay downmy life—for a touch of whose hand thou wellknowest I would sell me to the Evil One—thouhast blackened me, and I will be avenged—ho!chicken-hearted boaster before women, and black-heartedtraitor among men, will nothing rouse thee? Hearthis, then—thou hast lied.”
“Thou mean’stit?” said Sir Stratford, and drew back a stepor
two.
“I do—artthou man enough to cross points on that
provocation?”
“Oh, on far less, as thou wellknowest, in the way of accommodating a younggentleman anxious to essay a feat of arms.Thou hast said the word, and we fight—butlet me ask to what particular achievement ofmine thou hast attached so ugly an epithet.I would fain know to what I am indebted for your goodopinion so gallantly expressed.”
“I will but nametwo names—and between them thou wilt findhow
dastardly thy conducthas been.”
“Make it three—’twerepity to balk the Graces of their numbers; addthe young lady who so lately left thee. The forester’sfair daughter deserves a niche as well as a duke’sdaughter.”
“The names I mention,”said Lawleigh, “are Lady Alice
Lorrington, and LadyMary Rosley.”
Sir Stratford lifted his cap.“Fair ladies,” he said, “I greetyou well; that I have sunned me in the brightblue eyes of one, and the dark lustrous glancesof the other, is true—yet, ’tis butacting in love as people are justified in doing inother things. When health begins to fail,physicians recommend a change of climate—whenadmiration begins to decay, I always adopt adifferent style of beauty; when the cold climate istoo severe, I fly to the sunny plains of Italy—whenLady Alice frowns, I go to bask in the smilesof Lady Mary.”
“And are a villain,a calumniator, and boaster in all—defend
thyself.”
“As best I may,” repliedSir Stratford, and drew his sword. It waseasy for him to parry the rapid thrusts of his enragedadversary—and warily and slowly hewas beginning the offensive in his turn, whena sudden flash was seen, a loud report took place,and the baronet was stretched upon the ground, welteringin his blood. Rapid steps ere heard retreatingin the direction of the thicket in the park,and Lawleigh hurried to the paling, and saw theform of a tall man, in a dark velvet coat, disappearover the hedge.”
["How good that is!” said Jack Stuart, as Icame to the end of the chapter, and laid down thevolume. “How good that is! Did youperceive where the joining took place?”
“No—I saw no joining.”
“Why, you stupid fellow, didn’t you seethat the first part was from a novel of the presentday, and the other from a story of the rebellion—whothe deuce do you think talks of thees and thousexcept the Quaker?”
“I didn’t notice it, I confess.”
“Glad to hear it; nobody else will; and in thenext chapter, which is the seventeenth of the secondvolume of this romance, you will see how closely thestory fits. Recollect to change the names as Ihave marked them in pencil, and go on.]
CHAPTER II.
“Hope springs eternal in the humanmind,
I would be cruel only to be kind;
’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
Survey mankind from Indus to Peru;
How long by sinners shall thy courts be trod?
An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”
MS. Poem—(original.)
Night, thick, heavy, deep night!—Nostar visible amid the sulphureous blackness ofthe overcharged clouds; and silence, dreadfulas if distilled from the voicelessness of the gravesof a buried world! Night and silence, thetwins that keep watch over the destinies of theslumbering earth, which booms round in ceaselessrevolution, grand, mystic, sublime, but yearns inthe dim vastness of its sunless course, for thebright morning-hour which shall again investit with a radiance fresh from heaven! Darkness,and night, and silence! and suddenly rushingdown, on whirlwind wings, the storm burst fearfullyupon their domain—wind and rain, andthe hollow sound of the swaying branches!And Lawleigh pressed onward. His horse, whichfor several miles had shown symptoms of fatiguenow yielded to the difficulties it could no longerencounter; and after a few heavy struggles, fellforward, and did not attempt to rise. Thirteenhours had elapsed from the time the chase on that daycommenced, and unless for a short minute, he hadseen nothing of the fugitive. Yet he haddashed onward, feeling occasionally his holsters,and satisfied that his pistols were in serviceablecondition. He was now nearly as much exhaustedas his horse; but determining to yield to noobstruction, he seized the pistols, and proceededthrough the wood, leaving his gallant chargerto its fate. Lawleigh was strong and active beyondmost men of his day; and, when excited, more vigorousand determined than could have been supposed fromthe ordinary equanimity of his character.But here a great murder had been committed!—beforehis very eyes!—accusations had been hazarded!—andone soft voice dwelt for ever on his ear—“Findout the murderer, or see me no more.”Had Lady Alice, indeed, allowed a suspicion toinvade her mind, that he had been accessory tothe death of Sir Stratford Manvers? But no!—hewould pursue the dreadful thought no further.Sufficient that, after many efforts, he had regaineda clue to the discovery of the tall man he hadseen escape into the thicket. He had trackedhim unweariedly from place to place—hadnearly overtaken him in the cave of NottinghamHill—caught glimpses of him in thegipsy camp at Hatton Grange—and now feltassured he was close upon his track in the savageranges of Barnley Wold. Barnley Wold wasa wild, uncultivated district, interspersed atirregular intervals with the remains of an ancientforest, and famous, at the period of our narrative,as the resort of many lawless and dangerous characters.Emerging from one of the patches of wood, which,we have said, studded the immense expanse ofthe wold, Lawleigh was rejoiced to perceive afaint brightening of the sky, which foretold the nearapproach of the morning. He looked all around,and, in the slowly increasing light, he thoughthe perceived, at the top of a rising ground atsome distance, a shepherd’s hut, or one of therough sheds put up for the accommodation of the woodmen.He strove to hurry towards it, but his giganticstrength failed at length; and, on reaching thehumble cottage, he sank exhausted at the door.When he recovered consciousness, he perceived he waslaid on a rough bed, in a very small chamber, illuminatedfeebly by the still slanting beams of the easternsun. He slowly regained his full recollection;but, on hearing voices in the room, he shut hiseyes again, and affected the same insensibilityas before.
“What could Ido?” said a voice, in a deprecating tone.
“Leave him to die, to be sure,”was the rough-toned answer. “I thoughtthee had had enough of gentlefolks, without bringinganother fair-feathered bird to the nest.”There was something in the expression with whichthis was said, that seemed to have a powerfuleffect on the first speaker.
“After the yearsof grief I’ve suffered, you might have spared
your taunt, George.The gentleman lay almost dead at the door,
and you yourself helpedme to bring him in.”
“’Twouldhave been better, perhaps, for him if we had led him
somewhere else; foryour father seems bitter now against all
the fine folks together.”
“Because he fancieshe has cause of hatred to me—but he never
had,” answeredthe girl.
“And the gentlemanhad pistols, too,” said the man. “Youhad
better hide them, oryour father will maybe use them against
the owner.”
“I did not movethem from the gentleman’s breast. We mustwake
him, and hurry him offbefore my father’s return—but, hark!I
hear his whistle.Oh, George, what shall we do?”
Lawleigh, who lost not a syllable ofthe conversation, imperceptibly moved his handto his breast, and grasped the pistol. Theman and the girl, in the mean time, went to the door,and, in a minute or two, returned with a third party—anold man dressed like a gamekeeper, and carryinga short, stout fowling-piece in his hand.His eyes were wild and cruel, and his haggardfeatures wore the impress of years of dissipationand recklessness. “Does he carry apurse, George?” said the new-comer, ina low whisper, as he looked towards the bed.
“Don’t know—neverlooked,” said George. “Where haveyou been
all the week? Weexpected you home three days ago.”
“All over theworld, boy—and now you’ll see me restquiet and
happy—oh,very! Don’t you think I looks as gleesome,Janet, as
if I was a gentleman?”
The tone in which he spoke was at variancewith the words; and it is likely that his facebelied the expression he attributed to it; forhis daughter, looking at him for the first time, exclaimed—
“Oh, father! whathas happened? I never saw you look so wild.”
“Lots has happened, Janet—sicha lot o’ deaths I’ve been in at,to be sure—all great folks, too, none o’your paltry little fellows of poachers or gamekeepers,but real quality. What do you think of alord, my girl?”
“I know nothingabout them, father.”
“You used, though, when you livedat the big house. Well, I was a-passing,two nights since, rather in a hurry, for I was a littlepressed for time, near the house of that old fellowthat keeps his game as close as if he was a Turk,and they was his wives—old Berville—LordBerville, you remember, as got Bill Hunkers transportedfor making love to a hen pheasant. Well, thinksI, I’ll just make bold to ask if there’sany more of them in his lordship’s covers,when, bing, bang goes a great bell at the Castle,and all the village folks went up to see whatit was. I went with them, and there we seed allthe servants a rummaging and scrummaging throughthe whole house, as if they was the French; and,as I seed them all making free with snuff-boxes,and spoons, and such like, I thought I’d beneighbourly, and just carried off this gold watchas a keepsake of my old friend.”
“Oh, father!What will his lordship do?”
“He’ll rot, Janet, withoutthinking either about me or his watch; for he’sdead. He was found in his bed that very morningwhen he was going to sign away all the estatefrom his nephew. So that it’s luckyfor that ’ere covy that the old boy slipt whenhe did. People were sent off in all directionsto find him; for it seems the old jackdaw andthe young jackdaw wasn’t on good terms,and nobody knows where he’s gone to.”
“They would haveknown at Rosley Castle,” said the girl, but
checked herself, whenher father burst out—
“To the foul fiend with RosleyCastle, girl! Will you never get such fanciesout of your head. If you name that cursed houseto me again, you die! But, ha! ha! you mayname it now,” he added, with a wild laugh.“We’ve done it.”
“Who? Whohave done it?”
“She and I,” said the ruffian,and nodded towards the fowling-piece, which hehad laid upon the table; “and now we’resafe, I think; so give me some breakfast, girl,and ask no more foolish questions. You,George, get ready to see if the snares have caughtus anything, and I’ll go to bed in the loft.I’ll speak to this springald when I getup.”
“Done what, father?”said the girl, laying her hand on the old
man’s arm.“For mercy’s sake, tell ne what it is youhave
done—yourlooks frighten me.”
“Why, lodged aslug in the breast of a golden pheasant, that’s
all—a favouritebird of yours—but be off, and get me
breakfast.”
While waiting for his meal, he satin an arm-chair, with his eyes fixed on the bedwhere Lawleigh, or, as we must now call him,Lord Berville, lay apparently asleep. What theruffian’s thoughts were we cannot say,but those of his involuntary guest were strangeenough. His uncle dead, and the fortune not alienated,as, with the exception of a very small portion, hehad always understood his predecessor had alreadydone—his life at this moment in jeopardy;for a cursory glance at the tall figure of themarauder, as he had entered, had sufficed to showthat the object of his search was before him—andtoo well he knew the unscrupulous villany ofthe man to doubt for a moment what his conductwould be if he found his pursuer in his power.If he could slip from the bed unobserved, and masterthe weapon on the table, he might effect hisescape, and even secure the murderer; for hemade light of the resistance that could be offeredby the young woman, or by George. But he felt,without opening his eyes, that the glance of theold man was fixed on him; and, with the determinationto use his pistol on the first demonstrationof violence, he resolved to wait the course ofevents. The breakfast in the mean time was broughtin, and Janet was about to remove the fowling-piecefrom the table, when she was startled by therough voice of her father, ordering her to leaveit alone, as it might have work to do beforelong.
The girl’s looks must have conveyedan enquiry; he answered them with a shake ofhis head towards the bed. “I may have businessto settle with him,” he said, in a hoarsewhisper; and the girl pursued her task in silence.The old man, after cautioning her not to touchthe gun, turned to the dark press at one endof the room, and in about half a minute had filledhis pipe with tobacco, and re-seated himself inthe chair. But Janet had seized the opportunityof his back being turned, and poured the hotwater from the teapot into the touch-hole, and wasagain busy in arranging the cups and saucers.
“Where’sGeorge?” enquired the father; “but poh,he’s a
chicken-hearted fellow,and would be of no use in case of a
row”——So saying, he went on with his breakfast.
“He’s awake!”he said suddenly. “I seed his eye.”
“Oh no, father!he’s too weak to open his eyes—indeedhe is.”
“I seed his eye,I tell ye; and more than that, I’ve seed the
eye afore. Ha!am I betrayed?”
He started up, and seizedthe fowling-piece. His step sounded
across the floor, andBerville threw down the clothes in a
moment, and sprang tohis feet.
“You here?” criedthe ruffian, and levelled the gun, drew the trigger,and recoiled in blank dismay when he missed fire, andsaw the athletic figure of Berville distendedto its full size with rage, and a pistol pointedwith deadly aim within a yard of his heart.He raised the but-end of his gun; but his daughter,rushing forward, clung to his arm.
“Fire not—butfly!” she cried to Berville. “Othersare within
call, and you are lost.”
“Villain!”said Berville, “miscreant! murderer! you havebut a
moment to live”—andco*cked the pistol.
“Let go my arm,girl,” cried the old man, struggling.
“I have saved your life—Ihindered the gun from going off—all Iask you in return is to spare my father.”She still retained her hold on the old man’sarm, who, however, no longer struggled to getit free.
“What! you turned against me?”he said, looking ferociously at the beautifulimploring face of his daughter. “You, torevenge whom I did it all! Do you know whatI did? I watched your silken wooer tillI saw him in the presence of this youth—Ikilled Sir Stratford Manvers”——
“And shall die for your crime,”cried Berville; “but the death of a felonis what you deserve, and you shall have none otherat my hands. In the mean time, as I thinkyou are no fit companion for the young womanto whom I am indebted for my life, I shall offerher the protection of my mother, and take herfrom your house. If you consent to let us go inpeace, I spare your life for the present; andwill even for three days abstain from settingthe emissaries of the law in search of you.After that, I will hunt you to the death. Youngwoman, do you accept my terms? If you refuse,your father dies before your face.”
“Shall I accept,father?”
“If you stay,I lodge a bullet in your brain,” said the old
savage, and drew himselfup.
“Come, then,” said Berville,leading Janet to the door. She turned roundere she quitted the cottage, but met a glance of suchanger and threatening, that she hurried forward withBerville, who pursued his way rapidly throughthe wood.”
["That fits in very nicely,” said Jack Stuart;“and you may be getting ready the five poundnote, for I feel sure you know you back the losinghorse. Can any thing be more like a genuine, bonafide novel, the work of one man, and a devilishclever man too? Confess now, that if you didn’tknow the trick of it, you would have thought it a splendidoriginal work? But perhaps you’re throat’sdry with so much reading? Here’s anotherbottle of Lafitte; and we can miss over a volume anda half of foreign scenes, which you can imagine; forthey are to be found in every one of the forty novelsI sent for. Just imagine that the Countess takesher daughters abroad—that Berville encountersthem in the Colosseum by moonlight—quarrels—doubts—suspicions—anda reconciliation; finally, they all come home, andyou will find the last chapter of the last volumein this.”
Jack handed me a volume, evidently popular among circulatinglibrary students, for it was very dirty; and I wasjust going to commence when Jack interrupted me.
“Stay,” he said; “you must havea motto. Do you know Italian?”
“Not a word.”
“Or Spanish, or German?”
“No.”
“Well, you surely can recollect some Greek—fornext to manuscript quotations and old plays, you can’tdo better than have some foreign lines at the beginningof the chapter. What Greek do you remember?—for,’pon my honour; I’ve forgotten all mine.”
“My dear Jack, I only know a line here and there.”
“Out with them. Put them all in a row,and never mind the meaning.”
Thus urged, I indited the following as a headpiece.]
“Deine de clange genet’argurioio bioio,
Be d’akeion para thina poluphlosboio thalasses,
Thelo legein Atreidas, thelo de Cadmon adein,
Ton d’apomeibomenos prosephe podas-ocusAchilleus.”
HOMER,Iliad, 1. I.
["Excellent! bravo!” said Jack; “they’llsee at once the author is a gentleman and a scholar;and now go on.”]
The crimson and gold drawing-room ofLorrington Caste was filled with company, thecourt-yard crowded with carriages, and the coachmenand footmen in gorgeous liveries, with a splendidwhite satin favour at the side of their hats.The view from the window——
["Stop,” said Jack Stuart, “here’sa better description. I cut it out of the Times”——]
The view from the windowinvolved a spacious assemblage of all
the numerous beautiesand illustrations that cast a magnificent
air of grandeur overone of
ENGLAND’S NOBLESTMANSIONS.
The extensive shrubberiesclothed the verdant meads, and threw
a shade of deep greentints over an
EXTENSIVE ARTIFICIALLAKE,
on which floated, likea nymph or naiad, a beautiful
SAILING BOAT,
painted bright green, and fit for instantuse. Further off, in one of those indistinctdistances immortalized by the pencil of Turner—nowsoftened into sober beauty by “the autumnal hue,the sear and yellow leaf,” as an immortalbard expresses it, in language which the presentwriter does not imitate, and could not, withoutgreat difficulty, excel, was an
IMMENSE DAIRY FARM,
fit for the accommodationof
THIRTY MILK COWS,
of a peculiar breed,highly approved of by the
RIGHT HONOURABLE THEEARL OF SPENCER.
In other portions ofthe landscape rose statues which might
have raised the envyof
PRAXITELES, THE GRECIANSCULPTOR,
or attracted the loveof the beautiful “Maid of France,” who
“sighed her soulaway” in presence of
THE APOLLO BELVIDERE,
a figure, in the wordsof a living author,
“Too fair to worship,too divine to love.”
The drawing-room ofthe mansion was of the amplest size, and
contained some of thefinest specimens of the taste and
workmanship of
JACKSON AND GRAHAM,
enumerating Or-molutables—escritoires—rosewood chairsrichly
inlaid—richlycoloured
AXMINSTER CARPET,
and sofas covered withfigured satin.
["That will do,” said Jack. “Nowgo on with the book.”]
But while the company were engagedin detached groups, waiting the signal for proceedinginto the great hall, where the ceremony was tobe performed by special license, Lord Berville senta message to the Countess, that he wished to say afew words to Lady Alice, in the library, beforethe commencement of the ceremony that was tomake him the happiest of men. He waitedimpatiently, and in a few minutes the bride appeared,radiant in joy and beauty. She started, whenshe saw seated beside him a beautiful young woman,plainly, but richly drest. They rose whenLady Alice appeared.
“Dearest Alice,” said Berville,“I have told you that there was a personin this neighbourhood to whom my gratitude was unbounded,and who, I hope, has now an equal claim on yours,for she is the saviour of my life.”
“Indeed?”
“Let it be a secret between usthree,” continued Berville; “but youagree with me, my friend,” he said, turning tothe stranger, “that there should be noreserve between a man and his wife. I toldyou, Alice, when we were at Rome, the story of anadventure I had on Barnley Wold, and of the heroicconduct of a young girl. In this lady yousee her. She is now the wife of the vicarof my parish, and I trust will be a friend of bothof us.”
Lady Alice threw herarms round Janet’s neck, and said, “I know
it all; we shall befriends; and nothing makes one so happy as
to know we shall beso near each other.”
“Ah, madam, youknow not how deeply I am indebted to his
lordship’s mother,for all her kindness, or how overpaid all my
services are by thehappiness of this moment.”
“And now, havingmade you thus acquainted, I must ask you, my
kind friend, to hurryLady Alice to the great hall, where your
husband, I trust, iswaiting to tie the indissoluble band.”
A joyous shout from the tenants assembledin the outer court, who became impatient forthe appearance of the happy pair, gave evidenceof the near approach of the happy moment, and Janetand Lady Alice hurried from the room. LordBerville rang the bell. His servant appeared,being no other than our old acquaintance George,now softened by a year’s sojourn in a foreignland.
“George,” said Lord Berville,“no one in the earth knows your position;from this hour, therefore, you cease to be my servant,and are the steward of my Lincolnshire estate.Your uncle’s fate is unknown?”
“His fate is known,my lord, that he died by his own hand in
the hut on Barnley Wold;but his crimes are undiscovered.”
“Be it so; let them be alludedto between us no more. Your cousin Janetis the happy wife of my friend and chaplain; and Iam delighted to show my appreciation of her noblenessand purity, by all the kindness I can bestowon her relations. Go down to Lincolnshire,Mr Andrews,” said his lordship, shaking handswith George, “and when you are installed in themansion-house, write to me; and now, farewell.”
It is difficult to say whose heartwas most filled with joy on this eventful day.Lady Matilda, now happily married to Lord Merilandsof the Guards, and the lovely Lady Mary Rosely, (shortlyto be united to the young Earl of Gallowdale,) werepleased at the happiness of their friends; andcertainly no prayer seemed to be more likelyto receive its accomplishment than that whichwas poured forth, amidst the ringing of bells andthe pealing of cannon, for the health and prosperityof Lord and Lady Berville.
Jack Stuart sat, with his eyes turned up to the ceiling,as if he were listening to the music of the spheres.
“The best novel I have ever read!” heexclaimed; “and now, all I have got to do isto get it copied fairly out, dedicate it to Lord WilliamLennox or Mr Henry Bulwer, and get my five or six hundredguineas. It is a capital thing to lose on theDerby; for unless I had been drawn for the hundredand fifty, I don’t think the dovetail novel wouldever have come into my head.”
* * * * *
INSCRIPTION ON THE FOUNDATION STONE OF THE NEW DINING-HALL,&c., NOW ERECTING FOR THE HON. SOCIETY OF LINCOLN’SINN.
Stet lapis arboribus nudodefixus in horto
Fundamen pulchraetempus in omne domus.
Aula vetus lites legumqueaenigmata servet,
Ipsa nova exoriornobilitanda coquo.
FREE TRANSLATION.
No more look
For shady nook,
Poor perspiring stranger!
Trees for bricks
Cut their sticks,
Lo! our salle-a-manager!
Yon old hall,
For suit and brawl,
Still be famed in story;
This must look
To the cook
For its only glory!
O.O.
* * * * *
SCROPE ON SALMON FISHING.
Days and Nights ofSalmon Fishing in the Tweed. By WILLIAM
SCROPE, Esq., F.L.S.1 vol. royal 8vo. London, 1843.
We have here a work of great beauty in a pictorialand typographical point of view, and one which aboundswith practical information regarding the bolder branchesof the “gentle art.” Mr Scrope conveysto us, in an agreeable and lively manner, the resultsof his more than twenty years’ experience asan angler in our great border river; and having nowsuccessfully illustrated, both with pen and pencil,two of the most exciting of all sporting recreations—deer-stalking
and salmon-fishing—he may henceforwardrepose himself upon the mountain-side, or by the murmuringwaters, with the happy consciousness of having notonly followed the bent of his own inclinations, butcontributed to the amusem*nt and instruction of a numerousclass of his fellow creatures. The present volumeconsists of no dry didactic dissertations on an artunteachable by written rules, and in which, withoutlong and often dear-bought experience, neither preceptnor example will avail; but it contains a sufficiencyof sagacious practical advice, and is enlivened bythe narration of numerous angling adventures, whichbring out, with force and spirit, the essential characterof the sport in question.Great advances have been recently made in our knowledgeof the sea-going Salmonidae. Indeed, allthe leading facts of primary importance in the historyof their first development and final growth are nowdistinctly known, and have lately been laid beforethe public in the form both of original memoirs inour scientific journals, and the transactions of learnedsocieties, and of more popular abstracts in variousliterary works. We ourselves discussed the subjectin this Magazine, with our accustomed clearness, acouple of months ago; and we shall therefore not hereenter into the now no longer vexed question of thenature of parr and smolts,—all doubt anddisputation regarding the actual origin and familyalliance of these fry, their descent from and eventualconversion into grilse and salmon, being finally setat rest to the satisfaction of every reasonable andproperly instructed mind. We consider it, however,as a good proof of the natural sagacity and observantdisposition of our present author, that he shouldhave come to the same conclusion several years ago,regarding the habits and history of salmon-fry, asthat so successfully demonstrated by Mr Shaw.Mr Scrope dwells with no unbecoming pertinacity onthis point; but he shows historically, while fullyadmitting the importance and originality of that ingeniousobserver’s experimental proceedings, that hehad, in the course of his own private correspondenceand conversation, called the attention of Mr Kennedyof Dunure as a legislator, and of Sir David Brewsteras a skilled interpreter of natural phenomena, tovarious facts corresponding to those which have beensince so skilfully detailed by Mr Shaw.
Our author, though well acquainted with the sportingcapabilities of all parts of Scotland, here confineshimself to the lower portions of the Tweed, more thantwelve miles of which he has rented at different times.We in some measure regret that one so able to informus, from his extensive experiences regarding the natureand localities of the first-rate though rather precariousangling for salmon which may be obtained in the northernparts of Scotland, should not have contrived to includean account of the more uproarious Highland streamsand placid lakes frequented by this princely species.With all our admiration for the flowing Tweed, ofwhich we have fondly traced the early feeble voice—
“afitful sound
Wafted o’er sullen mossand craggy mound,
Unfruitful solitudes, thatseem’d t’ upbraid
The sun in heaven!”—
until, through many an intermediate scene of infinitelyvaried beauty, the expanded waters—
“Gliding in silence with unfetter’dsweep,
Beneath an ampler sky, a region wide
Is open’d round them:—hamlets,towers, and towns,
And blue-topp’d hills, behold them fromafar:”—
we should still have rejoiced to finda twin volume devoted to those wilder and moredesolate scenes by which the northern angleris encompassed. Meanwhile we accept with pleasureour author’s “Days and Nights”upon the Tweed.
Salmon ascend from the sea, and enterthis fine river, in greater or less abundance,during every period of the year, becoming moreplentiful as the summer advances, provided there isa sufficiency of rain both to enlarge and discolourthe waters, and thus enable the fish to passmore securely over those rippling shallows whichso frequently occur between the deeper streams.
“The salmon,” says Mr Scrope“travels rapidly, so that those which leavethe sea, and go up the Tweed on the Saturday nightat twelve o’clock, after which time no netsare worked till the Sabbath is past, are foundand taken on the following Monday near St Boswell’s—adistance, as the river winds, of about fortymiles. This I have frequently ascertained by experience.When the strength of the current in a spate isconsidered, and also the sinuous course a salmonmust take in order to avoid the strong rapids,their power of swimming must be considered asextraordinary.”—P. 10.
We do not clearly see, and should have been glad hadthe author stated, in what manner he ascertained thathis St Boswell’s fish had not escaped the sweepingsemicircles of the lower nets some days previous.We admit that there is a great deal of Sabbath desecrationcommitted by salmon, but we also know that they travelupwards, though in smaller number and with greaterrisk, during all the other days of the week; and weare curious to understand how any angler, howeveraccomplished, can carry his skill in physiognomy tosuch perfection, as to be able to look a fish in theface on Monday morning, and decide that it had notleft the sea till the clock struck twelve on the Saturdaynight preceding.
“As salmon” our authorcontinues, “are supposed to enter a rivermerely for the purposes of spawning, and as that processdoes not take place till September, one cannotwell account for their appearing in the Tweedand elsewhere so early as February and March,seeing that they lose in weight and condition duringtheir continuance in fresh water. Some thinkit is to get rid of the sea-louse; but this suppositionmust be set aside, when it is known that thisinsect adheres only to a portion of the newly-runfish which are in best condition. I think it moreprobable that they are driven from the coastsnear the river by the numerous enemies they encounterthere, such as porpoises and seals, which devourthem in great quantities. However this maybe, they remain in the fresh water till the spawningmonths commence.”—P. 10.
We cannot think that a great instinctive movementwhich seems, although with a widely extended rangein respect to tine, to pervade the entire mass ofsalmon along our universal shores, should in any waydepend upon so casual an occurrence as an onslaughtby seals and porpoises, or that fear rather than loveshould force them to seek the “pastoral melancholy”of the upper streams and tributaries. That sealsare destructive to salmon, and all other fishes whichfrequent our shores or enter our estuaries, is undoubted;but we have no proof beyond the general allegation,that porpoises pursue a corresponding prey. Ourown researches certainly lead to an opposite conclusion.The ordinary food of the cetacea, notwithstandingtheir enormous bulk, is minute in size; and we havenever been informed, on good authority—thatis, on direct testimony—that even herringshave ever been detected in the stomach of a porpoise.Yet we have careful notes of the dissection of thesecreatures, taken from specimens slaughtered in themidst of millions of herrings; and these notes showthat the minute food with which the sea was swarming,and which formed the sustenance for the time of thesmaller fishes, also constituted the food of the cetacea,which were merely gamboling through the herring shoals.
