The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine (Vol. LVII, No. CCCLI), by Various Authors. (2025)

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine -- Volume57, No. 351, January 1845, by VariousThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine -- Volume 57, No. 351, January 1845Author: VariousRelease Date: August 4, 2009 [EBook #29605]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: ISO-8859-1*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, JAN. 1845 ***Produced by Brendan OConnor, Jonathan Ingram, StephanieEason and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Library of EarlyJournals.)

No. CCCLI. JANUARY, 1845. Vol. LVII.

CONTENTS.

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;

AND 22, PALL-MALL, LONDON.

To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed.

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.

[Pg 1]

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCLI. JANUARY, 1845. Vol. LVII.

HOMER, DANTE, AND MICHAEL ANGELO.

There is something inexpressibly striking, it may almost be saidawful, in the fame of Homer. Three thousand years have elapsed sincethe bard of Chios began to pour forth his strains; and theirreputation, so far from declining, is on the increase. Successivenations are employed in celebrating his works; generation aftergeneration of men are fascinated by his imagination. Discrepancies ofrace, of character, of institutions, of religion, of age, of theworld, are forgotten in the common worship of his genius. In thisuniversal tribute of gratitude, modern Europe vies with remoteantiquity, the light Frenchman with the volatile Greek, theimpassioned Italian with the enthusiastic German, the sturdyEnglishman with the unconquerable Roman, the aspiring Russian with theproud American. Seven cities, in ancient times, competed for thehonour of having given him birth, but seventy nations have since beenmoulded by his productions. He gave a mythology to the ancients; hehas given the fine arts to the modern world. Jupiter, Saturn, Mars,Juno, are still household words in every tongue; Vulcan is yet the godof fire, Neptune of the ocean, Venus of love. When Michael Angelo andCanova strove to embody their conceptions of heroism or beauty, theyportrayed the heroes of the Iliad. Flaxman's genius was elevated tothe highest point in embodying its events. Epic poets, in subsequenttimes, have done little more than imitate his machinery, copy hischaracters, adopt his similes, and, in a few instances, improve uponhis descriptions. Painting and statuary, for two thousand years, havebeen employed in striving to portray, by the pencil or the chisel, hisyet breathing conceptions. Language and thought itself have beenmoulded by the influence of his poetry. Images of wrath are stilltaken from Achilles, of pride from Agamemnon, of astuteness fromUlysses, of patriotism from Hector, of tenderness from Andromache, ofage from Nestor. The galleys of Rome were, the line-of-battle ships ofFrance and England still are, called after his heroes. The Agamemnonlong bore the flag of Nelson; the Ajax perished by the flames withinsight of the tomb of the Telamonian hero, on the shores of theHellespont; the Achilles was blown up at the battle of Trafalgar.Alexander the Great ran round the tomb of Achilles before undertakingthe conquest of Asia. It was the boast of Napoleon that his motherreclined on tapestry representing the heroes of the Iliad, when hewas brought into the world. The greatest poets of ancient and moderntimes have spent their lives in the study of his genius or theimitation of his works. Withdraw from subsequent poetry the images,mythology, and characters of the Iliad, and what would remain?Petrarch spent his best years in restoring his verses. Tasso portrayedthe siege[Pg 2] of Jerusalem, and the shock of Europe and Asia, almostexactly as Homer had done the contest of the same forces, on the sameshores, two thousand five hundred years before. Milton's old age, whenblind and poor, was solaced by hearing the verses recited of the poet,to whose conceptions his own mighty spirit had been so much indebted;and Pope deemed himself fortunate in devoting his life to thetranslation of the Iliad.

No writer in modern times has equalled the wide-spread fame of theGrecian bard; but it may be doubted whether, in the realms of thought,and in sway over the reflecting world, the influence of Dante has notbeen almost as considerable. Little more than five hundred years,indeed, have elapsed—not a sixth of the thirty centuries which havetested the strength of the Grecian patriarch—since the immortalFlorentine poured forth his divine conceptions; but yet there isscarcely a writer of eminence since that time, in works even borderingon imagination, in which traces of his genius are not to be found. TheInferno has penetrated the world. If images of horror are soughtafter, it is to his works that all subsequent ages have turned; ifthose of love and divine felicity are desired, all turn to theParadise and the Spirit of Beatrice. When the historians of theFrench Revolution wished to convey an idea of the utmost agonies theywere called on to portray, they contented themselves with saying itequalled all that the imagination of Dante had conceived of theterrible. Sir Joshua Reynolds has exerted his highest genius indepicting the frightful scene described by him, when Ugolino perishedof hunger in the tower of Pisa. Alfieri, Metastasio, Corneille, Lopede Vega, and all the great masters of the tragic muse, have sought inhis works the germs of their finest conceptions. The first of thesetragedians marked two-thirds of the Inferno and Paradiso as worthyof being committed to memory. Modern novelists have found in hisprolific mind the storehouse from which they have drawn their noblestimagery, the chord by which to strike the profoundest feelings of thehuman heart. Eighty editions of his poems have been published inEurope within the last half century; and the public admiration, so farfrom being satiated, is augmenting. Every scholar knows how largelyMilton was indebted to his poems for many of his most powerful images.Byron inherited, though often at second hand, his mantle, in many ofhis most moving conceptions. Schiller has embodied them in a noblehistoric mirror; and the dreams of Goethe reveal the secret influenceof the terrible imagination which portrayed the deep remorse andhopeless agonies of Malebolge.

Michael Angelo has exercised an influence on modern art little, if atall, inferior to that produced on the realms of thought by Homer andDante. The father of Italian painting, the author of the frescoes onthe Sistine Chapel, he was, at the same time, the restorer of ancientsculpture, and the intrepid architect who placed the Pantheon in theair. Raphael confessed, that he owed to the contemplation of his workshis most elevated conceptions of their divine art. Sculpture, underhis original hand, started from the slumber of a thousand years, inall the freshness of youthful vigour; architecture, in subsequenttimes, has sought in vain to equal, and can never hope to surpass, hisimmortal monument in the matchless dome of St Peters. He foundpainting in its infancy—he left it arrived at absolute perfection. Hefirst demonstrated of what that noble art is capable. In the LastJudgment he revealed its wonderful powers, exhibiting, as it were, atone view, the whole circles of Dante's Inferno—portraying withterrible fidelity the agonies of the wicked, when the last trumpetshall tear the veil from their faces, and exhibit in undisguised truththat most fearful of spectacles—a naked human heart. Casting aside,perhaps with undue contempt, the adventitious aids derived fromfinishing, colouring, and execution, he threw the whole force of hisgenius into the design, the expression of the features, the drawing ofthe figures. There never was such a delineator of bone and muscle asMichael Angelo. His frescoes stand out in bold relief from the wallsof the Vatican, like the sculptures of Phidias from the pediment ofthe Parthenon.[Pg 3] He was the founder of the school of painting both atRome and Florence—that great school which, disdaining therepresentation of still life, and all the subordinate appliances ofthe art, devoted itself to the representation of the grand and thebeautiful; to the expression of passion in all its vehemence—ofemotion in all its intensity. His incomparable delineation of bonesand muscles was but a means to an end; it was the human heart, thethroes of human passion, that his master-hand laid bare. Raphaelcongratulated himself, and thanked God that he had given him life inthe same age with that painter; and Sir Joshua Reynolds, in his lastaddress to the Academy, "reflected, not without vanity, that hisDiscourses bore testimony to his admiration of that truly divine man,and desired that the last words he pronounced in that academy, andfrom that chair, might be the name of Michael Angelo."[1]

The fame of these illustrious men has long been placed beyond thereach of cavil. Criticism cannot reach, envy cannot detract from,emulation cannot equal them. Great present celebrity, indeed, is noguarantee for future and enduring fame; in many cases, it is thereverse, but there is a wide difference between the judgment of thepresent and that of future ages. The favour of the great, the passionsof the multitude, the efforts of reviewers, the interest ofbooksellers, a clique of authors, a coterie of ladies, accidentalevents, degrading propensities, often enter largely into thecomposition of present reputation. But opinion is freed from all thesedisturbing influences by the lapse of time. The grave is the greatestof all purifiers. Literary jealousy, interested partiality, vulgarapplause, exclusive favour, alike disappear before the hand of death.We never can be sufficiently distrustful of present opinion, solargely is it directed by passion or interest. But we may rely withconfidence on the judgment of successive generations on departedeminence; for it is detached from the chief cause of presentaberration. So various are the prejudices, so contradictory thepartialities and predilections of men, in different countries and agesof the world, that they never can concur through a course of centuriesin one opinion, if it is not founded in truth and justice. The voxpopuli is often little more than the vox diaboli; but the voice ofages is the voice of God.

It is of more moment to consider in what the greatness of theseillustrious men really consists—to what it has probably beenowing—and in what particulars they bear an analogy to each other.

They are all three distinguished by one peculiarity, which doubtlessentered largely into their transcendent merit—they wrote in theinfancy of civilization. Homer, as all the world knows, is the oldestprofane author in existence. Dante flourished about the year 1300: helived at a time when the English barons lived in rooms strewed withrushes, and few of them could sign their names. The long life ofMichael Angelo, extending from 1474 to 1564, over ninety years, if notpassed in the infancy of civilization, was at least passed in thechildhood of the arts: before his time, painting was in its cradle.Cimabue had merely unfolded the first dawn of beauty at Florence; andthe stiff figures of Pietro Perugino, which may be traced in the firstworks of his pupil Raphael, still attest the backward state of thearts at Rome. This peculiarity, applicable alike to all these threegreat men, is very remarkable, and beyond all question had a powerfulinfluence, both in forming their peculiar character, and elevatingthem to the astonishing greatness which they speedily attained.

It gave them—what Johnson has justly termed the first requisite tohuman greatness—self-confidence. They were the first—at least thefirst known to themselves and their contemporaries—who adventured ontheir several arts; and thus they proceeded fearlessly in theirgreat career. They had neither critics to fear, nor lords to flatter,nor former excellence to imitate. They portrayed with the pencil, orin verse, what they severally felt, undisturbed by fear, unswayed byexample, unsolicitous about fame,[Pg 4] unconscious of excellence. They didso for the first time. Thence the freshness and originality, thevigour and truth, the simplicity and raciness by which they aredistinguished. Shakspeare owed much of his greatness to the samecause; and thence his similarity, in many respects, to these greatmasters of his own or the sister arts. When Pope asked Bentley what hethought of his translation of the Iliad, the scholar replied, "Youhave written a pretty book, Mr Pope; but you must not call it Homer."Bentley was right. With all its pomp of language and melody ofversification, its richness of imagery and magnificence of diction,Pope's Homer is widely different from the original. He could not avoidit. The "awful simplicity of the Grecian bard, his artless grandeurand unaffected majesty," will be sought for in vain in thetranslation; but if they had appeared there, it would have beenunreadable in that age. Michael Angelo, in his bold conceptions,energetic will, and rapid execution, bears a close resemblance to thefather of poetry. In both, the same faults, as we esteem them, areconspicuous, arising from a too close imitation of nature, and acarelessness in rejecting images or objects which are of an ordinaryor homely description. Dante was incomparably more learned thaneither: he followed Virgil in his descent to the infernal regions; andexhibits an intimate acquaintance with ancient history, as well asthat of the modern Italian states, in the account of the characters hemeets in that scene of torment. But in his own line he was entirelyoriginal. Homer and Virgil had, in episodes of their poems, introduceda picture of the infernal regions; but nothing on the plan of Dante'sInferno had before been thought of in the world. With much of themachinery of the ancients, it bears the stamp of the spiritual faithof modern times. It lays bare the heart in a way unknown even to Homerand Euripides. It reveals the inmost man in a way which bespeaks thecenturies of self-reflection in the cloister which had preceded it. Itis the basis of all the spiritual poetry of modern, as the Iliad isof all the external imagery of ancient, times.

In this respect there is a most grievous impediment to genius inlater, or, as we term them, more civilized times, from which, inearlier ages, it is wholly exempt. Criticism, public opinion, thedread of ridicule—then too often crush the strongest minds. Theweight of former examples, the influence of early habits, the halo oflong-established reputation, force original genius from the untroddenpath of invention into the beaten one of imitation. Early talent feelsitself overawed by the colossus which all the world adores; it fallsdown and worships, instead of conceiving. The dread of ridiculeextinguishes originality in its birth. Immense is the incubus thuslaid upon the efforts of genius. It is the chief cause of thedegradation of taste, the artificial style, the want of originalconception, by which the literature of old nations is invariablydistinguished. The early poet or painter who portrays what he feels orhas seen, with no anxiety but to do so powerfully and truly, isrelieved of a load which crushes his subsequent compeers to the earth.Mediocrity is ever envious of genius—ordinary capacity of originalthought. Such envy in early times is innocuous or does not exist, atleast to the extent which is felt as so baneful in subsequent periods.But in a refined and enlightened age, its influence becomesincalculable. Whoever strikes out a new region of thought orcomposition, whoever opens a fresh vein of imagery or excellence, ispersecuted by the critics. He disturbs settled ideas, endangersestablished reputations, brings forward rivals to dominant fame. Thatis sufficient to render him the enemy of all the existing rulers inthe world of taste. Even Jeffrey seriously lamented, in one of hisfirst reviews of Scott's poems, that he should have identified himselfwith the unpicturesque and expiring images of feudality, which noeffort could render poetical. Racine's tragedies were received withsuch a storm of criticism as wellnigh cost the sensitive author hislife; and Rousseau was so rudely handled by contemporary writers onhis first appearance, that it confirmed him in his morbid hatred ofcivilization. The vigour of these great men, indeed, overcame theobstacles created by contemporary envy; but how seldom, especially ina[Pg 5] refined age, can genius effect such a prodigy? how often is itcrushed in the outset of its career, or turned aside into the humbleand unobtrusive path of imitation, to shun the danger with which thatof originality is beset!

Milton's Paradise Lost contains many more lines of poetic beautythan Homer's Iliad; and there is nothing in the latter poem of equallength, which will bear any comparison with the exquisite picture ofthe primeval innocence of our First Parents in his fourth book.Nevertheless, the Iliad is a more interesting poem than theParadise Lost; and has produced and will produce a much moreextensive impression on mankind. The reason is, that it is much fullerof event, is more varied, is more filled with images familiar to allmankind, and is less lost in metaphysical or philosophicalabstractions. Homer, though the father of poets, was essentiallydramatic; he was an incomparable painter; and it is his dramaticscenes, the moving panorama of his pictures, which fascinates theworld. He often speaks to the heart, and is admirable in thedelineation of character; but he is so, not by conveying the inwardfeeling, but by painting with matchless fidelity its externalsymptoms, or putting into the mouths of his characters the precisewords they would have used in similar circumstances in real life. Evenhis immortal parting of Hector and Andromache is no exception to thisremark; he paints the scene at the Scæan gate exactly as it would haveoccurred in nature, and moves us as if we had seen the Trojan herotaking off his helmet to assuage the terrors of his infant son, andheard the lamentations of his mother at parting with her husband. Buthe does not lay bare the heart, with the terrible force of Dante, by aline or a word. There is nothing in Homer which conveys so piercing anidea of misery as the line in the Inferno, where the Florentine bardassigns the reason of the lamentations of the spirits in Malebolge—

"Questi non hanno speranza di morte."

"These have not the hope of death." There speaks the spiritual poet;he does not paint to the eye, he does not even convey character by thewords he makes then utter; he pierces by a single expression, at onceto the heart.

Milton strove to raise earth to heaven: Homer brought down heaven toearth. The latter attempt was a much easier one than the former; itwas more consonant to human frailty; and, therefore, it has met withmore success. The gods and goddesses in the Iliad are men and women,endowed with human passions, affections, and desires, anddistinguished only from sublunary beings by superior power and thegift of immortality. We are interested in them as we are in the geniior magicians of an eastern romance. There is a sort of aërial epicpoem going on between earth and heaven. They take sides in theterrestrial combat, and engage in the actual strife with the heroesengaged in it. Mars and Venus were wounded by Diomede when combatingin the Trojan ranks; their blood, or rather the

"Ichor which blest immortals shed,"

flowed profusely; they fled howling to the palaces of heaven.Enlightened by a spiritual faith, fraught with sublime ideas of thedivine nature and government, Milton was incomparably more just in hisdescriptions of the Supreme Being, and more elevated in his picture ofthe angels and arch-angels who carried on the strife in heaven; but hefrequently falls into metaphysical abstractions or theologicalcontroversies, which detract from the interest of his poem.

Despite Milton's own opinion, the concurring voice of all subsequentages and countries has assigned to the Paradise Regained a muchlower place than to the Paradise Lost. The reason is, that it isless dramatic—it has less incident and action. Great part of the poemis but an abstract theological debate between our Saviour and Satan.The speeches he makes them utter are admirable, the reasoning isclose, the arguments cogent, the sentiments elevated in the speakers,but dialectic too. In many of the speeches of the angel Raphael, andin the council of heaven, in the Paradise Lost there is too much ofthat species of discussion for a poem which is to interest thegenerality of men. Dryden says, that Satan is Milton's[Pg 6] real hero; andevery reader of the Paradise Lost must have felt, that in the Princeof Darkness, and Adam and Eve, the interest of the poem consists. Thereason is, that the vices of the first, and the weakness of the twolast, bring them nearer than any other characters in the poem to thestandard of mortality; and we are so constituted, that we cannot takeany great interest but in persons who share in our failings.

Perhaps the greatest cause of the sustained interest of the Iliad isthe continued and vehement action which is maintained. The attentionis seldom allowed to flag. Either in the council of the gods, theassembly of the Grecian or Trojan chiefs, or the contest of theleaders on the field of battle, an incessant interest is maintained.Great events are always on the wing: the issue of the contest isperpetually hanging, often almost even, in the balance. It is the artwith which this is done, and a state of anxious suspense, like thecrisis of a great battle kept up, that the great art of the poetconsists. It is done by making the whole dramatic—bringing thecharacters forward constantly to speak for themselves, making theevents succeed each other with almost breathless rapidity, andbalancing success alternately from one side to the other, withoutletting it ever incline decisively to either. Tasso has adopted thesame plan in his Jerusalem Delivered, and the contests of theChristian knights and Saracen leaders with the lance and the sword,closely resemble those of the Grecian and Trojan chiefs on the plainof Troy. Ariosto has carried it still further. The exploits of hisPaladins—their adventures on earth, in air, and water; their loves,their sufferings, their victories, their dangers—keep the reader in acontinual state of suspense. It is this sustained and varied interestwhich makes so many readers prefer the Orlando Furioso to theJerusalem Delivered. But Ariosto has pushed it too far. In thesearch of variety, he has lost sight of unity. His heroes are notcongregated round the banners of two rival potentates; there is no oneobject or interest in his poem. No narrow plain, like that watered bythe Scamander, is the theatre of their exploits. Jupiter, from thesummit of Gargarus, could not have beheld the contending armies. Themost ardent imagination, indeed, is satiated with his adventures, butthe closest attention can hardly follow their thread. Story afterstory is told, the exploits of knight after knight are recounted, tillthe mind is fatigued, the memory perplexed, and all general interestin the poem lost.

Milton has admirably preserved the unity of his poem; the grand andall-important object of the fall of man could hardly admit ofsubordinate or rival interests. But the great defect in the ParadiseLost, arising from that very unity, is want of variety. It is strungthroughout on too lofty a key; it does not come down sufficiently tothe wants and cravings of mortality. The mind is awe-struck by thedescription of Satan careering through the immensity of space, of thebattle of the angels, of the fall of Lucifer, of the suffering, andyet unsubdued spirit of his fellow rebels, of the adamantine gates,and pitchy darkness, and burning lake of hell. But after the firstfeeling of surprise and admiration is over, it is felt by all, thatthese lofty contemplations are not interesting to mortals likeourselves. They are too much above real life—too much out of thesphere of ordinary event and interest.

The fourth book is the real scene of interest in the Paradise Lost;it is its ravishing scenes of primeval innocence and bliss which havegiven it immortality. We are never tired of recurring to the bower ofEve, to her devotion to Adam, to the exquisite scenes of Paradise, itswoods, its waters, its flowers, its enchantments. We are so, becausewe feel that it paints the Elysium to which all aspire, which all havefor a brief period felt, but which none in this world can durablyenjoy.

No one can doubt that Homer was endowed with the true poetic spirit,and yet there is very little of what we now call poetry in hiswritings. There is neither sentiment nor declamation—painting norreflection. He is neither descriptive nor didactic. With great powersfor portraying nature, as the exquisite choice of his epithets, andthe occasional force of his[Pg 7] similes prove, he never makes anylaboured attempt to delineate her features. He had the eye of a greatpainter; but his pictorial talents are employed, almost unconsciously,in the fervour of narrating events, or the animation of givingutterance to thoughts. He painted by an epithet or a line. Even thecelebrated description of the fires in the plain of Troy, likened tothe moon in a serene night, is contained in seven lines. Hisrosy-fingered morn—cloud-compelling Jupiter—Neptune, stiller of thewaves—Aurora rising from her crocus bed—Night drawing her veil overthe heavens—the black keel careering through the lashing waves—theshout of the far-sounding sea—and the like, from which subsequentpoets and dramatists have borrowed so largely, are all briefallusions, or epithets, which evidently did not form the main objectof his strains. He was a close observer of nature—its lights, itsshades, its storms and calms, its animals, their migrations, theircries and habits; but he never suspends his narrative to describethem. We shall look in vain in the Iliad, and even the Odyssey,for the lengthened pictures of scenery which are so frequent in Virgiland Tasso, and appear in such rich profusion in Milton. He describesstorms only as objects of terror, not to paint them to the eye. Suchthings are to be found in the book of Job and in the Psalms, but withthe same brevity and magical force of emphatic expression. There neverwas a greater painter of nature than Homer; there never was a man whoaimed less at being so.

The portraying of character and event was the great and evident objectof the Grecian bard; and there his powers may almost be pronouncedunrivalled. He never tells you, unless it is sometimes to be inferredon an epithet, what the man's character that he introduces is. Hetrusts to the character to delineate itself. He lets us get acquaintedwith his heroes, as we do with persons around us, by hearing themspeak, and seeing them act. In preserving character, in this dramaticway of representing it, he is unrivalled. He does not tell you thatNestor had the garrulity of age, and loved to recur to the events ofhis youth; but he never makes him open his mouth without descanting onthe adventures of his early years, and the degenerate race of mortalswho have succeeded the paladins of former days. He does not tell usthat Achilles was wrathful and impetuous; but every time he speaks,the anger of the son of Peleus comes boiling over his lips. He doesnot describe Agamemnon as overbearing and haughty; but the pride ofthe king of men is continually appearing in his words and actions, andit is the evident moral of the Iliad to represent its perniciouseffects on the affairs of the Helenic confederacy. Ulysses neverutters a word in which the cautious and prudent counsellor, sagaciousin design but prompt in execution, wary in the council but decided inthe field, far-seeing but yet persevering, is not apparent. Diomedenever falters; alike in the field and the council he is indomitable.When Hector was careering in his chariot round their fortifications,and the king of men counselled retreat, he declared he would remain,were it only with Sthenelus and his friends. So completely marked, sowell defined are his characters, though they were all rapacious chiefsat first sight, little differing from each other, that it has beenobserved with truth, that one well acquainted with the Iliad couldtell, upon hearing one of the speeches read out without a name, whowas the chief who uttered it.

The two authors, since his time, who have most nearly approached himin this respect, are Shakespeare and Scott. Both seem to have receivedthe pencil which paints the human heart from nature herself. Both hada keen and searching eye for character in all grades and walks oflife; and what is a general accompaniment of such a disposition, astrong sense of the ridiculous. Both seized the salient points inmental disposition, and perceived at a glance, as it were, the rulingpropensity. Both impressed this character so strongly on their minds,that they threw themselves, as it were, into the very souls of thepersons whom they delineated, and made them speak and act like natureherself. It is this extraordinary faculty of identifying themselveswith their characters, and bringing out of their mouth the very wordswhich, in real life, would have[Pg 8] come, which constitutes the chief andpermanent attraction of these wonderful masters of the human heart.Cervantes had it in an equal degree; and thence it is that Homer,Shakspeare, Cervantes, and Scott, have made so great, and, to allappearance, durable impression on mankind. The human heart is, atbottom, every where the same. There is infinite diversity in the dresshe wears, but the naked human figure of one country scarcely differsfrom another. The writers who have succeeded in reaching this deepsubstratum, this far-hidden but common source of human action, areunderstood and admired over all the world. It is the same on the banksof the Simoïs as on those of the Avon—on the Sierra Morena as theScottish hills. They are understood alike in Europe as Asia—inantiquity as modern times; one unanimous burst of admiration salutesthem from the North Cape to Cape Horn—from the age of Pisistratus tothat of Napoleon.

Strange as it may appear to superficial observers, Cervantes bears aclose analogy, in many particulars, to Homer. Circumstances, and aninherent turn for humour, made him throw his genius into an exquisiteridicule of the manners of chivalry; but the author of Don Quixotehad in him the spirit of a great epic poet. His lesser pieces proveit; unequivocal traces of it are to be found in the adventures of theKnight of La Mancha himself. The elevation of mind which, amidst allhis aberrations, appears in that erratic character; the incomparabletraits of nature with which the work abounds; the faculty ofdescribing events in the most striking way; of painting scenes in afew words; of delineating characters with graphic fidelity, andkeeping them up with perfect consistency, which are so conspicuous inDon Quixote, are so many of the most essential qualities of an epicpoet. Nor was the ardour of imagination, the romantic disposition, thebrilliancy of fancy, the lofty aspirations, the tender heart, whichform the more elevated and not less essential part of such acharacter, wanting in the Spanish novelist.

Sir Walter Scott more nearly resembles Homer than any poet who hassung since the siege of Troy. Not that he has produced any poem whichwill for a moment bear a comparison with the Iliad—fine as theLady of the Lake and Marmion are, it would be the height ofnational partiality to make any such comparison. But, nevertheless,Sir Walter's mind is of the same dimensions as that of Homer. We seein him the same combination of natural sagacity with acquiredinformation; of pictorial eye with dramatic effect; of observation ofcharacter with reflection and feeling; of graphic power with poeticfervour; of ardour of imagination with rectitude of principle; ofwarlike enthusiasm with pacific tenderness, which have rendered theGrecian bard immortal. It is in his novels, however, more than hispoetry, that this resemblance appears; the author of Waverley morenearly approaches the blind bard than the author of the Lay. Hisromances in verse contain some passages which are sublime, many whichare beautiful, some pathetic. They are all interesting, and written inthe same easy, careless style, interspersed with the most homely andgrotesque expressions, which is so well known to all the readers ofthe Iliad. The battle in Marmion is beyond all question, asJeffrey long ago remarked, the most Homeric strife which has beensung since the days of Homer. But these passages are few and farbetween; his poems are filled with numerous and long interludes,written with little art, and apparently no other object but to fill upthe pages or eke out the story. It is in prose that the robuststrength, the powerful arm, the profound knowledge of the heart,appear; and it is there, accordingly, that he approaches at times soclosely to Homer. If we could conceive a poem, in which the stormingof Front-de-Bœuf's castle in Ivanhoe—the death of Fergus inWaverley—the storm on the coast, and death scene in the fisher'shut, in the Antiquary—the devoted love in the Bride ofLammermoor—the fervour of the Covenanters in Old Mortality, andthe combats of Richard and Saladin in the Talisman, were unitedtogether, and intermingled with the incomparable characters,descriptions, and incidents with which these novels abound, they wouldform an epic poem.

[Pg 9]Doubts have sometimes been expressed, as to whether the Iliad andOdyssey are all the production of one man. Never, perhaps, was doubtnot merely so ill founded, but so decisively disproved by internalevidence. If ever in human composition the traces of one mind areconspicuous, they are in Homer. His beauties equally with his defects,his variety and uniformity, attest this. Never was an author who hadso fertile an imagination for varying of incidents; never was one whoexpressed them in language in which the same words so constantlyrecur. This is the invariable characteristic of a great and powerful,but at the same time self-confident and careless mind. It is to beseen in the most remarkable manner in Bacon and Machiavel, and not alittle of it may be traced both in the prose and poetical works ofScott. The reason is, that the strength of the mind is thrown into thethought as the main object; the language, as a subordinate matter, islittle considered. Expressions capable of energetically expressing theprevailing ideas of the imagination are early formed; but, when thisis done, the powerful, careless mind, readily adopts them on allfuture occasions where they are at all applicable. There is scarcely agreat and original thinker in whose writings the same expressions donot very frequently recur, often in exactly the same words. How muchthis is the case with Homer—with how much discrimination and geniushis epithets and expressions were first chosen, and how frequently herepeats them, almost in every page, need be told to none who areacquainted with his writings. That is the most decisive mark at onceof genius and identity. Original thinkers fall into repetition ofexpression, because they are always speaking from one model—their ownthoughts. Subordinate writers avoid this fault, because they arespeaking from the thoughts of others, and share their variety. Itrequires as great an effort for the first to introduce difference ofexpression, as for the last to reach diversity of thought.

The reader of Dante must not look for the heart-stirring and animatednarrative—the constant interest—the breathless suspense, whichhurries us along the rapid current of the Iliad. There are nocouncils of the gods; no messengers winging their way through theclouds; no combats of chiefs; no cities to storm; no fields to win. Itis the infernal regions which the poet, under the guidance of hisgreat leader, Virgil, visits; it is the scene of righteous retributionthrough which he is led; it is the apportionment of punishment andreward to crime or virtue, in this upper world, that he is doomed towitness. We enter the city of lamentation—we look down the depths ofthe bottomless pit—we stand at the edge of the burning lake. Hissurvey is not a mere transient visit like that of Ulysses in Homer, orof Æneas in Virgil. He is taken slowly and deliberately through everysuccessive circle of Malebolge; descending down which, like thevisitor of the tiers of vaults, one beneath another, in a feudalcastle, he finds every species of malefactors, from the chiefs andkings whose heroic lives were stained only by a few deeds of cruelty,to the depraved malefactors whose base course was unrelieved by oneray of virtue. In the very conception of such a poem, is to be founddecisive evidence of the mighty change which the human mind hadundergone since the expiring lays of poetry were last heard in theancient world; of the vast revolution of thought and inward convictionwhich, during a thousand years, in the solitude of the monastery, andunder the sway of a spiritual faith, had taken place in the humanheart. A gay and poetic mythology no longer amazed the world by itsfictions, or charmed it by its imagery. Religion no longer basked inthe sunshine of imagination. The awful words of judgment to come hadbeen spoken; and, like Felix, mankind had trembled. Ridiculous legendshad ceased to be associated with the shades below—their place hadbeen taken by images of horror. Conscience had resumed its place inthe direction of thought. Superstition had lent its awful power to thesanctions of religion. Terror of future punishment had subdued thefiercest passions—internal agony tamed the proudest spirits. It wasthe picture of a future world—of a world of retribution—conceivedunder such impressions, that Dante proposed to give; it is that[Pg 10] whichhe has given with such terrible fidelity.

Melancholy was the prevailing characteristic of the great Italian'smind. It was so profound that it penetrated all his thoughts; sointense that it pervaded all his conceptions. Occasionally bright andbeautiful ideas flitted across his imagination; visions of bliss,experienced for a moment, and then lost for ever, as if to render moreprofound the darkness by which they are surrounded. They are givenwith exquisite beauty; but they shine amidst the gloom like sunbeamsstruggling through the clouds. He inherited from the dark ages theausterity of the cloister; but he inherited with it the deep feelingsand sublime conceptions which its seclusion had generated. His mindwas a world within itself. He drew all his conceptions from thatinexhaustible source; but he drew them forth so clear and lucid, thatthey emerged, embodied as it were, in living images. His charactersare emblematic of the various passions and views for which differentdegrees of punishment were reserved in the world to come; but hisconception of them was so distinct, his description so vivid, thatthey stand forth to our gaze in all the agony of their sufferings,like real flesh and blood. We see them—we feel them—we hear theircries—our very flesh creeps at the perception of their sufferings. Westand on the edge of the lake of boiling pitch—we feel the weight ofthe leaden mantles—we see the snow-like flakes of burning sand—wehear the cries of those who had lost the last earthly consolations,the hope of death:—

Here is Dante portrayed to the life in the very outset. What acollection of awful images in a few lines! Loud lamentations, hideouscries, mingled with the sound of clasped hands, beneath a starlesssky; and the terrible answer, as the cause of this suffering, "Thesehave not the hope of death."

The very first lines of the Inferno, when the gates of Hell wereapproached, and the inscription over them appeared, paints the dismalcharacter of the poem, and yet mingled with the sense of divine loveand justice with which the author was penetrated.

Dante had much more profound feelings than Homer, and therefore he haspainted deep mysteries of the human heart with greater force andfidelity. The more advanced age of the world, the influence ofspiritual faith, the awful anticipation of judgment to come, theinmost feelings which, during long centuries of seclusion, had beendrawn forth in the cloister, the protracted sufferings of the darkages, had laid bare the human heart. Its sufferings, its terrors, itshopes, its joys, had become as household words. The Italian poetshared, as all do, in the ideas and images of his age, and to these headded many which were entirely his own. He painted the inward man, andpainted him from his own feelings, not the observation of others. Thatis the grand distinction between him and Homer; and that it is whichhas given him, in the delineation of mind, his great superiority. TheGrecian bard was an incomparable observer; he had an inexhaustibleimagination for fiction, as well as a graphic eye for the delineationof real life; but he had not a deep or feeling heart. He did not knowit, like Dante and Shakspeare, from his own suffering. He painted theexternal symptoms of passion and emotion with the hand of a master;but he did not reach the inward spring of feeling. He lets us into hischaracters by their speeches, their gestures, their actions, and keepsup their consistency with admirable fidelity; but he does not, by aword, an expression, or an epithet, admit us into the inmost folds ofthe heart. None can do so but such as themselves feel warmly andprofoundly, and paint passion, emotion, or suffering from their ownexperience, not the observation of others. Dante has acquired hiscolossal fame from the matchless force with which he has portrayed thewildest passions, the deepest feelings, the most intense sufferings ofthe heart. He is the refuge of all those who labour and are heavyladen—of all who feel profoundly or have suffered deeply. His versesare in the mouth of all who are torn by passion, gnawed by remorse, ortormented by apprehension; and how many are they in this scene of woe!

A distinguished modern critic[2] has said, that he who would nowbecome a great poet must first become a little child. There is nodoubt he is right. The seen and unseen fetters of civilization; themultitude of old ideas afloat in the world; the innumerable worn-outchannels into which new ones are ever apt to flow; the general clamourwith which critics, nursed amidst such fetters, receive any attemptsat breaking them; the preva[Pg 12]lence, in a wealthy and highly civilizedage, of worldly or selfish ideas; the common approximation ofcharacters by perpetual intercourse, as of coins, by continual rubbingin passing from man to man, have taken away all freshness andoriginality from ideas. The learned, the polished, the highlyeducated, can hardly escape the fetters which former greatness throwsover the soul. Milton could not avoid them: half the images in hispoems are taken from Homer, Virgil, and Dante; and who dare hope foremancipation when Milton was enthralled? The mechanical arts increasein perfection as society advances. Science ever takes its renewedflights from the platform which former efforts have erected. Industry,guided by experience, in successive ages, brings to the highest pointall the contrivances and inventions which minister to the comfort orelegances of life. But it is otherwise with genius. It sinks in theprogress of society, as much as science and the arts rise. The countryof Homer and Æschylus sank for a thousand years into the torpor of theByzantine empire. Originality perishes amidst acquisition. Freshnessof conception is its life: like the flame, it burns fierce and clearin the first gales of a pure atmosphere; but languishes and dies inthat polluted by many breaths.

It was the resurrection of the human mind, after the seclusion andsolitary reflection of the middle ages, which gave this vein oforiginal ideas to Dante, as their first wakening had given to Homer.Thought was not extinct; the human mind was not dormant during thedark ages; far from it—it never, in some respects, was more active.It was the first collision of their deep and lonely meditations withthe works of the great ancient poets, which occasioned the prodigy.Universally it will be found to be the same. After the first flightsof genius have been taken, it is by the collision of subsequentthought with it that the divine spark is again elicited. The meetingof two great minds is necessary to beget fresh ideas, as that of twoclouds is to bring forth lightning, or the collision of flint andsteel to produce fire. Johnson said he could not get new ideas till hehad read. He was right; though it is not one in a thousand who strikesout original thoughts from studying the works of others. The greatsage did not read to imbibe the opinions of others, but to engendernew ones for himself; he did not study to imitate, but to create. Itwas the same with Dante; it is the same with every really great man.His was the first powerful and original mind which, fraught with theprofound and gloomy ideas nourished in seclusion during the middleages, came into contact with the brilliant imagery, touching pathos,and harmonious language of the ancients. Hence his astonishinggreatness. He almost worshipped Virgil, he speaks of him as a speciesof god; he mentions Homer as the first of poets. But he did not copyeither the one or the other; he scarcely imitated them. He strove torival their brevity and beauty of expression; but he did so in givingvent to new ideas, in painting new images, in awakening new emotions.The Inferno is as original as the Iliad; incomparably more so thanthe Æneid. The offspring of originality with originality is a newand noble creation; of originality with mediocrity, a spurious anddegraded imitation.

Dante paints the spirits of all the generations of men, each in theircircle undergoing their allotted punishment; expiating by sufferingthe sins of an upper world. Virgil gave a glimpse, as it were, intothat scene of retribution; Minos and Rhadamanthus passing judgment onthe successive spirits brought before them; the flames of Tartarus,the rock of Sisyphus, the wheel of Ixion, the vulture gnawingPrometheus. But with Homer and Virgil, the descent into the infernalregions was a brief episode; with Dante it was the whole poem. Immensewas the effort of imagination requisite to give variety to such asubject, to prevent the mind from experiencing weariness amidst theeternal recurrence of crime and punishment. But the genius of Dantewas equal to the task. His fancy was prodigious; his inventionboundless; his imagination inexhaustible. Fenced in, as he was,[Pg 13]within narrow and gloomy limits by the nature of his subject, hiscreative spirit equals that of Homer himself. He has given birth to asmany new ideas in the Inferno and the Paradiso, as the Grecianbard in the Iliad and Odyssey.

Though he had reflected so much and so deeply on the human heart, andwas so perfect a master of all the anatomy of mental suffering,Dante's mind was essentially descriptive. He was a great painter aswell as a profound thinker; he clothed deep feeling in the garb of thesenses; he conceived a vast brood of new ideas, he arrayed them in asurprising manner in flesh and blood. He is ever clear and definite,at least in the Inferno. He exhibits in every canto of thatwonderful poem a fresh image, but it is a clear one, of horror oranguish, which leaves nothing to the imagination to add or conceive.His ideal characters are real persons; they are present to our senses;we feel their flesh, see the quivering of their limbs, hear theirlamentations, and feel a thrill of joy at their felicity. In theParadiso he is more vague and general, and thence its acknowledgedinferiority to the Inferno. But the images of horror are much morepowerful than those of happiness; and it is they which have entrancedthe world. "It is easier," says Madame de Staël, "to convey ideas ofsuffering than those of happiness; for the former are too well knownto every heart, the latter only to a few."

The melancholy tone which pervades Dante's writings was doubtless, ina great measure, owing to the misfortunes of his life; and to them weare also indebted for many of the most caustic and powerful of hisverses—perhaps for the design of the Inferno itself. He tookvengeance on the generation which had persecuted and exiled him, byexhibiting its leaders suffering in the torments of hell. In his longseclusion, chiefly in the monastery of Santa Croce di Fonte Avellana,a wild and solitary retreat in the territory of Gubbio, and in a towerbelonging to the Conte Falcucci, in the same district, his immortalwork was written. The mortifications he underwent during this long anddismal exile are thus described by himself:—"Wandering over almostevery part in which our language extends, I have gone about like amendicant; showing against my will the wound with which fortune hassmitten me, and which is often falsely imputed to the demerit of himby whom it is endured. I have been, indeed, a vessel without sail orsteerage, carried about to divers ports, and roads, and shores, by thedry wind that springs out of sad poverty."

In the third circle of hell, Dante sees those who are punished by theplague of burning sand falling perpetually on them. Their torments arethus described—

The first appearance of Malebolge is described in these strikinglines—

This is the outward appearance of Malebolge, the worst place ofpunishment in hell. It had many frightful abysses; what follows is thepicture of the first:—

Fraught as his imagination was with gloomy ideas, with images ofhorror, it is the fidelity of his descriptions, the minute reality ofhis pictures, which gives them their terrible power. He knew well whatit is that penetrates the soul. His images of horror in the infernalregions were all founded on those familiar to every one in the upperworld; it was from the caldron of boiling pitch in the arsenal ofVenice that he took his idea of one of the pits of Malebolge. But whata picture does he there exhibit! The writhing sinner plunged headlonginto the boiling waves, rising to the surface, and a hundred demons,mocking his sufferings, and with outstretched hooks tearing his fleshtill he dived again beneath the liquid fire! It is the reality of thescene, the images familiar yet magnified in horror, which constitutesits power: we stand by; our flesh creeps as it would at witnessing anauto-da-fè of Castile, or on beholding a victim perishing under theknout in Russia.

Michael Angelo was, in one sense, the painter of the Old Testament, ashis bold and aspiring genius arrived rather at delineating the eventsof warfare, passion, or suffering, chronicled in the records of theJews, than the scenes of love, affection, and benevolence, depicted inthe gospels.[Pg 16] But his mind was not formed merely on the eventsrecorded in antiquity: it is no world doubtful of the immortality ofthe soul which he depicts. He is rather the personification inpainting of the soul of Dante. His imagination was evidently fraughtwith the conceptions of the Inferno. The expression of mind beamsforth in all his works. Vehement passion, stern resolve, undauntedvalour, sainted devotion, infant innocence, alternately occupied hispencil. It is hard to say in which he was greatest. In all his workswe see marks of the genius of antiquity meeting the might of moderntimes: the imagery of mythology blended with the aspirations ofChristianity. We see it in the dome of St Peter's, we see it in thestatue of Moses. Grecian sculpture was the realization in form of theconceptions of Homer; Italian painting the representation on canvassof the revelations of the gospel, which Dante clothed in the garb ofpoetry. Future ages should ever strive to equal, but can never hope toexcel them.

Never did artist work with more persevering vigour than MichaelAngelo. He himself said that he laboured harder for fame, than everpoor artist did for bread. Born of a noble family, the heir toconsiderable possessions, he took to the arts from his earliest yearsfrom enthusiastic passion and conscious power. During a long life ofninety years, he prosecuted them with the ardent zeal of youth. He wasconsumed by the thirst for fame, the desire of great achievements, theinvariable mark of heroic minds; and which, as it is altogether beyondthe reach of the great bulk of mankind, so is the feeling of allothers which to them is most incomprehensible. Nor was that nobleenthusiasm without its reward. It was his extraordinary good fortuneto be called to form, at the same time, the Last Judgment on the wallof the Sistine Chapel, the glorious dome of St Peter's, and the groupof Notre Dame de Pitié, which now adorns the chapel of the Crucifix,under the roof of that august edifice. The "Holy Family" in thePalazzo Pitti at Florence, and the "Three Fates" in the samecollection, give an idea of his powers in oil-painting: thus hecarried to the highest perfection, at the same time, the rival arts ofarchitecture, sculpture, fresco and oil painting.[3] He may truly becalled the founder of Italian painting, as Homer was of the ancientepic, and Dante of the great style in modern poetry. None but acolossal mind could have done such things. Raphael took lessons fromhim in painting, and professed through life the most unbounded respectfor his great preceptor. None have attempted to approach him inarchitecture; the cupola of St Peter's stands alone in the world.

But notwithstanding all this, Michael Angelo had some defects. Hecreated the great style in painting, a style which has made modernItaly as immortal as the arms of the legions did the ancient. But thevery grandeur of his conceptions, the vigour of his drawing, hisincomparable command of bone and muscle, his lofty expression andimpassioned mind, made him neglect, and perhaps despise, the lesserdetails of his art. Ardent in the pursuit of expression, he oftenoverlooked execution. When he painted the Last Judgment or the Fall ofthe Titans in fresco, on the ceiling and walls of the Sistine Chapel,he was incomparable; but that gigantic style was unsuitable for lesserpictures or rooms of ordinary proportions. By the study of hismasterpieces, subsequent painters have often been led astray; theyhave aimed at force of expression to the neglect of delicacy inexecution. This defect is, in an especial manner, conspicuous in SirJoshua Reynolds, who worshipped Michael Angelo with the most devotedfervour; and through him it has descended to Lawrence, and nearly thewhole modern school of England. When we see Sir Joshua's noble glasswindow in Magdalen College, Ox[Pg 17]ford, we behold the work of a worthypupil of Michael Angelo; we see the great style of painting in itsproper place, and applied to its appropriate object. But when wecompare his portraits, or imaginary pieces in oil, with those ofTitian, Velasquez, or Vandyke, the inferiority is manifest. It is notin the design but the finishing; not in the conception but theexecution. The colours are frequently raw and harsh; the details ordistant parts of the piece ill-finished or neglected. The bold neglectof Michael Angelo is very apparent. Raphael, with less original geniusthan his immortal master, had more taste and much greater delicacy ofpencil; his conceptions, less extensive and varied, are more perfect;his finishing is always exquisite. Unity of emotion was his greatobject in design; equal delicacy of finishing in execution. Thence hehas attained by universal consent the highest place in painting.

"Nothing," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, "is denied to well-directedlabour; nothing is to be attained without it." "Excellence in anydepartment," says Johnson, "can now be attained only by the labour ofa lifetime; it is not to be purchased at a lesser price." These wordsshould ever be present to the minds of all who aspire to rival thegreat of former days; who feel in their bosoms a spark of the spiritwhich led Homer, Dante, and Michael Angelo to immortality. In aluxurious age, comfort or station is deemed the chief good of life; ina commercial community, money becomes the universal object ofambition. Thence our acknowledged deficiency in the fine arts; thenceour growing weakness in the higher branches of literature. Talentlooks for its reward too soon. Genius seeks an immediate recompense;long protracted exertions are never attempted; great things are notdone, because great efforts are not made.

None will work now without the prospect of an immediate return. Verypossibly it is so; but then let us not hope or wish for immortality."Present time and future," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, "are rivals; hewho solicits the one must expect to be discountenanced by the other."It is not that we want genius; what we want is the great and heroicspirit which will devote itself; by strenuous efforts, to greatthings, without seeking any reward but their accomplishment.

Nor let it be said that great subjects for the painter's pencil, thepoet's muse, are not to be found—that they are exhausted by formerefforts, and nothing remains to us but imitation. Nature isinexhaustible; the events of men are unceasing, their variety isendless. Philosophers were mourning the monotony of time, historianswere deploring the sameness of events, in the years preceding theFrench Revolution—on the eve of the Reign of Terror, the flames ofMoscow, the retreat from Russia. What was the strife around Troy tothe battle of Leipsic?—the contests of Florence and Pisa to therevolutionary war? What ancient naval victory to that of Trafalgar?Rely upon it, subjects for genius are not wanting; genius itself,steadily and perseveringly directed, is the thing required. But geniusand energy alone are not sufficient; COURAGE and disinterestedness areneeded more than all. Courage to withstand the assaults of envy, todespise the ridicule of mediocrity—disinterestedness to trample underfoot the seductions of ease, and disregard the attractions ofopulence. An heroic mind is more wanted in the library or the studio,than in the field. It is wealth and cowardice which extinguish thelight of genius, and dig the grave of literature as of nations.

