Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 346, August, 1844
Author: Various
Language: English
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BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

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NO. CCCXLVI.   AUGUST, 1844.   VOL. LVI.

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CONTENTS.


AFFGHANISTAN

ETCHED THOUGHTS BY THE ETCHING CLUB

A LOVE CHASE--IN PROSE

ANCIENT CANAL--THE NILE AND THE RED SEA

THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER

TRADITIONS AND TALES OF UPPER LUSATIA. NO. III. THE DWARF'S WELL

SOME REMARKS ON SCHILLER'S MAID OF ORLEANS

THE STOLEN CHILD

M. GIRARDIN

LORD ELDON


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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.

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PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.



BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.


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NO. CCCXLVI.     AUGUST, 1844.     VOL. LVI.

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AFFGHANISTAN.


There are those persons now living who would give their own weight in
sovereigns, though drawing against thirteen to sixteen stone, that all
of this dreadful subject might be swallowed up by Lethe; that darkness
might settle for ever upon the insanities of Cabool; and the grave close
finally over the carnage of Tezeen. But it will not be. Blood will have
blood, they say. The madness which could sport in levity with a trust of
seventeen thousand lives, walks upon the wind towards heaven, coming
round by gusts innumerable of angry wailings in the air; voices from
nobody knows where are heard clamouring for vengeance; and the caves of
Jugdulloc, gorged with the "un-coffined slain," will not rest from the
litanies which day and night they pour forth for retribution until this
generation shall have passed away.

Are we to have justice or not?--not that justice which executes the
sentence, but which points the historical verdict, and distributes the
proportions of guilt. The government must now be convinced, by the
unceasing succession of books on this subject, which sleeps at
intervals, but continually wakens up again to new life, that it has not
died out, nor is likely to do so. And for _that_ there is good reason: a
sorrow which is past decays gradually, and hushes itself to sleep; not
so a sorrow which points too ominously to the future. The last book on
this horrible tragedy is that of Mr Lushington;[1] and in point of
ability the best; the best in composition; the best for nobility of
principle, for warning, for reproach. But, for all that, we do not agree
with him: we concede all his major propositions; we deny most of his
minors. As for the other and earlier discussions upon this theme,
whether by boots, by pamphlets, by journals, English and Indian, or by
Parliamentary speeches, they now form a library; and, considering the
vast remoteness of the local interest, they express sublimely the
paramount power of what is moral over the earthy and the physical. A
battle of Paniput is fought, which adds the carnage of Leipsic to that
of Borodino, and, numerically speaking, heaps Pelion upon Ossa; but who
cares? No principle is concerned: it is viewed as battle of wolves with
tiger-cats; and Europe heeds it not. But let a column of less than 5000,
from a nation moving by moral forces, and ploughing up for ever new
soils of moral promise, betray itself, by folly or by guilt, into the
meshes of a frightful calamity, and the earth listens for the details
from the tropics to the arctic circle. Not Moscow and Smolensko, through
all the wilderness of their afflictions, ever challenged the gaze of
Christendom so earnestly as the Coord Cabool. And why? The pomp, the
procession of the misery, lasted through six weeks in the Napoleon case,
through six days in the English case. Of the French host there had been
originally 450,000 fighting men; of the English, exactly that same
amount read as the numerator of a fraction whose denominator was 100.
Forty-five myriads had been the French; forty-five hundreds the English.
And yet so mighty is the power of any thing moral, because shadowy and
illimitable, so potent to magnify and unvulgarize any interest, that
more books have been written upon Cabool, and through a more enduring
tract of time, than upon Moscow. Great was the convulsion in either
case; but that caused by Cabool has proved the less transitory. The vast
_anabasis_ to Moscow had emanated from a people not conspicuously
careful of public morality. But that later _anabasis_, which ascended to
the shining pinnacles of Candahar, and which stained with blood of men
the untrodden snows of the Hindoo Koosh, was the work of a nation--no
matter whether more moral in a practical sense, upon that we do not here
dispute--but undeniably fermenting with the anxieties and jealousies of
moral aspirations beyond any other people whatever. Some persons have
ascribed to Blumenbach (heretofore the great Goettingen naturalist) an
opinion as to the English which we have good reason to think that he
never uttered--viz. that the people of this island are the most
voluptuous of nations, and that we bear it written in our national
countenance. But suppose him to have said this, and secondly, (which is
a trifle more important,) suppose it to be true, not the less we assert
the impassioned predominance of a moral interest in this nation. The
intensity of this principle is such, that it works with the fury and
agitation of an appetite. It urges us to the very brink of civil war.
Two centuries back--yes, exactly to a month, two centuries--we were all
at Marston Moor, cutting throats upon the largest scale. And why? under
the coercion of principles equally sublime on _both_ sides. Then it
_did_ urge us into war. Now it does not--because the resistance is
stronger, and by no means because the impulse is less. On a May morning
in 1844, a question arises in the senate as to factory labour. On one
side it shows an aspect critical for the interests of human nature in
its widest stratum--viz. amongst the children of toil. Immediately, as
at the sound of a signal-gun, five hundred of our fervent journals open
their batteries this way and that upon an inquest of truth. "All the
people quake like dew." The demoniacs of Palestine were not more shaken
of old by internal possessions, than the heart of England is swayed to
and fro under the action of this or similar problems. Epilepsy is not
more overmastering than is the tempest of moral strife in England. And a
new dawn is arising upon us in the prospect, that henceforth the
agitations of peace will be more impassioned for the coming generation
than the agitations of war for the last. But that sympathy, almost
morbid, which England feels with the condition of social man, other
nations echo by a reflex sympathy with England; not always by a friendly
sympathy. Like the [Greek: aerobatentes] and _funambuli_ of ancient
days, equally when keeping the difficult line of advance, or when losing
it, England is regarded with a searching gaze that might seem governed
by the fabulous fascination of the rattlesnake. Does she ascend on her
proper line of advance? There is heard the murmur of reluctant applause.
Does she trip? There arises the yell of triumph. Is she seen purchasing
the freedom of a negro nation? The glow of admiration suffuses the
countenance of Christendom. Is she descried entering on wars of
unprovoked aggression? All faces in Europe are illuminated with smiles
of prosperous malice. It is a painful preeminence which England
occupies--hard to keep, dangerous to forfeit. Hit, and a million of
hearts are tainted with jealousy; fail, and a million revel in
malignity. Therefore it was that Cabool and its disasters drew an
attention so disproportioned to their military importance. Cabool was
one chapter in a transaction which, truly or not, had come to be reputed
incompatible with those august principles of public justice professed
and worn amongst the phylacteries of Great Britain. Therefore also it
was that on this subject, as we have already said, a library of works
has been accumulated.

[1] _A Great Country's Little Wars_. By HENRY LUSHINGTON. London:
Parker, 1844.

Of these works we assert, fearlessly but not arrogantly, that all are
partially in error. They are in fact, one and all, controversial works;
often without the design of the writers, and not always perhaps with
their consciousness--but the fact is such. Not one of them but has a
purpose to serve for or against Lord Auckland, or Dost Mahommed, or the
East India Company, or the government at home and at Calcutta, which
replaced that of the Whigs. Some even go into such specialties of
partisanship as to manage the cause chiefly as a case depending against
the political agents--Mr Ross Bell, Mr Loveday, Captain Outram, or Sir
Alexander Burnes. Whilst others, which might seem a service of
desperation, hold their briefs as the apologists of that injured young
gentleman, Akbar Khan. All, in short, are controversial for a _personal_
interest; and, in that sense, to be controversial is to be partial. Now
we, who take our station in the centre, and deliver our shot all round
the horizon, by intervals damaging every order of men concerned as
parties to the Affghan affair, whether by action, by sanction, by
counsel, or by subsequent opinion, may claim to be indifferent censors.
We _have_ political attachments: we do not deny it; but our own party is
hardly touched by the sting of the case.

We therefore can be neutral, and we shall pursue our enquiry
thus:--_First_, What was the original motive for the Affghan expedition?
We insist upon it, that the motive generally assumed and reasoned upon
was absurd, in a double sense puerile, as arguing a danger not possible,
and (if it had been possible) not existing, and yet, after all, not open
to much condemnation from most of those who _did_ condemn it. They might
object to the particular mode of execution, but they were pledged to the
principle of a war in that direction.

_Secondly_, When the amended form was put forward, a rational form and
the true form of the motive for this expedition, in what respect was
that open to criticism? Far enough are we from going along with the
views of the Auckland cabinet at this juncture; but these two things we
are sure of--that those views were unsound, not by any vice which has
yet been exposed, and that the vice alleged argues gross ignorance of
every thing oriental. Lord Auckland might err, as heavily we believe him
to have done, in his estimate of Affghanistan and the Affghan condition:
he had untrue notions of what the Affghans needed, and what it was that
they could bear: but his critics, Indian and domestic, were not in error
by default merely of philosophic views as to the state of society in
Affghanistan; they erred by want of familiarity with the most prominent
usages of eastern economy. Lord Auckland was wrong, only as whole masses
of politicians are wrong in Europe; viz. by applying European principles
to communities under feelings and prejudices systematically different.
But his antagonists were wrong as to palpable facts.

_Thirdly_, If we pass from the motive to the execution of the motive,
from the purpose to the means of effecting it, we are compelled to say
that Lord Auckland's government adopted for its primary means the most
extravagant that could have been devised; viz. the making itself a party
to the financial torture of the land.

_Fourthly_, When local insurrection had arisen, whether directed (as
every body assumes) against the abuses of a system introduced by
ourselves, or (as _we_ assert) proper to the land, and hereditary to the
morbid condition of Affghan society--we shall expose the feeble and
inadequate solution yet offered by any military guide for the tragical
issue of these calamities. Kohistan, or particular cases, need not
detain us; but, coming at once _in medias res_ as to Cabool itself, we
shall undertake to show, that as yet we have no true or rational account
of the causes which led to the fatal result. What! four thousand five
hundred regular troops, officered by Englishmen--a number which, in the
last eighty years, had shown itself repeatedly able to beat armies of
sixty thousand men, armies having all the appurtenances and equipments
of regular warfare--was this strong column actually unable to fight its
way, with bayonet and field artillery, to a fortress distant only eighty
miles, through a tumultuary rabble never mustering twenty thousand
heads?[1] Times are altered with us if this was inevitable. But the
Affghans, you will say, are brave men, stout and stout-hearted, not
timid Phrygian Bengalees. True--but at Plassy, and again, forty years
after, at Assye, it was not merely Bengalees, or chiefly such, whom we
fought--they were Rohillas, Patans, Goorkhas, and Arabs; the three
first being of Affghan blood, quite as good as any Barukzye or Ghilzye,
and the last better. No, no--there is more to tell. The calamity
ascends to some elder source than the imbecility of General
Elphinstone, or the obstinacy of Brigadier Shelton. Others than the
direct accomplices in that disaster are included in its guilt; some of
the hitherto known only as the slain who have suffered by the
insurrection, and as the survivors who have denounced it. Amongst
_them_ lie some of those impeached by the circumstances. So far we
might add little to the satisfaction of the public; to see the rolls of
the guilty widening would but aggravate the sorrow of a calamity which
now it could do nothing to diminish. But oftentimes to know the persons
concerned in a great disaster, is a step to knowing something of its
causes. And this we will venture to say--that, in defiance of all
professional pedantry incident to military men and engineers, the
reader is likely to be of opinion that we, at a distance of 7000 miles,
have pointed out capital blunders, ensuring ruin and forming
temptations to conspiracy, which Lieutenant Eyre, a principal artillery
officer on the spot, has failed to notice; and if he failed to notice
them in his book _à fortiori_, he must have failed to notice them
officially, whilst yet it would have been in time. There were those
things done in Cabool by the "fantastic tricks" of men dressed in
authority, which, placed in their proper light, go far to explain all
the horrors that ensued. We know not whether they made "the angels
weep," or rather made the devils laugh, when hovering over Coord
Cabool: but this we know, that they are likely to make the hair stand
on end of all considerate men in this land of energetic foresight.

[1] "_Heads_," we say, because it is one amongst the grievous neglects
of the military writers, that they have made it impossible for us to
describe the Affghan soldiery under any better representative term, by
giving no circumstantial account of the arms or discipline prevailing
through the Affghan forces, the tenure of their service, &c. Many had
matchlocks; but many, we presume, had only swords; and artillery the
Affghans had none, but what they had been suffered to steal in Cabool.

_Fifthly_, It may be asked, What is the moral of this dreadful affair?
What inferences in the way of warning are to be drawn from it? This is a
topic untouched by all the writers on the Affghan war. But undoubtedly
the Cabool reverse was not more fitted to fix attention as a judgment
for the past than as a warning for the future; not more as being (or
being thought) the reaction from a public wrong, authorized by English
councils, than as a premonitory case, showing us what may be expected
under the recurrence of similar circumstances. Circumstances altogether
similar are not likely to recur in two centuries; but circumstances only
in part similar, a commander-in-chief incapacitated by illness, or a
second-in-command blind with infatuation, might easily recur in critical
or dreadful emergencies. Such circumstances _did_ happen in the Nepaul
campaigns; imbecility in more leaders than one, as abject as that at
Cabool. And though it could not lead to the same awful results where
there had not been the same elaborate _preparation_ of folly, and upon
ground so much nearer to the means of rectification, still it was then
sufficient to tarnish the lustre of our arms for the time, and, under
worse circumstances, would menace worse misfortunes. Neither is this
all; there are other infirmities in our eastern system than the vicious
selection of generals.

But all the topics proper to this fifth head will fall more naturally
under a paper expressly applying itself to India; and for the present we
shall confine ourselves to the previous four.

I. And _first_, then, as regards the original motive assigned for the
Affghan expedition. What profit in prospect, or what danger in
reversion, moved us to so costly an enterprise? We insist singly on its
cost, which usually proves a sufficient _sufflamen_ in these days to the
belligerent propensities of nations. Cicero mentions the advocate by
name who first suggested the question of _Cui bono_, as a means of
feeling backwards in a case of murder for the perpetrator. Who was it
that had been interested in the murder? But the same question must be
equally good as a means of feeling forwards to the probable wisdom of a
war. What was the nature of the benefit apprehended, and who was to reap
it? The answer to this very startling question, in the case of the
Affghan expedition, stood thus for a long time on the part of our own
unofficial press--that the object had been to forestall Russia, driving
with headlong malice _en route_ for the Indus, by surprising her
advanced guard in Kohistan. Certainly, if the surprise were all, there
might be something plausible in the idea. If the Russians should ever
reach Kohistan, we will answer for their being exceedingly surprised at
finding an English camp in that region for the purpose of entertaining
themselves. In reality no lunatic projector, not Cleombrotus leaping
into the sea for the sake of Plato's Elysium, not Erostratus committing
arson at Ephesus for posthumous fame, not a sick Mr Elwes ascending the
Himalaya, in order to use the rarity of the atmosphere as a ransom from
the expense of cupping in Calcutta, ever conceived so awful a folly. Oh,
playful Sir John Mandeville, sagacious Don Quixote, modest and ingenious
Baron Munchausen!--ye were sober men, almost dull men, by comparison
with the _tête exaltée_ from some upper element of fire, or limbo of the
moon, who conceived this sublime idea of leaping forward by a thousand
miles, to lay salt on the tail of a possible or a conceivable enemy. The
enemy--the tail--the salt--these were all _in nubibus_; the only thing
certain was the leap, and the thousand miles. And then, having achieved
this first stage on the road, why not go on to St Petersburg, and take
the Czar by the beard? The enormity of this extravagance showed from
what mint it came. Ever since we have harboured the Czar's rebels in
England, there has been a craze possessing our newspaper press, that
Russia was, or might be, brewing evil against India. We can all see the
absurdity of such reveries when exemplified by our quicksilver neighbour
France, bouncing for ever in her dreams about insults meditated from the
perfidious England; but we are blind to the image which this French
mirror reflects of our own attitude towards Russia. One hundred and
fifty years ago, the _incubus_ which lay heavy on the slumbers of
England was the Pope; of whom Swift remarked, that constantly his
holiness was seen _incog_. under one disguise or other, drinking at
gin-shops in Wapping, and clearly proved to be spying out the nakedness
of the land. In our days the Pope has vanished to the rear of the
English phantasmagoria, and now lies amongst the [Greek: neknôn amenêna
kasêna]. But not, therefore, is England without her pet nightmare; and
that nightmare is now the Czar, who doubtless had his own reasons lately
for examining the ground about Windsor and Ascot Heath--fine ground for
the Preobasinsky dragoons. How often in this journal have we been
obliged to draw upon these blockheads, and disperse them sword in hand!
How, gentlemen, (we have said to them in substance,) if you must play
the fool as alarmists, can you find no likelier towers for menacing
Calcutta with thunder storms than those of arctic St Petersburg; between
which cities lies an interspace equal to both tropics? We remember, as
applicable to this case, a striking taunt reported by Dampier, that when
one bucanier, on the west coast of Peru, was sailing away from the
oppression of another to some East Indian port, with a weak crew in a
crazy vessel, the ruffian from whom he fled told him at parting, that,
by the time he saw green fields again, the boys in his vessel would be
greyheaded. And we suspect that the Russian drummer-boys, by the time
they reach the Khyber pass, will all have become field-marshals, seeing
that, after three years' marching, they have not yet reached Khiva. But
were the distance, the snows, the famine, and thirst nothing, is the
bloodshed nothing? Russia is a colossus, and Bokhara, Khiva, Kokan, &c.,
are dwarfs. But the finger of a colossus may be no match for the horny
heels of a dwarf. The Emperor Tiberius could fracture a boy's skull with
a _talitrum_, (or fillip of his middle finger;) but it is not every
middle finger that can do that; and a close kick from a khan of
Toorkistan might leave an uglier scar than a fillip at arm's length from
the Czar. Assuredly his imperial majesty would be stopped at many
toll-bars before he would stable his horses in an Affghan caravansery;
and would have more sorts of boxes than diamond snuff-boxes to give and
take in approaching the Hindoo Koosh. But suppose him there, and
actually sitting astride of the old Koosh in boots and spurs, what next?
In our opinion, the best thing he could do, in case, he desired any
sleep for the next three months, would be to stay where he was; for
should he come down stairs into Affghanistan, we English can by this
time give some account of the shocking roads and bad entertainment for
man and horse, all the way to the Indus. Little to choose between the
Khyber Pass or the Bolan: more kicks perhaps on the first, but worse,
dinners on the other. And then, finally, about the costs, the reckoning,
the "little account" which will be presented for payment on the banks of
the Indus. _Us_ it cost forty thousand camels, which for years could not
be replaced at any price, and nine millions sterling, for a _part_ of
our time. But the Czar, who might wish to plant a still larger army on
the Indus, say thirty thousand, and would have six times our length of
march, could not expect to suffer by less than three times the money,
and by the total generation of camels from Mecca to "Samarcand, by
Oxus--Temir's throne."