It is certainly, however, difficult to explain themotives by which the early spring salmon are actuatedin ascending rivers, seeing that they never spawntill autumn at the soonest. We must remember,at the same time, that they are fresh-water fishes,born and bred in our own translucent streams, andthat they have an undoubted right to endeavour toreturn there when it suits their own inclination.It may be, that although the ocean forms their favouritefeeding-ground, and their increase of size and continuancein high condition depend upon certain marine attributes,which, of course, they can find only in the sea, yetthe healthy development of the spawn requires a long-continuedresidence in running waters. We have ascertained,by experiment, that the ova of salmon, after beingdeposited, will make no progress in still water; andwe cannot illustrate this portion of the subject betterthan by transcribing a paragraph from a letter, addressedto us in spring, (11th April 1843,) by Mr Andrew Youngof Invershin, the manager of the Duke of Sutherland’sextensive salmon fisheries in the north of Scotland:—“Youare aware that it has been asserted by some of ourwisest doctors, that salmon spawn in the sea and inlochs, as well as in rivers. However, as doctorsare proverbially allowed to differ, I have this winter
been trying to test the fact in the following manner:At the same time that I deposited the spawn from whichI made my other experiments, I also placed a basketof the same spawn, with equal care, in a pool of purestill water from the river Shin; and I soon found that,while that which was placed in the running pools wasregularly progressing, every particle put into thestill water was as visibly degenerating, so that,by the time the spawn in the running pools was alive,that in the still water was a rotten mass. Imust therefore say, from the above experiment, thatrivers and running streams are the places fixed bynature for salmon to hatch their young.”“I would also,” says our correspondentin a subsequent portion of his letter, “mentionan additional experiment on another point. Ithas been very generally asserted that intense frostinjured the spawn of salmon; and in this opinion Iwas myself, in some measure, a believer. But asnothing but truth will stand a proper test, I turnedmy attention to this subject also. During thetime of our severest frost, I took a basket of spawn,and placed it in a stream, where for three days itcontinued a frozen mass among the ice. I thenplaced the basket again in the running pond from whenceit had been taken, and carefully watched the effect.I found that, although exposure to extreme cold hadsomewhat retarded the progressive growth, it had notin the slightest degree destroyed vitality. Iam therefore satisfied, that unless frost goes thelength of drying up the spawning beds altogether,it does not harm the spawn, further than by retardingits growth during the actual continuance of excessivecold. Thus fry are longer of hatching in a severewinter, than during an open one with little frost.”When salmon first ascend the Tweed, they are brownupon the back, fat, and in high condition. Duringthe prevalence of cold weather they lie in deep andeasy water, but as the season advances, they draw intothe great rough streams, taking up their stationswhere they are likely to be least observed. Butthere the wily wand of the practiced angler castsits gaudy lure, and “Kinmont Willie,” “MichaelScott,” or “The Lady of Mertoun,”(three killing flies,) darting deceitfully within theirview, a sudden lounge is made—sometimesscarcely visible by outward signs—as oftenaccompanied by a watery heave, and a flash like thatof an aurora borealis,—and downwards, upwards,onwards, a twenty-pounder darts away with lightningspeed, while the rapid reel gives out that heart-stirringsound so musical to an angler’s ear, and thanwhich none accords so well with the hoarser murmurof the brawling stream; till at last, after many analternate hope and fear, the glittering prize turnsup his silvery unresisting broadside, in meek submissionto the merciless gaff.
Many otherwise well-principled persons believe thatlittle more is required in angling than the exerciseof patience. Place a merely patient man, acquaintedonly with pedestrian movements, upon a strong-headedhorse determined to win, and give him the start ata steeple-chase, with Lord Waterford not far behind,and it will be seen before he has crossed much country,where patience is always as useful as it is praiseworthy.Place the same patient man, if he happens to havebeen picked up alive, and eventually recovers, in themidst of a roaring rock-bound river, and suppose him(a thing we confess, in his case, not quite conceivable)to have hooked a twenty-pound salmon at the tail ofthe stream, just where it subsides into some vast,almost fathomless, and far-extended pool, and thatthe said salmon, being rather of a restless disposition,and moreover somewhat disquieted by feeling an unaccustomedbarb in his cheek or tongue, takes his 300 yards downthe deep water at a single run, and then goes helter-skelterover a cataract, which had occupied him most of thepreceding Sunday to ascend, after many a sinewy butunsuccessful spring! Will patience avail a manany thing in such a predicament, when he ought ratherto run like an Arab, or dive like a dolphin, “splash,splash, towards the sea,” notwithstanding thechance of his breaking his neck among the rocks, orbeing drowned while trying to round a crag which hecannot clamber over? Let us hear Mr Scrope’saccount of his third cast, one fine morning, whenhe came to Kingswell Lees.
“Now every one knows that KingswellLees, in fishermen’s phrase, fishes offland; so there I stood on terra dura, amongstthe rocks that dip down to the water’s edge.Having executed one or two throws, there comesme a voracious fish, and makes a startling dashat ’Meg with the muckle mouth.’[10] Sharplydid I strike the caitiff; whereat he rolled rounddisdainful, making a whirl in the water of prodigiouscircumference; it was not exactly Charybdis, orthe Maelstrom, but rather more like the waveoccasioned by the sudden turning of a man-of-war’sboat. Being hooked, and having by this time sethis nose peremptorily down the stream, he flashed andwhizzed away like a rocket. My situationpartook of the nature of a surprise. Beingon a rocky shore, and having had a bad start,I lost ground at first considerably; but the reel sangout joyously, and yielded a liberal length ofline, that saved me from the disgrace of beingbroke. I got on the best pace I was able,and was on good ground just as my line was nearly allrun out. As the powerful animal darted throughMeg’s Hole, I was just able to stepback and wind up a few yards of line; but hestill went at a killing pace, and when he came nearto Melrose bridge, he evinced a distressing preferencefor passing through the further arch, in whichcase my line would have been cut by the pier.My heart sunk with apprehension, for he was nearthe opposite bank. Purdie, seeing this, with greatpresence of mind, took up some stones from thechannel, and through them one by one betweenthe fish and the said opposite bank. Thisnaturally brought Master Salmo somewhat nearer, butstill, for a few moments, we had a doubtful strugglefor it. At length, by lowering the headof the rod, and thus not having so much of theponderous weight of the fish to encounter, I towedhim a little sideways; and so, advancing towardsme with propitious fin, he shot through the archnearest me.
“Deeply immersed, I dashed afterhim as best I might; and arriving on the otherside of the bridge, I floundered out upon dryland, and continued the chase. The salmon, ’rightorgillous and presumptive,’ still keptthe strength of the stream, and abating nothingof its vigour, went swiftly down the whirls;then through the Boat shiel, and over theshallows, till he came to the throat of the ElmWheel, down which he darted amain. Owingto the bad ground, the pace here became exceedinglydistressing. I contrived to keep company withmy fish, still doubtful of the result, till Icame to the bottom of the long cast in question,when he still showed fight, and sought the shallowbelow. Unhappily the alders prevented my followingby land, and I was compelled to take water again,which slackened my speed. But the streamsoon expanding, and the current diminishing,my fish likewise travelled more slowly; so Igave a few sobs and recovered my wind a little, gatheredup my line, and tried to bring him to terms. Buthe derided my efforts, and dashed off for anotherburst, triumphant. Not far below lay therapids of the Slaughterford: he wouldsoon gain them at the pace he was going:that was certain—see, he is there already!But I back out again upon dry land, nothing loth,and have a fair race with him. Sore workit is. I am a pretty fair runner, as has oftenbeen testified; but his velocity is surprising.On, on, still he goes, ploughing up the waterlike a steamer. ’Away with you, Charlie!quick, quick, man—quick for your life!Loosen the boat at the Cauld Pool, where we shallsoon be,’ and so indeed we were, when Ijumped into the said craft, still having goodhold of my fish.
“The Tweed is here broad anddeep, and the salmon at length had become somewhatexhausted; he still kept in the strength of the stream,however, with his nose seawards, and hung, heavily.At last he comes near the surface of the water.See how he shakes his tail and digs downwards,seeking the deep profound that he will nevergain. His motions become more short and feeble:he is evidently doomed, and his race wellnighfinished. Drawn into the bare water, andnot approving of the extended cleek, he makesanother swift rush, and repeats this effort each timethat he is towed to the shallows. At lengthhe is cleeked in earnest, and hauled to shore;he proves one of the grey-skull newly run, andweighs somewhat above twenty pounds. The hookis not in his mouth, but in the outside of it:in which case a fish being able to respire freely,always shows extraordinary vigour, and generallysets his head down the stream.
“During the whole period of myexperience in fishing, though I have had somesharp encounters, yet I never knew any sport equalto this. I am out of breath even now, wheneverI think of it. I will trouble any surveyorto measure the distance from the Kingswell Lees,the starting spot, above Melrose bridge, to theend of the Cauld Pool, the death place, by Melrosechurch, and tell me how much less it is thana mile and three quarters,—I say,I will trouble him to do so; and let him be a loverof the angle, that he may rather increase than diminishthe distance, as in good feeling and respect forthe craft it behoves him to do.”—P.174.
[Footnote 10: A successful salmon-fly so named.]
On the subject of salmon leaps, most of us have bothheard and seen much that was neither new nor true.Mr Yarrell, a cautious unimaginative man, accustomedto quote Shakspeare as if the bard of Avon had beensome quiet country clergyman who had taken his sharein compiling the statistical account of Scotland,confines their saltatorial powers only within tenor twelve perpendicular feet. We hold, with MrScrope, that even this is probably much beyond themark. He thinks he never saw a salmonspring out of the water above five feet perpendicular.
“There is a cauld at the mouthof the Leader water where it falls into the Tweed,which salmon never could spring over; this cauldI have lately had measured by a mason most carefully,and its height varies from five and a half to sixfeet from the level above to the level below it,according as the Tweed, into which the Leaderfalls, is more or less affected by the rains.Hundreds of salmon formerly attempted to springover this low cauld, but none could ever achieve theleap; so that a salmon in the Leader water wasformerly a thing unheard of. The proprietorsof the upper water have made an opening in thiscauld of late years, giving the owner of the millsome recompense, so that salmon now ascend freely.Large fish can spring much higher than smallones; but their powers are limited or augmentedaccording to the depth of water they spring from.They rise rapidly from the very bottom to the surfaceof the water, by rowing and sculling as it were withfins and tail, and this powerful impetus bearsthem upwards in the air. It is probablyowing to a want of sufficient depth in the poolbelow the Leader water cauld, that prevented the fishfrom clearing it; because I know an instance wheresalmon have cleared a cauld of six feet belongingto Lord Sudely, who lately caused it to be measuredfor my satisfaction, though they were but fewout of the numerous fish that attempted it thatwere able to do so. I conceive, however, thatvery large fish could leap much higher.”—P.12.
We believe that a good deal of the contrariety ofopinion which prevails on this subject, arises fromanglers and other men confounding an inclined planewith a perpendicular height. Salmon will assuredlyovercome a prodigious force of descending water,—aroaring turmoil, which presents from below the aspectof a fall, but consists in reality of separate ledgesmassed together into one, when “floods lift uptheir voices.” We are sorry to say, however,that the entire practice of angling is pervaded bya system of inaccuracy, exaggeration, and self-deceit,which is truly humiliating. There is consequentlyno period in the life of a young person which oughtto be more sedulously superintended by parents andguardians, than that in which he is first allowedto plant himself by the rivers of waters. Themost wonderful feature, however, in the leaping ofsalmon is not so much the height to which they spring,as the ease, elegance, and certainty, with which,while ascending small cataracts, they make their upwardmovements. For example, near Oykel bridge inSutherland, there is a rocky interruption to the moreordinary current of the river, where the water is contained,as it were, in stages of pots or little caldrons, overthe lower edge of each of which it dances downwardsin the form of a short perpendicular fall. Froma neighbouring bank by the river side, the movementsof the aspiring fish may be distinctly seen.When a grilse has made his way to the foot of oneof these falls, (which he never could have ascendedbefore, although he must have descended it in childhoodon his seaward way,) without a moment’s doubtor hesitation he darts into the air, and throws himselfhead-foremost into the little basin above, to the bottomof which he instantly descends. Nothing can bemore curious than the air of nonchalance withwhich they drop into these watery chambers, as ifthey knew their dimensions to an inch, and had beenin the habit of sleeping in them every night.Now, from what has been ascertained of the naturalhistory of the species, although the adult salmon ofthe Oykel must have previously made the leap at leastonce before, no fresh-run grilse could have ever doneso; and yet, during suitable weather in the summerseason, they are sometimes seen springing along withall the grace and agility of a troop of voltigeurs.Their object of course is to rest themselves for ashort time, before leaping into the second range fromthe ground floor. But this innocent intentionis too often interfered with; for a sharp-sightedHighlander, stationed on the bank above, immediatelydescends with landing-net in hand, and scoops themout of their natural caldron, with a view to theirbeing speedily transferred to another of more artificialstructure—the chief difference, however,consisting in the higher temperature of the water.
“Salmon,” says Mr Scrope, “are ledby instinct to select such places for depositing theirspawn as are the least likely to be affected by thefloods. These are the broad parts of the river,where the water runs swift and shallow, and has afree passage over an even bed. There they eitherselect an old spawning place, a sort of trough leftin the channel, or form a fresh one. They arenot fond of working in new loose channels, which wouldbe liable to be removed by a slight flood, to thedestruction of their spawn. The spawning bed ismade by the female. Some have fancied that theelongation of the lower jaw in the male, which issomewhat in the form of a crook, is designed by natureto enable him to excavate the spawning trough.Certainly it is difficult to divine what may be theuse of this very ugly excrescence; but observationhas proved that this idea is a fallacy, and that themale never assists in making the spawning place:and, indeed, if he did so he could not possibly makeuse of the elongation in question for that purpose,which springs from the lower jaw, and bends inwardstowards the throat. When the female commencesmaking her spawning bed, she generally comes aftersunset, and goes off in the morning; she works upthe gravel with her snout, her head pointing againstthe stream, as my fisherman has clearly and unequivocallywitnessed, and she arranges the position of the loosegravel with her tail. When this is done, the malemakes his appearance in the evenings, according tothe usage of the female. He then remains closeby her, on the side on which the water is deepest.”—P.15.
During this crisis trout collect below to devour suchportions of the spawn as float down the river, andparr are frequently seen hovering in and around thetrough. All these parr are salmon fry of the malesex, in a state of maturity; and if the old gentlemanchances to be killed, or driven away, without havingprovided an assistant or successor, the “two-year-olds”perform the functions of paternity. This circ*mstance,though overlooked by modern naturalists till the daysof Shaw, (not the old compiling doctor of the BritishMuseum, but the more practical “keeper”of Drumlanrig,) was known and described by Willoughbyin the seventeenth century. “To demonstratethe fact,” says the more recent observer, “inJanuary 1837, I took a female salmon, weighing fourteenpounds, from the spawning bed, from whence I also tooka male parr, weighing one ounce and a half, with themilt of which I impregnated a quantity of her ova,and placed the whole in a private pond, where, tomy great astonishment, the process succeeded in everyrespect as it had done with the ova which had beenimpregnated by the adult male salmon, and exhibited,from the first visible appearance of the embryo fish,up to their assuming their migratory dress, the utmosthealth and vigour.”
So serious is the destruction of the spawn and fryof salmon, both by sea and fresh-water trout, thatthe Duke of Sutherland’s manager would willingly,were it possible, extirpate the entire breed of thesefish. “They commence,” he informsus, in a letter of 15th May 1843, “the momentthe salmon begin to deposit their spawn, and in thecourse of the spawning season they devour an immensequantity of ova. Indeed, at all other times ofthe year, they feed on the fry of salmon, and continuetheir destruction till the day the smolts leave therivers. I have often cut up trout, and got smoltsin their stomach; and last week a trout was openedin Mr Buist’s fish-yard with four full-grownsmolts in its belly. From these and other similaroccurrences, you may judge to what extent this destructionis carried on, in the course of a single year, in sucha river as our Oykel, where I have killed seven hundredtrout at a single hawl.” We understandthat, some years ago, when Mr Trap, (a most appropriatename,) the fishmonger in Perth, had the Dupplin cruives,he got about 400 whitlings (or sea-trout) in one day,all of them gorged to the throat with salmon fry.The sea-trout of Sutherlandshire, like those of theNith and the Annan, almost all belong to the speciesnamed Salmo trutta by naturalists. Theyscarcely ever exceed, indeed rarely attain to, a weightof five pounds; and such as go beyond that weight,and range upwards from eight to twelve pounds, aregenerally found to pertain to Salmo eriox,the noted bull-trout of the Tweed. Thegreat grey sea-trout of the river Ness, which sometimesreaches the weight of eighteen pounds, we doubt not,also belongs to the species last named. It israre in the waters of the Tay.
In regard to the seaward migration of salmon fry,Mr Scrope is of opinion that some are continuallygoing down to the salt water in every month of theyear, not with their silver scales on, but in the parrstate.
“I say, not with their silverscales, because no clear smolt is ever seen inthe Tweed during the summer and autumnal months.As the spawning season in the Tweed extends overa period of six months, some of the fry mustbe necessarily some months older than the others,a circ*mstance which favours my supposition thatthey are constantly descending to the sea, and itis only a supposition, as I have no proof of the fact,and have never heard it suggested by any one.But if I should be right, it will clear up somethings that cannot well be accounted for in anyother mode. For instance, in the month of March1841, Mr Yarrell informs me that he found a youngsalmon in the London market, and which he haspreserved in spirits, measuring only fifteeninches long, and weighing only fifteen ounces.And again another, the following April, sixteenand a half inches long, weighing twenty-four ounces.Now, one of these appeared two months, and theother a month, before the usual time when thefry congregate. According to the receiveddoctrine, therefore, these animals were two of themigration of the preceding year; and thus it mustnecessarily follow that they remained in saltwater, one ten, and the other eleven months,with an increase of growth so small as to be irreconcilablewith the proof we have of the growth of the grilseand salmon during their residence in salt water.”—P.36.
We are not entirely of Mr Scrope’s opinion,that some salmon fry are descending to the sea duringevery month of the year; at least, we do not conceivethat this forms a part of their regular rotation.But the nature of the somewhat anomalous individualsalluded to by Mr Yarrell, may be better understoodfrom the following considerations. Although itis an undoubted fact that the great portion of parrdescend together to the sea, as smolts, in May, bywhich time they have entered into their third year,yet it is also certain that a few, owing to some peculiarityin their natural constitution, do not migrate at thattime, but continue in the rivers all summer.As these have not obeyed the normal or ordinary lawwhich regulates the movements of their kind, they makeirregular migrations to the sea during the winter floods,and ascend the rivers during the spring months, sometime before the descent of the two-year-olds.We have killed parr of this description, measuringeight and nine inches, in the rivers in October, andwe doubt not these form eventually the small, thin,rather ill-conditioned grilse which are occasionallytaken in our rivers during early spring. But itis midsummer before the regularly migrating smoltsreappear as grilse. However, certain points inrelation to this branch of our subject may still beregarded as “open questions,” on whichthe Cabinet has not made up its mind, and may agreeto differ. Mr Scrope is certainly right in hisbelief, that, whatever be the range of time occupiedby the descent of smolts towards the sea, they arenot usually seen descending with their silvery coatingon except in spring; although our Sutherland correspondent,to whom we have so frequently referred, is not of thatopinion. It may be, that those which do not jointhe general throng, migrate in a more sneaking sortof way during summer. They are non-intrusionists,who have at first refused to sign the terms of theConvocation; but finding themselves eventually ratherout of their element, on the wrong side of the cruivedyke, and not wishing to fall as fry into the cook’shands, have sea-ceded some time after the disruptionof their General Assembly.
Even those smolts which descend together in Apriland May, (the chief periods of migration,) do notagree in size. Many are not half the length ofothers, although all have assumed the silvery coat.“I had, last April,” Mr Young informsus in a letter of 3d June 1843, “upwards offifty of them in a large bucket of water, for the purposeof careful and minute examination of size, &c., when
I found a difference of from three and a half to sixinches—the smallest having the same silverycoat as the largest. We cannot at all wonder atthis difference, as it is a fact that the spawn evenof the same fish exhibits a disparity in its fry assoon as hatched, which continues in all the after stages.Although the throng of our smolts descend inApril and May, we have smolts descending in March,and as late in the season as August, which lapse oftime agrees with the continuance of our spawning season.But in all these months we have an equal proportion(that is, a corresponding mixture) of large and smallsmolts. I have earnestly searched for smoltsin the winter months, year after year, and I can onlysay that I have never seen one, although I have certainlytried every possible means to find them. I haveseen fish spawning through the course of six months,and I have seen smolts descending through the samelength of time. Our return of grilses, too, exactlycorresponds with this statement. Thus a few descendingMarch smolts give a few ascending May grilses; whileour April and May swarms of smolts yield our hordesof grilse in June and July. After July, grilsesdecrease in numbers till October, in proportion tothe falling off of smolts from May to August.At least these are my observations in our northernstreams.” They are observations of greatvalue, and it is only by gathering together similarcollections of facts from various quarters, that wecan ultimately attain to a clear and comprehensiveknowledge of the whole subject.We gather from our most recent correspondence withMr Shaw, (Letter of 8th June 1843,) that he does notregard the range in the spawning period to be followedby a corresponding range in the departure of smoltstowards the sea, and in their return from it as grilse.He has found a considerable diversity of time in theassumption of the silvery coating even among individualsof the very same family. “I do not,”he observes, “recollect an instance where therewere not individuals of each brood reared in my ponds,which assumed the migratory coating several weeksbefore the brood in general had done so; and theseindividuals would have migrated accordingly, and reappearedas grilse all the sooner.” As the hatchingand growth of salmon smolts and other fish, is regulatedin a great measure by the temperature of the waterin which they dwell, it is very probable that ovadeposited late in the season, (say the month of March,)may, in consequence of the great increase of temperature,be hatched much more rapidly than those spawned inmid-winter, and so, by the end of a couple of years,no great difference will exist between them.We remember that, in one of Mr Shaw’s earlierexperiments, it is stated that he took occasion toconvey a few ova in a tumbler within doors, wherethe temperature ranged from 45 deg. to 47 deg..They were hatched in thirty-six hours, while suchas were left in the stream of the pond, in a temperatureof 41 deg., did not hatch until the termination ofseven subsequent days. The whole had been previouslyone hundred and six days in the water, under a considerablylower temperature.
Mr Shaw has frequently detected individual smolts,both of salmon and sea-trout, (though of the lattermore particularly,) descending in some seasons asearly as the end of March, and as late as the middleof June, and he has little doubt that some may maketheir way still earlier to the sea. These, ofcourse, will be found in our tideways as small grilse,weighing one or two pounds, in April and May.The large parr, to which we have already alluded asoccasionally met with in rivers, and which we regardas young salmon remaining (and in this forming exceptionsto the normal rule) in fresh water throughout theirthird year, Mr Shaw, whose opinion we requested onthe subject, coincides with us in thinking, “would,in all probability, be the first to quit the riverafter so long a residence there, when the season ofmigration approached. These, however, are notthe only individuals of their kind which leave theriver for the sea long before the month of May.”A difference in the period of deposition will assuredlycause a difference in the period of hatching, andin this we agree with Mr Scrope; but we think thata late spawning, having the advantage of a higher temperatureas the result of a more genial season, will be followedby a more rapid development, and so the differencewill not be so great, nor expanded over so many months,as that gentlemen supposes. Finally, the vagrantsummer smolts, to which we have before alluded, mayconsist of that small number of anomalous fry, whichwe know to assume the migratory dress and instinctsoon after the completion of their first year.
Although the excellence of a salmon’s conditionis derived from the sea, and all its increase of weightis gained there, yet few of these fish remain forany considerable length of time in marine waters.By a wonderful, and to us most beneficial instinct,they are propelled to revisit their ancestral streams,with an increase of size corresponding to the lengthof their sojourn in the sea. Such as observe theiraccustomed seasons, (and of these are the great massof smolts,) return at certain anticipated times.Their periods are known, and their revolutions calculated.Such as migrate at irregular or unobserved intervals,return unexpectedly at different times. Theirmotions seem eccentric, because their periods havenot been ascertained.
But it is obvious that Mr Yarrell’s diminutiveexamples already alluded to, could not have gone downto the sea with the great majority of their kind,during the spring preceding that in which they werecaptured; because, in that case, having remained amuch longer time than usual in salt water, they wouldhave returned as very large grilse instead of extremelysmall ones.
Mr Scrope informs us that the most plentiful seasonin the Tweed for grilse, if there has been a flood,is about the time of St Boswell’s fair, namely,the 18th of July, at which period they weigh from fourto six pounds. Those which don’t leavethe salt for the fresh water till the end of Septemberand the course of October, sometimes come up fromthe sea for the first time weighing ten or eleven pounds,or even more.
“Some of them are much largerthan small salmon; but by the term grilse I meanyoung salmon that have only been once to sea.They are easily distinguished from salmon by theircountenance, and less plump appearance, and particularlyby the diminished size of the part of the bodynext the tail, which also is more forked thanthat of the salmon. They remain in freshwater all the autumn and winter, and spawn at the sametime with the salmon. They return also tosea in spring with the salmon. It seemsworthy of remark, that salmon are oftentimessmaller than moderate-sized grilse; but, althoughsuch grilse have been only once to sea, yet theperiod they have remained there must have exceededthe two short visits made by the smallsalmon, and hence their superiority of size.When these fish return to the river from their secondvisit to the sea, they are called salmon,and are greatly altered in their shape and appearance;the body is more full, and the tail less forked,and their countenance assumes a different aspect.”—P.37.
We are glad to observe that in theseopinions regarding the growth of grilse and salmon,our author conforms with, and consequently confirms,the ingenious and accurate experimental observationsrecently completed by Mr Young of Invershin.[11]
Of all those natural causes which counteractthe increase of salmon fry, and consequentlyof grown grilse and adult salmon, Mr Scrope considersthat the “furious spates” which so frequentlyoccur in Tweed, are the most destructive. Thesenot only put the channel in motion, but oftensweep away the spawning beds entirely. Priorto the improvements in agriculture, and the ameliorationof the hill pastures by drainage, the floodswere much less sudden, because the morasses andswampy grounds gave out water gradually, and thusthe river took longer to rise, and continued fullerfor a greater length of time than in these degeneratedays, to the increased delight of every acre-lessangler.
“But now every hill is scoredwith little rills which fall into the rivers,which suddenly become rapid torrents and swell themain river, which dashes down to the ocean withtumultuous violence. Amidst the great dinyou may hear the rattling of the channel stonesas they are borne downwards. Banks are torn away;new deeps are hollowed out, and old ones filled up;so that great changes continually take placein the bed of the river either for the betteror the worse. When we contemplate thesethings, we must at once acknowledge the vast importanceof Mr Shaw’s experiments; for if ponds wereconstructed upon the Tweed at the general expense,after the model of those made by him, all theseevils would be avoided. The fry might be producedin any quantities by artificial impregnation, be preserved,and turned into the great river at the proper periodof migration. There might at first be somedifficulty in procuring food for them; but thiswould be easily got over at a very small expense,and with a few adult salmon more fry may be sentto sea annually than the whole produce of the riverat present amounts to, after having encounteredthe sweeping perils I have mentioned.”—P.43.
[Footnote 11: See Transactions of the RoyalSociety of Edinburgh. Vol. XV.Part iii. p. 343.]
Our author then proposes that proprietors should callmeetings for the purpose, and that parr, hithertoso named, should now, in their capacity of young salmon,be protected by law. He advises all who have aninterest in the river, to consider the wisdom of mutualaccommodation; the owners of the more seaward banksbeing dependent on the upper heritors for the protectionof the spawning fish and fry, while they, on the otherhand, are equally dependent on the former for an honestadherence to the weekly close-time.
But a thoughtful consideration of this portion ofour subject would lead us into a somewhat interminablemaze, including the policy of our ancient Acts ofParliament, and the nature of estuaries,—thosemysteriously commingled “watteris quhar the seaebbis and flowis,”—“ubi salmunculivel smolti, seu fria alterius generis piscium marisvel aquae dulcis, (nunquam) descendunt et ascendunt,”—andthen the stake-net question stretches far before us,and dim visions of the “Sutors of Cromarty”rise upon our inward eye, and the wild moaning of the“Gizzin Brigs” salutes our ear, and defendersare converted into appellants, and suspenders intorespondents, and the whole habitable earth assumesfor a time the aspect of a Scotch Jury Court, whichsuddenly blazes into the House of Lords.[12]
[Footnote 12: Certain river mouths and estuariesin the north of Scotland “within flude-markeof the sea,” have lately given rise to variousquestions of disputed rights regarding the erectionof stake-nets, and the privilege of catching salmonwith the same. These questions involve the determinationof several curious though somewhat contradictory pointsin physical geography, geology, and the natural historyof fishes and marine vegetation.]