[Pg 18]

SETTLED AT LAST; OR, RED RIVER RECOLLECTIONS.

Chap. I.

Homeward Bound.

I had left New Orleans with the full intention of proceeding withoutstop or delay to my home upon the Red River; but notwithstanding thisdetermination, my wife and myself were unable to resist Richards'pressing invitation to pause for a day or two at his house. Upon ouryielding to his solicitations, he proceeded to recruit other guestsamong our travelling companions, and soon got together a pleasantparty. My father-in-law, Monsieur Menou, went on to my plantation, butJulie remained with us, as did also her aunt, Madame Duras, anagreeable old lady with a slight expression of perfidy in her lightblue, French-looking eyes, possessed withal of infinite delicacy andfinesse—a fervent admirer of the old court school of Louis theFifteenth, in the chronique scandaleuse of which she was as wellversed as if she had been herself a contemporary of thatpleasure-loving monarch. Besides these ladies, there was a youngFrenchman named Vergennes, the third son of some Gascon viscount, anda distant cousin of the Menous, who had come to America till thescandal occasioned by certain republican scribblings of his in one ofthe newspapers of the day should have blown over, and till he couldrevisit his country without risk of obtaining a lodging gratis in theConciergerie. He had brought with him a head crammed with schemes forthe political regeneration of the whole world, and a trunkful ofFrench fashions, neither of which, as I reckoned, were likely to takemuch with us. He made me laugh inwardly twenty times a-day by hisUtopian theories and fancies. Truth to tell, in matters of politics orof sound common sense, these Frenchmen are for the most part merechildren, and reach their dying day without ever becoming men. Takethem by their weak points, their unlimited vanity or their love ofwhat they call glory, and you may ride them like a horse to water.Vergennes, however, when one could get him off his hobby, was apleasant gentlemanly fellow enough.

It was impossible to spare Richards more than three days, and at sixo'clock on the morning of the fourth, we went on board the steamerAlexandria. I had prevailed on my friend and his wife, and the wholeparty, to come and pass a week or two at my house, which was now quiteready for the reception of guests. The three days we had remained withRichards had been one continued fête, and considering the good living,and the heat of the weather—the thermometer ranging from 95° to100°—there were few things more agreeable or better to be done, thanto take a steam up the Red River. The fresh breezes on the water mightsave some of us a touch of fever. On board we went therefore, all inhigh glee and good-humour with each other.

We had passed the Atchafalaya, and had crossed over to theFrancisville side, in order to avoid the powerful current occasionedby the influx of the Red River into the Mississippi. A strong wind hadsprung up, and in the middle of the stream the waves were of aconsiderable height. The Mississippi was full to overflowing, and themouth of the Red River, as far as the eye could reach, presented theappearance of an extensive lake, with thousands of tree trunksfloating upon it. I had left the cabin, and was standing on deck withRichards and Vergennes, looking out upon the broad sheet of water thatlay before us. We were just turning into the Red River when I observeda rowboat pulling across from the direction of Woodville, and whichhad already arrived within a hundred yards of us without attractingthe attention of any one on board the steamer. It was cutting in andout amongst the enormous floating trees, with a boldness that, in thatpart of the river[Pg 19]—near the middle of which we were—might almost becalled insanity.

"That man must be mad, or in love!" cried the captain.

"It is Ralph Doughby!" exclaimed Richards. "Captain, it is MisterDoughby. Pray, stop the ship and let him come on board."

Doughby it was. The mad fellow was standing bolt upright, and hardlytaking the trouble to bend to one side or the other in conformity withthe movements of the boat, which was dancing about on the waves andbetween the tree-trunks, while the six negro rowers were washed overand over by the spray.

"Here's your famous Red River!" shouted the harebrained Doughby. "Afine country for wild-ducks and geese, and alligators too. Hurra,boys!"

"For God's sake, Mr Doughby!" screamed and implored the ladies, as theKentuckian dashed his boat slap up to the side of the steamer, withoutwaiting till the speed of the vessel was slackened, and hastily caughta rope which was thrown to him. Just at that moment a wave as high asa man rose between the steamer and the boat and separated them, andDoughby still maintaining his hold on the rope, he was dragged out ofhis skiff and tossed like a feather against the steamer's side, wherehe hung half in and half out of the water.

"Haul in, boys—haul me in, lads—or your d——d paddles will do it!"

"Pull him in!" shouted we all, "pull him in for God's sake!"

"Ay, pull in!" cried Doughby, and giving a spring upwards he caughthold of the railing of the deck, threw himself over it with a bound,and stood in all safety amongst the astonished and grinny-visagedCyclops who were hastening to his assistance. We hurried down from thequarterdeck, breathless with astonishment at this desperate andunnecessary piece of daring.

"Pshaw" cried Doughby; "steward, a glass of hot; and, captain, seethat my portmanteau comes on board, and that my negers get away withwhole skins; and a good morning to you, gentlemen—in five minutes weshall meet again."

And so saying, he emptied the glass which the black steward held outto him, made a slight bow to the ladies on the quarterdeck, spranginto the gentlemen's cabin, and thence into the first state-room thatstood open.

"An entrée en scène quite à la Doughby," said Richards laughing.

"Quite so," replied I.

Ralph Doughby, Esquire of New Feliciana, La., was an old acquaintanceof Richards and myself, and an excellent specimen of a warm-hearted,impetuous, breakneck Kentuckian, with a share of earthquake in hiscomposition that might be deemed large, even in Kentucky. He had cometo Louisiana some eight years previously, a voyage of a thousand milesor more down the Cumberland River, the Ohio, and Mississippi, in aflat boat with half a dozen negroes, some casks of flour, hams, andIndian corn, and a few horses, and had settled at Woodville on acouple of thousand acres of good land, bought at five dollars an acre,to be paid in five years. His industry and energy had caused him tothrive, and he was now as well established planter as any on theMississippi; his six negroes had amounted to forty, his wilderness hadbecome a respectable plantation, his cotton was sought after, and hehad not only paid for his acres but had already a large sum in thePlanters' Bank. His frank open character had made him friends on allhands, and there was not a more popular man in Louisiana than MajorRalph Doughby.

During the stay I made at Richards' house previously to my marriage,Doughby had passed a day there in company with one Mr Lambton and hisdaughter, Yankees—the latter a beautiful girl, but cold and formallike most of her countrywomen. An aunt of hers, who possessed largeplantations on the Mississippi, had made up a match between MissLambton and Doughby, and they were then proceeding to New York, wherethe marriage was in due time to be solemnized. Richards and myself hadobserved, however, that the wild headlong manners and character of theKentuckian, joined though they were to great goodness of heart andmany sterling qualities, did not appear very pleasing to the stiff,etiquette-loving fine lady, and it was without any great surprise[Pg 20]that we heard, some time afterwards, of the marriage being broken off,in consequence, it was said, of some wild freak of Doughby's. We wereasking one another for the particulars of this rupture, which neitherof us had heard, when the Kentuckian made his reappearance in thecabin. He had changed his dress, and, taking him altogether, was by nomeans an ill-looking fellow. His light blue gingham frock andsnow-white trousers fitted him well; an elegant straw hat, very finelinen, and a diamond shirt-pin that must have cost the best part of athousand dollars, contributed to give a sort of genteel planter-likeair. His first care upon emerging from his state-room was to empty aglass of toddy. He then approached Richards and myself.

"And Miss Lambton?" said Richards enquiringly.

"Haven't you heard?" said Doughby; "you must have heard! It's allup—she won't hear speak of me—persists in her resolution—won't seeme; or give me a chance of making my peace. I'm the most unluckyfellow on the face of the earth," continued he, changing his tone on asudden to a melancholy sort of whine—"I wish I lay three hundred feetdeep in the bed of the Mississippi. I tell you, boys, it's clean upwith me, I feel that. I'm a lost man, done for entirely—shall neverrecover it!"

We burst out into a violent fit of laughter, as who would not havedone at the sight of a young giant of seven-and-twenty, with cheeks asred as poppies, shoulders that seemed made like those of Atlas tosupport a world; pair of dark blue-grey eyes with a laughing devildancing in them, and a little moist just now from the effects of thetoddy, and the man dying of love! He measured five feet thirteeninches in his stockings, with legs that might have belonged to anelephant, and fists calculated to frighten a buffalo.

"Be d——d to your laughing!" cried Doughby—"Steward, anotherglass—d'ye hear, you cursed neger, where are you hidden? Don't youhear when a gentleman speaks to you? D'ye want me to tattoo your blackbrainpan? You laugh," he continued to Richards and myself, relapsinginto his whimpering tones; "but if you only knew—none of the womenwill have me—this is the seventh who has packed me off."

"The seventh!" cried I laughing, "what, only the seventh, Doughby?Pshaw! that's nothing; during my bachelor's life I had at least twodozen refusals, and I am only a year older than yourself."

"You be hanged with your two dozen! Steward, the toddy is only fit forold women—too much water in it; you don't know how to make toddy.Tell your captain to come here. I'll have you sent to the devil. No, Itell you my heart is so full, it feels as if it would burst. She won'thear of me. I will tell you all about it, boys—but who is that?"interrupted he, pointing to Vergennes, who was standing near us, andlooking on in great wonderment. "Ah, Monshur Tonson! happy to see you,Monshur Tonson! Parleh vouh English? Prenez un seat, et un glass deMadeira. Nous parlerons hansamble le Franseh. Neger, a bottle ofMadeira; and let it be good, or you'll get the bottle across yourcrooked shins. A bottle of Irish for me, d'ye hear, real Irish whisky,or if you haven't any, Scotch will do. No, boys, I tell you I am agone man. Dismissed, sent away, packed off with a flea in my ear, asthey say."

And so saying, he threw himself on a sofa with a violence that made itcrack again; the steward brought the Madeira and the whisky, and wedrew round the table to condole with the love-stricken Kentuckian. Afew minutes passed in the composition of the toddy, which wasevidently destined to play the chief part in the way of a consoler;and when Doughby had got a large beer-glass of the comfortable mixturebefore him, he began his narrative.

[Pg 21]

Chapter II

The Race.

"I will tell you how it all happened, and how it was that MissLambton—in short you shall hear it all—it's the first time I havespoken about it, but now it shall out; you shall judge and decidebetween us, by Jove you shall! You recollect it was in the beginningof June that we left your house, Richards, to go up theMississippi—it was a Friday, a day that I hate. All seamen andhunters do hate it; it's an unlucky day. All the bad luck I ever had,came to me on Fridays. I had a feeling that something would go wrongwhen we went on board the Helen M'Gregor. I thought Miss Lambtonlooked shy upon me, and the old gentleman stiffer than ever. Ifollowed the Miss, however, wherever she went, so close, that once ortwice I trod the fringe off her petticoats."

"That was bad manners, Doughby."

"Pshaw! What did it matter? I told her not to bother her head aboutit, that when we got to New York, or even to Cincinnati or Louisville,I would buy her a whole shopful of dresses. She made no answer tothat; but when I had the misfortune to tear her third flounce, shesaid, that if I went on in that way she would not have a whole gownleft when she got to Louisville. 'With a whole one or none at all,Miss,' said I, 'you'll always be a charming creature.' That now was aspretty a compliment as ever was paid in Kentucky, but she did not seento hear it.

"On the third day we were just passing St Helena, when old Lambtoncame up to me. 'Mister Doughby,' said he, quite confidential like,'pardon me, my dear good Mister Doughby, but don't you think that yousometimes take rather too much ardent spirits, and thereby injure yourhealth as well as give a bad example to your fellow-citizens, which,on the part of a respectable man like yourself, is very much to beregretted?'

"'Bad example!' says I—'to be regretted, Mister Lambton!—I take toomuch ardent spirits! I certainly am not of that opinion, MisterLambton, and if you are I can only say you are very much mistaken. Youshall see yourself,' said I, 'how much ballast an old Kentuckian cantake in without sinking under it: devil a diving duck ever swallowedmore water than a Kentucky man can rum.'

"I thought to let the old squaretoes see that he had a man before him,not one of his spindleshanked tallow-chopped Yankees, who go sneakingabout the meeting-house from morning till night, or moping in theirrooms, and calculating and speculating how they can best take inhonest warm-blooded South and Westlanders. 'You shall see,' saidI—but he shook his head and walked away, and I looked after him, andshook my head too. Pah! I found out afterwards that he was presidentof a temperance society, the devil take them all! Temperancesocieties! What is rum for, if it isn't to be drank?"

Doughby was rapidly warming with his subject.

"He is a queer old fellow, that Mister Lambton, as stiff and as coldas an icicle on a water-butt. Of a morning he was scarcely out of bedwhen he knocked at the door of the ladies' cabin in his brocadedressing-gown, and Miss Lambton must come out and hear him read thewhole morning service of the Episcopal Church, and make the responses,and so on, for a full hour. Then the whole day he walked about asgrave and solemn as the chief-justice of the district court. Beforedinner he said a grace which lasted a full quarter of an hour. Thesoup was often cold, and half the dinner eaten up from under ournoses, while this was going on. Sometimes most of the other passengershad done their dinner, and were gone to the bar to take a glass, andhe still praying. I was often ready to jump out of my skin withimpatience."

"The praying was all well enough, if it had not lasted so long," saidI, laughing.

"Pah! I hate people who are al[Pg 22]ways wanting to be a shining light totheir fellow-citizens. There's a deal of pride, a deal of arroganceand presumption in it. If a man wishes to pray, let him do so, and Ido it myself; but people don't want to be reminded of those things. Itell you I have always found pride behind that sort of piety. TheYankees think we are heathens, and that they are the elect who are toenlighten us. Pshaw! I hate such humbug."

"Not so badly reasoned," observed Richards.

"However," continued Doughby, "I soon saw that, with one thing oranother, I was getting out of the old gentleman's good books. Hebecame more and more stiff and silent. That wouldn't have annoyed memuch; but one morning the captain came to me and said, in a sort ofapologising manner, that the ladies had desired him to beg me not topay so many visits to their cabin, particularly of a morning, whensome of them had not quite finished their toilet, but that I shouldalways ask leave first and have myself announced, as it is set down inthe regulations."

"'What!' says I, 'have myself announced when I go to see my own wife,that is to be? What do the other ladies matter to me, whether they'vegot on silk gowns or cotton ones? I only go to see Miss Lambton.'

"'Miss Lambton was present,' said the captain, 'when the ladies gaveme the commission; and she and Mr Lambton most particularly requestedme to have the regulations enforced.'

"'Miss Lambton!' said I; 'that's a lie now, captain. She never couldhave done that.'

"'Mister Doughby,' said he, 'it is no lie; and if another thanyourself had said such a thing, I would have struck him down like amad dog. And I must beg of you to retract your words, and ascertain toyour own satisfaction that what I have said is a fact.'

"So I ran off and asked Miss Lambton and Mr Lambton, and they answeredme as dry as fagots, and said the captain had spoken the truth. I wasa'most raving mad when I heard this, as savage as a panther; and, toconsole myself, I drank perhaps a trifle more than I should have done.But what else can one do on a voyage up the Mississippi? Much as Ilike him, old father Mississip, one gets awful sick of him after atime, steaming along for days and weeks together, nothing to be heardbut clap-clap-clap, trap-trap-trap, or to be seen but the dull muddywaters and the never-ending forest. Day and night, wood and water,water and wood. It is wearisome work at the best.

"It was exactly two o'clock in the afternoon on the seventh day of ourvoyage when we got beyond Wolf's Island, which, as you know, liesabove New Madrid and below the mouth of the Ohio. The poor HelenM'Gregor burst her boiler since then, as you'll have heard, at thatvery place, and sent half a hundred passengers into the other world.Past Wolf's Island, we came up with the Ploughboy, the Huntress, theLouisville, and a couple more steamers, all going our way. It madequite a little fleet. I was sitting in the cabin with Miss Lambton andthe old gentleman, who were cool and silent enough, when somebodycalled out, 'Here comes the George Washington.' A glorious steamer itis that George, more like a floating palace than a boat, as it goesskimming along as lightly and smoothly as a swan. It's a real pleasureto see it. I kept my place by Miss Lambton; but, to tell you thetruth, I was sitting upon hot coals. What can be the reason that wemen feel so deucedly cowed and quailed by the petticoats? Hang me if Iknow. Suddenly there was a cry upon deck, 'The Washington is passingus.' I could stand it no longer, but bolted up-stairs, and sure enoughthere it came in all its pride and power, trarara, trarara, rushingand dashing and spitting fire like Emperor Nap. at the head of hisguards and dragoons and artillery. It was already in the midst of theother five steamers, passing them all. The whole of our passengerswere on deck looking on, and I can tell you that our hearts beat quickas we saw the George walking up to us. The dinner-bell rang. Not afoot moved to go below. 'Captain,' cried I, 'we must not let theGeorge pass us;[Pg 23] you can't think of allowing such a thing?' says I;'must show them that we are Mississippi men.'

"'Mister Doughby,' says he, 'it's the George Washington,' sayshe—'hundred and twenty horse power,' says he.

"'Devil a hundred,' said I. 'You only say so because you are afraid torace him. And if he had two hundred horse power, what then? Shortenyour stirrups and give your horse the spur,' say I.

"I saw that the captain's blood was getting up; his eyes were fixed onthe old George as if he would have eaten it, and he became red andblue and green, all manner of colours, like a dolphin; his teethchattered, and he bit his lips till the blood ran over his chin. Oncame the Washington quicker than ever, the paddles clattering, thesteam hissing, the crew hurraing like mad.

"'Captain,' cried I, 'the Washington's passing you; it's all up withthe honour of the Helen M'Gregor.'

"The captain stood there as if his face had been rubbed over withchalk, and the drops of sweat ran down his forehead. The five steamersthat we had passed were now hurraing with delight to see that weshould be humbled in our turn. 'Captain,' said I, 'will you letyourself be beaten out of the field without firing a shot? The HelenM'Gregor is a new ship—Crack on, man!'

"He could stand it no longer, but ran forward and screamed out to thestokers. 'More wood!' cried he, 'High pressure, high pressure!'

"'Blaze away, boys!' cried I, 'Blaze away, and hurra for the HelenM'Gregor!'

"And the fellows pitched whole cartloads of wood upon the fire, andstirred and poked away till they were wet through with perspiration,and our chimney began to whistle and sing, that it was a pleasure tohear it. We were just entering the Ohio, the Washington close upon ourheels, when old Lambton and Emily came running upon deck in analmighty fright.

"'Mr Doughby, for heaven's sake! Mr Doughby—captain, for God's sake!Will you destroy yourself, and the steamer, and your fellow-citizens?Will you race with the George Washington?'

"'For God's sake, Mr Doughby!' cried the Miss.

"'Mr Doughby!' squealed the old Yankee, who had quite forgotten hisstiffness, 'I demand and insist that you use your influence to preventthe captain from racing.'

"'Pshaw!' said I, 'it's nothing of the sort—ain't going to race—onlywant to see which ship goes quickest.'

"'That must not be. I protest against it—the safety of ourfellow-citizens—our own. If the boiler bursts'——

"'Nonsense!' said I—'safety of our fellow-citizens! Ourfellow-citizens are in safety. We don't mean to race, MisterLambton,' says I; 'we are only trying for a minute which ship can gothe fastest.'

"'Mr Doughby!' cried Emily, half beside herself—throwing her armsround me, and trying to drag me towards the engine—'Mr Doughby, ifyou have the smallest affection—regard I would say—for me, exertyour influence, stop this horrid racing!'

"And then she left me and ran to the captain, who was standing besidethe engineer.

"The Washington was close behind us—we, as I said before, wererunning slap into the mouth of the Ohio. There's no finer piece ofwater in the whole world for a race. The current of the Mississippidrives back that of the Ohio as far as Trinity, so that upon enteringthe river, the stream is in your favour. The two rivers are togetherfour or five miles wide, and form a sort of circus, enclosed by theshores of Illinois, of Old Kentuck, and her daughter Missouri.[4] Wewere nearest to the Illinois side, which gave us a small advantageover our opponent, who was more on the Kentucky side, end kept comingon faster and faster, with the other five boats, who had also clappedmore steam on, a short distance behind him. Our Helen M'Gregor[Pg 24]still kept the lead; who the devil could have helped racing? No one,of a certainty, except such a mackerel-blooded Yankee as old Lambton.All was heat and steam, rattle and clatter; the engines thumping, thewater splashing, the fire blazing and roaring out of the chimneys,which sent out clouds of smoke and showers of sparks. The enemy wasclose upon us, Father George's honest face almost in a line with ourstern.

"'Helen M'Gregor, hold your own!' cried I. 'Don't spare the wood,boys, lay it on thick, pile it up mountaineous; ten dollars for youwhen you've beaten him!'

"'Hurra!' cried the hundred passengers; 'hurra! The Washington loses,we are gaining ground.'

"Only the captain could not say a word; he stood there with his bluelips pressed hard together, looking more like a statue than a man. Wewere going our twenty knots, and keep it up we must if we did not wantto fall back amongst the mob of the Huntress, the Ploughboy, and therest of them. Every joint and hinge in the boat seemed to be cracking,the engine roared and groaned, the steam howled and hissed.

"'The Helen M'Gregor is a gallant lass!' cried I. 'A braveScotchwoman! She has fire in her veins.'

"And so she really had. She stretched out like a racehorse that feelsthe spur in his flank for the first time; not steaming or swimming,but flying like a bird, rushing like a wild-cat or an elk that's beenshot at; the waters of the Ohio flashing from her side in a whitecreamy foam. The Kentucky shores on our right, with their forests andcotton-trees, were flying away from us; on our left, the banks ofIllinois seemed to dance past us, the big trees looking like witchesscampering off on their broomsticks. Behind us, the high land ofMissouri was rapidly disappearing, Colonel Boon's plantation gettingsmaller every second, till at last it appeared no bigger than adovecot. Every thing around us seemed in motion, swimming, flying,racing. Hurras by thousands; seven steamers groaning, creaking,hissing, and rattling; a noise and a heat that made our heads dizzy,blinded our eyes, and took away our hearing. It was a gallopade, arace between giants.

"We were close to the wood below Trinity—the race as good as won, forTrinity was of course the winning post. Suddenly the captain criedout, 'He is passing us!' and, as he said the word, he looked as wildas a tortured redskin, and bit his lips more savage than ever, andcaught hold of the quarterdeck railing as if he would have torn itdown.

"'Captain,' said I, 'it's impossible—he is not passing us.'

"'Look yourself, Mr Doughby,' said he.

"The man was right. The old George is an almighty fast ship, that iscertain. I saw that in two minutes we should be beaten. We had noteven so long to wait.

"'By my soul he is passing us!' cried I.

"'He is passing us,' repeated the captain in a low voice. He wasdeadly white. I couldn't say a word; and as for him, he was obliged tosupport himself against the railing, or he would have fallen down.There was no help for it, however; the Washington's figure-head wasalready in a line with our stern—in ten seconds, a third of thevessel's length was parallel with us—another ten seconds, two-thirds,and in less than a minute he dashed proudly before us with a deafeninghurra from crew and passengers, which was echoed from the other fivesteamers, till we heard nothing on all sides but hurras and hurras. Iwould have given a thousand dollars down to have reached Trinity twominutes sooner. Just then a number of voices cried out, 'The boiler'sbursting! The boiler's bursting!' And there was a cracking , andthen a loud rush. Here comes the hot bath, thought I, and wishedmyself a pleasant journey out of the world. But it was nothing; thecry came from a couple of negers, echoed by Miss Lambton and MisterLambton, and the rest of the old women folk from the ladies' cabin.They had gone in a body to the engineer, and had so begged, andprayed, and bothered him, that he had given in, and opened the valve,and we only half a mile from Trinity. I am certain that if thecowardly rascal had not done[Pg 25] that, we should have made a drawn raceof it, for the Washington got in not two minutes before us. I fellupon the engineer, and if it had not been for the captain, and one ortwo old acquaintances, I should have leathered him upon the spot—ay,if it were to have cost me a thousand dollars; he deserved it well,the dishonourable scamp! We were now in Trinity, we had done fivemiles in less than twelve minutes; but Miss Lambton was so angry, andthe old gentleman so bitter cold and stiff—a pair of fire-tongs isnothing compared to him—Couldn't be helped, however. Honor beforeevery thing."

"But you really were too foolhardy," observed Richards.

"Foolhardy!" repeated Doughby, "foolhardy, when the honour of a shipwas at stake!"

"Pshaw! The honour of a steam-boat!"

"Pshaw, do you say, Richards? Well, if I didn't know you to be athoroughbred Virginian, hang me if I should not almost take you forone of those wishywashy Creoles. Pshaw, say you, the honour of asteam-boat! A steamer, let me tell you, is also a ship, and a big onetoo, and an American one, a thorough American one. It's our ship; weinvented it, they'd have been long enough in the old country beforefinding such a thing out—Pshaw, do you say? And if Percy had saidpshaw upon Lake Erie, or Lawrence on Champlain, or Rogers, or Porter,you might say pshaw to every thing—to the honour of a steamer, aship, a country. But I tell you that the man who says pshaw when hisship is beaten in a race, will also say it when it is taken in afight. In short, that sort of pride is emulation, and that emulationis the real thing."

"But the life of so many men?"

"I tell you, that of the hundred and twenty passengers that we had onboard the Helen, there were not three besides that leathern oldYankee, Mister Lambton, and the women, who would have cared one strawif the boiler had burst, provided we had got to Trinity two minutesthe sooner."

We could not help laughing at this Kentucky bull, but at the same timewe were compelled to admit the truth of what Doughby meant to say. Inspite of Uncle Sam's usual phlegm and nonchalance, there areoccasions when he seems to change his nature; and in the anxiety tosee his ship first at the goal, to forget what he does not otherwiseeasily lose sight of, namely, wife and child, land and goods; as tohis own life, it does not weigh a feather in the balance. He becomes aperfect madman, setting every thing upon a single cast. And the yearlyloss of five hundred to a thousand lives, sacrificed in thesedesperate races, does not appear to cure him in any degree of hismania.

"Well," continued Doughby, resuming his narrative, "it was as much asI could do to get a word from Miss Emily during the rest of thevoyage. The time went terribly slow, and my patience was cleanexpended when we got to Louisville. We stopped at the Lafayette Hotel,and I was in my room before dinner, when the waiter brought me aletter from Mister Lambton. The old gentleman had the honour to informme, in accordance with his daughter's wishes, that there did not existsufficient harmony between my character and that of Miss Emily torender a union between us desirable. And, under these circumstances,he took leave to request of me that I would consider the projectedmarriage as entirely broken off; and, with his and his daughter's bestwishes for my happiness, he had the honour to be my very humbleservant. There was a deal more of it, but that was the pith. When Ihad read it, I burst out of my room like mad, either to throttle oldLambton or to throw myself at his daughter's feet, I didn't rightlyknow which. But the Yankee had been too cunning for me. He had leftthe hotel with his daughter, and gone off by the Cincinnati steamer. Iwent on board the next that was going, and got to Cincinnati threehours after him, but missed him again. He had taken a chaise andstarted for his estate at Dayton, near Yellow Springs. And all I havedone since is no use. She won't hear of me, and I'm the most unhappyfellow alive."

And so saying, he threw his feet upon the table, crossed his arms,and[Pg 26] remained in this position for a couple of minutes, staringearnestly at the ceiling. Suddenly he brought his legs down again,started up, and gazed through the cabin window.

"Hallo!" cried he, "here are your Red River bottoms. Will have a lookat them—will go on deck? You may take away, steward. Come, MonshurTonson, come with me, come, my dear little Frenchman! Nous parlonshansamble le Fransch."

And thereupon he struck up the favourite western ditty, "Let's go toOld Kentuck," seized young De Vergennes by the arm, and dragged himthrough the folding-doors and out upon deck.

"He's not the man to break his heart about a woman," said I toRichards.

"Hardly," replied my friend.

Chapter III

The Stag Hunt.

We had sat for some time talking over Doughby's mishaps, when we wereinterrupted by a noise upon deck. Hurras and hellos were resoundingoff on every side and corner of the steamer. We hurried out to seewhat was the matter, and found the cause of the tumult to be a fallowdeer, that had taken the water some two hundred yards from oursteamer, and was swimming steadily across from the right to the leftbank of the river. The yawl had already been lowered, and was pushingoff from the side with five men in it, amongst whom Doughby of coursetook the lead.

"There he is again," cited Richards. "Of a certainty the man ispossessed by a devil."

"Hurra, boys! Give way!" shouted Doughby, flourishing a rifle full sixfeet in length. The four oars clipped into the water, and the boatflew to the encounter of the deer, who was tranquilly pursuing hisliquid path.

We were about entering one of those picturesque spreads, or bays ofthe Red River, which perhaps no other stream can boast of in suchabundance, and on so magnificent a scale. The lofty trees and hugemasses of foliage of the dense forest that covered the left bank, bentforward over the water, the dark green of the cypresses, and thesilver white of the gigantic cotton-trees, casting a bronze-tintedshadow upon the dusky red stream, which at that point is full fifteenhundred feet broad; the right bank offering a succession of the mostluxuriant palmetto grounds, with here and there a bean or tulip tree,amongst the branches of which innumerable parroquets were chatteringand bickering. A pleasant breeze swept across from the palmettofields, scarcely sufficient, however, to ruffle the water, whichflowed tranquilly along, undisturbed save by the paddle of oursteamer, that caused the huge black logs and tree-trunks floating uponthe surface, to knock against each other, and heave up theirextremities like so many porpoises. The steamer had just entered thebay when a boat shot out from under the wood on the left bank, andgreatly increased the romantic character of the scene.

It was a long Indian canoe made out of the hollowed trunk of a cottontree; a many-tined antler was stuck in the prow, and dried legs andhaunches of venison lay in the fore part of the boat; towards thestern sat a young girl, partially enveloped in a striped blanket, butnaked from the waist upwards, impelling the boat in the direction ofthe deer by long graceful sweeps of her oar; in front of her was asquaw of maturer age, performing a like labour. In the centre of thecanoe were two children, queer guinea-pig-looking little devils, andnear these lay a man in all the lazy apathy of a redskin on his returnfrom on the hunting ground; but towards the stern stood a splendidAntinous-like young savage, leaning in an attitude of gracefulnegligence on his rifle, and evidently waiting an opportunity to get ablow or a shot at the stag. As soon as these children of the forestcaught sight of the steamer and of[Pg 27] Doughby's boat, they ceasedrowing, only recommencing when encouraged by some loud hurras, andeven then visibly taking care to keep as far as possible from thefire-ship. It was a picturesque and interesting sight to observe thetwo boats describing a sort of circle on the broad ruddy stream, whilethe steamer rounding to, formed in a manner the base of the operation,and cut off the stag's retreat. Presently a shot fired without effectfrom Doughby's boat, drove the beast over towards the canoe. The longslender bark darted across the animal's track with the swiftness of anarrow, and as it did so, the Indian who was standing up dealt the staga blow that caused it to reel and spin round in the water, and changeits course for the second time. When I again glanced at the canoe, theyoung Indian had disappeared.

"Here he comes" shouted Doughby, pointing to the deer, which was nowswimming towards his boat. "Give way, boys! the Indians must learn ofa Kentucky man how to strike a stag. Give way, I say!"

The noble beast had recovered from the severe blow it had received,and had now approached the steamer towards which it cast such asupplicating tearful look, that the hearts of the ladies were touchedwith compassion.

"Mr Doughby," cried half a score feminine voices, "spare the poorbeast! Pray, pray let it go!"

"Spare a stag, ladies! Where did you ever hear of such a thing? Hurra,boys!" shouted he, as the boat came up with the deer, and clubbing hisrifle, he delivered a blow with the but-end that split the stock intwo, and threw the stunned animal upon the gunwale of the boat. Quickas thought, Doughty clutched the antlers with one hand, while with theother he reached for the knife which one of his companions held out tohim. At that moment the deer threw itself on one side with aconvulsive movement, the boat rocked, Doughby lost his balance, thestag, which was now recovering its strength, drew itself violentlyback, and in an instant the Kentuckian was floundering in the water,struggling with the deer, to whose horns he held on with the gripe ofa tiger.

"Hallo, Mister Doughby in the Red River!"

The whole ship was now in an uproar, the ladies screaming, the menshouting directions and advice to those in the boat. We began to besomewhat anxious as to the result; for although these water hunts areby no means uncommon occurrences, they are often dangerous andsometimes fatal to the hunter. The deer had been severely stunned andhurt, but not killed, by the blow it had received, and it now strovefiercely against its powerful opponent, throwing him from side to sideby violent tossess of its head. Doughby still held on like grim death,but his eyes began to roll and stare wildly, his strength wasevidently diminishing, and he had each moment more difficulty inpartially controlling the stag's movements, and preventing the furiousbeast from running its antlers into his body. It was in vain that thefour men in the boat endeavoured to render assistance. Man and beastwere rolling and twisting about in the river like two water snakes.The scene that had at first been interesting had now become painful tobehold.

"Fire, Parker! Fire, Rolby!" shouted several voices from the steamerto the men in the boat.

"Knock the cussed redskin on the head!" was the unintelligiblerejoinder of one of the latter.

The stag had now got Doughby close to a tree-trunk, against which itwas making violent efforts to crush him. His life was in imminentperil, and a universal cry of horror and alarm burst from thespectators. Just then the head of the deer fell on its breast, theeyes glazing and the legs flinging out convulsively in the agony ofdeath; at the same time, however, Doughby began to sink, and a brightstreak of blood that rose to the surface of the water, and spread in acircle round the combatants, gave reason to fear that the madKentuckian had received some deadly hurt. At last the men in the boatsucceeded in getting hold of Doughby and the stag, the former beingseized by the hair of the head, while his hands still clung to thedeer's antlers with the desperate grasp of a drowning man. A shout oftriumph echoed from one end of the[Pg 28] steam-boat to the other, and weall felt a sensation of relief proportionate to the painful state ofsuspense in which we had been kept.

Doughby sat for a short space doubled up in the bottom of the boat,gazing straight before him with a fixed unconscious sort of look. Thegrating of the boat against the side of the steamer seemed to rousehim from his apathy, and he slowly ascended the ladder.

"For heaven's sake, Doughby," cried Richards, as the Kentuckian sethis foot upon deck, "what demon is it that possesses you, and drivesyou to risk your neck at every turn?"

"The devil take you," retorted Doughby, "and your Red River water toboot! Brr, brr! d——d bad water your Red River water, say I! No, no,talk to me of Mississippi water.[5] If I am to be drowned, it sha'n'tbe in the stinking Red River. I've a taste in my mouth as if I hadswallowed saltpetre and sulphur, with a dash of prussic acid. But tellme," cried he to the passengers and sailors by whom he was surrounded,"who gave him his settler? The deer, I mean. Who finished him?"

"Who?" repeated every body, "why, who but yourself, Mister Doughby?"

"I!" replied Doughby, shaking his head, "I had something else to dobesides knifing the stag. No, no, I had plenty to think of to keepaway from the tree-trunk. Besides, I let the knife fall at the verymoment the beast dragged me out of the boat. But see there, boys!"added he, pointing to the deer, which was at this moment hoisted upondeck.

The animal had a deep knife wound in the belly, and the tendons of thehind legs were cut right across.

"That's the Indian's handiwork," said Doughby.

"What Indian?" cried we all.

"The Indian whom Rolby was going to knock on the head."

"I thought he wanted to chouse us out of the deer," said Rolby; "I sawhis bacon-face appear for a minute from behind the tree-trunk, and atfirst I took it for a log, but I soon saw it was a redskin. Itwouldn't have been a great harm if I had sent a bit of lead throughhim. What business has an Injun to meddle, when gentlemen"——

"No great harm!" interrupted Doughby impatiently. "The Indian, I cantell you——d'ye hear? Ralph Doughby tells you——has more real bloodin his little finger than ten such leather-chopped fellows as yourselfin their whole bodies, making all allowance for your white hide andyour citizenship, neither of which, by the way, are much better thanthey should be. Ten times more, I tell you, and, if you don't believeit, I'll let you know it. A fine fellow he is, that redskin. He sawthat I was at a pinch, and he came to help me when none of my ownfriends were able. And now, see yonder, there he stands in his canoeagain, just as if he had done nothing but the most natural thing inthe world. Chouse us out of the deer, say ye; and who had a right tohinder him if he had? The beast was bred in his woods as well as ours;a fair field and no favour is our motto in old Kentuck. I tell you theIndian is a brave redskin, and the stag is his; but I'll buy it ofhim. Hallo, captain! a dozen bottles of rum into the boat! Howard,Richards, let me have half a dozen dollars, silver dollars, d'ye hear?I'll pay the Indian a visit on board his canoe, and thank him as heought to be thanked."

No sooner said than done. The captain, however unwilling to lose anymore time, could not resist the impetuosity of the good-naturedscatterbrain, who sprang, dripping wet as he was, into the boat, abottle in each hand, and a friendly hurra upon his lips. The Indiansat first seemed alarmed and doubtful as to his intentions; but thesigns and words of peace and encouragement that were given, andshouted to them from all sides, and above all, the sight of thebottles, soon removed their fears. In another minute or two we sawDough[Pg 29]by in their canoe, shaking hands with them, and putting one ofthe bottles to his mouth. A little more, and I believe they would all,men, women, and children, have begun the war-dance in the canoe, sodelighted were they with the magnificent present of the rum anddollars. As it was, they shook and mauled Doughby till he was fain tojump back into his boat, and escape as well as he could from theirwild caresses and demonstrative gratitude.

But we have been nearly twelve hours on the water, and the Alexandriais a noted fast steamer. Our course has lain for some time betweenbanks covered with gigantic forests of live oak, cotton, bean, andcypress trees, with here and there a palmetto field, and on the northshore an occasional plantation, for the most part a mere log-hut, witha strip of tobacco, cotton, or Indian corn. We have seen numerousdeer, who, on the appearance of our steamer, gallop back into thewoods—swans, cranes, geese, and ducks, wild pigeons, turkeys, andalligators, are there by thousands. We now enter a broad part of theriver, and are gliding along in front of a wide clearing, some halfmile long, and surrounded by colossal evergreen oaks; a snug-lookinghouse of greenish-white colour stands in the middle of the plantation,with orange gardens—that are to be—laid out and enclosed in front ofit; one enormous live oak, that looks as if it had stood there sincethe flood, spreading its knotty limbs over the eastern side of thehabitation. The windows on the balconies are open, the Venetian blindsdrawn up, the sinking sun throws its mellow rays over the wholepeaceful and pleasant scene. And see there! We are expected: a smallvariegated ball flies up to the top of the lightning conductor, andthe banner of our Union flutters out, displaying its thirteen stripesand twenty-four stars, and the white American eagle, the thunder ofJupiter and the symbols of peace in his talons. At the same moment,Plato and Tully, two of my negroes, come rushing like dementedcreatures out of the house, one with a stick in his hand, the otherbearing a pan of hot coals. They are closely pursued by Bangor, whoseems disposed to dispute Tully's title to the embers. In the strugglethe coals fly in every direction; of a surety, the dingy rascals willburn my house before my eyes. Now comes Philip, a fourth negro, andtries to snatch the stick from Plato's hand; but the latter is on hisguard, and fetches his adversary a wipe over the pate, that snaps thestick—a tolerably thick one, by the way—in two. Both retreat a shortdistance, and lowering their heads like a couple of angry steers, runfull tilt against each other, with force that would fracture anyskulls except African ones. Once, twice, three times—at the thirdencounter, Plato the sage bites the dust before the hero of Macedon.Confound the fellows! My companions are laughing fit to splitthemselves, but I see nothing to laugh at. I shall have them inhospital for the next ten days. Tully, however, has picked up the panand the embers, and is rushing towards a flag-staff near the shore,from which the Louisianian flag is waving. I see now what they are allat. They have brought down the Wasp and the Scorpion from on Menou'splantation, two four-pounders so named, which were taken last year onboard a Porto Rico pirate, and which my father-in-law bought.Boum—boum—and at the sound the whole black population of theplantation comes flocking to the shore, capering and jumping like somany opera-dancers, only not quite so gracefully, and shoutingout—"Massa come; hurra, massa come! Massa maum bring; hurra, massa!"and manifesting a joy that is probably rendered more lively by thehopes of an extra ration of rum and salt-fish. And now Monsieur Menouand his son hurry down to receive us; the steamer stops, the plank isthrown across, and amidst shaking of hands, and farewells, and goodwishes, our party hurries on shore. Thank heaven! we are home, andsettled at last.

[Pg 30]

BORODINO.—AN ODE.

[Pg 33]

A RAMBLE IN MONTENEGRO.

Few nations of Europe have been less known than the Montenegrians, andthe name even of their country is seldom found on maps.[6] Surroundedby great empires, they have always preserved the independence of theirrugged mountains, and have even succeeded in wresting several richplains from the sway of Turkey. With this power hostilities seldomcease; but such is the system with which her resources are managed,that while the Montenegrians are at peace with one pasha, they areenabled to concentrate their force against another—and all the whilethe Sublime Porte does not condescend to interfere. Not many yearsago, they possessed the reputation of being a horde of robbers; and,in all probability, the pilgrim who ventured among them would havereturned, if at all, as shirtless as themselves. But the breath of thespirit of the age, though faintly wafted to their mountains, hassoftened something of their character, without destroying in the leasttheir independence or nationality. Bold, hardy, and free, ready andeager for the foray and the fray, a stranger is now as safe among themas in any part of her Majesty's kingdom.

Whoever wishes to make the acquaintance of this primitive people, willdo well to embark on board the Austrian Lloyd's Company's steamer fromTrieste to Cattaro. They will be well accommodated, at reasonablecharges, and have an opportunity of seeing the principal towns ofDalmatia, a country little frequented by travellers. Such was the casewith ourselves, (an English lady and gentleman,) who quitted Triesteon the 5th of November 1843. The voyage commenced pleasantly, and wehad the good-luck to have the ladies' cabin to ourselves. The captainwas a very gentlemanlike person, the steward attentive, and thepassengers full of politeness. Zara, the capital of Dalmatia, where westopped a day and a night, is a walled town of moderate extent, saidto contain 8000 inhabitants. It possesses some antiquities. Over thegates of this, and all other of the Dalmatian seaports, the Lions ofSaint Mark yet remain. It is best known for the excellence of itsrosoglio. The next town we arrived at was Sebenico, now muchdecayed, and Spalatro, the most interesting of all, where the badnessof the weather, during the short time we stayed, prevented our landingto see the extensive Roman remains. After anchoring off Curzola for anight, we came to Ragusa, where we stopped two days. At Zara andSebenico we had of seeing the Morlaccian race. These arethe rural inhabitants of Dalmatia, speaking a Sclavonic dialect, whilein the towns they pride themselves on their Venetian origin andlanguage. Amongst these peasants were the noblest specimens of thehuman kind I have ever seen. Of stature almost gigantic, and of theamplest development of chest, their symmetry of limb and elasticity ofstep would have called forth notice in a Scottish Highlander. Norcould a somewhat manifest omission to cares of the toilet disguisecomplexion and features almost faultless, and in which an expressionof frankness and good-nature left one nothing to fear from their armednumbers. I speak not of a few among a crowd, but of nearly all I saw.It was from amongst these that the French, during their occupation,chose their finest grenadiers; but at present, in consequence of thescantiness of the population, the humanity of the Austrian governmenthas suspended all conscription. Still it is possible, that, in thehour of danger, Austria might profit more from the devoted [Pg 34]loyalty ofthis armed and stalwart peasantry, than if her ranks were filled withits forced recruits. Their dress consists of a coarse brown jacket,and a waistcoat of red cloth, both ornamented on the edges, and madeto sit close on the shoulders, without any collar, and whichadvantageously display their well put on head and neck. They wear asmall red skull-cap, round at top; but, when married, they usuallysurround this with a white turban. Their pantaloons are of blue, andfit close from the knee to the ankle, and below they wear theopunka—a species of sandal, made of sheepskin, and bound withthongs, which, as may be seen from their elastic step and uprightcarriage, are well fitted to their country; round their waist is a redsash, and in front a leather belt, in which is placed a yataghan and asmaller knife, and exhibiting usually the handsome pommels of silveror brass-mounted pistols. Over all is a long brown cloak, open infront, and fastening over the chest, forming a dress which, with theirfree and martial bearing, gives them the appearance of ready-madesoldiers. The women are, comparatively, inferior to the men; but theircountenances are cheerful, and a white napkin gracefully put on thehead, had a very classical appearance. For the rest, they wore acoarse shirt—over that a coarser, without arms, neither coming muchbelow the knee—a party-coloured apron and stockings, with opunkas,like the men. Near Zara is a small colony of Albanians, who stillretain their national manners and dress, though settled time out ofmind.

Ragusa—of old a republic, with its doge and senate—is a city whoseglory has departed. This little state—consisting of the town, thepromontory of Sabioncello, the island of Melida, with a few smallerones—numbering about forty thousand inhabitants, had never beensubject by Venice, and was governed on the most aristocraticprinciples. At the time of the late war, the inhabitants of the cityowned about four hundred large vessels—and observing the profiting byneutrality, they traded every where, and acquired great wealth. Butthey were not destined to escape the storm which overthrew so manymightier states. In 1809 they became compulsory allies of the French.Their nominal independence lasted about two years longer. During thetime the French occupied it, the city was attacked by the combinedforces of the Russians and Montenegrians; the former by sea, while thelatter conducted the operations on land. Luckily they failed to takeit; but they burned and destroyed, without exception, every one of thenumerous villas by which it was surrounded. Since the loss of herindependence, the trade of Ragusa has ceased, and her wealth hasdeparted; while many of her once haughty nobility have no othersubsistence than a scanty pension, which the bounty of the governmentaffords them. The town is interesting, and some of its buildingsancient and peculiar, though hardly to be called handsome—the scalebeing small. Of the country houses desolated by the Montenegrians, notone in twenty has been repaired; and they remain roofless andblackened, a lasting memorial of the ferocity of that people. Theneighbourhood is beautiful, and appears more so after the stonydesolation which the rest of Dalmatia exhibits. Though the housesstill remain in ruins, the gardens continue to be cultivated. Olives,vines, figs, and carruba trees grow in them, and the tops of the hillsare covered with stone pines and delightful evergreens, of heaths,junipers, cypress, and other plants, which at home we coax to grow inour greenhouses.