Could any man rationally believe of a governor-general, left at large
by his council, that, under the terrors of a phantom invasion such as
this, visionary as a dream, and distant as heaven is distant, he could
seriously have organized an armament which, merely by its money costs,
would be likely to shake the foundations of the empire which he
administered? Yet if Lord Auckland _had_ moved upon the impulse of a
panic so delirious, under what colour of reason could he have been
impeached by the English press, of which the prevailing section first
excited, and to this day nurses intermittingly, that miserable Russian
superstition?[1] The Polish craze, adopted by the press of England and
France, and strengthened by the conviction that in Russia lay the
great antagonist balance to the disorganizing instincts of Western
Europe, had made the Czar an object of hatred to the Liberal leaders.
But to improve this hatred into a _national_ sentiment in England, it
was requisite to connect him by some relation with English
"interests." Hence the idea of describing him as a vulture, (or as
Sinbad's roc,) constantly hovering over our sheep-folds in India. Gog
and Magog are not more shadowy and remote as objects for Indian
armies, artillery, and rockets, than that great prince who looks out
upon Europe and Asia through the loopholes of polar mists. Anti-Gog
will probably synchronize with the two Gogs. And Lord Auckland would
have earned the title of Anti-Gog, had he gone out to tilt on an
Affghan process of the Himalaya, with--what? With a reed shaken by the
wind? With a ghost, as did the grandfather of Ossian? With an _ens
rationis_, or logical abstraction? Not even with objects so palpable
as these, but with a Parisian lie and a London craze; with a word,
with a name, nay, with a _nominis umbra_. And yet we repeat a thousand
times, that, if Lord Auckland had been as mad as this earliest
hypothesis of the Affghan expedition would have made him, the bulk of
the English journals could have had no right to throw the first stone
against a policy which, at great cost of truth and honesty, they had
been promoting for years.

[1] "_Miserable Russian superstition_."--This is now, we believe,
decaying. But why? Not from sounder politics, but from more accurate
geography. The Affghan campaigns, with the affairs of Bokhara, of Khiva,
and Khoondooz, have lighted up as with torches those worlds of
wilderness and obstruction; so that, in any practical sense, people are
ashamed _now_ to talk of St Petersburg as threatening Delhi or Calcutta.

But, _secondly_, what was the amended hypothesis of that expedition? Not
Russia was contemplated, aërial Russia, but Affghanistan for
herself--_that_ was the object present to Lord Auckland's thoughts; no
phantom, but a real next-door neighbour in the flesh. The purpose was to
raise Affghanistan into a powerful barrier; and against what? Not
specially against so cloudy an apparition as Russia, but generally
against all enemies who might gather from the west; most of all,
perhaps, against the Affghans themselves. It must be known to many of
our readers--that, about the opening of the present century, a rumour
went traversing all India of some great Indian expedition meditated by
the Affghans. It was too steadfast a rumour to have grown out of
nothing; and our own belief is--that, but for the intestine feuds then
prevailing amongst the Suddozye princes, (Shah Soojah and his brothers,)
the scheme would have been executed; in which case, falling in with our
own great Mahratta struggle under Lord Wellesley, such an inroad would
have given a chance, worth valuing, that the sceptre might have passed
from England--England at that time having neither steamers for the
Indus, nor improved artillery against Affghan jezails, besides having
her hands full of work. Between 1801 and 1838, it is true that things
had altered; for the better, we admit; but also for the worse. Much
stronger were we; but, on the other hand, much nearer were the Affghans.
Delhi and Agra, with their vast adjacencies, had become ours. Cutch was
ours, our outposts were pushed to the Sutlege; and beyond the Sutlege we
had stretched a network of political relations. We therefore were
vulnerable in a more exquisite sense. And on the other hand, as
respected the power of the Affghans to wound, _that_ had not essentially
declined. The Affghan power, it must be remembered, had never exposed a
showy front of regal pomp, such as oftentimes deceives both friend and
foe, masking a system of forces hollow and curious when probed by
foreign war, but had combined the popular energy arising from a rough
republican simplicity, and something even of republican freedom, with
the artificial energy for war of a despotism lodged in a few hands. Of
all oriental races, the Affghans had best resisted the effeminacy of
oriental usages, and in some respects we may say--of Mahometan
institutions. Their strength lay in their manly character; their
weakness in their inveterate disunion. But this, though quite incapable
of permanent remedy under Mahometan ideas, could be suspended under the
compression of a common warlike interest; and _that_ had been splendidly
put on record by the grandfather of Shah Soojah. It was not to be
denied--that in the event of a martial prince arising, favourably
situated for gaining a momentary hold over the disunited tribes, he
might effectually combine them for all the purposes of an aggressive
war, by pointing their desires to the plunder of India. The boundless
extent of India, the fabulous but really vast magnificence of her
wealth, and the martial propensities of the Affghans, were always moving
upon lines tending to one centre. Sometimes these motives were
stationary, sometimes moving in opposite directions; but if ever a
popular soldier should press them to a convergence, there could be no
doubt that a potent Affghan army would soon be thrown beyond the
Punjaub. An Affghan armament requires little baggage; and if it be asked
how the Affghans were to find supplies for a numerous army which they
never could subsist at home, the answer is--for that very reason,
because they would _not_ be at home. The Roman principle of making war
support war would be easily applied to the rich tracts of central India,
which an Affghan leader would endeavour to make the theatre of his
aggression. They could move faster than we could. Semi-barbarism
furnishes strength in that respect; and it would be vain to think of
acting politically upon Affghanistan, when all her martial children were
in the act of projecting themselves upon stages of action which would
soon furnish their own recompense to strength of character and to
persevering courage. In fact, the slightest review of Indian history,
ever since the first introduction of Mahometanism, justifies Lord
Auckland's general purpose of interweaving Affghanistan with the
political system of India. This was no purpose of itinerant Quixotism--
seeking enemies where none offered of themselves. Affghans were _always_
enemies; they formed the _castra stativa_ of hostility to India. For
eight hundred years, ever since the earliest invader under the Prophet's
banner, (Mahommed of Ghuznee,) the Affghans had been the scourges of
India; for centuries establishing dynasties of their own race; leaving
behind them populous nations of their own blood; founding the most
warlike tribes in Hindostan; and, not content with this representative
influence in the persons of their descendants, continually renewing
their inroads from the parent hives in Affghanistan. Could such a
people, brought by our own advance into so dangerous a neighbourhood,
have been much longer neglected?

With any safety to ourselves, certainly not. At least the outline of
Lord Auckland's policy must be approved as wise and seasonable. All the
great internal enemies of Indian peace had been reduced within English
control by former governments; others had dealt, so far as circumstances
required, with the most petulant of our outlying neighbours, Nepaul and
Burmah; and sooner or later, if mischief were to be _prevented_, as well
as healed, it would be necessary to bring Affghanistan within the
general system of cautionary ties. We wanted nothing with the
independence of that country, nor with its meagre finances; but
reasonably we might desire that she herself should not wield either for
the perpetual terror of her eastern neighbours. Westwards and northwards
furnished surely an ample range for mischief; and with those quarters of
the compass we had no mission to interfere. Like Hamlet, the Affghans
would still have a limited license for going mad, viz.--when the wind
sate in particular quarters; and along a frontier of more than a
thousand miles. Still, whilst seeing the necessity of extending the
Indian network of tranquillization to the most turbulent and vigorous of
neighbouring powers, the reader will feel a jealousy, as we do, with
respect to the time chosen for this measure:--why _then_ in particular?
After which comes a far more serious question, why by that violent
machinery, that system of deposing and substituting, which Lord Auckland
chose to adopt?

As to the question of time, it is too clear from the several
correspondences, however garbled, which have been laid before
Parliament, that Herat was a considerable element in the councils at
Calcutta. This seems so far a blunder; because of what consequence to
India, or even to Affghanistan, was the attack of an imbecile state like
Persia upon the Affghan frontier? Here, however, occurs the place for an
important distinction; and it is a distinction which may better the case
of Lord Auckland. In ridiculing the idea which regarded Russia as the
natural enemy of India, between which two mighty realms we may conceive
a _vacuum_ to exist so as to cut off all communication, we applied our
arguments to the case of a _direct_ attempt upon India. This we hold not
only to be impossible at present, but even for centuries to come, unless
Russia shall penetrate to Bokhara, and form vast colonies along the line
of the river Amor; and, if ever such changes should be made,
corresponding changes will by that time have established a new state of
defensive energy in India. The Punjaub will by that time have long been
ours: all the roads, passes, and the five great rivers at the points of
crossing, will have been overlooked by scientific fortresses; but, far
beyond these mechanic defences, Christianity and true civilization will,
by that time, have regenerated the population, who will then be
conscious of new motives for defending themselves. A native _militia_
will then every where exist; and mere lawless conquerors, on a mission
of despotism or of plunder, will have become as powerless against the
great ramparts of civilization as American savages. The supposed Russian
colonies indeed, in stages of society so advanced, would probably have
shared by that time in the social changes; possibly would themselves
form a barrier between the countries to the south and any ambitious
prince in St Petersburg. Any _direct_ action of Russia, therefore, flies
before us like a rainbow as futurity expands. But in the mean time an
_indirect_ action upon India is open to Russia even at present. That
action, which she is powerless to carry on for herself, she may
originate through Persia. And in that we see the remarkable case
realized--that two ciphers may politically form an affirmative power of
great strength by combining: Russia, though a giant otherwise, is a
cipher as to India by situation--viz. by distance, and the deserts along
the line of this distance. Persia, though not so ill situated, is a
cipher by her crazy condition as to population and aggressive resources.
But this will not hinder each power, separately weak _quoad hoc_, from
operating through the advantages of the other; as the blind man in the
fable benefits by the sight of the lame man, whom, for the sake of wider
prospect, he raises upon his shoulders; each reciprocally neutralizing
his own defects by the characteristic endowments of the other. Russia
might use Persia as her wedge for operating, with some effect, upon the
Affghans; who again might be used as the wedge of Persia for operating
upon ourselves, either immediately if circumstances should favour, or
mediately through the Seiks and the Beloochees. On this theory we may
see a justification for Lord Auckland in allowing some weight to the
Persian Shah's siege of Herat. Connected with the alleged intrigues of
the Russian agent, (since disavowed,) this movement of the Shah did
certainly look very like a basis for that joint machinery which he and
Russia were to work. Yet, on the other hand, we cannot but think that
Lord Auckland might safely have neglected it; and on the following
argument, that whatever influence Persia could have acquired in
Affghanistan through the possession of Herat, would to a certainty have
been balanced or overbalanced by an opposition growing out of that very
influence. This happened to ourselves; and this will arise always in
similar cases out of the incohesion essential, to say nothing of the
special feuds incident to the Affghan tribes, khans, and sirdars.

Whilst, therefore, we recognize, as a policy worthy of an Indian
statesman, the attempt to raise up a barrier in Affghanistan by way of
defensive outwork to India, we conceive that all which should have been
desired was a barrier against the Affghans themselves, by means of
guarantees reposing on the structure of the Affghan government, and not
any barrier against Persia as the agent of Russia; because, from the
social condition of the Affghans, Persia was always sure to raise up
barriers against herself, in exact proportion as she should attempt to
intermeddle with Affghan affairs. The remedy was certain to grow up
commensurately with the evil.

But now, quitting the question of the _when_, or why particularly at
that time Lord Auckland interfered with Affghanistan, let us touch on
the much more important question of the _how_, or by what machinery it
was that he proposed during this interference to realize his object?
Here comes the capital blunder, as we regard it, of our Affghan policy.
Lord Auckland started from the principle--and in _that_ doubtless he was
right--that the security sought for Western India could be found only in
a regular treaty of alliance with an Affghan government--firm at least
by its tenure, if circumstances forbade it to be strong by its action.
But where was such a government to be found? Who, in the distracted
state of Affghan society, was the man presumptuous enough to guarantee
any general submission to his authority? And, if no man could say this
for himself, could we say it _for_ him? Was there any great Affghan
philosopher in a cave, for whom Lord Auckland could become sponsor that
he should fulfil all the purposes of British diplomacy? We are come upon
evil ground, where not a step can be taken without cutting away right
and left upon friend and foe. Never, in fact, do we remember upon any
subject so many untruths as were uttered upon this by our own journals,
English and Indian; not untruths of evil intention, but untruths of
inconsideration or of perfect ignorance. Let us review the sum of what
was said, both as to the man chosen and the man rejected; premising
this, however, on behalf of Lord Auckland--that, if he made an evil
choice, means there were not for making a better. The case was
desperate. Not if Mr Tooke's Pantheon had clubbed their forces to create
an Affghan Pandorus, could the perfect creature have faced the
emergency. With the shafts of Apollo clanging on one shoulder, he could
not have silenced the first feud, viz. on his personal pretensions. But
with the tallies of his exchequer rattling on the other--so furiously
would a second feud have exploded, that as easily might you gather a
hail-storm into a side-pocket, as persuade the Affghans of his right to
levy taxes. Do you see the cloud of African locusts warping on the east
wind? Will they suffer you to put them into Chancery? Do you see those
eagles rising from Mont Blanc on the morning breeze? Will the crack of
your mail-coachman's whip bring them to be harnessed? In that case you
are the man to tax the Affghans. Pigs can see the wind; and it is not
less certain that Affghans can scent a tax-gatherer through the Hindoo
Koosh: in which case, off they go on the opposite tack. But no matter if
they stay--not the less with them to be taxed is to be robbed--a wrong
to be remembered on death-beds, and to be avenged were it in the fourth
generation. However, as the reckoning does not come before the banquet,
so the taxes do not come before the accession. Let us look, therefore,
at the men, the possible candidates, simply in relation to that
magnificent claim. There are two only put in nomination, Dost Mahommed
and the Shah Soojah: let us bring them forward on the hustings. Or,
considering them as horses entering at Epsom for the Derby, the first to
be classed as a five-year old, the other as "aged," let us trot them
out, by way of considering their paces.

The comments upon these men in England, whether for or against, were all
personal. The Dost was the favourite--which was generous--as he had no
solitary merit to plead except that he had lost the election; or, as the
watchmaker's daughter so pointedly said on behalf of Nigel Lord
Glenvarloch, "Madam, he is unfortunate." Searching, however, in all
corners for the undiscovered virtues of the Dost, as Bruce for the coy
fountains of the Nile, one man reported by telegraph that he had
unkenneled a virtue; that he had it fast in his hands, and would forward
it overland. He did so; and what was it? A certain pedlar, or he might
be a bagman, had said--upon the not uncommon accident in Cabool of
finding himself pillaged--"What! is there no justice to be had amongst
you? Is Dost Mohammed dead?" Upon which rather narrow basis was
immediately raised in London a glorious superstructure to the justice of
the Dost. Certainly, if the Dost's justice had ever any reference to
pedlars, it must have been a nervous affection of penitential panic
during some fit of the cholera, and as transient as the measles; his
regard for pedlars being notoriously of that kind which tigers bear to
shoulders of lamb; and Cabool has since rung with his pillagings of
caravans. But we believe the pedlar's _mot_ to have been thoroughly
misconceived. If we see a poor man bleeding to death in a village lane,
we naturally exclaim--"What! is Dr Brown, that used to practise here,
gone away?" Not meaning that the doctor could have stopped the
hemorrhage, but simply that the absence of all medical aid is shocking,
and using the doctor's name merely as a shorthand expression for that
aid. Now in the East, down from scriptural days, the functions of a
sovereign were two--to lead his people in battle, and to "sit in the
gate" for the distribution of justice. Our pedlar, therefore, when
invoking Dost Mahommed as the redresser of his wrongs, simply thought
of him as the public officer who bore the sword of justice. "He cried to
Pharaoh," or he "cried to Artaxerxes"--did not imply any reliance in
their virtue as individuals, but merely an appeal to them as
professionally the ministers of justice. "Are there no laws and no
prisons amongst you?" was the poor man's meaning; and he expressed this
symbolically under the name of him who was officially responsible for
both.

But, as one throws a bone to a dog, we do not care to dispute the point
further, if any man is resolute to settle this virtue upon the Dost as a
life-annuity. The case will then stand thus: We have all heard of
"Single-speech Hamilton;" and we must then say--"Single-virtue Dost;"
for no man mentions a second. "Justice for pedlars" will then be the
legend on his coin, as meaning that there is none for any body else. Yet
even then the voters for the Dost totally overlooked one thing. Shah
Soojah had some shadow of a pretence, which we shall presently examine,
to the throne of all Affghanistan; and a king of that compass was
indispensable to Lord Auckland's object. But Dost Mahommed never had
even the shadow of an attorney's fiction upon which he could stand as
pretender to any throne but that of Cabool, where, by accident, he had
just nine points of the law in his favour. How then could we have
supported him? "Because thou art virtuous," we must have said, are we to
support future usurpation? Because the Dost is just to pedlars, "shall
there be no more ale and cakes" for other Affghan princes? All Asia
could not have held him upright on any throne comprehensively Affghan.
Whether _that_ could have been accomplished for any other man, is
another question. Yet unless Lord Auckland could obtain guarantees from
the unity of an _Affghan_ government, nothing at all was done towards a
barrier for the Indus.

Let us resume, however, the personal discussion. The Dost's banking
account is closed; and we have carried _one_ to his credit; but, as the
reader knows, "under protest." Now let us go into the items of the
Shah's little account. Strange to say, these are all on the wrong side--
all marked with the negative sign. The drollest of all was the charge
preferred against him by our Radicals. Possibly the Chartists, the
Leaguers, and the Repealers have something in reserve against him. What
the Radicals said was to this purpose: having heard of the Shah's
compulsory flight more than once from Affghanistan, they argued that
this never _could_ have happened had he not committed some horrible
_faux pas_. What could that be? "Something very naughty, be assured,"
said another; "they say he keeps a haram."--"Ay," rejoined a third, "but
they care little about that in the East. Take my word for it, he has
been playing tricks against the friends of liberty: he has violated the
'constitution' of Caboolistan." And immediately reverting to the case of
Charles X. under the counsels of Prince Polignac, they resolved that he
must have been engaged in suppressing the liberal journals of Peshawur;
and that the Khyberees, those noble parliamentary champions of the cause
for which Sidney bled on the scaffold, had risen as one man, and, under
tricolor banners, had led his horse by the bridle to the frontiers of
the Seiks. This was the colouring which the Radical journals gave to the
Shah's part in the affair; and naturally they could not give any other
than a corresponding one to ours. If Soojah were a tyrant kicked out for
his political misdeeds, we must be the vilest of his abettors, leading
back this _saevior exul_, reimposing a detested yoke, and facilitating a
bloody vengeance. O gentlemen, blockheads! _Silent inter arma leges_--
laws of every kind are mute; and as to such political laws as you speak
of, well for Affghanistan if, through European neighbourhood, she comes
to hear of those refinements in seven generations hence. Shah Soojah saw
in youth as many ups and downs as York and Lancaster; but all in the
good old honest way of throat-cutting, without any fraternal discord on
questions of _Habeas corpus_; and had he been a luckier man in his long
rough-and-tumbles for the Affghan sceptre, so as to have escaped the
exile you reproach him with, he would not therefore, by one jot, have
been more or less a guilty one.

The _purisms_ of political delinquency had little share, therefore, in
any remorse which Shah Soojah might ever feel; and considering the
scared consciences of oriental princes in such matters, quite as little,
perhaps, had the two other counts in his London impeachment. One imputed
savage cruelty to him; the other, with a _Johnny-rawness_ that we find
it difficult to comprehend, profligacy and dissoluteness of life.