That salmon return with great regularity to the riverin which they were originally bred, is now well known.Mr Scrope, however, thinks that they do not invariablydo so, but will ascend other rivers during spawningtime, if they find their own deficient in bulk of water.Thus many Tweed salmon are caught in the Forth, (adeep and sluggish stream,) and a successful fishingthere is usually accompanied by a scarce one in theTweed. Yet we know that they will linger long,during periods of great drought, in those mingledwaters where the sea “comes and gangs,”—aswas well seen in the hot and almost rainless summerof 1842, when the Berwick fishings were abundant,but those of Kelso and the upper streams extremelyunproductive. The established fact, however, that
grilse and salmon, under ordinary natural circ*mstances,do certainly return to their native beds, is one ofgreat practical importance, because it permits theplan of peopling barren rivers by the deposition ofimpregnated spawn carried from more fruitful waters.It ought to be borne in mind, however, in relationto this latter point, that these waters must possess,in a considerable measure, the same natural attributeswhich characterize the voluntary haunts of salmon.If they do not do so, although the fry bred therewill in all probability return thither from the seaas grilse, yet the breeding process will be carriedon at first feebly, and then inefficiently, till thespecies finally becomes extinct. The same observations,of course, apply to trout. It has been proposed,we believe by Sir W.F. Mackenzie of Gairloch,to apply the principle of one set of Mr Shaw’sexperiments to the improvement of moorland lochs,or others, in which the breed of trout may be inferior,by carrying the ova of a better and richer flavouredvariety from another locality. Now, in this well-intentionedscheme, we think there is some confusion of causeand effect. It is the natural difference in food,and other physical features and attributes, betweenthe two kinds of lochs in question, which causes oris intimately connected with the difference in thefleshly condition of their finny inhabitants; andunless we can also change the characters of the surroundingcountry, and the bed of the watery basin, we shallseek in vain to people “the margins of our moorishfloods” with delicate trout, lustrous withoutany red of hue within, in room of those inky-coated,muddy-tasted tribes, “indigenae an advectae,”which now dwell within our upland pools.It has been asserted by some that salmon will dwellcontinuously, and even breed, in fresh water, althoughdebarred all access to the sea. “Near Kattrineberg,”says Mr Lloyd, in his work on the field-sports ofthe north of Europe, “there is a valuable fisheryfor salmon, ten or twelve thousand of these fish beingtaken annually. These salmon are bred in a lake,and, in consequence of cataracts, cannot have accessto the sea. They are small in size, and inferiorin flavour. The year 1820 furnished 21,817.”We confess we cannot credit this account of freshwater (sea-debarred) salmon, but suppose there mustbe some mistake regarding the species. Everything that we know of the habits and history, thegrowth and migrations, of these fish in Britain, isopposed to its probability. Mr Young has conclusivelyascertained that, at least in Scotland, not only doestheir growth, after the assumption of the silverystate, take place solely in the sea, but that theyactually decrease in weight from the period of theirentering the rivers; and Mr Scrope himself, (see pp.27, 30,) although he quotes the passage without protest,seems of the same opinion. Besides, with theirirrepressible instinctive inclination to descend the
rivers during spring when young, we don’t believethat the cataract in question would prevent their doingso, although it might assuredly hinder their returnin summer, in which case the Kattrineberg breed wouldsoon become extinct, even supposing that they hadever had existence. The alleged fact, however,is well worthy of more accurate observance and explicitexplanation than have yet been bestowed upon it bythe Scandinavian naturalists.We are informed that Mr George Dormer of Stone Mills,in the parish of Bridport, put a female salmon, whichmeasured twenty inches, and was caught in the mill-dam,into a small well, where it remained twelve years,and at length died in the year 1842. “Thewell measured only five feet by two feet four inches,and there was only fifteen inches depth of water.”We should have been well pleased to have been toldof the size of the fish when it died, in additionto that of the prison in which it dwelt, for otherwisethe fact itself is of less consequence.[13] We presumeits rate of growth would be extremely slow, althoughwe do not agree with Mr Young in the opinion alreadyquoted, that salmon actually decrease in dimensionson entering the fresh water. We doubt not theydecrease in weight, and probably also in circumference;but their bones and organic structure are assuredlyenlarged, and themselves lengthened, in such a wayas to fit their general form for a rapidly increaseddevelopment, so soon as they again rejoice in the fatteninginfluences of the salubrious sea.
[Footnote 13: The following curious particularsregarding the above-mentioned salmon are taken froma Devonshire newspaper:—“She wouldcome to the top of the water and take meat off a plate,and would devour a quarter of a pound of lean meatin less time than a man could eat it; she would alsoallow Mr Dormer to take her out of the water, andwhen put into it again she would immediately take meatfrom his hands, or would even bite the finger if presentedto her. Some time since a little girl teasedher by presenting the finger and then withdrawing it,till at last she leaped a considerable height abovethe water, and caught her by the said finger, whichmade it bleed profusely: by this leap she threwherself completely out of the water into the court.At one time a young duckling got into the well, tosolace himself in his favourite element, when sheimmediately seized him by the leg, and took him underwater; but the timely interference of Mr Dormer preventedany further mischief than making a cripple of theyoung duck. At another time a full-grown drakeapproached the well, when Mrs Fish, seeing a trespasseron her premises, immediately seized the intruder bythe bill, and a desperate struggle ensued, which atlast ended in the release of Mr Drake from the graspof Mrs Fish, and no sooner freed, than Mr Drake flewoff in the greatest consternation and affright; sincewhich time, to this day, he has not been seen to approachthe well, and it is with great difficulty he can bebrought within sight of it. This fish lay ina dormant state for five months in the year, duringwhich time she would eat nothing, and was likewisevery shy.”]
Our author next refers to a rather singular subject,which has not yet sufficiently attracted the noticeof naturalists, and the phenomena of which (at leasttheir final causes) have not been explained by physiologicalenquirers. That fishes assume, in a great degree,the colour of the channel over which they lie, isknown to many practical observers. We have ourselvesfrequently frightened small flounders from their proprietywith our shoe-points, while angling near the mouthsof rivers, and so exactly did their colour accordwith the shingle beneath our feet, that we could notdetect their presence but by their own betraying movements.Such, however, as happened to glide towards, and settleon, a portion of the bed of different colour from therest, continued perceptible for a short time; butthey too seemed speedily to disappear, although weafterwards discovered that they had not stirred aninch, but had merely changed their tint to that ofthe particular portion of the basin of the streamto which they had removed. Every angler knows,that there is not only a difference in the colour oftrouts in different streams, but that different thoughalmost adjoining portions of the same river, if distinguishedby some diversity of character in respect to depth,current, or clearness, will yield him fish of varyinghue. Very rapid and irregular changes are alsoobservable in their colours after death; and largealternate blotches of darker and lighter hues maybe produced upon their sides and general surface,by the mode of their disposal in the creel. DrStark showed many years ago, that the colour of sticklebacks,and other small fishes, was influenced by the colourof the earthenware, or other vessels in which theywere confined, as well as modified by the quantityof light to which they were exposed; and Mr Shaw hasvery recently informed us, regarding this mutabilityof the outer aspect of fishes, that if the head aloneis placed upon a particular colour, (whether lighteror darker,) the whole body will immediately assumea corresponding shade, quite independent of the particulartint upon which the body itself may chance to rest.We know not to what extent these, and similar phenomena,are familiar to Sir David Brewster; but we willinglyadmit, that in order to attain to their clearer comprehension,the facts themselves must be investigated by one who,like that accomplished philosopher, is conversantwith those branches of physical science to which theyare related. They unfortunately lie beyond therange of our own optics, but Mr Scrope’s practicalimprovement of the subject is as follows:—
“I would recommend any one whowishes to show his day’s sport in the pinkof perfection, to keep his trouts in a wet cloth,so that, on his return home, he may exhibit themto his admiring friends, and extract from themthe most approved of epithets and exclamations,taking the praise bestowed upon the fish as aparticular compliment to himself.”—P.56.
British legislators ought certainly to consider therecent completion of our knowledge both of salmonand sea-trout; and if they can make themselves mastersof their more detailed local history, so much thebetter. Mr Home Drummond’s is still theregulating Act of Parliament, and seems to have keptit* ground firmly, notwithstanding many attemptedalterations, if not amendments. In accordancewith that Act, all our rivers north of the Tweed closeon the 14th of September, and do not re-open tillthe 1st of February.[14] This bears hardly upon someof our northern streams. In the Ness, for example,before the application of the existing laws, morefish were wont to be killed in December and Januarythan during most other periods of the year.[15] Itappears to have been clearly ascertained that theseason of a river (in respect to its being early orlate) depends mainly upon the temperature of its waters.The Ness, which is the earliest river in Scotland,scarcely ever freezes. It flows from the longestand deepest loch in Britain; and thus, when the thermometer,as it did in the winter of 1807, stands at 20, 30,or even 40 deg. below the freezing point at Inverness,it makes little or no impression upon either lakeor river. The course of the latter is extremelyshort. The Shin is also an early river, flowingfrom a smaller loch, though with a more extended coursebefore it enters the Kyle of Sutherland, where itbecomes confluent with the Oykel waters. It mayso happen, that in these and other localities, a colderstream, drawing its shallow and divided sources fromthe frozen sides of barren mountains, may adjoin thelake-born river, and
“Onthat flood,
Indurated and fix’d,the snowy weight
Lies undissolved, while silentlybeneath,
And unperceived, the currentsteals away.”
Now salmon don’t like either snowy water, bridgesof ice, or stealthy streams, but a bold, bright, expansive,unimpeded, and accommodating kind of highway to ourinland vales. They instinctively regard a modifiedtemperature, and a flowing movement, as great inducementsto leave the sea in early winter, instead of waitinguntil spring; and, in like manner, they avoid “imprisonedrivers” until icy gales have ceased to blow.The consequences are, we may have an extremely earlyriver and a very late one within a few hundred yardsof each other, and both debouching from the same lineof coast into the sea. Now, in the autumn of1836, a bill was proposed and brought in by Mr PatrickStewart and Mr Loch, to amend the preceding Act (9thGeo. IV.) which had repealed that of James I., (1424.)It proceeded on the preamble, that “whereas thesand acts have been found inadequate to the purposesfor which they were passed, inasmuch as it is foundthat our close-time is not suitable for all the salmonfishings and rivers throughout Scotland, and it isexpedient that the same should therefore, and in other
respects, be altered, modified, and amended.”It therefore enacted that different close-times shallbe observed in different divisions of Scotland, thewhole of which is partitioned into twelve districts,as specified in schedule A referred to in the bill.We do not know how or from whom the necessary informationwas obtained; but we doubt not it was sedulously soughtfor, and digested in due form. For example, theboundaries as to time and space of the second district,are as follows:—“From Tarbet Nessaforesaid, to Fort George Point, in the county of Nairn,including the Beaulie Frith and the rivers connectedtherewith, except the river Ness, from the20th day of August to the 6th day of January, bothdays inclusive; and for the said river Ness, fromthe 14th day of July, to the 1st day of December,both days inclusive.” This is so far well.But in the ninth district, the definition and directionsare:—“From the confines of the SolwayFrith to the northern boundary of the county of Ayr,from the 30th day of September to the 16th day of February,both days inclusive.” Now most anglersknow that the district thus defined, includes streamswhich vary considerably in their character, and cannotbe correctly classed together. Thus the Doon,which draws its chief sources from numerous lakesamong the hills, is one of the earliest rivers inthe south-west of Scotland, clean fresh-run fish occurringin it by Christmas; while the neighbouring river Ayr,although existing under the same general climaticinfluence, produces few good salmon till the monthof June. It is fed by tributaries of the commonkind. The Stinchar, in the same district, isalso a late river, being seldom worked by the tacksmentill towards the end of April, and even then few ofthe fish are worth keeping. Of course, it requiresto be closed in September, although the fish are thenin good case. These, and many other facts whichmight be mentioned, show the difficulty of legislatingeven upon the improved localizing principle which ithas been attempted to introduce. However, thebill referred to, though printed, was never passed.[Footnote 14: The net fishings in the Tweed donot close till the 16th of October, and the loversof the angle are allowed an additional fortnight.These fishings do not open (either for net or rod)till the 15th of February.]
[Footnote 15: It was proved in evidence beforethe select committee of the House of Commons in 1825,that the amount of salmon killed in the Ness duringeight years, (from 1811-12 to 1818-19,) made a totalfor the months
Of December, of 2405
Of January, 3554
Of February, 3239
Of March, 3029
Of April, 2147
Of May, 1127
Of June, 170
Of July, 253
Of August, 2192
Of September, 430
------
18,542
It further appears, from the evidence referred to,that during these years no grilse ran up theNess till after the month of May. The months
Of June produced 277
Of July, 1358
Of August, 4229
Of September, 1493
——
7357
]
Since we have entered, inadvertently, into what maybe called the legislative branch of our subject, wemay refer for a moment to the still more recent bill,prepared and brought into Parliament by Mr EdwardEllice and Mr Thomas Mackenzie, and ordered to be printed,11th May 1842. It is entitled, “a billfor the better regulation of the close-time in salmonfisheries in Scotland;” and with a view to accommodateand reconcile the interests of all parties, it throwsthe arrangement and the decision of the whole affairinto the hands of the commissioners of the herringfishery. It enacts that it shall be lawful forthese commissioners, upon due application by any proprietor(or guardian, judicial factor, or trustee) of salmonfishings, of the value of not less than twenty poundsyearly, in any of the rivers, streams, lochs, &c.,or by any three or more of such proprietors possessingsalmon fishings of the yearly value of ten pounds each,or of any proprietor of salmon fishings which extendone mile in length on one side, or one half mile onboth sides of any river or stream, calling upon thesaid commissioners to alter the close-time of any river,stream, &c., to enquire into the expediency of suchalteration. With that view, the are empoweredto call before them, and examine upon oath or affirmation,all necessary witnesses, and to take all requisiteevidence for and against the proposed alteration ofthe close-time; and upon due consideration of allthe circ*mstances of the case, to determine that theclose-time in such river, stream, &c., shall be altered,and to alter the same accordingly, and fix such otherclose-time as they shall deem expedient. Providedalways that the close-time to be fixed by said commissioners,shall not in any case consist of less than one hundredand thirty-nine free consecutive days. Provisionis also made for an alteration, on application andevidence as before, of any such legalized close-time,after the expiration of three years; all expensesincurred by the commissioners in taking evidence, orin other matters connected with the subject, to bedefrayed by the proprietors. Permission may alsobe granted in favour of angling with the single rod,for fourteen days after the close. This bill,which we suspect it would have been difficult to workconveniently, was likewise laid upon the shelf.
Although, as we have said, salmon soonest ascend thewarmest rivers, they are alleged to spawn earliestin the colder ones. Thus Mr Scrope informs us,that in the shallow mountain streams which pour intothe Tay, near its source, the fish spawn much earlierthan those in the main bed of that magnificent river,and he quotes the following sentiments of the lateJohn Crerar, head fisherman and forester to the Dukeof Athole, on the subject:—
“There are,” said John,“two kinds of creatures that I am well acquaintedwith—the one a land animal, the other awater one—the red-deer and the salmon.In October the deer ruts, and the salmon spawns.The deer begins soonest, high up among the hills,particularly in frosty weather; so does the salmonbegin to spawn earlier in frosty weather thanin soft. The master hart would keep allthe other harts from the hind, if he could; andthe male salmon would keep all the other males fromthe female, if he was able.”—P.60.
We do not think, however, that Mr Scrope’s comparativereference to the upper and lower portions of the Tayaffords a satisfactory or conclusive test. Thehigher parts of almost all rivers (including, theirtributaries) constitute the favourite spawning places,from other causes than “by reason of the cold;”and the question should be tried, not by comparingtwo different districts of the same river, but allthe portions of one river, with the entire courseof another of dissimilar character. The exceptiveclause in Mr Loch’s proposed act in flavour ofthe river Ness, certainly stood upon the suppositionof that river being an early one for the breedingsalmon, as well as the new-run winter fish; for itenacts not only that the Ness should open more thana month earlier than its neighbours, but also thatit shall close more than a month before them.This latter restriction would of course be uselessand impolitic, if the parent fish were not conceivedto be about to spawn. But it should also be bornein mind, that the same causes (such as the extentand depth of feeding lakes) which produce a highertemperature in winter, cause a lower one in summerand the earlier part of autumn, and that shallow uplandstreams are warmer during the latter periods thanthose which flow from deeper and more affluent sources.We believe that the fish of all rivers spawn sooneston the higher portions of their water courses, whetherthese be comparatively warm or cold. The earliestindividuals are in general such as have escaped thenets and other accidents below, and have made theirwatery way in good time to proper spawning places.In several rivers with which we are acquainted, agreat majority of the breeding fish ascend in Augustand September. But many of those which make theirappearance in July, would be early spawners if theywere allowed to escape the various dangers which besettheir path in life—almost all the salmonof that month being captured by one means or another.Mr Young, in our MS. notes already quoted, states,in regard to the range of the breeding season, thathe has seen salmon perfectly full of spawn, ascendingthe rivers in October, November, December, January,and February. Now the fish of the last-namedmonth may have spawned as late as March, although ourcorrespondent adds that he has never seen fishon the spawning beds later than February, nor earlierthan September. He has seen them in the act ofspawning in these and all the intermediate months.
As we have said above, the greater part of these breedersascend in August and September, and the throngof the spawning process takes place in November andDecember. The earlier spawning begins in Septemberwith only a few pairs, generally grilse; and from thatperiod the numbers increase till the first week ofDecember, when the operation has attained its height.It then gradually decreases until February, when perhapsonly a few pairs are seen at work. Mr Young informsus that sea-trout are seen spawning a week earlierthan grilse, and grilse a week earlier than salmon.He does not mean that all grilse spawn before salmonbegin, but that they are observed working a week beforethe latter have commenced.
Mr Shaw informs us, (in his last letter,) that itis an exceedingly rare occurrence to find an unspawnedfish in the rivers of Dumfriesshire in the month ofMarch. On one occasion, however, about twentyyears ago, he observed a female salmon spawning inthe Nith about the 10th or 12th of March, but unaccompaniedby any male. He can also call to mind a pair ofsalmon having been observed spawning in the Ettrickso late as Selkirk March fair, which is held duringthe first week of April. This, however, we believeto be a very rare occurrence, notwithstanding Mr Scrope’sstatement, that he has in the Tweed “caught fullroaners as late as May.” These seem tobe anomalous or accidental instances, and we are notaware that any evidence has been brought forward toprove that they still seek the spawning beds in pairsat that period, or produce what may be called autumnalfry.
The usual spawning period in the south-west of Scotlandextends from about the middle of November till themiddle of February; but the busiest months of thatperiod are December and January, when the salmon spawnin great numbers in the Nith, about Drumlanrig.From the circ*mstances of the largest salmon visitingthe rivers at that season, Mr Shaw is induced to thinkthat they are likewise the oldest; and that, as theyincrease in years, they desire to remain the longerin the sea, visiting the fresh waters only duringthe breeding season. The spawning period of sea-trout,he informs us, is from about the middle of Octoberuntil the middle of December, the principal periodbeing the whole of November, when the various streamsand tributaries are taken possession of both by sea-troutand herling, spawning in deep or shallow water, accordingto their individual size.
But in reference to the point in question, that coldaccelerates the spawning process, let us take fora moment the general basin of the Oykel waters intoview. We know that for several seasons back, theearliest spawning in that quarter has occurred in theCarron, in September. Now, it is certain, thatduring that month the Carron waters are warmer thanthose of the Shin. So also the Oykel (properlyso called) is itself two degrees warmer in Octoberthan the Shin, and yet the latter is the later of
the two. It thus appears that warmth may be advantageousboth as inducing early spawning in autumn, and an earlyentrance of fresh-run fish in winter; although a singleriver may not possess both attributes for the reasonhinted at—the deepest waters, though protectedfrom winter’s cold, being also screened fromsummer’s heat. Mr Scrope may thereforebe regarded as right in his facts as to the earlierseason of the upland streams, although his theoreticalexplanation of them is not conclusive.The lateness of the spawning season in the Shin may,in some measure, be owing to the early breeding fishgoing up into the loch, from whence, after a time,they fall back upon the spawning places in the fordsof the river. The same thing happens in the lowerregions of the Tay—the fish fall back fromthe loch, and the ford between Taymouth Castle andKenmore is by far the latest in that river. Salmonhave been seen to spawn there in February. Inregard to the general influence of the atmosphere,we may here remark that frosty weather is good forspawning; because the fish go then into the deeperor central portions of the fords, by which procedurethe spawning beds are never dry,—whereas,in time of spates, salmon are apt to deposit theirspawn along the margins, and thus the roe is frequentlydestroyed by the subsiding of the waters.
However, the real importance of an early river haslittle or no connexion with the periods of the spawningprocess; because it is not so much the breeding fishthat are of individual value in winter, as those which,having no intention or requirement to spawn until thefollowing autumn, enter the fresh waters because theyhave already completed the days of their purificationin the sea. Although, when viewed in the relationof time, they may seem to form the continuous successionof spawning fish which have come up gravidfrom the ocean during the later months of autumn,they are in truth rather the avant-couriersof the newer and more highly-conditioned shoals whichshow themselves in early spring. We believe thatfresh-run fish may be found in all our larger riversduring every month throughout the year, though we cannotclear up their somewhat anomalous history, nor explainwhy the breeding season, as among land creatures ofidentical natures, should not take place more uniformlyabout the same time. It is by no means improbable,however, that, as grilse seek our fresh waters at differentperiods from adult salmon, so salmon of a certainstanding may observe different periods of migrationfrom those of dissimilar age.
If, as many suppose, the earliest fish are those whichhave soonest spawned during the preceding autumn,and have since descended towards and recovered inthe sea,—then a precocious spawning wouldnecessarily lead to the speediest supply of cleanfish in mid-winter; but the fact referred to has notbeen ascertained, and it may therefore still be asreasonably alleged that the winter fish (an opinionsupported by the fact of their unusually large size)have continued in the sea since spring. At leasta majority of them, (for they differ somewhat in theiraspect and condition,) instead of having spawned soonestin autumn, have probably rather spawned last of allduring the preceding spring, and so required for theirrecovery a corresponding retardation of their sojournin the sea. The reasons why grilse seldom showthemselves till the summer is well advanced, are veryobvious, now that we have become conversant with theirtrue history. They were only smolts in the immediatelypreceding spring, and are becoming grilse from weekto week, and of various sizes, according to the lengthof their continuance in the sea. But they requireat least a couple of months to intervene between theirdeparture from the rivers in April or May, and theirreturn thither;—which return consequentlycommences, though sparingly, in June, and preponderatesin July and August.
But we are making slow progress with our intendedexposition of Mr Scrope’s beautiful and instructivevolume. Although salmon and salmon streams formthe subject and “main region of his song,”he yet touches truthfully, albeit with brevity, uponthe kindred nature of sea-trout, which are of twospecies—the salmon-trout and the bull-trout.The fry of the former, called orange fins, (which,like the genuine parr, remain two continuous yearsin the river,) greatly resemble the young of the commonfresh-water trout. “Like the grilse, itreturns to the river the summer of its spring migration,weighing about a pound and a half upon an average.”—P.63. We think our author rather over-estimatestheir weight at this early period. Herlings (forso they are also named on their first ascent fromthe sea) rarely weigh one pound, unless they remainfor a longer time than usual in salt water. Inthis state they bear the same relation to adult sea-troutas grilse do to salmon, and they spawn while herlings.They afterwards increase about a pound and a halfannually, and in the summer of their sixth year (fromthe ovum) have been found to weigh six pounds.[16]Whether this is their ordinary ultimate term of increase,or whether, having every year to pass up and downthe dangerous, because clear and shallow waters, exposedto many mischances, and, it may be, the “imminentdeadly breach” of the cruive-dyke, and thusperish in their prime, we cannot say: but thiswe know, that they are rarely ever met with abovethe weight of six or seven pounds.
[Footnote 16: See Mr Shaw’s paper “Onthe Growth and Migration of the Sea-trout of the Solway.”—Transactionsof the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Vol.XV. Part iii. p. 369.]
Of the generation and growth of the other and greatersea-trout (Salmo eriox,) we have not yet acquiredthe same precise knowledge, but its history may fairlybe inferred to be extremely similar.
“These fish,” says Mr Scrope,“are found in many salmon rivers, but notin all. It is very abundant in the Tweed, whichit visits principally at two seasons; in thespring about the month of May, and again in themonth of October, when the males are very plentiful;but the females are scarce till about the beginningor middle of November. With salmon it is the reverse,as their females leave the sea before the males.The bull trout is also more regular in his habitsthan the salmon; for the fisherman can calculatealmost to a day when the large black male troutwill leave the sea. The foul fish rise eagerlyat the fly, but the clean ones by no means so.They weigh from two to twenty-four pounds, andoccasionally, I presume, but very rarely indeed,more. The largest I ever heard of was taken inthe Hallowstell fishing water, at the mouth ofthe Tweed, in April 1840, and weighed twenty-threepounds and a half. The heaviest bull troutI ever encountered myself weighed sixteen pounds,and I had a long and severe contest with his majesty.He was a clean fish, and I hooked him in a castin Mertoun water called the Willow Bush,not in the mouth but in the dorsal fin.Brethren of the craft, guess what sore work I hadwith him! He went here and there with apparentcomfort and ease to his own person, but not tomine. I really did not know what to makeof him. There never was such a Hector. Icannot say exactly how long I had him on thehook; it seemed a week at least. At lengthJohn Halliburton, who was then my fisherman, wadedinto the river up to his middle, and cleeked him whilsthe was hanging in the stream, and before he washalf beat.”—P. 66.
Many simple-minded people, with something of a sentimentalturn, (they are almost always fond of raw oysters,and gloat over a roasted turkey, although they knowthat it was bled to to death by cutting the roots ofits tongue,) look upon angling as a “cruel sport.”Let us see, with Mr Scrope, how this matter reallystands.
“I take a little wool and feather,and tying it in a particular manner upon a hook,make an imitation of a fly; then I throw it acrossthe river, and let it sweep round the stream with alively motion. This I have an undoubted rightto do, for the river belongs to me or my friend;but mark what follows. Up starts a monsterfish with his murderous jaws, and makes a dash atmy little Andromeda. Thus he is the aggressor,not I; his intention is evidently to commit murder.He is caught in the act of putting that intentioninto execution. Having wantonly intrudedhimself on my hook, which I contend he had no rightto do, he darts about in various directions,evidently surprised to find that the fly, whichhe hoped to make an easy conquest of, is muchstronger than himself. I naturally attempt toregain this fly, unjustly withheld from me.The fish gets tired and weak in his lawless endeavoursto deprive me of it. I take advantage ofhis weakness, I own, and drag him, somewhat loth,to the shore, when one rap on the back of thehead ends him in an instant. If he is atrout, I find his stomach distended with flies.That beautiful one called the May fly, who is by naturealmost ephemeral—who rises up fromthe bottom of the the shallows, spreads its lightwings, and flits in the sunbeam in enjoymentof its new existence—no sooner descendsto the surface of the water to deposit its eggs,than the unfeeling fish, at one fell spring,numbers him prematurely with the dead. Yousee, then, what a wretch a fish is; no ogre is morebloodthirsty, for he will devour his nephews,nieces, and even his own children, when he cancatch them; and I take some credit for havingshown him up. Talk of a wolf, indeed a lion,or a tiger! Why, these, are all mild andsaintly in comparison with a fish! Whata bitter fright must the smaller fry live in!They crowd to the shallows, lie hid among theweeds, and dare not say the river is their own.I relieve them of their apprehensions, and thusbecome popular with the small shoals. Whenwe see a fish quivering upon dry land, he looks sohelpless without arms or legs, and so demure inexpression, adding hypocrisy to his other sins,that we naturally pity him; then kill and eathim, with Harvey sauce, perhaps. Our pity ismisplaced,—the fish is not. Thereis an immense trout in Loch Awe in Scotland,which is so voracious, and swallows his own specieswith such avidity, that he has obtained the name ofSalmo ferox. I pull about this unnaturalmonster till he is tired, land him, and givehim the coup-de-grace. Is this cruel?Cruelty should be made of sterner stuff.”—P.83.
Mr Scrope is known as an accomplished artist as wellas an experienced angler, and we need not now to tellour readers that he is also a skilful author.It does not fall to the lot of all men to handle withequal dexterity the brush, the pen, and the rod—tosay nothing of the rifle—still less ofthe leister, under cloud of night. There is muchin the present volume to interest even those who areso unfortunate as to have never seen either, grilseor salmon, except as pupils or practitioners in thesilver-fork school. His reminiscences of his ownearly life and manlier years, under the soubriquetof Harry Otter, are pleasantly told, and his adventurousmeetings with poachers and painters are amusing inthemselves, as well as instructive in their tendencyto illustrate, not only the deeper mysteries of piscatorialart, but the life and conversation of the amphibiouspeople who dwell by the sides of rivers. Hisfirst arrival in “fair Melrose,” the moonlightlustre of which was then unsung, is thus described—
“It was late, and I looked forthon the tranquil scene from my window. Themoonbeams played upon the distant hilltops, but thelower masses slept as yet in shadow; again thepale light caught the waters of the Tweed, thelapse of whose streams fell faintly on the ear,like the murmuring of a sea-shell. In front roseup the mouldering abbey, deep in shadow; its pinnacles,and buttresses, and light tracery, but dimly seenin the solemn mass. A faint light twinkledfor a space among the tomb-stones, soon it wasextinct, and two figures passed off in the shadow,who had been digging a grave even at that latehour. As the night advanced, a change beganto take place. Clouds heaved up over thehorizon; the wind was heard in murmurs; the rack hurriedathwart the moon; and utter darkness fell upon river,mountain, and haugh. Then the gust swelledlouder, and the storm struck fierce and suddenagainst the casem*nt. But as the morrowdawned, though rain-drops still hung upon the leaf,the clouds sailed away, the sun broke forth,and all was fair and tranquil.”—P.97.
The fisherman was sent for express, and his generalgarb and fly-bedizened hat, are soon portrayed; whilethe “waxing” of the Tweed, and how theEildon Hills were of old cloven by the art of grammarye,conclude the fourth chapter, and bring us only to thehundredth page.