Quitting Ragusa, after having been once driven back by the badness ofthe weather, we at length entered the Bocca of Cattaro, after apassage of about nine hours. Both in its general and immediateposition, few spots can be imagined so cut off from the rest of theworld as Cattaro. Standing close on the sea, with stupendous mountainsoverhanging it on each side, it is deprived even of the light of thesun for the greater part of the day; and, towards the end ofNovember—this is no boon. By land the Dalmatian coast-road (the onlyone, I believe, in the country) passes through it, but it would proveindifferent, I should think, to any but the pedestrian; and there isalso the mountain-path, of three hours' ascent,[Pg 35] which leads intoMontenegro, and issues up from the gates of the town in a zigzag form,till it appears lost in the clouds. Any one wishing to quit Cattaro,has indeed, like the country waiter in England, but "three desperatealternatives." He must wait for the next steamer, a whole month if inwinter, and return the way he came. Or he may attempt to pass throughAlbania to Greece or the islands, which would in all likelihood provethe last attempt he would ever make. Or he may hire one of the countrytrabacolos to take him where he likes. They are neither fast intheir sailing nor luxurious in their accommodation—the price beingany thing but cheap. In one thing the traveller has no difficulty,which is to discover the first hotel, as their number is strictlylimited. Consequently in about half an hour, during which the steamerhad taken her departure, we found ourselves the inmates of theprincipal salon in the Locanda della Corona. It is ever a comfort,when expectation is not at its highest, to find things better; andhappy the mind that seeks it!

The house was not very dirty, the landlady was full of kindness, andnot destitute of good looks. After her first paroxysms of welcome andsurprise had passed, then succeeded admiration, then a generalpresentation to all friends and relations of the family that could besummoned on a short notice, with many fervent blessings and prayersfor our welfare, and at length, which pleased us as much as any thing,a very eatable dinner. During that day, and part of the ensuing week,I improved my acquaintance with Cattaro—an acquaintance which, beforefinal separation, became very intimate indeed. It contains severalsmall squares or places, with some churches and other publicbuildings. There is a respectable café, which is frequented by theofficers of the garrison, and on the whole it is rather a neat littletown. The population may be about three thousand. It is fortified,having two gates to the land and one to the sea. Perched above, at agreat height, is the castle, said to be of considerable strength. Inthe late war Cattaro was taken from the French by Sir William Hoste,Bart., and afterwards garrisoned by the Vladika of Montenegro, sincewhich time an Englishman has hardly been seen by the people withintheir gates. Consequently their ideas of robbing the stranger arefaint and barbarous; here, as throughout Dalmatia, should you give aman money, and the sum be not even more than twice the value of theobligation, the poor ignoramus is delighted, and thanks and blessesyou most fervently. The climate of Cattaro is not considered healthy.The inhabitants die of consumption in the winter, and fever in thesummer, and they generally have a sickly appearance. There are smartsilversmith shops, and many ornaments are wrought with much neatness.There are several also devoted to the sale of arms, as theMontenegrians here buy and repair the principal weapons they use.Pistols, guns, and yataghans are mounted in silver andmother-of-pearl, coral and other stones, with skill and taste. Thepopulation are as remote in appearance from that of any town inwestern Europe, as in the most primitive part of the East. Thetown's-people wear a black jacket of cloth or velvet, with silverbasket buttons, a small cap, and wide drawers of the same cloth, withblack stockings or high boots, and a red sash. The costumes of some ofthe villages along the shores of the Bocca are very pretty. The womenfrom Dulcinea wear a body petticoat and jacket of scarlet, with silverbuttons and buckles, and a white covering tastefully enfolding thehead and shoulders. The peasantry to the south wear the Montenegriandress; the poorer ones, in extreme scantiness. These profess, likethat people, the tenets of the Greek church, and in appearance anddialect do not differ from them. A bolder look, however, and an air ofindependence, usually mark the Montenegrian. Between Cattaro andMontenegro there is no quarantine or restriction of intercourse.Without the latter the former would cease to exist—without the formerlife would be burdensome in Montenegro. Three times a-week a bazar isheld outside each of the land gates, to which the Montenegriansdescend, themselves loaded with arms and independence, and their womenand mules with the[Pg 36] richest products of their country. Of these,mutton hams of peculiar excellence, potatoes that cannot be imitatedin these parts, salt fish from the lake of Scutari, (to be caught, Ifear, no more,) a root which looks yellow, and dyes to match, withhides, poultry, and pigs, form the principal. One of the chiefarticles which they seek is salt, with which some of the aboveluxuries are compounded. This being a government monopoly, is sold atthe office in the town, and an animated scene takes place on itsopening, each striving to be served first, and, as a matter of course,all speaking at once.

Having in a few days almost exhausted the varieties of Cattaro, andthe weather assuming a more favourable aspect, it became time toexecute our intended journey up the mountain. Times were stirring inMontenegro. The nation was at war with two pashas, and the Vladika hadtaken the field in person. Rumours were numerous; we could not havecome at a better time, and our trip promised to be one of interest.His highness's postmaster, a gigantic warrior,[7] waited on us tofurnish mules and guides. Cesarea Petrarca, gentleman, of Cattaro,hairdresser, auctioneer, and appraiser, ex-courier, formerly chef decuisine to the Vladika—an "homme capable," as he not unaptlystyled himself, attended us to cook and interpret; and we started forCettigna on the 17th of November, about nine o'clock. I may here say afew words concerning the state of politics then existing inMontenegro. For the last half century or more, under the auspices ofthe late revered bishop, so highly sainted in soul,[8] and sobeautifully preserved in body, the Montenegrians, backed secretly byan influential power in the north, have been pursuing a system ofterritorial encroachment as well as internal improvement. Ancientlytheir domain consisted of but a range of gloomy and barren rocks,which would alike oppose the footsteps and extinguish the hopes of theinvader; since which various fertile pianuras have been gained onthe side of Herzigovina and Bosnia. In 1781 Kara Mahmoot, hereditarybey of Scutari, marched with a great army into Montenegro. Advancingtowards Cettigna, he was attacked in a narrow defile by the Vladika.This was a great day for Montenegro. The Albanians were utterlyrouted, and Black Mahmoot, being taken prisoner, surrendered his gloryand his head to his priestly conqueror, and it remains there among thetrophies of the Episcopal dwelling. The present Vladika is notunworthy of his martial uncle. He is truly the flower of the house ofPetrowitch. On his first arrival from St Petersburg to assume thegovernment, his appearance was that of a Frank[9] gentleman, and hishabits those of a priest; but he discovered before long that the dressof his native mountains better became his manly form, while thetroubles in which his state was so constantly engaged, soon made himexchange the crosier for the sword, and become as ardent a warrior ashis predecessor. Ever since the beginning of the summer, war had beenwaged with Osman Pasha of Mostar, concerning a disputed territory. Onone occasion the opposed forces were in sight for a week. TheMontenegrians consisted of seven thousand foot—the Turks (I writeaccording to my information) of forty thousand horse. (!) Every daythey fought, sometimes for two, sometimes four hours and upwards, asfancy dictated. About fifty persons had been more or less injured inthis pastime, but their ardour was rather increasing than diminishing,when the pasha of Scutari, without notice or warning, seized on theislands of Vranina and Lessandro, at the head of the lake of Scutari.The Montenegrians had there a post of about twenty men, but they wereoverpowered, several killed, and the rest sent captive to Scutari.Not[Pg 37] satisfied with this, he fortified Lessandro in such a manner thatno Montenegrian could fish in the lake with any kind of pleasure orcomfort. This was a vital blow. Visions of the market of Cattaro rosebefore the eyes of the nation. Peace with Osman Pasha was concluded atany sacrifice, and the Vladika instantly hastened to concentrate hisenergies toward the recovery of the lost islands.

Our party consisted of ourselves and two mules, one being for theluggage—Cesarea Petrarca, in the full pride of office, and armed forour protection with a very small sword and a very small gun—a womanwho had charge of the mules—and Spiro Martinowitch, an old andrespectable Montenegrian, with Milo his son, to act as guides. Webegan the ascent about ten o'clock. Close outside the walls waspointed out a village, the residence of a race of valiant butchers,who have ever been at feud with the Montenegrians, by whom theirnumbers have been much reduced. A tale was related of three havingdefended themselves against four hundred of the enemy. After followingthe steep but otherwise good road for about two hours, we arrived at astone with different species of eagles on two sides,[10] which marksthe boundary of the respective territories. The road instantlydegenerates into an indifferent mule-track. It took another hour togain the principal ascent, then, pursuing our way along the high land,we reached a small hamlet, where we stopped a few minutes to comfortourselves with what could be procured. The path from hence to Cettignapasses over a country which, at any season, must appear barren andinhospitable. The peaks of the highest mountains in Montenegro riseimmediately above it. The ground was now covered with about an inch ofsnow, and the air extremely cold. A few stunted bushes of beechunderwood, which serves for fuel, seemed to be the only vegetation.Every thing else, grey rocks, sharp and rugged, to the smallestfragment. We passed on our way the village of Negusi, the paternalseat of the family of Petrowitch. Here the present Vladika was born,in a mansion which was pointed out to us. It is a long-shaped hut,built of loose stones, without windows or upper story. A somewhatbetter dwelling is the property of the bishop's uncle, who governs thevillage and adjacent district. Passing on by the hamlets of Bayitziand Donikrai, we arrived at the Episcopal residence about half-pastfive in the evening, and immediately took up our quarters in the firsthotel. I will not say that the decorations of the chief apartment werein the highest style of magnificence; but the bed was clean, and tofind any thing clean in these parts may be considered a victorygained. Our hostess was from Cattaro, the seat of every refinement tothe ideas of a Montenegrian; and our host was a kind civil man,speaking both French and Italian, and had been formerly engaged in thegreat war. For the present he found it convenient to remain inMontenegro, having been lately concerned in an "unfortunate affair"near Budua, where certain tenements were harried and burned. Cattaro,therefore, and its delights, were denied him for the present; but itwas hoped that the temporary bad odour would soon pass away. Thevillage was nearly deserted; few remained that night in Cettigna butancient men. The Vladika was on and away. He had departed thatmorning, his brother remaining to take charge of the place. To-morrowthe assault of the fortress was to commence, or, some said, it hadalready begun. We felt we had arrived at a good moment, and wereprepared to hasten in the morning to the scene of action, thirstingwith excitement. It was thought not unlikely that a battle might takeplace. The evening was cold and wet, and we therefore took up ourposition over the kitchen fire. In these regions this is placed in themiddle of the room, and the smoke gets out how it can, or not at all.A peculiar sensation in the eyes will present itself to the mind asthe result of such an arrangement. The kitchen, however, besides being[Pg 38]the warmest, was by far the gayest place. Here we watched our dinnercooked, and ate it afterwards; heard of wars and rumours of wars;listened to heroic ballads, chanted by a warrior, and accompanied by aspecies of one-stringed fiddle; and made the acquaintance of two veryfashionable young men. One was the bishop's nephew, a handsome ladabout seventeen, who was, on account of his youth, very shy andmodest, and acted as cavaliero servente to the kitchen-maid. Theother was a remarkably good-looking and well-dressed young man, whom Ihad observed on entering the place, and set down to be somebody. Hewas, alas! but a tailor from Bosnia, who had come on a speculation toCettigna. A barren profession his, where fashions remain the samesummer and winter, and a suit lasts till it drops off. He was anaccomplished musician, as well, on the one-stringed instrument;boasted of a white pocket-handkerchief, and his Italian, added to ourServian, made up about twelve words in common; so that the eveningpassed very sociably, and we retired to rest full of hope for themorrow. But when that morrow came, one melancholy prospect of rain andmist presented itself. The white clouds hung on the mountain-topsimmediately above. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and the raindescended in torrents. There seemed not a chance of its clearing, nordid it during the whole day. It was not, therefore, considered prudentto proceed, where no bed was to be found, and where the chance of evenshelter was any thing but certain. Add to which, my companion in armswas taken with a violent cold; so we felt obliged to restrain ourmilitary ardour for one day, and proceeded to seek such recreation asthe metropolis afforded. Cettigna, the seat of the government ofMontenegro, and residence of the Vladika, is yet a city of no greatmagnitude. It is situated prettily enough on a little plain, aroundwhich the rocky summits of the mountains rise in the form of anamphitheatre; not to any great height, however—the elevation of theplain itself being very great. The most ancient building, indeed theonly one which seems not to have been erected within these few years,is the monastery. This was till very lately the residence of theVladika and his predecessors, and it was here the King of Saxonylodged when he visited Montenegro in 1836.[11] It is situated on theside of the rocks which bound the plain, and consists of severalbuildings of different periods joined together. The oldest has tworows of arched passages, or cloisters, in front, one above the other.Behind the convent, a wall runs up the hill, and encloses a smallcircuit of rocky ground. The whole is in a very uncertain state ofrepair. On the summit of a small rock immediately above, is a roundtower, built apparently for ornament at no very ancient date, butnever finished or roofed. It does not owe its decorations to the handof the architect. They are of a rarer kind. From the ends of polesfastened into the top of the wall, two or three dozen heads, in allstages of decay, overlook the residence of a Christian bishop. Theseare Turks or Albanians who have fallen in different encounters, orpossibly in cold blood, as the Montenegrians never spare the life of aprisoner. It was with somewhat doubtful feelings that I contemplatedthese trophies. Around, the earth was strewed with skulls and otherrelics of humanity. It was said that no head had been put up fornearly two years. Certain it is, that the Lord Vladika did not causeto be placed there the heads of eighteen Turkish commissioners, who,in the August previous, entered Montenegro to discuss a boundaryquestion. But why should I tell tales? I was hospitably received, andtreated, me and mine, with civility and kindness, not only by theVladika, but by every individual I met, and returned with my headundisturbed by the trip. Some of the countenances still bore traces ofgood looks, though withered by the sun and storm of years. It was asevere test for beauty; but the head [Pg 39]of one young man certainly stoodthe trial. Fine features, of a cast frequently seen towards the northof Albania, and a set of the best teeth, (this is very general,)showed that he might have once been more prosperous in love than heproved to be in war. I thought of a relic, and took up a skull, thebest I could find, but it was full of red earth, and seemed damp andunpleasant; so I put it down again. I next discovered a beautifultooth; this would have surpassed the former in elegance andconvenience, but I fancied it not either, and came away, trusting tomy mind for a remembrance of the spot. From hence I made a sketch ofthe present residence of the bishop, the second among the remarkableedifices of Cettigna and its environs. It was built within these fiveyears, under the auspices of no less than my trusty attendantPetrarca. The style is not, strictly speaking, imposing. Perhaps thisarose from suggestions of economy, or possibly from the mind of thearchitect being at that moment unprepared with any other. Simplicityin design and execution characterize it throughout. It consists of along single building of one low story, containing two rows of abouttwenty windows on each side. There is a door in the middle, and ateach end a small wing placed crosswise, and a very little higher thanthe rest, containing a window above and a door below. Both before andbehind, a large court is enclosed by a low wall of loose stones, withlittle turrets at the corners, and two doorways in the principal. Inthe front court are some old brass and iron cannon, lyingdismounted—trophies of Turkish war. Behind is an attempted kitchengarden. The remainder of Cettigna is small, hardly worthmentioning—six or seven houses with an upper floor, and about twiceas many ordinary huts. This forms the metropolis of Montenegro. Butsmall as it is, I doubt if there be a bigger village in the country,the population, though sufficiently numerous, dwelling in smallscattered hamlets. The better houses act as hostelries when called on,which may be the case when Parliament is sitting; but apart from thebishop's officials and retainers, the place does not probably containa hundred souls. It being now noon, and the rain unabated, wedetermined to see all the sights of the city. His highness's residencewas first visited. It contains the Chamber of Deputies, a printingestablishment, and various apartments for the accommodation of friendsand relatives. Entering one of these we found the Vladika's brother,whom I have previously alluded to, and had the honour of apresentation. He is a very ordinary-looking personage; and, as thepowers of language were wanting to express our feelings, we soon tookleave. The bishop's rooms for public and private reception, consist ofa billiard-room no bigger than is necessary for the due performance ofthe game, at which he is a great adept, a small anteroom and bedroom.His valet and chamberlain, a well-dressed Montenegrian, did thehonours. In the billiard-room the walls are hung with arms, thoughsome of these were now absent on service. I observed some fine Turkishswords, some of an ancient date, presents to different Vladikas; someAlbanian daggers, straight, with a triangular blade, resembling theancient Venetian misericordes; and a handsomely mounted and antiqueServian sword, the blade with the wolf-mark, so well known in theHighlands and other parts of Europe. There were some handsomefire-arms; and, among others, a splendid pipe lately presented byOsman Pasha of Mostar. In the anteroom I remarked with pleasure asmall three-legged stand, with a basin and towel; and I have heardthat other contrivances for the purification of the Episcopal personare not wanting, though no such met my eye. In the bedroom, where theodour of tobacco still remained unmitigated, was a cabinet, which,when opened, displayed objects well worthy the attention of the nextpasha who may visit Cettigna. Russian orders and snuff-boxesuncountable, set in the choicest brilliants; presents from theEmperors of Austria of no mean value; a remembrance or two of the Kingof Saxony, &c. &c. All these were opened by the cameriere to ourfree inspection; but not for this, nor the trouble we afterwards gavehim when exhibiting the sacer[Pg 40]dotal robes, keeping him above half theday, would he accept the smallest remuneration. This completed thepublic rooms, (his highness is reported on occasions to give grandentertainments, but the whereabouts was not manifest,) and weproceeded to the ancient convent. This, formerly the Episcopaldwelling, is still the residence of the chief officials attached tothe Vladika. The first among these is the vicar—(his other avocationshaving only permitted the Vladika to officiate on two occasions)—"nobaron or squire or knight of the shire," &c. Truly on this occasionthe holy father had not been unmindful of himself; and, consideringthe early hour and dreary state of the weather; was as jovial as theheart could desire. A peculiar leer and frequent ebullitions oflaughter, from mysterious causes, showed the frame of mind he was in.After coffee, and a glass of aniseed brandy, we viewed his priestlyrobes, which were of cloth of gold and very handsome. We thenproceeded to make the acquaintance of the other officials, going theround of the convent. We were most cordially received; indeed, weappeared to be a godsend to these poor people. There was a Dalmatianschoolmaster, a very intelligent young man, who superintended thebranch of national education; his highness's secretary, an Italian;and a woman from Cattaro, the wife of another now absent at the camp,and the only example of female aristocracy in Montenegro. At theapartment of each of the inmates, coffee, invariably excellent, andglasses of brandy, were handed round. These the holy personage in ourcompany always emptied to the uttermost, and then would romp andwrestle with the schoolmaster, and perform all kinds of frolics. Hewas a Hungarian by birth. When our German or his Italian respectivelyfailed, then Latin assisted our communications; and, what with the wetweather and the coffee, we all became very sociable and chatty. Afteran hour or two so spent, we took our way to the chapel. It is verysmall; not capable, I should say, of accommodating above twenty orthirty persons. There, embalmed, are the remains of the late Vladika.The vicar removed the lid of the coffin, and he there appeared attiredin full canonicals. His face, however, was hidden, and the coveringwas not removed. The limbs appeared to be much shrunk. The holy mantook the hand of the deceased, and, kissing it with the most solemndevotion, burst into a wild laugh, and closed the lid. A small triflepro salute animæ was expected in a box adjoining it. We next went tothe robe-room, passing along a series of mouldy and rat-eaten floorsto a small room, such as might be found in a dilapidated stable-loft;there, from old dingy boxes, were drawn forth such garments as createdastonishment—the richest damask and cloth of gold of allcolours—their weight enormous—so massive that they would almoststand alone. I have never seen any thing so splendid; and the effectof such upon the fine form of the Vladika must be worth beholding. Inanother chest were deposited the crowns of different Vladikas. Theyare of a shape resembling the ancient Russian diadem, being not of theform of any kind of coronet, but a cap all covered or entire, globularat top, and diminishing towards where they fit the head. Perhaps therewere half a dozen or more. They were richly ornamented with preciousstones—the present Vladika's the most so. I understand they arepresents from St Petersburg. By nine next morning the rain hadsomewhat cleared, and the weather was mild and promising. We started,therefore, hoping that night to reach the quarters of the Vladika,though no one could speak positively to the place. We made someenquiries as to the chance of finding shelter, as the nights weresingularly cold; but it was of course apparent that time alone coulddecide. None of our friends from the monastery, who had been sowarlike the day before, made their appearance; so we started withoutany addition to our party. The road was nearly all on the descent, andusually so stony and rough as to make riding the mule a matter ofdifficulty. We passed by Dobro Skorsello, one of the richest communesof Montenegro; there figs, vines, and olives are grown: a wild speciesof mulberry occurs, and large trees of it frequently appeared before ahut or[Pg 41] hamlet. These are wide-spreading and ancient, but not tall.This district furnishes seven thousand fighting men. Here we met thewife of one of the principal senators among a troop of females withbundles of wood upon their head. We now had the first intelligencefrom the camp. Descending into a little plain we met about two hundredmen returning to celebrate a village fête, as their services were notjust then required. They passed in single file; wild, active-lookingfellows they certainly were. In about half an hour after, weencountered forty or fifty others. These were peculiarly warm in theirfriendship, and slapped me so hard on the back that it required myutmost force to return the compliment with any thing like cordiality.They took it into their heads that I was a certain long-expectedbombardier who was to direct their artillery against Lessandro, andthey loaded me with compliments and good wishes. I almost, at themoment, regretted my want of knowledge in the art. About one o'clockwe descended upon the Nariako river, then a rapid clear green stream,which conducts the torrents of the upper mountains to the lake ofScutari; and, in another hour, reached the village of that name, whichis known also by the Italian one of Fiumara. We trusted here toprocuring a boat which would convey us the remainder of the journey;but the natives of this free country are seldom in a hurry, and infact it was necessary that we should be made popular idols for acertain space; nor had we the means of keeping each other incountenance. I was hurried off, accompanied by Petrarca, to the houseof the captain of the district, a senator, I understood, and eminentlybrave; while my unfortunate companion, without any one to help, wastaken possession of by a lady of rank, a Cattarese by birth, but whohad nearly forgotten her native tongue, and in a short time wassurrounded by all the females and olive branches of the place. Theusual brandy, with coffee and pipes, was served to our party. Thehouses, or little dirty huts rather, have in front a small balconycovered at top, and raised about four or five feet from the ground;here Spiro, Petrarca, and myself were seated, with my host and severalothers. While the lady of the house brought in the pipes andrefreshments, I made some very sensible observations, which Petrarcaclothed in Servian, and the replies seemed in every way equal;notwithstanding, in about an hour the liveliness of the scene begansomewhat to wear off, and I took the first opportunity of hastening torescue the other sufferer. Here I discovered the object of publicattention seated on a bench with her host and hostess, one on eachknee as it were, and the room thronged with spectators; women andchildren were squatted or perched on every conceivable spot. Theharmony of the party had, however, undergone for a moment a triflingdisorder; for, while all the rest had been full of compliment andcourtesy, one elderly lady had thought proper to express herself in amanner contradictory to the general feeling, and in the strongestterms, going even the length of shaking her fist at the occupant ofthe post of honour. She was, however, bundled out mostunceremoniously, neck and crop, as the phrase is. After furtherdelays, and declining a most uninviting dormitory, a boat was gotready; four warriors were in her, and we departed amid the cheers ofthe population and a promiscuous discharge of fire-arms. This waswarmly responded to by our party; nor did I much regret when thesedemonstrations had ceased, as a Montenegrian considers it quiteetiquette to discharge his heavy-loaded piece any where in theimmediate vicinity of the head, so long as the muzzle just clears thehonoured individual. In a few minutes we were gliding down thebeautiful stream. The absence of all wild animals is peculiarlyobservable in the mountains. A woodcock or red-legged partridge areoccasionally seen; but few quadrupeds are met with, and the larger andfiercer kinds are rarely known to occur. This deficiency, however, inthe general zoology, is amply compensated by the birds which frequentthe Fiumara river. As we proceeded, muffled up in the bottom of theboat, for it was very cold, the fitful exertions of our warlike crewdisturbed quantities of[Pg 42] aquatic birds. The river widened greatly, themountain banks disappearing, till at length the shores became obscurein the distance, and thus it imperceptibly enters and forms the lakeof Scutari. Cormorants and ducks passed over in flocks; noble heronsgot up screaming on every side. One of these was the milk-whiteaigrette; superior in size to the common heron. The kingfishers had abeautiful appearance. I never saw this bird elsewhere in suchmultitudes. I did not request any of my crew to try their skill, as Ihad had enough of firing for the time being, nor did I take a fancy todo so myself. The large bore and light metal of their arms, added tothe weight of the charge, spoke of a recoil any thing but pleasing,and which I hear usually takes place. Next day, however, I asked thecaptain of the boat to show me a shot; he took aim at a diver whichkept appearing a-head; he fired when nothing but the neck was visibleabove water, and the ball completely divided it, the head barelyhanging by a bit of skin. The bird was distant about fifty yards, andthe boat moving, while he stood on the bow. At some longer shots hewas not so successful. We passed a village at a small distance, andlay on our oars to hear the news. Most of the people were absent; butone, a great man, was seated on the hut-top, with a few idlers roundhim. This was the chief president of the senate—the speaker of thehouse, in short; and undoubtedly, if stentorian lungs are of any usefor that office in a Montenegrian parliament, he was most amplyqualified. For twenty minutes this eminent man conversed with us—thedistance at first being about a quarter of a mile, and probably itmight be three miles or more before he was finally out of hearing. TheTurkish fortress of Dzabiack now appeared perched on a steep isolatedhill rising from the marsh. It seemed, as we passed it about two milesoff, to be in a very dilapidated condition. The Montenegrians,however, had at present no designs upon it; and its garrisonmaintained a peaceful neutrality. They have on several occasionsdestroyed this fortress, which has been occupied again by the Turks.It gives then little annoyance, being distant, I should think, fivemiles from the head of the lake. All was now water, but the principalchannels above were passable, the rest being overgrown with weeds. Atseveral of these, long consultations occurred as to our best route. Itbegan to rain a little, and the place of our destination seemeddoubtful. At length we emerged on the broad beautiful lake, and ourprogress was easy. We soon came in sight of the beleaguered island andfortress of Lessandro. The cannonade, which we had heard during theearlier part of the day, had long ceased, and all seemed quiet. It wasstill twilight, but the place to which our people had determined ongoing, lay beyond the foot of a mountain which projected to a nearerapproach with the island. This was the very mountain on the top ofwhich the Vladika had placed his batteries. They considered itprudent, therefore, to wait till dark, before passing withinpoint-blank range of the enemy's guns. We, therefore, hauled the boatup, and waited under lee of the point. As soon as the light hadfailed, we moved forward, passing stealthily along the shore to withinabout three hundred yards of the fort. The previous garrulity of ourparty was now hushed, and they exhibited the most laudable prudence. Iobserved, however, that they had all their guns cocked and ready, asif they intended to have returned any compliment from the fortress;but no such contingency was at hand. The Albanians were engaged inchanting martial choruses, possibly to maintain their own valour aswell as dismay their opponents, and show what excellent health andspirits they possessed after the two days' siege. At any rate, theymade too much noise to hear any thing but themselves. As we went alongshore, we were several times challenged by those on the look-out, andlong explanations passed in low yet distinct tones. At length thedanger was passed, and we went a-head for about two miles along thelake; then, turning off up a deep sluggish stream, we came in sight ofour quarters. A large fire blazed in the principal of three huts, andby its light numerous persons were seen[Pg 43] around it. Landing with ourbaggage and equipage, we soon joined the circle; about a dozenwarriors were here assembled. They were very civil to us, and glad tosee our party. They gave us the best place at the fire, where,spreading our plaids, we were soon occupied with such dainties as theplace or our own providence supplied. When it came to be bed-time, thefighting part of the community good-naturedly suffered themselves tobe persuaded to go to the other end of the room, by which means wewere enabled to lie down by the fire. There they rolled themselves up,and, in the shortest possible time, were in a state of oblivion. I mayobserve that the people in general, men or women, have seldom anybeds. They lie down any where on the floor, ensconced in a capote orcloak, removing perhaps their opunkas, but scarcely ever any othergarment. We should have been pretty comfortable but for the minutehosts that peopled the apartment. Late at night, too, the extreme coldcompelled several parties to seek refuge by the fire who had no rightor little thereto—as the house-cat and her two kittens; she wouldtake no denial, however often repelled. Whenever one awoke, there shewould be with her interesting offspring close nestled under one'schin. The family dog, too, suffered severely from cold; he was, asoften as he entered, kicked out by his master in a way that did theheart good; and his murmurs of complaint and resentment would last fora full ten minutes. But the door would not fasten, and he always foundhis way in again, trampling over, in his way to the fire, therecumbent forms of the sleepers, in a manner far from conducive togood-humour. It was, therefore, not to be wondered at that ourslumbers were not prolonged to a late hour. I set forth at break ofday to find a clear-looking place in the river: for as I was to bepresented to his highness, I could not afford to forego anyadvantages. The ice was on the side of the pools; but with the aid ofa small box I carried under my arm, I soon had all the requisites ofan elaborate dressing-room. Several of the Montenegrians were also onthe alert, rubbing their faces with the muddy water on the edge of thelake; but whether to make them cleaner or dirtier did not appear.Breakfast was soon dispatched. Already the cannonade had commenced,and we hastened to the scene of action. Lessandro is a small lowislet, perhaps a hundred yards long by forty or fifty wide; at one endwas the principal, at the other, a minor fort. The first consisted ofa thick round tower, flat at top, where their largest gun was mounted.This was surrounded by a low wall, with two small bastions atdifferent angles; the other was a square building, with a bastion atone corner, containing, I believe, the stores. All over the islandwere the tents of the soldiers—that of the commander distinguished bya red flag. I think I counted about forty. The Montenegrians declaredthey had in the island five hundred men. Not one was visible however,the whole day. Under the lee of the chief fort was anchored a smallgun-boat from Scutari. On one side of Lessandro rises, in immediateproximity, the mountainous island of Vranina. It was here that theVladika at first wished to have taken up his position; but boats, itwas said, were wanting to transport his men and munitions. Had heattempted this, a serious encounter would probably have taken place;but he had given up the idea, and it was as in consequence of thisthat we had met the men returning home the day before. The spot hefixed on was a mountain directly opposite Vranina, but at a greaterdistance from the object of attack. He had not with him altogetherabove fifty men. This time we had once more to pass within a quarterof a mile of the fort; and as we were a boat-load of armed menhastening to headquarters, I somewhat expected they might havecondescended to notice us. Such, however, was not the case; and welanded and ascended the hill to where the battery was placed. We hadnot been there long before the Vladika, who was on a higher part ofthe ground, having heard of our arrival, came down to meet us. I feltfor a moment rather modest, and began to wonder what business I hadthere. However, we advanced with all boldness, and soon distinguishedthe chief[Pg 44]tain from his attendants by his giant stature. No bishop'scassock covered his towering form. Clothed in scarlet and gold, hedescended the hill with the true Albanian strut. His manner was frankand cordial; and on his invitation we all three sat down on the grassto partake of a camp luncheon. The Vladika was then in thethirty-fifth year of his age. In truth, he was a goodly man—a verySaul among his people. His height I should think very nearly midwaybetween six and seven feet. He was not fat, but the breadth andmassiveness of his chest and limbs was extraordinary. His figure wasvery finely proportioned, and his movements free and active. His facewas somewhat broad, with good features, and his voice peculiarly softand pleasing. His hair and beard black, and, after the fashion of theGreek clergy, uncut. He wore a Turkish pelisse of scarlet, comingnearly to the knee, and trimmed with gold and sable, a large fur cap,and the usual blue drawers and opunkas of the Montenegrians. A pair ofplain European pistols were in his belt—the only arms he wore. Theplace where we sat was in a most picturesque situation. The Turkishballs kept whizzing past, forming, as his highness remarked, beautifulmusic. Indeed, it seemed to me we were very nearly in the line awell-directed shot ought to have taken; but, of course, it was not myplace to speak. Our fare consisted of cold meat carved in slices withthe yataghan, and rum out of the mouth of the same bottle. Heconversed in French fluently, and various courteous speeches showed itwas not the first time he had encountered female society. He seemedexcited when relating the misdeeds of his enemies, and his usuallylanguid voice assumed a little asperity, as he described the way inwhich, while he made war in Bosnia, "ces diables des Turcs" hadsurprised his garrison at Lessandro. My knowledge of gunnery was notextensive, still I could not be ignorant of the chance he had, withthree short twelve-pounders, of injuring any building whatever, whenfiring at it at a distance of eight hundred yards, in an almostperpendicular direction. The fort, besides, seemed very sturdy andsolid, and I could not flatter him with hopes of success. He did not,however, appear to be without hope. Certainly, had he chosen to riskan assault with some trifling loss, the place might have been in hispossession; but boats were not at hand in sufficient numbers, andbesides, such a proceeding might not have been popular with amateursoldiers. He asked me if I had brought any letters to him; I franklyowned I had not. "Ah!" he said, "you came from curiosity, that youmight talk in the gay circles of London, of having seen the Vladika ofMontenegro." I did not say, that were I to do so, I should talk veryunintelligibly to a great many of my hearers. After our collation wasfinished, we rose and proceeded to the battery, if it could behonoured with such a name. But had its power been as extensive as theview from it, it would have amply sufficed. The day was now mostbeautiful and spring-like, and various flowers, with sportivebutterflies and other insects, enlivened the mountain side. The broadblue lake lay beneath, and in the extreme distance the position ofScutari itself could be distinguished. Three ranges of mountains werevisible, rising one above the other, till the snowy chains of Bosniabounded the horizon. The cannonade, as there was little to beapprehended, added to the beauty and interest. The wreathing of thewhite smoke on the Turkish tower, and the report borne along in thecalm air, and echoed a dozen times by the distant mountains—thegradual approach and whizzing of the balls, and the shot from ourguns, as it hit the buildings, or occasionally bounded along thewater, were all interesting novelties. I made a sketch, to the best ofmy ability, of every object of interest in the vicinity of this lovelyspot. As regards matters purely military, we had three guns inoperation—short twelves, as I have already mentioned; a rampart wasbefore them, formed of earth, bound with stakes, and about three feetthick. I was told this had only been struck four times. Few peoplewere about. Nor could gunners of fame have been in plenty, for I soondiscovered Petrarca pointing the cannon. The shot also was of[Pg 45]different sizes—any that could be got, as Austria does not favour theimportation of warlike materials into Montenegro; and to thisdisparity of metal may be ascribed the constant difficulty which theMontenegrian gunners experienced in hitting even the island. Stillthey kept the game alive, the Turks not giving one shot for three.They appeared to have four guns, but their biggest was on the platformof the chief tower, a screen of masonry protecting it from lyingentirely open to our position on the hill. They fired also severalshells, but they did no damage, exploding high in the air. At lengththe Vladika approached the best cannon, anxious to display his skill.He took a long aim, and then fired, exulting greatly when the ballstruck the stone screenwork at top of the tower. This was just wherehe aimed, and it was the best shot by far that I had seen. A littledust seemed to fly, but no further damage. The reply of the Turks camepromptly, but his highness did not honour their skill by even duckingbelow the rampart. It lodged in the side of the hill several feetbelow us. We remained, enjoying the interesting scene and beautifulday, till about one o'clock, when the Montenegrian batteries suspendedoperations from a temporary failure of ammunition. Being desirous ofpassing the night in less crowded quarters than the previous one, wenow took our leave of the Vladika, and returned to the hamlet we hadleft in the morning; and having with some difficulty procured a pony,we set off to get as far on our road to Cattaro as we could, notreturning by Cettigna, which would have been round about, but enteringthe Austrian territory above Budua and Castel Astua—Cattaro atpresent lying to the north-west of us. The boy who conducted this samepony, (a little mare, with a mule foal running beside her,) was themost unmitigated savage I have met with on my travels, though not morethan ten years old. He was the ugliest little urchin I ever saw—hisonly clothing was a piece of an old sack and ragged opunkas. Aftergalloping some distance to meet us, his mind misgave him as to hispistol, and he returned and made his father, who was working in thefield, exchange with him. He then undertook to lead the pony, (theanimals here do not go pleasantly unless led, and also by some onethey are acquainted with,) which he did in the most desperate manner,walking at about seven miles an hour. No concern of his what became ofthe knees of the occupant, or with what stones or thorns they might bebrought into collision. When he came to a precipice in the road, andthere were many, down he jumped tugging the beast after him, and notlooking behind once. All this time the foal kept jamming up againstits mother. It was soon evident that the dismissal of this youth andhis cattle was a sine qua non, as cautions were vain. But on a sumbeing offered which he considered less than his due, having come abouta mile, he took his own part in a manner most edifying in one soyoung; and had the retainers of our party not been as well provided ashe, I believe he would have pistolled the whole of us. At length,finding his efforts fruitless, he sprang on the pony, and putting herto her best pace, was soon out of sight. About the same time we fellin with two monks from the convent of Bercelli, who were on their wayto pay their respects to the Vladika. This was fortunate, as we hadintended to sleep there. These were the only inmates, and had the keyof the place with them. After treating the party to brandy, one ofthem turned back with us. He was an old man, and he had to return adistance of twelve miles; but he never seemed to give this a thought.They were dressed in black gowns, and high black caps. Our road laythrough a populous district, and many were the salutations Petrarcareceived, coupled with enquiries respecting us—long conversationstaking place over miles of intervening hill and dale. This time, Ibelieve, I filled the part of the English ambassador. The outwardappearance of our quarters, when we arrived, was not prepossessing;but the state of dirt of the best room could hardly have beenanticipated. Its equal—I speak advisedly—could not be found out ofthe country we were in. The floors mouldy and rat-eaten—old[Pg 46] shelveshanging about, containing every kind of rubbish—crusts of bread, abit of tallow candle in a bottle—old cups and glasses in differentdirections, with the remains of something in the bottom of every one.The only covering on the boards which formed the bed, was a sheepskinblanket, very old and dirty, looking like the mother of fleas. Itwould take a page to mention the manifold horrors that presentedthemselves. At length, after a late bad supper, I felt reposedesirable, be it where it might. We had stipulated, however, for thesole possession of this melancholy dormitory, and having made up thebest bed I could, turned in with loathing; but the cold made one lessparticular, as it was hard frost, and the windows had no shutter orfastening of any kind. I found, however, there was one exception toour sole right of tenure; no other than the old priest himself, whom Ihad shortly to get up and let in. Poor man! he had nowhere else to go;and having given up his luxurious couch, he proposed for himself tocourt slumber on the top of an old chest—it looked hard, certainly,and the poor old man seemed ill at ease. All night he rested none. Hegroaned much, and was afflicted with a cough and its usual results;and in each result he laboured long and strenuously, as though puttinghis whole soul in it, till a severe shock on the opposite wall showedthe successful issue of his exertions. We did not lie in bed nextmorning very long after waking, and by six o'clock were on our road,expressing a firm determination to reach Cattaro or perish, soonerthan pass another night in a Montenegrian homestead. There was noother mule to be procured to-day, so it was a case of riding and tyingwith the portmanteau. When the latter walked, it usually did so on thehead of the poor woman who brought the mule. The remainder of ourluggage consisted of two carpet-bags, and Spiro and Melo slung one ofthese upon each of their guns, and proceeded merrily. We entered theAustrian territory by the village of Braitsch. The people hereaboutsare very poor and ill-off. Our way overlooked the sea; below us layBudua. We halted, to give ourselves and the mule a drink, by the fortof Stanivitch. This was formerly a convent, and under the dominion ofMontenegro; but Austria has lately become possessor of it, through, Ibelieve, a pecuniary arrangement with the Vladika. His territory,however, at no time reached the sea in any part, though this is notdistant above two or three miles; it was now a military post. AMoravian captain was in command, who most politely invited us to staythe night, fearing we should be unable to reach Cattaro; however, itwas then only four o'clock, the day was bright, and the sight of thesea encouraged us. Besides, I noticed a flea on the collar of hiscoat. We thanked him for his kindness, and persevered on our journey.Our road lay nearly all on the descent, and while it was good, and thedaylight lasted, we hurried forward with all speed. At length itbecame very rocky and precipitous; and, as the light soon failedentirely, it became necessary to mount the portmanteau, as it was notpossible for any biped to sustain it longer on their head, and tomaintain their equilibrium as well. From very bad, things got to muchworse. The track, as well as the whole country, was composed ofangular grey rocks, among which, in the now total darkness, it becamenearly impossible to discern the path. These stones had a lightappearance, and it was desirable to avoid bringing one's shins incontact with them; but if a spot seemed dark, and might be imagined tobe soft ground, it proved to be one of the villanous prickly bushes ofthe country. This shrub grows all over Albania and Dalmatia, and, Ibelieve, in Italy; it is low and bushy, with abundance of flat roundseed; the spines are set both ways, up and down the twig, and are themost malignant thorns I ever met with. Whatever part of your garmentsthey catch hold of, from that they have never been known to part.Presently our road became inhabited by a stream of water, and everystep that avoided the stones was ankle-deep in mud. How the mule couldhave got on, as I could not see, I cannot imagine, but the box whichit carried was not seriously damaged. The two guides in their opunkas[Pg 47]walked firmly, but the others were tumbling frequently. The female whohad come with us now fairly "compounded," according to the sportingphrase, and gave vent to her sufferings in tears and reproaches. Thishad, however, a reviving effect upon others of our party, who werenear compounding themselves—for I had rather been holding out theendurance of this poor woman, who had walked most of the day with aportmanteau on her head, as an example for imitation. The town ofCattaro at length became visible far below us, after almost thelongest three hours I ever passed. At other times, I might have beentempted to derive amusement from the mishaps of my friends undersimilar circumstances; but at present, some of the party had beenreduced to such desperation, that I began sometimes to doubt thefavourable issue of our journey. By nine o'clock the land gates areclosed, and this we had heard already strike. The sea gate is open foranother hour. It was not till after this, that, having gained thecoast road which leads to Cattaro from the south, we reached the town.There, a boat was requisite to take us over the sea gate; but all thetown boats had long since retired, and it took us at least half anhour to awake somebody on board a trabacolo in the harbour. When atlength we were conveyed to the gate, a small gratuity to the sentinelsgained us admission, and a little before midnight we found ourselvesonce more in our favourite inn. We remained some days at Cattaro,arranging for our departure. During this time, we heard that theVladika had at length found his task hopeless, and abandonedhostilities. He had been, however, a week arriving at such aconclusion, and the sound of the cannonade was heard during the wholeof the time occupied by our return. It was a pity to see a worthypotentate of moderate means spending his pocket-money so fruitlessly.The philanthropist will be glad to learn that no lives were sacrificedduring this protracted siege. The Montenegrians, more modest than someof our own neighbours on a late occasion of very similar glory, laidclaim only to having wounded one man in the fort; but an Albanianbulletin might have denied even that.

Before concluding, a few further particulars concerning Montenegrowill not be out of place. In former days, as I have observed, theywere but a den of mountain thieves, dangerous to each other, andunapproachable by strangers. At the present time, no country can boastsuperiority in either of these respects. Indeed, in so small acommunity, crime is rare, from the greater certainty of detection. Ispeak nothing, of course, of border pastimes with their neighbours;and these, possibly, form a safety-valve to the pent-up propensitiesof the inhabitants. This important change has been brought aboutwithin fifty years, but, most of all, during the twelve years that thepresent Vladika has reigned. But the Vladikas who have effected thischange, actuated by the desire of improving the condition of theirpeople, have been obliged to barter their independence, in a manner,for Russian gold, in order to give them the means of effecting it. Iam not able to say when the subsidizing system first commenced, but atpresent the Vladika, as well as all the officials and senators,receive their stipends. That of the Vladika amounts, I believe, toabout eight thousand pounds annually; but this may include a small taxof, I think, two shillings on each household, which is paid by theMontenegrians themselves. Of the senators, there are forty who areelected by the communes, and paid by Russia. There is also a force ofeight hundred men paid, and residing in different districts, whichforms an executive police; but there is nothing in the shape of astanding army. The Vladikas are appointed by the emperor in nepotalsuccession from the family of Petrovitch. The present Vladika receivedhis education at St Petersburg, and several of his nephews are nowthere, from whom his successor will be chosen. I am not acquaintedwith the amount of temporal power possessed by the Vladika, but Ishould think it was subject to much restraint. I have heard that, onmore than one occasion in the senate, he has been personallythreatened during the stormy debates which have occurred. Though he isgenerally[Pg 48] popular, it would seem that here, as elsewhere, thereexists a strong party opposed to all reform, and pining for the goodold days of general license. The demeanour of the Montenegrians totheir Vladika, though respectful, is free and independent. On meetinghim the hand is raised to the head, or, if near, they offer to kisshis hand. This salutation is paid to any ordinary priest, andoccasionally, through all Dalmatia, to a stranger like myself. Russia,it will be seen, reigns as completely in Montenegro as though itspasses were occupied by her soldiers. The supplies stopped, all wouldbe anarchy and confusion. Nor do the Montenegrians object to this inany way. Their personal independence is in no way compromised, andtheir laws and usages remain unaltered. There is not a single Russianin Montenegro, and, only knowing them at distance, they regard them atpresent with hearty good-will. The Vladika, however, who reaps thegreatest benefits, has, it would appear, to submit to a certain lossof freedom. During the past summer he visited Trieste and Vienna; andI was informed, on good authority, had desired to go to England, buthad been unable to obtain the permission of an emperor who seemsdetermined no one shall travel but himself. The Vladika had certainlyexpressed to me a hope that he should visit England some time. Therecan be no doubt that it is well worth while thus to secure thealliance of the Montenegrians, for they would prove a bitter thorn inany collision either with Turkey or Austria. The country is dividedinto twelve military jurisdictions, under so many captains, and everyman is bound to serve, though by what power, except inclination, I amsure I do not know. I do not imagine that this has been particularlyprovided for, so willing are they to serve uncalled.