As to the cruelty, it has often been alleged; and the worst case,
besides being the only attested case, of the Shah's propensities in that
direction, is the execution of the Ghazees near the fortress of Ghuznee.
We scorn to be the palliators of any thing which is bad in eastern
usages--too many things are _very_ bad--but we are not to apply the pure
standards of Christianity to Mahometan systems; and least of all are we
to load the individual with the errors of his nation. What wounds an
Englishman most in the affair of the Ghazees, is the possibility that it
may have been committed with the sanction of his own country, officially
represented by the British commander-in-chief. But then that
consideration leads an Englishman to suspend with a stoic [Greek:
epochê], and exceedingly to doubt whether the fact could have been as it
was originally reported. So said we, when first we heard it; and now,
when the zeal of malice has ceased to distort things, let us coolly
state the circumstances. A Mahometan Ghazee is a prededicated martyr. It
is important to note the definition. He is one who devotes himself to
death in what he deems a sufficient cause, but, as the old miser of
Alsatia adds--"for a consideration;" the consideration being, that he
wins Paradise. But Paradise he will _not_ win, unless he achieves or
attempts something really meritorious. Now, in the situation of things
before Ghuznee, where a new ruler was brought in under the wing of
Feringee infidels, what meritorious service was open to him? To have
shot the commander-in-chief would have merely promoted some other
infidel. The one sole revolutionary act appropriate to the exigency, was
to shoot the Shah Soojah. There, and in one moment, would have gone to
wreck the whole vast enterprize of the Christian dogs, their eight
hundred lakhs of rupees, and their forty thousand camels. The mighty
balloon would have collapsed; for the children of the Shah, it was
naturally imagined by Affghans, would divide the support of their
father's friends. That alone would have been victory to the Mussulmans;
and, in the case of the British army leaving the land, (which then was
looked for, at any rate, after one campaign,) the three Shahzades would,
by their fraternal feuds, ensure rapid defeat to each other. Under this
state of expectations, there was a bounty on regicide. All Ghazees
carried the word _assassin_ written on their foreheads. To shoot the
Shah in battle was their right; but they had no thought of waiting for
battle: they meant to watch his privacy; and some, even after they were
captured, attempted in good earnest to sting. Such were the men--
murderers by choice and proclamation--and the following were the
circumstances:--On the afternoon immediately preceding the storming of
Ghuznee, from the heights to the southward of that fortress descended a
body of these fanatics, making right for the Shah's camp. They were
anxious to do business. Upon this, a large mass of our cavalry mounted,
went forward to skirmish with them, and drove them back with the loss of
a standard. There the matter would have stopped; but Captain Outram,
casually passing, persuaded some of the cavalry to go round the hills,
to a point where they would have intercepted the retreat of the Ghazees
upon that line. Seeing this, the devotees mounted the heights, whither
the cavalry could not follow; but Captain Outram, vexed at the
disappointment, just then remarked an English officer marching in
command of some matchlocks--him he persuaded to join the chase. Outram
leading, the whole party pushed on, under a severe fire, to the very
topmost pinnacle of the rocks, where was flying the consecrated banner,
green and white, of the fanatic Mussulmans. This was captured, the
standard-bearer was shot, thirty or forty killed, and about fifty made
prisoners.

The sequel we give from page 164 of the _History_, edited by Mr.
Charles Nash:[1]--"A scene now ensued, much less pleasant to
contemplate. It of course became a question what to do with the
captives, and they were brought before the Shah. _Some of them were
released, upon their declaring that they had been forced into the ranks
of the king's opponents against their will_." We pause to remark, that
already in this fact, viz. the cheerful dismissal of prisoners upon
their own verbal assurance of friendliness, though so little
reconcilable with the furious service on which they were taken, there
is enough to acquit the Shah of unmerciful designs. He made an opening
through which all might have escaped. "But," proceeds the author, "the
majority, excited by fanaticism, were not restrained, even by the
Shah's presence, from evincing their animosity towards his person, and
avowing their determination to have been to seek his life. One of them,
more violent than the rest, upon the interference of one of his
majesty's attendants, stabbed him with his dagger; and they were then"
[_then?_ what! because one was worse than the rest?] "immediately
ordered for execution. Two of them, however, were afterwards spared;
one upon the plea of his being a Syud," (i.e., a descendant
collaterally from the Prophet,) "and the other, because he pleaded hard
for his life."

[1] _History of the War in Affghanistan_. Brookes: London. 1843. We cite
this work, as one of respectable appearance and composition; but
unaccountably to us, from page 269 for a very considerable space, (in
fact, from the outbreak of the Cabool insurrection to the end of General
Elphinstone's retreat,) we find a _literatim_ reprint of Lieutenant
Eyre's work. How is _that_?

This account is not very luminous; and it is painful to observe that
the man who was abject, and the man who was lucky, were the two
selected for mercy. What proportion had previously been dismissed, is
not said. The affair occasioned much discussion, as we all know; and
the author speaks doubtfully of the necessity[1] under which the
execution took place, as not "satisfactorily ascertained." He speaks
even more doubtfully of the _persons_ supposed to be implicated, viz.
the Shah and the commander-in-chief, than of the _thing_. Little,
indeed, could have been known distinctly, where rumour ascribed to each
separately the most contradictory acts and motives. Us it surprises,
that Lord Keane has not publicly explained himself under such gloomy
insinuations. But, in the mean time, this is plain, that the Shah is
entitled to benefit by the doubts hanging over the case, not less than
our own officer. The writer suggests as one reason for a favourable
judgment on the Shah, "previous acts of humanity in the course of his
life." Undoubtedly there are such acts, and there are none well
attested in the opposite scale. In particular, he spared the eyes of
his brother Mahmood, when, by all oriental policy, he had every
temptation to incapacitate an active competitor for the throne. Two
considerations heighten the merit of this merciful forbearance; Mahmood
was the elder, a fact which slightly improved his title; and Mahmood,
in a similar situation, had _not_ spared the eyes of an elder brother.

[1] But afterwards, at page 166, there is a dreadful insinuation that
such a necessity might have founded itself on the danger of taking
prisoners "in a camp already subsisting on half and quarter rations."
Now we, in a paper on Casuistry, (long since published by this journal,)
anticipated this shocking plea, contending that Napoleon's massacre of
4000 young Albanians at Jaffa, could draw no palliation from the alleged
shortness of provisions, whether true or false; and on the ground that a
civilized army, consciously under circumstances which will not allow it
to take prisoners, has no right to proceed. Napoleon's condition had not
changed from the time of leaving Cairo. We little expected to see a
Jaffa plea urged, even hypothetically, for a British army.

We may certainly, therefore, dismiss the charges of cruelty against the
Shah, unless hereafter they shall be better established. But in doing
this, it is right to make one remark, overlooked by all who have
discussed the subject. If these Ghazees were executed as murderers
elect, and as substantially condemned by the very name and character
which they assumed, the usages of war in all civilized countries would
sustain the sentence; though still there is a difficulty where, on one
side, the parties were _not_ civilized. But if they were executed as
traitors and rebels taken in arms, such an act, _pendente lite_, and
when as yet nobody could say _who_ was sovereign, must be thought little
short of a murder.

With the remaining charge we shall make short work. The reader would
laugh heartily if we should call the Dey of Tunis a _dissenter_, the
Pasha of Egypt an old _nonconformist_, or the Turkish sultan a
_heretic_. But this way of viewing Islamism in some inconceivable
relation to the Church of England, or to Protestantism, would not be
more extravagant than the attempt to fasten upon an oriental prince the
charge of debauchery and a dissolute life. The very viciousness of
Asiatic institutions protects him from such reproaches. The effeminate
delicacy of easterns, and the morbid principle of seclusion on which
they build their domestic honour, will for ever secure both Hindoo
Pagans and Mussulmans from blame of this kind, until they pass under the
influence of a happier religion. How can _they_ act licentiously, in a
way cognizable or proveable, whom rank and usage will not permit to
wander, and who cannot have a temptation to wander, from their own
harems, authorized by the institutions of their country?

This last charge, indeed, being so intrinsically absurd, is hardly of a
nature to have merited any answer, had it not been the one most insisted
upon in England, where its ludicrousness is not so apparent, until the
mind is recalled from the life of Christendom to that very different
life which prevails in Asia. The charge then exhales into vapour; and a
man laughs as a ship's company on the broad Atlantic would laugh, if
charged with roaming abroad at night.

But why do we notice _personal_ considerations at all, in a case where
public relations to Affghanistan should naturally be paramount? We
notice them, because our own press dwelt on personal qualities almost
exclusively; and since this Cabool tragedy will make the whole Affghan
policy immortal, we are anxious, by dispersing the cloud of calumny
connected with the object of our choice, to clear the ground for a
juster estimate of what was either good or erroneous in our further
conduct. Not that personal accomplishments of mind or of body were
unimportant in a ruler of simple half-barbarous men; nor again is it to
be denied that Dost Mahommed, from advantages of age, (forty-five years
against the seventy of the Shah,) and from experience more direct and
personal, would, under equal circumstances, have been the better man.
But the circumstances were _not_ equal. The Dost could not have been
more than a provincial ruler in the land; consequently he could not have
undertaken that responsibility for the whole which formed the precise
postulate of our Indian government.

Yet because the Dost could _not_ meet our purposes, is it true that the
Shah _could_? That is the point we are going to consider; and to have
postponed this question to a question of personalities, even if those
personalities had been truly stated, is specifically the error which
vitiated all the speculations of our domestic press. We say then, that
Shah Soojah had a _primâ facie_ fitness for our purposes which the Dost
had not; Soojah was the brother, son, and grandson of men who had ruled
all Affghanistan; nay, in a tumultuary way, he had ruled all
Affghanistan himself. So far he had something to show, and the Dost had
nothing; and so far Lord Auckland was right. But he was wrong, and, we
are convinced, ruinously wrong, by most extravagantly overrating that
one advantage. The instincts of loyalty, and the _prestige_ of the royal
title, were in no land that ever was heard of so feeble as in coarse,
unimaginative Affghanistan. Money was understood: meat and drink were
understood: a jezail was understood but nothing spiritual or ancestral
had any meaning for an Affghan. Deaf and blind he was to such
impressions and perhaps of all the falsehoods which have exploded in
Europe for the last six years, the very greatest is that of the
_Edinburgh Review_, in saying that the Suddozye families were "sacred"
and inviolable to Affghans. How could such a privilege clothe the
_species_ or subdivision, when even the Dooaraunee or entire _genus_ was
submitted to with murmurs under the tyranny of accident. In what way had
they won their ascendency? By thumps, by hard knocks, by a vast
assortment of kicks, and by no means through any sanctity of blood.
Sanctity indeed!--we should be glad to see the Affghan who would not,
upon what he held a sufficient motive, have cut the throat of any shah
or shahzade, padishah, or caliph, though it had been that darling of
European childhood--Haroun Alraschid himself.

But how could royalty enjoy any privilege of consecration in a land
where it was yet but two generations old? Even those two had been
generations of tumultuous struggle. Oftener had the Shah been seen
racing for his life on a Arab of the Hedjas, than eating
"dillecrout"[1] in peace, or dealing round a card-table grand crosses
of the Dooraunee order. The very origin of Affghan royalty fathoms the
shallowness of the water on which it floated. Three coincidences of
luck had raised Ahmed to the throne. One dark night his master Kouli
Khan, for the benefit of all Asia, had his throat cut. This Kouli, or
Nadir Shah, was much more of a monster than Ahmed; but not very much
less of a usurper. Riding off with his cavalry from Persia to Candahar,
Ahmed these robbed a caravan! Upon which every body cried out to him,
"Go it!" and his lucky connexion by birth with the best of the
Dooraunee blood did the rest. A murder, a flight, and a robbery, or
pretty nearly in the words of our English litany, "Battle, and murder,
and sudden death," together with a silver spoon in his mouth at his
natal hour, had made Ahmed a shah; and this Ahmed was the grandfather
of our own pet Soojah. In such a genealogy there is not much for a
poet-laureate to found upon, nor very much to make a saint out of.
Ahmed, after a splendid and tumultuous reign of twenty-six years, died
of cancer in 1773. His son Timour feigned distractedly for twenty
years. Dying in 1793, Timour left a heap of shahzades, amongst whom our
good friend Soojah was almost the youngest. As they call people
Tertius, Septimus, or Vicesimus, from their station in the line of
birth, let us call _him_--Penultimate Soojah Penultimate, if he was, he
could fight as respectably as the rest: and many was the kick he
bestowed on antepenultimate Mahmood. From that year 1793, the zenith of
the French Revolution, in Affghanistan was nothing but fighting for
some ten or fifteen years. Truly a battle royal it was; and if we
cannot report to a fraction the "list of the killed and wounded," we
know the main results. How many of the fraternal combatants leaped upon
the throne, we are not quite sure. Four we can swear to, who were all
pulled out by the ears before they had time to adjust the folds of
their purple. The case of Eteocles and Polynices was a joke to it; and
by the time the row or termashaw was over, and the candles were brought
back amongst this happy family, the following was the state of
matters--two stone blind, three (if not four) stone dead, and two in
exile living upon charity; amongst which last was Penultimate Soojah.
It is proper to mention, by the way, as an appendix to the adventures
of this old friend, that (improving upon his grandpapa's example) he
had run off from his elder brother with the crown jewels; but, like
Colonel Blood in our Charles II.'s reign, he benefited only by the
glory of this distinguished larceny; for soon after, falling amongst
thieves, at the head of whom was our late worthy ally the Seik
Maharajah, Runjeet Singh, he in _his_ turn, was effectually cleaned
out; and, in particular, his silk "wipe," in which he had wrapped up
the famous _Koh-i-noor_, or _summit of glory_, was cleanly forked out
of his fob by the artful dodger, old Runjeet, himself. Here was a
pleasant commentary on the adage of "_Diamond cut Diamond_." The
jewels, originally stolen by Ahmed, were passed on (as in our game of
_Hunt the Slipper_) from thief to thief, until at least forty thieves
had possessed them for a few weeks or months. All the forty are now
dead; and at this moment the _summit of glory_, possibly never once
worn by one of them, is a derelict in the hands of the latest murderer
at Lahore, of course attracting by its light all hands towards his
interesting throat.

[1] "_Dillecrout_."--This is the traditional dish of royalty at our
English coronation banquet in Westminster Hall.

We have thus sketched a slender memoir for the leading family of saints
amongst the Edinburgh reviewer's holy Suddozyes. Great must have been
their sanctity amongst the Affghans. The reader will judge for himself
whether that _aureola_, or supernatural glory about their heads, was
altogether sufficient to guarantee the throne of King Soojah. And it
must not be quite forgotten, that on the roll-call of legitimacy
Penultimate Soojah did not stand next for promotion. Prince Caumraum,
who commanded at Herat, stood before him equally in active qualities,
and in precedence of title; for he was the son of Mahmood. The sons of
Zemaun had a still higher precedency.

However, the Affghans, who are essentially democratic by the necessities
of their turbulent condition, often make a compromise in their choice of
khans between strict primogeniture and personal merits, where they
happen to be appropriate. And they might have done so here. But we are
now going, in conclusion, to bring forward one remark, which utterly
prostrates Lord Auckland's scheme as a scheme of hope for Affghanistan,
or of promise for his own purpose. It is this--no legitimacy of title,
and no personal merits, supposing both to have met pre-eminently in the
person of Soojah, had a chance of winning over the Affghans to a settled
state. This truth, not hitherto noticed, reveals itself upon inspecting
the policy of all the Suddozye shahs from Ahmed downwards; and probably
that policy was a traditional counsel. Ahmed saved himself from domestic
feuds by carrying away all the active, or aspiring, or powerful spirits
to continual wars in the Punjaub, in Persia, or India. Thus he sustained
their hopes, thus he neutralized their turbulence. Timour next, and his
son Zemaun after _him_, pursued the very same policy. They have been
both taxed with foolish ambition. It was not _that_: the historian has
not perceived the key to their conduct:--it was the instinct of
self-preservation. No otherwise than by exhausting the martial
restlessness of the Affghans upon foreign expeditions, was durability to
be had for any government. To live as a dynasty, it was indispensable to
cross the Indus in pursuit of plunder. But exactly that policy it was,
the one resource of prudent Affghan princes, the escape-valve for
conspiracy and treason, which Lord Auckland's army had been put in
motion to abolish.

Now, _thirdly_, let us examine the machinery by which these plans were
to be executed. Under the last head we have seen that, if on the whole
perhaps the best instrument at hand, and better essentially than the
Dost, very soon, indeed, Shah Soojah must have learned the necessity of
passing over to that aggressive system which he had been raised up to
destroy. Merely for his own safety he must have done this. But now
suppose this otherwise, and that Soojah had continued to be that passive
instrument for the Indian cabinet which their plans required and
presumed. Even on this supposition, our agent or lieutenant Soojah would
have required at first some support. By what machinery was this to be
given? What was to be the instrument for sustaining our instrument?

Simply taxation, energetic taxation. Yet, if _that_ should happen to
fail, what was to be the resource? Simply to fine and to amerce--_i.e._
more intense taxation. So, in Molière's _Malade Imaginaire_, the only
remedy is "_Saignare et Purgare_." But _lavemens_ had been known to
fail. What was to be done in that case? _What is to be done?_ shrieks
the Macaronic chorus--Why, of course, "_Purgare et ensuita purgare_." To
the present government of India, this organ of administration is all in
all. And it was natural to transfer this doctrine to Affghanistan. But
in that they mistook the notions of the Affghans. And, in order to
understand them, it may be well to review the possible aspect and
modifications under which the idea of a tax may fall.

First, there is the lawful and peaceful revenue raised in free Christian
states under their noble civilization, which is paid even thankfully, as
the purchase money for inappreciable social benefits. Next, and in the
very opposite extreme, is the ruffian levy once raised upon central
India by the ferocious Pindarree, who asked for it with the insolence of
a robber, and wrenched it from the recusant with the atrocities of a
devil. Here there was no pretence of equivalent given or promised: and
this was so exquisite an outrage, a curse so withering, that in 1817 we
were obliged to exterminate the foul horde (a cross between the Decoit
and the Thug) root and branch. Now between these two poles lie two
different forms of mitigated spoliation. One was the Mahratta _chout_,
the other the _black mail_ of the Scottish cateran. Neither of these
gave any strict or absolute equivalent; but with a rude sense of
justice, both, on different principles, endeavoured to indemnify the
sufferer. The Mahratta generally, by a treaty with the local government,
induced them to allow for the _chout_ as twenty-five per cent advanced
out of their own claim for taxes. And the cateran, if he did not go upon
a convention with the government, gave the compounder a protection from
other caterans, a discharge from irregular demands, and a means of
recovering what might be stolen by knaves. The European case of taxation
may be viewed as the fairest case of buying and selling; the Pindarree,
as the vilest of robberies; and the two last as cases of compromise, (or
what in Roman law was called _transactio_,)--as a toll or fine in fact,
though too arbitrarily assessed.

Such are the categories of taxation; and, at the very best, all Affghans
viewed it in the light of _chout_ or _black mail_, a tribute to be
thrown into the one scale if a gleaming sabre lay in the other. King
Soojah levying taxes was to him a Mahratta at the least, if he was not
even a Pindarree or a Thug. Indeed it is clear that, where the
government does nothing for the people, nor pretends to do any thing,
where no courts of justice exist, no ambassadors, no police, no
defensive militia, (except for internal feuds,) title there can be none
to any but a nominal tribute, as a mere peppercorn acknowledgment of
superiority: going beyond _that_, taxation is borne only as robbery is
borne.