The ensuing section of the work opens with some generalobservations on the scenery of that now noted districtof the south of Scotland, blended with the gracefulexpression of those melancholy remembrances, we doubtnot deeply felt, which must ever cast a dark shadowover the minds of the surviving associates of theGreat Minstrel. Alas! where can we turn ourselveswithout being reminded of the transitory nature ofthis our low estate, of its dissevered ties, its buriedhopes, and lost affections! How many bitter endurances,reflected from the bosom of the past, are ever minglingwith all those ongoings of human life and action whichwe call enjoyments! How mixed in their effectsare even the natural glories of this our fair creation!What golden sunset casts not its far-beaming splendour,not only on the great mountains and the glitteringsea, but also breaks, as if in mockery, into ghastlychambers where the desolation of death, “thewages of sin,” is miserably brooding! Andyet how solemnizing, how elevating in their influences,are all the highest beauties both of art and nature,notwithstanding the awe, approaching to fearfulness,with which they not seldom affect our spirits.The veneration with which we gaze even on insensatewalls which once formed the loved abode of geniusand virtue, is a natural tribute to a noble nature,and flows from one of the purest and most sustainingsources of emotion by which our humanity is distinguished.It almost looks as if, in accordance with the Platonicphilosophy, there remained to man, from an originaland more lofty state of existence, some dim remembranceof perfection.
“This inborn and implanted recollection of thegodlike,” says Schlegel, “remains everdark and mysterious; for man is surrounded by the sensibleworld, which being in itself changeable and imperfect,encircles him with images of imperfection, changeableness,corruption, and error, and thus casts perpetual obscurityover that light which is within him. Wherever,in the sensible and natural world, he perceives anything which bears a resemblance to the attributesof the God-head, which can serve as a symbol of ahigh perfection, the old recollections of his soulare awakened and refreshed. The love of the beautifulfills and animates the soul of the beholder with anawe and reverence which belong not to the beautifulitself—at least not to any sensible manifestationof it—but to that unseen original of whichmaterial beauty is the type. From this admiration,this new-awakened recollection, and this instantaneousinspiration, spring all higher knowledge and truth.These are not the product of cold, leisurely, andvoluntary reflection, but occupy at once a stationfar superior to what either thought, or art, or speculation,can attain; and enter into our inmost souls with thepower and presence of a gift from the divinity.”
Mr Scrope’s first visit to the Tweed was madebefore the “Ariosto of the North” hadsung those undying strains which have since added somuch associated interest to the finely varied coursesof that fair river. But many fond lovers of nature,then as now,
“Though wantingthe accomplishment of verse,”
were well acquainted with all its unrecorded beauties.
“What stranger,” asks ourauthor, “just emerging from the angularenclosures of the south, scored and subdued by tillage,would not feel his heart expand at the first sightof the heathy mountains, swelling out into vastproportions, over which man had no dominion?At the dawn of day he sees, perhaps, the mistascending slowly up the dusky river, taking its departureto some distant undefined region; below the mountainrange his sight rests upon a deep and narrow glen,gloomy with woods, shelving down to its centre.What is hid in that mysterious mass the eye maynot visit; but a sound comes down from afar,as of the rushing and din of waters. It is thevoice of the Tweed, as it bursts from the melancholyhills, and comes rejoicing down the sunny vale,taking its free course through the haugh, andglittering amongst sylvan bowers—swellingout at times fair and ample, and again contractedinto gorges and sounding cataracts—lostfor a space in its mazes behind a jutting brae,and re-appearing in dashes of light through bollsof trees opposed to it in shadow.
“Thus it holds its fitful course.The stranger might wander in the quiet vale,and far below the blue summits he might see the shaggyflock grouped upon some sunny knoll, or strugglingamong the scattered birch-trees, and lower downon the haugh, his eye perchance might rest awhileon some cattle standing on a tongue of land bythe margin of the river, with their dark and richbrown forms opposed to the brightness of the waters.All these outward pictures he might see and feel;but he would see no farther: the lore hadnot spread its witchery over the scene—thelegends slept in oblivion. The stark moss-trooper,and the clanking stride of the warrior, had notagain started into life; nor had the light blazedgloriously in the sepulchre of the wizard withthe mighty book. The slogan swelled not anewupon the gale, sounding, through the glens andover the misty mountains; nor had the minstrel’sharp made music in the stately halls of Newark,or beside the lonely braes of Yarrow.
“Since that time I have seenthe Cottage of Abbotsford, with the rustic porch,lying peacefully on the haugh between the lonehills, and have listened to the wild rush of the Tweedas it hurried beneath it. As time progressed,and as hopes arose, I have seen that cottageconverted into a picturesque mansion, with everyluxury and comfort attached to it, and have partakenof its hospitality; the unproductive hills I haveviewed covered with thriving plantations, andthe whole aspect of the country civilized, withoutlosing its romantic character. But, amidstall these revolutions, I have never perceived any changein the mind of him who made them,—’thechoice and master spirit of the age.’There he dwelt in the hearts of the people, diffusinglife and happiness around him; he made a home besidethe border river, in a country and a nation thathave derived benefit from his presence, and consequencefrom his genius. From his chamber he lookedout upon the grey ruins of the Abbey, and thesun which set in splendour beneath the Eildon Hills.Like that sun, his course has been run; and, thoughdisastrous clouds came across him in his career,he went down in unfading glory.
“These golden hours, alas! havelong passed away; but often have I visions ofthe sylvan valley, and its glittering waters, withdreams of social intercourse. Abbotsford, Mertoun,Chiefswood, Huntly-Burn, Allerley—whenshall I forget ye?”—P. 102.
How many share these sad and vain regrets! Thevery voice of the living waters, which once glitteredso rejoicingly through the green pastures, or reflectedin their still expanse the lichen-covered crag or variedwoodland, seems now to utter an “illoetabilemurmur,” while
“A trouble not of cloudsor weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun’spathetic light,
Engender’d, hangs o’erEildon’s triple height.”
On the 21st of September 1832, Sir Walter Scott breathedhis last, in the presence of all his children.“It was a beautiful day,” we have beenelsewhere told, “so warm that every window waswide open, and so perfectly still, that the soundof all others most delicious to his ear, the gentleripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctlyaudible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldestson kissed and closed his eyes. No sculptor evermodelled a more majestic image of repose."[17]
[Footnote 17: The Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.,by his literary executor.]
We must here unwillingly conclude our account of MrScrope’s volume, although we have scarcely evenentered on many of its most important portions.Bait fishing for salmon, and the darker, though torch-illumined,mysteries of the leister, occupy the terminal chapters.A careful study of the whole will amply repay the angler,the naturalist, the artist, and the general admirerof the inexhaustible beauties of rural scenery—nowherewitnessed or enjoyed to such advantage as by the sideof a first-rate river.
* * * * *
THE WHIPPIAD, A SATIRICAL POEM.
BY REGINALD HEBER, BISHOP OF CALCUTTA.
In offering this little poem to the public, some fewwords, by way of explanation, are deemed necessary.Most of the circ*mstances alluded to in it will befamiliar to Oxford readers of Bishop Heber’sstanding, but especially to those of his own college,Brazenose. The origin of the poem was simplythis:—A young friend of his, B——dP——t, went to call upon him at Brazenose,and, without being aware of the heinous crime he wascommitting, cracked a four-horse whip in the quadrangle.This moved the ire of a certain doctor, a fellow andtutor, and at that time also dean of the college,commonly called Dr Toe from a defect in oneof his feet. The doctor had unfortunately madehimself obnoxious to most of those of his own college,under-graduates as well as others, by his absurd conductand regulations. On the following day Mr P——tcracked the whip in the quadrangle, when the doctorissued from his rooms in great wrath, and after remonstratingwith Mr P——t, and endeavouring totake the whip from him, a scuffle ensued, in whichthe whip was broken, and the doctor overpowered andthrown down by the victorious P——t,who had fortunately taken his degree of Master ofArts. Heber, then an under-graduate of only afew terms’ standing, wrote the first canto thesame evening, and the intrinsic merit of the poemwill recommend it to most readers. But it willbe doubly interesting when considered as one of thefirst, if not the very first, of thepoetical productions of that eminent and distinguishedscholar. In it may be traced the dawnings ofthat genius which was afterwards to delight the worldin an enlarged sphere of usefulness.
K.
CANTO FIRST.
Where whiten’d Cainthe curse of heaven defies,[18]
And leaden slumber seals hisbrother’s eyes,
Where o’er the porchin brazen splendour glows
The vast projection of themystic nose,
Triumph erewhile of Bacon’sfabled arts,[19]
Now well-hung symbol of thestudent’s parts;
’Midst those unhallow’dwalls and gloomy cells
Where every thing but Contemplation
Dire was the feud our sculpturedAlfred saw,[20]
And thy grim-bearded bust,Erigena,
When scouts came flockingfrom the empty hall,
And porters trembled at theDoctor’s call;
Ah! call’d in vain,with laugh supprest they stood
And bit their nails, a dirty-finger’dbrood.
E’en Looker gloriedin his master’s plight,[21]
And John beheld, and chuckledat the sight.[22]
Genius of discord! thou whosemurky flight
With iron pennons more obscuredthe night—
Thou, too, of British birth,who dost reside
In Syms’s or in Goodwin’sblushing tide,[23]
Say, spirit, say, for thyenlivening bowl
With fell ambition fired thyfavourite’s soul,
From what dread cause beganthe bloodless fray
Pregnant with shame, withlaughter, and dismay?
Calm was the night, and allwas sunk to rest,
Save Shawstone’s party,and the Doctor’s breast:
He saw with pain his ancientglory fled,
And thick oblivion gatheringround his head.
Alas! no more his pupils crowdingcome,
To wait indignant in theirtyrant’s room,[24]
No more in hall the flutteringtheme he tears,
Or lolling, picks his teethat morning prayers;
Unmark’d, unfear’d,on dogs he vents his hate,
And spurns the terrier fromhis guarded gate.
But now to listless indolencea prey,
Stretch’d on his couch,he sad and darkling lay;
As not unlike in venom andin size,
Close in his hole the hungryspider lies.
“And oh!” he cries,“am I so powerless grown,
That I am fear’d bycooks and scouts alone?
Oh! for some nobler strife,some senior foe,
To swell by his defeat thename of Toe!”
He spoke—the powersof mischief heard his cries,
And steep’d in sullensleep his rheumy eyes.
He slept—but restednot, his guardian sprite
Rose to his view in visionsof the night,
And thus, with many a tearand many a sigh,
He heard, or seem’dto hear, the mimic demon cry:—[25]
“Is this a time fordistant strife to pray,
When all my power is meltingfast away,
Like mists dissolving at thebeams of day,
When masters dare their ancientrights resume,
And bold intruders fill thecommon room,
Whilst thou, poor wretch,forsaken, shunn’d by all,
Must pick thy commons in theempty hall?
Nay more! regardless of thyhours and thee,
They scorn the ancient, frugalhour of three.[26]
Good Heavens! at four theircostly treat is spread,
And juniors lord it at thetable’s head;
See fellows’ benchessleeveless striplings bear,[27]
Whilst Smith and Sutton fromthe canvass stare.[28]
Hear’st thou throughall this consecrated ground,
The rattling thong’sunwonted clangour sound?
Awake! arise! though manya danger lour,
By one bright deed to vindicatethy power.”
He ceased; as loud the fatalwhip resounds,
With throbbing heart the eagerDoctor bounds.
So when some bear from Russia’sclime convey’d,
Politer grown, has learntthe dancer’s trade,
If weary with his toil perchance,he hears
His master’s lash re-echoingin his ears,
Though loath, he lifts hispaws, and bounds in air,
And hops and rages whilstthe rabble stare.
CANTO THE SECOND.
You the great foe of this Assembly!I the great foe? Why the great foe?In that being one of the meanest, barest, poorest,——Thou goest foremost.—SHAKSPEARE’SCoriolanus.
Forth from his cell the wilywarrior hies,
And swift to seize the unwaryvictim flies.
For sure he deem’d,since now declining day
Had dimn’d the brightnessof his visual ray,
He deem’d on helplessunder-graduate foes
To purge the bile that inhis liver rose.
Fierce schemes of vengeancein his bosom swell,
Jobations dire, and Impositionsfell.
And now a cross he’dmeditate, and swear[29]
Six ells of Virgil shouldthe crime repair.[30]
Along the grass with heedlesshaste he trod,[31]
And with unequal footstepspress’d the sod—
That hallow’d sod, thatconsecrated ground,
By eclogues, fines, and crossesfenced around.
When lo! he sees, yet scarcelycan believe,
The destined victim wearsa master’s sleeve;
So when those heroes, Britain’spride and care,
In dark Batavian meadows urgethe war;
Oft as they roam’d,in fogs and darkness lost,
They found a Frenchman whatthey deem’d a post.
The Doctor saw; and, filledwith wild amaze,
He fix’d on P——t[32]his quick convulsive gaze.
Thus shrunk the tremblingthief, when first he saw,
Hung high in air, the wavingAbershaw.[33]
Thus the pale bawd, with agonizingheart,
Shrieks when she hears thebeadle’s rumbling cart.
“And oh! what noise,”he cries, “what sounds unblest,
Presume to break a senior’sholy rest?[34]
Full well you know, who thusmy anger dare,
To horse-whips what antipathyI bear.
Shall I, in vain, immersedin logic lore,
O’er Saunderson andAllrick try to pore—
I, who the major to the minorjoin,
And prove conclusively thatseven’s not nine?
With expectation big, andhope elate,
The critic world my learnedlabours wait:
And shall not Strabo thenrespect command,
And shall not Strabo staythy insulting hand?
Strabo![35] whose pages, eighteenyears and more,
Have been my public shame,my private bore?
Hence, to thy room, audaciouswretch! retire,
Nor think thy sleeves shallsave thee from mine ire.”
The Buttery trembled to itstottering base,
The frighted rats in cornerslaid them down,
And all but P——twas daunted at his frown;
Firm and intrepid stood thereverend man,
As thrice he stroked his face,and thus began:
“And hopest thou then,”the injured Bernard said,
“To launch thy thunderson a master’s head?
O, wont to deal the tropeand dart the fist,
Half-learn’d logician,half-form’d pugilist,
Censor impure, who dar’st,with slanderous aim,
And envy’s dart, assaulta H——r’s name.
Senior, self-called, can Iforget the day,
When titt’ring under-graduatesmock’d thy sway,
And drove thee foaming fromthe Hall away?
Gods, with what raps the conscioustables rung,
From every form how shrillthe cuckoo sung![36]
Oh! sounds unblest—Oh!notes of deadliest fear—
Harsh to the tutor’sor the lover’s ear,
The hint, perchance, thy warmesthopes may quell,
And cuckoo mingle with thethoughts of Bel."[37]
At that loved name, with furydoubly keen,
Fierce on the Deacon rush’dthe raging Dean;
Nor less the dauntless Deacondare withstand
The brandish’d weightof Toe’s uplifted hand.
[38]The ghost of themes departed,that, of yore,
Disgraced alike, the Doctorpraised or tore,
On paper wings flit dimlythrough the night,
And, hovering low in air,beheld the fight.
Each ill-starr’d verseits filthy den forsakes,
Black from the spit, or reekingfrom the jakes;
The blot-stain’d trooptheir shadowy pages spread,
And call for vengeance onthe murderer’s head.
CANTO THE THIRD.
digito male pertinaci.—Hor.
[39]Shade of Boileau! (whotold in deathless lays
A choral pulpit’s militarypraise,)
Thou, too, that dared’sta cloister’d warfare sing,
And dip thy bucket in Castalia’sspring!
Forgive, blest bards, if,with unequal fire,
I feebly strike the imitativelyre;
Though strong to celebrateno vulgar fray,
Since P——tand conquest swell the exulting lay.
Not link’d,alas in friendship’s sacred band,
With hands fast lock’dthe furious parsons stand;
Each grasps the whip withunrelenting might—
The whip, the cause and guerdonof the fight—
But either warrior spendshis strength in vain,
And panting draws his lengthen’dbreath with pain,
Till now the Dean, with throatextended wide,
And faltering shout, for speedysuccour cried
[40]To them who in yon gratefulcell repose,
Where Greenland odours feastthe stranger’s nose—
“Scouts, porters, shoe-blacks,whatsoe’er your trade,
All, all, attend, your master’sfist to aid!”
The half-breech’d legionsswarm’d like moths around;
But, ah! the half-breech’dlegions, call’d in vain,
Dismay’d and useless,fill’d the cumber’d plain;
And while for servile aidthe Doctor calls,
[41]By P——tsubverted, prone to earth he sprawls.
[42]E’en then were heard,so Brazenose students sing,
The grass-plot chains in bodingnotes to ring;
E’en then we mark’d,where, gleaming through the night,
Aerial crosses shed a luridlight.
Those wrestlers, too, whomnaked we behold
Through many a summer’snight and winter’s cold,
Now changed appear’d,his pristine languor fled,
Expiring Abel raised his sinkinghead,
While with fix’d eyeshis murderer seemed to stand,
The bone half dropping fromhis nerveless hand.
So, when of old, as Latianrecords tell,
At Pompey’s base thelaurel’d despot fell,
Reviving freedom mock’dher sinking foe,
And demons shriek’das Brutus dealt the blow.
His trencher-bonnet tumblingfrom his crown,
Subdued by Bernard, sunk theDoctor down;
But yet, though breathlesson the hostile plain,
The whip he could not seizehe snapt in twain—
“Where now, base themester,”—P——texulting said,
And waved the rattling fragmentso’er his head—
“Where now thy threats?Yet learn from me to know
How glorious ’tis tospare a fallen foe.
Uncudgel’d, rise—yethear my high command—
[43]Hence to thy room! ordread thy conqueror’s hand.”
[44]His hair all gravel, andall green his clothes,
In doleful dumps the downcastDoctor rose,
Then slunk unpitied from thehated plain,
And inly groaning sought hiscouch again;
Yet, as he went, he backwardcast his view,
And bade his ancient powera last adieu.
So, when some sturdy swainthrough miry roads
A grunting porker to the marketgoads,
With twisted neck, splash’dhide, and progress slow,
Oft backward looks the swine,and half disdains to go.
“Ah me! how fallen,”with choaking sobs he said,
And sunk exhausted on hiswelcome bed;
“Ere yet my shame, wide-circlingthrough the town,
Spreads from the strong contagionof the gown,
Oh! be it mine, unknowingand unknown,
[45]With deans deceased, tosleep beneath the stone.”
As tearful thus, and halfconvulsed with spite,
He lengthen’d out withplaints the livelong night,
At that still hour of night,when dreams are oft’nest true,
A well-known spectre rosebefore his view,
As in some lake, when hush’din every breeze,
The bending ape his form reflectedsees,[46]
Such and so like the Doctor’sangel shone,
And by his gait the guardiansprite was known,
Benignly bending o’erhis aching head—
“Sleep, Henry, sleep,my best beloved,” he said,[47]
“Soft dreams of blissshall soothe thy midnight hour;
Connubial transport and collegiatepower.
Fly fast, ye months, tillHenry shall receive
The joys a bride and beneficecan give.
But first to sanction thyprophetic name,
In yon tall pile a doctor’shonours claim;[48]
E’en now methinks theawe-struck crowd behold
Thy powder’d caxon andthy cane of gold.
E’en now—buthark! the chimney sparrows sing,
St Mary’s chimes theirearly matins ring—
I go—but thou——throughmany a festive night
Collegiate bards shall chantthy luckless fight—
Though many a jest shall spreadthe table round,
And many a bowl to B——r——d’shealth be crown’d—
O’er juniors still maintainthy dread command,
Still boast, my son, thy cross-compellinghand.[49]
Adieu!”—Hisshadowy robes the phantom spread,
And o’er the Doctordrowsy influence shed;
Scared at the sound, far offhis terrors flew,
And love and hope once morehis curtains drew.
[Footnote 18: In the quadrangle of BrazenoseCollege, there is a statue of Cain destroying Abelwith a bone, or some such instrument. It is oflead, and white-washed, and no doubt that thosewho have heard that Cain was struck black, will besurprised to find that in Brazenose he is white asinnocence.]
[Footnote 19: All the world has rung with thefame of Roger Bacon, formerly of this college, andof his exploits in astrology, chemistry, and metallurgy,inter alia his brazen head, of which alone thenose remains, a precious relic, and (to use the wordsof the excellent author of the Oxford Guide)still conspicuous over the portal, where it erectsitself as a symbolical illustration of the Salernianadage “Noscitur a naso.”]
[Footnote 20: Two medallions of Alfred and Erigenaornament the outside of the Hall, so as to overlookthe field of battle.]
[Footnote 21: The Porter of the college.]
[Footnote 22: The doctor’s servant or scout.]
[Footnote 23: Two wine-merchants residing inOxford.]
[Footnote 24: To those gentlemen who, for halfan hour together, have sometimes had the honour ofwaiting in the Doctor’s antechamber, “Doneclibeat vigilare tyranno,” this passage will needno explanation; and of his acts of graceful dignityand unaffected piety at chapel, perhaps the less thatis said the better.]
[Footnote 25: It was a Rosicrucian tenet, thatthe demon was assimilated to the object of his care;and in this we are confirmed by the authority of theDoctor himself, who treated very largely on the subjectof demons in his lecture on Plato’s Phaedon.The powers of his mind were never more successfullydisplayed than when he illustrated his positions bythe scriptural instance of the two Galilean demoniacs,who abode in the tombs night and day. It wasreserved for his ingenuity and learning to discoverthat those unfortunate Bedlamites were not mortals,but departed spirits.]
[Footnote 26: The real friend of collegiate discipline,whose feelings our author would blush to offend, willbe pleased to recollect that this deviation from theusual dinner hour took place in the long vacation;that it was introduced for the convenience of study,and that the doctor, could he so far have forgottenhis dignity as to have joined the four o’clockparty, would have found decorous manners, and morethan one brother fellow of the company.]
[Footnote 27: Wisely was it ordained by our founders,that, young men being too apt to laugh in their sleevesat the conduct of their superiors, the academicaldress of the under-graduates should, as far as possible,obviate that inconvenience. Thus, also, Tullyhath it, “Cedant arma togae.”]
[Footnote 28: The two founders of Brazenose College.]
[Footnote 29: It is necessary to explain to non-academicreaders, that it is customary for the tutor of a collegeto put an X opposite the name of an offending memberin the Buttery Book, as it is called, by which heis interdicted from having bread buttered, a kind ofexcommunication.]
[Footnote 30: For the meaning of this expressionwe refer the reader to the most preposterous impositionever known in the annals of collegiate punishment;the original MS. of which is preserved in the museumof an eminent collector in Kent. In short, asin Cambridge they sell their butter by the yard, soat Brazenose the cloth measure has been applied withsingular success to the works of genius; and perhapsthe system may be so far improved upon, that a futureunder-graduate may have to toil through a furlongof Strabo, or a perch of logic.]
[Footnote 31: This alludes to the hobbling gaitof the Doctor, in consequence of the defect in hisfoot.]
[Footnote 32: The Rev. B——dP——t.]
[Footnote 33: Alluding to a notorious malefactor,executed about this times and hung in chains on WimbledonCommon.]
[Footnote 34: Prophetically spoken, as the Doctorwas then only a junior fellow.]
[Footnote 35: The Doctor, finding that Horaceprescribed a nine years’ delay for play or poem,inferred that more than twice that time was necessaryfor the learned labours of the editor of Strabo.]
[Footnote 36: For the wonderful answers of thelearned cuckoo, at logic lecture, we refer to his(the cuckoo’s) equally edified class-fellows.]
[Footnote 37: The reader will perhaps be astonishedto find, that the Doctor as supposed to flatter himselfwith the hope that his attentions were not altogetherunacceptable to a young lady of singular eleganceand personal accomplishments, here alluded to.]
[Footnote 38: “Obscoenaeque volucres signadabant.”]
[Footnote 39: The poet invokes his heroi-comicpredecessors, the author of the Lutrin, andAlessandro Tassoni, whose Secchia Rapita, orRape of the Bucket, is well known to the amateursof Italian poetry.]
[Footnote 40: No classical stranger could everpass the porter in his lodge at Brazenose, withoutbeing sensibly reminded of a favourite passage inHorace, and exclaiming,
“Quis multa gracilis—puerin rosa,
Perfusus liquidis—odoribus
Grato——subantro.”
]
[Footnote 41: “Procumbit humi bos.”This is not the first time the Doctor has been overcomeby port.]
[Footnote 42:
“Hine exaudiri gemitus,et saeva sonare
Verbera, tum stridor ferritractaeque catenae.”
]
[Footnote 43: With great practical justice andclassical elegance, the words of the assailant areretorted upon himself—
“Suo sibi gladio huncjugulo.”
]
[Footnote 44: The bouleversem*nt is supposedto have happened on the green adjoining the gravel.]
[Footnote 45: Dead deans, broken bottles, dilapidatedlantherns, under-graduated ladders, and other lumber,have generally found their level under the pavementof Brazenose cloisters.]
[Footnote 46: Like Virgil’s nightingaleor owl—
“Feralicarmine bubo
Flet noctem.”
]
[Footnote 47: “Post mediam visus noctemcum somnia vera.”]
[Footnote 48: We have heard it whispered, butcannot undertake to vouch for the truth of the rumour,that a considerable wager now depends upon the accomplishmentof this prophecy within nine calendar months afterthe Doctor has obtained a bona fide degree.]
[Footnote 49: Alluding to the collegiate punishmentbefore explained.]
* * * * *
CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES.
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN.
Take away that star and garter—hidethem from my loathing sight,
Neither king nor prince shalltempt me from my lonely room this night;
Fitting for the thronelessexile is the atmosphere of pall,
And the gusty winds that shiver’neath the tapestry on the wall.
When the taper faintly dwindleslike the pulse within the vein,
That to gay and merry measurene’er may hope to bound again,
Let the shadows gather roundme while I sit in silence here,
Broken-hearted, as an orphanwatching by his father’s bier.
Let me hold my still communionfar from every earthly sound—
Day of penance—dayof passion—ever, as the year comes round.
Fatal day whereon the latestdie was cast for me and mine—
Cruel day, that quell’dthe fortunes of the hapless Stuart line!
Phantom-like, as in a mirror,rise the griesly scenes of death—
There before me, in its wildness,stretches bare Culloden’s heath—
There the broken clans arescatter’d, gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed—
Hunger gnawing at their vitals—hopeabandon’d—all but pride—
Pride—and thatsupreme devotion which the Southron never knew,
Oh, my God! are these theremnants—these the wrecks of the array,
That around the royal standardgather’d on the glorious day,
When, in deep Glenfinnart’svalley, thousands, on their bended knees,
Saw once more that statelybanner waving in the northern breeze,
When the noble Tullibardinestood beneath its weltering fold,
With the ruddy lion rampingin the field of treasured gold!
When the mighty heart of Scotland,all too big to slumber more,
Burst in wrath and exultation,like a huge volcano’s roar!
There they stand, the batter’dcolumns, underneath the murky sky,
In the hush of desperation,not to conquer but to die.
Hark! the bagpipe’sfitful wailing—not the pibroch loud andshrill,
That, with hope of bloodybanquet, lured the ravens from the hill—
But a dirge both low and solemn,fit for ears of dying men,
Marshall’d for theirlatest battle, never more to fight again.
Madness—madness!Why this shrinking? Were we less inured to war
When our reapers swept theharvest from the field of red Dunbar?
Fetch my horse, and blow thetrumpet!—Call the riders of Fitz-James,
Let Lord Lewis bring the muster!—Valiantchiefs of mighty names—
Trusty Keppoch! stout Glengarry!gallant Gordon! wise Lochiel!
Bid the clansmen charge together,fast, and fell, and firm as steel.
Elcho, never look so gloomy!What avails a sadden’d brow?
Heart, man—heart!we need it sorely—never half so much asnow.
Had we but a thousand troopers—hadwe but a thousand more!——
Noble Perth, I hear them coming!—Hark!the English cannons’ roar.
God! how awful sounds thatvolley, bellowing through the mist and rain!
Was not that the Highlandslogan? Let me hear that shout again!
Oh, for prophet eyes to witnesshow the desperate battle goes!
Cumberland! I would notfear thee, could my Camerons see their foe.
Sound, I say, the charge atventure—t’is not naked steel we fear;
Better perish in the meleethan be shot like driven deer!
Hold! the mist begins to scatter.There in front ’tis rent asunder,
And the cloudy battery crumblesunderneath the deafening thunder;
There I see the scarlet gleaming!Now, Macdonald—now or never!—
Woe is me, the clans are broken!Father, thou art lost for ever!
Chief and vassal, lord andyeoman, there they lie in heaps together,
Smitten by the deadly volley,rolled in blood upon the heather;
And the Hanoverian horsem*n,fiercely riding to and fro,
Deal their murderous strokesat random.—
Ahmy God! where am I now?
Will that baleful vision nevervanish from my aching sight?
Must those scenes and soundsof terror haunt me still by day and night?
Yea, the earth hath no oblivionfor the noblest chance it gave,
None, save in its latest refuge—seekit only in the grave.
Love may die, and hatred slumber,and their memory will decay,
As the water’d gardenrecks not of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power oncebroken, what shall give repose again?