The population of Montenegro is at the present time not short of onehundred and twenty thousand souls. Of these, more than half would beserviceable were their own territory invaded; for every boy of eightyears old and upwards carries a gun, and there is no reason he shouldnot point it as straight as an older person, presenting, at the sametime, a smaller mark to the enemy. The women even occasionally assist,and at all times carry the ammunition and supplies. I used sometimesto think, when meeting one of these armed urchins, how ignominious itwould be to be robbed by him; and yet, were he only cunning enough tokeep out of arm's-length, I don't exactly know how it could be helped.The arms of the Montenegrians consist of a long gun, usually veryelegantly mounted, the stock short, and curved like a horse's neck;round his waist is a belt with cartouch-boxes containing the spareammunition, the cartridges for immediate use being in the pistol-beltin front. Here, in a leather case, is a mass of arms which occupy thesame relative position to the wearer as the youthful kangaroo to itsparent; here are a brace of pistols with a pointed pommel, and ayataghan, which is used in these countries to the entire exclusion ofthe sword, and which, from its position in the belt, does not get inthe way when walking—the ramrod for the pistols also, which in theEast is a separate arm, containing sometimes a dagger or a pair oftongs for adjusting the never-absent pipe, and a smaller knife isoften slung on behind. In ordinary times, a yataghan or pistol may bedispensed with; but whatever may be the occupation of man or boy, thegun is never left behind, whether ploughing, or cutting wood, orcarrying the heaviest burdens. It is almost extraordinary that theyshould thus encumber themselves, as, within their own boundary, noneare so safe, and their mountains seldom afford them a living mark. Ibelieve it arises very much from a fondness for the weapon. Thegreatest care is taken of it, and it undergoes a complete cleaningafter every shot. The arms of the people in general present a strikingcontrast to their dress. On the former they spend most of their sparemoney, and they are kept in great order and cleanliness. The warriors,when they take the field, fight more for plunder than for honour andglory. The spoils of houses and farm-steads, or the arms or heads oftheir enemies, (a prisoner is never spared,) all form desirableprizes. It must be remembered their service is chiefly voluntary, andthey receive no[Pg 49] pay. It is not their tactics to expose themselvesmuch in battle. The grey rocks, which suit well the colour of theirdress, afford a shelter, from behind which they take well-directedaim. Every man acts to the best of his judgment—usually acute whereself-preservation is the law; and their great activity and powers ofendurance enable them, in their difficult country, to contend withmany advantages against regular troops. In 1838, during a temporarycollision with Austria, they gave as good as they received, to say theleast; and perhaps it was owing to this that peace was so soonconcluded. In such a country cavalry is out of the question, andhorses are seldom used. The Vladika himself possesses a considerablestud. The dress of the people—at all seasons the same—consists of awhite coat of coarse cloth, with generally a blue edging, open infront, and reaching nearly to the knee. This has no buttons, but isfastened round the waist by a red sash. They are usually shirtless,and their hardy bosoms brave the storm in all weathers. Around theirshoulders is thrown a description of plaid, generally of a browncolour, about three feet wide and six feet long; and from keeping thisin its proper position, a slight stoop becomes habitual. They havewide drawers of blue serge, or sometimes of the material of theircoats, which is thicker; of this also are their leggings formed. Underthe opunkas is worn a thick woollen sock; but in wet weather the menand women usually go barefooted. On their head is a small round cap ofscarlet or black cloth. Their custom is to shave the whole of the faceexcepting the mustaches, as well as the sides and crown of the head;but from long neglect, it is often difficult to distinguish thefavoured localities. Petrarca, in his avocation of barber, was in thegreatest request. The costume of the women does not differ widely, butthe coat is longer, and a petticoat replaces the blue drawers—roundtheir waist is a belt of great weight, about three inches wide, and ofthe thickest leather, set with cornelians and other coarse stones,mounted in brass. The red cap is usual, and the hair is often prettilybraided. I have seen some head-dresses composed of silver coins. Noneof the people seem to be in the habit of bathing or washing, and theydo not remove their garments at night. The children have often nothingbut a shirt. As a nation they are healthy and robust, though feversoccur at certain times in some districts. Among the men two casts offeatures are general; the one, known among us as the "Jack Sheppardface"—the lower parts rather prominent, and the nose short andsomewhat turned up, the complexion and hair very dark. The other isvery different, a bright colour and high handsome features; yet nearlyevery person one meets belongs to one of these two varieties. Thelatter is commonest among the tallest men. They have all very goodteeth, and their expression is intelligent and good-humoured. As infeature, so in stature, considerable uniformity appears. Their heightaverages about five feet ten, with great development of muscle. Thewomen are relatively inferior in looks—they are broad and short,seeming to possess great strength; but the labour they undergo, andthe burdens they carry, appear inimical to beauty. They have oftenpleasant countenances and good brick-dust complexions. The Servian orNaski here spoken is considered among the purest dialects ofSclavonic—it has a very pleasing sound, being softer and moremelodious than the Russian. My stay was unfortunately not long enoughto obtain much knowledge of it, and this want will sufficientlyaccount for any errors that may appear in my descriptions of what Idid not personally witness; for it prevented that free intercoursewith the people, by which a true insight to their manners can alone beacquired. Their laws seem very simple; he who kills iskilled—shooting being the mode of execution. He who robs must makegood; and, as few of the people are in abject poverty, this is usuallydone. Should they fail, a summary flogging is inflicted. At Cettignais a small prison; I believe there is no other. When any one is thereconfined, he trusts entirely to his friends for subsistence. They aregood-humoured, obliging, and extremely loquacious; but their continuedspitting is very disagreeable. I witnessed no games or[Pg 50] diversionsamong them except the one-stringed fiddle; but I understood that theyhave a few athletic sports, such as wrestling and putting the stone.They often go to sea. I encountered two among the crew of an Austrianpacket. They all profess the Greek faith, and are in their way veryreligious. When passing a church they bow and cross themselves, andperform all sorts of pious movements, which sometimes border on theludicrous. Before going to sleep they make long prayers. Previous tovisiting the Vladika, an armed Montenegrian entered in the morning thehouse where we slept, and casting aside his gun and cloak, commencedreading mass to the assembled party. This was the priest of theparish. The older members of the community are not usually veryenlightened; but through the schools established by the Vladika, whereinstruction is dispensed gratuitously, most of the rising generationcan read and write their native language, and a sufficiency of neatlyprinted books are issued from the press he keeps employed at Cettigna.No social distinctions are yet known among them, and the most perfectequality prevails—even the sons address their father by his Christianname. The only exception is in the person of the Vladika—his lot onthe whole is not an enviable one. The only educated mind among themany—the only polished gentleman among simple peasants; he is indeedan isolated being. Handsome and in the prime of life, yet there mustbe none to cheer his lot, or lighten his solitude, nor any to whom hewould love to transmit his mountain throne. In this respect the lawsof his order are stringent, and the breath of scandal has never yetsullied his fair name, though it is quite true that whilst in hisnative land the temptations are not very severe. I should not besurprised if a report I heard current should prove true, that heintended, at no very distant period, to relinquish the government ofMontenegro, and spend the remainder of his days among a people morecongenial to the habits of a man of education. Were he an absolutepotentate, an extended field for benefiting his countrymen might beobtained; but with his more constitutional power, the attempts he hasbeen able to make have been constantly thwarted by prejudice andignorance. Had he the privileges or the ties of an ordinary man, then,as we all know, the barrener the rocks, the dearer seems the love ofthe native land; but, situated as he is, he can hardly be accused ofwant of patriotism if his stay in Montenegro should not extend beyondthe time required in saving sufficient of his income to quit it.

Our voyage from Cattaro to Corfu was accomplished in a smalltrabacolo—the San Marco of Spalatro—having on board three men and aboy. These boats, though not fast, are very safe, and the Dalmatiansin general manage small craft well. The north wind is scarce at thistime of the year, but a beautiful tramontana blew during the time wewere working out of the Bocca. This we lost entirely, and not a breathmoved its calm waters. We had also to wait some hours at Port Rosa,situated at the entrance of the Bocca, for our papers. By the time wewere out at sea, the wind had nearly died away, and the next day foundus employed gathering wild pomegranates on the desolate shores nearAntiversi, in Albania. Again a beautiful tramontana sprang up, and ina vessel of first-rate sailing powers, would almost have brought usin. All day we went gallantly along. The heads of Ducazzo—Dyrrichiumof old—began to appear, and soon we passed it in a foam. All night weheld on, and in the morning were beside the "infames scopulosAcroceraunia," and in sight of the island of Sassina, near theharbour of Avlona. On we went still, till at length there appeared theland of the Phœacians, "like a shield upon the sea;" but there wasa cloud over it which portended ill. It advanced towards us, andextended rapidly. It was soon evident to the most sanguine that thewind was changing, and there was shortly no mistake about the matter.I implored our skipper to keep on, though he tacked to the coast ofApulia; but he knew his trade too well—the trade of a trabacoloconsisting in never losing sight of shore. So we were obliged to putin to Avlona harbour, deeply lamenting. Two days were spent[Pg 51] here, notdaring to land for fear of putting ourselves in quarantine. Above thetown rises the fortress of Canina, but all wears a ruined appearance.The people of the neighbourhood, called Chimariots, have the worstreputation of all the Albanians. The coast of Albania between this andCorfu has a very barren and inhospitable appearance. The snowy peaksof the Pindus rise directly from the sea. A few bushes were visible onthe mountains, but timber of any size is scarce. Villages and housesare seldom seen. A glad contrast was presented when, on the tenth dayof our voyage, we approached the beautiful shores of Corfu; and it wasno small comfort, after so long an imprisonment in this little tub,with holes to creep in about the size of a dog-kennel, and in theroughest possible weather, to find ourselves in one of the mostcomfortable hotels in Europe, and surrounded by old friends.

Since my visit to Montenegro, the Vladika went to Vienna—I believe togain the mediation of Austria concerning the disputed territory ofLessandro. After his return I understand he was visited by LordClarence Paget, commanding her Majesty's frigate L'Aigle, who had beensent to gain some information regarding his territory; so that,perhaps, a more accurate account may be obtained than what is to befound in these rough notes.

ÆSTHETICS OF DRESS.

A Case of Hats.

Of all the follies that can be fairly placed to the charge of thehuman race—and, Heaven knows, they are thick as gnats in a summersunbeam—none can be laid at more people's doors than the ficklenessand vagaries of the judgment in adorning, to say nothing of covering,man's outer scaffolding—the body. And the worst of it is, that thisfolly-cap fits all men, from the Red Indian of America to thesallow-faced, eye-slitted Chinese; and through all the robed pomp ofthe solemn Turk to the chattering and capering monkeyism of theParisian exquisite—there are fops every where. As Mr Catlin will tellyou, one of his lanky Ojibbeway, or Ioway, or Cutaway, orAnyotherkindo'way Indians varies the feathers in his head-dress, andsticks new tinsel on his buffalo-mantle, whenever he can get them;spending as much time in be-painting his cheeks on a summer morning,as Beau Brummell, of departed memory, ever wasted in tying his cravat.And so it has ever been—so it will ever be; man is not only atwo-legged unfledged animal, but he is also a vain imitative ape, fondof his own dear visage, blind to his deformities, and ever desirous ofsetting himself off to the best advantage. It is of no use quarrellingwith ourselves for this physiological fact—for we presume it to beone of the best ascertained phenomena connected with the genushomo—it is better to take it as we find it; and if we cannot hopeto cure man of the absurdity any time this side of the millennium, letus try if we cannot turn the failing to some account, and make ituseful as well as ornamental.

The chief quarrel to be picked with man for his dressing propensities,is on the ground that he not only hides and disfigures the fairproportions bestowed on him by his Maker, but that he ever and anonloads himself with such masses of useless incongruities, that the veryend and object of his care are stultified. Instead of making himselfsmart, pretty, becoming, beautiful—or any other word that you canfind in the dandy's dictionary—he frequently succeeds in makinghimself positively ugly—frightful, in the pure abstract sense of theterm—or detestable, in the lingo of the Stultzean tribe—andrelapses, as a Frenchman would say, from civism to brutism: Ah! quelanimal que l'homme!

But let it not be supposed that we speak of man only, as applied tothat great branch of the species designated by the most experiencednaturalists[Pg 52] as homo vir; it is quite as true of the other moiety,the homo femina. If it be possible that a woman should ever be madefrightful by any thing except age, then it is surely by dress; if awoman never does a foolish thing in any other way, yet at least sheerrs in her habiliments; if she be fickle at all, (and speak to thefact, ye disappointed bachelors and ye complaisant husbands!) in whatis she more fickle than in dress? We might waste a life in finding asuitable simile for her volatility in this matter: rainbows withchanging colours, water on a windy day, the wind itself in the monthof March, the much-desiderated perpetual motion; all are feeblesimiles to describe a woman's fickleness in dress. Shall we liken itto her tongue's untiring play? or shall we not rather say that it is apsychological fact standing per se? the concomitant effect andconsequence of her beauty? But, dear creatures! we are not going toquarrel with them for what gives us so much unconscious pleasure, (wedo not mean milliners' bills, gentle reader;) we glory in living undera petticoat government, and in essentially petticoatian times. All weshall do is to give a word of advice; and in trying on their caps forthem, we will show them the rationale of their bows and their lace,if they will only have the patience to sit still for the experiment.

Before embarking on such an important project, allow us to say that weare not going to quiz old Whang-Fong for his pig-tail and peacockfeathers, nor his Cannibalean majesty for his obstinate refusal towear a decent pair of inexpressibles; it is a stiff subject to meddlewith the dressing propensities of people that live "in many a placethat's underneath the world." For all we care, Abd el Kader and hisArabs may stifle themselves up in their greasy blankets swarming withancestral vermin under a nearly tropical sun; and the good people ofIgloolik may bedeck themselves with the spoils of fish, flesh, andfowl, to set the fashions of the Arctic circle. We are going to speakmerely of our home acquaintances and our European friends; if theseonly would be reasonable in their dress, what a new thing it would bein the world—quel progrés! quel évènement!

The fundamental rule of dress we take to be the following—utility inall cases, ornament when practicable. The first should ever precede,and serve as the basis to the second; and it is the inversion of theirdue positions that causes so many applications of the utile and thedulce to end in sheer absurdity. The usefulness of any article orsystem of dress depends entirely upon climate, modified of course bythe occupation or pursuits of the wearer; the beauty of it or thesuitableness of the ornament to the character of the vestment. We defyall the editors of the Recueils des Modes, Petits Courriers desDames, Belles Assemblées, &c., with even the poet-laureates of Mosesand Son, Hyam and Co., with the whole host of Israelitish schneiders,to find out a better æsthetic definition of the law of dress thanthis. Who would have the effrontery to maintain that an Englishman,the very type of the useful at Calcutta in his cotton jacket andnankeens, would in the same habiliments be a suitably dressed man atSt Petersburg? and however much a well-set ring may ornament anaristocratic finger, (though aristocratic fingers, like aristocratichands, as Byron observes, need no ornament to tell their origin,) whobut an Otaheitan would admire the application of them to the goutytoes of some "fine old English gentleman?" Usefulness first, then, andornament afterwards; think first of what you actually want for yourhealth or comfort; cut your coat upon that pattern, clap on your laceafterwards; but enrich it only to improve its appearance, not tointerfere with, to conceal, or to alter its original destination.

To begin, however, methodically, let us take what are commonlyunderstood by well-dressed English people of the present day, and letus criticise them from top to toe. And first, then, of a gentleman'shead—le chef, as the French call it—and the chapeau, its presentgear. What a covering! what a termination to the capital of thatpillar of the creation, Man! what an ungraceful, mis-shapen, useless,and uncomfortable appendage to the[Pg 53] seat of reason—the brain-box!Does it protect the head from either heat, cold, or wet? Does it setoff any of natural beauty of the human cranium? Are its lines inharmony with, or in becoming contrast to, the expressive features ofthe face? Is it comfortable, portable, durable, or cheap? Whatqualities, either of use or ornament, has it in its favour that itshould be the crowning point of a well-dressed man's toilet? The hatis, beyond all doubt, one of the strangest vestimental anomalies ofthe nineteenth century.

The history of the hat is this:—The simplest covering for a man'shead after his own unshorn locks—(do not remind us of the matted andliving locks of the Indians or Hottentots)—must have been somethinglike the Greek skull-cap. This we hold to have been the root, ornucleus, of the hat; and yet even this cap had a fault in point ofutility, for it failed to shadow the eyes: and on the earliest Greekmonuments we find a cap with a wide brim appended, or a flattishstraw-hat following close upon the Phrygian bonnet. A light flattishhat has its recommendation in a warm country, but it will not do forthe winds and storms of a northern clime; and hence all the old Gauls,the northern nations, the Tartars, and the peasants of Europe, formany a long century wore a modified cap—sometimes swelling out intoornamental proportions, at others shrinking into the primitivesimplicity of the Phrygian or Greek cap. Shall we confess it,fastidious reader?—we strongly suspect the cap worn by that idlefellow Paris, when he so impudently ogled the goddesses on Mount Ida,to have been very similar to the good old bonnet de nuit of ourgrandfathers—(shall we whisper it, of ourselves?) Yes, that littlecocked-up corner at the top looks like a budding tassel; he never hadsuch bad taste as to tie it with a riband round his brows; and we donot read in Homer that Helen, though a capital workwoman, ever gavehim one; but we are inclined to believe that the old punty-dunty,pudding-bag-shaped cap which is still worn by the French peasantry intheir field occupations, and is still patronized by a large portion ofQueen Victoria's loving subjects, is of the highest antiquity, andbased, we have no doubt, on utility. We must be candid enough to say,that we give up the argument as to the intrinsic beauty of thisspecies of cap—truly we think it the very type of all that isslovenly; but for use, there is not a more comfortable, portable,pliable, buyable, and washable a commodity, than your—nightcap are weto say? no—than your bonnet Grec.

Hats, properly so called, whether of cloth or fur, were evidently theinvention of some out-of-door people; but then they were not thebrimless pyramidal canisters of the present fashion, but were eithercaps with dependent brims, or else broad and flexible Spanishsombreros. The very idea of a hat is that of utility—something tokeep off the sun and the rain—any thing will do for warmth that willaid the hair in keeping in the natural caloric of a man's head; andhence we much doubt whether the Irish, that hot-headed nation, everwore hats in early times. From the want of shade being early felt bycivilized nations, more than shelter from rain, and from hat-shapesbeing found on early southern monuments, we are inclined to think thatthe hat was more extensively worn in Southern than in Northern Europe;more, as it is, in Southern England than in Northern Scotland. Hence,although we find many iron skull-caps, like hats, used by the militaryin the fifteenth century; and although we find traces of hats even inthe plebeian costumes of the middle ages—yet we look upon the Spanishand Italian hat of the sixteenth century, as the more immediate originof its degenerate successor, the actual chapeau. We need not tracethe variations of its form through the seventeenth century, from thehigh-crowned things of Henry III. of France, and James I. of England,to the graceful beavers of Louis XIII., Philip III., and Charles I. ofEngland; the change was all in favour of the beaver; and certainly thehat reached its culminating point of excellence during the reign ofour martyr king. Who has studied the splendid portraits of Vandyke, orthe heads of Rubens, and has not perceived the uncommon grace given tothem by the well-proportioned and not exces[Pg 54]sive hat? Who does notremember the fine portrait of Rubens himself, with his black Spanishhat turned up in front, the very perfection of that style ofhead-dress? Put a modern hat by the side of this hat of Rubens, andsay which bears off the palm; there can hardly be two opinions uponthe subject. The great change of this hat took place, as is wellknown, in Louis XIV.'s court, where first of all feathers were laidall round upon the flat of the brim, and next the brim was edged withlace, and pinched or cocked up, for greater use in military service.It might have been useful for a military man, especially one who hadto handle a bayoneted musket; but it was a fatal invasion of theprinciple of beauty to adopt a permanent cock. There is no doubt thatthe flat cocked hat, the small three-cornered pinched hat of the daysof Louis XIV. and Louis XV., gave much smartness to the soldier, andmuch neatness to the civilian; the change, too, corresponded withother alterations of dress, from the loose and flowing, to the tightand succinct principle; but picturesque effect was entirely lost; allthe sentimentality, all the romance of the hat, evaporated in theformal cock. But this small flat hat of the seventeenth and eighteenthcenturies, was perfection and beauty itself, compared with theoutrageous and elevated cocked hat which came into fashion sometimebefore 1750, and which is the immediate prototype of the presentmilitary cocked hat. Here the principle of utility was entirelyabandoned; it was sacrificed to the display of an unnatural brim. Thehat was no longer formed by the pinching up of a circular brim ofmoderate dimensions; but three enormous flaps were made to rear theirunwieldy height in the air, and were strengthened, stiffened, andsupported, against the envious winds, to the torment of the wearer,and to the disfigurement of his person. All through the first half ofthe tasteless reign of good old George III., did this horriblecovering disguise the beau's head; and the effect of it may still bejudged of by his grandchildren, when they contemplate, not withoutawe, the rubicund figure of some metropolitan church-beadle with hislarge-caped coat, silver-headed cane, and monstrous three-corneredhat. Our modern great ladies, strange to say, seem to have an especialaffection for this hat, since they take particular care to have acouple of footmen behind their carriage glorying in this capitalatrocity, while on the coach-box they encourage the older form of theflat cocked hat of Louis XV.

All cocked hats, be it observed, are glorious rain-traps; the onlyimprovement they are capable of is one not yet patented, namely, theappending of neat flexible spouts, say of Macintosh cloth, from eachcorner, so as to convey the water in pleasant meanderings over theback and coat-tails. In dry weather these spouts might be tied up, andwould form graceful curves either before, behind, or on one side ofthe cocked flaps, while in a shower they would add dignity to utility,as they hung all adown the back of the wearer. One kind of utility,however, the old cocked hat certainly had; it served in some degree,maugre the looping up of the brim, to shelter the face from the sun;not indeed when worn full front, as it was in Dr Johnson's time, andas we remember the household troops used to wear it—but when, by adaring innovation of revolutionary times, it came to be turned roundon its human pivot, and lay gently athwart the line of vision. Thus itis that our generals wear it in this nineteenth century; thus it wasthat the Great Duke got all through Spain with it; though Napoleon,who greatly reduced its dimensions, always kept to the orthodoxfull-front; and in all positions, except the latter, it certainly doesshade some portion of the face from the sun. But while, for example,the projection of one peak shades the nose, the ears and cheeks areleft to fish for themselves; or else, if the hat wheels round again tothe front, the ears come under its benignant shade, but the tip of theproboscis suffers awfully. The cocked hat has always been a two-horneddilemma ever since the third peak moved up in the world from itsoriginal position of horizontal equality, and aspired to be a nearneighbour of the cockade or towering plume.

[Pg 55]It was that wicked revolution of France, or rather that dissolute timepreceding it, which produced the most mischief in the hat line. Lookat any of the pictures of that day—look at the portraits of theConventionalists—look at the old prints of country gentlemen huntingor riding races at Newmarket—remember the Sir Joshuas in many a noblegallery; and you will not fail to remark that the choice spirits ofthe day, the go-ahead lads of that time, had let down the flaps oftheir cocked hats into slouching, and we must say, most slovenlycircular brims. There was a sort of free-and-easy look affected inthat day about the head, totally at enmity with the prim rigidity ofthe cocked beaver; you might have taken off your chapeau rond, as itthen came to be called, and you might have sat on it—it would havebeen never the worse; but not so with its stiff old father—noliberties were to be taken with him; once sit upon him, and you wouldhave crushed him forever. This very difference of hats marked adifference of politics—at least in France. There the old chapeau àtrois cornes was the badge of the aristocracy: the chapeau rond andthe bonnet rouge were sworn brothers in the cause of democracy. Thetimes were getting unhinged; all fashions were relaxing; so werepublic morals; so were private morals; so were men's hats: hats andheads seemed to have a sympathy, and to have gone wrong together.

And what has been the history of the hat since that day?—thecivilian's hat we mean. Who remembers the overlapping crowns whichcame into fashion soon after the great peace, at a time when Frenchmenwore their brims extravagantly pinched up at the sides, and deeplypulled down fore and aft? Sometimes the hat rose up in pyramidalmajesty; sometimes it was shut in like a telescope wanting to bepulled out. And then every kind of fancy man had a fancy hat: therewas the Neck-or-nothing hat, the Bang-up, the Corinthian, the Jerry,and the Logic; or else distinguished leaders of ton lent their namesto it, and we had the Petershams, the Barringtons, &c. Through everydegree of absurdity has the chapeau rond passed, until it seems tohave settled down into that quiescent state of mediocrity which marksthe decline of empires and of hats. The brim is no longer only half aninch broad as it was once, nor four inches broad as we also rememberit: it seems to vary between the limits of one inch and two—a breadthjust sufficient to let the line of shade, when the head is erect, comeupon the eye-lids, and just sufficient to clear the ears. But if thehead be moved ever so little, or if the rain come down ever soslantingly, the services of the hat are at an end: it is well enoughto intercept any thing coming down perpendicularly, but"slantendicularly," as friend Slick says—no. Its present height isjust enough to prevent your wearing it in a carriage, and such, too,as to give a moderate wind a good purchase upon it: the substance issuch that the least exposure to wet ruins it, whether of beaver orsilk; a moderate blow will crack or break its form; and for the firstweek, if you have any thing like a sensitive head, or any bosses ofunknown qualities protruding from your cranium, you are doomed toincessant headache from hat-pinchings. It has no properties ofusefulness to recommend it, and none of ornament, saving this—if itcan be called such—the being an invaluable appendage for a little manto make himself appear tall. What a wide interval from the simplicityof its Phrygian original!

Having, therefore, criticized our present head-gear, and condemned ourhats, without pulling them to pieces, let us enquire what a propercovering for the head should be: first of all in point of usefulness,and next in point of comely appearance. But let no man vainly imaginethat we expect to suit the fancies of all the creatures privileged towear hats, or even to cover their heads; we do not pretend to invent,or decide upon, any one given type or form of head-dress. So many arethe wants of a man in covering his head, so widely differing from eachother are the exigencies of different people, that uniformity in hatsis to be given up as a bad job: to attempt it would foil the strengthof a Hercules: the utmost[Pg 56] we can hope to effect is to lay downcertain limits for the variations of this apex of human pride.

For us, then, who live in a climate rainy, windy, hot, and cold, allwithin any twenty-four hours of the year, just as the case may be, itis plain that we want for general use something that will be proofagainst the atmospherical accidents that may befall any man who goesabroad to take the air. And here let it be observed, that in reasoningabout hats, all thoughts about that effeminate invention, theumbrella, are to be laid aside. This utensil is truly a disgrace tothe manhood of the times; and its existence, by allowing people todispense with warm cloaks and other anti-rain appliances, has causedmore disease, in letting them catch cold, than any thing else we knowof. Our stalwart ancestors did admirably well without umbrellas; theywore good cloaks or coats, and broad beavers to keep the rain out oftheir necks, faring not a jot the worse for it. Umbrellas are only fitfor men-milliners, Cockney travellers, and women. The nature of a hat,we flatter ourselves, is something independent of cotton andwhalebone; and instead of the umbrella claiming precedence over thehat, the hat, we take it, should be above the umbrella. AnEnglishman's hat, then, should be something that will keep the rainoff his face and neck when the weather is bad, and shield his eyesfrom the glare of the sun on the few days when sunlight isoppressive—and these two requirements settle at once, on allprinciples of common sense, that a man, if he has only one kind ofcovering for the head, should have a hat with a broad brim. This isthe very foundation of the definition of an useful hat, providing thata hat is really to be the thing worn for protecting a man's upperstory. Usefulness will also decide against height in the crown. Cuibono this same high crown of ours, that looks more like awatering-pot deprived of its spout and handle than a reasonablearticle of human apparel? Down with the crowns, say we! If you willwear a hat, down with your crown. You may put down your half-sovereignor sovereign, or whatever you please, for your new hat first of all,but down with your crown too. Here, gentle reader, you will exclaimagainst our taste, and will protest that we would sacrifice everything to that horrid utilitarian principle, which opposes all ideas ofbeauty and poetry. We are free to confess that, in our opinion, thereis not much poetry to be made about such a subject—unless someobsolete verses, "All round my hat," may be alleged to the contrary;but as for the beauty of the head-piece, we protest that we admit itsexistence, and think that it should be consulted by whomsoever wouldpay proper attention to his own outward appearance. The merely usefulmay possibly make the shape approximate to that of a Quaker's or ajarvey's, but the beautiful has to elevate and modify it into themystical proportions fit for a man of taste. One other quality,however, which is intimately connected with the useful, has to benoticed. The substance should not be hard and unyielding. Witness, yereminiscences—ye painful images of bygone headachs, even yet flittingthrough our brain like Titanic thunderbolts!—accursed be the memoryof that fellow Tightfit in Old Bond Street, who used to screw his hatson our cranium when we were young, and ere London had awakened us! Asyou value your comfort, dear reader, never purchase a hard hat. A hardheart may be borne with, but a hard hat—never! And last of all, a hatshould be light—yes, the lighter the better—light as a gossamer web,though 'tis a simile that will not bear stretching. You may have themisfortune to be a heavy-headed man, but do not add to it that ofbeing heavy-hatted. Avoid the extremity of suffering; and observe theclimax of ill from which we would shield your head—a narrow-brimmed,hard, heavy, high-crowned hat—

The covering of the head, then, must have its usefulness madeornamental, if not beautiful; and the due ornamentation of it willdepend principally upon its form, but also upon its colour andmaterial. Now, form is the principal thing; every one that[Pg 57] has halfan eye for art will tell you this—'tis an admitted axiom. Either,then, the shape of the covering should conform to that of the head, orit should not, and we take our ground in support of the latterposition. The natural form of the head is determined by the rotundityof the cranium, beautifully modified by the waving curls of thehair—we speak of the abstract well-formed head; and nothing thatapproaches to the same shape will ever do more than give a badsubstitute for the outline of the head as nature framed it. Anycovering conceals the hair; and if you remove from sight thisintrinsically beautiful integument, it is a principle of bad taste toput in its place only a poor copy of the same contour. If you coverthe head, cover it with something that forms lines not curving likethe skull, nor yet so angular as to create too striking an oppositionof ideas in the mind of the beholder. A close-fitting untasseledskull-cap does not improve the form of the head, for it is not half sograceful as the hair; but a square hat or pyramidal cap is trulydetestable. This is the reason why the common nightcap is ugly; itfits the head too closely, and its upper end conveys the ludicrousidea of something made to be pulled at. On the other hand, the doublenightcap, pulled out and allowed to hang down on one shoulder, Spanishfashion, is less ugly—though far removed from our own ideas ofbeauty—because it introduces a new system of curves, and acts as akind of dependent drapery to compensate for the concealment of thehair. Here is also the reason why the common hat is so frightful; itgives us straight or nearly straight lines, going upwards liketangents from the oval of the face, and cut off above by anotherstraight line (the section of the crown) at right angles: all suchlines and angles are foreign to the face and head. The common nightcapis too familiar, the common hat too stiff. Observe the lines of theface and head; the projection of the nose, the rounded angularity ofthe chin; the vertical section of the head affording curves withdecided yet harmonious irregularities; the horizontal sectionproducing a nearly regular contour. Well, it is upon principles ofthis kind that the covering of the head should be beautified. Now, weprofess ourselves unable to make any better reconciliation of theuseful with the beautiful for this purpose, than in the small,flexible, light, and broad-brimmed hat, which is still to be found insome Spanish and Italian pictures; a hat not quite so large as thatworn in the reign of Charles I., yet with all its freedom andcapability of assuming a variety of graceful forms; not so stiff asthe beaux of the Spanish court, and the rakes of our own merrymonarch's palace made it; not so formal as we know James I. and LordBacon used to wear; but something between all these three types. Theprevalence of straight lines in it should be avoided without itsappearing slovenly, and its dimensions should be such as to consultconvenience without relapsing into a homely vulgarity. Such a kind ofhat admits of any further ornament which the fancy of the wearer mayinduce him to add; a feather, a band, a buckle, or even a plain buttonfor occasionally looping up the brim on one side or other, (not twosides, for it would return to the old cocked hat,)—any of theseextraneous additions would harmonize, and would be in due characterwith its shape. Such a hat would certainly be useful; and that itwould be ornamental we have only to decide by consulting our eyes, andby looking at our ancestors' portraits of the seventeenth century.

But there is another kind of covering for the head, which, for itspeculiar purposes, seems to us more useful and more ornamental eventhan this hat; we allude to the common round travelling cap, theofficers' undress cap in the British army. Are you going a journey?have you any rough work to do? have you got a headach and wantsomething light? would you put on something that will not spoil bybeing pulled about, sat on, slept on, and stood on? something handy,useful, comfortable, and withal good-looking?—What do you do? you geta foraging cap. Every man looks well in a foraging cap; it harmonizeswith every body's face: it makes the old look young, and the younglook smart: it is, without pretence, plain[Pg 58] in detail, and yet elegantin outline: it has no straight lines in it, and yet its curves are incontrast with those of the head; they run in opposite directions: andthe shade of the cap, if it has one, emulates the decisiveness of thenose, and gives character to the profile of the head, just as the nosegives point and force to the face. Nothing so easily admits ofsuitable ornament: a plain band—a golden one—or even a colouredone—makes it suitable to the various ranks and occupations of men:while its material, admitting of infinite variety, according to thetaste of the wearer, never injures the source of its beauty its form.The cap fails in only one thing; it is unfit for rainy weather; itwill only do for dry days. Do not attempt to put a flap behind it, andtie it under your chin—you at once convert it into an ugly nightcap;its curves then imitate those of the head, and the ridiculous takesthe place of the becoming. For three hundred days, however, out of thethree hundred and sixty-five, such a cap may be worn with the greatestcomfort and advantage: while, for simplicity and elegance, it has norival. We exclude most vigorously all other kinds of caps; we admitnothing but the common round foraging cap, with a small shade over theeyes; we especially set our faces against the little quirked Highlandcap, now revived, and becoming popular among the southrons. This caphas part of its curves—those behind the head approximating tooclosely to the curve of the skull: in fact, at the hinder part it is askull-cap; whereas, the other part of the curves in front are too muchin opposition to the outline of the face: they bend over and form anunpleasant contrast with the nose and chin: they are deficient in theshade or visor, and there is not one man in a thousand whose face theysuit. All fancy-caps with whalebone, falling tops, angularprojections, &c., are utterly abominate; we pin our faith to thequiet, unsophisticated, gentlemanlike cap worn by our officers: itbeats almost any other head-dress in the world.

The prevailing tendency of the age is to avoid distinctions of dressexcept in the value of the material, and then only between the twogreat divisions of society—the affluent and the poor. Hence allornament seems to be a superfluity, except upon occasions of publicdisplay or military service; and men will not now listen to any onewho advises them to put feathers and gold lace on their hats and caps:they would as soon think of returning to the embroidered coats oftheir grandfathers. The principle is a good one: in the palmy days ofRome, the differences of dress bore no proportion to the differencesof station; distinction in dress was the failing of the middle ages, aconsequence of some lurking seeds of northern barbarism, which areonly now ceasing to be propagated. We seem, like the great men of theEternal City eighteen hundred years ago, to be looking more at theinward worth and influence of a man, than at his outward state anddress; and it is a good sign of the times; it is a reasonableinclination of the mind; but it confines the exercise of taste indress. Men of the present day are determined to be plain about thehead as well as about the body; all ornament of head-dress they haveleft to soldiers and to the fairer half of the creation:—sed hæchactenus—we reserve our remarks on the coiffures of these twoclasses for another occasion.

H. L. J.

[Pg 59]

THE THREE GUARDSMEN.

Guardsmen have at all periods been a racketing, rollicking set offellows. Whether ancients or moderns, infidels or Christians,prætorians or janissaries, the mousquetaires and Scottish archers ofthe French Louises, or the lifeguards of "bonnie Dundee's" ownregiment, they have always claimed, and usually enjoyed, a greaterdegree of license than is accorded to the more unpretending soldieryof the line. The first in the field, and the last out of it, they havesometimes seemed to think that, by thrashing the king's enemies, theyacquired a right to baton his subjects, that captured cities atonedfor the wrongs of deluded damsels, and that each extra blow struck inthe fight, entitled them to an extra bottle in the barrack-room. Onduty, discipline—off duty, dissipation—seems to have been the mottoof these gentlemen; and if it be the case, that they occasionallyforgot the former part of their device, it, on the other hand, is nowhere upon record, that they were oblivious of its latter portion.Fighting hard and drinking hard, living hard and dying hard, thebravest men and most desperate debauchees of all countries, have wornthe uniform of guardsmen.

Our old friend, M. Alexandre Dumas, who, if we may believe one of hisbiographers, passes twelve hours a-day in driving a goosequill for theentertainment and particular edification of his countrymen, foundhimself, one fine morning, desperately at a loss for something towrite about. He is, perhaps, not the first writer of fiction who hasbeen in a like predicament; and even if he were, it would be neitherwonderful nor unpardonable, seeing that his average rate of productionis about three volumes per month. There is a limit to all things, evento the imagination of a French romance writer; and M. Dumas, withoutexception the most prolific of modern scribblers, was for once hard upfor a subject.

L'hôpital n'est pas pour les chiens, says the French proverb. Itoccurred to M. Dumas, that the league or two of books in theBibliothèque Royale were not placed there for the mere purpose ofastonishing provincials, or causing English tourists to stare and liftup their hands in admiration; but that one of the objects of theirpreservation might well be, that they should afford suggestions to anydistinguished littérateur who happened to be, like himself, in wantof an idea. Emerging, therefore, from his comfortable abode in theChaussée d'Antin, he turned his steps in the direction of the royallibrary, and was soon up to his ears in dusty tomes and jaundicedparchments. After much research, he discovered a folio manuscript,numbered, as he tells us in his preface, 4772 or 4773, and purportingto be a memoir, by a certain Count de la Fère, of events that occurredin France towards the latter part of the reign of Louis theThirteenth. Upon perusal, he found this MS. so interesting, that heapplied for, and obtained permission to publish it; and the memoir inquestion saw the light under the title of Les Trois Mousquetaires.

The piquant and interesting matter contained in this book, caused itto be much read, and numerous persons were curious to see the originalmanuscript. To their infinite surprise, however, they could obtain noaccount whatever of such a document; and what was still moreprovoking, the librarians seemed to look upon them as insane when theyasked for it. There was much running up and down the library stairs,much mounting upon step-ladders, and tumbling of paper and parchment,much grumbling of puzzled librarians and disappointed applicants,until at last, the most obstinate became convinced that the aforesaidMS. had no existence save in the imagination of M. Dumas, who had, asit is vulgarly styled, "taken a rise" out of the public.

In the spring of the year 1625, a young Gascon gentleman namedD'Artagnan, left his home to seek fortune at Paris. He was mounted onan ill-looking cob, some fourteen years of age—that is to say,within[Pg 60] four years as old as its rider; the sword which his fatherbuckled on him at parting, was more remarkable for its length than itselegance; his purse contained fifteen crowns, and his valise a coupleof shirts. To compensate for this meagre equipment, he rode like aTartar, and fenced like a St George; and was moreover possessed ofthree qualifications invaluable to a man who has his way to make inthe world—a clear head, a light heart, and a courage that nothingcould daunt. One thing more he had; a letter of recommendation fromhis father to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the mousquetaires, orbody-guards, of his Majesty Louis the Thirteenth.

Nearly the last words of the worthy old Gascon, who was compelled byhis poverty to send his son forth into the world thus slenderlyprovided, were an injunction to honour the King and CardinalRichelieu, then in the zenith of his power, and to fight as often ashe could get an opportunity. With such counsels yet ringing in hisears, it is not surprising, that before reaching Paris youngD'Artagnan gets into a very pretty quarrel against overpowering odds,is somewhat maltreated, and, while senseless from the blows he hasreceived, has his letter stolen from him by an emissary of theCardinal, among whose political enemies M. de Treville stands in theforemost rank. The young adventurer, however, consoles himself for hisloss, shakes his feathers, and arrives at Paris without furtheraccident. Before entering the capital he disposes of his horse, ofwhose uncouth appearance he is heartily ashamed; and after improvinghis toilet as well as his scanty wardrobe will allow, he proceeds tothe hotel of Monsieur de Treville, where he falls in with the threemousquetaires who give a title to the book, in which, however,D'Artagnan plays the most conspicuous and important part. He finds thehotel Treville throned with applicants for an audience, petitioners,mousquetaires, and lackeys bearing letters from persons of the firstimportance. He sends in his name, and after some delay, is admitted.Here is M. Dumas' account of the interview.

The swoon of Athos had merely been occasioned by loss of blood. Thesurgeon declares there is no danger, and D'Artagnan, who has stood hisground with true Gascon tenacity, at length obtains an audience. Theloss of his letter of recommendation now proves a great disadvantageto him. In those days of court intrigue and espionage, men werenaturally suspicious of each other, and the mingled naïveté andshrewdness of the young Béarnais, are causes for Monsieur de Trevilleat first suspecting him of being a spy of the Cardinal's. Hissuspicions, however, are wearing off, and he is disposed to be usefulto D'Artagnan, although he cannot admit him into the mousquetaires—anoviciate of two years in some other regiment being the indispensablecondition[Pg 63] of admission into that favoured corps—when D'Artagnan,happening to look out of the window, starts, reddens with anger, andrushes to the door. He has recognised, in a passer-by, the person whohad stolen his letter; and leaves Monsieur de Treville in doubtwhether he has to do with a madman or with an emissary of theCardinal's, who, fearing himself suspected, takes this pretext foreffecting a retreat.

In his hurry to leave the hotel and pursue his robber, D'Artagnan getsinto all sorts of scrapes. On the landing-place he runs against Athos,who is returning home after having his wound dressed. Some hasty wordspass, a challenge is the result, and rendezvous is taken for noon in afield near the Carmelite convent, then a favourite duelling ground. Inthe gateway of the courtyard, Porthos is talking with one of hiscomrades, and D'Artagnan, in trying to pass between them, getsentangled in the velvet cloak of the former, and discovers, what theguardsman had been most anxious to conceal, that the front only of hisembroidered shoulder-belt was gold, and the back mere leather.Porthos, not having sufficient pistoles to purchase a whole belt, hadgratified his vanity with half a one, and wore his cloak to concealthe deficiency. The young Gascon finds himself with a second duel onhis hands, and sets himself down as a dead man. Meantime his robberhas disappeared, and as D'Artagnan is proceeding in the direction ofhis lodging, he encounters Aramis, standing in the middle of thestreet with some other gentlemen. Furious with himself for the follieshe has been committing, D'Artagnan has made a resolution to be allthings to all men, at least for the hour or two that he still has tolive; and observing that Aramis has dropped a handkerchief, and placedhis foot upon it, he hastens to drag it from under his boot, andpresent it to him with a most gracious bow and smile. A coronet andcipher on the embroidered cambric attract notice, and draw down ashower of raillery upon the head of the mousquetaire, who, in order toshield the honour of a lady, is compelled to deny that thehandkerchief is his. His companions walk away, and Aramis reproachesD'Artagnan with his officiousness. The Gascon blood gets up, goodresolutions are forgotten, and a third rendezvous is the result.

M. Dumas is never more at home than in the description of duels.Himself an excellent swordsman, he luxuriates and excels in thedescription of points and parries, cartes and tierces, and of thevigorous estocades which his heroes administer to each other. One ofthe good chapters of the book—and there are many such—is the one inwhich D'Artagnan encounters the three redoubtable champions whom hehas so heedlessly provoked. We will endeavour, by abridgement, to layit before our readers.

The result of this affair is to procure D'Artagnan the favour ofMonsieur de Treville and the King—the latter of whom dislikes theCardinal in secret nearly as much as he fears him. The young Gasconhas an audience of Louis the Just, who recruits his finances by thepresent of a handful of pistoles; and a few days later he is appointedto a cadetship in the company of guards of the Chevalier des Essarts,a brother-in-law of Treville. According to the singular ideas of thosedays, there was nothing degrading to a gentleman in receiving moneyfrom the king's hand. D'Artagnan, therefore, pockets the pistoles withmany thanks, and takes an early opportunity of dividing them with hisfriends with the mythological names, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, andAramis, who, according to the custom of mousquetaires, have more goldupon their coats than in their purses. The courage and good qualitiesof the Gascon have won the hearts of the three guardsmen, and he isadmitted to make a fourth in their brotherhood, of which the motto is,"Un pour tous, et tous pour un." All is in common amongstthem—pleasures, perils, pistoles.

The characters of the three mousquetaires are well sketched andsustained, and illustrate admirably the vices, virtues, andpropensities of their time and station. Aramis, who was originallyintended for the church, has relinquished the black coat of an abbé inorder to fight a nobleman who had insulted him. He still, however,persists in considering himself as a guardsman only pro tempore; andwhenever fortune or his mistress frowns upon him, he declares hisintention of abandoning his sinful mode of life, and throwing himselfinto the arms of mother church. Vanity is the failing of Porthos, whoshines more by his imposing appearance, brilliant attire, and bull-dogcourage, than by any qualities of the head. To Athos, who is the mostinteresting of the three, a certain mystery is attached, which,however, is seen through early in the book. He is a man of high birth,princely manners, and chivalrous feeling, but whose stormy life hascast a strong tinge of melancholy over his character, and who nowfinds his sole consolation in the wine-cup. It must not be thereforesupposed that Athos is a sot, a wallower in wine, or a haunter oftavern orgies. He drinks, it is true, enough to prostrate any threeordinary men; but he takes his liquor, as he does every thing else, somuch like a gentleman, and, moreover, there is so much self-devotionand generosity in his character, such dignity of manner and rectitudeof feeling—his temper so even and kindly—his courage so heroic—thathe is unquestionably the most amiable and interesting of the dramatispersonæ, preferable to D'Artagnan, to whom premature worldly wisdomgives a hardness bordering upon egotism. While Aramis is sighingsonnets to his mistress, and Porthos parading on the crown of thecauseway in all the glory of gold lace and embroidery, Athos sitstranquilly at home, and says, like Gregory in the Deserter—

"J'aime mieux boire."

His real name—for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are merely assumedones—is known only to the King and to Monsieur de Treville.

It would be difficult within the limits of this paper to give an ideaof the entire plot of the Three Mousquetaires, which is, in fact,less a tale with a regular intrigue and dénouement, than a narrativeof adventures and incidents, extending over a period of nearly threeyears. D'Artagnan, whose enterprising character and Gascon acutenessqualify him admirably to take a part in the court intrigues of thetime, soon finds himself almost at open war with the Cardinal, anden[Pg 69]gaged in serving the interests of Louis the Thirteenth's unhappyqueen, Anne of Austria, who, by rejecting the suit of the scarletduke—as the mousquetaires irreverently style the Cardinal Duke ofRichelieu—has drawn upon herself the deadly hatred of that omnipotentpersonage. The Duke of Buckingham, who is madly in love with thequeen, visits Paris in disguise, and obtains an interview with her. Atparting, he implores her to give him some trifle, which he maypreserve as a souvenir of their attachment; and Anne of Austriagives him the first thing that comes to hand, which happens to be ajewel-case, containing twelve diamond clasps or ferrets that she haslately received from the King. The Cardinal, omnipresent by his spies,learns this; manages adroitly to rouse the king's jealousy; andprevails on him to give a ball, at which the queen is desired toappear, wearing the ferrets in question. Anne of Austria is indespair. To obtain the restitution of the jewels within the eight daysthat have to elapse before the one fixed for the ball, appearsimpossible. Buckingham is in England; if she writes, her letter willbe intercepted by the Cardinal; if she sends, her messenger will bestopped. Nothing could at that time be done in France without comingto the knowledge of Richelieu. In her extremity she is induced toconfide in one of her attendants, with whom D'Artagnan is in love; anda few hours later, the intrepid Gascon and his three inseparablefriends set out for England, provided with a leave of absence fromMonsieur de Treville, and attended by their four lackeys. D'Artagnanalone knows the object of their journey; but the others, confidingimplicitly in his judgment, and bound, moreover, by the rules of theirassociation, ask no questions, and willingly brave the dangers thatthe Cardinal strews in their path. It is agreed that, in case ofrencontres by the way, the dead or wounded are to be left to theirfate, and the others are to push on without an instant's delay. ShouldD'Artagnan fall, the survivors are to take from his pocket the queen'sletter to Buckingham, and continue their route.

The adventurers are not allowed to proceed far without molestation.They stop to breakfast, and a stranger picks a quarrel with Porthos,who stays behind to fight him, and does not rejoin them. Near Beauvaisthey receive a volley from some pretended labourers; D'Artagnan's hatis knocked off by a ball; a lackey is left in the road, and Aramis isbadly wounded, and obliged to remain at the next town. D'Artagnan,Athos, and their two attendants, reach Amiens at midnight, and stop tosleep at the sign of the Golden Lily. Here various suspiciousincidents occur, and in the morning their horses are found to bedead-lame, and unable to proceed. One that might still have gone onhas been bled by mistake.