Under these circumstances, and having a motive so strong for reconciling
the Affghans to the new government, of all the incidents belonging to
sovereignty on our European notions, least and last should we have
suffered the Shah to exercise that of taxation. But to exercise it
ourselves, that was midsummer madness! If _he_ would have seemed a
robber in such a function, what must we have seemed? Besides, it is held
by some who have more narrowly watched the Affghan modes of thinking,
that, even where they _do_ submit to pay a tax, it is paid as a loan,
and on the understanding that the chief receiving it is bound to refund
it indirectly, by leading them at some convenient season (which many
conceive to be in every alternate year) upon a lucrative foray. But this
was exactly what we came to prevent. What we should have done is
manifestly this. How much could the Shah have levied on all
Affghanistan? A matter of L. 300,000 at most. But this was the _gross_
sum, before deducting any thing for costs of collecting, which costs
were often eighty shillings in the pound, besides counting on the
_little_ aid of our bayonets as a service wholly gratuitous. The sum
netted by the exchequer must have been laughably small; and even in that
respect the poor king must often have sighed for his quiet English
lodgings on the left bank of the Sutlege. Now, surely this trivial
revenue might have been furnished on the following plan. In a country
like Affghanistan, where the king _can_ be no more than the first of the
sirdars, it is indispensable to raise his revenue, meaning the costs of
his courtly establishment, as we ourselves did in England till the
period of 1688. And how was _that?_ Chiefly on crown estates, parks,
forests, warrens, mines, just as every private subject raised his
revenue, reserving all attempt at _taxes_ in the shape of aids,
subsidies, or benevolences, for some extraordinary case of war, foreign
or domestic. Our kings, English and Scotch, lived like other country
gentlemen, on the produce of their farms. Fortunately for such a plan,
at that moment there must have been a fine harvest of forfeitures rising
to the sickle all over the Affghan land, for rebels were as thick as
blackberries. But, if any _deficit_ had still shown itself on the Shah's
rent-roll, one half of that L.30,000 a-year which we allowed to the Dost
when our prisoner, or of that smaller sum[1] which we allowed to the
Shah when our guest, would have made it good. Yet what if we had spent
a million sterling through a period of ten years, as a sort of
scaffolding for the support of our new edifice whilst yet green and
rising? Even in that case, and supposing us to have taken our leave of
the Dooraunee throne at the end of one year, after planting it as
firmly as it ever could be planted, we should have pocketed six million
of pounds sterling that now are gone; whereas we insisted on sinking
three millions per annum for the first three years, in some bottomless
Affghan Chatmoss, with the effect (seemingly with the intention) of
enabling King Soojah to earn universal hatred by netting a few lacs of
rupees.

[1] _Smaller sum._--L.20,000 a-year. There was, however, a separate
allowance, we believe, to Zemaun, the king's blind brother.

This was the rock on which we split. Had we restrained the king from
levying taxes, all might have gone well. Had we restrained ourselves
from enforcing his levies, all might have gone decently. And had we
prompted the king to inaugurate some great public benefit--as, for
instance, by conferring upon the people a simple system of judicial
process and distributive justice--both he and we might have become
popular; for, even in Affghanistan, there must be multitudes of poor
men, peasants and tradesmen in towns, mothers and wives, who sigh for
peace, and curse their endless agitations. Yes, even amongst their
martial spirits, who now live by war and the passions of war, many are
they who would relent from their angry feuds, if it were possible to get
justice without them.

The sum, therefore, of that question; viz. of the _How_ and by what
machinery Lord Auckland proposed to accomplish his not unstatesmanlike
object, is this--that we failed utterly, and chiefly by applying
European principles to Oriental communities; and in particular,

1st, By throwing a prodigious stress on the fancied consecration of
royalty in a country where it would have snapped under the weight of a
L.10 note.

2dly, By enforcing (and even exercising in our own persons as
principals) the odious power of taxation, under the monstrous delusion
that it was the first of a king's privileges, where in fact, and with
some reason, it was viewed as the last of his excesses.

The first was a _negative_ delusion. We fancied a mighty power where
simply there was none; fancied a substance where there was not even a
shadow. But the second was worse: it was a _positive_ delusion. We
fancied a resource where simply there was a snare--a mooring cable where
simply there was a rope for our execution--a sheet-anchor where simply
there was a rock waiting for our shipwreck.

Not the less, however, we maintain, that whilst in fact our ruin was
self-prepared, come it would, sooner or later, from the necessity of
Affghan society, had the actual occasion of that ruin been wanting. You
build a palace on the waters, and you complain that a monsoon has
overthrown it. True; but had there been no monsoon, equally it would
have been supplanted by the _natural_ unsteadiness of the waves.

Now, _fourthly_, however, for Cabool, and the crape-bound banners
"perituraque castra!" Fourthly and lastly, for the solution of that
hideous calamity, whose memory is accursed for ever. But the solution--
is not _that_ plain already? If what we allege be true, if the delusions
exposed under the third head are rightly stated, will not _they_ solve
the ruin of Cabool? Are not _they_ sufficient? No, nothing will solve
it--no causes are sufficient for such a result, unless a strong spirit
of delusion had been inflicted from heaven, distraction, frenzy,
judicial madness. No dangers from the enemy, no pressure from without,
_could_ have accomplished that wreck, had they not been aided by
treachery within the counsels of our own hearts.

It is an old saying of any subject too vast or too sad to measure by
hurried words--that "_de Carthagine satius est silere, quam parcius
dicere_." And in this case, where we have left ourselves too narrow a
space to turn round in, and where no space would exhaust the infinities
of the affliction, it is not our purpose to heighten, or rhetorically to
colour, any one feature of the dismal story. Rhetoric, and art of all
kids, we forswear in a tragedy so torturing to our national
sensibilities. We pass, in sympathy with the burning wrath of our
readers, the madness of dallying and moping over the question--to starve
or not to starve. We pass the infamy of entertaining a treaty with
barbarians, _commenced_ in this foul insult to a British army--that
_after_ we should have submitted to indignities past expression, they
(the barbarians) would consider at their leisure whether it would please
them to spare our necks; a villany that gallant men _could_ not have
sanctioned, an which too certainly was not hurled back in their teeth as
it ought to have been. We pass the lunacy of _tempting_ barbarians to a
perfidy almost systematic in their policy, by consenting to a conference
_outside_ the British cantonments, not even within range of the British
guns, not even within the overlooking of British eyes. We pass the
lunacy of taking out sixteen men as an escort against a number
absolutely unlimited of the enemy, and where no restraint, even of
honour or mutual understanding, forbade that unlimited enemy to come
armed from head to foot. It is a trifle to add--that no instructions
were given to the sixteen men as to what they were to do, or in what
circumstances to act; and accordingly that one man only, out of the
whole sixteen, attempted any resistance; and this in defiance of
warnings eight several times reiterated by English officers, and by
friendly Affghans, that treachery was designed. We pass the triple
lunacy of treating at all in a case where Sir William M'Naughtan well
knew, and himself avowed his knowledge, that no man or party existed
amongst the enemy who could pretend to have authority sufficient for
ratifying, or for executing, any treat of whatsoever tenor. The Cabool
forces perished eventually by the _dissension_ of the two first in
command. This is notorious. And yet, to mark the dread fatality which
pursued them, the _concord_ of these two officers was even more
destructive to their victims than the worst of their disputes. In the
one solitary case where they agreed, the two leaders, Elphinstone and
Shelton, _sealed_ their doom. That case was this:--Many felt at that
time, as all men of common sense feel now, that the Bala Hissar, and not
Jillalabad, was the true haven for the army. In resisting this final
gleam of hope for the army, both General Elphinstone and Brigadier
Shelton heartily concurred; _and they concurred then first and then
last_. This also, this almost incredible fact, should be added to the
anecdote--General Elphinstone, when hard pressed by the general wishes
on this point, pleaded as a last reason for his obstinacy--that a
particular article, essential to the army, was wanting in the Bala
Hillar. Subsequently, but after all was over, it turned out that this
plea had been the windiest of chimaeras. True, you reply, but perhaps he
was deceived. Yes, reader, but by what manner of deception? He was
distant from the Bala Hissar by less than two miles; he was then in
almost daily communication with it; and yet, upon a matter confessedly
one of life and death for 17,000 souls, he took no steps for
ascertaining the truth!

But these things we pass, in order to reach a point most superficially
treated by Lieutenant Eyre, which was, in truth, the original fountain
of the whole calamity. We have said already, that, (guilty as might be
the leaders by unexampled fatuity, obstinacy, and improvidence,) in our
judgement, the mischief ascended to elder sources than either General
Elphinstone or Shelton. And here was the main source, which (on the
principle explained above) we shall barely indicate, not saying one word
in aggravation. The cantonments--who was it, what man, what men, what
council, on whom rests the horrible responsibility of that selection and
that execution? We contend that, besides those _directly_ responsible
parties, others were so to a criminal extent; every artillery officer
was so; and therefore, unless some further explanations are made,
Lieutenant Eyre is so. But surely Lieutenant Eyre has exposed the vices
of these cantonments. True, he has so; _some_ of the vices, but not all,
but not the worst. The ground, he tells us, was bad; the line of
fortifications too extensive; the interior overlooked in parts; and
(with a view to the accommodation of the envoy) the defences absolutely
interrupted in their regular series. True; and therefore, night and day,
it became the duty of every artillery officer to cry out, _Delenda est
Carthago_. But all this is not the worst. Even a child knows that, under
the circumstances of the case, and the known reversionary uses of such a
retreat in the event of its being wanted at all, (except as a barrack,)
it was of the last importance to destroy all the strong places, nay,
even all the cover, strong or not strong, which could shelter an enemy.
This was not attempted, or thought of, until it became too late. Next,
it was of even more clamorous importance to have the corn magazine
_within_ the line of defences: no effort was made in that direction.
Now, had these been the only defects of the cantonments, they were
enough to argue a constructive treason in those who neglected to
denounce then. We know how they operated. These three ruins issued from
these most culpable negligences:--1st, Starvation fell in one day upon
the British host; and _that_ it was which placed them at the mercy of
the enemy. 2dly, The troops were inadequate to the extent of the
defences; so that, together with starvation, loss of sleep fell upon the
fighting men. 3dly, As another effect from that cause, a perpetual
Penelope's web was to be maintained; for as often as detachments went
out from cantonments against the many neighbouring forts, before they
could possibly have time to destroy these nests of hornets, back they
were summoned to the defence of their own _lares_; often in broad
daylight, by combined assaults of the enemy on their own ramparts, but
always by the approach of night. So that all momentary advantages became
idle and useless; none could be followed up, none could be maintained.
Lucan says of Caesar, when besieged in the fortified palace of the
Ptolemies at Alexandria, that often, whilst thrown on his most difficult
defence, the matchless soldier became the assailant--

     "Obsessusque gerit, tanta est constantia mentis,
     _Offensoris_ opus."

But what _he_ did as a trophy of his superiority, we did by imbecile
improvidence and for final ruin. Yet even these shocking neglects or
oversights were not the worst. Let us now suggest what _were_. Wherefore
were the cantonments placed in proximity so close to Cabool? Let that be
answered, and we shall see the early commencement of our infatuation.
Two considerations will clench the case, and then we shall leave it.
1st, The cantonments were never meant to act upon the city of Cabool:
that task was thrown upon the Bala Hissar from its situation. And yet no
trial had ever been made of the power possessed by that fortress. The
private houses were known to be forts: not until rebellion commenced was
it ascertained of what strength they were; and eventually the city
proved more formidable to the Bala Hissar than the Bala Hissar to the
city. Such a blunder of ignorance and miscalculation, we believe, was
never heard of. But, 2dly, Even that was a trifle by comparison with the
capital evil--and the capital evil was this. The enemy was allowed,
throughout the autumn of 1841, to accumulate _ad libitum_ in Cabool.
Retainers of the chiefs, Ghilzyes and others, gathered unwatched
throughout October. Now mark what followed from our choice of
cantonments. Had they been fixed fifteen or even ten miles off, the
impossibility of marching daily to and from Cabool would have strangled
the rebellion in its first three days. The evil which crushed ourselves,
of having always at sunset to go homewards, would have been thrown upon
the enemy, and with as much more of ruinous effect as the distance was
greater. As it never was alleged that the cantonments were meant for the
overawing of Cabool, and in effect they were totally inefficient as
regarded that city--it is clear that the one great advantage by which
the Affghans accomplished our destruction, was coolly prepared for them
by ourselves, without the shadow of any momentary benefit for our own
interests. Even for provisions, the event showed that we had never
looked to Cabool. And there reveals itself the last feature of our
perfect madness.



ETCHED THOUGHTS BY THE ETCHING CLUB.


In the Number of _Maga_ of January 1842, we reviewed one of the labours
of the Etching Club--_The Deserted Village_. We congratulated the lovers
of art upon the resumption of the needle, and showed the advantages
which, in some important respects, it has over the graver. Etching, as
it is less mechanical, is more expressive. We have from it the immediate
impress of the painter's mind; that peculiar autographic character which
marks every turn and shade of thought, even transition of thought and
feeling, in what may, at first view, seem vagaries of lines; which, we
know not how, (nor is the artist himself at the time conscious of the
operation,) discriminate innumerable niceties, each having its own
effect, and yet tending to one whole. We rarely come at once, _uno
ictu_, to a decision. The operation is progressive--from conception to
conception, from feeling to feeling, from many shades of uncertainty to
decision. The first fresh hand upon any work is obedient to the mind in
this process; and hence it is that we so value, so admire, the sketches
and drawings of the great masters. We see not only the full complete
sentiment of the subject, but how they came to it; we trace it back
through all its varieties, and feel a sensible delight in being in
possession of the very mind of the master. Were this not the case, how
are we to account for the charm felt in turning over a portfolio of old
drawings? How exquisitely beautiful are those of Raffaelle and Titian!
The sale of the collection of Sir Thomas Lawrence proves the high
estimation in which these are ever held. Thousands of pounds for a few
drawings! What sums were given for Claude's "Liber Veritatis!" and
why?--Because these original drawings of the old masters possess this
very autographic character that we have described. And this is precisely
the case with etching. Nor is it only the case with those of the
Italian, but those of every school; and, singularly enough, the Flemish
and Dutch painters, whose high finish and elaborate colouring give such
great value to their works, were eminently successful in the free and
expressive style of etching. Rembrandt we need not speak of--wondrous
indeed are his works of the needle. How exquisite are the etchings of
Berghem, Both and Karel du Jardin! and, to show how characteristic they
are, how different are they from each other! It is to be regretted that
this art is of modern invention. What treasures might we not have
possessed, had this inestimable secret been known to the ancients! We
should not be left to conjecture the merits of Apollodorus, Zeuxis,
Parrhasius, Timanthes, Apelles. We might have had outlines--first
thoughts--"etched thoughts," by Phidias himself. And, as the art of
design was earlier than any of those names--even coeval with, or prior
to, Homer himself--those who engraved and worked in metal their shields,
might have handed down to us etchings of Troy itself, and particulars of
the siege. Do we lose or gain by not having the ancient book of beauty?
But we must be content with what we have, and, in the regret, see the
value of the present, looking to future value. Etching, is still old
enough to interest by its portraiture of ages gone by. The inventor is
not known. Perhaps the earliest specimen is the well-known "Cannon" by
Albert Durer, dated 1518; and there is one by him, "Moses receiving the
Tables of the Law," dated 1524. The art was soon after practised by
Parmegiano, and extended to general use. Yet it is clear that the real
power and merit of etching was not known to the inventor, nor to those
who, in its early state, applied themselves to it. The first aim seems
to have been exact imitation of the graver. Le Bosse, in his treatise on
engraving, makes the perfection of the art consist in the close
similitude of the graver's work. It was this which at first cramped the
artist, and delayed the progress of etching, and gave it not only the
appearance, but the reality of inferiority--and often times the name and
reputation of inferiority is as prejudicial as the thing itself, and we
verily believe that it still has its effect upon the public taste.
Artists have not sufficiently taken to etching. We have had more
amateurs excel in it than professional artists. There was a collection
of amateur etchings at Strawberry Hill, given to Walpole by the etchers.
The greater part of them is excellent, though they are mostly copies
from other works, but not all. There are some surprising imitations of
Rembrandt. The best are by Lady Louisa Augusta Neville, afterwards Lady
Carlisle.

Then, again, the union of etching and engraving has certainly retarded
the art, and has given it another character. If that union has engrafted
freedom on engraving, it has given to the needle too much precision--it
has taken from it the working out effects. We have elsewhere noticed
that the taste for the precise and labored engraving in landscape,
introduced by Woollet, drove out from the field that which was very
superior to it. The prints from Claude and Poussin, by Vivares Wood,
Mason, and Chatelet, and published by Pond, are infinitely more
characteristic of the masters than the works which succeeded them. But
we speak here only of imitation. It is in the original handling of
artists themselves, not in translated works, and according to the
translating phraseology, "done by different hands," that we are to look
for the real beauty and power of the art. It is this handwriting of the
artist's original mind that constitutes the real beauty; we would not
have a touch of the graver to any work professing to be an etching--the
graver cannot be used with impunity. If it will admit of any
adventitious aid, it may perhaps be, in a very subordinate degree,
mezzotint and aquatint. But etching rather improves Prince Rupert's
invention than is advantaged by it. The sootiness of mezzotint is
dangerous--in bad hands it is the "black art" of Prince Rupert, though
the term was applied to a metal of the prince's invention, not to his
discovery of mezzotint.

Modern times have brought the art of engraving to a wonderful
perfection. Its mechanical work is most exquisite, and reaches the whole
effect of picture surprisingly. If the publishing public knew as well
what to engrave as our engravers know how to engrave, we should not see
our printsellers' windows teem with worthless works beautifully
executed. We often wonder, as we stop occasionally to look at the
display, where the purchasers are found for things that pain the eye and
weary the mind to see--history, or landscape, or familiar life, it
matters not, nearly all without feeling, elaborate nothings--obtrusions,
unless we are disposed to examine only the work of the engraver; and
even then we must lament to see it thrown away, or rather employed in
disseminating bad taste. How rarely is it we see even a subject of any
value or interest attempted! It is, as in our play-writing, not the
subject, but the peculiarity of some actor, that is to be written up to;
so the peculiarities of some few flashy favourite artists employ our
best engravers, who ought to be far otherwise employed, in making
transcripts from the best works, ancient or modern, by which taste may
be improved, the mind enlarged, and the heart made to feel as it ought.
If our flashy prints are the index of the public taste in this country,
we have little of which to boast; and we undoubtedly keep our artists
from rising to any worthy aim, by showing them how satisfied we can be
with mediocrity, and even some degrees below it. There is, in etching, a
lightness and playfulness of execution which excuses, if it does not
quite reconcile us to a bad subject. We lose the idea of effort in the
freedom. To present to the eye a laboured nothing, is to disgust by the
sense of labour alone. We calculate the time and cost, and look for an
object worthy the outlay in vain, and become thoroughly dissatisfied. We
have a great mind to describe the process of etching, that the lovers of
art who read _Maga_, and happen to be ignorant of it, may try their
hands--it is very fascinating work, and even the uncertainty in the
first attempts, and the very failures, give pleasure in the operation.
There is something more pleasant in hoping our labour will turn out
well, than knowing it. If there be any whose time hangs heavy on their
hands, let them take up etching. Johnson lamented that men did not work
with their needles, considering the employment of the hands a great aid
to thought--and so it is. Now the etching-needle is the one a man may
take up without becoming ridiculous. As there are so many "Handmaids" to
the art, from which the whole mystery may be learned, we forbear. We
have, however, turned to our friend Gerard Larresse for the purpose of
setting down, _secundum artem_, a practical account, and find it not:
but we like little old treatises better than modern, there is something
unsophisticated in their manner of giving information, and there is no
study of periods, which, in their music, steal away the understanding;
so we refer to Faithorne. But nevertheless our friend Gerard, if he does
not give information, supplies amusement. He thinks every thing best
told by an emblem--so receive, reader, his pictorial account of the art;
we cannot give his plate, so be content with _his_ description of it,
that is, Etching. "This beautiful virgin, sitting at a table, has before
her a copperplate, lying on a sand-bag; and near it stands a little
monkey, placing a lighted lamp before her. She is attended by Prudence
and Diligence, and Practice is setting the tools on an oil-stone. Her
chair is of ebony, adorned with figures of Sincerity and Assiduity,
wrought in ivory, and mutually embracing; behind which stands Judgment,
showing her a little further, Painting, accompanied by Apollo and Diana;
he holding up his torch, in order to enlighten Sculpture, and she hers
reversed, with purpose to extinguish it; the Genii, in the mean time,
are every where busy in providing necessary materials. The eldest offers
her a drawing, either redded or whited on the back, and a point or
needle for tracing it on the plate; this drawing represents the design
he is going about. Others, in an inner apartment, are employed in
heating a plate on a chafing-dish, and laying the ground even with a
feather. Here, one is etching--there, another biting a plate; others
taking and reviewing proofs, with great attention and pleasure--while
Fame, having a proof of a portrait in her hand, with her trumpet sounds
out at a window the praises of masters or engravers. Honour, crowned
with laurel, and bearing a small pyramid, is entering the room, ushering
in Annona or Prosperity, who has a cornucopia, or horn filled with
fruits. Round the room are set on pedestals divers busts of famous
etchers and engravers; as Marc Antonio, Audlan, Edelinck, Vander Meulen,
and several other Italian and French, as well as Dutch and German
masters. In the off-skip, Europe, Asia, and Africa appear standing in
surprise at the sound of the trumpet." There is nothing like example!
Who sees in this prophetic enigma, in his "chair of ebony," other than
"Ebony" himself, the "_most accomplished Christopher_," beaming with
"sincerity," and placid in his "assiduity," with "Judgment" waiting upon
him at command, wielding neither crutch nor pen, but, in affable
condescension, the contemned needle etching the portrait of his own
"Colonsay," and his own famous exploit, to show that one needle in the
hand of genius can make a man and a horse too; though nine tailors and
nine needles scarcely make up the complement of a man--yet would these
nine in one, the renowned of Brentford, scarcely have matched
"Christopher on Colonsay!" And as for Fame blowing out of the window,
he, in spite of himself and his modesty, is his own trumpeter, and, as
_Maga_ reaches them, surprises "Europe, Asia, Africa," and America too.
Such is the emblematical representation of etching, and we have
embellished it with a first-rate performer.