What shall charm the serpent-furiescoil’d around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can natureoffer strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasantthan to live an exiled king!
Oh, these years of bitteranguish!—What is life to such as me,
With my very heart as palsiedas a wasted cripple’s knee!
Suppliant-like for alms dependingon a false and foreign court,
Jostled by the flouting nobles,half their pity, half their sport.
Forced to hold a place inpageant, like a royal prize of war
Walking with dejected featuresclose behind his victor’s car,
Styled an equal—deem’da servant—fed with hopes of future gain—
Worse by far is fancied freedomthan the captive’s clanking chain!
Could I change this gildedbondage even for the massy tower
Whence King James beheld hislady sitting in the castle bower—
Birds around her sweetly singing,fluttering on the kindled spray,
And the comely garden glowingin the light of rosy May.
Love descended to the window—Loveremoved the bolt and bar—
Love was warder to the loversfrom the dawn to even-star.
Wherefore, Love, didst thoubetray me? Where is now the tender glance?
Where the meaning looks oncelavish’d by the dark-eyed Maid of France?
Where the words of hope shewhisper’d, when around my neck she threw
That same scarf of broider’dtissue, bade me wear it and be true—
Bade me send it as a tokenwhen my banner waved once more
On the castled Keep of London,where my fathers’ waved before?
And I went and did not conquer—butI brought it back again—
Brought it back from stormand battle—brought it back without stain;
And once more I knelt beforeher, and I laid it at her feet,
Saying, “Wilt thou ownit, Princess? There at least is no defeat!”
Scornfully she look’dupon me with a measured eye and cold—
Scornfully she view’dthe token, though her fingers wrought the gold,
And she answer’d, faintlyflushing, “Hast thou kept it, then, so long?
Worthy matter for a minstrelto be told in knightly song!
Worthy of a bold Provencal,pacing through the peaceful plain,
Singing of his lady’sfavour, boasting of her silken chain,
Yet scarce worthy of a warriorsent to wrestle for a crown.
Is this all that thou hastbrought me from thy field of high renown?
Is this all the trophy carriedfrom the lands where thou hast been?
It was broider’d bya Princess, can’st thou give it to a Queen?”
Woman’s love is writin water! Woman’s faith is traced in sand!
Backwards—backwardslet me wander to the noble northern land;
Let me feel the breezes blowingfresh along the mountain side;
Let me see the purple heather,let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckanspouting when the storm is high—
Give me but one hour of Scotland—letme see it ere I die!
Oh, my heart is sick and heavy—southerngales are not for me;
Though the glens are whitewith winter, place me there, and set me free;
Give me back my trusty comrades—giveme back my Highland maid—
Nowhere beats the heart sokindly as beneath the tartan plaid!
Flora! when thou wert besideme, in the wilds of far Kintail—
When the cavern gave us shelterfrom the blinding sleet and hail—
When we lurk’d withinthe thicket, and, beneath the waning moon,
Saw the sentry’s bayonetglimmer, heard him chant his listless tune—
When the howling storm o’ertookus drifting down the island’s lee,
And our crazy bark was whirlinglike a nutshell on the sea—
When the nights were darkand dreary, and amidst the fern we lay
Faint and foodless, sore withtravel, longing for the streaks of day;
When thou wert an angel tome, watching my exhausted sleep—
Never didst thou hear me murmur—couldstthou see how now I weep!
Bitter tears and sobs of anguish,unavailing though they be.
Oh the brave—thebrave and noble—who have died in vain forme!
W.E.A.
* * * * *
EARLY GREEK ROMANCES—THE ETHIOPICS OF HELIODORUS.
“It is not in Provence, (Provincia Romanorum,)as is commonly said from the derivation of the name—noryet in Spain, as many suppose, that we are to lookfor the fatherland of those amusing compositions calledRomances, which are so eminently useful in thesedays as affording a resource and occupation to ladiesand gentlemen who have nothing to do. It is indistant and far different climes to our own, and inthe remote antiquity of long vanished ages:—itis among the people of the East, the Arabs, the Egyptians,the Persians, and the Syrians, that the germ and originis to be found of this species of fictitious narrative,for which the peculiar genius and poetical temperamentof those nations particularly adapt them, and in whichthey delight to a degree scarcely to be credited.For even their ordinary discourse is interspersed withfigurative expressions; and their maxims of theologyand philosophy, and above all, of morals and politicalscience, are invariably couched under the guise ofallegory or parable. I need not stay to enlargeupon the universal veneration paid throughout theEast to the fables of Bidpai or Pilpay, and to Lokman,who is (as may easily be shown) the Esop of the Greeks:—and
it is well known that the story of Isfendiyar, andof the daring deeds of the Persian hero Rustan, inlove and war,[50] are to this day more popular inthose regions than the tales of Hercules, Roland,or Amadis de Gaul, ever were with us. And so decidedlyis Asia the parent of these fictions, that we shallfind on examination, that nearly all those who inearly times distinguished themselves as writers ofwhat are now called romances, were of oriental birthor extraction. Clearchus, a pupil of Aristotle,and the first who attempted any thing of the sortin the Greek language, was a native of Soli in Cilicia:—Jamblichuswas a Syrian, as were also Heliodorus and Lucian,the former being of Emessa, the latter of Samosata:—AchillesTatius was an Alexandrian; and the rule will be foundto hold good in other instances, with scarcely a singleexception.”[Footnote 50: The exploits of these and otherpaladins of the Kaianian dynasty, the heroic age ofPersian history, are now known to us principally throughthe Shah-Nameh of Ferdousi, a poem bearing dateonly at the beginning of the eleventh century; butboth this and its predecessor, the Bostan-Nameh,were founded on ballads and [Greek: rhapsodiai]of far distant ages, which had escaped the ravagesof time and the Mohammedans, and some of which areeven now preserved among the ancient tribes of purePersian descent, in the S.W. provinces of the kingdom.Sir John Malcolm (History of Persia, ii. 444,note, 8vo. ed.,) gives an amusing anecdote of theeffect produced among his escort by one of these popularchants.]
Such is the doctrine laid down (at somewhat greaterlength than we have rendered it) by the learned Huetius,in his treatise De Origine Fabularum Romanensium;and from the general principle therein propounded,we are certainly by no means inclined to dissent.But while fully admitting that it is to the vividfancy and picturesque imagination of the Orientalsthat we owe the origin of all those popular legendswhich have penetrated, under various changes of costume,into every corner of Europe,[51] as well as thosemore gorgeous creations which appear, interwoven withthe ruder creations of the northern nations, to havefurnished the groundwork of the fabliaux andlais of the chivalry of the middle ages:—westill hold that the invention of the romance of ordinarylife, in which the interest of the story depends uponoccurrences in some measure within the bounds of probability,and in which the heroes and heroines are neither investedwith superhuman qualities, nor extricated from theirdifficulties by supernatural means, must be ascribedto a more European state of society than thatwhich produced those tales of wonder, which are commonlyconsidered as characteristic of the climes of theEast. Even the authors enumerated by the learnedbishop of Avranches himself, in the passage above quoted,were all denizens of the Greek cities of Asia
Minor, Syria, and Egypt, and consequently, in allprobability, Greeks by descent; and though the sceneof their works is frequently laid in Asia, the costumesand characters introduced are almost invariably onthe Greek model. These writers, therefore, mayfairly be considered as constituting a distinct classfrom those more strictly Oriental, not only in birth,but in language and ideas; and as being, in fact,the legitimate forerunners of that portentous crowdof modern novelists, whose myriad productions seemdestined (as the Persians believe of the misshapenprogeny of Gog and Magog, confined within the brazenwall of Iskender,) to over-run the world of literaturein these latter days.[Footnote 51: The prototype of the well-knownWelsh legend of Beth-Gelert, for instance, is foundin the Sanscrit Hitopadosa, as translated by Sir WilliamJones, with a mere change in the dramatis personae—thefaithful hound Gelert becoming a tame mungoos or ichneumon,the wolf a cabra-capello, and the young heir of theWelsh prince an infant rajah.]
At the head of this early school of romantic writers,in point of merit as of time, (for the writings ofLucian can scarcely be considered as regular romances;and the “Babylonica” of Jamblichus, andthe “Dinias and Dercyllis” of AntoniusDiogenes, are known to us only by the abstract ofthem preserved in Photius,) we may, without hesitation,place Heliodorus, the author of the “Ethiopics,”“whose writings”—says Huetius—“thesubsequent novelists of those ages constantly proposedto themselves as a model for imitation; and as trulymay they all be said to have drunk of the waters ofthis fountain, as all the poets did of the Homericspring.” To so servile an extent, indeed,was this imitation carried, that while both the incidentsand characters in the “cl*tophon and Leucippe”of Achilles Tatius, a work which, in point of literarymerit, stands next to that of Heliodorus, are, in manypassages, almost a reproduction, with different namesand localities,[52] of those in the “Ethiopics,”the last-named has again had his copyists in the “Hysminiasand Hysmine” of Eustathius or Eumathius, andthe “Dosicles and Rhodanthe” of TheodorusProdromus, the latter of whom was a monk of the twelfthcentury. In these productions of the lower empire,the extravagance of the language, the improbabilityof the plot, and the wearisome dullness of the details,are worthy of each other; and are only varied occasionallyby a little gross indelicacy, from which, indeed,none but Heliodorus is wholly exempt. Yet, “asin the lowest deep there is a lower still,”so even Theodorus Prodromus has found an humble imitatorin Nicetas Eugenianus, than whose romance of “Chariclesand Drosilla” it must be allowed that the forceof nonsense “can no further go.”Besides this descending scale of plagiarism, whichwe have followed down to its lowest anti-climax, weshould mention, for the sake of making our catalogue
complete, the “Pastorals, or Daphnis and Chloe”of Longus—a work in itself of no particularmerits or demerits as a literary composition, butnoted for its unparalleled depravity, and furtherremarkable as the first of the class of pastoral romances,which were almost as rife in Europe during the middleages as novels of fashionable life are, for the sinsof this generation, at the present day. Thereonly remain to be enumerated the three precious farragosentitled “The Ephesiacs, or Habrocomas and Anthia”—“theBabylonics”—and “the Cypriacs”—saidto be from the pen of three different Xenophons, ofwhose history nothing, not even the age in which anyof them lived, can be satisfactorily made out—thoughthe uniformity of stupid extravagance, not less thanthe similarity of name, would lead a priorito the conclusion that one luckless wight must havebeen the author of all three. From this listof the Byzantine romances, (in which we are not surethat one or two may not after all have been omitted,)it will be seen that Heliodorus had a tolerably numerousprogeny, even in his own language, to answer for;though we fear we must concur in the sweeping censureof a Quarterly Reviewer, (vol. x. p. 301,) who condemnsthen en masse, with the single exception ofthe “Ethiopics” of the last-named author,as “a few tiresome stories, absolutely void oftaste, invention, or interest; without influence evenupon the declining literature of their own age, andin all probability quite unknown to the real forerunnersof Richardson, Fielding, and Rousseau.”[Footnote 52: The principal adventures of cl*tophonand Leucippe consist in being twice taken by pirateson the banks of the Nile, as Theagenes and Charicleaare in the Ethiopics.]
A work thus excepted, by common consent, from thegeneral reprobation is which all its compeers areinvolved, must deserve some notice from its negative,if not from its positive merits; and the particularswhich have been preserved of its literary historyare also somewhat curious. Even in these days,when almost every other individual is a novelist,either in esse or in embryo, the announcementof a love-story from the pen of a bishop would createwhat is called “a considerable sensation”—thoughperhaps it would hardly draw down on the author suchcondign and summary punishment as was inflicted bythe straitlaced Kirk of Scotland, less than a centuryago, on one of her ministers, for the high crime andmisdemeanour of having indited “a stage play,called the Tragedy of Douglas."[53] Yet notonly the “Ethiopics,” but the best knownof its successors, the “cl*tophon and Leucippe”of Achilles Tatius, are both universally assertedto have been juvenile productions of ecclesiasticswho afterwards attained the episcopal dignity:and the former, if we may credit the EcclesiasticalHistory of Nicephorus, fared not much better at thehands of the Provincial Synod of Thessaly than did
the “Tragedy of Douglas” at those of theScottish Presbyteries. Hear what saith the historian:“This Heliodorus, bishop of Trica, had in hisyouth written certain love-stories called the “Ethiopics,”which are highly popular even at the present day,though they are now better known by the title of ‘Chariclea’”—(thename of the heroine)—“and it was byreason thereof that he lost his see. For, inasmuchas very many of the youth were drawn into peril ofsin by the perusal of these amorous tales, it wasdetermined by the provincial synod that either thesebooks, which kindled the fire of love, should themselvesbe consumed by fire, or that the author should bedeposed from his episcopal functions—andthis choice being propounded to him, he preferredresigning his bishopric to suppressing his writings.”—(Niceph.Hist. Ecclesiast. lib. xii. c. 34.)[54] Heliodorus,according to the same authority, was the first Thessalianbishop who had insisted on the married clergy puttingaway their wives, which may probably have tended tomake him unpopular: but the story of his deposition,it should be observed, rests solely on the statementof Nicephorus, and is discredited by Bayle and Huet,who argue that the silence of Socrates (Ecclesiast.Hist. v. chap. 22.) in the passage where he expresslyassigns the authorship of the “Ethiopics”to the Bishop Heliodorus, more than counterbalancesthe unsupported assertion of Nicephorus—“anauthor,” says Huet, “of more credulitythan judgment.” If Heliodorus were, indeed,as has been generally supposed, the same to whom severalof the Epistles of St Jerome were addressed, this circ*mstancewould supply an additional argument against the probabilityof his having incurred the censures of the church:but whatever the testimony of Nicephorus may be worthon this point, his mention of the work affords undeniableproof of its long continued popularity, as his EcclesiasticalHistory was written about A.D. 900, and Heliodoruslived under the reign of the sons of Theodosius, orfully five hundred years earlier. Enough, however,has been said of him in his capacity of a bishop—andwe shall proceed to consider him in that of an author,by which he is far better known than by episcopacy.[Footnote 53: Home was expelled the ministryfor this heinous offence, which raised a fearful turmoilat the time among Synods and Presbyteries. TheGlasgow Presbytery published a declaration (Feb. 14,1757) on the “melancholy but notorious fact,that one, who is a minister of the Church of Scotland,did himself write and compose a stage play intitledthe Tragedy of Douglas;” and to this declarationvarious other presbyteries published their adhesion.]
[Footnote 54: This sentence might, with morejustice, have been visited upon the work of the otherbishop, Achilles Tatius, for his not infrequent transgressionsagainst delicacy, a fault never chargeable on Heliodorus.]
The time of the story is laid in the middle ages ofGrecian history, after the conclusion of the warsbetween Greece and Persia, and while Egypt was stillgoverned by the satraps of the great king; and thefirst scene at once plunges the reader, in accordancewith the Horatian precept, in medias res.A band of marauders, prowling on the coast of Egypt,are surprised by the sight of a ship moored to theshore without any one on board, while the beach aroundis strewed with the fragments of a costly banquet,and with a number of dead bodies of men, slain apparentlyin mutual conflict; the only survivors being a damselof surpassing beauty, arrayed as a priestess of Diana,who is wailing over the inanimate form of a woundedyouth. Before they have time however, eitherto unravel the mystery, or to avail themselves of thebooty, thus unexpectedly spread before them, theyare in turn put to flight by a more numerous partyof robbers, or rather buccaneers, (bucoli orherdsmen,) who carry off the forlorn coupleto their retreat, in the inner-most recesses of avast lake or morass, near the Heracleotic mouth ofthe Nile.[55] The description of this robber-colonyappears to have been drawn from an existing or well-rememberedstate of things, and bears considerable resemblance,except in the presence of women and children, to asetsha, or stronghold, of the Zaporog Cossacksin the islets of the Dniepr.
[Footnote 55: This is usually called the Canopiamouth; but Herodotus (who says that it was dug byartificial means) calls it the Bucolic, perhapsfrom the haunts above described in its neighbourhood.]
“This whole region is called by the Egyptiansthe Bucolia, or ‘pasturages,’ andis a tract of low land, which has been converted bythe inundations of the Nile into a lake, of great depthin the middle, and gradually shoaling towards themargins into a marsh. Among this labyrinth oflakes and morasses, all the robber-community of Egypthold their commonwealth; some building huts whereverthere is enough of dry land for the purpose, and othersliving wholly on board their boats, which serve themfor a home, as well as to transport them from placeto place. In these narrow craft their childrenare born and brought up, tied by a cord round theirfoot, in their infancy, to keep them from fallingoverboard, and tasting for their first food, afterbeing weaned, the fish of the lake dried in the sun.Thus, many of these buccaneers are nativesof the lake itself, which they regard as their countryand their fortress; and they also receive among themmany recruits of the same sort as themselves.The waters serve them for a defence, and they arefurther fortified by the vast quantity of reeds overgrowingthe borders of the lake, through which they have contrivedcertain narrow winding paths known only to themselves,to guard them against sudden incursions from without.”
The chief, Thyamis, is forthwith desperately smittenby the charms of Chariclea, and announces, in a setspeech to his followers, when assembled for the divisionof the booty, his intention of taking her to wife.The heroine, as usual with heroines in such tryingcirc*mstances, feigns compliance, stipulating onlyfor the delay of the ceremony till she could deposither sacred ornaments in a temple; a request whichThyamis—who, by the way, is no vulgar depredator,but an Egyptian of rank, who has been deprived ofan hereditary[56] priesthood, and driven into hiding,by the baseness of a younger brother—istoo well bred to refuse. The beautiful captiveis accordingly, (with Theagenes, whom she calls herbrother,) given in charge, for the time, to an Athenianprisoner named Cnemon, who had been driven into exileby the vindictive artifices of his step-mother andher confidante, and the recital of whose adventures(apparently borrowed from those of Hippolitus) occupiesa considerable space at this juncture, without muchadvancing the story. On the following day, however,the settlement is attacked by an irresistible force,guided by the gang who had been driven from theirprey on the beach. Thyamis, after performing prodigiesof valour, is taken prisoner; and Theagenes and Chariclea,with Cnemon, escaping in the confusion, find themselvesalone in an island of the lake. Cnemon, as beingbest acquainted with the language and the surroundingcountry, is sent the next day to the main land, tomake discoveries, accompanied by Thermuthis, the buccanierlieutenant, who had returned when the fray was over,in hopes of recovering a fair captive of his own.The object of his search, however, who proves to beno other than Thisbe, the treacherous soubrette throughwhom Cnemon’s misfortunes had arisen, had beenslain by accident in the conflict; and Thermuthis,whose suspicions had been awakened by the joy expressedby Cnemon, is meditating the murder of his fellow-traveller,when he opportunely perishes by the bite of an asp.Cnemon, continuing on his way,[57] reaches the marginof the Nile opposite the town of Chemmis, and thereencounters a venerable personage, who, wrapt in deepthought, is pensively pacing the banks of the river.This old Egyptian priest, (for such he proves to be,)Calasiris by name, not only takes the abrupt intrusionof Cnemon in perfect good part, but carries his complaisanceso far as to invite him to the house of a friend ofwhom he is himself a guest, and the honours of whosemansion he is doing in the temporary absence of theowner. This obliging offer is, of course, acceptedwith great alacrity; and, in the course of after-dinnerconversation, the incidental mention by Calasirisof the names of Theagenes and Chariclea, and the consequentenquiries of Cnemon, who recognises them as thoseof his late fellow captives, lead to a long episodicalnarration from the old gentleman, during which Cnemon,in return for the hospitality and confidence thus unexpectedlyshown him, displays most enviable powers as a listener,and which, in a great measure, unfolds the plot tothe reader.
[Footnote 56: The hereditary succession of theEgyptian priesthood is stated both by Herodotus andDiodorus; but Sir J.G. Wilkinson (Mannersof the Ancient Egyptians, i. 262,) believe that,“though a priest was son of a priest, the peculiaroffice held by a son may sometimes have been differentin point of rank from that of his father.”]
[Footnote 57: Before setting out on this expedition,he “reduces his hair to a more moderate quantitythan that usually worn by robbers.” Thus,the Italian bravoes of the middle ages, when they repentedtheir evil ways, were wont to “shave the tuft,”which was thrown over the face as a disguise; hencethe phrase, radere il ciuffo, still used assynonymous with becoming an honest man. See Manzoni’swell-known romance of “I Promessi Sposi.”]
It appears that Persina, consort of Hydaspes, Kingof Ethiopia, had given birth, in consequence of oneof those accidents which will sometimes happen inthe best regulated families, to a white orfair-complexioned daughter;[58] and dreading lest thehue of her offspring, unusual in that country, mightdraw on herself suspicions which might expose herto certain pains and penalties, she secretly committedthe infant to the care of Sisimithres, an officer ofthe court, placing at the same time in his hands,as tokens by which she might afterwards be recognised,various costly ornaments, especially a ring whichhad been given her by the king at their nuptials, bearing“the royal symbol engraven within a circle onthe talismanic stone Pantarbe,” and afillet on which was embroidered, in the Ethiopic character,[59]the story of the child’s birth. Under theguardianship of Sisimithres, she remained seven years;till, fearing for her safety if she continued in Ethiopia,he took the opportunity of his being sent to Thebesas ambassador from Hydaspes to the Satrap of Egypt,to transfer his charge, with the tokens attached toher, to a priest of the Delphian Apollo, named Charicles,who was travelling in search of consolation for domesticafflictions. Before Sisimithres, however, hadtime to explain the previous history of the foundling,he was compelled to leave Egypt in haste; and Charicles,carrying her with him on his return to his Grecianhome, adopted her as his daughter, add gave her thename of Chariclea. She grew up at Delphi a miracleof grace and beauty, dedicating herself to the serviceof the temple, and obedient to the will of her supposedfather in all points, except one, her determinationto lead a single life. At this juncture, Calasiris(who, as it now incidentally transpires, is fatherof Thyamis and his rival-brother Petosiris) arrivesat Delphi during the celebration of the Pythian games,having found it expedient to absent himself from Egyptfor a time, for various family reasons, and more especiallyon account of the prediction of an oracle, that heshould live to see his two sons engaged with eachother in mortal conflict. A favourable response,
vouchsafed to him by the Pythia from the tripod, athis entrance into the fane of Apollo, having pointedhim out as a personage of consideration, he is treatedwith high distinction by Charicles, who confides tohim the history of Chariclea, as far as he is himselfacquainted with it, and entreats him to dispose her,by those occult sciences in which the Egyptian priestswere supposed to be versed, to listen to the suit ofhis nephew Alcamenes, whom he had destined for herhusband. Calasiris promises compliance; but thescene is now changed by the arrival of a magnificentdeputation from the AEnianes, a noble tribe of Thessaly,headed by a princely youth named Theagenes, who, asa reputed descendant of Achilles, has come to sacrificeat the shrine of his ancestor Neoptolemus. Thepomp and pageantry of the ceremonial is described invivid language, and with considerable effect; and asa specimen of our author’s manner, we shallquote the procession of the Thessalians to the temple.“In the van came the oxen destinedfor sacrifice, led by men of rustic guise andrude demeanour, each clad in a white tunic closelygirt about him, with the right arm bare to the shoulder,and brandishing a double-headed axe. The oxenwere all black without mixture, with massivenecks low-hung dewlaps, and straight and evenhorns, which in some were gilt, in the otherstwined with garlands; and their number was neithermore nor less than a hundred—a truehecatomb. Next followed the rest of thevictims, each kind of animal kept separate and inorder, and all marshalled to the sound of flutesand other wind instruments. Then appeared,in rich and flowing robes, and with their longlocks floating loose on their shoulders, a band ofthe deep-zoned virgins of Thessaly, divided intotwo separate sets or choruses, the first of whichbore baskets of flowers and ripe fruit, whilethose in the second carried salvers of sweetmeatsand rich perfumes, which filled the air with the mingledfragrance breathing from them; but these light burdenswere supported on their heads, thus leaving theirhands free to be joined in the movements of thedance, to the slow and stately measure of whichthey advanced; while one chorus led the hymn,the strains of which were taken up by the other, inpraise of Peleus and Thetis, their hero-son, andNeoptolemus and the other heroes of his race.The alternate rhythm of the chant keeping timewith the fall of their footsteps, riveted theattention of the spectators, who seemed spell-boundby the sweet voices of the maidens, till thecavalcade which succeeded, flashing out fromthe crowd beyond, with their princely leaderat their head, once more attracted all eyes to themselves.The troop consisted of fifty horsem*n, who rode likeguards in double file, twenty-five on each side ofthe chief, arrayed all alike in white cloakswith borders of azure embroidery, clasped acrossthe breast with golden buckles, and with buskinslaced above the ancle with scarlet thongs. Theirsteeds were all of that generous breed which therich plains of Thessaly alone produce, and pawedthe ground as if impatient of the bit by whichtheir ardour was restrained by their riders; andthe silver and gold which glittered on their frontletsand caparisons, showed the rivalry prevailingamong these cavaliers in the splendour of theequipments, rather of their coursers than themselves.But it was on him who rode in the midst of thisgallant party, eclipsing all his comrades as the glareof lightning seems to obscure all lesser luminaries,that the eyes of the gazing crowd were now fixed.He was completely armed at all points, excepthis head, and grasped in his hand an ashen lance;while a scarlet cloak, on which was depicted, in figuresof gold tissue, the battle of the Centaurs withthe Lapithae, flowed loose over his panoply,and was fastened in front with a clasp, representingPallas sculptured in amber, and holding beforeher the Gorgon’s head on her shield. Thebreeze, which blew back his locks from his forehead,gave his features more fully to view; and eventhe horse which bore him seemed to move witha statelier gait, arching his neck and proudly caracoling,as if conscious of the noble presence of his master;while the admiration of the surrounding multitudeburst out into a spontaneous shout of applause,and some of the women of the lower class eventhrew fruit and flowers towards him, in the hope,I suppose, of drawing on themselves a glance of acknowledgementfrom his eye.”
[Footnote 58: The incidents of the birth of Charicleahave been copied by Tasso in the story of Clorinda,as related to her by Arsete, in the 12th canto of“Gierusalemme Liberata.” In the “Shah-Nameh,”also, Zal, the father of the Persian hero Rustan,being born with white hair, is exposed by hisfather Sam on the mountain of Elborz, where he ispreserved and brought up by the giant-bird Simorgh.]
[Footnote 59: “In the royal character”—“[Greek:grammasin Aithiopikois oy demotikois, alla basilikois].”This distinction between the royal and popular systemof hieroglyphics, as well as the etiquette, beforementioned, of inscribing the title of the king withina circle or oval, is borrowed, as need hardly be mentioned,from the monuments of Egypt.]
The cavalier thus eulogized by Calasiris is of courseTheagenes, who, after thrice encompassing in due formthe tomb of Neoptolemus, at length reaches the Templeof Apollo; but, during the performance of the ceremonial,it falls to his lot to receive the torch with whichthe altar is to be kindled from the hand of Chariclea,and love at first sight, mutual and instantaneous,is the result. The aid of Calasiris is againinvoked by both the lovers; and the good old gentleman,whose knowledge of the Ethiopian hieroglyphics, byenabling him to decipher the mysterious inscriptionon the fillet, has put him in possession of the trueparentage of Chariclea, (which he does not, however,
communicate to Charicles,) at once resolves to contrivetheir elopement, being further stimulated theretoby Apollo in a dream—the agency of dreams,it should be remarked, being introduced on almost everypossible occasion throughout the narrative, and theirdictates in all cases religiously acted upon by theparties interested. A passage is procured onboard a Phoenician ship opportunely lying in the CrissaeanGulf, the nearest point of the coast to Delphi; andthe abduction of Chariclea having been effected byapparent violence by the companions of Theagenes,the trio set sail for Sicily, the fugitives passingas the children of Calasiris. The voyage is atfirst prosperous; but the ship happening to touchat Zacynthus, the beauty of Chariclea attracts theeye of a noted pirate named Trachinus, who, when thevessel resumes her course, pursues and captures herafter a long chase, and turning the crew adrift inthe boat,[60] and carries his prize, with his threecaptives, to the coast of Egypt, where he preparesa feast on the beach, from the materials furnishedby the rich cargo of the Phoenician ship, in honourof his intended nuptials. Calasiris, however,whose genius seems ever fertile in expedients, hascontrived to possess the mind of Pelorus, the piratelieutenant, with the belief that he is the object ofthe fair captive’s preference; and his assertionat the banquet of his claims gives rise to a furiousconflict among the intoxicated pirates, ending inthe slaughter of the whole party except Pelorus himself,who in turn falls by the sword of Theagenes.Calasiris, who had prudently retired to a safe distancetill the fighting was over, is now on the point ofcoming forward to aid Chariclea in the care of herwounded lover, when he is anticipated by the arrivalof the robbers, by whom, as related at the commencementof the story, he sees his proteges carried off.[Footnote 60: The capture of the vessel has furnishedthe subject of a painting by Raffaelle and GiulioRomano.]