The gentleman and his attendant take the direction of the governor'shouse. D'Artagnan follows them; picks a quarrel with the stranger, whois a certain Count de Wardes, an adherent of the Cardinal's, woundshim desperately, himself receiving a scratch, takes the pass, gets itcountersigned, and proceeds to England. The Duke of Buckingham ishunting at Windsor with the king; but the indefatigable Gascon followshim thither, and delivers his letter. The duke hurries with him toLondon to give him the ferrets; but, to his unspeakable consternation,finds that two out of the twelve are missing. They had been cut fromhis dress by an emissary of the Cardinal's at a ball at WindsorCastle, at which he had worn the queen's present. The ferrets are ofimmense value, and difficult workmanship. Buckingham sends for hisjeweller, who demands eight days and three thousand pistoles toreplace the missing ornaments. The duke locks him up in a room, withhis tools and a workman, and allows him six thousand pistoles, andthirty-six hours to complete then. The ferrets are ready within theprescribed period. Furnished with a password from the duke, who hastrusty agents in France, D'Artagnan reaches Paris by a different roadand without impediment, arriving in time to save the queen, whoappears at the ball with her twelve ferrets, to the vast discomfitureof the Cardinal. Meanwhile D'Artagnan's mistress had been spiritedaway by Richelieu, and the young Gascon is in despair. He confides hismisfortunes to Monsieur de Treville, who promises to do what he can tofind the lady, and advises D'Artagnan to leave Paris till theCardinal's wrath is a little blown over. D'Artagnan takes his advice;bethinks him of the three mousquetaires, and sets out to look forthem. He finds Porthos and Aramis where he left them, nearly recoveredfrom their wounds; and proceeding to Amiens, enters the hotel of theGolden Lily, and confronts the host—his whip in his right hand, hisleft on his sword-hilt, and evidently meaning mischief.

The innkeeper, however, turns out to be more an object of pity thanblame. Previously to the arrival of D'Artagnan and Athos on their wayto England, he had received information from the authorities, that aparty of coiners, disguised as guardsmen, would arrive at his inn, andthat he was to take measures to arrest them. The six men who broughthim these orders disguised themselves as servants and stable-boys, andremained to assist in the capture. In the skirmish, Athos shot two ofthem, wounded a third, cut the host across the face with the flat ofhis sword, and retreated fighting to the cellar stairs. Entering thecellar, he pulled the door to and barricaded it. His assailants leftthe house, carrying off their killed and wounded; and when theinnkeeper, recovering a little from his alarm, went to inform thegovernor of what had occurred, the latter declared himself totallyignorant of the whole business, denied that he had[Pg 71] given orders toarrest any coiners, and threatened to hang the unlucky host if hemixed up his name in the affair.

With characteristic generosity and insouciance, Athos forgives thehost, and compensates him for the damage done to his property. The twoguardsmen then sit down to drink, and D'Artagnan tells his friend ofthe misfortune he has had in the loss of his mistress.

This strange story, that could hardly have proceeded from any but aFrench imagination, is nevertheless very effective, far more so inMonsieur Dumas' terse and pointed diction than in our imperfecttranslation. The dame with the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder is notdead, but on the contrary married again, and proves[Pg 74] to be no otherthan an emissary of the Cardinal, a certain Lady de Winter, or Milady,as M. Dumas persists in calling her. She it was who cut the diamondsoff Buckingham's dress, and informed the Cardinal of the same.Throughout the whole book she plays the part of a sort ofMephistopheles in petticoats, doing evil for evil's sake; and finally,when in prison in England, gains over a fanatical young officer namedFelton, who is set to guard her, and working on him by the power ofher charms and an artfully devised story, instigates him to the murderof Buckingham, who is at Portsmouth fitting out an armament for therelief of La Rochelle, then besieged by Richelieu. She escapes toFrance, but there falls into the hands of her deadly enemy,D'Artagnan, and of her first husband, Athos, otherwise Count de laFère. Her punishment is one of the last and most striking scenes inthe book, which concludes with the capture of La Rochelle, leavingD'Artagnan a lieutenant of mousquetaires, and, to all appearance, onthe high-road to further preferment. Some account of his futurefortune is promised us by Monsieur Dumas; and, however alarming acontinuation to a book in eight volumes may sound, we cannot helpwishing he may keep his promise. There is less occasion to be alarmedat the length of a six or eight volume book from his hands, than atthat of a three volume one from those of many other writers; andmoreover one must take into account the ingenuity of Frenchpublishers, who manage to have the type spread out over the largestpossible amount of white paper. The system of putting little in apage, and diminishing that little by the interpolation of huge andapparently objectless blank spaces, has reached its height in Paris;and, although an imposition on the public, it perhaps renders a booklighter and pleasanter to read. Light reading and pleasant readingMonsieur Dumas' romance assuredly is; and we can wish our readers nobetter pastime, during the long evenings of this wintry season, thanthe perusal of the feats and fortunes of the Trois Mousquetaires.

[Pg 75]

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.

Part XV.

"Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
Have I not in the pitched battle heard
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"
Shakspeare.

Valenciennes was now captured. The sagacity of my friend, the Frenchengineer, had not been deceived. The explosion of the three greatmines, an operation from its magnitude almost new to war, and in itseffects irresistible, had thrown open the fortress. The garrison haddone their work gallantly, and the result was a capitulation, hastenedby the outcry of the famishing inhabitants. I hastened to the quartersof my regiment, was received with all cordiality, had the honour of aninterview with the royal duke, who, at all times affable, was now inpeculiar good-humour, and who led me into a long detail of such publicopinions as might be gathered from my intercourse with the garrison.At the close of our interview he gave me a note, which was to beforwarded to the adjutant-general. I made my bow, and retired.

All in the camp was festivity. A great achievement had beenaccomplished, and the barriers of France were broken down. But in themidst of national triumph, I felt a depression which rendered mewholly incapable of sharing it. The wounds of the spirit are not to behealed like those of the frame; and with the recollection of the noblecreature whom I had lost, bitterness mingled in every sound, andsight, and exultation. My first request would have been for leave ofabsence, that I might follow her, if she were still in France, or inthe world. But the bustle at headquarters told me that some movementwas about to take place; and, under those circumstances, to ask forleave was impossible. Still I continued making every imaginableenquiry, dispatching letters, and seeing postmasters, to obtainintelligence of the route which Clotilde had taken. After tracing herfor the first few leagues, all tidings were lost; and I had only totrust to that hope which was a part of my sanguine nature, and whichwas sustained by a kind of consciousness that a being so superiorcould not be flung away in the chances which visit the multitude.

While I was thus pondering and perplexed, I was summoned to attend oneof the principal officers of his royal highness's staff. "We aresending despatches of some importance to London," said he, "and it isthe wish of the commander-in-chief that you should take them. I havethe pleasure to tell you, that he feels an interest in you from theopportunities which you have had of distinguishing yourself in thecampaign, and that he has appointed you an extra aide-de-camp. Yourservice begins soon," added my informant with a smile, "for you mustset off to-night. The despatch mentioning the capitulation of thefortress was, of course, sent off at once; but as the commission, inthose cases, is given by routine, it is desirable to have some one inLondon capable of explaining the 'explanation,' or perhaps taking theplace of the 'honourable,' or 'right honourable' personage who hasbeen made the official bearer of the despatch. His royal highness issatisfied, from his conversation with you, that you will be perfectlyfit for this purpose; and here is the despatch, with which you are tomake all expedition to the Horse-Guards."

After giving my orders for the journey, I hastened to take leave ofthe man whom I most honoured and esteemed, my unfailing friendGuiscard. To my surprise, he received the in[Pg 76]telligence of myappointment with scarcely a word of congratulation. Little as I myselfwas now excitable by any thing in the shape of human fortune, I waschagrined by his obstinate gravity. He observed it, and started fromhis seat. "Come," said he, "let us take a walk, and get out of thesight of mankind, if we can." He took my arm, and we strayed along thebanks of the Scheldt, where, however, his purpose was unobtainable,for the whole breadth of the river was covered with the provisionbarges of the troops. The bargemen were enjoying the fine July eveningin the national style—swilling the worst beer that ever punished thetaste for that barbarian beverage, and filling the fresh breeze withthe fumes of tobacco, worthy of the beer. Guiscard stopped to gaze atthem.

"I envy those fellows," said he. "Not merely for their escaping allcare, and being able to extract enjoyment out of their execrable drinkand pipes, but from their being exempt from all contact withportfolios."

"But such enjoyment is only that of the swine."

"Well, and is not that of the swine perfect?—and what would you havemore than perfection?"

A huge herd of those creatures, basking along the miry edge of theriver, helped his illustration. "Mr Marston, you have not been for thelast month on the staff of the commander-in-chief of the alliedarmies, or you would not look so incredulous. Sir, man's senses may beas suitable for his purposes, as those of the animals which we seewallowing there." I stared, waiting for the conclusion. He proceeded."But man has drawbacks on his natural faculties, which they have not.Possibly nature intended that we should be as happy as they. But makenine-tenths of them hewers of wood and drawers of water—send some ofthem to dungeons—enforce a conscription among the rest, and send themto use their tusks upon each other, and the most complacent of themwould rebel: or, as the last trial of temper, put the meekest of therace into a cabinet of princes and general-officers, themselvescontrolled by a cabinet five hundred miles off; and if they do notgrowl as I do now, I shall give up all my knowledge of quadrupednature."

"Why, Guiscard, what is the matter with you to-night? Have we notgained our point? You are like the Thracians, who always mourned atthe birth of a child."

"And the Thracians were perfectly right, if the child were to bereared a diplomatist. You talk of success!" Our path had led to wherea view of Valenciennes opened on us through the trees; and itsshattered ramparts and curtains, the trees felled along its glacis,and its bastions stripped and broken by our cannon-balls, certainlypresented a rueful spectacle. The Austrian flag was flying on thecitadel.

"There," said he, "is our prize. It is not worth the loading of asingle gun; but it has cost us more millions to ruin than it tookfrancs to build it—it has cost us the conquest of France; and willcost Europe the war, which we might have extinguished three months agoif we had but left it behind. I acknowledge that I speak in thebitterness of my heart; delay has ruined every thing. Our march toParis, and our march to Georgium Sidus, will now be finished on thesame day."

I attempted to laugh off his predictions, but he was intractable. "Thebusiness," said he, "is all over. That flag is the signal of Europeanjealousy—the apple of discord. Yon are going to England; and, if youhave any regard for my opinion, tell your friends there to withdrawtheir troops as soon as they can. That flag, which pretends topartition France, will unite it as one man. Our sages here areactually about to play its game. Orders have come to divide the army.What folly! What inconceivable infatuation! In the very face of themost fantastic and furious population of mankind, whom the mosttrivial success inflames into enthusiasts; they are going to break uptheir force, and seek adventures by brigades and battalions."

He stamped the ground with indignation; but, suddenly recovering hiscalmness, he turned to me with his grave smile. "I am ashamed,Marston, of thus betraying a temper which time ought to have cooled.But, after[Pg 77] all, what is public life but a burlesque; a thing ofludicrous disappointment; a tragedy, with a farce always at hand torelieve the tedium and the tinsel; the fall of kingdoms made laughableby the copper lace of the stage wardrobe?"

"Do you object to our duke?"

"Not in the least. He is personally a gallant fellow; and if he wantsexperience, so must every man at one time or other. His only error,hitherto, has been his condescending to come at all with so small aforce under his command. No English army should ever plant its footupon the Continent with less than fifty thousand men on itsmuster-roll. The duke's being put at the head of your troops—only adivision after all—seems to me the only wise thing that has beendone. It was a declaration of the heartiness of your alliance; and Ihonour your country for the distinctness of the avowal. Your kinggives his son, as your country gives her soldiers, and your peoplegive their money. The whole was manly, magnanimous, or, as the highestpanegyric, it was English all over."

This language at once put an end to all my reserve. I shook his handin the spirit of old friendship; and, on our parting, extracted apromise of keeping up our communication on all possible opportunities.We had already separated, when I heard my name called again, andGuiscard returned. "I had forgotten," said he, "to tell you what I wasmost anxious to say. If I had seen no other prospect for you, I shouldbe the last man to make you discontented with your profession. My onlyrequest is, that when you once more tread on English ground, you willseriously consider whether you will continue in the army. If know youat all, I think that you would not be altogether satisfied withwearing your epaulettes at reviews and parades. And, if I am notentirely mistaken, you will have nothing else for the next dozenyears. Your army are moving homewards already. You are now in thesecret."

"But is the campaign absolutely coming to an end? Are the hopes ofattacking the French so suddenly given up? Is France always to baffleus?" was my vexed question.

"As to the fate of France, you should consult a prophet, not aPrussian engineer—and one terribly tired of his trade besides," wasthe reply. We parted; but the conversation was not lost upon me.

By midnight I was on my journey. My route lay through the Flemishprovinces, which had now recovered all their luxuriance, if notderived additional animation from the activity which every wherefollows the movements of a successful army. Troops marching to jointhe general advance frequently and strikingly diversified the scene.Huge trains of the commissariat were continually on the road. Thelittle civic authorities were doubly conscious of the dignity offunctions which brought them into contact with soldiership, from thequartermaster up to the general. But the contrast of the tumult whichI left behind with the quietness of the scenes around me—the haste,the anxiety, and the restlessness of a huge camp, with the calm of thefields, with the regularity which seemed to govern all the operationsof farming life, and with the grave opulence of the old mansions,which seemed to be formed for the natural receptacles of the wealth ofFlemish fields—at once refreshed me after the mental fever in which Ihad tossed so long, and perhaps impressed on me more deeply theparting advice of my friend the philosopher.

But, from the moment when I touched British ground, the whole sleepytranquillity which gathers over every man in the quietude of Flanders,where man seems to have followed the same plough from the deluge, hadutterly vanished. I was in the midst of a nation in a ferment. The warwas the universal topic; party was in full life. From the inn at Doverup to the waiting-room at the Horse-Guards, I heard nothing butpolitics. The conduct of our army—the absurdity of every thing thathad been done, or left undone—the failures of the Allies—thefanaticism of the French—the hopes of popular liberty on one side,and the indignation of established power on the other—came rushinground me in a chaos of discordant conceptions, that for the timebewildered me. How simple was the gossip of the camp to thisheterogeneous mass of struggling to[Pg 78]pics! How straightforward was eventhe wild haranguing of the Palais Royal to the thousand reports andprotests, remonstrances and replications, of the whole ringing andraging, public mind of England! This was the age of pamphleteering.Every sage who could, or could not, write, flung his pamphlet in theteeth of the party whose existence he conceived to be ruinous to hiscountry, or perhaps prejudicial to his own prospect of a sinecure. Thejournals printed their columns in gall; the satirists dipped theirpens in concentrated acid; the popular haranguers dashed the oil ofvitriol of contempt in each other's faces. The confusion, thecollision, the uproar, was indescribable.

But my whole experience of public life has told me, that however thepopular opinion may be wrong, the public opinion is right; and I feltthat the nation was already adverse to the conduct of the campaign.The utmost skill of the cabinet was required to prevent a dangerousreaction. The member of administration with whom my chief intercourseofficially existed, was the same manly and kind-natured individual towhom I had formerly been indebted for so much civility; and, as ifproud of his own work, his civility now took the form of friendship.Ill news came from abroad; and I expressed my impatience of remainingwith the pen in my hand, when I should have worn my sword. To all mysuggestions on the subject, the good-humoured answer was, that myservices were still necessary at home. At length, on my making adecided request that I should be permitted to return to my regiment,he told me in confidence that the campaign was probably at an end;that the British commander-in-chief was about to return; and that, infact, the strength of England would be turned to the naval war. At theclose of one of those conversations, fixing his keen grey eye upon me,he said, "Pray, what think you of Parliament?" My answer was, "Thatmediocrity was more contemptible there than any where else; whilesuccess was more difficult."

"You mean such success as Pitt's: you mean victory. But you must getthese Greek and Roman notions out of your head. An English House doesnot want orators. One on a side is quite enough. They are like thegold plate on a sideboard; it is well to show that we have suchthings, for the honour of our establishment; but no one thinks ofmaking use of them at table. Pitt is an exception; he is equal toevery thing; an incomparable man of business. Burke, or some other manof metaphor, compared him to the falcon; which, however high it maysoar, always follows the prey with its eye along the ground. But twoPitts, if nature could be prolific of such magnificent monsters, wouldabsolutely perplex us. What could be more confusing than to have twosuns shining at the same time?"

"But is Fox nothing?" I asked.

"A great deal," was the answer. "He is the finest talker, I suppose,in the world. The first of babblers."

"Of babblers!" I involuntarily repeated.

"Yes; for what is babbling but speaking in vain, pouring out endlessspeculations without a purpose or the hope of a purpose, indulging aremarkably powerful and productive mind with the waste of its ownconceptions, pouring out a whole coinage of splendid thoughts with nomore expectancy of practical result than if he poured the mint intothe Thames? You may rely upon it that such is the opinion of theHouse, as it will be yours when you get there; and such will be thatof posterity, if they shall ever take the trouble to think about anyof us."

This conversation was evidently more than accidental; and I gave to itsome of my most perplexing hours. I had an original fondness for thelife of arms. I was of the age to feel its variety, animation, andardour. My experience had been fortunate; I had seen nothing butvictory, and had been flattered by personal distinction. But then camethe reverse of the medal. I remembered the opinion of the mostsagacious and penetrating spirit which it had been my lot ever toknow; and I felt that the Continent was to be our field of battle nolonger. The languor of home service, to one who had seen war in itsstateliest shape, and in its most powerful activity, rose before mymind with an[Pg 79] inexpressible sense of weariness. On the other hand,supposing that I possessed the faculties for political life, was Ipossessed of the temper, the endurance of toil, the measurelesspatience, the inexhaustible equanimity, which every night of my publicexistence would demand? Why was this heart-wearyingstruggle to be preferred to the simple and straightforward pursuit ofan honourable profession, in which the only weight was the carrying ofmy sword, and the only secret of distinction possessing an untarnishedname?

But I soon made up my mind. The question narrowed itself to this:which was the more active life? The point of honour was no longer theadherence to a profession whose purposes were necessarily changed.Every hour gave additional evidence that the gates of the Continentwere closing upon the English soldier. Influence, impression,publicity, were the prizes of a political career. I saw all othernames fade before the great senatorial names of England. I saw men ofhumble extraction filling the world with their fame. I saw asuccession of individuals, who, if their profession had been arms, orif their birth-place had been the Continent, would have lived and diedin the routine of obscure service, here rising to the height ofnational homage, lustres of their generation, and guiding by theiropinions the courts of Europe. Whether I should ever take my placeamong those illustrious names, scarcely entered into my thoughts. ButI was determined never to waste my life in conscious indolence.Scarcely knowing what faculties I might possess, I had fully resolvedon trying their utmost strength; and grown almost indifferent to theordinary pursuits of human indulgence, I looked with something of amelancholy yet proud hope, to the enjoyment which was to be found ingiving myself up to the solitary and stern toil of living for a greatcause, and leaving a name behind me that should not be forgotten.

On that very day the intelligence arrived that the British troops hadmarched towards the north of Germany; that the royal duke had returnedto England; and that the Allies had, by common consent, abandoned theinvasion of France. My habits were always prompt. Before the hour wasover in which the gazette appeared, I waited on my ministerial friend,and expressed my full acquiescence in his proposal.

I pass by the process of getting into Parliament. It was then asimpler matter than it has since become. A treasury borough was thenthe gate through which all the leading names of the country hadentered the legislature, and I merely followed the path of all but thelords of acres.

Every man who will make himself master of an occupation must serve anapprenticeship. Parliament, too, has its seven years' indentures, andthe few who have refused the training have seldom been the wiser fortheir precipitancy. I "bided my time," taking a slight occasionalshare in debates with whose topics I happened to be well acquainted;and expecting the chances, which, to every one who employs himselfvigorously, are all but certainties. Still I felt that this merehovering on the outskirts of debate must not last too long, and thatnothing was more hazardous to final reputation than to be too slow inattempting to lay its first stone. Yet I felt some difficulty in everygreat question; and, after bracing my nerves for the onset, I alwaysfound my courage fail at the sight of the actual encounter. I felt asa young knight might have felt in some of the tilting-matches ofold—master of his charger in the open field, and delighting in thepressure of his armour and the weight of his lance; but when he oncerode within the barrier, saw the galleries filled, and the heraldslifting the trumpets to their lips, feeling his blood grow chill, andthe light depart from his eyes.

I mentioned my embarrassment to my Scottish friend, and almostexpected a remonstrance. To my great surprise and infinite pleasure,he congratulated me. "You cannot give a better sign," said he. "Myonly fear of you was, that you would dash into debate at once, like atumbler jumping from a precipice; and that, like him, all that youwould have gained by it would be broken limbs for life. If the fellowhad kept to his slack-rope and his stage, he would[Pg 80] have been safeenough, and gained some applause besides."

"But what is to be done in the House, without some hazard of thekind?"

"Wrong—quite wrong. A great deal is to be done. Take myself for theexample. You see where I am, and yet I never made a speech in mylife. From the beginning of my career, I never allowed any one to lookfor any thing of the kind from me; and the consequence was, that bysome I was regarded as a much shrewder personage than I ever believedmyself to be; and by others was thought to know a great deal more thanI ever acquired."

"But will this account for the rapid distinctions of your publiclife?"

"Perfectly, so far as they have gone. I obtained ministerialconfidence on the essential merits of being a safe man—one who madeno ambitious attempts to lower the crests of those above me. I escapedthe jealousy of those below me by adopting the style which mediocrityassumes by nature. I was thus like the senior subaltern in a marchingregiment—I wore the same uniform with the colonel, and went throughthe same exercise with the ensign. The field-officers knew that Iwould not tread upon their heels, and every subaltern wished to see mypromotion, as a step to his own."

My official duties, the mere entrance into office, occupied melaboriously for a while, and I felt all the habitual difficulties ofmy noviciate. It had been fully my intention to follow the advice ofmy experienced friend, and leave the hour which was to call for myexertions in the House to the chances of the time. But that time camemore rapidly than I had expected. The public mind was fevered, hour byhour; the news from the Continent was more and more startling; thesuccesses of the Republican armies had assumed a shape which ourdesponding politicians regarded as invincibility, and which ourfactious ones pronounced to be the ruin of Europe. The cabinet offeredonly the prospect of a melancholy struggle. But six months before, ithad stood, strong as a citadel erected by the national hands, andgarrisoned by the spirit of the empire. It still stood, but it stooddismantled; there were evident breaches in its walls, and thefugitives of Opposition, rallying with the hope of success, advancedagain to the storm, headed by their great leader, and sustained by thecapricious and fluctuating multitude. The premier was harassed by theincessant toil of defence—a toil in which he had scarcely a sharer,and which exposed him to the most remorseless hostility. Yet, if thehistorian were to choose the moment for his true fame, this was themoment which ought to be chosen. He rose with the severity of thestruggle; assault seemed to give him new vigour; the attempt to tearthe robe of office from his shoulders only gave the nobler display ofhis intellectual proportions. When I saw him, night after night,standing almost alone, with nothing but disaster in front and timidityin the rear, combating a force such as had never before been arrayedunder the banners of Opposition; the whole scene of magnificentconflict and still grander fortitude, reminded me of the Homeric warand its warriors.—The champion of the kingdom, standing forth indespite of evil omens thickening round him, of the deepening cloud,and the sinister thunders.

I speak of those times, and of the great men of those times, in noinvidious contrast with later days. I have so strong a faith in theinfinite ability which freedom gives to a great empire, that I amconvinced of our being able, in all its eras, to find the species ofpublic talent essential to its services. I regard the national mind,as the philosopher does the natural soil, always capable of theessential produce, where we give it the due tillage. The great men ofthe past century have passed away along with it; they were summonedfor a day of conflict, and were formed for the conflict; theirmuscular vigour, the power with which they wielded their weapons, thegiant step and the giant hand, were all necessary, and were all shapedand sustained by that necessity. But this day had its close; theleaders of man—like the "mighty hunters" of an Age, when the land wasstill overshadowed with the forest, and the harvest was overrun withthe lion and the panther,[Pg 81] would naturally give place to a less daringand lofty generation, when the forest had given way to the field, andthe lair of the wild beast had become the highway and the bower. Butif the evil day should again return, the guardian power of intellectand virtue will again come forth in the human shape, and vindicate theprovidence that watches over the progress of mankind. I utterly denythe exhaustion of national genius; I even deny its exhaustibility. Ifthe moral vegetation languishes, and the soil is parched for a while,the great source of refreshing and fertility still lies before us—thepublic mind, in its boundless expansion, and in its unfathomabledepth; the intellectual ocean which no plummet has ever sounded, andwhich no shore has ever circumscribed, lies ready to restore thebalance of nature.

But the sense of power itself in the national mind forbids theexhibition of its strength in tranquil times. It is lofty andfastidious; it will not stoop to a contest in which nothing is to becontended for. It is not an actor; and it cannot adopt the figuredpassion of the actor, rend its robe, and flourish, and obtest heavenagainst the traitor and the oppressor, to the sound of an orchestra,or in the glitter of stage lamps. The true ability of the empire mustscorn all mimic encounter; and what else can be the little strugglesof party shut up in the legislature, whose sound scarcely transpiresthrough the walls, whose triumphs are a tax, and whose oracles are anintrigue? But, when the true day of trial shall come—when an enemyshall be seen hovering on the coasts of the Constitution—when trumpetanswers trumpet, and the "country is proclaimed in danger"—then, andnot till then, shall we know the superb resources of our intellectualstrength: whatever may have been the prowess of the past, we may seeit not merely rivaled but thrown into eclipse by the future; theburnished armour, and massive swords and maces of our old intellectualchivalry, superseded by more manageable and more destructiveimplements of success; and the sterner conflict followed by the moreconsummate triumph. Yet, when we undervalue the living ability of anation from its quietude at the moment, we but adopt the example ofevery past age in succession. The last ten years of the last centurywere preceded by a period of despair; Chatham's career was run, andthe national regrets over his tomb were mingled with sorrows for theextinction of all parliamentary renown!—The day had gone down, anddarkness was to cover the sky for ever. But while the prediction wasscarcely uttered, the horizon as in a blaze, mighty meteors rushedacross it in a thousand courses of eccentric speed and splendour; anda period of intellectual display began, which at once dazzled anddelighted mankind. Anne's Augustan age of war, negotiation, andeloquence, was once pronounced to be, like the Augustan age of Rome,incapable of rivalship by posterity; but our own times have seen abolder war, a broader peace, and a richer development of science,invention, and eloquence. For fifty years, England was pronounced tohave worn herself out by the prolific brilliancy of the half centurybefore; like a precocious infant, to have anticipated her powers, andensured their premature decay; like the Bœotians, to have had herPindaric period, and thenceforward to have paid for its raptures andrenown by perpetual darkness; or like the Israelites in Egypt, to becondemned to drudgery for life, sunk into an intellectualslave-caste;—when in the midst of the scoffing, or the sorrow,suddenly arrived a new epoch, a new summons to the national genius, atime of lofty interpositions, "thunderings in the air, and lightningrunning along the ground," an era of the marvellous things of mind;the chains fell off the hands, and the generation went forth, with anew sense of superiority, into new scenes of knowledge, discovery, andempire.

Whether it was my good or ill fortune to make my first effort in themidst of the men whose names have immortalized their day, I shall notventure to decide. But my resolve had been firmly taken—not to remainin Parliament unless I discovered in myself faculties fit for itsservice. I was determined not to play the mute if I had the means ofuttering a voice.[Pg 82] But now the whole force of administration wasdemanded; and I made up my mind to ascertain by trial, what no man canbe sure of without that trial, whether I possessed any capacity forpublic life.

The subject on which I first spoke was an address to the throne, inanswer to the King's message on the war. On this night Pitt, butlately recovered from a fit of his hereditary gout, spoke briefly, andwith evident feebleness of frame. Fox, whose energy seemed always todepend on his rival's power, and whose eloquence always rose or fellwith the vigour or languor of the minister—Fox, never so great aswhen Pitt put forth all his strength, on this night idled away hishour, through the mere want of an antagonist; but Sheridan made amplecompensation for his leader. The House had fallen into lassitude, andthe benches were already thin when he arose. I had heard him as thehumorist on some trivial occasions of debate. I had enjoyed the socialpleasantry which placed him at the head of the wits; but I was stillbut imperfectly acquainted with the strong sarcasm, the deep disdain,and the grave sophistry, which this extraordinary man could exhibitwith such redundant ease, and wield with such vigorous dexterity. Imust give but an outline:—

"You have made war," said he, "and you have made the arms of yourcountry contemptible by failures, which you rendered inevitable byyour rashness. You, sir," and he fixed his flashing eye on thepremier, "have commenced that war by a series of declarations,which made our diplomacy as contemptible as our campaigns. Thenational sword had been wrested from our hands. But you were notcontent with that humiliation, and you added to it the disgrace ofthe national understanding. You laid down a succession ofprinciples, and then trampled them in the dust on the firstopportunity. You encumbered yourself for action with pledges whichyou could never have intended to sustain, or which in the firstcollision your pusillanimity threw away. Yet I deprecate yourperfidy even more than I despise your weakness. I can comprehendthe effrontery of a fair aggression; but I scorn the meanness ofintrigue. I may face the man-at-arms, but I shudder at theassassin. I may determine to hunt down and destroy the lion, but Idisdain the trap and the pitfall. And what has been the pretext ofhis majesty's ministers? Moderation. In this spirit of moderationthey invaded France; in this spirit of moderation they capturedher fortresses, and then handed them over to the Emperor; in thisspirit of moderation they denounced the men who had given France aconstitution; and in this spirit of moderation you now prepare torebuild her Bastile, to restore her scaffolds, to reforge herchains, and summon all the kings of Europe, instead of taking asalutary lesson from the tomb of the monarchy, to see its skeletonexhumed, and placed, robed and crowned, upon the throne, with thenation forced to offer homage, at once in mockery and terror, tothe grinning emblem; in which, with all your philtres, you cannever put life again."

The orator then gave a general and singularly imposing view of thestate of our European connexions; which he described as utterly frail,the result of interested motives, and sure to be broken up at thefirst temptation. But the "first lord of the treasury and chancellorof his majesty's exchequer," said he, "smiles at my alarm; he has hissecurity at his side—he has the purse, which commands all the baserportion of our nature with such irresistible control! On one point Ifully agree with the right honourable gentleman—that nothing but thepurse could ever keep them faithful. Yet, is there nothing but goldthat can bribe? is there no bribe in territory? will he not find, whenhe hurries to the purchase of allies with the millions of the treasuryin his hand, that more powerful purchasers have been there before him?When he offers the loan, will he not find them offering the province?when he bids with the subsidy, will he not be outbid with the kingdom?Or, if the anticipated conquerors of Europe, raising their sense ofdignity to the level of their power, should disdain the traffic ofcorruption; will not the roaring of the French cannon in the ears ofkings make them[Pg 83] feel, that, to persist in your ill-omened alliance,is to devote themselves to ruin? will they bargain, in sight of theaxe? will they dare to traffic in the blood of their people, with thegrave dug at their feet? will they be dazzled by your gold, while theFrench bayonet is startling their eyes? Within ten years, if Englandexists, she will be without an ally; or, if she continues to fight, itwill be in loneliness, in terror, and in despair."

In this strain he poured out his daring conceptions for more than twohours, during which he kept the whole audience in the deepestattention. He concluded in an uproar of plaudits from both sides ofthe House.

My time now came. And the rising of a new member, always regarded witha generous spirit of courtesy, produced some additional interest, fromthe knowledge of my services on the Continent, and my immediateconnexion with the ministry. The House, which had filled tooverflowing in the course of Sheridan's incomparable speech, was nowhushed to the most total silence, and every eye was turned on me. Ishall say nothing of my perturbation, further than that I had stoodbefore an enemy's line of ten thousand men, with their musketslevelled within half a hundred yards of me; and that I thought thebenches of the House of Commons on that night looked much the moreformidable of the two. My head swam, my throat burned, my eyes grewdim. I thought that the ground was shaking under my feet, and I couldhave almost rejoiced to have sunk into it, from the gaze and thesilence, which equally appalled me. While I attempted to mutter a fewsentences, of which I felt the sound die within my lips, my eye wascaught by the quick turn of Pitt's head, who fixed his impatientglance upon me. Fox, with that kindliness of heart which always forgotparty when a good-natured act was to be done, gave his sonorous cheer.From that instant I was another man; I breathed freely, and,recovering my voice and mind together, I plunged boldly into theboundless subject before me.

After scattering a few of the showy sophisms which the orator of theopposition had constructed into his specious argument, I placed thewar on the ground of necessity. "Nations cannot act likeindividuals—they cannot submit to self-sacrifice—they cannot give uptheir rights—they cannot affect an indolent disdain or an idlegenerosity. The reason of the distinction is, that in every instancethe nation is a trustee—It has the rights of posterity in itskeeping; it has nothing of its own to throw away; it is responsible toevery generation to come. If war be essential to the integrity of theempire, war is as much a duty—a terrible duty, I allow—as theprotection of our children's property from the grasp of rapine, or thedefence of their lives against the midnight robber. But we are advisedto peace. No man on earth would do more willing homage than myself tothat beneficent genius of nations. But where am I to offer my homage?Am I to kneel on the high-road where the enemy's armies, fierce withthe hope of plunder, are rushing along? Am I to build my altar in themidst of contending thousands, or on the ground covered withcorpses—in the battle, or on the grave? Or am I to carry my offeringto the capital, and there talk the language of national cordiality inthe ear of the multitude dragging their king to the scaffold? Am I toappeal to the feelings of human brotherhood in streets smoking withcivil massacre; to adjure the nation by the national honour, whererevolt is an avowed principle; to press upon them the opinion ofEurope, where they have proclaimed war with the world; to invoke themby the faith which they have renounced, the allegiance which they havedisdained, the God whom they have blasphemed? Those things areimpossible. If we are to have a treaty with this new order of thinkingand action, it must be a compact of crime, a solemn agreement oftreachery, a formal bond of plunder; it must be a treaty fitter forthe cavern of conspiracy than for the chamber of council; its pledgemust be like that of Catiline, the cup of human blood! No; the mostpowerful reprobation which ever shot from the indignant lip of themoralist, would not be too strong for the baseness which stooped tosuch a treaty, or the folly which entangled itself in its toils. Noburning language of pro[Pg 84]phecy would be too solemn and too stinging forthe premeditated wretchedness, and incurable calamity, of such a bond.No; if we must violate the simplicity of our national interests bysuch degrading, and such desperate involvements—if we should notshrink from this conspiracy against mankind, let it, at least, not beconsummated in the face of day; let us at once abandon the hollowpretences of human honesty; let us pledge ourselves to a perpetualleague of rapine and revolution; let it be transacted in some lowerregion of existence, where it shall not disgrace the light of the sun;and let its ceremonial be worthy of the spirit of evil which itembodies, whose power it proclaims, and to whose supremacy it commandsall nations to bow down."

In alluding to the menace that our allies would soon desert us, Iasked, "Is this the magnanimity of party? Is England to be pronouncedso poor, or so pusillanimous, that she must give up all hope unlessshe can be suffered to lurk in the rear of the battle? What says herprince of poets?—

'England shall never rue,
If England to herself shall be but true.'

Is this 'little body with a mighty heart,' to depend for existence onthe decaying strength or the decrepit courage of the Continent? Is sheonly to borrow the shattered armour which has hung up for ages in thehalls of continental royalty, and encumber herself with its broken andrusty panoply for the ridicule of the world? The European governmentshave undergone the vicissitudes of fortune. Instead of scoffing at thefacility of their overthrow, let us raise them on their feet again;or, if that be beyond human means, I shall not join the party-crywhich insults their fall—I certainly shall not exult in thatmelancholy pageant of mixed mirth and scorn, in which, like the oldRoman triumph, the soldier with his ruthless jest and song goes beforethe chariot, and the captive monarch follows behind; wearing the royalrobe and the diadem only till he has gratified a barbarous curiosityor a cruel pride, and then exchanging them for the manacle and thedungeon. I deprecate the loss of these alliances; and yet I doubtwhether the country will ever be conscious of her true strength untilthe war of the Continent is at an end. I more than doubt the wisdom ofsuffering others to take the lead, which belongs to us by the right ofsuperior rank, superior prowess, and superior fame. I shall have butslight regret for the fall of those outworks which—massive, nay,majestic, as they are—waste the power of England by the division ofher force, and make us decline the gallant enterprize of thefield—ramparts and fosses which reduce us to defence, and which,while they offer a thousand points of entrance to an active assault,shut us in, and disqualify us from victory."

I now repeat this language of the moment, merely from later and longexperience of its truth. I fully believe, that if England had comeforward to the front of the battle in the early years of the war, shewould have crushed all resistance; or if she had found, by the chanceof things, the Continent impenetrable to her arms, she would havesurrounded it with a wall of fire, until its factions had left nothingof themselves but their ashes.

I was now fully engaged in public life. The effort which I had made inParliament had received the approval of Pitt, who, without stooping tonotice things so trivial as style and manner on questions of nationallife and death, highly applauded the courage which had dared to faceso distinguished a Parliamentary favourite as Sheridan, and had takena view of affairs so accordant with his own. From this period, I wasconstantly occupied in debate; and, taking the premier for my model, Imade rapid proficiency in the difficult art of addressing a BritishHouse of Commons. Of course, I have no idea of giving myself thepraise on this subject, which no man can give to himself on any,without offence. But I felt that this was an art which might escape,and which had often escaped, men of distinguished ability, and whichmight be possessed by men of powers altogether inferior. I mustacknowledge, that a portion of my success was ow[Pg 85]ing to the advice ofthat shrewdest, and at the same time most friendly, of human beings,the secretary. "You must be a man of business," said he, "or you willbe nothing; for praise is nothing—popularity is nothing—even theapplause of the House is nothing. These matters pass away, and theorators pass away with them. John Bull is a solid animal, and likesreality. This is the true secret of the successes of hundreds of menof mediocrity, and of the failures of almost every man of brilliantfaculties. The latter fly too high, and thus make no way along theground. They always alight on the same spot; while the weaker, butwiser, have put one foot before another, and have pushed on. Sheridan,at this moment, has no more weight in the House than he had within atwelvemonth after taking his seat. Fox, with the most powerfulabilities, is looked on simply as a magnificent speechmaker. His onlyweight is in his following. If his party fell from him to-morrow, allhis eloquence would find its only echo in bare walls, and its onlypanegyric in street-placards. Pitt is a man of business, complete,profound, indefatigable. If you have his talents, copy his prudence;if you have not, still copy his prudence—make it the interest of mento consult you, and you must be ultimately successful."

I laughingly observed, that the "Nullum numen abest" had been honouredwith an unexpected illustration.

"Sir," said the minister, fixing his keen grey eye upon me, "if Etonhad never taught any other maxim, it would have been well worth allthe tail of its longs and shorts. It is the concentration of wisdom,personal, private, and public; the polar star of politics, as probablyyou would say; or, as in my matter-of-fact style should express it,the fingerpost of the road to fortune."

But there never was a time when all the maxims of political wisdomwere more required. A long succession of disasters had already brokendown the outworks of the continental thrones. The renown of the greatarmies of Germany was lost; the discipline of the Prussian, and thesteady intrepidity of the Austrian, had been swept before the wilddisorder of the French. Men began to believe that the art of war hadbeen hitherto unknown, and that the enemy had at length mastered theexclusive secret. Monarchy came to be regarded as only another namefor weakness; and civilized order for national decrepitude. A kind ofsuperstition stole over the minds of men; the signs of Europeanoverthrow were discovered in every change; calculations were calmlyraised on the chances of existence to the most powerful dynasties; theage of crowns was in the move, the age of republics was in theascendant; and while the feebler minds looked with quiescent awe onwhat they regarded as the inevitable tide of events, the more daringregarded the prospect as a summons to prepare for their part of thespoil. The struggles of Opposition grew more resolute as the hope ofsuccess came nearer, and the Government began to feel the effects ofthis perpetual assault, in the sudden neutrality of some of its mostostentatious champions, and in the general reserve of its supportersin the House. Even the superb perseverance of Pitt was beginning to beweary of a contest, in which victory lost its fruits on the one side,while defeat seemed only to give fresh vigour on the other. But a newtriumph was to cheer the face of things.

I was returning one morning from the House after a night spent in afierce debate on the war, which Fox denounced with an asperity unusualto his generous temperament. The premier had made a powerful speech,vindicating the government from all share in the continentalmisfortunes; pronouncing loftily, that, in a war not made forconquest, it was sophistry to speak of our failure of possession as acrime; and declaring in a tone of singular boldness and energy—thatif the Continent were untrod by a British soldier, there was a stillbroader field for the arms and the triumphs of England. But hiseloquence had more effect in exposing the errors, than in reducing thenumbers of his opponents, and the smallness of his majority would havemade a feebler mind resign on the spot. The announcement of thenumbers was received with an insulting[Pg 86] cheer by the minority, and thecabinet was already by anticipation in their hands.

I left the House wearied and dejected, and was returning to DowningStreet, to throw myself on a couch, and get a few hours of rest beforemy morning toil; when I found a messenger at the door of my office,bearing a request from the secretary of state, that I should attendhim as soon as possible. I found my friend before a table covered withdespatches, his brow furrowed with weariness like my own.

"You see me here, Marston, more tired than any ploughman or watchman,or any other son of labour from this to John O'Groat's House. I wassent for, from the House, six hours ago, and every hour since have Ibeen poring over those puzzled papers. How long I can stand this wearand tear the physicians must tell, but it would require theconstitution of Hercules or Samson, or both together, to go throughthe work that is beginning to fall on the members of the cabinet."

I offered to give him such assistance as was in my power.

"No, no, Marston; I am chained to the oar for this night at least, andmust pull till I fall asleep. My purpose in keeping you from yourpillow at this time of night, is not to relieve myself from trouble;but to ask whether you are disposed to relieve the government fromserious difficulty, and in a way which I hope will be not disagreeableto yourself." I concluded that my mission was to be continental, andmy heart danced at the suggestion. In England it was impossible tocontinue my search for the being in whom all my thoughts were fixed;but once beyond the sea I should have the world before me. I askedwhether there was any intention of trying the chances of attack againon the French frontier.

"None whatever. The greater probability is, that the French will makesome experiment on the strength of ours."

I looked all astonishment. He interpreted my look, and said—"To solvethe enigma at once, It is our wish to send you to Ireland."

I listened in silence while he went into a long detail of the hazardof the island, arising from the interests of a powerful republicanparty, who, inflamed by the successes of France, were preparing toreceive troops and arms from the republic. He finished by saying, in atone of compliment, which, from him, was as unusual as I believe itwas sincere, that my exertions in debate had attracted highconsideration in the highest quarter, and that I had been proposed bythe monarch himself for the chief-secretaryship of Ireland. Thepremier had assented to the appointment at once; "and here," said he,"is the warrant, which I have prepared in anticipation of itsacceptance. You are, from this moment, virtual viceroy of Ireland."

This was elevation indeed! I had at once surmounted all the slowgradations of office. The broadest prospect of official ambition hadsuddenly opened before me; popularity, founded on the most solidgrounds, was now waiting only my acceptance; the sense of power,always dear to the heart of man, glowed in every vein; and it is onlyjustice to myself to say, that the strongest impulse of all was thedesire to leave my name as a benefactor to a people, who seemed to meas much gifted by nature as they were unhappy by circumstances.

"How long will it take you to prepare for the journey?" asked theminister.

"Half an hour," was my reply.

"Bravo! Marston. I see your campaigning has not been thrown away uponyou. You have the soldier's promptitude. We were prepared to allow youa week. But the sooner you set off the better. The truth is," said herising, "we are in great difficulties in that quarter. The mostthoroughly English portion of the island is at this moment the mostdisturbed. There are drillings, purchases of arms, midnightmusterings, and even something not far from prepared attacks upon theking's troops. The papers among which you found me, contain a regularand a very complete organization of an insurrectionary government. Youwill require all the energy of the soldier and all the prudence of thestatesman."

"Let me add to them," said I,[Pg 87] "what is essential to the success ofboth in a country of generous hearts and quick conceptions, thesincerity of a patriot."

"The experiment is worth trying," said he with a smile, "if it wereonly for the sake of its novelty. But Ireland has qualities which,like those of her soil, require only to be turned up to the light toreward all the labours of wealth or wisdom." Before that eveningclosed in, I was a hundred miles on my way to the Irish capital.

A rapid journey, and a tranquil passage over the sixty miles that liebetween Wales and Ireland, gave me what an old Roman would regard asan omen of the peacefulness of my mission. On the dawn of one of thefinest mornings of the year, I came within sight of the Irish coast,and was struck, as all travellers have been, by the beauty of the boldand picturesque coast which rose from the waters before me. In frontwas a province of mountains, touched by all the variety of colours,which are painted in such richness by the summer sun, on groups ofpinnacles and cones, forest hills, and the fine diversities ofwoodland and mountain scenery. On one side the eye glanced over a vastsheet of water, shut in by headlands, and as blue and bright as a lakeunder a serene sky. At the extremity of this noble estuary, a cloud,unchanging and unmoving, showed where a city sent up the smoke of itsten thousand fires; beyond this, all was purple confusion. My officialrank threw open all the élite of Irish society to me at my firststep; and I found it, as it has been found by every one else,animated, graceful, and hospitable. The nature of its governmenttended to those qualifications. While the grave business of the statewas done in London, the lighter business of show was sedulouslysustained in the Irish capital. The lord-lieutenant was generally anobleman, selected more for his rank and his wealth than for hisstatesmanship. A rich, showy, and good-humoured peer was the true manfor the head of affairs in Ireland. It was of more importance that heshould give balls and suppers, say lively things to the ladies, and bejocular with the gentleman, than that he should have the brains ofBolingbroke or the tongue of Chatham. But the position of thesecretary was the absolute antipode of this tranquil and festivesinecure. He was in Ireland what the premier was in England, but withten times more of the difficulty, and ten times less of the power. Thewhole conduct of public affairs lay on his shoulders; he wasresponsible for every thing, while he was free in nothing; perpetuallyassailed by opposition for measures which he was not at liberty toexplain, and standing between the English cabinet and the Irish partyas a scapegoat for the mistakes of the one, and a target for the shotof the other. But the chief trial of temper was in the House ofCommons. Opposition in Ireland never had a list of more brilliantnames. Government had the majority behind its bench, and that majorityrecruited from the ranks of Opposition; but the more distinguishedwere fixed to party by their own celebrity; and the recruits, howeverable, were so liable to be attacked for their change of side, thatthey were paralyzed; in some instances, they were so much galled bythe merciless sharpshooting of their former associates, that they ranback, and left the minister to fight the field alone.

I was fortunately free from the entanglements of that question, whichhas since formed so large a portion of the political disquietudes ofIrish debate. The religion of the south was not yet amongparliamentary topics. The religion of the north, active ardent, andindefatigable, was our most restless theme; and the political theorieswhich seemed to grow out of its bold abstractions, kept the governmentin perpetual anxiety. The whole northern portion of the island wasripe for revolt. America had blown the hot-blast of the revolutionaryfurnace across the Atlantic, and a spark from France would have nowignited the whole hot surface of the soil.