And now let us turn to "Etched Thoughts by the Etching Club." We find a
new name or two added to the list--C.G. Lewis, the renowned and best of
etchers; and Severn, whose etchings are new to us, not so his other
works of art. We remember his "Ship of the Ancient Mariner," and his
expressive, sentimental, figures; and poor Fearnley--now no more--we
remember greatly admiring a somewhat large picture of his--"A
River-Scene in Norway,"--evidently painted immediately from nature,
powerfully, expressively given. Somehow or other he did not take in this
country, and quitted it, leaving behind him very beautiful studies
strangely undervalued, and sold for little. The fact is, he was too true
to the solemnity and sobriety of nature to please a public led away by
gaudy display and meretricious colouring. Yet was he a man of more
genius--in landscape--than any nine out of ten of our best artists that
have, these last ten years, attempted to show nature or art upon our
academical walls. Poor Fearnley! We have heard that elsewhere he was
appreciated and successful. Stone and Herbert are good additions. Happy
is it when the feelings of the artist and poet are in unison; happier
still when the poet is himself the artist: and such is the case here. So
that, in many cases, they are really "Etched Thoughts"--not etched
translations of thoughts; and the work of the pen is not inferior to
that of the needle. In the "Deserted Village" was a continuous story;
every plate was in connexion with its preceding. In this publication,
every artist seems to have been left to his own choice of subject, and
to his free fancy.

Cope first comes under our notice. He commences the work with "Love,"
and a quotation from Spenser. As an etching, it is powerful, but we
doubt if quite true: there should be something to account, in such a
twilight scene, for the strong light upon the "Ladye-love!" Nor are we
quite satisfied with the love of the lover, or the reception it meets
with. The man or his guitar, one of the two, if not both, must be out of
tune. His "Veteran's Return" tells its tale, and a somewhat mournful
one; it is in illustration of some very good and pathetic lines by a
member of the club, H.J. Townsend; and as, we believe, they are not to
be met with out of "Etched Thoughts," we extract them for the
gratification of the reader:--


     THE VETERAN'S RETURN.

     The old yew, deck'd in even's parting beams,
       From his red trunk reflects a ruddier ray;
     While, flickering through the lengthen'd shadow, gleams
       Of gold athwart the dusky branches play.
     The jackdaws, erst so bustling on the tower,
       Have ceased their cawing clamour from on high;
     And the brown bat, as nears the twilight hour,
       Circles--the lonely tenant of the sky.

     The soldier there, ere pass'd to distant climes,
       On Sabbath morn his early mates would meet;
     There list the chant of the familiar chimes,
       And the fond glance of young affection greet.
     There, too, at eve--before the twilight grey
       Led the dark hours, when sprites are wont to walk--
     With his sweet Nancy how he joy'd to stray,
       And tell his rustic love in homely talk.

     Now, home return'd, far other thoughts he owns,
       Though still the same the scene that meets his view!
     The same sun glistens o'er the lichen'd stones--
       Scarce one year more seems to have gnarl'd the yew.
     There, too, the hamlet where his boyhood pass'd
       Sends, as of old, its curls of smoke to ken--
     So near, his stalwart arm a stone might cast
       Among the cots that deck the coppiced glen!

     But ere the joys of that domestic glade
       Can wipe the tear from off his rugged brow,
     A stone beneath the yew-tree's ebon shade
       Deep o'er his heart a heavier shade doth throw.
     (Oh! sad indeed, when thus such tidings come
       That stun, even when by slow degrees they steal,)
     That tablet tells how cold within the tomb
       Are hands whose fond warm grasp he long'd to feel.


The "Painter of the Olden Time."--"His shop is his element, and he
cannot, with any enjoyment to himself, live out of it.--Dr South." This
is very good. The painter has his back to you, and is at work apparently
on a wall. Little wots he of the world without. He is embodying angels,
and spreading angelic light; himself, slipshod and loosely girdled,
centring the radiance he creates. How differently arrayed are body and
mind! By the title, we presume Mr Cope means to satirize some modern
fops of the profession. Of all Mr Cope's etchings in the volume, we
mostly admire "Love's Enemies." It is from the well-known passage of
Shakspeare, "Ah me! for aught that ever I could read," &c. The
conception is excellent. War, Death, and Sickness are taking off their
prisoner Cupid, chained, from the door of an aged couple willing enough
to part with him, while their poor broken-hearted daughter, with
disheveled hair, hides her face with her hands; and, above her, the hard
father's uplifted crutch is ready to speed the departure. It is lightly
etched, in very good keeping; so that the grouping is clear, and the
moral is perceptible at a glance. His "Rejected Addresses" is of another
cast. Here he is in the common and beggarly world: yet represents he no
common beggar; for, though he be often so named, he is one of rare
accomplishments. "He can write a capital letter, enough to make any of
the 'quality people' cry. The begging-letter people give him a shilling
for a letter. He is now on the tramp." The man was a lawyer, and so
astute that he can so adjust himself and his shadow, that he will hide
in it from your scrutiny any habitual expression of his villany. And
Cope has been most happy in this idea.

"Morning Prayer" is introduced with a few elegant lines, we presume by
Mr Cope himself. They have no name to them. The figure is graceful, the
effect tender; but we confess we have been so satiated with such
subjects in the Annuals, that we do not relish this as perhaps we ought.
From the same cause, we do not dwell upon "The Mother." "The Wanderer--
the beggar and his dog," is good. The impostor beggar was in sunshine,
and which he turned to his purpose: he could cope with the world's broad
glare. This is no impostor; and the atmosphere he breathes is suited to
his fortunes. The rejecting hand, with its shadow of the dry skinny
fingers, is well conceived.

"The Readers," from Boccaccio, is not happy. The figures are not
Italian; nor is the costume of the age of the book. His "Girl and Cupid"
is a little gem, reminding us of Schidoni. We presume these lines are by
the etcher--

     "Love, in the virgin breast of beauty lying,
     Laughs at the fate for her he doth prepare--
     Will swiftly turn her sweetest smiles to sighing,
     And flee when she is fixed in despair."

We have seen so many ladies with up-turned eyes, called in the annual
catalogues "Meditation," that we will not interrupt the calm of Mr
Cope's. C.G. Lewis has but one plate, "A Woodland Dell." A quiet spot of
shade and flickering sunshine--a streamlet, and a rural bridge. It is
sweetly etched, true to the character.

Richard Redgrave, in more than one instance in the book, shows that he
has power over the deep and solemn pathetic, as well as over the tender.
His first plate is "The Survivors of the Storm." The story is from
Petronius, as told by Jeremy Taylor. A floating body of one of a
shipwrecked crew lies pillowed on a wave, and is met with by the
survivors in their boat. Solemn and awe-stricken is their expression.
The plate is of a fine tone, befitting death in that awful shape. This
story of Petronius was the subject of a poetical piece, which we
remember to have read in a volume of poems by Thomas Flatman, one of the
"mob of gentlemen" condemned by Pope, who, nevertheless, did not care
about borrowing from him pretty much of his version of the "Animula,
blandula, vagula"--the Emperor Adrian's address to his soul. We remember
the commencement of the piece:--

     "After a blustering tedious night,
     The winds all hush'd, and the rude tempest o'er,
     Rolling far off upon a briny wave,
     Compassionate Philander spied
     A floating carcass ride,
     That seem'd to beg the kindness of a grave.
     At near approach he thought he knew the man," &c.

His "Fairy Revels" make a light and elegant plate. A fairy group in a
frame of leaves. He is here both painter and poet.

     "Hast thou not seen the summer breeze,
     The eddying leaves, and downy feather,
     Whirl round a while beneath the trees,
     Then bear aloft to heaven together?
     With just such motion, gliding light,
     These fairies vanish'd from my sight."

Poor unfortunate Dadd! some years ago he exhibited a picture of this
subject, somewhat similarly treated, that was exquisitely ideal.

The "Ellen Orford," from Crabbe's _Borough_, is good in the effect; but
it has not the pathos that usually distinguishes Redgrave. "Rizpah
watching her Sons," is very fine. The night, the glaring torchlight, to
scare away the approaching wolves, and the paler, more distant light in
the sky, with the melancholy mourning Rizpah, are of the best
conception. "The Sick Child" has quite the effect of a Rembrandt plate;
yet it is very tender--a scene fit for the angelic visit, and pure and
devout of thought and purpose is that angel--we do not like the mother.
The best description is from Mr Redgrave's own pen.


"THE SICK CHILD.

"He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy
ways."--PSALM xci.

     "In a chamber, faintly crying,
     With its mother o'er it sighing,
     Lay a baby pale and wan;
     Ever turning--restless turning--
     Much she dreaded fever burning,
     Sickness slow or sickness hasting,
     Cough, convulsion, ague wasting.
     Bitter tears there fell upon
     The pale face of her little son.

     "The evening chimes had ceased their ringing,
     And the even song was singing
     In the old kirk grey with years;
     Through the air sweet words came welling--
     Words of peace, unto that dwelling;
     Hymns they sang, how angels shielded
     Those who ne'er to sin had yielded:--
     And her pale face lost its fears--
     That lonely mother dried her tears.

     "In her arms the babe soon slumber'd;
     That little son, whose days seem'd number'd,
     Smiled upon his mother sleeping.
     The Lord indeed had sorely tried her,
     But his angel knelt beside her;
     Heavenly breezes cool'd the fever
     Of her child--He shall not leave her!
     And this mother ceased her weeping."

The "Expected Return" is quite in Redgrave's best manner


    "Fancy, impatient of all painful thoughts,
     Pictured the bliss should welcome his return;
          *       *       *       *       *
     And hope and memory made a mingled joy."--SOUTHEY

This is a lovely figure; a loving and lovable gentle creature! and many
such have we seen by Redgrave's hand. Not Raffaelle himself could more
truly paint the pure mind--that precious jewel, innocence, in its most
lovely casket.

Severn has two plates, which may be called companions; racy and good are
they, and of one vintage. We are not quite satisfied with either face or
figure of the maiden in the "Roman Vintage." Hers is not a face of
feeling; nay, we would almost beg Mr Severn's pardon, and pronounce her
a bit of a fool. The "Neapolitan" is much better. They are executed in a
very bold, broad, free style of etching, and effective. Horsley's
"English Peasant" might be allowed to be a little weatherbeaten; but, at
first sight, we should say that he was not of the temperance society
when the aquafortis was on the table. It is black, from being
overbitten. Yet, after a while, we see through the darkness into the
character. He is an honest fellow, but a little "disguised." His
"Twilight" is very good, yet perhaps is the light a little too sharp and
strong for that hour. The subject is from verses by Redgrave, and good
and quaintlike old gentle rhymes they are. But how comes it that the
figures are both feminine?--that does not accord with the lines.


     "Time was no more for them: the sun had gone,
     The stars from sunset glow began to peer;
     Yet 'neath those stars that pair still linger'd on,
     Unconscious of the night, fast drawing near!
     His voice to her was daylight, and her smile
     A sunny morning breaking o'er his soul:
     Such hours of bliss come only once--the while
     Long-silent love speaks forth without control,
     And of its hopes and fears first telleth out the whole."


"Welsh Gossips."--

"At every word a reputation dies."

For the credit of Wales, we hope Mr Horsley did not sketch these from
nature; yet is there a fearful look of natural acrimony in the one, and
sheer busybodyism in the other. The plate is beautifully etched. His
"Moonlight" is not quite clear enough--there are too many sparkling
lights. The "Shady Seat" is prettily designed; the lady looks rather too
alarmed, and, for the subject, perhaps there is not enough of shadow--
certainly not "enough for two." We at once recognize Stonhouse in the
"Evening effects of Solitude," and his "Neath Abbey." The former he thus
describes:--

     "There, woods impervious to the breeze,
     Thick phalanx of embodied trees--
     Here, stillness, height, and solemn shade
     Invite, and contemplation aid."

We are sure that Neath Abbey is from nature, for it has the sooty and
smoked character of that manufacture-ruined ruin. But we must not pass
by his "Dorothea" from Don Quixote. Nothing can be more happily
expressed than the deep shady retirement of the wood; there are nice
gradations of shades, which is the very character of retirement, and
Dorothea is herself in it, not a bright figure in a black mass--and good
is the figure too, but the feet are unfinished.

Mr Creswick is a large contributor, and least fortunate in his first: it
is not the scene so well given in verse by his friend Townsend; for it
is too pretty, too tight. It wants the "lane;" it is the road-side.


     "THE WAYSIDE.

     "A lane, retired from noisy haunts of men,
     Whose ruts the solitary lime cart tracks,
     Whose hedge-sides, propp'd by many a mossy stone,
     Are checker'd o'er with foxglove's purple bloom,
     Or graceful fern, or snakehood's curling sheath,
     Or the wild strawberry's crimson peeping through.
     There, where it joins the far-outstretching heath,
     A lengthen'd nook presents its glassy slope,
     A couch with nature's velvet verdure clad,
     Trimm'd by the straggling sheep, and ever spread
     To rest the weary wanderer on his way.
     There, oft the ashes of the camp-fire lie,
     Marking the gipsy's chosen place of rest.
     Black roots of half-charr'd furze, and capons' bones--
     Relic of spoils from distant farmers' coop--
     Point to the revels of preceding night.
     And fancy pictures forth the swarthy group,
     Their dark eyes flashing in the ruddy glare;
     While laughter, louder after long constraint,
     From every jocund face is pealing round.

His "Summer" is a simple unaffected scene, such as may be met with any
where, if you have but "eyes to see:" and pretty much like it, but
inferior--for if it be not more common in subject, it is in treatment--
is the "Old Farm-House," from that delighting and most natural painter
with her pen, Miss Mitford. Very exquisite in his "Moonlight"--so true,
with all the quivering and blending light of nature, where all things
are at once lucid and in shade--as Virgil happily expresses it, "luce
sub incertâ linae." Sweet, too, and in the deep solemn repose of
religious eve, is the "Village Church"--from lines by Rogers. He is not
so happy in his "Smithy;" neither is the scene of interest nor the
effect pleasing. But he makes up for all by his "Outward Bound." The
home is left in the calmest, stillest of days; though the "outward
bound" has sails, they rather wait for, than feel, the wind; there is
the village church still in view, and will yet be an hour and more. The
sky is, though really printers' ink, like many a sooty vapour converted
into light-shedding yet faint clouds--we can see the colour--it is a
grey, in which is gold and ultra-marine. The boat is conveying the
"outward bound" to the vessel; there is the moving and the waiting. It
is poetical. "The Castle" we do not much admire; it is a villa castle,
and on no agreeable river. "Low Water" is quite another thing; it is a
beautiful etching. He thus describes it with his pen--

     "The flowing tides that spread the land,
     And turn to sea again."

The "River Scene," illustrating lines from Southey, is delicately
touched, and a pleasing scene; yet we feel sure it is not from nature.
Why, we can hardly tell. Is it that there is a bridge, apparently
without a bank on one side to rest upon? "The Terrace," from lines by
Andrew Marvel, is a most fascinating upright plate. It is perfectly
true, giving all the thousand intricacies and shades of such a scene;
and there is grace in the forms, and the figures well suit the whole.
All is gentleness and ease; not a light is too strong, or a shadow too
deep; there is no violence--which too many are apt to express when they
would give powerful effect. His "Fishing Scene on the Coast of Ireland"
is not to our taste, yet is it not without meaning--it is windy and
sunny. "The Oriental Palace" is solemn, with its ancient yew in the
silence of the crescent moon; but the ruin is to fill up, and does no
good.

We have read with pleasure, and extracted, some of Mr Townsend's poetry;
let us now see his etching. "Boyhood:" those who delight in the easy,
every-day, every-hour play of boyhood, will enjoy this plate. A boy is,
with a peacock's feather, tickling a child asleep in the arms of a grave
old lady--so sedate have we seen grimalkin look whilst encouraging her
kitten, lightly and coquettishly, to play with a ball of cotton. "The
Beach" is a well-sketched coast scene, and shows Mr Townsend to have an
eye for nature's scenery, as well as nature's sympathies. Very good is
"The Model"--an artist sketching in the figure of a Lascar. But his best
plate is "Sad Tidings." It is a very sweet figure--youth, elegance,
tenderness, are there--and such an even melancholy light, or rather such
a mournful evenness of light and shade, that, as a whole, it is neither
light nor dark, and should have no other name than melancholy. He had
the judgment and forbearance to hide the face--we know it is lovely, and
that is enough; it is this, in part, which separates "Sad Tidings" from
such subjects as they are usually treated. There are two etchings by
Frederic Tayler--"The Chase" from Somerville, and "The Auld Grey" from
Burns--both are lightly etched and good; but they have not that free and
certain hand which marks Mr Tayler's style in his drawings, where one
wash of the brush hits off his object with great truth. "The Gypsy Boy,"
by Mr Knight, is very masterly in chiaroscuro, and certainly
characteristic of the race. Effect of chiaroscuro seems to be his aim.
It is marked in his "Old Fable" (which always means the newest) of "The
Peasant and the Forest." It is thus given: "A peasant once went into an
old forest of shady oaks, and humbly entreated the same to grant him a
small branch to make a handle for his axe, and thereby enable him to
pursue his labours at home. The forest very graciously acceded to his
request, and the peasant soon formed the required handle; but presently
he began to lay about him in every direction, using the very substance
with which the forest had furnished him out of its own bosom, and in a
short time hewed down its whole growth."