Before this recital, however, had been brought toa close, Nausicles,[61] the master of the house, returns,and the cause of his absence is explained. AnAthenian mistress whom he had brought from Greecehad fallen into the hands of the freebooters; and Nausicles,having procured the aid of a body of Persian troopsfrom the governor of the district, had proceeded againstthe buccanier settlement in order to recover her.On reaching the island, however, they find only Theagenesand Chariclea, Cnemon and Thermuthis having just startedon their voyage of discovery; and Nausicles, disappointedof finding her whom he sought, (and who was no otherthan the faithless Thisbe, slain, as above related,in the battle,) conceived the idea of claiming Charicleain her place by way of indemnity; while Theageneswas sent off to Memphis by the Persian officer, whodeemed that his beauty and noble bearing would makehim an acceptable addition to the household[62] of
the Satrap Oroondates. The lovers are thus againseparated, and Chariclea is in despair; but, on arrivingat the house of Nausicles, she is of course immediatelyrecognised and reclaimed by Calasiris. Cnemon,who seems to have as extraordinary a genius for suddenfriendships as the two heroines in the “Rovers,”marries the fair daughter of Nausicles after a fewhours’ courtship, and at once sets sail withhis father-in-law for Greece, having ascertained fromhim that the detection of his enemies had now madehis return safe:—And Calasiris and Chariclea,disguised as beggars, set out in search of the lostTheagenes. That luckless hero had, meanwhile,been re-captured on his road to Memphis, by his, oldfriend Thyamis, who, having escaped (it does not exactlyappear how) from the emissaries of his treacherousbrother, with whom the attack on the island provesto have originated, is now at the head of another andmore powerful body of the buccanier fraternity, inthe district of Bessa. He receives Theageneswith great cordiality, and, having beaten off an attackfrom the Persian troops, takes the bold resolutionof leading his lawless followers against Memphis itself,in order to reclaim his right to the priesthood, whileOroondates is engaged on the southern frontier inwithstanding an invasion of the Ethiopians. Arsace,the wife of the satrap, who is acting as vice-regentfor her husband, unprovided with troops to repel thissudden incursion, proposes that the two brothers shallsettle the ecclesiastical succession by single combat;and a duel accordingly takes place under the wallsof Memphis, in which Petosiris is getting considerablythe worst of it, when the combat is interrupted bythe arrival of Chariclea and Calasiris, who thus witnessesthe spectacle foretold by the oracle—(thedread of seeing which had driven him into voluntaryexile)—his two sons aiming at each other’slife. The situation is a well-conceived one, anddescribed with spirit. Calasiris is recognisedby his penitent sons, and himself resumes the priesthood,the contested vacancy in which had been occasionedonly by his absence and supposed death. The loversare received as his guests in the temple of Isis,and all seems on the point of ending happily, whenCalasiris, as if the object of his existence had beenaccomplished in the fulfilment of the oracle, is foundthe same night dead in his bed.[Footnote 61: He is called “A merchantof Naucratis,” though resident in Chemmis.But Naucratis, as we find from Herodotus, (ii. 179,)“was of old the only free port of Egypt; and,if any trader came to one of the other mouths of theNile, he was put upon oath that his coming was involuntary,and was then made to sail to the Canopic mouth.But, if contrary winds prevented him from doing this,he was obliged to send his cargo in barges round theDelta to Naucratis, so strict was the regulation.”Amasis was the first king who had permitted the tradeof the Greeks at this port, [ib. 178,] and the restrictionappears to have been continued under the Persian rule.]
[Footnote 62: The establishment of householdslaves or Mamlukes seems to have been nearlyon the same footing with the ancient as with the modernPersians.]
The loss of their old protector soon involves themin a fresh maze of troubles. Thyamis, indeed,whose elevation to the high priesthood seems to havedriven his former love for Chariclea out of his head,still continues their friend; but Arsace, the haughtyconsort of the satrap, who is represented as a princessof the royal blood of Persia, and a prototype of Catharineof Russia in her amours, has already cast her eyeson Theagenes, whose personal attractions seem on alloccasions to have been as irresistible by the ladiesas those of the fair partner of his wanderings bythe other sex.[63] Under pretence of removing themfrom the temple during the period of mourning for Calasiris,they are lodged in the palace of the satrapess, wherethe constancy of the hero is exposed to a varietyof perilous temptations, but comes forth, of course,unscathed from the ordeal. The love of ladiesthus rejected has been prone, in all ages and countries,particularly in Egypt since the days of Yusuf andZuleikha,[64] to turn into hatred; and Arsace is noexception to this long-established usage. Theagenesis accordingly thrown into a dungeon, and regularlybastinadoed under the superintendence of a eunuch,in order to instill into him proper notions of gallantry;while an attempt on the life of Chariclea, whom Arsacehas discovered not to be his sister, fails throughthe mistake of an attendant, who delivers the poisonedgoblet intended for her to Cybele, the princess’snurse and confidante, and the contriver of the plot.Chariclea, however, is condemned on this pretext tobe burned alive as a poisoner; but the flames recoilbefore the magical influence of the gem Pantarbe,which she wears in her mother’s ring; and beforeArsace has time to devise any fresh scheme for herdestruction, the confidential eunuch of Oroondates,to whom the misdeeds of his spouse had become known,arrives from the camp of Syene with orders to bringthe two captives to the presence of the satrap.Arsace commits suicide in despair; but the escortof the lovers, while travelling along the banks ofthe Nile, is surprised by a roving party of Ethiopians;and they are carried to the camp of Hydaspes, by whomthey are destined, according to Ethiopian usage, tobe hereafter sacrificed to the sun and moon—thenational deities of the country, as first-fruits ofthe war. A long account is now introduced ofthe siege and capture of Syene by the Ethiopians,and the victory of Hydaspes over Oroondates, whichoccupies the whole of the ninth book; and though initself not ill told, is misplaced, as interruptingthe narrative at the most critical point of the story.Peace is at last concluded between the belligerents;and Hydaspes, returning in triumph to his capitalof Meroe, holds a grand national festival of thanksgiving,
at which the victims are to be sacrificed. Thesecret of her birth had, however, been revealed toChariclea by Calasiris before the elopement from Delphi,and when on the point of being led to the altar, shesuddenly throws herself at the feet of the Queen Persina,and, producing the well-remembered token of the filletand the ring, claims the protection of her parents.The recognition of the mother is instantaneous, butHydaspes, who had always believed that the child towhich his queen gave birth had died in early infancy,remains incredulous, till his doubts are removed bythe evidence of Sisimithres, who identifies Charicleaas the child which he had confided, ten years before,to the care of Charicles. At this juncture Charicleshimself appears, having come to Egypt to reclaim hislost child from Calasiris, and thence having been senton by Oroondates to the court of Ethiopia:—andthe denouement, as far as the heroine is concerned,is now complete. Theagenes, however, still remainsdoomed, and Hydaspes seems unwilling to relinquishhis victim; but, after an interval of suspense, duringwhich he incidentally performs various exploits ratherunusual in a man in momentary expectation of death,[65]he is spared, at the vehement intercession of Persina,to whom Chariclea has revealed her love for the youngThessalian. The voice of the people, raised inacclamation at this deed of clemency, is ratified bythe approbation of Sisimithres and the Gymnosophists,and all difficulties are now at an end. The betrothalof Theagenes and Chariclea is publicly announced;and, at the termination of the festival, they returnin state into the city, with Hydaspes and Persina,as the acknowledged heirs of the kingdom.[Footnote 63: In all the Greek romances, it seemsalmost inevitable that all the male characters shouldfall in love with the heroine, and all the femaleswith the hero; and, this is, in some of them, carriedto a ludicrous degree of absurdity.]
[Footnote 64: The name of Potiphar’s wife,according to the 12th chapter of the Koran. Thestory of Yusuf and Zuleikha forms the subject of oneof the most beautiful poems in the Persian language,by Jami.]
[Footnote 65: One of these consists in pursuinga wild bull on horseback, and throwing himself fromthe horse on the neck of the bull, which he seizesby the horns, and then, by main force wrenching hisneck round, hurls him powerless to the ground on hisback! Such an achievement appears almost incredible;but it is represented, in all its particulars, inone of the Arundel marbles, (Marmor. Oxon.Selden, xxxviii,) under the name of [Greek: Tayrokathapsia],and is mentioned as a national sport of Thessaly,the native country of Theagenes, both by Pliny (Hist.Nat. viii. 45), and by Suetonius (Claud. cap. 21)—“Heexhibited,” (says the latter writer,) “Thessalianhorsem*n who drive wild bulls round and round thecircus, and leaping on them when they are weary, bringthem to the ground by the horns.”]
Such is the general outline of the story, which, aswill have been perceived, is far from deficient eitherin incident or in strikingly imagined situations;but the merit of the conceptions is too often marredby the mismanagement of the details, and the unskilfularrangement of the different parts of the narrative.Thus all the circ*mstances of the early history ofChariclea, and the rise of the mutual affection betweenher and Theagenes, and of their adventurous flight,are made known through a long episode awkwardly putinto the mouth of a third person, who himself knowsgreat part of them only at second-hand, and voluntarilyrelated by him to one with whom his acquaintance isscarcely of an hour’s standing. This modeof narration, in which one of the characters is introduced(like the prologue in an old play) to recount theprevious adventures of the others, is in itself atall times defective; since it injures the effect ofthe relation by depriving it of those accessory toucheswhich the author, from his conventionally admittedinsight into the feelings and motives of his characters,is privileged to supply: whereas a speaker inthe first person must necessarily confine himself,unless when narrating his own adventures, to the pointswhich have fallen under his personal observation.In the present instance it is, moreover, needless,as the whole episode might as well have been toldin the ordinary manner. The endless capturesand recaptures of the lovers, who are continuallybandied about from one set of pirates, robbers, orplundering soldiers to another, become, at length,wearisome from repetition; and the dramatic forceof the conclusion, which would otherwise be highlyeffective, is weakened by the knowledge which the readerpossesses, that Chariclea is all along aware of thesecret of her own parentage, and that she has onlyto produce the fillet and ring in order to ensure herdeliverance from the dreadful doom which appears tothreaten her. The improbability of some of theincidents, and the awkward manner in which othersare brought about, have been much objected to by moderncritics, and it must be admitted that some betterway might be found to dispose of personages whoseagency was no longer needed, than to cut them off bysudden death, like Calasiris, or by the bite of a venemousserpent, like Thermuthis. But the mechanicalart (as it may almost be called) of constructing astory was then in its infancy; and the violations ofprobability which have been laid to the charge of Heliodorus,are, after all, much less flagrant than those of AchillesTatius, and infinitely less so than those of any ofthe other Greek writers of romance; nor would manyof our modern novelists, perhaps, gain much by thecomparison.
The characters are of very different degrees of merit.Theagenes is as insipid and uninteresting as one ofWalter Scott’s well-behaved heroes; and hisentreaties to Chariclea, in the final scene, no longerto delay making herself known to her parents, betraya most laudable instinct of self-preservation.The deeds of strength and valour which he is occasionallymade to perform, seem rather to arise from the author’sremembering that his hero must do something to supportthe character, than to result naturally from the situationsin which he is placed, and his love of decorum iscarried, on all occasions, to an absurd extent ofprudery. “Le heros de la piece est d’unesagesse qui a donne lieu a des railleries assez plaisantes,”says Bayle; though the instance usually cited—abox on the ear, which he gives Chariclea, when sheapproaches him in her beggar’s dress, underthe walls of Memphis, and attempts to throw herselfinto his arms, is scarcely a fair one, as he does notat the time recognize his beloved under her unbecomingdisguise. The character of Chariclea herself,however, makes ample amends for the defects of thatof her lover; and this superiority of the heroine,it may be observed, is almost invariable in the earlyGreek romances. The masculine firmness and presenceof mind which she evinces in situations of peril anddifficulty, combined at all times with feminine delicacy,and the warmth and confiding simplicity of her lovefor Theagenes, attach to her a degree of interestwhich belongs to none of the other personages; andher spontaneous burst of grateful affection, on recognizing,at Meroe, the voice of her foster-father, Charicles,is expressed with exquisite tenderness. Of thesubordinate characters little need be said. Chariclesis a mere impersonation of benevolence and parentallove; and Cnemon seems to have been introduced forlittle else than to tell his own long story, and listento that of Calasiris in return. The old Egyptianpriest, however, is a sketch of considerable merit.Like Scott’s Peregrine Touchwood, though abundantlyzealous at all times to serve his friends, he cannotfind it in his heart to take any but the most round-aboutway of doing so; but he is never disconcerted by anyof the untoward results of his schemes, and relatesto Cnemon, with the most perfect self-complacency,the deceit which he had practiced on his confidinghost, Charicles, in helping Theagenes to steal awayhis adopted daughter, and the various scrapes intowhich his proteges had fallen under his guidance.He has, moreover, pet theories of his own on the phenomenaof the Nile, the cause of the roughness of the IonianSea, and various other matters, in which he indoctrinatesCnemon par parenthese: he is an enthusiasticadmirer and constant quoter of Homer, whose Egyptianbirth (at Thebes the hundred-gated) he maintains withall the zeal of a Highlander defending the authenticityof Ossian; and, on the whole, we cannot but think theauthor has scarcely used him well, in not allowinghim to live to see his efforts crowned with success,and to enjoy the honours which would doubtless havebeen heaped upon him at the court of Ethiopia.
The author appears to take especial delight in accountsof costumes, processions, sacrifices, &c.; the detailsgiven of which are often valuable in an antiquarianpoint of view; and his information upon these subjects,as well as of the manners of the country in which thescene is laid, as far as our knowledge of the presentday will enable us to decide, is extremely correct.One of the most curious morceaux of this sort, isa minute description of the complete armour for horseand man, worn by the elite of the cavalry in the armyof Oroondates; and which, though probably taken fromthat used by the troops of the Sassanian monarchscotemporary with Heliodorus, is equally applicableto the period at which the scene is laid; since numerouspassages in ancient authors show, that from the earliesttime up to the Mohammedan conquest, the Persian noblesand heavy cavalry used panoply as impenetrable as theEuropean chivalry of the middle ages. Among theother scattered traits of manners, it will be remarkedas singular, according to the ideas of the presentday, that open piracy and robbery are neither spokenof as disreputable, nor as attaching any slur to thosewho exercised them; insomuch, that the notoriety ofThyamis, having been a chief of freebooters, is notregarded as any obstacle to his assumption of thehigh-priesthood. But this, it will be found, wasstrictly in accordance with the manners of the ancientGreeks, among whom piracy was so far from being lookedupon in any other light than that of an honourableprofession, that Nestor himself, in the third bookof the Odyssey, asks his guests, Telemachus and Mentor,as an ordinary question, whether business or piracywas the object of their voyage. But the Bucoli(herdsmen or buccaniers,) over whom Thyamis held command,should probably, notwithstanding their practice ofrapine, be regarded not so much as robbers as in thelight of outlaws, who had taken refuge in these impenetrablemarshes from the yoke of the Persians; and their constantconflicts with the Persian troops, as well as the marchof Thyamis upon Memphis, confirm the opinion thatthis was the intention of the author. That thesevast marshes of the Delta were in fact, throughoutthe period of Persian rule in Egypt, the strongholdsof Egyptian independence, admits of abundant demonstrationfrom the Greek historians:—it was here,in the mysterious island of Elbo, that Amyrtaeus,(called by Thucydides “the king of the marshes,”)held out after the reconquest of Egypt by Megabysus,B.C. 454, “for they could not take him on accountof the great extent of the marsh; besides which, themarshmen are the most warlike of all the Egyptians."[66]This view of the subject has, at least, the advantageof placing Thyamis in a more respectable light thanthat of a mere marauder; though his mode of life undereither supposition, would be considered, accordingto modern notions, as a strange training for the sacerdotaloffice.
[Footnote 66: Thuc. i. cap. 110. The islandof Elbo, according to Herodotus, who gives a curiousaccount of the Egyptian marshes and their inhabitants,had been constructed of cinders, in long pasttimes, by a king who lay concealed for fifty yearsfrom the Ethiopians; but no man knew its situation,till it was again brought to light, after having beenlost for five hundred years, by Amyrtaeus.]
Few if any works of fiction have enjoyed so long andwidely diffused a celebrity, as the Ethiopics.Whatever credit may be attached to the story preservedby Nicephorus, of the deposition of Heliodorus fromhis see, it at least affords evidence of the highpopularity of the work, even during the lifetime ofthe author; and we have the personal testimony ofNicephorus himself, that in his own time, five centurieslater, it was still regarded with undiminished favour.Down to the fall of the Greek empire, its style andincidents continued to furnish a model to all thewretched scribblers who attempted the composition ofromances—nor was its fame confined withinthe limits of the language in which it was written.It found a place in the famous library of MatthiasCorvinus at Buda; and the dispersion of that celebratedcollection on the capture of the city by the Ottomansafter the battle of Mohacz, in 1526, first made itknown to western Europe: the first edition byObsopoeus,[67] (printed at Basle in 1534,) having beentaken in MS. which fell into the possession of a soldieron this occasion. Among the literati of the sixteenthand seventeenth centuries, its popularity seems almostto have equalled that which it had enjoyed in its nativecountry. Tasso, as has already been noticed, borrowedfrom it the episode of Clorinda—and Racine(one of whose early productions was also founded uponit) was, in his younger days, so enthusiastic an admirerof it, that when the volume was taken from him byhis tutor at Port-Royal, he replied that it matteredlittle, as he knew the whole by heart! The numeroustranslations, however, which have appeared in variouslanguages, particularly in French and English, arelittle calculated to add, by the merits of their execution,to the favour of the work; one English poeticalversion in particular, by Lisle, published in 1527,is one of the most precious specimens of balderdashin existence—a perfect literary curiosityin its way! Of the others, we need mention onlythe French one of Amyot, (1558,) not for its merits,but from the author’s having been rewarded byHenry II. of France with the nomination to an abbey—asif in tardy compensation to Heliodorus, in the personof his literary representative, for the see from whichthe authorship is said to have caused his expulsion.
[Footnote 67: Of the later editions of the Greektext, the best are those of Coray, Paris, 1804; andMitscherlisch, Strasburg, 1797.]
* * * * *
PAST AND PRESENT, BY CARLYLE.
Mr Carlyle—an astute and trenchant criticmight, with show of justice, remark—assumesto be the reformer and castigator of his age—areformer in philosophy, in politics, in religion—denouncingits mechanical method of thinking, deploringits utter want of faith, and threatening politicalsociety, obstinately deaf to the voice of wisdom, withthe retributive horrors of repeated revolutions; andyet neither in philosophy, in religion, nor in politics,has Mr Carlyle any distinct dogma, creed, or constitutionto promulgate. The age is irreligious, he exclaims,and the vague feeling of the impenetrable mystery whichencompasses us, is all the theology we can gather fromhim; civil society, with its laws and government,is in a false and perilous position, and for all reliefand reformation, he launches forth an indisputablemorality—precepts of charity, and self-denial,and strenuous effort—precepts most excellent,and only too applicable; applicable, unfortunately,after an a priori fashion—for ifmen would but obey them, there had been need of fewlaws, and of no remedial measures.
This man of faith—our critic might continue—hasbut one everlasting note; and it is really the mostsceptical and melancholy that has ever been heard,or heard with toleration, in our literature. Herepeats it from his favourite apostle Goethe; “alldoubt is to be cured only—by action.”Certainly, if forgetting the doubt, and thesubject of doubt, be the sole cure for it. Butthat other advice which Mr Carlyle tells us was given,and in vain, to George Fox, the Quaker, at a time whenhe was agitated by doubts and perplexities, namely,“to drink beer and dance with the girls,”was of the very same stamp, and would have operatedin the very same manner, to the removing of the piousQuaker’s doubts. Faith! ye lack faith!cries this prophet in our streets; and when reprovedand distressed scepticism enquires where truth is tobe found, he bids it back to the loom or the forge,to its tools and its workshop, of whatever kind thesemay be—there to forget the enquiry.
The religion, or, if he pleases, the formula of religion,which helps to keep men sober and orderly, Mr Carlyledespises, ridicules; “old clothes!” hecries, empty and ragged. It is not till a manhas risen into frenzy, or some hot fanaticism, thathe deserves his respect. An Irving, when hisnoble spirit, kindled to fever heat, is seized withdelirium, becomes worthy of some admiration. ACromwell is pronounced emphatically to have believedin a God, and therefore to have been “byfar the remarkablest governor we have had here forthe last five centuries or so.” Meanwhile,is it the faith of an Irving, or the God of a Cromwell,that our subtle-minded author would have us adopt,or would adopt himself? If he scorn the easy,methodical citizen, who plods along the beaten tracksof life, looking occasionally, in his demure, self-satisfied
manner, upwards to the heavens, but with no other resultthan to plod more perseveringly along his very earthytrack, it follows not that there is any one orderof fanatic spirits with whom he would associate, towhose theology he would yield assent. Verily,no. He demands faith—he gives no creed.What is it you teach? a plain-speaking manwould exclaim; where is your church? have you alsoyour thirty-nine articles? have you nine? have youone stout article of creed that will bear therubs of fortune—bear the temptations ofprosperity or a dietary system—stand bothsunshine and the wind—which will keep virtuesteady when disposed to reel, and drive back crimeto her penal caverns of remorse? What would youanswer, O philosopher! if a simple body should askyou, quite in confidence, where wicked people go to?Were it not better for those to whom philosophy hasbrought the sad necessity of doubt, to endure thisalso patiently and silently, as one of the inevitableconditions of human existence? Were not this betterthan to rail incessantly against the world, for a wantof that sentiment which they have no meansto excite or to authorize?
The same inconsequence in politics. We have Chartismpreached by one not a Chartist—by one whohas no more his five points of Radicalism thanhis five points of Calvinistic divinity—whohas no trust in democracy, who swears by no theoryof representative government—who will neverbelieve that a multitude of men, foolish and selfish,will elect the disinterested and the wise. Yourconstitution, your laws, your “horse-hairedjustice” that sits in Westminster Hall, he likesthem not; but he propounds himself no scheme of polity.Reform yourselves, one and all, ye individual men!and the nation will be reformed; practise justice,charity, self-denial, and then all mortals may workand eat. This is the most distinct advice hebestows. Alas! it is advice such as this thatthe Christian preacher, century after century, uttersfrom his pulpit, which he makes the staple of hiseloquence, and which he and his listeners are contentedto applaud; and the more contented probably to applaud,as, on all hands, it is tacitly understood to be fartoo good to be practised.
In fine, turn which way you will, to philosophy, topolitics, to religion, you find Mr Carlyle objecting,denouncing, scoffing, rending all to pieces in hisbold, reckless, ironical, manner—but teachingnothing. The most docile pupil, when he openshis tablets to put down the precious sum of wisdomhe has learned, pauses—finds his pencilmotionless, and leaves his tablet still a blank.
Now all this, and more of the same kind, which ourastute and trenchant critic might urge, may be true,or very like the truth, but it is not the whole truth.
“To speak a little pedantically,” saysour author himself, in a paper called Signs ofthe Times, “there is a science of Dynamicsin man’s fortune and nature, as well as of Mechanics.There is a science which treats of, and practicallyaddresses, the primary, unmodified, forces and energiesof man, the mysterious springs of love, and fear, andwonder, of enthusiasm, poetry—religion,all which have a truly vital and infinite character;as well as a science which practically addresses thefinite, modified developments of these, when they takethe shape of immediate ‘motives,’ as hopeof reward, or as fear of punishment. Now it iscertain, that in former times the wise men, the enlightenedlovers of their kind, who appeared generally as moralists,poets, or priests, did, without neglecting the mechanicalprovince, deal chiefly with the dynamical; applying,themselves chiefly to regulate, increase, and purify,the inward primary powers of man; and fancying thatherein lay the main difficulty, and the best servicethey could undertake.”—Misc.vol. ii. p. 277.
In such Dynamics it is that Mr Carlyle deals.To speak in our own plain common-place diction, itis to the elements of all religious feeling, to thebroad unalterable principles of morality, that headdresses himself; stirring up in the minds of hisreaders those sentiments of reverence to the Highest,and of justice to all, even to the lowest, which cannever utterly die out in any man, but which slumberin the greater number of us. It is by no meansnecessary to teach any peculiar or positive doctrinein order to exert an influence on society. Afterall, there is a moral heart beating at the very centreof this world. Touch it, and there is aresponsive movement through the whole system of theworld. Undoubtedly external circ*mstances rulein their turn over this same central pulsation:alter, arrange, and modify, these external circ*mstancesas best you can, but he who, by the word hespeaks or writes, can reach this central pulse immediately—ishe idle, is he profitless?
Or put it thus: there is a justice between manand man—older, and more stable, and morelofty in its requisitions, than that which sits inermine, or, if our author pleases, in “horse-hair,”at Westminster Hall; there is a morality recognizedby the intellect and the heart of all reflective men,higher and purer than what the present forms of societyexact or render feasible—or rather say,a morality of more exalted character than that whichhas hitherto determined those forms of society.No man who believes that the teaching of Christ wasauthorized of heaven—no man who believesthis only, that his doctrine has obtained and preservedits heavenly character from the successful, unanswerable,appeal which it makes to the human heart—candispute this fact. Is he an idler, then, or adreamer in the land, who comes forth, and on the high-road
of our popular literature, insists on it that men shouldassume their full moral strength, and declaresthat herein lies the salvation of the world?But what can he do if the external circ*mstances oflife are against him?—if they crush thismoral energy?—if they discountenance thiselevation of character? Alone—perhapsnothing. He with both hands is raising one endof the beam; go you with your tackle, with rope andpulley, and all mechanical appliances, to the otherend, and who knows but something may be effected?It is not by teaching this or that dogma, political,philosophical, or religious, that Mr Carlyle is doinghis work, and exerting an influence, by nomeans despicable, on his generation. It is byproducing a certain moral tone of thought, of a stern,manly, energetic, self-denying character, that hisbest influence consists. Accordingly we are accustomedto view his works, even when they especially regardcommunities of men, and take the name of histories,as, in effect, appeals to the individual heart, andto the moral will of the reader. His mind isnot legislative; his mode of thinking is not systematic;a state economy he has not the skill, perhaps notthe pretension, to devise. When he treats ofnations, and governments, and revolutions of states,he views them all as a wondrous picture, which he,the observer, standing apart, watches and apostrophizes,still revealing himself in his reflectionsupon them. The picture to the eye, he giveswith marvellous vividness; and he puts forth, withequal power, that sort of world-wide reflection whicha thinking being might be supposed to make on hisfirst visit to our planet; but the space between—thoseintermediate generalizations which make the pride ofthe philosophical historian—he neglects,has no taste for. Such a writer as Montesquieuhe holds in manifest antipathy. His Historyof the French Revolution, like his Chartism,like the work now before us, his Past and Present,is still an appeal to the consciousness of each man,and to the high and eternal laws of justice and ofcharity—lo, ye are brethren!
And although it be true, as our critic has suggested,that to enlarge upon the misery which lies low andwide over the whole ground-plot of civilized society,without at the same time devising an effectual remedy,is a most unsatisfactory business; nevertheless, thisalso must be added, that to forget the existence ofthis misery would not be to cure it—would,on the contrary, be a certain method of perpetuatingand aggravating it; that to try to forget it,is as little wise as it is humane, and that indeedsuch act of oblivion is altogether impossible.If crowds of artizans, coming forth from homes wherethere is neither food nor work, shall say, in thewords that our author puts into their mouths, “Beholdus here—we ask if you mean to lead us towardswork; to try to lead us? Or if you declare that
you cannot lead us? And expect that we are toremain quietly unled, and in a composed manner perishof starvation? What is it that you expect ofus? What is it that you mean to do with us?”—if,we say, such a question is asked, we may not be ableto answer, but we cannot stifle it. Surely itis well that every class in the community should knowhow indissolubly its interest is connected with thewell-being of other classes. However remote theman of wealth may sit from scenes like this—howeverreluctant he may be to hear of them—nothingcan be more true than that this distress is hiscalamity, and that on him also lies theinevitable alternative to remedy or to suffer.It accords with the view we have here taken of thewritings of Mr Carlyle, that of all his works thatwhich pleased us most was the one most completelypersonal in its character, which most constantlykept the reader in a state of self-reflection.In spite of all its oddities and vagaries, and thechaotic shape into which its materials have been thrown,the Sartor Resartus is a prime favourite ofours—a sort of volcanic work; and the readerstands by, with folded arms, resolved at all eventsto secure peace within his own bosom. But no sluggard’speace; his arms are folded, not for idleness, onlyto repress certain vain tremors and vainer sighs.He feels the calm of self-renunciation, but unitedwith no monkish indolence. Here is a fragmentof it. How it rebukes the spirit of strife andcontention!
“To me, in this our life,”says the Professor, “which is an internecinewarfare with the time-spirit, other warfare seemsquestionable. Hast thou in any way a contentionwith thy brother, I advise thee, think well whatthe meaning thereof is. If thou gauge itto the bottom, it is simply this—’Fellow,see! thou art taking more than thy share of happinessin the world, something from my share;which, by the heavens, thou shalt not; nay, Iwill fight thee rather.’ Alas! and the wholelot to be divided is such a beggarly matter, trulya ’feast of shells,’ for the substancehas been spilled out: not enough to quenchone appetite; and the collective human species clutchingat them! Can we not, in all such cases, rathersay—’Take it, thou too ravenousindividual; take that pitiful additional fractionof a share, which I reckoned mine, but which thou sowanted; take it with a blessing: would toheaven I had enough for thee!’”—P.200.