One of my first acts after arranging the preliminary business ofoffice, was to make a flying tour through Ulster. I was astonished atits beauty. Even after being familiar with the loveliness of theEnglish landscape, I was in a state of continued surprise at thevariety, rich[Pg 88]ness, and singularity of nature in the northerncounties. Mountain, lake, magnificent bay, and broad river, followedeach other in noble and unceasing succession. I was still more struckwith the skill and good fortune, by which the people had contrived tocombine the industry of manufactures with the life of the fields; aproblem which England herself had failed to solve. But, most of all, Iwas attracted by the independent air, and handsome and vigorousappearance of the people; almost every man was proprietor, and had thelook which proprietorship alone can give. I found books in almostevery cottage, decency of dress every where, and among the higherorders frequent elegance and accomplishment. The women were cultivatedand intelligent; the men, spirited and enquiring. But the politics ofFrance had made their way through a large portion of the province, andthe glories of a republic "loomed large" before the popular eye. As itwas my purpose to see all that I could with my own eyes, I mingledlargely in society, made no distinction between honourable men ofdifferent political creeds, enjoyed to-day the stag-hunt and claret ofthe noble Whig, and to-morrow the stag-hunt and claret of the nobleTory, listened to all, laughed with all, and learned something fromall. The English aristocrat, especially if he holds high officialplace, once haunted the imaginations of the Irish of all conditions,like an incarnation of an Indian deity—all fierceness and frigidity;and it must be acknowledged that the general order of viceroys andsecretaries had not tended much to remove the conception. They werechiefly men of advanced life, with their habits formed by intercoursewith the most exclusive class in existence, the English peerage, orrendered rigid by the dry formalities of official life. But I wasyoung, had seen a good deal of that rough work of the world whichgives pliancy, if not polish, to all characters; and I was, besides,really delighted with the animation, pleasantry, and winning kindnesswhich exhibited themselves every where round me. I was half a son ofIreland already, and I regarded the recognition as the pledge of mysuccess.

"Do you know," said one of the most influential and accomplishednoblemen of the country to me, one day at his sumptuous table—"howmany of the lords-lieutenant do you think have left a popularrecollection behind them?"

I professed my ignorance, but enumerated some names remarkable forintelligence and vigour of administration.

"Oh," said my entertainer, "that was not the question! Great statesmenand showy governors, capital rulers of the country and bold managersof our factions, we have had in sufficient succession, but I speak ofthe faculty of being remembered; the talent of making a publicimpression; the power of escaping that national oblivion into whichmere official services, let them be of what magnitude they may,inevitably drop when their performer has disappeared. Well, then, Ishall tell you. Two, and no more."

I begged to know the names of those "discoverers of the grand secret,the philosopher's stone of popularity," the alchemists who had powerto fix the floating essence of the Irish mind!

"Chesterfield and Townshend. Chesterfield, regarded as a fop inEngland, was a daring, steady, and subtle governor of the unrulyspirits of Ireland, in one of the most hazardous periods. That thethrone of the Brunswicks did not see an Irish revolt at the momentwhen it saw a Scottish invasion, was the service of Chesterfield. Buthe ruled not by his wisdom, but by his wit. He broke down faction bybon-mots; he extinguished conspiracy by passing compliments; headministered the sternest law with the most polished smile; and cutdown rebellion by quotations from La Fontaine, and calembourgs fromScarron. But with these fortunate pleasantries he combined public andsolid services. He threw a large portion of the crown lands in theneighbourhood of the capital into a park for the recreation of thecitizens, and thus gave one of the earliest and most munificentexamples of regard for the health and enjoyment of the people; a moreenduring monument of his statesmanship could not have[Pg 89] been offered tothe gratitude of the country."

Of the Marquis Townshend I had heard as a gallant soldier, and astirring viceroy, but I still had to learn the source of hispopularity.

"Townshend was one of those singular men who possess faculties ofwhich they have no knowledge, until the moment when they becomenecessary. He began life as a soldier, and finished his soldiership inthe most brilliant victory of his day—the battle of Quebec. On hisappointment to the viceroyalty, he found his government a nothing; agovernment faction superseding the governor, and an opposition factionengrossing the people. He now, for the first time, became apolitician. He resolved to crush both, and he succeeded. He treatedthe government faction in Ireland with contumely, and he treated theopposition with contempt. Both were indignant; he laughed at both, andtreated them with still more scorn. Both were astonished—thegovernment faction intrigued against him in England, the oppositionthreatened impeachment. He defied them still more haughtily. They nowfound that he was not to be shaken, and both submitted. The nationjoined him, was pacified, grew in vigour, as it required tranquillity;and here you have the secret of all the privileges which Ireland hasobtained. Townshend performed, only on a smaller scale, the samenational service which Pitt performed on a larger one. He took thepeople out of the hands of aristocracy, broke up the league ofopulence and power, and gave the island that popular freedom which thegreat minister of England gave to the empire. For this the name ofTownshend lives among us still. His bold satires are recorded, hisgallant bearing is remembered, his passing pleasantries have become aportion of the national wit, and his rough but effectual services areamong the memorials of our independence as a people."

The evening of this hospitable day concluded with a ball to theneighbouring families, and all was graceful and animated enjoyment. Myhost had travelled much in early life, and had brought home some finepictures and valuable sculptures. He was an accomplished classicalscholar—a quality which I found in some degree fashionable among theleading personages of the time, and which unquestionably added much tothe high tone of conversation among the parliamentary circles. In hismagnificent mansion an artist might have found studies, a scholarlearning, a philosopher wisdom, and a man of the world all the charmsof polished life. How soon, and how fearfully, were they all to beextinguished! How bitterly were all who honoured and esteemed thatgenerous and highly-gifted nobleman, to feel what shadows we are, andwhat shadows we pursue!

Our mornings were chiefly spent in hunting over the fine landscapewhich spread, in all the various beauty of vegetation, within view ofthe mansion. On one of those days the attention of the field wascaught by the fierce riding of a singular-looking man, scarcely abovethe peasant in his general appearance, and yet mounted on one of thefinest English horses that I had ever seen. He rode at every thing,managed his horse with practised skill, and soon became an object ofgeneral emulation. To "ride up" to the "wild horseman," was found tobe a task not easily accomplished, and at length all was a trial ofspeed with this dashing exhibitor. A glance which, when on the pointof one of his most desperate leaps, he threw back at me, seemed to bea kind of challenge, and I rushed on at speed. The Irish huntermatchless at "topping" stone walls, but his practice has not lain muchamong rivers; and the English horse is sometimes his master at thedeep and rapid streams which, running between crumbling banks, areperhaps the severest trials to both horse and rider. The majority ofthe hunt pulled up at the edge of one of those formidable chasms, andI was by no means unwilling to follow their example; but the look ofthe strange rider had a sneer along with it, which put me on mymettle, and I dashed after him. The hounds had scrambled through, andwe rode nearly abreast through a broken country, that mixture of bogand firm ground which occurs frequently in newly cleared land, andover which nothing but the most powerful sinews can make way. We[Pg 90] hadnow left every one behind us, were struggling on through the dimnessof a hazy day, sinking into twilight. Suddenly my mysterious rivalturned his horse full upon me, and to my utter amazement discharged apistol at my head. The discharge was so close that I escaped only bythe swerving of my horse at the flash. I felt my face burn, and in theimpulse of the pain made a blind blow at him with my whip. He haddrawn out another pistol in an instant, which the blow luckily dashedout of his hand. No words passed between us, but I bounded on him toseize him. He slipped away from my grasp, and, striking in the spur,galloped madly forward, I in pursuit. The twilight had now deepened,and he plunged into a lane bounded on both sides by steep hedges, andwhich, from some former hunting in this quarter, I knew to be acul-de-sac. This doubled my determination to make myself master ofthe assassin; and even in the hurry of the moment I formed someconception of my having seen his face before, and that the attempt toput me out of the way was connected, in some way or other, with publicaffairs. This question was soon decided. He reached the end of thelane, which was shut in with a wall of about the height of a man. Hishorse shied at the obstacle. The rider, with an oath and a desperateexertion, pushed him to it again. I was now within a few yards of him,and arrived just in time to see the animal make a convulsive spring,touch with his hind feet on the top of the wall, and roll over. MyIrish horse cleared it in the native style, and I found my enemycrushed under his hunter, and evidently in the pangs of death. He hadbeen flung on a heap of stones, and the weight of the falling horsehad broken his spine. I poured some brandy down his throat, relievedhim from the incumbrance of the hunter—attempted to give himhope—but he told me that it was useless; that he felt death comingon, and that I was the last man who should wish him to live, "as hehad pledged himself to my extinction." For a while, his recollectionswere wild, and he talked of events in France and Spain, where heseemed to have done some deeds which affected him with peculiar horrorin the prospect of dissolution. But, after a brief period of thoseterrible disclosures, his pains totally ceased, his mind grew clear;and he acknowledged that he was one of the leading agents of aNational Conspiracy to republicanize Ireland. "You are too kind," saidhe to me, "to one who now sees the madness of the design, and issensible of the guilt of taking away the lives of honourable men." Alapse of weakness here tied his tongue; and I brought him a draught ofwater from a spring which gurgled beside the wall. He thanked me, andproceeded to say, that my "character for vigilance and activity hadalarmed the principal conspirators, and that he, thinking all crimesmeritorious in a popular cause, had resolved to signalize thecommencement of his services, by putting the English secretary todeath on the first occasion." For this purpose, he had followed mysteps for some time in the metropolis, but without finding a fitopportunity. The intelligence of my hunting days in the north gave himrenewed expectations, and he had followed me in various disguises; hadbeen present at dinners and balls, where I was the principal guest;had even frequently conversed with me on public and foreign topics; infact, had haunted me with a case of pistols constantly in his bosom;yet had never been able to find the true opportunity of despatching mewithout eclat. He had, at last, determined to give up the object asaltogether hopeless; and had already prepared to act on a bolder scaleby heading open rebellion, when he heard of my intending to hunt onthis day. It was to be his last experiment; "and how rejoiced I am,"said he, "that it has failed!" He now remained for a while in apparentmeditation, and then suddenly raising himself on his hand, said, in afull and manly tone—"One thing I still can do in this world, if itmay not be too late. Leave me here; I must die; go back in all hasteto your friends, and tell them to prepare either to fly or defendtheir lives. This is the night appointed for the breaking out of theinsurrection. Fifty thousand men are already armed in the mountains,and ready for the[Pg 91] signal to march on the principal towns. The fewtroops in the country are to be made prisoners in their barracks. Thegovernment stores are to be divided among the people. Before twelvehours are over we shall have a force of a hundred thousand men onfoot; and a republic will be proclaimed."

The intelligence was startling, but not wholly unexpected. I demandedthe names of the leaders; but on this head he refused to make anyanswer. I next enquired, whether the rebel directory had any hope ofassistance from the Continent. "That I can fully answer," said he, nowalmost at his last gasp. "I myself was the negotiator. It is but amonth since I was in Paris. The government agreed to send seven sailof the line, with ten thousand troops, and Hoche, the favouritegeneral of the republic, to the north; or, in case of unexpectedobstacles, to the south of Ireland. I have been looking out for theirflag from hour to hour." The man sank back on the ground. I preparedto run for help, if there were any to be found in that desolate place.He grasped my hand; his was icy. "No," said he, "I must now be leftalone; I am dying, and I am not sorry to die. I am free from yourblood, and I shall not share in the horrors which I see at hand. Menin health, and men dying think differently of those things. Farewell!"He gave my hand a convulsive clasp, and expired.

My situation was an anxious one. Night had fallen, and the hour wasfull of peril to those whom I had left behind; it was even possiblethat the insurrection might have already broken out. Sounds, whichseemed to me, in the stillness of the hour, to be the signals of thepeasantry—the echoes of horns, and trampling of bodies ofhorse—began to rise upon the gust, and yet I was unwilling to leavemy unfortunate victim on the ground. A length a loud shout, and thefiring of musketry on the skirts of the wood, awoke me to a sense ofthe real danger of my situation. I forced my way through the thickets,and saw a skirmish between a large mass of armed men, and a picket oftroops in a village on the borders of the wood. There was now no timeto be lost. I returned to the spot where the body lay, placed my handon its forehead, to ascertain whether any remnant of life lingeredthere; found all cold; and, remounting my horse, wound my dreary anddifficult way back to the mansion.

To my surprise, I found the windows blazing with lights, carriagesarriving, and all the signs of a night of gala. I had forgotten thatthis was my noble entertainer's birthday, and that the whole circle ofthe neighbouring nobles and gentlemen had been for the last monthinvited. There were to be private theatricals, followed by a ball andsupper. The whole country continued to pour in. Full of my disastrousintelligence, my first enquiry was for the noble host; he was not tobe seen. I was at length informed under the seal of secrecy by hissecretary, that some information of popular movements within a fewmiles, having been conveyed to him late in the day, he had put himselfat the head of a squadron of his yeomanry to ascertain the nature ofthe disturbance, and as it was then too late to countermand theinvitations to the ball, had given strict orders that the cause of hisabsence should be concealed, and that the entertainments should go onas if he were present.

Agreeing that this was the wisest thing which could be done, to avoidunnecessary alarm, which paralyses action beforehand, and renders allridiculous after, I seldom felt it more difficult to play my part thanon this occasion. As a minister, any thing in the shape of solicitudeon my part, was sure to be magnified into actual disaster, and I wasforced to keep an unembarrassed countenance. I immediately sent outservants in every direction to bring intelligence of the actual stateof affairs, and above all, to ascertain what had detained theirmaster. Though all this was done with the utmost secrecy, it wasimpossible to suppress the growing impression that somethingextraordinary must have occurred, to withdraw from his own hospitableroof, and so long detain, the lord of the mansion, distinguished as hewas for the most polished courtesy. As the hour waned, the enquiriesbecame more urgent, the dance languished, and the showy[Pg 92] crowd forminginto groups, and wandering through the saloons, or gathered to thewindows, had evidently lost all the spirit of festivity. To myastonishment, strong opinions began to find utterance, and Idiscovered that his lordship, in his general and lofty disregard ofthe shades of popular sentiment, had among his guests some individualswhose rank and wealth had not preserved them from the taint ofrepublicanism. As it was not my purpose to make a ball-room the sceneof a political squabble, and as I felt it due to my official positionto avoid any unnecessary entanglement in the obscure follies ofprovincial partizanship, I first tried to laugh down the topic. But ayoung orator, a handsome and fluent enthusiast, recently returned froma continental excursion, gave so stirring a picture of the glories ofFrench independence, and the glittering advantages which must accrueto all countries following the example, that I was forced to stand onmy defence. The gallant republican was not to be repelled; he pouredout upon me, as he warmed with the theme, so vast a catalogue ofpublic injuries, in language so menacing, yet so eloquent, that I wasforced to ask whether I was standing in the midst of a Jacobinclub—whether his object was actually to establish a democracy, togovern by the guillotine, to close up the churches, and inscribe thetombs with—death is an eternal sleep; to swear to the extinction ofmonarchy, and proclaim universal war. Our dispute had now attractedgeneral notice. He answered with still more vehement and elaboratedetail. I had evidently the majority on my side, but some few adheredto him, and those, too, men of consequence, and obvious determination.

The ladies shrank affrighted, as the contest grew more angry; and theusual and unhappy result of political discussion in Ireland, anexchange of cards, was about to take place, when one of the servantsbrought me a small packet of papers which had been found on the bodyof the assassin. Glancing over them, I saw a list of the leaders ofthe insurrection, and the first name in the paper that of myantagonist. I crushed the document in my hand, and beckoned him to awindow. There, alone, and out of hearing of the guests, who, however,followed us anxiously with their eyes, I charged him with his guilt.He denied it fiercely. I gave him five minutes to consider whether hewould confess or abide the consequences. His countenance visiblyexhibited the perturbations of his mind; he turned pale and redalternately, shuddered, then braced himself up with desperateresolution, and finally ended by denying and defying every thing. Itwas not in my nature to press upon this moment of agony; but tellinghim, that nothing but compassion prevented my ordering his arrest onthe spot, I again warned him to make his peace in time with thegovernment, by a solemn abjuration of his design.

I have the whole scene before me still. This man was destined to amemorable and melancholy fate. I never remember a countenance moreexpressive of intellectual refinement; but there was a look of strangeand feverish restlessness in his large grey eye, almost ominous of hisfuture career. He was still young, though he had already gone throughvicissitudes enough to darken the longest life. He had been, a fewyears before, called to the bar, the favourite profession of the Irishgentry, where he had exhibited talents of a remarkable order; but animpatience of the slow success of this profession drove him to thehazards of political change. He had married, and this increased hisdifficulties, until party came athwart him with its promises ofboundless honour and rapid fortune. His sanguine nature embraced thetemptation at once; but the parliamentary opposition was toodeliberate and too frigid for his boiling blood; he plunged into thedeeper and wilder region of conspiracy, took the lead, which is sosoon assigned to the brilliant and the bold, and became the soul ofthe tremendous faction which was ready to proclaim the separation ofthe empire.

He had but now returned from France, with a commission in the army ofthe Republic, and a plan agreed on with the Directory for the invasionof Ireland; but these were[Pg 93] discoveries to be made hereafter. On thisnight I saw nothing but a gallant enthusiast, filled with classicrecollections, inflamed with the ardour of early life, and deluded bythe dreams of political perfection. My sense of the utter ruin whichhe was preparing for himself was so strong, that I pressed him frompoint to point, until he was forced to take refuge in flight, and,rushing from me, burst open a door which led to the demesne. While Ipaused, not unwilling to give him the opportunity to escape, I heard awild burst of wailing, and a confusion of voices outside. In the nextmoment, I saw the fugitive return, with a tottering step, a bloodlesscountenance, and a look of horror. Without a word, he pointed to thedoor; I followed the direction, and saw what might well justify hisfeelings. The troop of yeomanry had been attacked on their return frompatrolling the country; an ambuscade had been laid for them by a largeforce of the insurgents, in one of the narrow roads which bordered thedemesne, and where, from its vicinity, they had imagined themselvessecure. As they moved down this defile with their noble commandant attheir head, a heavy fire of musketry assailed them from both sides;and as the assailants were unapproachable, they had no resource but togallop on. But they had no sooner reached the wider part of the road,than they found themselves fired on again from behind a barricade ofcarts and waggons drawn across the road. The affair now seemeddesperate; the muzzles of the muskets almost touched their breasts,and every shot told. Their pistols could only keep up a random fire,and their sabres were wholly useless. They were now falling helplesslyand fast, when the earl ordered them to charge the insurgents infront, and force their way over the barricade at all risks. He bravelyled the way, and they burst through under a volley from the rebels. Aball fatally struck him as he was in the act of cheering on his men,and he dropped dead from his horse without a groan. The troop, furiousat their loss, had taken a desperate revenge, cleared the road, andhad now brought the dead body of their lord to that mansion, where hehad so long presided as the example of every high-toned quality, andwhich his fate was now to turn into a scene of terror and woe.

The melancholy tidings could not now be suppressed, and the ball-roomwas filled with screams and faintings. The corpse was brought in,borne on the arms of the yeomanry, most of them wounded, and lookingghastly from loss of blood and the agitation of the encounter. Theguests crowded round the sofa on which the body was laid, with all thevarieties of sorrow and strong emotion conceivable, under the loss ofa common and honoured friend. Tears fell down many a manly cheek; sobswere heard on every side, mingled with outcries of indignation againstthe rebellious spirit by which so deep a calamity had been produced.But all other considerations were quickly absorbed in the sense ofgeneral danger. A tremendous shout was heard round the mansion,followed by the discharge of musketry and the clashing of pikes. Allrushed to the windows, and we saw the hills in a blaze with fires, andthe demesne crowded with the armed thousands of the insurrection.

[Pg 94]

JANUS;

The God of New-year's Day, From the Fasti of Ovid.

Behold with omens blithe and bright, on festive New-Year's Day,
First in the year old Janus comes, and foremost in my lay!
Twin-headed god, source of the year that silent glides away,
Who only of the Olympian throng canst thine own back survey;
Bless thou our noble chiefs, whose arms have purchased gentle peace
To fruitful Earth, and lent the wave from pirate-chase release;
On senators and people smile, who call Quirinus god,
All temples bright, in shining white, fly open at thy nod!
A lucky sun doth shine; nor voice, nor thought of ill, be stirr'd
To tempt the time; the happy day demands the happy word.
No brawls assail the ear; cease now the harsh-vex'd forum's hum,
And calumny with eager tongue, for once thy spite be dumb!
Lo! where the pure and fragrant flame from every altar round
Upwreathes, while ears devout receive the saffron's crackling sound!
The wandering flame, far darting, strikes the golden-fretted roof,
And with the tremulous ray aloft, it weaves a shining woof.
In stately pomp, the people wend up the Tarpeian slope,
All brightly, on a bright day clad, the pure white robes of hope;
New axes shine, and in the sun new purple bravely sports,
And greeted-far the curule chair new weight of worth supports;[12]
New oxen come that lately cropp'd the sweet Faliscan grass,
And yield to Jove their willing necks on which no yoke did pass.
He, from his starry throne sublime, looks East and West; and lo!
He sees but Rome, and Rome's domain, in all he sways below.
Hail happy day, and still return to bless with happier face
The sons of Romulus, lords of Earth, not thankless for thy grace!
But who art thou, strange biform god, and what thy power? for Greece
With all her gods of thee and thine hath bade her Muses cease;
This say; and say why thou alone of all celestial kind,
Dost forwards still look steadfastly and also gaze behind?
Thus with myself I mused, and held my tablets to indite,
When sudden through the room there shone an unaccustom'd light,
And in the light the double shape of Janus hoar appear'd,
And 'fore my view with fix'd regard his double face he rear'd.
I stood aghast, each rigid hair erect rose on my head,
And through my frame with freezing touch the creeping terror sped.
He in his right hand held a staff, and in his left a key,
And with the mouth to-me-ward turn'd these words he spake to me—
"Fear not, pains-taking bard, whose pen doth chronicle the days,
Receive my word with faithful ear, and sound it in thy lays.
When earth was young, primeval speech first call'd me Chaos; I
Am no birth of to-day—a name of hoar antiquity.
This lucid air, and the other three, which elements ye class,
Fire, water, earth, were then one rude and undigested mass;
But soon within the mingled heap a secret strife did brew,
And to self-chosen homes anon the hostile atoms flew.
[Pg 95]First rose the flame sublime, the air assumed the middle berth,
And to the central base were bound strong ocean, and firm earth.
Then I, till then a mass confused, a huge and shapeless round,
New features worthy of a god, and worthy members found;
Still of my primal shapeless bulk remain'd the little trace,
That I alone have no true back, but show both ways a face.
One cause thou hast; another hear, and with my figure know,
My virtue and my power above, my office here below.
Whate'er thou see'st, the earth, the sea, the air, the fiery cope,
At my command they shut their gates, at my command they ope.
I of the vasty universe do hold the secret key,
The hinge of every thing that turns is turn'd alone by me.
Peace, when I please to send her forth from her secure retreats,
Walks freely o'er the unfenced fields, and treads free-gated streets;
The mighty globe would quake convulsed by blood and murderous din,
Did not my brazen bolt confine the store of strife within.
The gates of Heaven are mine; I watch there with the gentle Hours,
That Jove supreme must wait my time in the Olympian bowers.
Thence my name Janus;[13] thence the priest who on my altar places
The salted cake, the sacred meal, with strange-mouth'd titles graces
My hoary deity; thence you hear Patulcius now, and now
Clusius, crown the votive gift, and seal the mystic vow.[14]
Thus rude antiquity at first its simple creed confess'd,
And with twin words the functions twain of one same god express'd.
My power you know—the god of gates—now for my figure, why?
The cause is plain, and may be read by half a poet's eye.
There is no door but looks two ways; into the busy street
This way, and that way back towards the quiet Lar's retreat;[15]
And as the porter whom you place to keep watch at your gate,
Sees who goes out and who comes in at early hour and late,
Thus I, the warden of the sky, from heaven's wide-tented blue,
Look forth, and scan both east and west with comprehensive view.
The triform image you have seen, and any where may see,
Of Hecate standing at the point where one road parts in three;
Thus I, lest turning of my neck my function might delay,
The motive world on either side without a move survey."
Thus spake the god with friendly mien and eye, that seem'd to say—
"If wish be yours to question more, command me; I obey."
Due thanks I gave; strong fear no more my eager tongue possess'd,
And with a look that sought the ground, the immortal I address'd.
"This would I know, why frosty days and storms begin the year,
Which flowery spring had usher'd in with more auspicious cheer;
Then all things flourish—all things then of youth and freshness tell,
The juicy vine begins to flow, the bud begins to swell;
With fresh green leaves the tree is clad, a virgin sheen appears,
The bursting seed above the ground the fresh green blade uprears.
With fresh full-throated warblings then the blithe birds stir the air,
And lamb and lambkin in the mead their frisking sports prepare.
Then suns are mild; its south retreat the stranger swallow leaves,
And skilful builds the well-known clay beneath the lofty eaves.
Then walks the ploughman forth; the clod yields to the sturdy steer;
Soothly the fittest time was this to omen in the year."
[Pg 96]My words were many, but in words few and well-chosen, He,
Within the compass of two lines, thus made reply to me.
"What time the sun that sunk before mounts loftier to the view,
This fitliest closed the parting year, and usher'd in the new."
I ask'd again, "Why on this day the forum's strife should end
Only in part."—"The cause," said he, "I will explain; attend.
The young year's starting day I made but partial holiday,
Lest labourless begun, the year might run to the end in play;
Each cunning hand on Janus' feast makes prelude to his trade,
Of all the rest a timely test on New-Year's day is made."
Then I, this further—"Tell me why, when I bring frankincense
To Jove or any other god, with thee I still commence?"
"Because of things in heaven and earth I hold the sacred key,
The first approach to all the gods is made alone through me."
"But on thy kalends, why are men, so harsh on other days,
Keen to return the kindly look, and change the friendly phrase?"
To this the god, his strong right hand upon his good staff leaning,
"All ominous things when first observed speak out their fateful meaning.
To the first voice of things that cry, ye lend a trembling ear,
And the first flight of bodeful wings fills pious hearts with fear.
The ears are open of the gods, to catch on New-Year's day
What random words, or thoughtless prayer, a hasty fool may say."
Thus ceased the god; nor slow was I the broken thread to join,
But of the last words that he spake, thus trode the heels with mine.
"But what have dates to do with thee, and wrinkled figs, this tell,
And what the honey dew that drops pure from its snowy cell?"[16]
"Here, too, an omen lies," he said; "the cause is passing clear,
That from sweet things a savour sweet may relish the whole year."
Thus taught, the cause I understood of dates, and figs, and honey;
"But tell me now, wise god!" I said, "what means the piece of money?"
He smiled. "Alas! how much thy age deceives thy wit," he said;
"As if sweet honey by the touch of gold were sweeter made.
Even in good Saturn's day, 'twas hard to find a heart all pure,
From the infection of base gain, and gainful lust secure.
Small at the birth, it grew apace the thirst of yellow ore,
Till heap on heap ye pile so high, that ye can pile no more.
Not so the measure was of wealth in Rome's primeval time,
When all was poor that now is rich, and low that's now sublime;
When a small hut was all that held the son of Mars divine,
And gather'd reeds were all the couch on which he drain'd the wine;
When Jove within his narrow cell erect could scarcely stand,
An earthen Jove, and of base clay the bolt that arm'd his hand.
When with wild-flowers the fane was deck'd that now with jewels gleams,
And his own sheep the senator fed near the rural streams;
When gently woo'd by healthy sleep the rustic warrior lay
On straw, and praised above all down a truss of bristling hay;
When to give laws to Rome the peasant consul left the plough,
And gold was then as great a crime as 'tis a virtue now.
But when our fates were lifted high, and to the stars sublime,
Perch'd on her base of seven-hill'd state proud Rome had learn'd to climb;
Wealth grew with power, and lust of wealth, a madness of the brain,
And still the more that they possess'd, the more they sought to gain.
Eager to make that they might spend, spending to make anew,
Change nursed by change of fell extremes to monstrous nature grew;
Thus he whose sickly body swells with water in the veins,
The more he drinks, the more within the thirsty fever reigns.
[Pg 97]All things are prized by price; to wealth all honours now are sure;
Wealth buys the rich man friends; forlorn and friendless pines the poor.
If now you ask why copper coins are chiefly my delight,
The ancient brass of Rome should I, the ancient Janus, slight?
Brass was their wealth of old; though now the better omen's gold,
And the new metal from the field has fairly beat the old.
Myself, though simple and severe, approve a golden shrine—
This metal hath a majesty that suits a power divine.
We praise the ancients, and 'tis well; but use our modern ways—
All fashions in due time and place are worthy of our praise."
Thus ceased the god; but I, to set all rising doubts at rest,
The hoar key-bearer of the sky thus with meek words address'd:—
"Much I have learn'd; but tell me this—why of our copper coin
Does one side bear a ship, and one a double head like thine?"[17]
"That head is mine; you might have known the likeness of the face
But that hoar age and wear have dull'd the sharpness of the trace.
As for the ship, attend: the god that bears the scythe whilcome
Far-wandering in the Tuscan flood at length had ceased to roam.[18]
Well I remember when he came, and hold the memory dear—
Saturn, by Jove expell'd from heaven, and kindly welcom'd here.
Thence was the land Saturnia call'd; and Latium still we name
The part where ancient Saturn lurk'd in safety when he came.[19]
Our pious sires upon the brass the sacred ship impress'd,
Whose keel to blest Ausonian shores had borne the Olympian guest.
Then on that spot I made my home where Tiber's waters glide,
And eat the yielding banks away with sandy-rolling tide.
Here, where Rome stands, wild copse green grew; the busy forum now
Was then a peaceful glen, disturb'd by wandering oxen's low.
My fortress then was that same hill which pious Rome reveres
Even now, and thinks on Janus when Janiculum she hears.
Here I was king, when holy earth of heavenly guests could tell,
And in the haunts of men the gods were not ashamed to dwell;
Ere Justice, shrinking from the sight of human guilt and crime,
Last of immortals left the earth, and sought the starry clime;
When hearts were sway'd by love, and held by bonds of holy awe,
And light the labour was to shape for willing hearts the law.
Stern war I knew not, and the gates I held were gates of peace;
While in my hand the key declared—Let garner'd stores increase!"
Here closed the god his lips; but I, not bashful, open'd mine,
And with the mortal voice again unseal'd the voice divine.
"Since many gates are thine in Rome, say why dost thou appear
In perfect shape and size nowhere but at the forums here?"[20]
Whereto the god, with gentle hand stroking his long beard hoary,
Forthwith recounted in my ear Œbalian Tatius' story;
And how, by Sabine gauds ensnared, the fair and faithless maid
The path that to the Capitol leads to the Sabine lord betray'd.
[Pg 98]"As there is now, so then there was, a slope by which you go
Steep from the citadel to the plain, and forum stretch'd below;
And now the twain had reach'd the gate where Juno's partial ward
The only bolts that closed their way propitiously unbarr'd,
When I, too wise with Saturn's seed in open fight to join,
Contrived a scheme that baffled hers, a plan entirely mine;
I oped (in opening lies my strength) a gate where waters slept,
And from the solid rock straightway a stream impetuous leapt;
To the hot spring such sulphurous steams my timely aid supplied
That eager Tatius quail'd and shrunk back from the rolling tide.
The Sabines fled; the gushing fount miraculous ceased to flow;
Nor pious Rome to own the power that sent such aid was slow;
A little altar on a shrine not large to Janus' name
Was raised; there sprinkled meal and cake smokes mingled with the flame."
"But this say further,—why thy gates in war are open, why
In peace are closed?" whereto the god thus gave the prompt reply;
"That till her sons fierce war have quench'd, and crush'd the crude revolt,
Rome to receive the homeward host may keep unbarr'd the bolt;
In peace my locks are closed, that none may causeless leave his home,
Nor few the years I shall be closed while Cæsar reigns in Rome."
Thus spake the god; and lifting high his head of diverse view,
Scann'd east and west, and all that's spread beneath the ethereal blue;
And peace rein'd o'er wide earth; ev'n where i' the north, with surly wave,
The rebel Rhine to Cæsar's arms their latest triumph gave;
Peace, hoary Janus, make thou sure for ever; and may they
Who purchased peace embrace the globe with everlasting sway.

TO A BLIND GIRL.

[Pg 99]

THE FORCED SALE.

A large red brick house, with a multitude of gable-ends, and rows ofsmall, dingy-looking windows, had hidden itself for many generationsin a clump of fine old trees in a large green field—almost qualifiedto take rank as a park—at a distance of six or seven miles from StPaul's. In the days of the good Queen Anne, the city lay comfortablyhuddled up round the cathedral church, and looked upon her sister ofWestminster as too far removed, and of too lofty a rank, to be visitedexcept on rare occasions. London was then contained within reasonablelimits, and it was easy to walk round her boundaries; you could evenpoint out the precise spot at which the town ended and the countrybegan. The inhabitants of the large brick house, known by the name ofSurbridge Hall, at rare intervals, and then only to visit the shops,undertook the journey into the city; and, unless in the stillest ofautumn evenings, when the enormous tongue of the metropolitan clockmade itself audible on the Surbridge lawn, they might have forgottenthat such a place as the capital was within fifty miles. Thatgeneration died off; and London had begun to put out feelers in alldirections, and had outgrown the ancient limits. Streets began to moveout a little way into the country for change of air; and, in makingtheir usual shopping-visits to the great city, the inhabitants ofSurbridge Hall had now to drive through a short row of houses, wherethe elders of the party remembered nothing but a hedge. Thatgeneration also died out; and the city, like an old dowager who hasonce been a beauty, and boasted of a waist, grew out of all shape.There were squares and crescents rising in every quarter and the whitetops of chimneys, and the blue dinginess of roofs, became visible fromthe upper windows of Surbridge Hall. The proprietor, terrified perhapsby the approach of such neighbours, advertised the Hall for sale,speedily found a purchaser, and, somewhere about the beginning of thiscentury, the old family name of the Walronds disappeared from thecountry, and Surbridge Hall became the property of William Wilkins,Esq. We may observe that, much about the same time, the name of thesenior partner disappeared from the door of a dingy-looking house inRiches Court, and the firm of Wilkins & Roe was deprived of its largerhalf. The old lion-rampant, that had stood on its hind-legs for somany years on the top of one of the piers of the entrance gates, as ifin act to spring upon the deer that lay ruminating on the top of theother, was now displaced; and, in a few days, his position was takenby a plaster-of-Paris cast of Hebe, benevolently holding forth anempty goblet towards the thirsty statue of Apollo which did duty onthe other side. The floors in the old hall were new laid, the windowsfitted with plate glass, the painting and decoration put into thehands of a Bond-street finisher, who covered the walls with acres ofgilding, and hung chandeliers from the ceilings, and placed mirrorsupon the walls, till the rooms looked like the show galleries of anupholsterer, and very different from the fine solid habitableapartments they used to be in the time of the late proprietor. And achange nearly as remarkable took place on Mr Wilkins himself as in hishouse. He attended county meetings, and became learned in rents andagriculture. He built new houses for his tenants, and only regrettedhe had never learned to ride, or he would have followed the hounds.But though he was no Nimrod, he dressed like one of his sons, andencased his thick legs in top-boots, and generally carried a whip. Atlast, by dint of good dinners, and voting on the right side at theelections, he became a magistrate; and if Mrs Wilkins had had thepoliteness to die, he would have married Lady Diana O'Huggomy, thedaughter of an Irish earl; but Mrs Wilkins did not die, and Lady Dianaran away with a dancing-master. His son had been eighteen years at thebar, and never had had a brief; his daughters had been twenty years onthe world, and never had had an offer;[Pg 100] but he still expected to seeRichard lord chancellor, and his three girls peeresses. A countrygentleman, a county magistrate, perfectly healthy and tolerably rich,was there any thing wanting to Mr Wilkins's felicity? Yes. Alexanderthe Great was wretched when he had conquered the world, and was tentimes happier when he was breaking-in Bucephalus; and Mr Wilkins, ifthe truth must be told, was very like Alexander the Great, at least inhis discontent, and was never so gay as he used to be in the dingymansion in Riches Court. The dinners he gave were formal, coldaffairs, where he never felt at his ease: he could not help thinkingthat the neighbours quizzed and looked down on him; and, in short, hefelt out of his element, and longed sometimes for the free-and-easydinners he had relished so much in the city. His farm-houses were atlast all built, his improvements all completed, and there was nofurther occupation for either himself or his money. He sometimes droveinto Harley Street to see his son, but he found that gentleman also onthe rack of idleness, and went home again, wondering how Roe wasgetting on in the old premises, though never venturing to go nearhim—for his family had insisted on a dead cut between the partners,and could not endure the thoughts of Mr Roe coming between the windand their newly acquired nobility. Time wore on. Old Wilkins grewolder. He used to sit at the window of his drawing-room and looktowards London, fancying to himself the bustle and stir that weregoing on, the crowding in Fleet Street, the crush at the Bank; andoccasionally imagination conjured up to him the image of an activecitizen bustling down towards the Exchange, radiant with success, andfilled with activity and hope; and he could scarcely recognise his ownidentity with that joyous citizen, the William Wilkins of that happiertime. The flood of building, which had only reached to within threemiles of Surbridge when the Walronds retired to the ark of some estatethey retained in Yorkshire, had now increased to such a degree, as tohave submerged many of the fields and orchards that lay at very shortdistance from the Hall. "Willars," with Italian fronts and littlegreenhouses at the side, took post all along the road, and, from theopen windows, sounded in summer evenings the Battle of Prague, or Godsave the King, so that you walked amidst perpetual music, for no housewas so ungenteel as to be without a piano. Surbridge Hall itself ran agreat risk of becoming a suburban villa at no distant time; and MrWilkins was in some hopes that his family would allow him to considerhimself an inhabitant of London once more, and no longer doom him tothe cold nothingness of squireship and gentility. But whether theymight have relented in this respect can never be known; for while hewas meditating a renewal of his acquaintance with his late partner,and an occasional dive into Riches Court, he changed his bed at theHall for the family vault (newly built) in Surbridge church, and hisgreat-coat and riding-whip for a Roman toga and a long gilt baton,with which he pointed to heaven from the top of a splendid monumentnear the south wall. Richard now succeeded to the family honours; andas he had married a Miss Gillingham—a name which he preferred to hisancestral appellation—he did her the honour to take it to himself,and was duly enrolled in the list of justices as Wilkins Gillingham,Esq. His son was sent to Christchurch, and his three daughters to afashionable boarding-school. His mother and sisters retired toTunbridge Wells, and they all began to persuade themselves thatSurbridge had been in the family from the time of the Conquest. By wayof strengthening their claims to county consideration, it was wiselydetermined to oppose the building invasion as powerfully as theycould. Several farms and fields were bought, plantations wereskilfully placed, two or three feet were added to the height of thewalls all round the property; and it was hoped that some impressionwas made on the advancing architectural enemy; for in the speculativeyear of 1819, a dozen or two of builders were removed to the Queen'sBench, and whole rows of houses were left looking up to heaven, invain expectation of a roof. Wilkins Gillingham[Pg 101] served the office ofHigh Sheriff, caught a surfeit in entertaining the judges, and in afew weeks gave place to his heir. Augustus had passed two years atOxford—had then married a beauty—the daughter of a country surgeonof the name of Howard; and as he inherited his father's tastes, alongwith his property, he changed his family name; and poor old WidowWilkins, who still survived, enlivened the tea-tables of the Wellswith anecdotes and descriptions of her grandson, Gillingham Howard.Death seemed entirely to have forgotten the relict of the originalWilliam. She stood like an ancient pillar, to point out where thebuilding it once belonged to was placed; and was looked upon by herdescendants pretty much as a native American looks upon a venerablesquaw of some Indian nation—the connecting link between New York andthe woods. The widow was the sole point of union left betweenSurbridge Hall and Riches Court. Whether her grandson did not relishthe reminiscence, or from what cause no one can hazard more than aguess, certain it is that on the death of his wife, who left him withtwo daughters, four or five years old, he did not summon his venerableancestor from the Wells, but installed one of her daughters—AuntSusannah—in the temporary charge of his house. By some secretarrangement, into the causes of which we have no time to enquire, sucha change took place in Aunt Susannah, that though she left Tunbridge,having secured her place in the inside of the coach in the name ofMiss S. Wilkins, she was brought out from London in Mr Howard'scarriage in the name of Miss S. Gillingham; and there was no person ofthe name of Wilkins in the whole of the establishment. Aunt Susannahwas not a person to hesitate long as to a change of name. It had beenthe whole object of her life, till five-and-thirty years ofdisappointment had almost made her despair of succeeding in herobject, by the help of special license or even vulgar banns; and sheaccordingly made no scruple in adopting the more euphoniousGillingham, and sinking all mention of the other. Mr Gillingham Howardfollowed the example of his predecessors. He was a bona fide countrygentleman, with the one drawback to his otherwise stupendousrespectability, of being the greatest drawer of the long-bow since thedays of Mendez Pinto. He added two feet more to the height of hisboundary walls, and bought all the disposable land round his estate;but if he had transplanted a couple of miles of the Chinese wall toSurbridge, he could no more have kept off the intrusion of thebarbarian villa-builders than the Celestials have been able to shutout the same pushing, bustling, active, energetic, unabashableindividuals from the Flowery land. Architecture went on, and now thegigantic city had stuck her arms so majestically on either hip, thatone of her elbows actually came into contact with the park ofSurbridge Hall. There was a gentle elevation—in those flat regionshonoured with the name of a hill—which lay at one side of theSurbridge lands. It was a beautifully wooded little property of thirtyor forty acres, which it had always been the ambition of the Surbridgeowners to buy; but it was so involved with lawsuits or doubtfultitles, that it had hitherto been impossible to get possession of itfor love or money. The upper part of it rose high above the glades ofSurbridge park, and the clump of trees on the summit formed a veryfine object in the view from the drawing-room windows. It was all laiddown in the richest pasture, and would have formed the most valuableaddition to the property, both in making it compact and keeping itsecluded. The owner of it died at last in the Fleet, and it wasadvertised for sale, with a perfect title and immediate possession.The sale was by auction, and the day drew rapidly near. Mr GillinghamHoward went carefully over the ground, examined the condition of hiscredit—for his surplus cash was gone—had the property valued; anddetermined to give a thousand more than its worth, to prevent itfalling into any one else's hands. When the day of sale arrived, heplaced himself in front of the auctioneer, and determined, by thefierceness of his "bids," to frighten any competitor from the field.The room was crowded, and the sale began. All the eloquence of thecelebrated Puff was[Pg 102] displayed on this occasion; and when he pausedafter his glowing description, and asked any gentleman to be kindenough to name a sum to begin with—suggesting, at the same time, fourthousand pounds. "Gentlemen, shall we say four thousand guineas?" MrGillingham Howard, in a voice that was calculated to show that he wasin earnest, and did not stand upon trifles, nodded his head, and said"seven!" The auctioneer himself was overcome with the success of hisoratory, and there was a dead silence among the spectators. "Thankyou, sir—seven thousand guineas," he said, "Will any gentleman makean advance?" looking round, at the same time, as if he considered ituseless to waste any breath in endeavouring to enhance the price. Hishammer mechanically went up, and was on the point of falling, when aweak voice near the orator's pulpit whispered "eight."

The voice proceeded from an old man wrapped up in a thick great-coat,though it was a warm day in June—a clear-eyed, small-featured,diminutive old man, who had sat the whole time, taking no apparentinterest in the proceedings. All eyes were turned upon him in amoment, and he quietly repeated the awful monosyllable—"eight!" MrGillingham Howard looked at the old gentleman with detestation inevery feature, for he felt that the person, whoever he was, wasactually robbing him of a thousand pounds; and he would have had veryfew scruples in sending the culprit to Botany Bay for so tremendous anoutrage. A sort of smile ran round the assemblage at seeing the suddenalteration produced on his countenance; and though he had determinednot to give more than the original seven, he was ashamed to be cowedby an unknown individual at once; and after a few minutes' pause, anda glance of ineffable hatred at the little old man, who had relapsedinto his state of contented unconcern, he looked at the auctioneer,and said, "Five hundred more!" Saying this, he put his hands into hispockets, and kept his eye fixed on his competitor. Without a moment'shesitation, the old gentleman nodded his head once more, and said, "MrPuff, I'm in a hurry. Will this gentleman give ten thousand guineas? Iwill!"

The auctioneer gave one look to Mr Gillingham Howard, and saw, fromthe blank expression of that gentleman's countenance, that competitionwas at an end. The hammer fell, and seemed like a great rock on MrGillingham Howard's heart.

"Your name, if you please, sir," said Mr Puff.

The little old gentleman rose up and said, "Give me a pen and ink.I'll write an order for the money. My name is Thomas Roe, No. 20,.Riches Court."

Chapter .

A week had passed, and Mr Gillingham Howard nursed his wrath, like TamO'Shanter's wife, to keep it warm. The name of the successfulpurchaser had struck him with a feeling of horror; for as silence hadbrooded for fifty years over the history of his grandfather—and asthe misty period preceding the purchase of Surbridge had given rise toa whole mythology of ancestry like to the anti-historic periods ofGreece, and other imaginative nations—he looked upon the appearanceof the veritable contemporary of that fabulous age in the same way asRomulus would have regarded any surviving friend and companion of thereal bona fide robber or pig-driver to whom he probably owed hisbirth. It is needless, therefore, to say, that over all other feelingsfear and disgust predominated. He determined to withdraw himself intostill more aristocratic seclusion than before, and on no account torecognise the existence of his new neighbour. A month or two passedon, and no steps seemed taken on the part of the purchaser to availhimself of his new acquisition. Day after day Mr Gillingham Howardlooked up to the tuft of trees that crowned the beautiful field beyondhis park, and on seeing no symptoms of cutting down, nor otherpreparations for house-building,[Pg 103] began to indulge in the pleasinganticipation that the old gentleman had no intention of the kind; andby cherishing this idea for some time, he succeeded at last inbelieving, that if he did in reality turn his ground to any such apurpose, he would be guilty of a fresh injustice. Three months hadelapsed, and the beautiful colours of Autumn just unfurled themselvesin order to be struck at the first broadside of a November frost—thesun was shining so warmly, that the leaves had every reason to beashamed of their yellow complexions; and a young lady—like abutterfly awakened by the brightness of the day—fluttered forwardfrom the porch of Surbridge Hall, dressed in all the hues of therainbow. A green bonnet, a pink pelisse, a red shawl, and lilacparasol, were scarcely in keeping with the sylvan scene on which shehurriedly entered. She was very tall and very thin, and had beentaught to walk by a Parisian promeneuse at a guinea a lesson; sothat the tail of her gown described a half circle every time shestept, and her progress was apparently on the principle of thepropeller screw. A small sketch-book was under her arm, and across herwrist she bore a supernumerary shawl. "If he should be there again,"she thought, "he will surely speak. He looked as if he wished to do itlast time. But he's bashful, perhaps, to a person of my rank. Poorfellow—how handsome he looked as he turned away!" The thought seemedto be a pleasant one, for a sort of smile rose to her thin lips as shedwelt on it, and she increased her pace. She opened a little gate, andmoved rapidly on towards an ornamental poultry-house near the boundaryof the estate. The extra shawl was soon spread upon the stump of atree, the sketch-book opened, and with her eye intently fixed on thefantastic chimney of the hen-house, she listened for every sound. Shemoved the pencil as if busily engaged in sketching; but, strange tosay, the figure produced by her touch, took (involuntarily as it were)the appearance of a very handsome young man, for whose bright eyes andsmiling countenance there was no warrant in the twisted bricks andoddly shaped cans of the original. As if her drawing had been themystic configurations of a conjurer, the spirit came when she did callfor it; and with a side glance of her eye, she perceived at no greatdistance from her a young man, who seemed to be gazing at her withgreat earnestness, and was only prevented from addressing her by theawe, that formed of course the body-guard of a daughter of MrGillingham Howard. There are many ways in which it is possible to showthat the said body-guard may be broken through, without subjecting theculprit to the penalties of high-treason. A short cough, as ifpreparatory to a conversation—a hurried look, and then a scarcelyperceptible smile—a sort of fidgety uneasiness, as if the stump ofthe tree was something rather different from an air-cushion—such werethe methods pursued by Miss Arabel Howard on the present occasion withcomplete success. The stranger combated with his respect, and goingnear to where the sketcher—again utterly unconscious of his presence,was putting in a tuft of ivy—he took off his hat and bowed—

"Ha!" exclaimed Miss Arabel, in a state of most becoming surprise.