Which are we bound most to admire--John Bell's pen or John Bell's
needle? It is a difficulty. "The Devil's Webbe" is admirable in both.
What a spider-like wretch is he, watching the toils that he has spread!

     "This webbe our passions be, and eke the flies
       Be we poor mortals: in the centre coyles
     Old Nick, a spider grimme, who doth devyse
       Ever to catch us in his cunning toyles.
     Look at his claws--how long they are, and hooked!
       Look at his eyes--and mark how grimme and greedie!
     Look at his horrid fangs--how sharp and crooked!
       Then keep thy distance so, I this arreede ye,
     Oh sillie Flie! an thou wouldst keep thee whole;
       For an he catch thee, he will eate thy soul."

And there they are! the winged insect lovers of pleasure, and of gain
and strife--in one word, of sin--entangled in the ladder webb; while
such a monster is in the centre, watching his larder. John Bell is
instinctively a moral weaver. Fine-spun are his philosophical threads;
we stop not to enquire if they will bear the tug of life. He is trying
them, however, on the "tug of war." Pen and needle are set to work
philosophically, methodically, benignly. In this he is but a unit out of
many thousands. His opinions are not singular. Amiable moralist!--
delightful is the dream, sweetly sounding the wisdom; but is it
practicable? John Bell's warfare, "The Assault," is, without a doubt,
"confusion worse confounded;" it is not easy, at a view, to find legs
and arms and heads in their anatomical order. We must trace the human
figure as through its map. Perhaps this is purposely done to resemble a
battle the more truly, where limbs are apt to fly out of their places.
But John Bell thinks--

     "The play's the thing
     Wherewith to touch the conscience of the king."

So he pours forth from his "Unpublished Play" a choice tirade against
the royal play of human ninepins:--

     "And then a battle, too--no doubt it is
     A right fine thing; or rather to have been there.
     But all things have their price; and this, methinks,
     Is rather dear sometimes. Oh! glory's but
     The tatter'd banner in a cobwebb'd hall,
     Open'd not once a-year--a doubtful tomb,
     With half the name effaced. Of all the bones
     Have whiten'd battle-fields, how many names
     Live in the chronicle? and which were in the right?
     One murder hangs a man upon a rope,
     A hundred thousand maketh him a god,
     And builds him up a temple in the air
     Out of men's skulls. A loving mother bears
     A thousand pangs to bring into the world
     One child; your warrior sends a thousand out,
     Then picks his teeth."

     JOHN BELL--_Unpublished Play_.

Such was Shakspeare's momentary humour, when he put it into Falstaff's
mouth to ask what honour is "to him that died o' Wednesday." It is a
humour that won't last--'tis against nature--man is more than half
belligerent, and has a "murder" in him (to give it a bad name) "that
will out." Even the peaceable Ephraim took up the handspike, and used it
too, with "friend, keep thee in thy own ship." The "friend" was
hyprocrisy--the use of the handspike, natural; the very elements are at
war, and were made to be so--storms are as necessary as sunshine. But
excellent able John Bell likes sunshine best; and who does not like him
the better for that? And sweet sunshine has he shed around "The good
Mayde"--a sunshine that makes its own magic circle, within which evil
spirits or evil men shall not come. Tempt on, ye wizards--she looketh
upwards, yet think not she will fall or miss her way--the Unseen guideth
her steps. Bell's account of the matter is, however, far better. Let him
publish his quaint poem, all of it; the specimens warrant the request.

     "Thus doth the goode Mayde, with a stedfaste eye,
     Walke through the troubles vaine, and peryls dire,
     That doe beset mayde's path with haytes full slie,
     The trappes and gynnes of mischief's cunning syre.
     Ne nought to her is riches' golden shower,
     Ne gaudy baites of dresse and rich attyre,
     Ne lover's talke, ne flatteries' worthless store,
     Ne scandal's forked tongue--that ancient liar,
     Ne music's magic breath, ne giddy wheel
     Of gay lascivious daunce, ne ill-raised mirthe,
     Ne promised state doth cause her mind to reel,
     Or lure from thoughts of heaven to joys of earthe."

Our poet, a moralist etcher, reverts to the old subject; and we have
"The Progresse of Warre," in a series, as part of a frieze for his
Temple of Peace. This is most clear--for he who runs may read; yet, on a
second view, we doubt that--for we see, what we did not at first see,
writing under each tablet that is by no means intelligible. Having, with
Mr Bell, seen an end of the battle, it is fit time, with Mr Herbert, to
discuss "The Day after the Battle." "Next day did many widows come"--
that verse of _Chevy Chase_ is the subject. The slaughtered knight, the
widow, and the dog, tell the tale, and tell it well too. The widow is
the best figure. We have had enough of battle and all its horrors; let
us turn to tranquillizing nature, where the undisturbed lichen may grow
upon the rocks, and the branches of unpruned trees throw out their
sheltering leafage, and the innocent insects know it is their home; and
even in the seeming silence, if you listen, may you hear the still voice
of a busy creation, a world of a few summer hours--yet seemeth it to
them an eternity of enjoyment. And such a scene we have in the "Woody
Scene," by Thomas Fearnley--poor Fearnley!--and is it not lightly,
elegantly touched with the needle? the scene realized? Or, would you see
a wilder spot, turn to his "Norwegian Scenery," and see the saw-mill, or
whatever the building be, at the very entrance of the deep wood in its
gloom, with the mountain torrent pouring over the rocks. In this
sequestered spot, man has built him a home, and turned to human uses the
rebellious waters, even on the very skirts of the wilderness; and there
he is, for his hours are not all of toil, gloriously angling, for he has
hooked his fish. Poor Fearnley! would he could have remained in this
country! Had he been moderately patronised, he might have added an
honourable name to our dictionary of painters.

And what has become of Webster? We remember well his "Boys let loose
from School." Here he is--and but one plate--"Anticipation"--well named.
The pie is come home, and the boy's eyes open, and his mouth waters. The
story is quaintly told by Townsend thus:--Lights and shadows of boyish
days! how bright and deep they are! The schoolmaster's frown may be
charmed away by the gift of a new top, or a score of marbles. But what
are these in the cotter's life to the stirring vicissitudes of a pie!
----Before its departure for the bakehouse, did he not ponder admiringly
on the delicate tact that mingled the bony scraps with.

     'Herbs, and other country messes,
     Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses?'

"Since then, _imagination_ has been at play; and, in accordance with its
suggestions, his bib and tucker have been donned, as trusty adjutants to
the formidable wooden spoon. Thus armed, while sister Phillis--the
creative genius of the savoury structure--regards the baker's boy with
her modest glance, young Corydon, with his prophetic anticipation, is
ogling the baker's burden. If his knife be as sharp as his appetite,
'twill want no whetting! We must expect that, in the afternoon, when
anticipation shall have faded through the stages of its fulfilment, if
no longer entranced by the pleasures of Hope, he will solace himself
with those of Memory." And there, sure enough, is the grinning baker's
boy, and the pie admirably baked; and the boy of the bib and tucker, and
the wooden spoon, realizing it through his nostrils, and magnifying it
through his eyes; and there is the neat-handed Phillis, who cares little
for the eating. Feminine and gluttonous seldom come together. "The
little glutton" is ever the male. This was in Webster's own way, and he
has hit it off truly; he has seen it hundreds of times, and knew as well
as Townsend who should have the wooden spoon. We find we have omitted to
notice one plate, and that by Redgrave. We did not expect landscape by
his hand. It is, however, very clever; there is a light over the dark
church-tower which a little offends. Keep down that a little, and you
recognize the true effect of nature. It is a view of Worcester. "A
spot," says Mr Redgrave, "memorable as the scene of that battle
signalized by Oliver Cromwell as the 'crowning mercy;' and whence the
young Charles II. commenced the series of romantic and perilous
adventures which terminated in his safety."

Our work of criticism is at an end; not so our pleasure. We shall look
at this choice volume again and again; and as we have somewhat
arrogantly, and with a conceit of our ability and right so to do, taken
the Etching Club under our especial care, regard, and patronage, we
shall think ourselves at liberty to encourage and to exhort them
whenever we see fit. We therefore do exhort them to go on, to give a
taste for painters' etchings, to improve themselves, too; and let each
make it a rule to himself never to take the trouble to touch a subject
that is not worth doing; nor to tell a story not worth telling, however
such may seem to look pretty or with effect upon copper or paper; by all
means to avoid "annual sentimentalities," and commonplace "acting
charades;" and never to forget that expression is the soul of the art.
For the present, we dismiss them with thanks--like the prudent
physician, who, as Fielding says, always stands by to see nature work,
and contents himself by clapping her on the back, by way of approbation,
when she does well.



A LOVE-CHASE--IN PROSE.

CHAPTER I.


Bandvale Hall had lain empty for a long time--old Frank Edwards, so well
known as a sportsman, had been dead for eighteen years, his horses sold,
his kennels dismantled, and his son, after so absurdly long a minority,
(for his father had capriciously fixed his majority at twenty-three,)
only now coming of age; but whether he would reside at Bandvale, or
continue in the neighbourhood of Leicester, where his guardian lived, or
what he would do, nobody could tell. The estate, we were told, in spite
of the economical management of four or five attorneys, and a couple of
stewards, was more involved than when old Frank died; and many a time
have I sighed, as I ambled past the lodges, and saw grass growing over
the drive, contrasting these appearances with the jolly days I had known
in the hall, "when the beards wagged all--shall we ever see the like
again?" But change passes over all; and Bandvale was not the only place
or the only thing that felt its influence. We were all very different
from what we were; we had a railway within half an hour's drive; we had
a Methodist chapel in the village; we had a clergyman who preached in
his surplice, and would have had a hurl off a lame donkey if he had
ventured into the saddle; the hounds were given up; you were asked to
dinner at half-past seven, and got home again by ten; rather a changed
state of affairs since old Frank kept the ball alive, and Parson Holt
rode his grey nag over bank and fence, and we had two packs within ten
miles, and no Methodists in the village, and no railroad in the county,
and every thing was exactly as it ought to be; and we dined at five, and
got home--when it pleased Heaven. Sometimes I turned down the avenue,
and took a melancholy look at the old Hall. It is a great square house;
flanked with two turrets, with fine old stone windows, and a stone porch
in the middle. The Bandvale river runs through the park about three
hundred yards from the front door, and is crossed by two bridges in the
direction of the lodges, east and west; and beyond it rises the upland,
all dotted over with clumps of elm--and at the highest part of the park
is the church; a great black figure, kneeling on one knee, used to bear
up the sun-dial in the centre of the sweep--his leg had given way from
the weight of years and the huge globe he supported, and the poor old
fellow lay on his back, kicking up the stump of his leg in a most
audacious manner, in the very face of the sun. "The great globe itself
had dissolved, and left not a wreck behind." They talk of Marius among
the ruins of Carthage, and Coliseums unroofed, and temples of Theseus
with crumbling pillars--all these are desolate enough; but then, their
condition is picturesque: and I doubt whether Marius in the capitol, and
the Coliseum newly finished, and the Temple at the time of its
consecration, were half such interesting objects as in the days of their
decline and fall. But to me the true representative of desolation was
the long tufts of grass that grew in old Frank Edwards's stable-yard,
the weeds that choked up the hall door, and the broken panes of the
great dining-room windows--the spacious yard, the hospitable door, the
jocund dining-room. And now young Frank was just coming to his legal
age, and we were all forming our guesses and conjectures as to what the
youth's proceedings would be when he came into possession. I made sure,
if the property was really involved to the extent reported, that he
would sell some of the lands he had in other counties; a farm or two he
had in Sussex; a tolerable estate in the north; and a foolish marine
villa somewhere in Devonshire, and pay off all incumbrances, and settle
himself for life at Bandvale Hall. He would still have a very fine
fortune; and it had been the family seat since the reign of Charles the
Second. All the mothers and aunts in the county thought it was a seat
like a Spanish saddle, and would carry double; and it certainly was
amazing to see the preparations that were made to get the proper foot in
the stirrup. It seemed agreed that for a young gentleman of
twenty-three, seventeen was the only admissible age; and to reach that
desirable date, as great cruelty was practised on the baptismal register
books as on ancient travellers by the bed of Procrustes-girls of
twenty-four were shortened by seven years, and little children of
fourteen elongated by three. In some families there were three or four
daughters all of the same age, yet not the least like twins; brothers
and fathers were kept in marching order, ready to be dispatched to make
poor Frank's acquaintance the moment he took possession. I also, though
unendowed with any possession so valuable as either daughter, or sister,
or niece, kept myself prepared to welcome my old friend's son, whenever
he arrived.

The day of majority came at last--the third of June. The tenants of the
Bandvale farms had a dinner at the Rose and Crown, and one of the
managing attorneys proposed the young landlord's health in a speech full
of amazing eloquence, but with a countenance that would have been more
appropriate to a funeral oration than a toast; and it was, in fact, the
funeral oration over his stewardship, as he gave notice that it was Mr
Edwards's intention to take the management into his own hands--a piece
of information that gave great satisfaction to every one except the firm
of Goody and Fripp. But in spite of this announcement, young Frank never
made his appearance--the walks continued overgrown with grass--the
wounded Atlas looked proudly to heaven from his deathbed of fame-and the
young ladies remained on the tiptoe of expectation.

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought I; "has he no regard for
his father's neighbours, and his own birthplace?"

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought Miss Sibylla Smith, and
all the maidens young, old, and middle aged. "Has he fallen in love with
his tutor's daughter, or got engaged to his guardian's niece?" for our
young people had studied life so zealously in three-volume novels, that
they never doubted for a moment that Frank Edwards's tutor (if he had a
tutor) had a daughter, or that his guardian (and they knew he had a
guardian) had a niece. But in spite of all our thoughts Bandvale Hall
continued empty.

"I'll take another look at the old place," I said, one day in August as
I was passing the lodge, and rode at a quiet contemplative walk down the
avenue. I hung my rein over one of the rails of the porch steps, and
passed round into the garden. Not a flower to be seen; but the place of
them famously supplied with potatoes and other useful articles--and the
same evidence of absenteeism in the shape of tottering walls, and grass
grown walks, and dusty fountains in all directions. What a shame!--if I
knew the boy's address, I would write to him to come home at once; but
that Leicestershire guardian has kept him quite separated from those who
ought to have been his friends, and had the bringing up of him from his
youth. If we are to have him all the rest of his life, he could not have
come among us too early; and in the firm intention of carrying this
resolution into effect, I determined to look out for some workman about
the place, to ask where Mr Edwards was to be found. The man that has the
care of the garden can't be far off;--and accordingly I went in search
of him. But either the vegetables were illustrations, like Southey's
butlers, of self-culture, or the gardener had gone to dinner; and in the
expectation of finding him in the kitchen, I clambered into the house by
an open window, and walked quietly along the passage. I thought I heard
voices in the garden library, a delightful room on the ground-floor,
where I had passed many an evening with old Frank; and, supposing the
gardener had taken possession of it, I opened the door. Close to the
window two persons were sitting, so deeply engaged in conversation that
they did not remark my entrance, and I took the opportunity of observing
them at leisure. They were both young men--both tall and good-looking;
one remarkably dark, with great umbrageous whiskers and mustaches; the
other a chestnut-haired, fresh-complexioned youth, so like poor old
Frank in the set on of his head and breadth of his shoulders, that I
knew in a moment it could be no one but his son. They seemed both very
much excited about something; but from the whispered tone of their
conversation, it was difficult to make out what it was. The dark man,
who was six or seven years older than his companion, had apparently been
saying something that shocked the other, for he clenched his hand, and
threw his eyes despairingly to the ceiling; and no wonder, for the words
I heard, as I advanced from the screen at the door, were enough to raise
a shudder in any person's breast. He said--

"I had him murdered in the shooting-box."

"But why?" enquired Frank Edwards, looking less startled than could be
expected.

"Why? Because Isabella could not be happy while he lived."

"Recollect I had no hand in it," said Frank. "I wouldn't have agreed to
it on any account, and told you so before you did it."

Great heavens! what a secret to be thrust upon me! and what an
introduction to the son of my poor friend--the accomplice of a
murderer--who had evidently been consulted about the crime, and though
he certainly had protested against it, had allowed it to be carried into
effect! I was hesitating whether I should not retire at once, when Frank
turned round and saw me. He rose, and received the apologies I muttered
for my intrusion with the most astonishing self-command. I determined to
conceal my knowledge of their conversation from them; and really,
looking at the clear open countenance of the boy, it was difficult to
believe that he knew any thing of so shocking a kind. I was introduced
to the other, Mr Percy Marvale, and saw so much Italian, or perhaps
gipsy, blood in his dark skin, and such a fierce expression in his
coal-black eyes, that I was not so much surprised at his being
implicated in the fearful deed. He looked just like one of the fellows
on the stage who cut throats in a heroic fashion on the slightest
provocation. But both were so free in their manner, and talked so
pleasantly, that if it had not been for what I had overheard, I should
have taken them for two very agreeable young men. And, in spite of it
all, I could hardly avoid asking them both to leave the deserted house,
and take up their quarters with me. I forced myself, however, to abstain
from giving them the invitation; and after a half hour of friendly
conversation, I got up to go away. They accompanied me a portion of the
way; and when I looked at young Frank, and listened to the tones of his
voice, twenty years seemed to roll off my shoulders. I took his hand.
"You must dine with me to-morrow," I said; "and--and--your friend Mr
Marvale," I added with some little difficulty. They both accepted
without a moment's hesitation. "Hang it, there must be some mistake
after all!" I thought, as I put my foot in the stirrup; "but I'll go and
ask a few of the neighbours to meet them. Old Smith of Howkey is a
magistrate, with an amazing nose for a crime. We'll see what he makes of
it."



CHAPTER II.


Now old Smith was the son of a great London millionaire--an alderman, or
even a lord mayor, for any thing I know--who had bought Howkey, and
built an enormous house, to which his son had taken the moment the old
gentleman died; had cut the shop, got on the commission, and now
rejoiced in a fat, jolly, good-tempered wife, and a multiplicity of sons
and daughters. Such a fellow for points of law was never heard of out of
Westminster Hall, nor in it either. He read Acts of Parliament as other
people read novels--for his amusement; and every body thought he knew
more about them than a lord chancellor. There was great rejoicing at
Howkey, from the drawing-room up to the very nursery, when I told of
Frank Edwards's arrival. All manner of enquiries were made, in various
tones of interest, from the romantic Miss Sibylla down to the youngest
of the girls, as to his appearance, manner, height, and complexion. I
answered them all to the extreme satisfaction of the enquirers, but took
care to make no allusion to his companion; though, at the same time, I
confess I could not persuade myself that what I had overheard had the
dreadful meaning I at first attached to it. He must have meant something
else; for I had not become acquainted with the new style of flash
language, where so many allusions are made to people's mothers and their
mangles, without any real reference either to one or other. Getting a
man murdered in a shooting-box might mean something equivalent to "There
you go, with your eye out!" which has no meaning at all. But although I
had persuaded myself of this, I made no mention at Howkey of the
ferocious-looking Percy Marvale, but merely asked my friend Old Smith to
come over, and help me to welcome the new neighbour. Sibylla, who had
all along been of opinion that Mr Frank Edwards was engaged to his
tutor's daughter, and took no interest in him accordingly, was all of a
sudden seized with an uncommon affection for my wife. She felt for the
awkwardness of her position so much in being the only lady among so many
gentlemen, that she insisted on going over with her father, merely to
bear her company; and, from the sympathizing countenance of her fair
sister Monimia, I expected every moment a similar offer from her. The
Williamses, and old Harry Lambert and his son, were the only others I
could catch on so short a notice; but we all determined to make up in
friendliness for the paucity in numbers, and give young Frank a hearty
welcome to his native county.