Truisms! Preachments repeated from Solomon downwards!some quick, impatient reader, all animal irritability,will exclaim—Good, but it is the very prerogativeof genius, in every age, to revive truisms such asthese, and make them burn in our hearts. Manya man in his hour of depression, when resolution issicklied over by the pale cast of thought, will find,in the writings of Carlyle, a freshening stimulant,better than the wine-cup, or even the laughter of a
friend, can give. In some of his biographicalsketches, with what force has he brought out the moralresolution which animated, or ought to have animated,the man of whom he is writing! We shall haveoccasion, by and by, to notice what, to our mind,appears a mere perversion of thought, and a mischievousexaggeration in our author, who, in his love of a certainenergy of character, has often made this energy(apart from a moral purpose) the test and rule ofhis admiration. But at present turn to his admirableestimation of Dr Samuel Johnson, and the noble regretwhich he throws over the memory of Burns. A portionof the first we cannot resist extracting. Whata keen mountain air, bracing to the nerves, mortalto languor and complaint, blows over us from passagessuch as these:—“The courage we desire and prizeis not the courage to die decently, but to livemanfully. Johnson, in the eighteenth century,all as a man of letters, was, in good truth, ’thebravest of the brave.’ What mortalcould have more to war with? Yet, as wesaw, he yielded not, faltered not; he fought, andeven, such was his blessedness, prevailed.Whoso will understand what it is to have a man’sheart, may find that, since the time of JohnMilton, no braver heart had beat in any Englishbosom than Samuel Johnson now bore. Observe, too,that he never called himself brave, never felthimself to be so; the more completely washe so. No Giant Despair, no Golgotha Death-Dance,or Sorcerer’s Sabbath of ’Literary Lifein London,’ appals this pilgrim; he worksresolutely for deliverance; in still defiancesteps stoutly along. The thing that is givenhim to do he can make himself do; what is to be enduredhe can endure in silence.
“How the great soul of old Samuel,consuming daily his own bitter, unalleviableallotment of misery and toil, shows beside thepoor, flimsy, little soul of young Boswell; one dayflaunting in the ring of vanity, tarrying by thewine-cup, and crying, Aha, the wine is red; thenext day deploring his down-pressed, night-shaded,quite poor estate; and thinking it unkind thatthe whole movement of the universe should go on, whilehis digestive apparatus had stopped! Wereckon Johnson’s ‘talent of silence’to be among his great and rare gifts. Wherethere is nothing further to be done, there shall nothingfurther be said; like his own poor, blind Welshwoman,he accomplished somewhat, and also ’enduredfifty years of wretchedness with unshaken fortitude.’How grim was life to him; a sick prison-houseand doubting-castle! ’His great business,’he would profess, ‘was to escape from himself.’Yet towards all this he has taken his positionand resolution; can dismiss it all ’withfrigid indifference, having little to hope orto fear.’ Friends are stupid, and pusillanimous,and parsimonious; ’wearied of his stay,yet offended at his departure;’ it is themanner of the world. ’By popular delusion,’remarks he, with a gigantic calmness, ’illiteratewriters will rise into renown:’ itis a portion of the history of English literature;a perennial thing, this same popular delusion;and will—alter the character of the language....
“The life of this man has been,as it were, turned inside out, and examined withmicroscopes by friend and foe; yet was there nolie found in him. His doings and writings arenot shows, but performances:you may weigh them in the balance, and they willstand weight. Not a line, not a sentence is dishonestlydone, is other than it pretends to be. Alas!and he wrote not out of inward inspiration, butto earn his wages; and with that grand perennialtide flowing by, in whose waters he neverthelessrefused to fish, to whose rich oyster-beds the divewas too muddy for him. Observe, again, with whatinnate hatred of cant he takes to himself, andoffers to others, the lowest possible view ofhis business, which he followed with such nobleness.Motive for writing he had none, as he often said,but money; and yet he wrote so. Into theregion of poetic art he indeed never rose; therewas no ideal without him, avowing itselfin his work; the nobler was that unavowed idealwhich lay within him, and commanded, saying, Work outthy artisanship in the spirit of an artist!They who talk loudest about the dignity of art,and fancy that they too are artistic guild-brethren,and of the celestials, let them consider wellwhat manner of man this was, who felt himself to beonly a hired day-labourer.”—Misc.vol. iv. p. 19.
The History of the French Revolution deserves,no doubt, notwithstanding the sort of partiality wehave intimated for its wild predecessor, to be consideredas the greatest work of Mr Carlyle; but it is thework of which criticism, if she ventures to speak atall, must speak with the loudest and most frequentprotests. There are certain grave objectionswhich cannot be got over. As to the style,indeed, Mr Carlyle is, on this head, (except, occasionally,when writing for some Review in which a veryviolent departure from the English language wouldnot be advisable,) far above all criticism. Theattempt to censure the oddities with which it abounds—thefrequent repetition—the metaphor and allusionused again and again till the page is covered witha sort of slang—would only subject the critichimself to the same kind of ridicule that would fallupon the hapless wight who should bethink him of takingsome Shandean work gravely to task for its scandalousirregularities, and utter want of methodical arrangement.Such is Carlylism; and this is all that canbe said upon the matter. But the style whichseemed not altogether unnatural, and far from intolerable,in Herr Teufelsdrockh, becomes a strangely inconvenientmedium of communication where a whole history is tobe told in it. The mischief is, that it admits
of no safe middle path: it must arrest attentionfor its novelty, its graphic power, its bold originality;or it must offend by its newfangled phrase, its jerkingmovement, and its metaphor and allusion reduced intoa slang. Meanwhile, there is so much in a historywhich needs only to be told—so much, whicheven this author, skip how he may, must relate,for the sake merely of preserving a continuous narrative—andwhere the perfection of style would be, as all theworld knows, that it should draw no attention whateverto itself. A style like this of our author’s,once assumed, cannot be laid down for a moment; andthe least important incident is related with the samecuriosity of diction, and the same startling manner,that delighted us in the Siege of the Bastile.To convey mere information, it seems quiteunserviceable. “How inferior,” saysour author somewhere himself,—“howinferior for seeing by is the brightest trainof fireworks to the humblest farthing candle!”The basis of a history is surely, after all, the narrative,and whatever may be the estimate of others, the historianproceeds on the supposition that the facts he hasto relate are, for their own sake, deserving to behad in remembrance. If not, why is he there recordingand verifying them? But Mr Carlyle proceeds throughouton quite the contrary supposition, that the fact foritself is worth nothing—that it is valuableonly as it presents some peculiar picture to the imagination,or kindles some noteworthy reflection. He maintainsthroughout the attitude of one who stands apart, lookingat the history; rarely does he assume the patientoffice of that scribe whom we remember to have seenin the frontispiece of our school histories, recordingfaithfully what the bald headed Time, sitting betweenhis scythe and his hour-glass, was dictating.
Never, indeed, was history written in so mad a vein—andthat not only as regards style, but the prevailingmood of mind in which the facts and characters arescanned. That mood is for the most part ironical.There is philanthropy, doubtless, at the bottom ofit all; but a mocking spirit, a profound and pungentirony, are the manifest and prevailing characteristics.It is a philanthropy which has borrowed the mannerof Mephistopheles. It is a modern Diogenes—infact it is Diogenes Teufelsdrockh himself, surveyingthe Revolution from his solitary watch-tower, wherehe sits so near the eternal skies, that a whole generationof men, whirling off in wild Sahara waltz into infinitespace, is but a spectacle, and a very brief andconfused one. This lofty irony, pungent as itis, grows wearisome. By throwing a littlenesson all things, it even destroys the very aliment itfeeds on; nothing, at last, is worth the mocking.But the weariness it occasions is not its greatestfault. It leads to a most unjust and capriciousestimate of the characters and actions of men.
Capricious it must, of necessity, become. Tobe ironical always were insufferable; even for thesake of artistical effect, some personages; and someevents, must be treated with a natural feeling ofrespect or abhorrence; yet if one murder is to be recordedwith levity, why not another;—if one criminalis to be dismissed with a jest, levelled perhaps atsome personal oddity, why is an earnest indignationto be bestowed on the next criminal that comes undernotice? The distinctions that will be made willbe not fair judgments, but mere favouritism.Situated thus—plain moral distinctions havingbeen disparaged—Mr Carlyle has given wayto his admiration of a certain energy of character,and makes the possession of this sole excellence thecondition of his favour, the title to his respect,or perhaps, we should say, to an immunity from hiscontempt. The man who has an eye—thatis, who glares on you like a tiger—he who,in an age of revolution, is most thoroughly revolutionary,and swallows all formulas—he ismade a hero, and honourable mention is decreed to him;whilst all who acted with an ill-starred moderation,who strove, with ineffectual but conscientious effort,to stay the wild movement of the revolution, are treatedwith derision, are dismissed with contempt, or atbest with pity for their weakness.His first hero is Mirabeau, a man of energy enoughdoubtless, and who had, in a most remarkable degree,that force of character which gives not only influenceover, but a sort of possession of, other men’sminds, though they may claim far higher intellectualendowments. For this one quality he is forgivenevery thing. The selfish ambition of which hemust be more than suspected, is not glanced at.Even the ridicule due to his inordinate vanity, isspared him. “Yes support that head,”says this dying gladiator to his friend; “wouldI could bequeath it to thee!” And our causticDiogenes withholds the lash. As the history proceeds,Danton is elevated to the place of hero. He isput in strong contrast with Robespierre. Theone is raised into simple admiration, the other sunkinto mere contempt; both are spared the just execrationwhich their crimes have merited. The one goodquality of Danton is, that, like Mirabeau, he hadan eye—did not see through logicspectacles—had swallowed all formulas.So that, when question is made of certain massacresin which he was implicated, we are calmly told “thatsome men have tasks frightfuller than ours.”The one great vice of Robespierre is, that he lackedcourage; for the rest, he is “sea-green andincorruptible”—“thin and acrid.”His incorruptibility is always mentioned contemptuously,and generally in connexion with his bilious temperament,as if they related as cause and effect, or were bothalike matters of pathology. Mr Carlyle has ahabit of stringing together certain moral with certainphysical peculiarities, till the two present themselvesas of quite equal importance, and things of the samecategory.
Yet this Robespierre, had our author been in wantof another hero, possessed one quality, which, inhis estimate, would have entitled him to occupy thepedestal. He had faith. “Ofincorruptible Robespierre, it was long ago predictedthat he might go far—mean, meagre mortalthough he was—for doubt dwelt notin him.” And this prediction was utteredby no less a man than Mirabeau. “Men ofinsight discern that the sea-green may by chance gofar: ‘this man,’ observes Mirabeau,’will do somewhat; he believes every wordhe says.’” The audacity of Danton the‘sea-green’ certainly did not possess,but of that sort of courage which can use the extremestmeans for the desired end, he surely had sufficient.He shrunk from no crime, however exorbitant. Hisfaith carried him through all, and nearer tothe goal than any of his compeers. He walkedas firm as others round the crater of this volcano,and walked there the longest. It is impossiblenot to feel that here, by the side of Dauton,a great injustice has been done to the incorruptibleand faithful Robespierre.
Well may energy or will stand in theplace of goodness with Mr Carlyle, since we find himmaking in another place this strange paradoxical statement:“Bad is by its nature negative, and cando nothing; whatsoever enables us to doany thing is by its very nature good.”So that such a thing as a bad deed cannot exist,and such an expression is without meaning. Accordingly,not only is energy applauded, but that energy applaudedmost that does most. Those who exercisedtheir power, and the utmost resolution of mind, inthe attempt to restrain the Revolution, are not tobe put in comparison with those who did something—whocarried forward the revolutionary movement. Withwhat contempt he always mentions Lafayette—aman of limited views, it is true; and whose viewsat the time were wide enough? or to whom would thewidest views have afforded a practical guidance?—buta man of honour and of patriotic intentions!It is “Lafayette—thin, constitutionalpedant; clear, thin, inflexible, as water turned tothin ice.” And how are the whole partyof the Gironde treated with slight and derision, because,at a period of what proved to be irremediable confusion—whennothing but the whirlwind was to be reaped—theywere incessantly striving to realize for their countrysome definite and permanent institutions! Butthough their attempt we see was futile, could theydo other than make the attempt? Mr Carlyle describesthe position of affairs very ably in the followingpassage:—
“This huge insurrectionary movement,which we liken to a breaking out of Tophet andthe abyss, has swept away royalty, aristocracy,and a king’s life. The question is, whatwill it next do? how will it henceforth shapeitself? Settle down into a reign of lawand liberty, according as the habits, persuasions,and endeavours of the educated, monied, respectableclass prescribe? That is to say, the volcaniclava-flood, bursting up in the manner described,will explode, and flow according to Girondineformula and pre-established rule of philosophy?If so, for our Girondine friends it will be well.
“Meanwhile, were not the prophecyrather, that as no external force, royal or other,now remains which could control this movement,the movement will follow a course of its own—probablya very original one. Further, that whatsoeverman or men can best interpret the inward tendenciesit has, and give them voice and activity, willobtain the lead of it. For the rest, that,as a thing without order—a thingproceeding from beyond and beneath the regionof order—it must work and wither,not as a regularity, but as a chaos—destructiveand self-destructive always; till something thathas order arise, strong enough to bindit into subjection again; which something, wemay further conjecture, will not be a formula, withphilosophical propositions and forensic eloquence,but a reality, probably with a sword in its hand!”
But, true as all this may be, Mr Carlyle would bethe last man to commend the Girondists had they allowedthemselves to be borne along passively by thisviolent movement: is it fair dealing, then, thattheir efforts—the only efforts they couldmake—efforts which cost them life, shouldbe treated as little better than idle pedantries?
But what criticism has to say in praise ofthis extraordinary work, let it not be said with stintor timidity. The bold glance at the Revolution,taken from his Diogenes’ station, and the vividdescriptions of its chief scenes, are unrivalled.
That many a page sorely tries the reader’s patienceis acknowledged, and we might easily fill column aftercolumn with extracts, to show that the style of MrCarlyle, especially when it is necessary for him todescend to the common track of history, can degenerateinto a mannerism scarce tolerable, for which no termof literary censure, would be too severe. Wehave, however, no disposition to make any such extracts;and our readers, we are sure, would have little delightin perusing them. On the other hand, when hedoes succeed, great is the glory thereof; and we cannotforego the pleasure of making one quotation, howeverwell known the remarkable passages of this work maybe, to illustrate the triumphant power which he notunfrequently displays. Here is a portion of hisaccount of the Taking of the Bastile. Itwill be borne in mind, that there is throughout amixture of the ironical and mock-heroic:
“All morning since nine therehas been a cry every where: To the Bastile!Repeated ‘deputations of citizens’ havebeen here, passionate for arms; whom De Launayhas got dismissed by soft speeches through port-holes.Towards noon elector Thuriot de la Rosiere gainsadmittance; finds De Launay indisposed for surrender;nay, disposed for blowing up the place rather.Thuriot mounts with him to the battlements:heaps of paving stones, old iron, and missileslie piled; cannon all duly levelled; in everyembrasure a cannon—only drawn back a little!But outwards, behold how the multitude flowson, swelling through every street: tocsinfuriously pealing, all drums beating the generale:the suburb Saint Antoine rolling hitherward whollyas one man!
“Woe to thee De Launay, in suchan hour, if thou canst not, taking some one firmdecision, rule circ*mstances! Soft speecheswill not serve, hard grape-shot is questionable; buthovering between the two is unquestionable.Ever wilder swells the tide of men; their infinitehum waxing even louder into imprecations, perhapsinto crackle of stray musketry—whichlatter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot do execution.The outer drawbridge has been lowered for Thuriot;new deputation of citizens (it is the thirdand noisiest of all) penetrates that way intothe outer court: soft speeches producingno clearance of these, De Launay gives fire; pullsup his drawbridge; a slight sputter—whichhas kindled the too combustible chaos;made it a roaring fire-chaos. Bursts forth insurrectionat sight of its own blood, (for there were deathsby that sputter of fire,) into endless rollingexplosion of musketry, distraction, execration.The Bastile is besieged!
“On, then, all Frenchmen thathave hearts in their bodies! Roar with allyour throats, of cartilage and metal, ye sons of liberty;stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty isin you, soul, body, or spirit; for it is thehour! Smite thou, Louis Tournay, cart-wrightof the Marais, old soldier of the regiment Dauphine:smite at that outer drawbridge chain, though thefiery hail whistles round thee! Never, over naveor felloe, did thy axe (q. hammer?) strikesuch a stroke. Down with it, man: downwith it to Orcus: let the whole accursed edificesink thither, and tyranny be swallowed up forever! Mounted, some say, on the roof ofthe guard-room, some ’on bayonets stuck intothe joints of the wall,’ Louis Tournay smitesbrave Aubin Bonnemere (also an old soldier) secondinghim: the chain yields, breaks; the hugedrawbridge slams down thundering, (avec fracas.)Glorious: and yet, alas, it is still but theoutworks! The eight grim towers, with theirInvalides’ musketry, their paving stonesand cannon-mouths, still roar aloft intact; ditchyawning impassable, stone-faced; the inner drawbridgewith its back towards us; the Bastile is stillto take!
“To describe this siege of theBastile (thought to be one of the most importantin history) perhaps transcends the talent of mortals.Could one but, after infinite leading, get to understandso much as the plan of the building! But thereis open esplanade at the end of the Rue Saint-Antoine;there are such Fore-courts, Cour avance, Courde l’Orme, arched gateway, (where LouisTournay now fights,) then new drawbridges, dormantbridges rampart-bastions, and the grim EightTowers: a labyrinthic mass, high-frowning there,of all ages, from twenty years to four hundredand twenty; beleaguered, in this its last hour,as we said, by mere chaos come again! Ordnanceof all calibres; throats of all capacities; menof all plans, every man his own engineer; seldom,since the war of pigmies and cranes, was there seenso anomalous a thing. Half-pay Elie is homefor a suit of regimentals; no one would heedhim in coloured clothes: half-pay Hulinis haranguing Gardes Francaises in the Place de Greve.Frantic patriots pick up the grape-shots; bear them,still hot, (or seemingly so,) to the Hotel deVille:—Paris, you perceive, is tobe burnt!—Paris wholly has got to the acmeof its frenzy; whirled, all ways, by panic madness.
“Let conflagration rage of whatsoeveris combustible! Guard-rooms are burnt, Invalides’mess-rooms. A distracted ‘peruke-makerwith two fiery torches’ is for burning ’thesaltpetres of the arsenal;’ had not a womanrun screaming—had not a patriot, withsome tincture of natural philosophy, instantlystruck the wind out of him, (butt of musket on pitof stomach,) overturned barrels, and stayed thedevouring element.
“Blood flows; the aliment ofnew madness. The wounded are carried intothe houses of the Rue Cerisuie; the dying leave theirlast mandate not to yield till the accursed strongholdfall. And yet, alas, how fall? The wallsare so thick! Deputations, three in number,arrive from the Hotel de Ville. These wavetheir town-flag in the gateway, and stand rollingtheir drum; but to no purpose. In such crackof doom De Launay cannot hear them, dare notbelieve them; they return with justified rage,the whew of lead still singing in their ears.What to do? The firemen are here, squirtingwith their fire-pumps on the Invalides’cannon, to wet the touch-holes; they unfortunatelycannot squirt so high, but produce only cloudsof spray. Individuals of classical knowledge proposecatapults. Santerre, the sonorousbrewer of the suburb Saint Antoine, advises ratherthat the place be fired, by a ’mixture ofphosphorus and oil of turpentine, spouted up throughforcing pumps.’ O Spinola Santerre,hast thou the mixture ready? Everyman his own engineer! And still the fire-delugeabates not: even women are firing, and Turks;at least one woman (with her sweetheart) andone Turk. Gardes Francaises have come; real cannon,real cannoniers. Usher Maillard is busy; half-payElie, half-pay Hulin rage in the midst of thousands.
“How the great Bastile clockticks (inaudible) in its inner court there, atit* ease, hour after hour, as if nothing special,for it or the world, were passing! It tolled onewhen the firing began; and is now pointing towardsfive, and still the firing slakes not. Fardown in their vaults the seven prisoners hearmuffled din as of earthquakes; their turnkeys answervaguely....
“For four long hours now hasthe world-bedlam roared: call it the world-chimera,blowing fire! The poor Invalides have sunk undertheir battlements, or rise only with reversed muskets;they have made a white flag of napkins; go beatingthe chamade, or seeming to beat, for onecan hear nothing. The very Swiss at theportcullis look weary of firing; disheartened inthe fire-deluge, a port-hole at the drawbridge is opened,as by one that would speak. See HuissierMaillard, the shifty man! On his plank,swinging over the abyss of that stone ditch—plankresting on parapet, balanced by weight of patriots—hehovers perilous. Such a dove towards such an ark!Deftly thou shifty usher; one man already fell, andlies smashed, far down there, against the masonry.Usher Maillard falls not; deftly, unerring hewalks, with outspread palm. The Swiss holdsa paper through his port-hole; the shifty usher snatchesit, and returns. Terms of surrender—pardon,immunity to all. Are they accepted? “Foid’officier—on the word of anofficer,” answers half-pay Hulin, or half-payElie, for men do not agree on it, “theyare!” Sinks the drawbridge, Usher Maillardbolting it when down—rushes in the livingdeluge—the Bastile is fallen! ‘Victoire!La Bastile est prise!’”—Vol.i. p. 233.
Such descriptions, we need hardly say, are not thesport of fancy, nor constructed by the agglomerationof eloquent phrases; they are formed by collectingtogether (and this constitutes their value) facts andintimations scattered through a number of authorities.It would be a great mistake, however, to suppose thatthere is no imagination, or little artistic talent,displayed in collecting the materials for such a description.There may be genius in reading well quite ascertainly as in writing well; nor is it anycommon or inferior ability that detects at a glance,amongst a multitude of facts, the one which has realsignificance, and which gives its character to thescene to be reviewed. If any one wishes to convincehimself how much a man of genius may see inthe page which can hardly obtain the attention of anordinary reader, the last work of Mr Carlyle, Pastand Present, will afford him an opportunity ofmaking the experiment. He has but to turn, afterreading in that work the account of Abbot Samson,to the Chronicle of Jocelin, from which ithas been all faithfully extracted, and he will besurprised that our author could find so much life andtruth in the antiquarian record. Or the experimentwould be still more perfect if he should read thechronicle first, and then turn to the extracted accountin Past and Present.
It is time, indeed, that we ourselves turned to thiswork, the perusal of which has led us to these remarksupon Mr Carlyle. We were desirous, however, offorming something like a general estimate of his meritsand demerits before we entered upon any account ofhis last production. What space we have remainingshall be devoted to this work.
Past and Present, if it does not enhance, oughtnot, we think, to diminish from the reputation ofits author; but as a mannerism becomes increasinglydisagreeable by repetition, we suspect that, withouthaving less merit, this work will have less popularitythan its predecessors. The style is the same“motley wear,” and has the same jerkingmovement—seems at times a thing of shredsand patches hung on wires—and is so fullof brief allusions to his own previous writings, thatto a reader unacquainted with these it would be scarceintelligible. With all this it has the same vigour,and produces the same vivid impression that alwaysattends upon his writings. Here, as elsewhere,he pursues his author-craft with a right noble andindependent spirit, striking manifestly for truth,and for no other cause; and here also, as elsewhere,he leaves his side unguarded, open to unavoidableattack, so that the most blundering critic cannot failto hit right, and the most friendly cannot spare.
The past is represented by a certain AbbotSamson, and his abbey of St Edmunds, whose life andconversation are drawn from the chronicle alreadyalluded to, and which has been lately published bythe Camden Society.[68] Our author will look, he tellsus, face to face on this remote period, “inhope of perhaps illustrating our own poor centurythereby.” Very good. To get a stationin the past, and therefrom view the present, is noill-devised scheme. But Abbot Samson and his monksform a very limited, almost a domestic picture, whichsupplies but few points of contrast or similitudewith our “own poor century,” which, atall events, is very rich in point of view. When,therefore, he proceeds to discuss the world-wide topicsof our own times, we soon lose all memory of the Abbotand his monastery, who seems indeed to have as littleconnexion with the difficulties of our position, asthe statues of Gog and Magog in Guildhall with thedecision of some election contest which is made totake place in their venerable presence. On onepoint only can any palpable contrast be exhibited,namely, between the religious spirit of his timesand our own.
[Footnote 68: Chronica JOCELINI DE BRAKELONDA,de rebus gestis Samsonis Abbatis Monasterii SanctiEdmundi: nunc primum typis mandata, curante JOHANNEGOGE ROKEWOOD. (Camden Society, London, 1840.)]
Now, here, as on every topic where a comparison isattempted, what must strike every one is, the manifestpartiality Mr Carlyle shows to the past, and the unfairpreference he gives it over the present. Nothingbut respect and indulgence when he revisits the monasteryof St Edmunds; nothing but censure and suspicion whenhe enters, say, for instance, the precincts of ExeterHall. Well do we know, that if Mr Carlyle couldmeet such a monk alive, as he here treats with somuch deference, encounter him face to face, talk tohim, and hear him talk; he and the monk would be intolerableto each other. Fortunately for him, the monksare dead and buried whom he lauds so much when contrastedwith our modern pietists. Could these tenantsof the stately monastery preach to him about theirpurgatory and their prayers—lecture him,as assuredly they would, with that same earnest, uncomfortable,too anxious exhortation, which all saints must addressto sinners—he would close his ears hermetically—hewould fly for it—he would escape with asdesperate haste as from the saddest whine that everissued from some lath-and-plaster conventicle.
Mr Carlyle censures our poor century for its lackof faith; yet the kind of faith it possesses, whichhas grown up in it, which is here at this present,he has no respect for, treats with no manner of tenderness.What other would he have? He deals outto it no measure of philosophical justice. Heaccepts the faith of every age but his own. Hewill accept, as the best thing possible, the trustfuland hopeful spirit of dark and superstitious periods;but if the more enlightened piety of his own age beat variance even with the most subtle and difficulttenets of his own philosophy, he will make no compromisewith it, he casts it away for contemptuous infidelityto trample on as it pleases. When visiting thepast, how indulgent, kind, and considerate he is!When Abbot Samson (as the greatest event of his life)resolves to see and to touch the remains of St Edmund,and “taking the head between his hands, speaksgroaning,” and prays to the “Glorious Martyrthat it may not be turned to his perdition that he,miserable and sinful, has dared to touch his sacredperson,” and thereupon proceeds to touch theeyes and the nose, and the breast and the toes, whichlast he religiously counts; our complacent authorsees here, “a noble awe surrounding the memoryof the dead saint, symbol, and promoter of many otherright noble things.” And when he has occasionto call to mind the preaching of Peter the Hermit,who threw the fanaticism of the west on the fanaticismof the east, and in order that there should be nodisparity between them in the sanguinary conflict,assimilated the faith of Christ to that of Mahommed,and taught that the baptized believer who fell by theSaracen would die in the arms of angels, and at thevery gates of heaven; here, too, he bestows a heartyrespect on the enthusiastic missionary, and all his
fellow crusaders: it seems that he also wouldwillingly have gone with such an army of the faithful.But when he turns from the past to the present, allthis charity and indulgence are at an end. Hefinds in his own mechanico-philosophical age a faithin accordance with its prevailing modes of thought—faithlying at the foundation of whatever else of doctrinaltheology it possesses—a faith diffused overall society, and taught not only in churches and chapelsto pious auditories, but in every lecture-room, andby scientific as well as theological instructors—afaith in God, as creator of the universe, as the demonstratedauthor, architect, originator, of this wondrous world;and lo! this same philosopher who looked with encouragingcomplacency on Abbot Samson bending in adoration overthe exhumed remains of a fellow mortal, and who listenswithout a protest to the cries of sanguinary enthusiasm,rising from a throng of embattled Christians, stepsdisdainfully aside from this faith of a peaceful andscientific age; he has some subtle, metaphysical speculationsthat will not countenance it; he demands that a faithin God should he put on some other foundation, whichfoundation, unhappily, his countrymen, as yet unskilledin transcendental metaphysics; cannot apprehend; hewithdraws his sympathy from the so trite and sober-mindedbelief of an industrious, experimental, ratiocinatinggeneration, and cares not if they have a God at all,if they can only make his existence evident to themselvesfrom some commonplace notion of design and prearrangementvisible in the world. Accordingly, we have passageslike the following, which it is not our fault if thereader finds to be not very intelligible, or writtenin, what our author occasionally perpetrates, a sadjargon.“For out of this that we callAtheism, come so many other isms and falsities,each falsity with its misery at its heels!—ASOUL is not, like wind, (spiritus or breath,)contained within a capsule; the ALMIGHTY MAKERis not like a clockmaker that once, in old immemorialages, having made his horologe of a universe,sits ever since and sees it go! Not at all.Hence comes Atheism; come, as we say, many other isms;and as the sum of all comes vatetism, thereverse of heroism—sad rootof all woes whatsoever. For indeed, as no manever saw the above said wind element inclosedwithin its capsule, and finds it at bottom moredeniable than conceivable; so too, he finds,in spite of Bridgewater bequests, your clockmakerAlmighty an entirely questionable affair, a deniableaffair; and accordingly denies it, and along withit so much else.”—(P. 199.)