"I hope I do not alarm you, madam," said the stranger; "though mysudden presence here requires an apology."

"Oh!—I beg—I feel sure—any gentleman—my father will be most happyto"——

"You are very kind. I perceive you appreciate the beauty of thissituation as much as I do. You are sketching the gable andchimney"——

"Yes—but pray don't look."

But before she had time to close the page and clasp the book, he hadcaught a view of a well drawn hat, and very tastefully touchedwhiskers.

The stranger smiled.

"It is indeed a beautiful little work," he continued.

"And the building so very picturesque. Grandpapa pulled down a row ofcottages that the poor people lived in, and built this romantic littlehermitage."

"So I have heard."

"Oh, have you? Grandpapa improved this place very much. Think how theview must have been spoilt by a row of nasty cottages, and a crowd ofhorrid poor people."

[Pg 104]"It was very near the church for the cottagers."

"Oh! but papa is going to get the horrid old church removed to theother end of the parish, and have a beautiful building instead of thepresent tumble-down old ruin."

"Taste seems hereditary in your family."

"It is indeed: ages ago great improvements were made by papa'sgrandfather. He got quit of all the cottages except the row that stoodhere—for what can be more horrid than the sight of a set of dirtyignorant people in such beautiful scenery? They should all live in acommon, or hide themselves in some dark streets in London. Don't youthink so?"

"A great many of them do; but, if I were a sketcher, I think I couldmake a very interesting subject out of a poor man's cottage, with hislittle children playing about the garden."

"Not real poor children!" exclaimed Miss Arabel, "nor a real poorman—no. I have made sketches myself of papa and the MissesWarrible—Sir Stephen Warrible's daughters—dressing them in fancyrags, and filling the garden they played in with flowers from ourconservatory, and giving the cottage French windows and a trellis-workveranda. He stands leaning on a spade, with silver buckles in hisshoes, and the children are playing La Grace with the hoops, coveredwith pink ribands. I called it 'The Poor Man's Joy;' and Lord Moon hasbegged me to give it to an engraver."

"I hope you will comply with his lordship's request."

"I would if I could escape the publicity of the thing. Papa would beso angry if he thought I was so nearly professional as to be theauthor of a published sketch."

"I am afraid your father is too particular. No scruple of the kindfettered the genius of one of the princesses of France."

"Ah, but she was one of the new people! There was no artist in theelder branch. Papa can't endure Louis Philippe, and says they are allvery low."

The gentleman was attacked with a slight cough, and after a pauserenewed the conversation.

"I think I have seen you engaged on this subject for some time."

"It takes a long time to get in all these twists and corners," repliedMiss Arabel with a smile of satisfaction, to find that the recontrewas not more one of chance on his side than her own.

"Do you devote yourself entirely to sketching?"

"Oh no! I paint as well. We have a large gallery at home, and it is anexcellent school. The family portraits are, many of them, very fine."

"Does it go far back in the English school?"

"Oh, you should see the great wigs of the Charleses and jack-boots ofthe cavaliers! We were all cavaliers, I suppose, for I don't see asingle roundhead among them."

"And the ladies?"

"Oh, such hoops and farthingales! such pyramids of muslin on theirheads, and pillars of red leather upon their heels!"

"And is the painting good of that ancient date? How do you like itcompared to the modern?"

"We have very few modern portraits; and none of any ladies later thanGeorge II."

"No?" enquired the young man anxiously. "No lady later than that? Ah,then I have been misinformed!" he added in a disappointed tone.

"Had you heard of our collection, then?"

"Yes—no—that is—I believe, in most old family houses, there is aregular series of portraits that may enable the student to trace thealterations of the English school from its very commencement."

"Oh—a student—are you?—that is—have I the pleasure of speaking toa painter?" enquired Miss Arabel with great dignity.

"Oh no, madam; only an admirer of the art."

"And you are disappointed at the want of recent female portraits,"said Arabel more graciously, the faintest possible hope springing toher heart that he was disappointed at the absence of her own.

"I should like to have heard the opinion of a competent judge on so[Pg 105]interesting a subject. A comparison between Kneller for instance andSir Joshua would be worthy of your taste."

"Oh, Kneller by all means, and Lely better than both! I believe, nowthat you put me in mind of it, there is a pale colourless Sir Joshuain the nursery—the school-room I mean."

"A lady?" enquired the stranger.

"A person," replied Miss Arabel, who never allowed lady's rank to anyone whose status she did not know—"with long hair falling about herface, and a little boy lying asleep in her lap. Whether she was a ladyor not, I don't know, but I rather think not, for I never heard of herbeing connected with our family. Perhaps she was a nurse."

"And are you sure it is a Sir Joshua?"

"Oh, yes!—His name is written on the back; and Mr Ochre, mydrawing-master, says it is all out of proportion, and of no merit atall. But why are you so anxious about the daub? Mr Ochre wishes to beallowed to retouch it."

"If he lays a brush on it"—the stranger began in a furious tone, butchecked himself—"if he lays a brush on it, he will spoil an oldmaster."

"A master!" said Miss Arabel with a contemptuous giggle. "I only wishyou could see it."

"I wish I could," replied the young gentleman; "but I am afraid Ishall never be so happy."

"Oh!"—The young lady did not say any thing more, but looked at thestranger, as if taking measure of his respectability to see if anentrée to Surbridge Hall was really above his hopes. He was tall,well made, with an air such as she had not seen in any of the visitorsat that aristocratic mansion.

"I'm sure," she repeated, looking down and speaking with interestinghesitation, "my papa would be happy to show his gallery to anygentleman in the neighbourhood. Perhaps you know papa?"

"I have not the honour, but since I know what a treasure he possesses,I should think it a great happiness to make his acquaintance."

The lady said nothing, but thought it the most neatly turnedcompliment she ever heard in her life.

"I am on a visit to a family near this," he continued, "and mayperhaps have the opportunity of meeting Mr Howard.

"Oh, where is it?" exclaimed Miss Arabel. "What is their name? We knowevery body in the neighbourhood—that is, of course, you know"——

"Every body that's worth knowing," said the stranger with a smile.

"Exactly. Is it the Rayleighs of Borley Castle, we know them verywell; or the Manbys of Flixley Abbey, delightful people, we are quiteintimate with them; or the Sundridges of Fairley Manor, there are nopleasanter people in the world—so good, so ladylike, and yet they sayMrs Sundridge's father was something very low, a Calcutta merchant, orIndia director, or something of that sort. Is it any of these?"

"No! It is with a gentleman who has lately taken a small villa in theneighbourhood, and I am afraid he will think I have been absent fromhim too long. Do you sketch here every day?"

"Till I have finished this tiresome building," replied Miss Arabel. "Imust avail myself of the fine weather, and not miss a single morning."

The gentleman smiled, and so did the lady. With another apology forhaving intruded, he bowed and withdrew.

Miss Arabel continued where she was, till she lost his graceful figureamong the windings of the shrubbery.

"He is a charming man," she thought, "and might easily manage to getacquainted with papa if he chose. Who can he be?—he's very clever andvery accomplished—and walks so nobly. I wonder if he is in theGuards."

She opened her sketch-book once more, and was busy with her pencil,and her thoughts at the same time. She had not seen what necessitythere was for taking his leave so hurriedly, and perhaps a faint ideacame to her, that it was not impossible he might return. While she wasnew-pointing her pencil, and recalling all that the stranger had said,she heard a footstep coming through the plantation.

[Pg 106]"Hush! He is coming again. He can't stay away."

"Servant, young mum—servant, and all that," said a voice close behindher;—"Scratch! scratch! there you go, painting bricks as if they wasChristians, and all that."

"Sir! Are you aware this is private property. Papa would be very angryif"——

"He heard I was here. I dassay he would, and all that—but I don'tintend to wait for him here. I'll beat up his quarters at the hall—Iwill—and all that."

Miss Arabel had a profound contempt for old people and little people;and the person who at present addressed her was both little and old.He wore a short flaxen wig, and a spenser over a long-tailed bluecoat; grey nether habiliments, with four or five inches of a whiteworsted stocking visible between his knee and his gaiter. It was avery well-shaped leg, and the owner thereof seemed to know it.

"You will not find papa at home," said Miss Arabel. "He has gone outto a magistrate's meeting."

"I didn't say I was going there to-day, did I?—and he don't gojusticing every day in the week, I hope. I'll see him soon, dependon't, and make acquaintance with his young 'uns, and all that. Howmany is there of you?"

"My sister and myself—if you enquire as to the number of MrGillingham Howard's family," replied Miss Arabel.

"What! ha'n't ye picked up ne'er a man yet? ne'er a one on you? Isyour sister any thing like yourself?"

Miss Arabel cast a look of haughty indignation on her questioner; butdisdained a reply.

"Pr'aps you're looking out for a juke or a bernet, or some regularnobleman, and all that—for I hear you carries all your heads uncommonhigh—whereby it wouldn't be unagreeable to pull 'em down a bit, andall that. Come, come, don't pout nor be sulky. Be friendly, young'oman, now that we're going to be neighbours, and all that."

"Friendly, indeed!" said Miss Arabel, with a toss of her head thatwould have snapped a martingale in fifty pieces. "Pray walk on, sir. Iam a lady, and papa would be very indignant at your impertinence."

"I dassay he would; but not a bit more than I have been at his'n thismany a long day. Why, I've dandled him on my knee a hundred times."

"Have you? Perhaps you were his nurse's husband, or the butler. If youcome to the servants' hall"——

"Indeed! What to do? To see fine ladies' maids give themselves airs,and disgust people with their insolence and affectation. Much obligedto you all the same; but when I wants to see sights like that, I'llcome into the drawing-room."

"I don't know what you mean, and beg you'll retire. Papa put an Irishbeggar into prison for three weeks for insulting my aunt."

"What! old Susie—old Two-to-the-Pound, and all that. He must havebeen very much of an Irishman to insult the old Roman."

"What do you mean, sir? Do you know my aunt Susannah?"

"Ay, to be sure. Ain't I one of her elders? Lord love ye, I've knownold Susie since she was just up to my knee—and a reg'lar specimentshe was. We always called her Two-to-the-Pound. Many's the laugh herfather and I has had about her dumpiness, and all that."

"Papa's grandfather? Did you know him, sir?" enquired Miss Arabel,examining her companion at the same time to see if he was not theWandering-Jew or St Leon; for she considered her papa's grandfather asthe principal personage of a very remote historical era; and wouldhave been little more surprised to hear that the old gentleman beforeher had smoked cigars with Sir Walter Raleigh. "Did you know mygreat-grandfather, sir?"

"Didn't I? There wasn't a bigger snob, though I says it, in allEngland; and just about two-and-forty years ago, him and me was asthick as two thieves, though only one of us was a thief. He was a oldman then, and I was a young 'un, and all that. Your father was summutabout eight years old, and my daughter was born the very month aforehe bought this here estate. So you see it ain't no great[Pg 107] time to talkabout, seeing my daughter aint a old 'oman yet, though she has a girltwenty year old."

"I don't understand what you say," repeated Miss Arabel.

"Old Susie will understand me better, and so will little Gus."

"Who is Gus?"

"Gus is your father—Augustus he was christened; but we always calledhim Gus. Well, it's quite pleasant, I declare, to be among oldfriends; and I'm glad I've took a willa so close."

The sound of the word "willa," even with the initial "w," attractedMiss Arabel's attention. Could it be possible that this was the oldgentleman with whom the handsome stranger was on a visit?

"If you live so near, you can, of course, have an opportunity ofseeing papa."

"Seeing him? yes, and telling him a bit of my mind. I'll see everything in the house—from old Susie Two-to-the-Pound, down to the lastborn kitten. You keeps cats of course, and all that? Susie must bepleased to see me. Sich laughs, to be sure, we had about her and ayoung man of the Excise. He was about seven feet high, and she wa'n'tabove four and a half, so we always called him her young man of theextra size. Wasn't it funny? But he died of a decline; and I hearshe's a broad as she's long. Well, we must all die!"

"I must wish you good-day, sir. I'm going home," said Miss Arabel,rising to go away, and assuming as much dignity as she could.

"Well, good-day, and good-luck to you," said the old man. "Why, howtall you are! and the wick not half covered. You wouldn't do credit toold Bill Wilkins's manufacture, though I says it as shouldn't. Youain't much better than one of the single dips. I'll call on yourfather one of these fine days; for now that I've come to theneighbourhood, I've little better to do than pay off old scores—andinterest's been running on for two-and-forty years. Tell him he hadbetter set a price on Surbridge, and prepare to move, for I want tobuy the estate for a friend of mine."

"I beg, sir—I insist—I don't know you, sir," said the agitated andangry Arabel.

"He does though. He knows me precious well; and, what's more, you maytell him my name if you like."

"I will tell him, sir, that he may send you to prison for yourimpertinence. He's a magistrate."

"I know all about him. He's a boastful blockhead. Tell him I told youso. My name is Mr Thomas Roe, 20, Riches Court."

Chapter III.

The account given by Miss Arabel of her interview with the hatefulpurchaser of the coveted meadows, was so confused, that to personsless interested in the matter than Mr Gillingham Howard and MissSusannah Wilkins, (or Gillingham by brevet,) it would have beenaltogether unintelligible. But before these two terror-struckindividuals rose a vision of their detected boasts and overthrownpretensions, that filled them with dismay. What! Mr Gillingham Howardexposed in all quarters as the descendant of a tallow-chandler, andthe censorious Miss Susan as having been known from her childhood bythe name of Two-to-the-Pound? Could they silence the accuser bymaking him their friend?—or could they repel his revelations by dintof unhesitating, unqualified lying?—or finally, would it be necessaryto quit the neighbourhood? Mr Gillingham Howard was a tall portly man,with his hair slightly grizzled, and an air of quiet assurancereposing on his somewhat coarse features, which his partial auntconsidered the solemn dignity of virtue and high birth. To a lessblinded observed his narrow brow and heavy chin showed strongindications of the animal preponderating over the intellectual in hisorganization, and his slow, solemn talk—always about himself—showedthe importance he attached to the slightest incident that had occurredto so distinguished an individual. Not that Mr Gillingham Howard, aswe remarked before, limited his narratives merely to what had actuallyoccurred—they diffused themselves over every circumstance that hadhappened to any one else, and[Pg 108] might by any possibility have happenedto him. By this means he had an extraordinary fund of conversationalanecdote; for whatever story he heard, or adventure he read, heimmediately appropriated to himself; and thought nothing of killinghis eight hundred ducks at one shot with Munchausen, or finding outfalse concords in a Greek play with the Bishop of London. His aunt wasso used to hear his marvellous tales, that we must in charity supposeshe believed some of them to be true; and in that persuasion she wascalled upon on all occasions to bear witness to the facts. Shetestified accordingly, with the most perfect readiness, to all hisachievements in the rows at Oxford; his suggestions to the othermagistrates, that were always approved; his courage in every danger;his mastery in every game, and his skill in every science. She was alittle, vulgar-looking woman, with small cunning eyes, and a veryround face, glistening and shining with its absurd obesity; and inshape and complexion bearing a close resemblance to a sun-flower stuckinto a Dutch cheese. The awe with which she regarded her nephew arosepartly from his size, but principally from the aristocratic loftinessof his birth—being the third in descent from the original founder ofthe family, while nothing stood between her and the tallow vat exceptthe six years during which her father had enacted the country squire.What could be more appalling to these unhappy beings than thethreatened visit, and long-delayed vengeance of the implacable ThomasRoe? In the mean time, Miss Arabel had only a confused notion of themeaning of all the threats and messages, the mere report of whichwrought such anguish in the paternal breast. Her thoughts dwelt moreconstantly on the interview she had had with the mysterious stranger;and the speech he had made about the treasure he had heard of inSurbridge Hall, came every moment to her mind. It was so pretty aspeech; and he looked so full of admiration when he said it! Was thereno way of getting him introduced to papa? Not a word of the meetingcould she mention to her sister; for Miss Arabel was one of thoseamiable beings not uncommon in ball-rooms, who will not risk the peaceof mind of a friend by making her acquainted with a rich orfascinating partner on any account. And if this holds good with afriend, much more in the case of Miss Arabel did it hold good with asister. So she sat in her own room and devised fifty expedients forlegitimating her acquaintance with the interesting unknown.

But while Surbridge Hall is frightened from its propriety, let us passover for a moment to the hostile camp, and see what is going on there.A beautiful young girl is sitting at a table, on which a number ofmaps and plans are laid out; and, while her eyes are busily runningover the various lines and measurements, her small white hand isresting we are sorry to say, without making the smallest effort forliberty, within that of the very same young gentleman whose appearancewe have already commemorated. Beautiful blue eyes they are, and fitterfor other employment than to pore over architectural or horticulturaldesigns; and so she seems to think, for she occasionally lifts them tothose of her companion, and a sweet smile brightens over all her face.That is Fanny Smith, the granddaughter of Thomas Roe—the child of aYorkshire parson, who had been lucky enough to win the heart of MaryRoe—and wise enough not to despise her father, though he lived inRiches Court.

"But grandpapa says it is of no use, Charles, to look at all theseplans for houses. He'll never build on the new ground, for he says heis determined to establish us at Surbridge Hall."

"The old gentleman is too sanguine," replied Charles. "He will neverpersuade the present proprietor to leave it."

"Oh, he will, though! You don't know what a determined man grandpapais. He'll weary them out—or shame them away."

"Shame!" enquired the other—"How do you think shame can have anyeffect in people so lost to truth, and so encased in ignorance andconceit?"

"But grandpapa will expose them—and, besides, he'll pay themhand[Pg 109]somely to go. I don't the least despair of getting quit of them."

"Why, if people would only take the trouble to enquire into the actualfacts of any part of their behaviour, and not take their own accountof it—the boastful falsehoods of the nephew, the maliciousinsinuations of the aunt, their disregard of truth in serious affairsas well as in trifles, their selfishness, narrow-mindedness, and wantof charity—they would hesitate before they countenanced suchcharacters, in spite of the dinners they occasionally give, and theposition they hold. But society winks on vices which it is the duty ofsociety to punish, since the law takes no cognizance of them, thoughmore hurtful and disgraceful than theft or swindling. And, I amafraid, even if your grandfather unmasks the solemn pretender, he willstill carry his head as high as if he had a right from any quality buthis wealth to mix with honest men."

"Oh, never fear!" said Fanny, laughing; "those boastful people arealways easiest frightened, and a very short time will see us inSurbridge Hall."

"Ah, Fanny, that would be too much happiness! I've heard of nothingbut Surbridge since I was a child; and if my father could but see mein it, living there, my own property, or yours, Fanny, which is thesame thing, he would almost die with joy; but no, no, it isimpossible."

"Impossible! deuce a bit of it!" exclaimed the old gentleman himself;bustling into the room. "I tell you that Surbridge is the house youwill take Fanny home to. I've a great mind to say you sha'n't marryher at all unless she gives you Surbridge as part of her fortune."

"Oh, don't say that, sir!"

"No, don't say that, grandpapa, for you know those horrid people maybe obstinate," said Fanny.

"I should like to see them," said the old man knitting his brow. "No,no, they must go. The bully is soon bullied. See, he has sent me aflag of truce already; a note asking if I will allow him to call on meat three o'clock to renew his old acquaintance."

"And will you let him?" enquired Fanny.

"To be sure I will; and I'll return his visit too; but he'll be herein a few minutes now. I think you had better take a walk, Charles, andleave Fanny and me to entertain them. You can go and take some morelessons in sketching, eh? Don't keep your teacher waiting."

Charles looked at his watch, and then at Fanny, and finally hurriedaway as he was ordered. The young lady also left the room.

The old man sat down, and sank in thought. He had his eye on theconduct of his partner's grandson for forty years, though little didthat ostentatious individual suspect that any person saw within hispharisaical exterior, and knew him for the mass of selfishness,falsehood, and meanness, he actually was. Moreover the old gentlemanknew that his victim was not so rich as he appeared, and had struggledin vain to better his fortunes by speculations of various kinds, andeven (the last refuge of the sinking respectables) by thrustinghimself into trusteeships. He felt an assurance, therefore, that histhreatened exposures—united to an offer of the full value of theestate—would secure him the possession of Surbridge Hall; if it hadnot been for the enjoyment he anticipated in uncloaking the hypocrite,he might perhaps have contented himself with the acquisition of theland.

A knock was heard at the door, and Mr Gillingham Howard and his auntwalked into the room. Mr Gillingham Howard was very pale, and his eyeevidently quailed as it met the glance of Mr Thomas Roe. The littlefat Susannah was immensely red in the face, but whether from agitationof mind, or the exertion of climbing the hall steps, it is impossibleto decide.

"I've called, my dear old friend, to take you by the hand," said MrGillingham Howard. "I've long wished, I assure you, to renew ouracquaintance."

"That's a thumper!" replied the old man; "you have wished nothing ofthe kind. Oh, Gus, haven't you conquered the horrid habit ofstory-[Pg 110]telling that used to make you the laughing-stock of all theyoung men in the shop. And you, my little Two-to-the-Pound, what atime it is since we've met, never since the exciseman died, I dobelieve. Well, you've not grown thin on't. Do you study the ninthcommandment as much as you used to do?"

"The ninth commandment, sir," said the lady tossing her head. "I don'tknow what you mean."

"Yes, you do, Susan; the ninth commandment is the one about falsewitness, you know. And sich a gal as you used to be for slashing acharacter, or trying to make your kindest friends ridiculous, therewasn't in all the city. You were always so tremendously witty, younever had a good word for any body; for witty gals, as you used to be,thinks nothing funny that isn't what they calls severe. But you're aold woman now, and I hope you're improved."

Miss Susannah had never been called an old woman before. If she hadseen Mr Gillingham Howard looking with his usual brazen assurance, shewould have broken out in a torrent of invective against her mercilesstormentor—but the fight was entirely out of that illustriouscharacter, and he stood in trembling silence before his opponent.

"My dear sir," he said at last, "you are too severe on my aunt—butyou were always a wag. I've heard my father say he never knew any oneso full of humour."

"Indeed?"

"And I myself remember how good-natured you used to be when youvisited my father in Harley Street."

"Ay, indeed—let me see. Had your father risen to be at the top of theprofession by that time, with a promise of the chancellorship in hispocket when his father died?"

"My dear sir, I don't know what you mean—why—what"—

Haven't you been in the habit of telling your friends so afterdinner?" enquired Mr Roe; "now, remember."

"Well! I may perhaps have said that he hoped to be chancellor."

"No, no—you have uniformly stated as a fact that he had the writtenpromise of the office—and you have constantly appealed to your auntfor the truth of your statement."

"La! Mr Roe—how should I know about law and chancellorships? It isn'ta lady's business."

"It is a lady's business not to corroborate a falsehood."

"Really, my good sir," said Mr Gillingham Howard, "you are too hard ona little after-dinner talk."

"Not a bit, not a bit—that after-dinner talk, as you call it, forforty years, day after day retailing falsehoods, and asseverating themso constantly, that you at last almost succeed in deceiving yourself,does away all the distinctions in your mind between truth andfalsehood—and when once the boundary is broke down, there is nofarther pause. A man may go on, and boast about his cricket andshooting till he would not stick at a false oath."

"Sir! I bear many things from an old friend of our family, but animputation on my veracity is intolerable. Do I ever deviate from thetruth, Aunt Susan?"

"You! Oh, no! if there's any quality you excel in more than another,it is your truth. Low people may tell lies, and of course do; but you!Mr Gillingham Howard!—you are a perfect gentleman, from the crown ofyour head to the sole of your foot."

"Omitting all the intermediate parts," replied Mr Roe. "You know verywell what I mean, sir; and, moreover, you know that what I say istrue—but I will spare you at present. I wish to purchase SurbridgeHall. I will give you the full price. Will you sell it or not?"

"Why, sir, a place that has been long in one's family"——

"I was nearly forty years old when it was bought—and hope to live fewyears yet," interposed Mr Roe.

"And I don't see what pleasure you could take in acquiring a place towhich you have no hereditary ties—my poor father—and my deargrandfather"——continued Mr Gillingham Howard.

"Should have stuck to the melting tub, both of them—but it isn't formyself I want the property. I have a grandchild, sir; agrandson—but[Pg 111] that has nothing to do with it. Will you let me haveyour answer soon? I will call on you, to hear your decision,to-morrow."

"Always happy to see an old friend."

"Provided he come with a new face," interposed Mr Roe; "but you don'tmuch like the sight of my rough old phiz. At any rate, there's nodeceit in it, and now we understand each other."

Chapter IV.

It was on the day succeeding this visit of reconciliation, that MissArabel and the stumpy Susannah pursued their way to the shrubberywalk, in a rapid and mysterious manner, as if they hoped to escapeobservation.

"Papa is so unreasonable, aunt," said the young lady. "Why should hewish to leave Surbridge, just when"——

"You think you have caught a lover," interposed the aunt; "don't betoo sure. You've been deceived in that way before now."

"Oh, if you only saw him! He met me yesterday, and said he would seeme again to-day; and paid such compliments, and looked so handsome."

"But who is he? Is he a gentleman?"

"Of course he is," replied Miss Arabel; "or do you think he wouldventure to speak to me?"

"Did he tell you his name?"

"No. All he has told me is—he is living with an old gentleman in oneof the villas in the neighbourhood."

"An old gentleman," mused Miss Susannah, "in a villa—it must be thesame—it must be old Roe's Grandson. If it is, and he takes a fancy tothis girl, it will be all well yet. What has he ever called you? Didhe ever say you were an angel?"

"No. He thought me one, though; and said he had heard of what atreasure Surbridge contained; and yesterday he repeated it, and saidhe would give the world to be able to call it his."

"That's something. You must get him to say something of the kindbefore a witness."

"But how? What witness can there be, when I can never bring him to thehouse?"

"Why not? Ah, how I recollect, in the back parlour," said MissSusannah, her memory unconsciously wandering back to the loveincidents of her youth.

"The back parlour?" enquired Miss Arabel.

"The back—I didn't say back parlour. I said black parlour—the oakendining-room in my father's house."

"And what of it, aunt? What made you think of the black parlour now?"

"Oh, it was a picture," stammered Miss Susan, inventing an excuse forher mistake; "a beautiful old portrait—a sort of—I don't recollectwhat it was."

"Ah! that puts me in mind of what he speaks of often—the pictures inour house. I say, aunt," she continued, as if a thought had struckher.

"Well?"

"Suppose I were to invite him to come into the Hall and see theportraits?"

"Well, so you might. Your father would think he was as fond of drawingas you are; and if he be the person I think he is, your father will bedelighted that you have made a friend of him."

"Indeed? Oh, I'm so happy! I'll ask him to the house this very day;and perhaps if he says anything, aunt, about the treasure, you can bein the way to hear it."

"That I will, and I'll bring your father, too. There's nothing like afather or brother in cases of the kind. If I had had a brother thatwould fight, I might have been married myself. Dear me, what anuncommon handsome young man in the avenue! I know him to be a lord byhis walk."

Miss Arabel stretched her neck, and nearly strained her eyeballs inthe effort to follow the direction of Susannah's eyes.

"That's he," she said; "go now, and leave me to get him into thehouse."

"He can't be any relation of[Pg 112] Thomas Roe: he's too handsome for that,"thought Miss Susannah; "but whoever he is, she'll be a lucky girl tocatch him. My Sam was a foot or two taller, but very like him in everyother respect—except the limp in the left leg."

As she turned back before entering the house, she saw the young peoplein full conversation in the shrubbery walk.

"Well, if he is old Thomas Roe's grandson, and Arabel can hook himinto a marriage, there will be no occasion to leave Surbridge Hall.Does the monster wish us to be tallow-chandlers again?"

On hurrying to the drawing-room to communicate to her nephew the factthat Mr Roe's heir was desperately in love with Arabel, she found MrGillingham Howard endeavouring to carry on a conversation with thevery individual she most dreaded to see. Mr Roe had walked up,accompanied by Fanny Smith, to return the visit of the day before.

"This is so kind," said Miss Susannah, "and so friendly to bring yourpretty grandchild. Our girls will be delighted to be her friends."

"Fanny's a good girl," replied the old man; "and you mustn't spoilher. Gus was just going to tell me if he had made up his mind, whenyou came in. You've thought of my offer, Gus?"

"Certainly; any thing you say shall always have my best consideration.As far as I am concerned, I could settle in Bucks, where I have asmall estate, with satisfaction; but my girls are enthusiasticallyattached to this place. Arabel would break her heart if we took heraway from Surbridge."

"I warrant her heart against all breakage and other damages, save andexcept the ordinary wear and tear—as Puff says in letting a furnishedhouse; and, if it only depends on the young lady, I think I'll answerfor her being more anxious for the arrangement than I am. But here'scompany coming, and I must have your answer before I go."

Mr Gillingham Howard heard the carriage stop at the door. He felt itwas impossible to present so rough-mannered a man as Mr Roe to any ofhis friends without a certainty of exposure, and he was stronglytempted to agree to his demand at once, if he would immediately leavethe house; but before he had time to arrange his thoughts, the dooropened, and the Rayleighs of Borley Castle were announced.

Mr Gillingham Howard, by a great effort, received them with his usualcourtesy.

"I have brought Mr Tinter with me," said Mrs Rayleigh, "and I hope youwill let him see your family portraits. We have told him so much ofthem, that he is anxious to see them himself. He is writing adescription of the private collections in the county."

Mr Tinter bowed; and Mr Gillingham Howard, with an imploring look toMr Roe, who sat resting his chin upon his walking-stick, professedhimself highly honoured by Mrs Rayleigh's request.

"I believe you have portraits of the Sidney family, sir," said MrTinter, "as I hear from Mrs Rayleigh—you are nearly related to them;I should like very much to compare them with the pictures atPenshurst."

"Oh! Mr Howard says the Penshurst pictures are only copies of his,"said Mrs Rayleigh.

"Did I, madam? Did I say all?"

"If not all, you said most of them; and also, that you had someoriginals of those in your distant relation, the Duke of Norfolk's gallery."

Mr Gillingham Howard felt that Mr Roe's appalling eye was fixed uponhim, though he did not venture to look in the direction of where he sat.

"Mr Tinter will tell you at once which are the copies. You can do that, Mr Tinter?"

"I can guess at the age of the picture, and the name of the painter,if he is a master," replied Mr Tinter.

"Oh! but Mr Howard has some pictures that Sir Thomas Lawrence saidwere the finest in Europe. Didn't he say so, Mr Howard?"

"Why, ma'am—I think—at least, so I understood him. Didn't Sir ThomasLawrence praise some of my pictures, aunt?"

"I really don't remember," said Miss Susannah, looking more at Mr Roethan at her nephew.

[Pg 113]"Oh, I thought you told us last time we dined here, that Sir Thomasstayed with you weeks at a time, and copied five or six of themhimself."

"P'r'aps I knows more of them family portraits," said Mr Roe with awilful exaggeration of accent and magnanimous contempt ofgrammar—"than e'er a one on ye."

All eyes were immediately directed to the old man. Mrs Rayleigh, whowas a fine lady, and had never seen so queer a specimen of a critic asMr Roe, was a little alarmed at his uncouth pronunciation. And MrGillingham Howard made a feeble and unsuccessful effort to deaden theeffect of his remarks.

"My friend is a remarkably good judge of the fine arts, but quite acharacter. An amazing humourist, and very much given to quizzing.You'll hear what fun he'll make of us all."

"Who is he?" enquired Mrs Rayleigh, in the same confidential whisper.

"A person who has grown very rich in some sort of trade. He was aprotegé of a relation of mine."

"And you bear with his eccentricities in hopes of his succession?"

"Exactly."

"I minds the getting of the whole lot on 'em. I can give you thebirth, parentage, and edication, of every one on 'em."

"Of the pictures, sir?" enquired Mr Tinter, taking out his note-book."I shall be delighted with any information."

"But where is the gallery, Mr Howard?" enquired Mrs Rayleigh.

"Why, madam, many of the pictures—in fact, all the best of them arein London at the cleaner's; but in the passage to the Conservatorythere are some remaining, but the place is dark. I hope you'll ratherlook at them some other time."

"Now's the best," said Mr Roe, starting up. "Let's see the familypicters, Gus."

Mr Howard was forced by the entreaties of all the party, and led theway to the passage where his pictures were hung, followed by MrsRayleigh and her two daughters, and Mr Tinter, Mr Roe, and Fanny, andAunt Susannah.

"That seems a portrait of Queen Anne's time," said Mr Tinter, pointingto a much bewigged old gentleman in an antique frame. "Pray, what isits history?"

"Isn't that your grandfather's uncle, the general who won the battleof Ramillies against Marlborough's orders?" enquired Mrs Rayleigh. "Dotell Mr Tinter all about it."

"I reminds all about it," said Mr Roe, before the agonized Mr Howardcould make any reply. "One of our agents failed, and we seized on hisfurniture, and old Bill Wilkins took this'n 'cause of the oak frame.He was a grocer in the Boro', and his name was—was—but I forgets hisname."

"Who took the furniture?" asked Mr Tinter, "and who was a grocer inthe Boro'?"

"The man as had that picter, and a sight more besides. There's one on'em; the young 'oman a holding an orange in her hand, and a parrot onher shoulder."

"I thought that was the Saccharissa, Mr Howard, that had been in yourfamily ever since the time of Waller."

"I told you he was a wag," said Mr Howard, in the last desperatestruggle to avoid detection.

"But who is he? He is a very impudent old man to be so free."

"He is rich; the succession, you know," replied the gentleman with aforced laugh; but before he could mumble any thing more, the partyturned round one of the corners of the passage, and heard voices inearnest talk.

"How can I refuse, when you tell me your happiness depends on it?"came distinctly to the ears of all, in the sharp clear tones of MissArabel.

"You are too good," replied a voice, which Fanny Smith immediatelyrecognized as that of Charles. "You will make my whole family proudand happy when they hear you have consented."

"But won't you think I yield too soon; and without having asked papa'sconsent?"

"Ah—yes—I don't know how he will bear the loss of such a treasure.But he will reconcile himself to the want of it when he knows howhappy[Pg 114] it makes another in the possession. Say, when may I call itmine?"

"Oh, now—this moment—any time"—said Arabel, who had heard a noisein the passage, and concluded it was aunt Susannah enacting the partof a witness.

"Again I thank you!"—exclaimed Charles. "I will take it in my armsthis instant, and carry it down the shrubbery walk to Mr Roe's."

"As you please—and wherever you like," said Arabel, throwing herselfupon his shoulder. "I'm your's."

"Why, what in the name of wonder is all this here?" cried Mr Roe,hurrying on, and pouncing on the pair. "Are you making love to thishere gal in the very presence of Fanny Smith?"

"I, sir?"—said Charles, astonished at his situation, and stillsupporting Miss Arabel, who pretended to be in a faint. "I asked thisyoung lady to show me the picture of my father's mother; and, to mygreat delight, she said she would give it me; and, when I expressed mygratitude, she flung herself upon my shoulder, and said she would giveme herself."

"And was it not me you meant by the treasure you talked of?" said MissArabel, starting up.

"No, madam. 'Twas my grandmother's portrait, by Sir Joshua Reynolds."

"Now, that's all right," said Mr Roe. "This young gentleman is the oneI talked of, Gus—that I wants to buy this house for. I don't thinkyour daughter will care to give it up to poor Charles that she tooksuch a fancy to"——

"They seem attached, sir," replied Mr Howard. "And if they like tomarry"——

"Bah!—he's to be married next week to my little grandchild, FannySmith, and we'll include the pictures in the purchase-money, for oneof them is a portrait that was left by mistake when Bill Wilkinsbought the hall, and he would never give it back to the real owners.But, now that Charles Walrond is to be my grandson, I'll take goodcare he recovers his grandmother's likeness. Come—shall I go on andgive these ladies the facts of some of your other stories, or will youclose with my terms at once?"

Mr Gillingham Howard did not take long to decide, and a very shorttime saw Surbridge Hall once more in the ancient line; and old Mr Roe,in relating the means he used to expel the vainglorious descendant ofhis partner, generally concluded with the moral, if not the words ofShakspeare—"Men's pleasant vices make whips to scourge them."

VANITIES IN VERSE.

By B. Simmons.

Letters of the Dead.

To Livia.

Parting Precepts.

[Pg 117]

COLERIDGE AND OPIUM-EATING.[23]

What is the deadest of things earthly? It is, says the world, everforward and rash—"a door-nail!" But the world is wrong. There is athing deader than a door-nail, viz., Gillman's Coleridge, Vol. I.Dead, more dead, most dead, is Gillman's Coleridge, Vol. I.; and thisupon more arguments than one. The book has clearly not completed itselementary act of respiration; the systole of Vol. I. is absolutelyuseless and lost without the diastole of that Vol. II., which isnever to exist. That is one argument, and perhaps this second argumentis stronger. Gillman's Coleridge, Vol. I., deals rashly, unjustly, andalmost maliciously, with some of our own particular friends; and yet,until late in this summer, Anno Domini 1844, we—that is, neitherourselves nor our friends—ever heard of its existence. Now a sloth,even without the benefit of Mr Waterton's evidence to his character,will travel faster than that. But malice, which travels fastest of allthings, must be dead and cold at starting, when it can thus havelingered in the rear for six years; and therefore, though the worldwas so far right, that people do say, "Dead as a door-nail," yet,henceforwards, the weakest of these people will see the propriety ofsaying—"Dead as Gillman's Coleridge."

The reader of experience, on sliding over the surface of this openingparagraph, begins to think there's mischief singing in the upper air.No, reader—not at all. We never were cooler in our days. And this weprotest, that, were it not for the excellence of the subject,Coleridge and Opium-Eating, Mr Gillman would have been dismissed byus unnoticed. Indeed, we not only forgive Mr Gillman, but we have akindness for him; and on this account, that he was good, he wasgenerous, he was most forbearing, through twenty years, to poorColeridge, when thrown upon his hospitality. An excellent thingthat, Mr Gillman, and one sufficient to blot out a world of libelson ourselves! But still, noticing the theme suggested by this unhappyVol. I., we are forced at times to notice its author. Nor is this tobe regretted. We remember a line of Horace never yet properlytranslated, viz:—

"Nec scuticâ dignum horribili sectêre flagello."

The true translation of which, as we assure the unlearned reader,is—"Nor must you pursue with the horrid knout of Christopher that manwho merits only a switching." Very true. We protest against allattempts to invoke the exterminating knout; for that sends a man tothe hospital for two months; but you see that the same judicious poet,who dissuades an appeal to the knout, indirectly recommends theswitch, which, indeed, is rather pleasant than otherwise, amiablyplayful in some of its little caprices, and in its worst, suggestingonly a pennyworth of diachylon.

We begin by professing, with hearty sincerity, our fervent admirationof the extraordinary man who furnishes the theme for Mr Gillman'scoup-d'essai in biography. He was, in a literary sense, ourbrother—for he also was amongst the contributors to Blackwood—andwill, we presume, take his station in that Blackwood gallery ofportraits, which, in a century hence, will possess more interest forintellectual Europe than any merely martial series of portraits, orany gallery of statesmen assembled in congress, except as regards oneor two leaders; for defunct major-generals, and secondarydiplomatists, when their date is past, awake no more emotion than lastyear's advertisements, or obsolete directories; whereas those who, ina stormy age, have swept the harps of passion, of genial wit, or ofthe wrestling and gladiatorial reason, become more interesting to menwhen they can no longer be seen as bodily agents, [Pg 118]than even in themiddle chorus of that intellectual music over which, living, theypresided.

Of this great camp Coleridge was a leader, and fought amongst theprimipili; yet, comparatively, he is still unknown. Heavy, indeed,are the arrears still due to philosophic curiosity on the real merits,and on the separate merits, of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Coleridge as apoet—Coleridge as a philosopher! How extensive are those questions,if those were all! and upon neither question have we yet anyinvestigation—such as, by compass of views, by research, or even byearnestness of sympathy with the subject, can, or ought to satisfy, aphilosophic demand. Blind is that man who can persuade himself thatthe interest in Coleridge, taken as a total object, is becoming anobsolete interest. We are of opinion that even Milton, now viewed froma distance of two centuries, is still inadequately judged orappreciated in his character of poet, of patriot and partisan, or,finally, in his character of accomplished scholar. But, if so, howmuch less can it be pretended that satisfaction has been rendered tothe claims of Coleridge? for, upon Milton, libraries have beenwritten. There has been time for the malice of men, for the jealousyof men, for the enthusiasm, the scepticism, the adoring admiration ofmen, to expand themselves! There has been room for a Bentley, for anAddison, for a Johnson, for a wicked Lauder, for an avenging Douglas,for an idolizing Chateaubriand; and yet, after all, little enough hasbeen done towards any comprehensive estimate of the mighty beingconcerned. Piles of materials have been gathered to the ground; but,for the monument which should have risen from these materials, neitherthe first stone has been laid, nor has a qualified architect yetpresented his credentials. On the other hand, upon Coleridge little,comparatively, has yet been written, whilst the separate characters onwhich the judgment is awaited, are more by one than those which Miltonsustained. Coleridge, also, is a poet; Coleridge, also, was mixed upwith the fervent politics of his age—an age how memorably reflectingthe revolutionary agitations of Milton's ageridge, also, wasan extensive and brilliant scholar. Whatever might be the separateproportions of the two men in each particular department of the threehere noticed, think as the reader will upon that point, sure we arethat either subject is ample enough to make a strain upon the amplestfaculties. How alarming, therefore, for any honest critic, whoshould undertake this later subject of Coleridge, to recollect that,after pursuing him through a zodiac of splendours corresponding tothose of Milton in kind, however different in degree—after weighinghim as a poet, as a philosophic politician, as a scholar, he will haveto wheel after him into another orbit, into the unfathomable nimbusof transcendental metaphysics. Weigh him the critic must in the goldenbalance of philosophy the most abstruse—a balance which even itselfrequires weighing previously, or he will have done nothing that can bereceived for an estimate of the composite Coleridge. This astonishingman, be it again remembered, besides being an exquisite poet, aprofound political speculator, a philosophic student of literaturethrough all its chambers and recesses, was also a circumnavigator onthe most pathless waters of scholasticism and metaphysics. He hadsounded, without guiding charts, the secret deeps of Proclus andPlotinus; he had laid down buoys on the twilight, or moonlight, oceanof Jacob Boehmen;[24] he had cruised over the broad Atlantic of Kantand Schelling, of Fichte and Oken. Where is the man who shall be equalto these things?

[Pg 119]We at least make no such adventurous effort; or, if ever we shouldpresume to do so, not at present. Here we design only to make acoasting voyage of survey round the headlands and most conspicuoussea-marks of our subject, as they are brought forward by Mr Gillman,or collaterally suggested by our own reflections; and especially wewish to say a word or two on Coleridge as an opium-eater.

Naturally the first point to which we direct our attention, is thehistory and personal relations of Coleridge. Living with Mr Gillmanfor nineteen years as a domesticated friend, Coleridge ought to havebeen known intimately. And it is reasonable to expect, from so muchintercourse, some additions to our slender knowledge of Coleridge'sadventures, (if we may use so coarse a word,) and of the secretsprings at work in those early struggles of Coleridge at Cambridge,London, Bristol, which have been rudely told to the world, andrepeatedly told, as showy romances, but never rationally explained.

The anecdotes, however, which Mr Gillman has added to the personalhistory of Coleridge, are as little advantageous to the effect of hisown book as they are to the interest of the memorable character whichhe seeks to illustrate. Always they are told without grace, andgenerally are suspicious in their details. Mr Gillman we believe to betoo upright a man for countenancing any untruth. He has been deceived.For example, will any man believe this? A certain "excellentequestrian" falling in with Coleridge on horseback, thus accostedhim—"Pray, sir, did you meet a tailor along the road?" "A tailor!"answered Coleridge; "I did meet a person answering such adescription, who told me he had dropped his goose; that if I rode alittle further I should find it; and I guess he must have meant you."In Joe Miller this story would read, perhaps, sufferably. Joe has aprivilege; and we do not look too narrowly into the mouth of aJoe-Millerism. But Mr Gillman, writing the life of a philosopher, andno jest-book, is under a different law of decorum. That retort,however, which silences the jester, it may seem, must be a good one.And we are desired to believe that, in this case, the baffledassailant rode off in a spirit of benign candour, saying aloud tohimself, like the excellent philosopher the he evidently was, "Caughta Tartar!"

But another story of a sporting baronet, who was besides a Member ofParliament, is much worse, and altogether degrading to Coleridge. Thisgentleman, by way of showing off before a party of ladies, isrepresented as insulting Coleridge by putting questions to him on thequalities of his horse, so as to draw the animal's miserable defectsinto public notice, and then closing his display by demanding what hewould take for the horse "including the rider." The supposed reply ofColeridge might seem good to those who understand nothing of truedignity; for, as an impromptu, it was smart and even caustic. Thebaronet, it seems, was reputed to have been bought by the minister;and the reader will at once divine that the retort took advantage ofthat current belief, so as to throw back the sarcasm, by proclaimingthat neither horse nor rider had a price placarded in the market atwhich any man could become their purchaser. But this was not thetemper in which Coleridge either did reply, or could have replied.Coleridge showed, in the spirit of his manner a profound sensibilityto the nature of gentleman; and he felt too justly what it became aself-respecting person to say, ever to have aped the sort of flashyfencing which might seem fine to a theatrical blood.

Another story is self-refuted: "a hired partisan" had come to one ofColeridge's political lectures with the express purpose of bringingthe lecturer into trouble; and most preposterously he laid himselfopen to his own snare by refusing to pay for admission. Spies must bepoor artists who proceed thus. Upon which Coleridge remarked—"That,before the gentleman kicked up a dust, surely he would down with thedust." So far the story will not do. But what follows is possibleenough. The same "hired" gentleman, by way of giving unity to thetale, is described as having hissed. Upon this a cry arose of "turnhim out!" But Coleridge interfered to protect him; he insisted on theman's right to hiss if he thought[Pg 120] fit; it was legal to hiss; it wasnatural to hiss; "for what is to be expected, gentlemen, when the coolwaters of reason come in contact with red-hot aristocracy, but ahiss?" Euge!