We were all assembled in the drawing-room--that is to say, all but the
party from Bandvale--and Mr Smith was laying down the law, or rather
explaining it after his usual manner, when Sibylla, who had stood at the
window, all of a sudden gave a slight scream, and flushed up to the eyes
like a peony rose.

"Why, what's the matter, Sib?" said Old Smith; "has a bee stung you."

"No, no!" she said; "but I saw likeness--a something"--

"What was it you saw?" enquired my wife--"a ghost?"

Sibylla lifted up her eyes to the ceiling, and said nothing; for at that
moment the door opened, and Frank Edwards and Mr Percy Marvale were
announced.

"No, not a ghost," whispered Sibylla to my wife, "but an apparition I as
little expected to see--I knew Mr Marvale in town."

The introduction was soon over; and Mr Marvale, on being presented to
Miss Sibylla, exhibited as much surprise as that young lady had done at
the window. I watched him as closely as if I had been one of the
detective police; but, saving an enormous amount of puppyism and
affectation, I could trace nothing very unusual in his appearance.
Frank, on the other hand, was a fine open-mannered fellow, that one took
to at once; and it was a mystery to me how he could be so intimate with
a person so different from himself. Pity such a good-dispositioned youth
should fall into the hands of such an atrocious character!

"You've met Mr Marvale before?" I said to Sibylla, as I took her into
the dining-room.

"Oh, yes--at my cousin Jane's, in Russell Square--a wonderful man--a
perfect genius!"

"I hope to Heaven he's no worse," said I, "though that's bad enough."

"Bad enough! Oh, I doat on men of genius! Did you never hear of him? He
is quite a celebrity. Cousin Jane always has him at her literary
parties, for she does not know Bulwer or Dickens; and he's so handsome,
too--such a wild expression."

"Wild enough to get him two months of the tread-mill, if your father
lays hands on him."

But when I saw the glance of profound admiration darted by Sibylla at
the interesting stranger, I felt sure she would only like him the more
if he were found out to be a murderer in reality; for there is a certain
school of young ladies who do not stand upon trifles in the way of their
flirtations, but extract fresh reasons for glorifying the object of
their preference, from facts which the unwary lay before them by way of
warnings. If he is a spendthrift, it is so noble to be free and
generous; if he is a gambler, he is of such a fine unsuspecting
disposition, he is only the dupe of the designing. In short, whatever
you say to put them on their guard, only makes them expose themselves
the more; and, therefore, I made no further attempt to open the eyes of
Miss Sibylla Smith. All passed off very well at dinner. Every one was
kind to Frank, and, for his sake, were abundantly civil to his friend;
but that individual seemed to care very little whether we were civil to
him or not. He talked more than all the rest of us put together--
corrected Old Smith on points of law--and put me right on the routine of
crops; proved to old Lambert's own satisfaction that he knew nothing of
stall-feeding, and so belaboured us with great people, with their whole
birth, parentage, and connexions, that we might have fancied he was Mr
Debrett. Sibylla evidently believed he was the most delightful of men;
and certainly the looks she darted at _him_, and the looks he darted at
_her_, were the most extraordinary phenomena of the look kind I ever
happened to see. It was quite evident that the daughter's feelings were
not shared by Old Smith; and I made little doubt he would have been
delighted to give him seven years of the hulks, if he could have found
out any act of Parliament making it penal for a good-looking young
fellow to encourage a silly young woman to make a fool of herself. He
found time, in spite of his apparently monopolizing the whole
conversation, to whisper incessantly into Sibylla's ear. He was
evidently asking questions about her household position--how many
sisters she had--how many brothers--their ages, characters looks, and
the state of their education. He seemed practising for an inspector of
schools. Then he went off to her cousin's, where he had met her in
Russell Square, and the same series of questions about family affairs
was repeated. Was the man engaged in collecting the census returns?

"What a dreadful thing the death of poor Mr Mopple!" said Sibylla. "They
said he wasn't kind to his wife, though I never saw any signs of it at
my cousin's."

"Mopple! Mopple!" he said, as if trying to remember. "Ah! a poor man
with a beautiful wife is he dead?"

"Oh, yes--quite suddenly! He was down in Scotland, on the moors. Some
people say there is something wrong about it."

"Indeed--ha!" said Mr Marvale. "What--what do they say?"

"He was found dead in a shooting-box. His gun had gone off and killed
him; but"--

I looked at the man's face. He was trying to appear as if he scarcely
attended to what she was saying.

"Some of the friends are not quite satisfied that it was accidental,"
continued Sibylla. "How I pity poor Mrs Mopple."

"Pray, Sibylla," I said, "what was the poor woman's Christian name?"

"Her name was Isabella."

"So!" I said, and looked firmly at Mr Marvale. "Do you hear that, sir?
Her name was Isabella."

"Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage--a good thing in its time, but out of
fashion now," he answered. "A curious fact, there is an incident of
precisely the same kind, of which I claim the credit."

"Of what kind, sir?" I said. "Take care what you say."

"Oh, it's no secret! Mr Edwards and I concocted it between us; that is
to say, he objected to it a little at first, but I flatter myself it
will make some little noise in the world when it is fairly known."

I looked again at the brazen-faced fellow, and nearly fell off my chair
at hearing him make such a horrid confession.

"I don't believe a word of it, sir," I exclaimed, "as far as Frank
Edwards is concerned."

"I assure you he had very little hand in it," he replied. "The merit, as
you say, is entirely my own."

"And the consequences, too, I hope."

"I hope so. I offered a good deal before I undertook it; and I think it
will pay very well."

"What will pay?"

"The Surrey, when the melodrama is finished."

"Oh! it is a melodrama you're speaking of? I was not aware, I am sure,
or I should"--

"My dear sir, make no apologies. I hate the fuss people make about a man
because he happens to be a successful author. I assure you, the plain
entertainment you have given is better than all the _fêtes_ my friends
Devonshire and Lansdowne gave me, when I published the _Blasted Nun_."

So my murderer had sunk into a writer of plays.

Sibylla looked at him with still more intense admiration, when she heard
him speak of the honours his works had procured him, and he entered at
once into a minute description of the festivities of Chatsworth and
Bowood, that would have done honour to the _Morning Post_.

After the ladies had gone to the drawing-room, I took the opportunity of
having a quiet conversation with Frank, while his friend was astonishing
the minds of the rest of the party with an account of his having refused
the Guelphic Order which the Queen had pressed upon him on the
twenty-fourth night of his _Blood-stained Milkmaid_.

"Who, in Heaven's name, and what is your friend, Mr Percy Marvale?"

"Oh, a very good fellow!" replied Frank. "I have known him at the Club
for a long time."

"He seems a rum one."

"A very useful ally, I can assure you. I study him as the _beau ideal_
of vanity and impudence."

"But your studies seem somewhat useless, if you have no higher object?"

"Oh, but I have, though--a very serious object--the only object, in
fact, I care for in the world!"

And here the young man sighed.

"Well, if your object," I said, "has any connexion with my old friend
Smith, I think he is in a fair way of securing you a confederate in Miss
Sibylla."

"She may perhaps be useful; but Marvale will find out whether she will
be so or not, before he lets her go to-night."

"Well, if it's any thing where other assistance is needed, you may
depend on me."

"You're very good; but I fear you have neither the vanity nor the
impudence that are so invaluable in my friend Percy Marvale."

"Is that his real name?"

"I am sure I don't know. It is what he is known by in the Club. He
dramatizes all the bloodthirsty horrors at the Surrey--pushes his way
every where--puffs and praises himself wherever he goes--is very
good-looking, and makes love like a French hero--and, in short, is at
this moment indispensable to me."

I made no further enquiries, for Frank filled his glass, and sighed like
a smith's bellows. But I was filled with wonder at all that passed, and
could form no guess at the bond that united two such dissimilar men, nor
at the reason so much value was attached to the services of a boastful,
clattering, pushing, inquisitive vagabond like the bewhiskered
dramatist.

Before I joined in the general conversation, it was evident that Mr
Percy Marvale, by dint of downright categorical questions, had acquired
an intimate knowledge of poor old Harry Lambert's and Williams's
domestic affairs; and it is useless to say he had bound himself in the
most solemn manner to visit both them and Mr Smith, though neither of
them, as far as I could see, seemed much delighted with his repeated
asseverations.

"It's what I always do, my dear sir," he said to Harry Lambert; "for how
could a man pick up any information unless he made himself intimate with
all classes? Why should I keep myself separate from good fellows, merely
because I happen to have written the _Frozen Island_, or the _Fire King
of the Caucasus_? I will see you the day after to-morrow. I give you my
honour. Your daughters have perhaps read my works?"

"I'm afraid they're too young, sir."

"What age are they? But if they are well taught, they have studied the
drama, of course. They have a governess, I suppose?

"Yes."

"Has she red hair? I have an idea that red-haired people are all good
teachers."

"I don't recollect the colour of her hair, I'm sure."

"I'll come over and judge for myself. I will not disappoint you on any
account. So you may be quite easy."

And the same thing he said to Mr Williams, with the slight variation of
an enquiry whether _his_ governess squinted; for he had another theory
that squinting people had a peculiar faculty for speaking French.

"I'll tell you what, Frank Edwards," I said to my young guest when we
were about to separate, "I was an old friend of your father's, and I
wish to show my regard to his memory by kindness to you; and as I don't
think you have formed the best acquaintance in the world in the person
of your companion, Mr Marvale, I wish you would give me an hour
to-morrow at Bandvale, and I will offer you a little advice."

He shook my hand very warmly, and thanked me; and I agreed to be with
him at one o'clock.

"I'll save the poor fellow from that harpy, at any rate; and have him
back to Bandvale in half a year."

"You must get him married first," said my wife, "or his life will be
miserable."

"How?"

"Why, there are three Miss Smiths, two Lamberts, and seven or eight
others. They will set on him like a swarm of bees; and as they can't all
make honey of him"--

"They will sting him to death. I see--I see."



CHAPTER III.


Next day I trotted over to the Hall. Mr Percy Marvale was busy putting
the finishing stroke to his _Demon of the Waste_, in which the
interesting incident of the murder in the shooting-box is introduced;
and Frank and I had a long and confidential conversation in the garden.
Miss Sibylla Smith and the students of three-volume novels were for once
very nearly right in their guesses on the subject of his tutor's
daughter. He certainly was in love, if not engaged, but not exactly in
the way they had imagined; and it struck me that, in spite of his
declaration of constancy and firmness, there was still a very reasonable
chance of there being an opening for some of the bees alluded to by my
wife. For my own part, I am no believer in sentiment and romance, and
could not enter into Frank's feelings at all.

Not far from Frank's guardian's house, in Leicestershire, there was a
small white-walled villa, surrounded by pretty pleasure grounds, and
inhabited by the most enchanting family in the world. The father, a
clergyman, too much of an invalid to hold a living, and only rich enough
to struggle on in the quietest possible way, with a wife and a daughter.
The wife, of course, was all that was amiable and wise; and the
daughter, Alice, endowed with every possible perfection. As to her
beauty, it was above description, and her disinterestedness almost
incredible. Every week, and at least every day of every week, Frank
found himself at the fireside of the Reverend Mr Elstree, and no mother
and sister could be so affectionate to him as Mrs Elstree and Alice. He
was only fourteen, to be sure, when the acquaintance began, and the girl
nine or ten; so that when he was twenty-one, he could not recall by what
means, or on what occasion, he had told Alice he was devoted to her; nor
could he even recollect what method she had taken to tell him she was
delighted to hear it; but the case was, nevertheless, as complete a case
of engagement, and true love, as if he had made formal propositions on
his knees, or signed a bond on parchment. By this time he was at
Cambridge, and considered himself as much a man as undergraduates always
consider themselves--and wrote twice a-week to Alice--and heard twice
a-week in return--and looked at her portrait, which he kept in a secret
drawer of his desk, about twenty times a-day; and (which was the only
thing about it that made me think it a real instance of true love) he
never mentioned her name to one of his companions. Yet Cambridge has its
temptations even to people as constant as Amadis de Gaul. Frank was a
gay young fellow, with a good allowance--had his father's seat on
horseback, and sported a red coat whenever the hounds came within twenty
miles. He was blessed also with a capacious appetite, both for solids
and fluids, and occasionally astonished the waiter at the Eagle and
Child, by ordering in an extra basket of magnums; but, in the main, he
was steady--and looked at the little portrait with undiminished
admiration. All this time poor Mr Elstree knew nothing of the
engagement, but looked on Frank more as a son than as a mere
acquaintance, without any thought of its being in his power to attain in
reality to that degree of relationship by means of the beautiful Miss
Alice. If Frank believed this, I will be bound Miss Sibylla Smith would
not have given him credit for such stupidity. But there are innocent
minded people in the world, and poor Elstree was one of them. The visits
to the white-walled villa were continued all the vacation; love went on
increasing; and nothing could be more delightful than the description
Frank gave of the happiness of that youthful time. But black days were
in store for them. He left Cambridge, and went to London--the great
trial for country affections. The affections, by his account, continued
exactly the same; but the ideas altered--he saw other people, he mixed
with the world--he overlaid the passion that lay snug and powerful at
the bottom of his heart, with a score or two of flirtations; but, so far
from burying it, they only kept it warm. In the mean time, however, the
correspondence was not so regular as before--and perhaps the expressions
on both sides not quite so tender; for it is impossible for a man in the
Clarendon, with a carriage at the door to carry him down to Ascot, to
write about flames and arrows, which come so naturally when musing on
the Cam or Isis. And in the midst of this London career--during all
which, he assured me, he liked her better than ever--he was startled by
hearing that Mr Elstree was very ill. He hurried down to Leicestershire,
but found he was too late. The good man had died, after having learned
from his daughter the secret of her engagement, and having refused his
consent to it, not on the ground that he was too good a match for
Alice--which would be almost as vulgar a reason as if he had been too
poor--but on the ground that he was young, giddy, thoughtless, and the
wasting health and wan cheek of his daughter had told him that he was
fickle too. People in the country make so little allowance for young men
during their first season in town; and mother and daughter, in spite of
all his protestations, in spite of all the vows he made to Alice, which
she believed in her heart--were firm in breaking off the connexion, and
would see him no more. And this resolution seemed to be formed on the
maturest deliberation, and in spite of every inducement to the contrary
they kept it. He had not seen them for nearly a year. Their income, at
all times small, had been annihilated by the father's death; they left
the white-walled villa, and after bidding him farewell for ever in a
letter, and thanking him for his friendship to her father, and some few
tender recollections on her own account, Alice had begged him to forget
her! And Frank thought of her, of course, every hour of his life--tried
every means to find out where they had gone, that he might resume his
suit, and to offer them the fortune of which he had now come into full
possession--but all in vain. His friend, Mr Percy Marvale, had
undertaken to find them out within six months if they were still on the
habitable globe, and thought he had discovered that the scene of their
retirement was in our county; and with a knowledge of nature drawn from
melodramas, French and English, he had laid it down as a rule, that as
they were reduced in circumstances, Alice had gone out as a governess--
which accounted for his theories about squints and red hair. It was a
curious story; but there was perfect sincerity in all he said; and
instead of trying to dissuade him, I could not help offering my services
to discover the vanished pleiad--if she twinkled in any part of our
Worcestershire heavens.

During this long communication we had left the garden, and were lounging
slowly by the side of the river that runs through the park. We were both
engaged in the narrative, and I was no little surprised, on looking to
the other side, to see my magisterial friend, Old Smith, and his two
daughters, busy with fishing-rods. The girls were tastefully dressed--
but more to catch admiration than fish; two very showy handsome girls
they were and I could not help thinking in my secret soul that there
were not much odds to be risked on the late favourite Alice, against
such a spanker as Monimia Smith. As for Sibylla, she despised gold and
acres in comparison with genius and mustaches; and therefore, I
concluded, she intended to be the second horse to her sister, and keep
out the rest of the field. A clever, dashing, creature Monimia
certainly, with such a pretence at childishness that nobody felt any
wonder at any thing she did. And that same childishness is a very
captivating quality till a girl is rising twenty or thereabouts; but
after that time it does not take. At the same time, it is only a show
qualification after all, and may do for a ball-room, but has no chance
any where else. We looked at them without making any remark, and all
three pretended to be so busy watching, their floats, that they had no
idea--not they, poor souls!--that Frank Edwards of Bandvale Hall was
within a mile of them. Sibylla occasionally glanced towards the house,
in hopes, I suppose, of seeing Mr Percy Marvale emerge from his literary
labours; but Monimia, looking under her long beautiful eyelashes, saw
very well where we were, and threw herself into twenty attitudes of
expectation, hope, and disappointment, ad ran through the whole gamut of
a fisher's passions, in a way that would have done for a recitation of
Collins's ode; and graceful, playful, and beautiful the attitudes were--
and I saw in a moment that Frank's attention was caught. He was silent
all of a sudden, and said no more about Alice Elstree. Monimia had it
all her own way; but when she saw that her bait had taken, she
determined to play the trout a little longer. She cast herself into
finer and more captivating attitudes than ever, threw back her bonnet
till it hung at her back--her beautiful hair broke loose--and in her
hurry to pull up her hook, though I am ready to declare the float had
never moved, she pressed so vehemently on poor Old Smith, who was deep
in a contention with the root of a tree, which had held his hook
prisoner for half an hour, that he lost his footing and fell plump into
the water. If Monimia's motions were astonishing, her screams were
appalling; and though I feel sure she had no intention of drowning her
father, she had put him into tremendous hazard. The water was deep--he
could not swim a stroke--the banks were steep; and there stood Monimia
wringing her hands, while Sibylla had taken the quieter method of
showing her agitation by falling into a faint upon the grass. In a
moment Frank had left my side, dashed into the stream, and half forced,
half supported Old Smith to the side, with my assistance, brought him
safe on dry land. The girls hurried round by the bridge, and came upon
us like a charge of Cossacks, while we were attending to the half-drowned
parent on the bank.

"Where is my papa?" exclaimed Monimia--"my dear papa!"--and threw
herself beside him on the turf, showing her figure, I must say, to the
very best advantage. "And you," she cried, "his saviour--his preserver!"
--and here she actually flung herself into poor Frank's arms, and laid
her head upon his shoulder, in one of the most becoming faints I ever
saw. There being no other person worth fainting for, Sibylla retained
her composure; and as Monimia continued insensible, and Old Smith was
really chilled, and might catch his death of cold, we conveyed them
both, as carefully as we could, to the house; gave Monimia in charge to
the gardener's wife and her sister, and installed Old Smith in Frank's
own bed. I sent off a labourer on my pony for the doctor, and went to
make enquiries after Miss Monimia. She was very ill, but Sibylla hoped
she would soon be well enough to attend upon her father. Mr Percy
Marvale made a multitude of quotations from some of his own melodramas
_apropos_ to the occasion, and Sibylla replied in the same high-flown
style. It was evident they were quite used to such incidents in the
Surrey, and I left them to entertain each other. On the doctor's
arrival, he pronounced it improper to remove Mr Smith after his system
had undergone such a shock; and the same judgment, very nearly, was past
on Miss Monimia.

"I told mamma before I left home," whispered that young lady to her
sister, as she lay gracefully on the outside of the bed, "that I would
make an impression on Mr Edwards, if I could. I think this will do it,
if any thing will; for we sha'n't let papa be well enough to move for a
week. He is a delightful, fascinating man, and we have him all to
ourselves."



CHAPTER IV.