Do we ask Mr Carlyle to falsify his own transendentalphilosophy for the sake of his weaker brethren?By no means. Let him proceed on the “higha priori road,” if he finds it—asnot many do—practicable. Let men,at all times, when they write as philosophers, speak
out simply what they hold to be truth. It ishis partiality only that we here take noticeof, and the different measure that he deals out tothe past and the present. Out of compliment toa bygone century he can sink philosophy, and commonsense too; when it might be something more than acompliment to the existing age to appear in harmonywith its creed, he will not bate a jot from the subtlestof his metaphysical convictions.Mr Carlyle not being en rapport with the religiousspirit of his age, finds therein no religious spiritwhatever; on the other hand, he has a great deal ofreligion of his own, not very clear to any but himself;and thus, between these two, we have pages, very many,of such raving as the following:—
“It is even so. To speakin the ancient dialect, we ’have forgottenGod;’—in the most modern dialect,and very truth of the matter, we have taken upthe fact of the universe as it is not.We have quietly closed our eyes to the eternal substanceof things, and opened them only to the shows andshams of things. We quietly believe thisuniverse to be intrinsically a great unintelligiblePERHAPS; extrinsically, clear enough, it is agreat, most extensive cattle-fold and workhouse, withmost extensive kitchen-ranges, dining-tables—whereathe is wise who can find a place! All thetruth of this universe is uncertain; only theprofit and the loss of it, the pudding and praise ofit, are and remain very visible to the practicalman.
“There is no longer any God forus! God’s laws are become a greatest-happinessprinciple, a parliamentary expediency; the heavensoverarch us only as an astronomical timekeeper:a butt for Herschel telescopes to shoot scienceat, to shoot sentimentalities at:—inour and old Jonson’s dialect, man has lostthe soul out of him; and now, after the dueperiod, begins to find the want of it! Thisis verily the plague-spot—centre ofthe universal social gangrene, threatening allmodern things with frightful death. To him thatwill consider it, here is the stem, with its rootsand top-root, with its world-wide upas boughsand accursed poison exudations, under which theworld lies writhing in atrophy and agony.You touch the focal centre of all our disease, of ourfrightful nosology of diseases, when you lay yourhand on this. There is no religion; thereis no God; man has lost his soul, and vainlyseeks antiseptic salt. Vainly: in killingKings, in passing Reform Bills, in French Revolutions,Manchester Insurrections, is found no remedy.The foul elephantine leprosy, alleviated foran hour, re-appears in new force and desperatenessnext hour.
“For actually this is notthe real fact of the world; the world is notmade so, but otherwise! Truly, any society settingout from this no-God hypothesis will arrive ata result or two. The unveracities,escorted each unveracity of them by its correspondingmisery and penalty; the phantasms and fatuities, andten-years’ corn-law debatings, that shall walkthe earth at noonday, must needs be numerous!The universe being intrinsically a perhaps, beingtoo probably an ’infinite humbug,’why should any minor humbug astonish us? It isall according to the order of nature; and phantasmsriding with huge clatter along the streets, fromend to end of our existence, astonish nobody.Enchanted St Ives’ workhouses and Joe Mantonaristocracies; giant-working mammonism near strangledin the partridge nets of giant-looking Idle Dilettantism—this,in all its branches, in its thousand thousandmodes and figures, is a sight familiar to us.”—P.185.
What is to be said of writing such as this! Forourselves, we hurry on with a sort of incredulity,scarce believing that it is set down there for oursteady perusal; we tread lightly over these “Phantasms”and “Unveracities,” and “Double-barrelledDilettantism,” (another favourite phrase ofhis—pity it is not more euphonious—butnone of his coinage rings well,) we step on,we say, briskly, in the confident hope of soon meetingsomething—if only a stroke of humour—whichshall be worth pausing for. Accordingly in thevery page where our extract stopped, in the very nextparagraph, comes a description of a certain pope mostdelectable to read. As it is but fair that ourreaders should enjoy the same compensation as ourselves,we insert it in a note.[69]
[Footnote 69: “The Popish religion, weare told, flourishes extremely in these years, andis the most vivacious-looking religion to be met withat present. ‘Elle a trois cents ans dans leventre,’ counts M. Jouffroy; ‘c’estpourquoi je la respecte!’ The old Pope ofRome, finding it laborious to kneel so long whilethey cart him through the streets to bless the peopleon Corpus-Christi day, complains of rheumatism;whereupon his cardinals consult—constructhim, after some study, a stuffed, cloaked figure,of iron and wood, with wool or baked hair, and placeit in a kneeling posture. Stuffed figure, or rumpof a figure; to this stuffed rump he, sitting at hisease on a lower level, joins, by the aid of cloaksand drapery, his living head and outspread hands:the rump, with its cloaks, kneels; the Pope looks,and holds his hands spread; and so the two in concertbless the Roman population on Corpus-Christiday, as well as they can.
“I have considered this amphibious Pope, withthe wool-and-iron back, with the flesh head and hands,and endeavoured to calculate his horoscope. Ireckon him the remarkablest Pontiff that has darkenedGod’s daylight, or painted himself in the humanretina, for these several thousand years. Nay,since Chaos first shivered, and ‘sneezed,’as the Arabs say, with the first shaft of sunlightshot through it, what stranger product was there ofnature and art working together? Here is a supremepriest who believes God to be—what, in thename of God, does he believe God to be?—anddiscerns that all worship of God is a scenic phantasmagoryof wax candles, organ blasts, Gregorian chants, mass-brayings,purple monsignori, wool-and-iron rumps, artisticallyspread out, to save the ignorant from worse....
“There is in this poor Pope, and his practiceof the scenic theory of worship, a frankness whichI rather honour. Not half and half, but withundivided heart, does he set about worshippingby stage machinery; as if there were now, and couldagain be, in nature no other. He will ask you,What other? Under this my Gregorian chant, andbeautiful wax-light phantasmagory, kindly hidden fromyou is an abyss of black doubts, scepticism, nay,sans-culottic Jacobinism, an orcus that has no bottom.Think of that. ‘Groby Pool is thatchedwith pancakes,’ as Jeannie Deans’s innkeeperdefined it to be! The bottomless of scepticism,atheism, Jacobinism, behold it is thatched over, hiddenfrom your despair, by stage-properties judiciouslyarranged. This stuffed rump of mine saves notme only from rheumatism, but you also from what otherisms!”—P. 187.]
The whole parallel which he runs between past andpresent is false—whimsically false.At one time we hear it uttered as an impeachment againstour age, that every thing is done by committees andcompanies, shares and joint effort, and that no oneman, or hero, can any longer move the world as inthe blessed days of Peter the Hermit. Were wedisposed to treat Mr Carlye as members of Parliament,by the help of their Hansard, controvert eachother, we should have no difficulty in finding amongsthis works some passage—whether eloquentor not, or how far intelligible, would be just a merechance—in which he would tell us that thiscapacity for joint effort, this habit of co-operation,was the greatest boast our times could make, and gavethe fairest promise for the future. In Ireland,by the way, one man can still effect something,and work after the fashion, if not with so pure afanaticism, as Peter the Hermit. The spectacledoes not appear very edifying. Pray—thequestion just occurs to us—pray has Mr O’Connellgot an eye? Would Mr Carlyle acknowledgethat this man has swallowed all formulas?Having been bred a lawyer, we are afraid, or, in commonChristian speech, we hope, that he has not.
But we are not about to proceed through a volume suchas this in a carping spirit, though food enough forsuch a spirit may be found; there is too much genuinemerit, too much genuine humour, in the work. What,indeed, is the use of selecting from an author whowill indulge in all manner of vagaries, whetherof thought or expression, passages to prove that hecan be whimsical and absurd, can deal abundantly inobscurities and contradictions, and can withal writethe most motley, confused English of any man living?Better take, with thanks, from so irregular a genius,what seems to us good, or affords us gratification,and leave the rest alone.
We will not enter into the account of Abbot Samson;it is a little historical sketch, perfect in its kind,in which no part is redundant, and which, being gathereditself from very scanty sources, will not bear furthermutilation. We turn, therefore, from the Past,although, in a literary point of view, a very attractiveportion of the work, and will draw our extracts (theycannot now be numerous) from his lucubrations uponthe Present.
Perhaps the most characteristic passage in the volumeis that where, in the manner of a philosopher whosuddenly finds himself awake in this “half-realized”world, he scans the institution of an army—looksout upon the soldier.
“Who can despair of Governmentthat passes a soldier’s guard-house, ormeets a red-coated man on the streets! That abody of men could be got together to kill othermen when you bade them; this, a priori,does it not seem one of the impossiblest things?Yet look—behold it; in the stolidest ofdo-nothing Governments, that impossibility isa thing done. See it there, with buff-belts,red coats on its back; walking sentry at guard-houses,brushing white breeches in barracks; an indisputable,palpable fact. Out of grey antiquity, amid allfinance-difficulties, scaccarium-tallies,ship-monies, coat-and-conduct monies, and vicissitudesof chance and time, there, down to the presentblessed hour, it is.
“Often, in these painfully decadent,and painfully nascent times, with their distresses,inarticulate gaspings, and ‘impossibilities;’meeting a tall lifeguardsman in his snow-whitetrousers, or seeing those two statuesque lifeguardsmen,in their frowning bearskins, pipe-clayed buckskins,on their coal-black, sleek, fiery quadrupeds, ridingsentry at the Horse-Guards—it strikesone with a kind of mournful interest, how, insuch universal down-rushing and wrecked impotenceof almost all old institutions, this oldest fightinginstitution is still so young! Fresh complexioned,firm-limbed, six feet by the standard, this fightingman has verily been got up, and can fight.While so much has not yet got into being, whileso much has gone gradually out of it, and becomean empty semblance, a clothes’-suit, and highestking’s-cloaks, mere chimeras parading underthem so long, are getting unsightly to the earnesteye, unsightly, almost offensive, like a costlierkind of scarecrow’s blanket—herestill is a reality!
“The man in horse-hair wig advances,promising that he will get me ‘justice;’he takes me into Chancery law-courts, into decades,half-centuries of hubbub, of distracted jargon; anddoes get me—disappointment,almost desperation; and one refuge—thatof dismissing him and his ‘justice’ altogetherout of my head. For I have work to do; Icannot spend my decades in mere arguing withother men about the exact wages of my work: Iwill work cheerfully with no wages, sooner thanwith a ten years’ gangrene or Chancerylawsuit in my heart. He of the horse-hairwig is a sort of failure; no substance, but a fondimagination of the mind. He of the shovel-hat,again, who comes forward professing that he willsave my soul. O ye eternities, of him inthis place be absolute silence! But he of thered coat, I say, is a success and no failure!He will veritably, if he gets orders, draw outa long sword and kill me. No mistake there.He is a fact, and not a shadow. Alive in thisyear Forty-three, able and willing to do hiswork. In dim old centuries, with WilliamRufus, William of Ipres, or far earlier, he began;and has come down safe so far. Catapult has givenplace to cannon, pike has given place to musket, ironmail-shirt to coat of red cloth, saltpetre ropematchto percussion-cap; equipments, circ*mstances,have all changed and again changed; but the humanbattle-engine, in the inside of any or of eachof these, ready still to do battle, stands there,six feet in standard size.
“Strange, interesting, and yetmost mournful to reflect on. Was this, then,of all the things mankind had some talent for, theone thing important to learn well, and bring toperfection—this of successfully killingone another? Truly you have learned it well,and carried the business to a high perfection.It is incalculable what, by arranging, commanding,and regimenting, you can make of men. Thesethousand straight-standing, firm-set individuals,who shoulder arms, who march, wheel, advance,retreat, and are, for your behoof, a magazinecharged with fiery death, in the most perfect conditionof potential activity; few months ago, till the persuasivesergeant came, what were they? Multiform raggedlosels, runaway apprentices, starved weavers,thievish valets—an entirely brokenpopulation, fast tending towards the treadmill.But the persuasive sergeant came; by tap of drum enlisted,or formed lists of them, took heartily to drillingthem; and he and you have made them this!Most potent, effectual for all work whatsoever,is wise planning, firm combining, and commandingamong men. Let no man despair of Governmentswho look on these two sentries at the Horse Guards!”—P.349.
Passages there are in the work which a political agitatormight be glad enough to seize on; but, upon the whole,it is very little that Radicalism or Chartism obtainfrom Mr Carlyle. No political party would choosehim for its champion, or find in him a serviceableally. Observe how he demolishes the hope of thosewho expect, by new systems of election, to securesome incomparably pure and wise body of legislators—somearistocracy of talent!
“We must have more wisdom togovern us, we must be governed by the wisest,we must have an aristocracy of talent! cry many.True, most true; but how to get it? The followingextract from our young friend of the HoundsditchIndicator is worth perusing—’Atthis time,’ says he, ’while there is acry every where, articulate or inarticulate,for an aristocracy of talent, a governing class,namely, what did govern, not merely which tookthe wages of governing, and could not with all ourindustry be kept from misgoverning, corn-lawing,and playing the very deuce, with us—itmay not be altogether useless to remind someof the greener-headed sort what a dreadfully difficultaffair the getting of such an aristocracy is!Do you expect, my friends, that your indispensablearistocracy of talent is to be enlisted straightway,by some sort of recruitment aforethought, outof the general population; arranged in supremeregimental order; and set to rule over us? Thatit will be got sifted, like wheat out of chaff, fromthe twenty-seven million British subjects; thatany ballot-box, reform-bill, or other politicalmachine, with force of public opinion ever soactive on it, is likely to perform said process ofsifting? Would to heaven that we had a sieve;that we could so much as fancy any kind of sieve,wind-fanners, or ne plus ultra of machinery,devisable by man that would do it!
“’Done, nevertheless, sureenough, it must be; it shall, and will be.We are rushing swiftly on the road to destruction;every hour bringing us nearer, until it be, insome measure, done. The doing of it is notdoubtful; only the method or the costs!Nay, I will even mention to you an infallible sifting-process,whereby he that has ability will be sifted out torule amongst us, and that same blessed aristocracyof talent be verily, in an approximate degree,vouchsafed us by-and-by; an infallible sifting-process;to which, however, no soul can help his neighbour,but each must, with devout prayer to heaven,help himself. It is, O friends! that all of us,that many of us, should acquire the true eyefor talent, which is dreadfully wanting at present.
“’For example, you, BobusHiggins, sausage-maker on the great scale, whoare raising such a clamour for this aristocracy oftalent, what is it that you do, in that big heartof yours, chiefly in very fact pay reverenceto? Is it to talent, intrinsic manly worthof any kind, you unfortunate Bobus? The manliestman that you saw going in a ragged coat, did you everreverence him; did you so much as know that hewas a manly man at all, till his coat grew better?Talent! I understand you to be able to worshipthe fame of talent, the power, cash, celebrity,or other success of talent; but the talent itself isa thing you never saw with eyes. Nay, whatis it in yourself that you are proudest of, thatyou take most pleasure in surveying, meditatively,in thoughtful moments? Speak now, is itthe bare Bobus, stript of his very name and shirt,and turned loose upon society, that you admireand thank heaven for; or Bobus, with his cash-accounts,and larders dropping fatness, with his respectabilities,warm garnitures, and pony chaise, admirable insome measure to certain of the flunkey species?Your own degree of worth and talent, is it of infinitevalue to you; or only of finite—measurableby the degree of currency, and conquest of praiseor pudding, it has brought you to? Bobus,you are in a vicious circle, rounder than oneof your own sausages; and will never vote for or promoteany talent, except what talent or sham-talent hasalready got itself voted for!’—Wehere cut short the Indicator; all readersperceiving whither he now tends.”—P.39.
In the chapter, also, on Democracy, we have notionsexpressed upon liberty which would make littleimpression—would be very distasteful toany audience assembled for the usual excitement ofpolitical oratory.
“Liberty! the true liberty ofa man, you would say, consisted in his findingout, or being forced to find out, the right path,and to walk thereon—to learn or to be taughtwhat work he actually was able for, and then,by permission, persuasion, and even compulsion,to set about doing the same! That is his trueblessedness, honour, ‘liberty,’ and maximumof well-being,—if liberty be not that,I for one have small care about liberty.You do not allow a palpable madman to leap over precipices;you violate his liberty, you that are wise, and keephim, were it in strait waist-coat, away from the precipices!Every stupid, every cowardly and foolish man, is buta less palpable madman; his true liberty were thata wiser man, that any and every wiser man, could,by brass collars, or in whatever milder or sharperway, lay hold of him when he is going wrong,and order and compel him to go a little righter.O! if thou really art my senior—seigneur,my elder—Presbyter or priest,—ifthou art in very deed my wiser, may abeneficent instinct lead and impel thee to ‘conquer’me, to command me! If thou do know better thanI what is good and right, I conjure thee, inthe name of God, force me to do it; were it bynever such brass collars, whips, and handcuffs,leave me not to walk over precipices! That I havebeen called by all the newspapers a ‘freeman,’ will avail me little, if my pilgrimagehave ended in death and wreck. O that thenewspapers had called me slave, coward, fool, or whatit pleased their sweet voices to name me, andI had attained not death but life! Libertyrequires new definitions.”—P. 285.
“But truly, as I had to remarkin the meanwhile, the ’liberty of not beingoppressed by your fellow-man,’ is an indispensable,yet one of the most insignificant fractional partsof human liberty. No man oppresses thee—canbid thee fetch or carry, come or go, withoutreason shown. True; from all men thou artemancipated, but from thyself and from the devil!No man, wiser, unwiser, can make thee come or go; butthy own futilities, bewilderments, thy false appetitesfor money—Windsor Georges and suchlike! No man oppresses thee, O free andindependent Franchiser! but does not this stupid porter-potoppress thee? no son of Adam can bid thee come andgo; but this absurd pot of heavy-wet, this canand does! Thou art the thrall, not of Cedricthe Saxon, but of thy own brutal appetites, andthis scoured dish of liquor; and thou protest of thy‘liberty,’ thou entire blockhead!”—P.292.
We should hardly think of entering with Mr Carlyleinto a controversy upon the corn-laws, or on schemesof emigration, or any disputed point of politicaleconomy. He brings to bear upon these certainprimitive moral views and feelings which arebut very remotely applicable in the resolution ofthese knotty problems. We should almost as soonthink of inviting the veritable Diogenes himself,should he roll up in his tub to our door, to a discussionupon our commercial system. Our Diogenes Teufelsdrockhlooks upon these matters in a quite peculiar manner;observe, for example, the glance he takes at our presentmercantile difficulties, which, doubtless, is notwithout its own value, nor undeserving of all consideration.
“The continental people, it wouldseem, are ’exporting our machinery, beginningto spin cotton, and manufacture for themselves,to cut us out of this market and then out of that!’Sad news, indeed, but irremediable—byno means the saddest news. The saddest newsis, that we should find our national existence,as I sometimes hear it said, depend on selling manufacturedcotton at a farthing an ell cheaper than any otherpeople—a most narrow stand for a greatnation to base itself on; a stand which, withall the corn-law abrogations conceivable, I donot think will be capable of enduring.
“My friends, suppose we quittedthat stand; suppose we came honestly down fromit, and said—’This is our minimumof cotton prices; we care not, for the present,to make cotton any cheaper. Do you, if itseems so blessed to you, make cotton cheaper.Fill your lungs with cotton fug, your hearts withcopperas fumes, with rage and mutiny; become yethe general gnomes of Europe, slaves of the lamp!’I admire a nation which fancies it will die ifit do not undersell all other nations to theend of the world. Brothers, we will cease to undersellthem; we will be content to equalsell them:to be happy selling equally with them. Ido not see the use of underselling them; cottoncloth is already twopence a yard or lower, and yetbare backs were never more numerous amongst us.Let inventive men cease to spend their existenceincessantly contriving how cotton can be madecheaper; and try to invent, a little, how cotton,at its present cheapness, could be somewhat justerdivided amongst us! Let inventive men considerwhether the secret of this universe, and of man’slife there, does after all, as we rashly fancyit, consist in making money? There is oneGod—just, supreme, almighty: but isMammon the name of him?
“But what is to be done withour manufacturing population, with our agricultural,with our ever-increasing population?—crymany.—Ay, what? Many things canbe done with them, a hundred things, a thousandthings—had we once got a soul and begunto try. This one thing of doing for themby ’underselling all people,’ andfilling our own bursten pockets by the road; and turningover all care for any ‘population,’ orhuman or divine consideration, except cash only,to the winds, with a ‘Laissez-faire’and the rest of it; this is evidently not the thing.‘Farthing cheaper per yard;’ no great nationcan stand on the apex of such a pyramid; screwingitself higher and higher: balancing itselfon its great toe! Can England not subsistwithout being above all people in working?England never deliberately proposed such a thing.If England work better than all people, it shallbe well. England, like an honest worker,will work as well as she can; and hope the gods mayallow her to live on that basis. Laissez-faireand much else being once dead, how many ‘impossibles’will become possible! They are ‘impossible’as cotton-cloth at twopence an ell was—tillmen set about making it. The inventive geniusof great England will not for ever sit patientwith mere wheels and pinions, bobbins, straps,and billy-rollers whirring in the head of it.The inventive genius of England is not a beaver’s,or a spinner’s, or a spider’s genius:it is a man’s genius, I hope, witha God over him!”—P. 246.
And hear our Diogenes on the often repeated cry ofover-production:—
“But what will reflective readerssay of a governing class, such as ours, addressingits workers with an indictment of ‘over-production!’Over-production: runs it not so? ’Yemiscellaneous ignoble, manufacturing individuals,ye have produced too much. We accuse youof making above two hundred thousand shirts forthe bare backs of mankind. Your trousers too,which you have made of fustian, of cassimere, of Scotchplaid, of jane, nankeen, and woollen broadcloth,are they not manifold? Of hats for the humanhead, of shoes for the human foot, of stoolsto sit on, spoons to eat with—Nay, whatsay we of hats and shoes? You produce goldwatches, jewelleries, silver forks and epergnes,commodes, chiffoniers, stuffed sofas—Heavens,the Commercial Bazar and multitudinous Howel andJames cannot contain you! You have produced, produced;—hethat seeks your indictment, let him look around.Millions of shirts and empty pairs of breecheshang there in judgment against you. We accuseyou of over-producing; you are criminally guiltyof producing shirts, breeches, hats, shoes, andcommodities in a frightful over-abundance. Andnow there is a glut, and your operatives cannotbe fed.’
“Never, surely, against an earnestworking mammonism was there brought by game-preservingaristocratic dilettantism, a stranger accusationsince this world began. My Lords and Gentlemen—whyit was you that were appointed, by the factand by the theory of your position on the earth,to make and administer laws. That is tosay, in a world such as ours, to guard against‘gluts,’ against honest operatives whohad done their work remaining unfed! I say,you were appointed to preside over the distributionand appointment of the wages of work done; andto see well that there went no labourer without hishire, were it of money coins, were it of hemp gallows-ropes:that formation was yours, and from immemorial timehas been yours, and as yet no other’s. Thesepoor shirt-spinners have forgotten much, whichby the virtual unwritten law of their positionthey should have remembered; but by any writtenrecognized law of their position, what have theyforgotten? They were set to make shirts.The community, with all its voices commandedthem, saying, ’make shirts;’—andthere the shirts are! Too many shirts?Well, that is a novelty, in this intemperateearth, with its nine hundred millions of barebacks! But the community commanded you, saying,’See that the shirts are well apportioned,that our human laws be emblems of God’slaw;’ and where is the apportionment? Twomillions shirt-less, or ill-shirted workers sitenchanted in work-house Bastiles, five millionsmore (according to some) in Ugoline hunger-cellars;and for remedy, you say—what say you?’Raise our rents!’ I have not inmy time heard any stranger speech, not even onthe shores of the Dead Sea. You continue addressingthese poor shirt-spinners and over-producers inreally a too triumphant manner.
“Will you bandy accusations,will you accuse us of over-production?We take the heavens and the earth to witness, thatwe have produced nothing at all. Not from us proceedsthis frightful overplus of shirts. In thewide domains of created nature, circulates nothingof our producing. Certain fox-brushes nailedupon our stable-door, the fruit of fair audacityat Melton Mowbray; these we have produced, and theyare openly nailed up there. He that accusesus of producing, let him show himself, let himname what and when. We are innocent of producing,—yeungrateful, what mountains of things have wenot, on the contrary, had to consume, and make awaywith! Mountains of those your heaped manufactures,wheresoever edible or wearable, have they notdisappeared before us, as if we had the talentof ostriches, of cormorants, and a kind of divinefaculty to eat? Ye ungrateful!—anddid you not grow under the shadow of our wings?Are not your filthy mills built on these fieldsof ours; on this soil of England, which belongs to—whomthink you? And we shall not offer you our ownwheat at the price that pleases us, but thatpartly pleases you? A precious notion!What would become of you, if we chose at any timeto decide on growing no wheat more?”
An amusing—caustic—exaggeration,more like a portion of a clever satire on man andsociety, than a sincere discussion of political evilsand remedies; and not intended, we trust, for Mr Carlyle’sown sake, to express his real belief in the true causesof the evils of society. If we could supposethat this piece of extravagant and one-sided invectivewere meant to be seriously taken, as embodying Mr Carlyle’ssocial and political creed, we should scarcely findwords strong enough to reprobate its false and mischievoustendency.
We have already said, that we regard the chief valueof Mr Carlyle’s writings to consist in the toneof mind which the individual reader acquires fromtheir perusal;—manly, energetic, enduring,with high resolves and self-forgetting effort; andwe here again, at the close of our paper, revert tothis remark: Past and Present, has not,and could not have, the same wild power which SartorResartus possessed, in our opinion, over the feelingsof the reader; but it contains passages which lookthe same way, and breathe the same spirit. Wewill quote one or two of these, and then concludeour notice. Their effect will not be injured,we may observe, by our brief manner of quotation.Speaking of “the man who goes about potheringand uproaring for his happiness,” hesays:—
“Observe, too, that this is alla modern affair; belongs not to the old heroictimes, but to these dastard new times. ‘Happiness,our being’s end and aim,’ is at bottom,if we will count well, not yet two centuriesold in the world. The only happiness a braveman ever troubled himself with asking much aboutwas, happiness enough to get his work done. Not,’I can’t eat!’ but, ‘Ican’t work!’ that was the burden of allwise complaining among men. It is, afterall, the one unhappiness of a man—thathe cannot work—that he cannot get his destinyas a man fulfilled.”
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“The latest Gospel in this world,is, know thy work and do it. ‘Knowthyself;’ long enough has that poor ‘self’of thine tormented thee; thou wilt never getto ‘know’ it, I believe! Thinkit not thy business, this of knowing thyself; thouart an unknowable individual; know what thoucanst work at; and work at it like a Hercules!That will be thy better plan.”
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“Blessed is he who has foundhis work; let him ask no other blessedness.He has a work, a life-purpose; he has found it, andwill follow it! How, as a free-flowing channel,dug and torn by noble force through the sourmud-swamp of one’s existence, like an ever-deepeningriver, there it runs and flows;—drainingoff the sour festering water gradually from theroot of the remotest glass-blade; making, instead ofpestilential swamp, a green fruitful meadow withits clear-flowing stream. How blessed forthe meadow itself, let the stream and itsvalue be great or small. Labour is life!”
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“Who art thou that complainestof thy life of toil? Complain not.Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow workmenthere, in God’s eternity—survivingthere—they alone surviving—sacredband of the Immortals. Even in the weak humanmemory they survive so long as saints, as heroes,as gods; they alone surviving—peopling,they alone, the immeasured solitudes of time!To thee, Heaven, though severe, is not unkind.Heaven is kind, as a noble mother—asthat Spartan mother, saying, as she gave herson his shield, ’with it, my son, or uponit!’
“And, who art thou that braggestof thy life of idleness; complacently showestthy bright gilt equipages; sumptuous cushions;appliances for the folding of the hands to more sleep?Looking up, looking down, around, behind, or before,discernest thou, if it be not in Mayfair alone,any idle hero, saint, god, or even devil?Not a vestige of one. ’In the heavens,in the earth, in the waters under the earth, is nonelike unto thee.’ Thou art an originalfigure in this creation, a denizen in Mayfairalone. One monster there is in the world:the idle man. What is his ‘religion?’That nature is a phantasm, where cunning, beggary,or thievery, may sometimes find good victual.”
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“The ‘wages’ of everynoble work do yet lie in heaven, or else nowhere.Nay, at bottom dost thou need any reward? Wasit thy aim and life-purpose, to be filled withgood things for thy heroism; to have a life ofpomp and ease, and be what men call ‘happy’in this world, or in any other world? I answerfor thee, deliberately, no?
“The brave man has to give hislife away. Give it, I advise thee—thoudost not expect to sell thy life in an adequatemanner? What price, for example, would contentthee?... Thou wilt never sell thy life,or any part of thy life, in a satisfactory manner.Give it, like a royal heart—let the pricebe nothing; thou hast then, in a certain sense,got all for it!”
Well said! we again repeat, O Diogenes Teufelsdrockh!
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Edinburgh: Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes,Paul’s Work.
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