Amongst all the anecdotes, however, of this splendid man, oftentrivial, often incoherent, often unauthenticated, there is one whichstrikes us as both true and interesting; and we are grateful to MrGillman for preserving it. We find it introduced, and partiallyauthenticated, by the following sentence from Coleridgehimself:—"From eight to fourteen I was a playless day-dreamer, ahelluo librorum; my appetite for which was indulged by a singularincident. A stranger, who was struck by my conversation, made me freeof a circulating library in King's Street, Cheapside." The morecircumstantial explanation of Mr Gillman is this: "The incident indeedwas singular. Going down the Strand, in one of his day-dreams,fancying himself swimming across the Hellespont, thrusting his handsbefore him as in the act of swimming, his hand came in contact with agentleman's pocket. The gentleman seized his hand, turning round, andlooking at him with some anger—'What! so young, and yet so wicked?'at the same time accused him of an attempt to pick his pocket. Thefrightened boy sobbed out his denial of the intention, and explainedto him how he thought himself Leander swimming across the Hellespont.The gentleman was so struck and delighted with the novelty of thething, and with the simplicity and intelligence of the boy, that hesubscribed, as before stated, to the library; in consequence of whichColeridge was further enabled to indulge his love of reading."

We fear that this slovenly narrative is the very perfection of badstory-telling. But the story itself is striking, and, by the veryoddness of the incidents, not likely to have been invented. Theeffect, from the position of the two parties—on the one side, asimple child from Devonshire, dreaming in the Strand that he wasswimming over from Sestos to Abydos, and, on the other, theexperienced man, dreaming only of this world, its knaves and itsthieves, but still kind and generous—is beautiful and picturesque.Oh! si sic omnia!

But the most interesting to us of the personalities connected withColeridge are his feuds and his personal dislikes. Incomprehensible tous is the war of extermination which Coleridge made upon the politicaleconomists. Did Sir James Steuart, in speaking of vine-dressers, (notas vine-dressers, but generally as cultivators,) tell his readers,that, if such a man simply replaced his own consumption, having nosurplus whatever or increment for the public capital, he could not beconsidered a useful citizen? Not the beast in the Revelation is heldup by Coleridge as more hateful to the spirit of truth than theJacobite baronet. And yet we know of an author—viz. one S.T.Coleridge—who repeated that same doctrine without finding any evil init. Look at the first part of the Wallenstein, where Count Isolanihaving said, "Pooh! we are all his subjects," i. e. soldiers,(though unproductive labourers,) not less than productive peasants,the emperor's envoy replies—"Yet with a difference, general;" and thedifference implies Sir James's scale, his vine-dresser being theequatorial case between the two extremes of the envoy.—Malthus again,in his population-book, contends for a mathematic difference betweenanimal and vegetable life, in respect to the law of increase, asthough the first increased by geometrical ratios, the last byarithmetical! No proposition more worthy of laughter; since both, whenpermitted to expand, increase by geometrical ratios, and the latter bymuch higher ratios. Whereas, Malthus persuaded himself of his crotchetsimply by refusing the requisite condition in the vegetable case, andgranting it in the other. If you take a few grains of wheat, and arerequired to plant all successive generations of their produce in thesame flower-pot for ever, of course you neutralise its expansion byyour own act of arbitrary limitation.[25] But so you would do, if youtried the case of animal increase by[Pg 121] still exterminating all butone replacing couple of parents. This is not to try, but merely apretence of trying, one order of powers against another. That wasfolly. But Coleridge combated this idea in a manner so obscure, thatnobody understood it. And leaving these speculative conundrums, incoming to the great practical interests afloat in the Poor Laws,Coleridge did so little real work, that he left, as a res integra,to Dr Alison, the capital argument that legal and adequate provisionfor the poor, whether impotent poor or poor accidentally out of work,does not extend pauperism—no, but is the one great resource forputting it down. Dr Alison's overwhelming and experimentalmanifestations of that truth have prostrated Malthus and hisgeneration for ever. This comes of not attending to the Latinmaxim—"Hoc age"—mind the object before you. Dr Alison, a wise man,"hoc egit:" Coleridge "aliud egit." And we see the result. In acase which suited him, by interesting his peculiar feeling, Coleridgecould command

"Attention full ten times as much as there needs."

But search documents, value evidence, or thresh out bushels ofstatistical tables, Coleridge could not, any more than he could ridewith Elliot's dragoons.

Another instance of Coleridge's inaptitude for such studies aspolitical economy is found in his fancy, by no means "rich and rare,"but meagre and trite, that taxes can never injure public prosperity bymere excess of quantity; if they injure, we are to conclude that itmust be by their quality and mode of operation, or by their falseappropriation, (as, for instance, if they are sent out of the countryand spent abroad.) Because, says Coleridge, if the taxes are exhaledfrom the country as vapors, back they come in drenching showers.Twenty pounds ascend in a Scotch mist to the Chancellor of theExchequer from Leeds; but does it evaporate? Not at all: By return ofpost down comes an order for twenty pounds' worth of Leeds cloth, onaccount of Government, seeing that the poor men of the ——th regimentwant new gaiters. True; but of this return twenty pounds, not morethan four will be profit, i. e., surplus accruing to the publiccapital; whereas, of the original twenty pounds, every shilling wassurplus. The same unsound fancy has been many times brought forward;often in England, often in France. But it is curious, that its firstappearance upon any stage was precisely two centuries ago, when as yetpolitical economy slept with the pre-Adamites, viz. in the LongParliament. In a quarto volume of the debates during 1644-5, printedas an independent work, will be found the same identical doctrine,supported very sonorously by the same little love of an illustrationfrom the see-saw of mist and rain.

Political economy was not Coleridge's forte. In politics he washappier. In mere personal politics, he (like every man when reviewedfrom a station distant by forty years) will often appear to haveerred; nay, he will be detected and nailed in error. But this is thenecessity of us all. Keen are the refutations of time. And absoluteresults to posterity are the fatal touchstone of opinions in the past.It is undeniable, besides, that[Pg 122] Coleridge had strong personalantipathies, for instance, to Messrs Pitt and Dundas. Yet why, wenever could understand. We once heard him tell a story uponWindermere, to the late Mr Curwen, then M.P. for Workington, which wasmeant, apparently, to account for this feeling. The story amounted tothis: that, when a freshman at Cambridge, Mr Pitt had wantonly amusedhimself at a dinner party in Trinity, in smashing with filberts(discharged in showers like grape-shot) a most costly dessert set ofcut glass, from which Samuel Taylor Coleridge argued a principle ofdestructiveness in his cerebellum. Now, if this dessert set belongedto some poor suffering Trinitarian, and not to himself, we are ofopinion that he was faulty, and ought, upon his own great subsequentmaxim, to have been coerced into "indemnity for the past, and securityfor the future." But, besides that this glassy mythus belongs to anæra fifteen years earlier than Coleridge's, so as to justify a shadowof scepticism, we really cannot find, in such an escapade under theboiling blood of youth, any sufficient justification of that witheringmalignity towards the name of Pitt, which runs through Coleridge'sfamous Fire, Famine, and Slaughter. As this little viperousjeu-d'esprit (published anonymously) subsequently became the subjectof a celebrated after-dinner discussion in London, at which Coleridge(comme de raison) was the chief speaker, the reader of thisgeneration may wish to know the question at issue; and in order tojudge of that, he must know the outline of this devil's squib. Thewriter brings upon the scene three pleasant young ladies, viz. MissFire, Miss Famine, and Miss Slaughter. "What are you up to? What's therow?"—we may suppose to be the introductory question of the poet. Andthe answer of the ladies makes us aware that they are fresh fromlarking in Ireland, and in France. A glorious spree they had; lots offun; and laughter à discretion. At all times gratus puellæ risus abangulo; so that we listen to their little gossip with interest. Theyhad been setting men, it seems, by the ears; and the drollest littleatrocities they do certainly report. Not but we have seen better inthe Nenagh paper, so far as Ireland is concerned. But the pet littlejoke was in La Vendée. Miss Famine, who is the girl for our money,raises the question—whether any of them can tell the name of theleader and prompter to these high jinks of hell—if so, let herwhisper it.

"Whisper it, sister, so and so,
In a dark hint—distinct and low."

Upon which the playful Miss Slaughter replies:—

"Letters four do form his name.
***
He came by stealth and unlock'd my den;
And I have drunk the blood since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men."

Good: But the sting of the hornet lies in the conclusion. If thisquadriliteral man had done so much for them, (though really, wethink, 6s. 8d. might have settled his claim,) what, says Fire, settingher arms a-kimbo, would they do for him? Slaughter replies, rathercrustily, that, as far as a good kicking would go—or (says Famine) alittle matter of tearing to pieces by the mob—they would be glad totake tickets at his benefit. "How, you bitches!" says Fire, "is thatall?

"I alone am faithful; I
Cling to him everlastingly."

The sentiment is diabolical. And the question argued at the Londondinner-table was—Could the writer have been other than a devil? Thedinner was at the late excellent Mr Sotheby's, known advantageously inthose days as the translator of Wieland's Oberon. Several of thegreat guns amongst the literary body were present; in particular, SirWalter Scott; and he, we believe, with his usual good-nature, took theapologetic side of the dispute. In fact, he was in the secret. Nobodyelse, barring the author, knew at first whose good name was at stake.The scene must have been high. The company kicked about the poordiabolic writer's head as if it had been a tennis-ball. Coleridge, theyet unknown criminal, absolutely perspired and fumed in pleading forthe defendant; the company demurred; the orator grew urgent; witsbegan to smoke the case, as active verbs; the[Pg 123] advocate to smoke,as a neuter verb; the "fun grew fast and furious;" until at lengthdelinquent arose, burning tears in his eyes, and confessed to anaudience, (now bursting with stifled laughter, but whom he supposed tobe bursting with fiery indignation,) "Lo! I am he that wrote it."

For our own parts, we side with Coleridge. Malice is not always of theheart. There is a malice of the understanding and the fancy. Neitherdo we think the worse of a man for having invented the most horribleand old-woman-troubling curse that demons ever listened to. We are tooapt to swear horribly ourselves; and often have we frightened the cat,to say nothing of the kettle, by our shocking [far too shocking!]oaths.

There were other celebrated men whom Coleridge detested, or seemed todetest—Paley, Sir Sidney Smith, Lord Hutchinson, (the last LordDonoughmore,) and Cuvier. To Paley it might seem as if his antipathyhad been purely philosophic; but we believe that partly it waspersonal; and it tallies with this belief, that, in his earliestpolitical tracts, Coleridge charged the archdeacon repeatedly with hisown joke, as if it had been a serious saying, viz.—"that he could notafford to keep a conscience;" such luxuries, like a carriage, forinstance, being obviously beyond the finances of poor men.

With respect to the philosophic question between the parties, as tothe grounds of moral election, we hope it is no treason to suggestthat both were perhaps in error. Against Paley, it occurs at once thathe himself would not have made consequences the practical test invaluing the morality of an act, since these can very seldom be tracedat all up to the final stages, and in the earliest stages areexceedingly different under different circumstances; so that the sameact, tried by its consequences, would bear a fluctuating appreciation.This could not have been Paley's revised meaning. Consequently, hadhe been pressed by opposition, it would have come out, that by testhe meant only speculative test: a very harmless doctrine certainly,but useless and impertinent to any purpose of his system. The readermay catch our meaning in the following illustration. It is a matter ofgeneral belief, that happiness, upon the whole, follows in a higherdegree from constant integrity, than from the closest attention toself-interest. Now happiness is one of those consequences which Paleymeant by final or remotest. But we could never use this idea as anexponent of integrity, or interchangeable criterion, because happinesscannot be ascertained or appreciated except upon long tracts of time,whereas the particular act of integrity depends continually upon theelection of the moment. No man, therefore, could venture to lay downas a rule, Do what makes you happy; use this as your test of actions,satisfied that in that case always you will do the thing which isright. For he cannot discern independently what will make him happy;and he must decide on the spot. The use of the nexus betweenmorality and happiness must therefore be inverted; it is not practicalor prospective, but simply retrospective; and in that form it says nomore than the good old rules hallowed in every cottage. But thisfurnishes no practical guide for moral election which a man had not,before he ever thought of this nexus. In the sense in which it istrue, we need not go to the professor's chair for this maxim; in thesense in which it would serve Paley, it is absolutely false.

On the other hand, as against Coleridge, it is certain that many actscould be mentioned which are judged to be good or bad only becausetheir consequences are known to be so, whilst the great catholic actsof life are entirely (and, if we may so phrase it, haughtily)independent of consequences. For instance, fidelity to a trust is alaw of immutable morality subject to no casuistry whatever. You havebeen left executor to a friend—you are to pay over his last legacy toX, though a dissolute scoundrel; and you are to give no shilling of itto the poor brother of X, though a good man, and a wise man,struggling with adversity. You are absolutely excluded from allcontemplation of results. It was your deceased friend's right to makethe will; it is yours simply to see it executed. Now, in opposition tothis primary class of actions stands another, such as the habit ofintoxication, which are known to be wrong only by observing theconsequences.[Pg 124] If drunkenness did not terminate, after some years, inproducing bodily weakness, irritability in the temper, and so forth,it would not be a vicious act. And accordingly, if a transcendentmotive should arise in favour of drunkenness, as that it would enableyou to face a degree of cold, or contagion, else menacing to life, aduty would arise, pro hâc vice, of getting drunk. We had an amiablefriend who suffered under the infirmity of cowardice; an awful cowardhe was when sober; but, when very drunk, he had courage enough for theSeven Champions of Christendom. Therefore, in an emergency, where heknew himself suddenly loaded with the responsibility of defending afamily, we approved highly of his getting drunk. But to violate atrust could never become right under any change of circumstances.Coleridge, however, altogether overlooked this distinction; which, onthe other hand, stirring in Paley's mind, but never brought out todistinct consciousness, nor ever investigated, nor limited, hasundermined his system. Perhaps it is not very important how a mantheorizes upon morality; happily for us all, God has left no man insuch questions practically to the guidance of his understanding; butstill, considering that academic bodies are partly instituted forthe support of speculative truth as well as truth practical, we mustthink it a blot upon the splendour of Oxford and Cambridge that bothof them, in a Christian land, make Paley the foundation of theirethics; the alternative being Aristotle. And, in our mind, though farinferior as a moralist to the Stoics, Aristotle is often less a paganthan Paley.

Coleridge's dislike to Sir Sidney Smith and the Egyptian LordHutchinson fell under the category of Martial's case.

"Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare,
Hoc solum novi—non amo te, Sabidi."

Against Lord Hutchinson, we never heard him plead any thing of moment,except that he was finically Frenchified in his diction; of which hegave this instance—that having occasion to notice a brick wall,(which was literally that, not more and not less,) whenreconnoitring the French defences, he called it a revêtement. And weourselves remember his using the French word gloriole ratherostentatiously; that is, when no particular emphasis attached to thecase. But every man has his foibles; and few, perhaps, are lessconspicuously annoying than this of Lord Hutchinson's. Sir Sidney'scrimes were less distinctly revealed to our mind. As to Cuvier,Coleridge's hatred of him was more to our taste; for (though quiteunreasonable, we fear) it took the shape of patriotism. He insisted onit, that our British John Hunter was the genuine article, and thatCuvier was a humbug. Now, speaking privately to the public, we cannotgo quite so far as that. But, when publicly we address that mostrespectable character, en grand costume, we always mean to backColeridge. For we are a horrible John Bull ourselves. As Joseph Humeobserves, it makes no difference to us—right or wrong, black orwhite—when our countrymen are concerned. And John Hunter,notwithstanding he had a bee in his bonnet,[26] was really a greatman; though it will not follow that Cuvier must, therefore, have beena little one. We do not pretend to be acquainted with the tenth partof Cuvier's performances; but we suspect that Coleridge's range inthat respect was not much greater than our own.

Other cases of monomaniac antipathy we might revive from ourrecollections of Coleridge, had we a sufficient motive. But incompensation, and by way of redressing the balance, he had manystrange likings—equally monomaniac—and, unaccountably, he chose toexhibit his whimsical partialities by dressing up, as it were, in hisown clothes, such a set of scarecrows as eye has not beheld. Heavens![Pg 125]what an ark of unclean beasts would have been Coleridge's privatemenagerie of departed philosophers, could they all have been trottedout in succession! But did the reader feel them to be the awful boreswhich, in fact, they were? No; because Coleridge had blown upon thesewithered anatomies, through the blowpipe of his own creative genius, astream of gas that swelled the tissue of their antediluvian wrinkles,forced colour upon their cheeks, and splendour upon their sodden eyes.Such a process of ventriloquism never has existed. He spoke by theirorgans. They were the tubes; and he forced through their woodenmachinery his own Beethoven harmonies.

First came Dr Andrew Bell. We knew him. Was he dull? Is a wooden spoondull? Fishy were his eyes; torpedinous was his manner; and his mainidea, out of two which he really had, related to the moon—from whichyou infer, perhaps, that he was lunatic. By no means. It was no craze,under the influence of the moon, which possessed him; it was an ideaof mere hostility to the moon. The Madras people, like many others,had an idea that she influenced the weather. Subsequently theHerschels, senior and junior, systematized this idea; and then thewrath of Andrew, previously in a crescent state, actually dilated to aplenilunar orb. The Westmoreland people (for at the lakes it was weknew him) expounded his condition to us by saying that he was"maffled;" which word means "perplexed in the extreme." His wrath didnot pass into lunacy; it produced simple distraction; an uneasyfumbling with the idea; like that of an old superannuated dog wholongs to worry, but cannot for want of teeth. In this condition youwill judge that he was rather tedious. And in this condition Coleridgetook him up. Andrew's other idea, because he had two, related toeducation. Perhaps six-sevenths of that also came from Madras. Nomatter, Coleridge took that up; Southey also; but Southey with hisusual temperate fervour. Coleridge, on the other hand, found celestialmarvels both in the scheme and in the man. Then commenced theapotheosis of Andrew Bell; and because it happened that his opponent,Lancaster, between ourselves, really had stolen his ideas from Bell,what between the sad wickedness of Lancaster and the celestialtransfiguration of Bell, gradually Coleridge heated himself to such anextent, that people, when referring to that subject, asked each other:"Have you heard Coleridge lecture on Bel and the Dragon?"

The next man glorified by Coleridge was John Woolman, the Quaker. Him,though we once possessed his works, it cannot be truly affirmed thatwe ever read. Try to read John, we often did; but read John we didnot. This however, you say, might be our fault, and not John's. Verylikely. And we have a notion that now, with our wiser thoughts, weshould read John, if he were here on this table. It is certain thathe was a good man, and one of the earliest in America, if not inChristendom, who lifted up his hand to protest against theslave-trade. But still, we suspect, that had John been all thatColeridge represented, he would not have repelled us from reading histravels in the fearful way that he did. But, again, we beg pardon, andentreat the earth of Virginia to lie light upon the remains of JohnWoolman; for he was an Israelite, indeed, in whom there was no guile.

The third person raised to divine honours by Coleridge was Bowyer, themaster of Christ's Hospital, London—a man whose name rises into thenostrils of all who knew him with the gracious odour of atallow-chandler's melting-house upon melting day, and whose memory isembalmed in the hearty detestation of all his pupils. Coleridgedescribes this man as a profound critic. Our idea of him is different.We are of opinion that Bowyer was the greatest villain of theeighteenth century. We may be wrong; but we cannot be far wrong.Talk of knouting indeed! which we did at the beginning of this paperin the mere playfulness of our hearts—and which the great master ofthe knout, Christopher, who visited men's trespasses like theEumenides, never resorted to but in love for some great idea which hadbeen outraged; why, this man knouted his way through life, from bloodyyouth up to truculent[Pg 126] old age. Grim idol! whose altars reeked withchildren's blood, and whose dreadful eyes never smiled except as thestern goddess of the Thugs smiles, when the sound of humanlamentations inhabits her ears. So much had the monster fed upon thisgreat idea of "flogging," and transmuted it into the very nutriment ofhis heart, that he seems to have conceived the gigantic project offlogging all mankind; nay worse, for Mr Gillman, on Coleridge'sauthority, tells us (p. 24) the following anecdote:—

"'Sirrah, I'll flog you,' were words so familiar to him, thaton one occasion some female friend of one of the boys," (whohad come on an errand of intercession,) "still lingering at thedoor, after having been abruptly told to go, Bowyerexclaimed—'Bring that woman here, and I'll flog her.'"

To this horrid incarnation of whips and scourges, Coleridge, in hisBiographia Literaria, ascribes ideas upon criticism and taste, whichevery man will recognise as the intense peculiarities of Coleridge.Could these notions really have belonged to Bowyer, then how do weknow but he wrote The Ancient Mariner? Yet, on consideration, no.For even Coleridge admitted that, spite of his fine theorizing uponcomposition, Mr Bowyer did not prosper in the practice. Of which hegave us this illustration; and as it is supposed to be the onlyspecimen of the Bowyeriana which now survives in this sublunary world,we are glad to extend its glory. It is the most curious example extantof the melodious in sound:—

"'Twas thou that smooth'd'st the rough-rugg'd bed of pain."

"Smooth'd'st!" Would the teeth of a crocodile not splinter under thatword? It seems to us as if Mr Bowyer's verses ought to be boiledbefore they can be read. And when he says, 'Twas thou, what is thewretch talking to? Can he be apostrophising the knout? We very muchfear it. If so then, you see (reader!) that, even when incapacitatedby illness from operating, he still adores the image of his holyscourge, and invokes it as alone able to smooth "his rough-rugg'dbed." Oh, thou infernal Bowyer! upon whom even Trollope (History ofChrist's Hospital) charges "a discipline tinctured with more thandue severity;"—can there be any partners found for thee in aquadrille, except Draco, the bloody lawgiver, Bishop Bonner, and MrsBrownrigg?

The next pet was Sir Alexander Ball. Concerning Bowyer, Coleridge didnot talk much, but chiefly wrote; concerning Bell, he did not writemuch, but chiefly talked. Concerning Ball, however, he both wrote andtalked. It was in vain to muse upon any plan for having Ballblackballed, or for rebelling against Bell. Think of a man, who hadfallen into one pit called Bell, secondly falling into another pitcalled Ball. This was too much. We were obliged to quote poetryagainst them:—

"Letters four do form his name;
He came by stealth and unlock'd my den;
And the nightmare I have felt since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men."

Not that we insinuate any disrespect to Sir Alexander Ball. He wasabout the foremost, we believe, in all good qualities, amongstNelson's admirable captains at the Nile. He commanded a seventy-fourmost effectually in that battle; he governed Malta as well as Sanchogoverned Barataria; and he was a true practical philosopher—as,indeed, was Sancho. But still, by all that we could ever learn, SirAlexander had no taste for the abstract upon any subject; and wouldhave read, as mere delirious wanderings, those philosophic opinionswhich Coleridge fastened like wings upon his respectable, butastounded, shoulders.

We really beg pardon for having laughed a little at these crazes ofColeridge. But laugh we did, of mere necessity, in those days, at Belland Ball, whenever we did not groan. And, as the same precisealternative offered itself now, viz., that, in recalling the case, wemust reverberate either the groaning or the laughter, we presumed thereader would vote for the last. Coleridge, we are well convinced, owedall these wandering and exaggerated estimates of men—these diseasedimpulses, that, like the[Pg 127] mirage, showed lakes and fountains wherein reality there were only arid deserts, to the derangements worked byopium. But now, for the sake of change, let us pass to another topic.Suppose we say a word or two on Coleridge's accomplishments as ascholar. We are not going to enter on so large a field as that of hisscholarship in connexion with his philosophic labours, scholarship inthe result; not this, but scholarship in the means and machinery,range of verbal scholarship, is what we propose for a moment'sreview.

For instance, what sort of a German scholar was Coleridge? We dare saythat, because in his version of the Wallenstein there are someinaccuracies, those who may have noticed them will hold him cheap inthis particular pretension. But, to a certain degree, they will bewrong. Coleridge was not very accurate in any thing but in the useof logic. All his philological attainments were imperfect. He did nottalk German; or so obscurely—and, if he attempted to speak fast, soerroneously—that in his second sentence, when conversing with aGerman lady of rank, he contrived to assure her that in his humbleopinion she was a ——. Hard it is to fill up the hiatus decorously;but, in fact, the word very coarsely expressed that she was no betterthan she should be. Which reminds us of a parallel misadventure to aGerman, whose colloquial English had been equally neglected. Havingobtained an interview with an English lady, he opened his business(whatever it might be) thus—"High-born madam, since your husband havekicked de bucket"—— "Sir!" interrupted the lady, astonished anddispleased. "Oh, pardon!—nine, ten tousand pardon! Now, I make newbeginning—quite oder beginning. Madam, since your husband have cuthis stick"—— It may be supposed that this did not mend matters; and,reading that in the lady's countenance, the German drew out an octavodictionary, and said, perspiring with shame at having a second timemissed fire,—"Madam, since your husband have gone to kingdomcome"—— This he said beseechingly; but the lady was pastpropitiation by this time, and rapidly moved towards the door. Thingshad now reached a crisis; and, if something were not done quickly, thegame was up. Now, therefore, taking a last hurried look at hisdictionary, the German flew after the lady, crying out in a voice ofdespair—"Madam, since your husband, your most respected husband, havehopped de twig"—— This was his sheet-anchor; and, as this also camehome, of course the poor man was totally wrecked. It turned out thatthe dictionary he had used (Arnold's, we think,)—a work of a hundredyears back, and, from mere ignorance, giving slang translations fromTom Brown, L'Estrange, and other jocular writers—had put down theverb sterben (to die) with the following worshipful series ofequivalents—1. To kick the bucket; 2. To cut one's stick; 3. To go tokingdom come; 4. To hop the twig.

But, though Coleridge did not pretend to any fluent command ofconversational German, he read it with great ease. His knowledge ofGerman literature was, indeed, too much limited by his rareopportunities for commanding any thing like a well-mounted library.And particularly it surprised us that Coleridge knew little or nothingof John Paul (Richter.) But his acquaintance with the Germanphilosophic masters was extensive. And his valuation of manyindividual German words or phrases was delicate and sometimesprofound.

As a Grecian, Coleridge must be estimated with a reference to thestate and standard of Greek literature at that time and in thiscountry. Porson had not yet raised our ideal. The earliest laurels ofColeridge were gathered, however, in that field. Yet no man will, atthis day, pretend that the Greek of his prize ode is sufferable.Neither did Coleridge ever become an accurate Grecian in later times,when better models of scholarship, and better aids to scholarship, hadbegun to multiply. But still we must assert this point of superiorityfor Coleridge, that, whilst he never was what may be called awell-mounted scholar in any department of verbal scholarship, he yetdisplayed sometimes a brilliancy of conjectural sagacity, and afelicity of philosophic investigation, even in this path, such as[Pg 128]better scholars do not often attain, and of a kind which cannot belearned from books. But, as respects his accuracy, again we mustrecall to the reader the state of Greek literature in England duringColeridge's youth; and, in all equity, as a means of placing Coleridgein the balances, specifically we must recall the state of Greekmetrical composition at that period.

To measure the condition of Greek literature even in Cambridge, aboutthe initial period of Coleridge, we need only look back to the severaltranslations of Gray's Elegy by three (if not four) of the reverendgentlemen at that time attached to Eton College. Mathias, no verygreat scholar himself in this particular field, made himself merry, inhis Pursuits of Literature, with these Eton translations. In that hewas right. But he was not right in praising a contemporarytranslation by Cook, who (we believe) was the immediate predecessor ofPorson in the Greek chair. As a specimen of this translation,[27] wecite one stanza; and we cannot be supposed to select unfairly, becauseit is the stanza which Mathias praises in extravagant terms. "Here,"says he, "Gray, Cook, and nature, do seem to contend for the mastery."The English quatrain must be familiar to every body:—

"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

And the following, we believe, though quoting from a thirty-threeyears' recollection of it, is the exact Greek version of Cook:—

Now really these verses, by force of a little mosaic tesselation fromgenuine Greek sources, pass fluently over the tongue; but can they beconsidered other than a cento? Swarms of English schoolboys, at thisday, would not feel very proud to adopt them. In fact, we remember (ata period say twelve years later than this) some iambic verses, whichwere really composed by a boy, viz. son of Dr Prettyman, (afterwardsTomline,) bishop of Winchester, and, in earlier times, private tutorto Mr Pitt; they were published by Middleton, first bishop ofCalcutta, in the preface to his work on the Greek article; and forracy idiomatic Greek, self-originated, and not a mere mocking-bird'siteration of alien notes, are so much superior to all the attempts ofthese sexagenarian doctors, as distinctly to mark the growth of a newera and a new generation in this difficult accomplishment, within thefirst decennium of this century. It is singular that only one blemishis suggested by any of the contemporary critics in Dr Cook's verses,viz. in the word , for which this critic proposes tosubstitute , to prevent, as he observes, the lastsyllable of from being lengthened by the .Such considerations as these are necessary to the trutinæcastigatio, before we can value Coleridge's place on the scale of hisown day; which day, quoad hoc, be it remembered, was 1790.

As to French, Coleridge read it with too little freedom to findpleasure in French literature. Accordingly, we never recollect hisreferring for any purpose, either of argument or illustration, to aFrench classic. Latin, from his regular scholastic training, naturallyhe read with a scholar's fluency; and indeed, he read constantly inauthors, such as Petrarch, Erasmus, Calvin, &c., whom he could notthen have found in translations. But Coleridge had not cultivated anacquaint[Pg 129]ance with the delicacies of classic Latinity. And it isremarkable that Wordsworth, educated most negligently at Hawksheadschool, subsequently by reading the lyric poetry of Horace, simply forhis own delight as a student of composition, made himself a master ofLatinity in its most difficult form; whilst Coleridge, trainedregularly in a great Southern school, never carried his Latin to anyclassical polish.

There is another accomplishment of Coleridge's, less broadly open tothe judgment of this generation, and not at all of the next—viz. hissplendid art of conversation, on which it will be interesting to say aword. Ten years ago, when the music of this rare performance had notyet ceased to vibrate in men's ears, what a sensation was gatheringamongst the educated classes on this particular subject! What a tumultof anxiety prevailed to "hear Mr Coleridge"—or even to talk with aman who had heard him! Had he lived till this day, not Paganiniwould have been so much sought after. That sensation is now decaying;because a new generation has emerged during the ten years since hisdeath. But many still remain whose sympathy (whether of curiosity inthose who did not know him, or of admiration in those who did)still reflects as in a mirror the great stir upon this subject whichthen was moving in the world. To these, if they should enquire for thegreat distinguishing principle of Coleridge's conversation, we mightsay that it was the power of vast combination "in linked sweetnesslong drawn out." He gathered into focal concentration the largest bodyof objects, apparently disconnected, that any man ever yet, by anymagic, could assemble, or, having assembled, could manage. His greatfault was, that, by not opening sufficient spaces for reply orsuggestion, or collateral notice, he not only narrowed his own field,but he grievously injured the final impression. For when men's mindsare purely passive, when they are not allowed to re-act, then it isthat they collapse most, and that their sense of what is said mustever be feeblest. Doubtless there must have been great conversationalmasters elsewhere, and at many periods; but in this lay Coleridge'scharacteristic advantage, that he was a great natural power, and alsoa great artist. He was a power in the art, and he carried a new artinto the power.

But now, finally—having left ourselves little room for more—one ortwo words on Coleridge as an opium-eater.

We have not often read a sentence falling from a wise man withastonishment so profound, as that particular one in a letter ofColeridge's to Mr Gillman, which speaks of the effort to weanone's-self from opium as a trivial task. There are, we believe,several such passages. But we refer to that one in particular whichassumes that a single "week" will suffice for the whole process of somighty a revolution. Is indeed leviathan so tamed? In that case thequarantine of the opium-eater might be finished within Coleridge'stime, and with Coleridge's romantic ease. But mark the contradictionsof this extraordinary man. Not long ago we were domesticated with avenerable rustic, strongheaded, but incurably obstinate in hisprejudices, who treated the whole body of medical men as ignorantpretenders, knowing absolutely nothing of the system which theyprofessed to superintend. This, you will remark, is no very singularcase. No; nor, as we believe, is the antagonist case of ascribing tosuch men magical powers. Nor, what is worse still, the co-existence ofboth cases in the same mind, as in fact happened here. For this sameobstinate friend of ours, who treated all medical pretensions as themere jest of the universe, every third day was exacting from his ownmedical attendants some exquisite tour-de-force, as that they shouldknow or should do something, which, if they had known or done, allmen would have suspected them reasonably of magic. He rated the wholemedical body as infants; and yet what he exacted from them every thirdday as a matter of course, virtually presumed them to be the onlygiants within the whole range of science. Parallel and equal is thecontradiction of Coleridge. He speaks of opium excess, his own excess,we mean—the excess of twenty-five years—as a thing to be laid asideeasily and for[Pg 130] ever within seven days; and yet, on the other hand, hedescribes it pathetically, sometimes with a frantic pathos, as thescourge, the curse, the one almighty blight which had desolated hislife.

This shocking contradiction we need not press. All readers will seethat. But some will ask—was Mr Coleridge right in either view?Being so atrociously wrong in the first notion, (viz. that the opiumof twenty-five years was a thing easily to be forsworn,) where a childcould know that he was wrong, was he even altogether right, secondly,in believing that his own life, root and branch, had been withered byopium? For it will not follow, because, with a relation to happinessand tranquillity, a man may have found opium his curse, thattherefore, as a creature of energies and great purposes, he must havebeen the wreck which he seems to suppose. Opium gives and takes away.It defeats the steady habit of exertion, but it creates spasms ofirregular exertion; it ruins the natural power of life, but itdevelopes preternatural paroxysms of intermitting power.

Let us ask of any man who holds that not Coleridge himself but theworld, as interested in Coleridge's usefulness, has suffered by hisaddiction to opium; whether he is aware of the way in which opiumaffected Coleridge; and secondly, whether he is aware of the actualcontributions to literature—how large they were—which Coleridge madein spite of opium. All who were intimate with Coleridge mustremember the fits of genial animation which were created continuallyin his manner and in his buoyancy of thought by a recent or by anextra dose of the omnipotent drug. A lady, who knew nothingexperimentally of opium, once told us, that she "could tell when MrColeridge had taken too much opium by his shining countenance." Shewas right; we know that mark of opium excesses well, and the cause ofit; or at least we believe the cause to lie in the quickening of theinsensible perspiration which accumulates and glistens on the face. Bethat as it may, a criterion it was that could not deceive us as to thecondition of Coleridge. And uniformly in that condition he made hismost effective intellectual displays. It is true that he might not behappy under this fiery animation, and we fully believe that he wasnot. Nobody is happy under laudanum except for a very short term ofyears. But in what way did that operate upon his exertions as awriter? We are of opinion that it killed Coleridge as a poet. "Theharp of Quantock" was silenced for ever by the torment of opium. Butproportionably it roused and stung by misery his metaphysicalinstincts into more spasmodic life. Poetry can flourish only in theatmosphere of happiness. But subtle and perplexed investigations ofdifficult problems are amongst the commonest resources for beguilingthe sense of misery. And for this we have the direct authority ofColeridge himself speculating on his own case. In the beautiful thoughunequal ode entitled Dejection, stanza six, occurs the followingpassage:

"For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan;
Till that, which suits a part, infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul."

Considering the exquisite quality of some poems which Coleridge hascomposed, nobody can grieve (or has grieved) more than ourselves, atseeing so beautiful a fountain choked up with weeds. But had Coleridgebeen a happier man, it is our fixed belief that we should have had farless of his philosophy, and perhaps, but not certainly, might have hadmore of his general literature. In the estimate of the public,doubtless, that will seem a bad exchange. Every man to his taste.Meantime, what we wish to show is, that the loss was not absolute, butmerely relative.

It is urged, however, that, even on his philosophic speculations,opium operated unfavourably in one respect, by often causing him toleave them unfinished. This is true. Whenever Coleridge (being highlycharged, or[Pg 131] saturated, with opium) had written with distemperedvigour upon any question, there occurred soon after a recoil ofintense disgust, not from his own paper only, but even from thesubject. All opium-eaters are tainted with the infirmity of leavingworks unfinished, and suffering reactions of disgust. But Coleridgetaxed himself with that infirmity in verse before he could at all havecommenced opium-eating. Besides, it is too much assumed by Coleridgeand by his biographer, that to leave off opium was of course to regainjuvenile health. But all opium-eaters make the mistake of supposingevery pain or irritation which they suffer to be the product of opium.Whereas a wise man will say, suppose you do leave off opium, thatwill not deliver you from the load of years (say sixty-three) whichyou carry on your back. Charles Lamb, another man of true genius, andanother head belonging to the Blackwood Gallery, made that mistake inhis Confessions of a Drunkard. "I looked back," says he, "to thetime when always, on waking in the morning, I had a song rising to mylips." At present, it seems, being a , he has no such song.Ay, dear Lamb, but note this, that the drunkard was fifty-six yearsold, the songster was twenty-three. Take twenty-three from fifty-six,and we have some reason to believe that thirty-three will remain;which period of thirty-three years is a pretty good reason for notsinging in the morning, even if brandy has been out of the question.

It is singular, as respects Coleridge, that Mr Gillman never says oneword upon the event of the great Highgate experiment for leaving offlaudanum, though Coleridge came to Mr Gillman's for no other purpose;and in a week, this vast creation of new earth, sea, and all that inthem is, was to have been accomplished. We rayther think, as Bayleyjunior observes, that the explosion must have hung fire. But that isa trifle. We have another pleasing hypothesis on the subject. MrWordsworth, in his exquisite lines written on a fly-leaf of his ownCastle of Indolence, having described Coleridge as "a noticeable manwith large grey eyes," goes on to say, "He" (viz. Coleridge) "did thatother man entice" to view his imagery. Now we are sadly afraid that"the noticeable man with large grey eyes" did entice "that other man,"viz. Gillman, to commence opium-eating. This is droll; and it makes uslaugh horribly. Gillman should have reformed him; and lo! hecorrupts Gillman. S. T. Coleridge visited Highgate by way of beingconverted from the heresy of opium; and the issue is—that, in twomonths' time, various grave men, amongst whom our friend Gillmanmarches first in great pomp, are found to have faces shining andglorious as that of Æsculapius; a fact of which we have alreadyexplained the secret meaning. And scandal says (but then what will notscandal say?) that a hogshead of opium goes up daily through Highgatetunnel. Surely one corroboration of our hypothesis may be found in thefact, that Vol. I. of Gillman's Coleridge is forever to standunpropped by Vol. II. For we have already observed—that opium-eaters,though good fellows upon the whole, never finish any thing.

What then? A man has a right never to finish any thing. Certainly hehas; and by Magna Charta. But he has no right, by Magna Charta or byParva Charta, to slander decent men, like ourselves and our friend theauthor of the Opium Confessions. Here it is that our complaintarises against Mr Gillman. If he has taken to opium-eating, can wehelp that? If his face shines, must our faces be blackened? He hasvery improperly published some intemperate passages from Coleridge'sletters, which ought to have been considered confidential, unlessColeridge had left them for publication, charging upon the author ofthe Opium Confessions a reckless disregard of the temptations which,in that work, he was scattering abroad amongst men. Now this author isconnected with ourselves, and we cannot neglect his defence, unless inthe case that he undertakes it himself.

We complain, also, that Coleridge raises (and is backed by Mr Gillmanin raising) a distinction perfectly perplexing to us, between himselfand the author of the Opium Confessions upon the question—Why theyseverally began the practice of opium-eating? In himself, it seems,this motive was to relieve pain, whereas the Confessor wassurreptitiously seeking for pleasure. Ay, indeed—where did[Pg 132] he learnthat? We have no copy of the Confessions here, so we cannot quotechapter and verse; but we distinctly remember, that toothach isrecorded in that book as the particular occasion which firstintroduced the author to the knowledge of opium. Whether afterwards,having been thus initiated by the demon of pain, the opium confessordid not apply powers thus discovered to purposes of mere pleasure, isa question for himself; and the same question applies with the samecogency to Coleridge. Coleridge began in rheumatic pains. What then?That is no proof that he did not end in voluptuousness. For our parts,we are slow to believe that ever any man did, or could, learn thesomewhat awful truth, that in a certain ruby-coloured elixir, therelurked a divine power to chase away the genius of ennui, withoutsubsequently abusing this power. To taste but once from the tree ofknowledge, is fatal to the subsequent power of abstinence. True it is,that generations have used laudanum as an anodyne, (for instance,hospital patients,) who have not afterwards courted its powers as avoluptuous stimulant; but that, be sure, has arisen from no abstinencein them. There are, in fact, two classes of temperaments as to thisterrific drug—those which are, and those which are not, preconformedto its power; those which genially expand to its temptations, andthose which frostily exclude them. Not in the energies of the will,but in the qualities of the nervous organization, lies the dreadarbitration of—Fall or stand: doomed thou art to yield; or,strengthened constitutionally, to resist. Most of those who have but alow sense of the spells lying couchant in opium, have practically noneat all. For the initial fascination is for them effectually defeatedby the sickness which nature has associated with the first stages ofopium-eating. But to that other class, whose nervous sensibilitiesvibrate to their profoundest depths under the first touch of theangelic poison, even as a lover's ear thrills on hearing unexpectedlythe voice of her whom he loves, opium is the Amreeta cup of beatitude.You know the Paradise Lost? and you remember, from the eleventhbook, in its earlier part, that laudanum already existed in Eden—nay,that it was used medicinally by an archangel; for, after Michael had"purged with euphrasy and rue" the eyes of Adam, lest he should beunequal to the mere sight of the great visions about to unfold theirdraperies before him, next he fortifies his fleshly spirits againstthe affliction of these visions, of which visions the first wasdeath. And how?

"He from the well of life three drops instill'd."

What was their operation?

"So deep the power of these ingredients pierced,
Even to the inmost seat of mental sight,
That Adam, now enforced to close his eyes
Sank down, and all his spirits became entranced.
But him the gentle angel by the hand
Soon raised"——

The second of these lines it is which betrays the presence oflaudanum. It is in the faculty of mental vision, it is in theincreased power of dealing with the shadowy and the dark, that thecharacteristic virtue of opium lies. Now, in the original highersensibility is found some palliation for the practice ofopium-eating; in the greater temptation is a greater excuse. And inthis faculty of self-revelation is found some palliation forreporting the case to the world, which both Coleridge and hisbiographer have overlooked.

On all this, however, we need say no more; for we have just received anote from the writer of the Opium Confessions, more learned thanourselves in such mysteries, which promises us a sequel or finale tothose Confessions. And this, which we have reason to think a record ofprofound experiences, we shall probably publish next month.

Edinburgh: Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes, Paul's Work.

Footnotes:

[1] Reynolds' Discourses, No. 16, ad finem.

[2] Macaulay.

[3] The finest design ever conceived by Michael Angelo was a cartoonrepresenting warriors bathing, and some buckling on their armour atthe sound of the trumpet, which summoned them to their standards inthe war between Pisa and Florence. It perished, however, in thetroubles of the latter city, but an engraved copy remains of part,which justifies the eulogiums bestowed upon it.

[4] The state of Missouri as almost entirely peopled by emigrationfrom Kentucky.

[5] The Mississippi water, although slimy, becomes clear after it hasstood few hours, and is then excellent to drink.

[6] An excellent map of Montenegro has been made by an Austrianofficer of engineers, who resided there for the purpose—but I havenot now the advantage of referring to it. This country is divided intotwelve military departments; the natives reckon its extent about threedays' journey in the longest, by two in the widest part. Those, ofcourse, are foot or mule journeys.

[7] It was this man's father who, shortly before our arrival, havingbeen entrusted to receive from Lloyd's Company a packet containing alarge sum of money, converted the contents into two cannon-balls, andforwarded them to the Vladika.

[8] The late Vladika received the honours of sanctity after his death.

[9] Meaning dressed in the European or Frank costume.

[10] The Vladika bears the Russian eagle rising from a crown.

[11] He passed but one night in Montenegro, at Cettigna, and returnedthe following day to Cattaro.

[12] On the kalends of January the consuls-elect were formallyinstalled; and on this occasion a procession was made to the Capitol,and sacrifice performed to Jupiter. The principal part of theprocession, of course, was the consuls in their curule chair, precededby the lictors bearing the fasces, or bundles of rods and axes.

[13] From Janua, a gate.

[14] The etymology of these old epithets, from pateo (to open) andclaudo (to shut,) is obvious enough.

[15] The lar familiaris, or domestic god of the family, who had analtar in the inner part of the Roman house.

[16] The allusion here, and in the following lines, is to thedifferent strenæ or New-Year's gifts, which used to be given by theRomans.

[17] The old Roman as, with the double head on one side and a shipon the reverse, is well known among numismatists.

[18] The Tuscan flood is a common appellation for the Tiber, as risingin Etruria, and forming the ancient boundary between that country andLatium, opposite Rome.

[19] A silly etymology—from lateo, to lurk; mentioned also byVirgil.—Æn. viii. 323.

[20] "The Romans gave the name of Jani to arches like that ofTemple-Bar in London, under which people passed from one street intoanother. They were always double; people entering by one and going outby the other, every one keeping to the right. The temple or gatewaymentioned in this place, adjacent to the ox and the fish markets, wasbuilt by Duilius."—Keightly.

[21] Although the allusion refers, in the verses, to Delphi, it was, Ithink, at Dodona, in the earliest period of oracular influence, thatthis belief prevailed.

[22] "And Mullah mine, whose waves whilome I taught toweep."—Spenser.

[23] The Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. By James Gillman. Vol. I,London; 1838.

[24] "Jacob Boehmen." We ourselves had the honour of presenting to MrColeridge Law's English version of Jacob—a set of huge quartos. Somemonths afterwards we saw this work lying open, and one volume at leastoverflowing, in parts, with the commentaries and the corollaries ofColeridge. Whither has this work, and so many others swathed aboutwith Coleridge's MS. notes, vanished from the world?

[25] Malthus would have rejoined by saying—that the flower-potlimitation was the actual limitation of nature in our presentcircumstances. In America it is otherwise, he would say; but Englandis the very flower-pot you suppose: she is a flower-pot which cannotbe multiplied, and cannot even be enlarged. Very well; so be it:(Which we say in order to waive irrelevant disputes.) But then thetrue inference will be—not that vegetable increase proceeds under adifferent law from that which governs animal increase, but that,through an accident of position, the experiment cannot be tried inEngland. Surely the levers of Archimedes, with submission to SirEdward B. Lytton, were not the less levers because he wanted thelocum standi. It is proper, by the way, that we should inform thereader of this generation where to look for Coleridge's skirmishingswith Malthus. They are to be found chiefly in the late Mr WilliamHazlitt's work on that subject: a work which Coleridge so far claimedas to assert that it had been substantially made up from his ownconversation.

[26] Vide, in particular, for the most exquisite specimen ofpig-headedness that the world can furnish, his perverse evidence onthe once famous case at the Warwick assizes, of Captain Donelan forpoisoning his brother-in-law, Sir Theodosius Boughton.

[27] It was printed at the end of Aristotle's Poetics, which Dr Cookedited.

Transcriber's Note:

Additional spacing after some of the quotes is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text.

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