Have you?--poor girl, you never heard of Alice Elstree! But Frank, to be
sure, has not heard of her for a year--and you're certainly pretty, and
he's young--and has an eye for the sublime and beautiful. The betting
grows nearly even. All the skill of the gardener's wife, and as many
other women as could be pressed into the service, was put into
requisition to prepare a dinner for such unexpected guests; but as if by
some half miraculous foreknowledge of events, preparations seemed to
have been made on a great scale at Howkey; and on hearing of the
accident, the good-natured Mrs Smith had despatched a light luggage cart
filled with cold pies, preserved soups, and joints of meat, as if in
anticipation of a blockade--in this respect imitating the good French
marshal who besieged Gibraltar, and supplied old Elliot with provisions.
But even after dinner was provided, how were the invalids, in addition
to the original garrison, to be lodged for the night? Frank and his
friend would not hear of coming over to me, and it was finally arranged
that they should take up their quarters at the Rose and Crown. Old Smith
kept his bed, but, for an invalid, performed wonders on the veal-pies;
and also, by way of recruiting his exhausted strength, and showing his
regard for Lord Cardigan at the same time, kindly made a crystal
decanter of his throat, and decanted a black bottle of port into it with
astonishing skill. Monimia was not so weak as to be kept in her
apartment, and joined us--for I stayed to see how matters would end in
the dining-room--and, I am bound to say, that gratitude for a father's
safety was never shown in a more captivating manner than by that pale
and interesting young lady, both in words and glances, during the whole
evening. Sibylla and Mr Percy Marvale were equally pleased with the
unlooked-for incident that threw them together; and I could not help
thinking that the spy for Mr Frank Marvale's interest had an eye kept
pretty open for his own; but watching the proceedings of people who
would be fifty times better pleased if the race of Paul Prys were
extinct, is very tiresome, and I soon took leave. The ladies betook
themselves to their room at the same time, and the young men walked
alongside of my pony down to the village inn. As we went, Mr Percy
Marvale was loud in his praises of all the inhabitants of Howkey--from
the half-drowned sire to the youngest of the children; so it is not to
be supposed that Sibylla and Monimia were omitted in his eulogies. I
remarked that he made no allusion to red hair or squinting, and that
Frank himself said nothing against his extravagant laudations of
Monimia's beauty. As little did he say any thing in corroboration. Was
silence a tribute to his old love, or the ominous commencement of a new?
One whole day he had been with her--a week, perhaps, was before him, of
constant association. How difficult for a young fellow to continue deaf
and blind to soft tones and softer glances, that spoke in reality of
herself, though professedly they were all about her father!

Next day Monimia was still further recovered, and her venerated governor
not yet fit to be moved. It was so bright and sunny that it would have
been a shame to stay in doors, and Frank accompanied the lively Monimia
into the garden. Oh! the running to and fro, the reaching up of the
white arm, and standing on tiptoe to get at the fruit-trees on the
wall--the merry laugh, the conscious looks, the blushing cheek--if Frank
isn't made of stone, he'll yield to a certainty. She trips over all the
beds with a wicker-basket on her arm to gather flowers, and clips them
off so gracefully, and arranges them so tastefully, and all to be
presented to the gallant deliverer of her papa. She is already on her
way back, having achieved a nosegay of surpassing sweetness, when Mr
Percy Marvale hurries out of the library window with a letter in his
hand.

"We've found her at last! I told you, if she was in England, I would
ferret her out in no time."

Frank seized the letter, tore open the seal--a flush passed over his
cheek--he devoured the words--read the over again--and did not even look
up, when Monimia dropt her basket and picked it up again, with the grace
of Taglioni.

"Glorious--glorious!" he said, and nearly kissed the scarcely legible
scrawl. "I will go this moment--it can't be far."

"Are you going, Mr Edwards?" said Monimia, holding the nosegay in her
hand. "I hope you will soon return."

"Perhaps I may--but, pray, make my excuses to your father--my friend, Mr
Marvale, will do the honours of the house."

"And you go away so suddenly?" she said, and pouted.

"I can't help it--business--sudden intelligence. Can you tell me where
the village of Wibbelton is?"

"No," said the young lady, and laid the nosegay very quietly in her
basket.

"If I should not return before Mr Smith is well enough to go home, will
you present my compliments to your sister, and assure her"--

"Oh! she will he very sorry, I dare say," said Miss Monimia tartly,
tying the strings of her bonnet, which had again fallen back and shown
her beautiful ringlets.

"I wish the flowers were better," continued Frank; "and at some future
time, I trust"--

"Oh, the flowers are good enough!" said the young lady. "I think the moss
rose is Charles Lambert's favourite, so I have gathered this bunch for
him."

You would scarcely have known the cold-voiced, calm-eyed Miss Monimia,
to be the playful, graceful hoyden of five minutes before. She made
Frank a stately curtsy, and, without farther parley, he hurried down to
the village, and ordered the solitary post-chaise of which the Rose and
Crown could boast.

"Stay you here," he said to Mr Percy Marvale, "and I will join you in
two days if any thing occurs. We may be disappointed again, though the
present intelligence seems authentic."

The intelligence which so suddenly altered the destination of Miss
Monimia Smith's nosegay, was from one of Frank's Leicestershire
correspondents; and was to the effect, that Alice had gone into a
situation in the little village of Wibbleton, where she had been
securely hidden from all her lover's pursuits for half a year.
Wibbelton, he found, was fifteen miles from Bandvale, on the Birmingham
road, and merrily away he trotted as fast as the two posters could go.

The news, the air, the motion, that had such an exhilirating effect on
Frank Edwards, seemed to be equally efficacious in the case of my old
friend Smith. He felt so well on being told of his host's departure,
that he was able to move at once; and, without waiting for consultation
with the doctor, or even for his carriage, he accompanied his daughter
and the indefatigable Percy Marvale across the fields to Howkey on foot.

Meanwhile the hopeful lover drew near the hamlet of Wibbelton. He drove
to the inn as the likeliest place where he could get information, and
entered the common parlour, a neat little whitewashed room, with clean
sanded floor, that looked out upon the village green. At a little table
by the window sat a gentleman reading the newspaper, and occasionally
relieving the dryness of the parliamentary debates by a sip at a little
tankard of beer. He was a neatly dressed old man, with his thin long
hair tied behind in a cue, a bright blue coat buttoned close up to the
throat, stocking-thread pantaloons, and high Hessian boots. His upright
carriage and projecting chest pointed him out at once as a military man;
and the bow he had made, on Frank entering the room, showed at once he
was a man of the old school--very formal and ceremonious--but was
indicative of good-nature at the same time.

"A stranger in Wibbelton?" he said, laying down the paper. "Ha! I
thought so--never remarked you before, though I keep my eye on any new
face that appears in our parish."

"There are not many strangers, I presume, who find their way to this
out-of-the-way village," replied Frank.

"I beg your pardon, my young friend. Many do. It is just the place for
strangers to come to. A more complete retirement is not to be found in
England."

"But every one is not enamoured of retirement," answered Frank.

"Then they have never been in active life. As for my step-son and me,
who have been pushed about the world all our days, we find no place like
Wibbelton."

"A soldier, I presume?" enquired Frank.

The old _militaire_ bowed. "A soldier, sir, not quite unknown to fame,
if I may be allowed to say so. My step-son also."

"And both reside here?"

"My step-son's house is the large white manorial mansion you see on the
other side of the green. It is the noblest house in the county. Ah!
there is nothing equal to the fine residences of our venerable
agricultural nobility. My step-son is chief of the family; and though I
had the misfortune to lose his mother in a very few years after our
marriage, I always look upon him as a son. He looks on me as a father.
We fight our battles over again, and only feel the want of a little
addition to our pleasing intelligent society."

Frank looked towards the mansion described as one of the noblest in
England, and saw a tolerably sized square house, with a range of white
palings before the door, and a vine trailing over the front, but with no
appearance of grandeur more than the very ordinary houses by its side.

"It would perhaps destroy the charm of the retirement you spoke of, if
too many were admitted to share it," said Frank. "Has your step-son a
family?"

"Four blooming girls, and an equal number of boys, not quite old enough
yet to be treated as companions."

"Still at school?"

"Oh, no! My step-son hates public education. He brings them up beneath
his own roof."

"With the help of a tutor, I suppose?"

"No, sir--no. A tutor is too harsh. A governess does it all."

"Ah!" said Frank.

"You start, my friend, as if you thought it impossible; but 'tis the
case I assure you--quite a young woman, too--and yet what order she
keeps them in. If I had had an adjutant-general, when I had my command,
with half such zeal! We military men are judges of discipline, whether
it is in the school-room or the field. So is my step-son."

"Pray, what age is the young person you speak so highly of?"

"I should say not more than eighteen--so gentle too, with it all."

"Have you had the benefit of her services long?"

"About half a year; yes, I think she has introduced her system about
half a year. We are quite a family party here. You see the house next to
my step-son's?--the large mansion in the Tudor style of architecture?
That belongs to my other step-son; a man of the purest philanthropy,
who, merely to benefit the poor of his own village and the surrounding
country, practises as the medical man. Next to him, again, in the
turreted building with the Gothic portico, is his younger brother, who,
from equally philanthropic principles, and to prevent litigation among
our neighbours, acts here as an attorney. You see the brass plate on the
office door? We are quite a family party, you see."

"I congratulate you on your neighbourhood," said Frank. "But the next
house to the youngest of your step-sons--the lath and plaster cottage
with the broken casements, and untiled roof?"

"Ah! that is to be let. It belongs to The Chobb."

"To The Chobb! Who is The Chobb!"

"My step-son, sir. He is head of the great family of the Chobbs, and
follows the example of The O'Conor Don, The Chisholm, and other
representatives of the old blood, by taking the distinction 'the' before
his name. Should you like to look at the _cottage ornée_, sir?"

"The one with the broken windows?" enquired Frank; "is it empty?"

"Yes; the Marquis di Carralva left it last week. If you would like a
lodging in it for a few weeks, The Chobb will be happy to put in a
little furniture. You would join our circle"--

"And take lessons in discipline from The Chobb's governess?"

"Of course; you would immediately become one of the family. We are all
united in the village; no secrets, no privacy."

"Then I take the house, sir," said Frank. "May I ask who it is I have
the honour of talking to?"

"My name is General Hosham--you've heard of my being commander-in-chief
in Mexico; my step-son, Colonel Chobb, fought for the glorious Isabella
of Spain. Will you go and look at the villa, sir?"

"I shall take it," said Frank, "at all events. Very little accommodation
will be enough for me."

"And you will take possession?"

"Immediately; I consider myself Colonel Chobb's tenant from this hour."

"You do?" said the general, taking him by the hand. "You put me in mind
of my poor aide-de-camp, Saint Rosalio; he was a perfect gentleman. I am
proud to make your acquaintance, sir. I will be back in a few minutes."

And so saying, the general made a military salam, and walked in a
stately manner out of the room.

"By this manoeuvre I have at all events secured admission to The Chobb's
house; and if this governess is indeed poor Alice--but no--how could I
think she would be connected in any way with such strange people as
these? At all events, she is in the village, and by staying in it for a
few days I am certain to find her out." In the midst of these and
similar reflections, the general returned, and brought with him no less
an individual than The Chobb in person. He was a little man, very dark
in the complexion, and very fat, with the coarse look that a habit of
low dissipation is sure to leave upon the best features. Small impudent
eyes peeped sharply over the puffed out cheeks, and gave a look of
mingled bullying and cunning to his countenance, which told a very
intelligible tale of beer and tobacco. He held out his hand in the most
open, unaffected manner, and echoed all his step-sire's speeches on the
subject of the ornamental villa, and his pride and happiness in finding
so desirable a neighbour.

"Rather worse quarters than if you came into the great house, as my poor
mansion is called, but a mighty deal more comfortable than many I've had
to put up with. I remember bivouacking in a wet cave on the shores of
the Bay of Biscay. I was in command that day of the army of observation.
Carlos was on the heights of St Sebastian, and I was tired of
reconnoitring: I bivouacked, I tell you, in a cave--no blankets, no
counterpane, and covered with wounds. In the middle of the night I heard
a noise; looked up; it was pitch dark. I cocked my pistol, and fired
into the corner where the noise was made, and went to sleep again! In
the morning my aides-de-camp came in, and on groping in the cave, what
do you think we found?--but you will never guess it: a boa-constrictor--
an immense animal--thicker than stepfather's body. I had shot him right
through the eye, for I never missed a mark in my life."

"I thought you said it was pitch dark?" said Frank.

"Oh, no! you misunderstood me. I did not say it was dark, father?"

"Certainly not. You distinctly said it was light enough to see the
animal. I have heard you tell the story a dozen times. It was as light
as day."

Frank looked at the old gentleman with surprise, but said nothing; and
they proceeded as before.

"You will have no boa-constrictors to contend with," said The Chobb.
"One of the bed-rooms is splendidly furnished already. There is the
tent-bed in it which the general took from Tippoo Saib in Mexico; and as
to your dining-room and kitchen, why, you can dine with me." And here he
held out his hand, and shook Frank's again. "You will not have far to
come, and there will always be a knife and fork."

"He is certainly the most generous fellow in England," whispered the
general to Frank; "a perfect gentleman, and open as the day."

"We shall get on very well, I have no doubt," pursued the colonel, who
pretended not to have heard the general's remark; "but here comes the
landlord with dinner. I ordered it as I came up stairs; and, by way of
consolidating our friendship, I hope you will take it here to-day,
instead of in the great house."

Along with dinner came in the two brothers of The Chobb, and were
introduced in due form. The philanthropist who practised as attorney,
brought with him an agreement for the house; and the general explaining
to Frank that these business details were merely for form's sake, and
that he had told his step-son that the terms they had fixed on for the
cottage were for half a year at a rent of twenty pounds, Frank signed
the paper, and they all sat down to dinner. The Chobb presided, and the
general acted as vice.

"This is a mighty deal better than the buffalo soup we had at
Pondicherry, when we were besieged by Santa Anna and the Monte Videans,"
said the general.

"Or the tiger broth we had at Cadiz, when we were defending the town
against Don Pedro," said The Chobb. "I used to shoot the tigers myself,
which was capital amusement."

"At Cadiz, did you say?" enquired Frank.

The Chobb nodded, and said--"You'll think it odd, perhaps; but I give
you my honour I never saw so many tigers in my life as during the whole
of that bombardment. I ought to remember it well, for I was in command
of the batteries--three of twelve twenty-fours, and one of six
thirty-twos."

"But tigers are not found in Spain," observed Frank.

"I beg your pardon," said The Chobb; "I did not say tigers. Did I say
tigers, General Hosham?"

"Certainly not; you said merino sheep. I remarked it particularly."

"So did I," said the philanthropic attorney.

"I will trouble you, sir," said The Chobb, twisting his mustaches, "to
be a little more particular in your recollection of what I said. How
could any person think I could talk such nonsense as to mention tigers
in Spain?"

"There are tigers in Mexico, though," observed the general, "and we must
excuse our young friend if he confused between the two places. I was
generalissimo, and remember the whole thing perfectly; and very bad
broth they made. The Chobb," he added in a low tone to Frank, "is very
touchy if any one interrupts him in his anecdotes. He has seen an
immense deal of service though he is so young, and is very instructive
and entertaining."

Frank held his tongue, and listened the whole evening to the Mexican and
Spanish recollections of the two warriors. His object was too nearly
gained to throw it away by a quarrel with his new friends; and he played
cards with them till a late hour, and lost, at the end of the evening,
sixteen points.

"We played guinea points," said The Chobb, rising to go away, he having
always paid his losses in shillings, "and I will thank you for sixteen."

"We were playing shilling points, you will remember," said Frank.

"General Hosham," said The Chobb, "I merely appeal to you. What points
were we playing?"

"Does the other party refer it to me?" said the general, blandly
smiling; "you may both depend on my unbiased decision."

"Certainly, sir," said Frank; "there can't be a doubt upon the point."

"You were certainly playing guinea points," said the general, "as I am a
gentleman and a man of honour; but I think I know the origin of your
mistake. You saw that I and my step-son George were playing shilling
points; though I did most distinctly see you receive at the rate of
guinea points from my friend and step-son, Colonel Chobb."

Frank paid the money, and would have given ten times the amount, rather
than forego the chance of seeing Alice.

"And now good-night, my excellent friend and tenant," said the colonel;
"and, by the by, will you allow me to borrow the ten-pound note of you I
saw you take from your pocket? I wish to settle with the landlord as I
go down stairs--I hate running up a bill at an inn; and besides, we can
consider it a first instalment of your rent."

Frank gave him the ten-pound note; and the colonel, whose attentions to
wine and brandy-and-water had been unremitted, stuffed it into his
waistcoat pocket, and staggered out of the room. The general took leave
with the most stately courtesy, and soon followed.

"Now, then," said Frank, "one day will decide my fate. Time, money, and
temper will not have been wasted, if I get only half an hour's talk with
Alice Elstree."



CHAPTER V.


Mr Percy Marvale, in the mean time, had not been idle at Howkey. He had
established himself in the house, in spite of all the sour looks and
short answers Mr Smith could bestow on him. All his attempts at a
lodgment were aided by the invitations of Sibylla, whether conveyed in
words or in untranslatable smiles and glances. An instantaneous
friendship was established between him and the younger branches; and
from some of the children, who came down to see their papa, and
congratulate him on his return, he picked out a great mass of
information about the affairs of the nursery and school-room. There
certainly was as a governess--young, pretty, and very shy--exactly such
as he supposed Miss Elstree would be; and his hopes were further raised
by learning that her name was Alice. His next object was to see her--to
speak to her, if possible--and satisfy himself of her identity; for, as
the information contained in Frank's letter did not emanate from
himself, and he had not even been admitted by his principal to a
knowledge of its contents, he was not inclined to believe that the
discovery could be made without him.

By dint of remaining at Howkey till it was impossible for Old Smith to
avoid asking the friend of his preserver to stay all night, he managed
to make good his quarters on the ground of his operations, and resolved
to commence proceedings as early as possible in the morning. Sibylla lay
awake half the night, revolving all the strange speeches he had made
her--his allusions to the hidden treasure in the house--the lost star--
the incognito goddess--and tracing in all his fine expressions one
paramount idea of his anxiety to make himself master of a perfect
paragon of beauty and romance, she could not avoid coming to the
conclusion, that these were all metaphorical declarations of attachment
to herself. And, on the following day, her manner had derived so much
_empressement_ from these cogitations, that all the efforts of Monimia
on the imperturbable Frank were cast into the shade by the extraordinary
evolutions of the sentimental Sibylla.

"Gads!" said Mr Percy Marvale to himself, "this beats the Surrey all to
sticks. He must be shockingly rich"--he thought, looking round the
splendidly furnished drawing-room; "I'll see if I can't do a little
business on my own account, as well as Mr Edwards's."

"You've heard what I have been asking you, madam, about an undiscovered
jewel in this elegant abode? Pity it should be left to the dimness of
the rural shades!"

"Alas!" said Sibylla, casting down her eyes in modest embarrassment, "it
is little fitted to meet the eye of the world."

"It needs a fresh setting, that's all; and they say there's an exquisite
silversmith on the Scottish border. The railway brings him within twenty
hours."

A few arguments _pro_ and _con_--a few blushes--a few quotations from
the love scenes of the Surrey, and it was finally arranged. At three,
they were to meet at the foot of the lane, where a chaise was to be in
waiting; and Frank Edwards was left by his faithless assistant to look
after Alice Elstree for himself.

The village of Wibbleton had not slept all night for thinking of the new
inhabitant of the _cottage ornée_; and the landlord of the Rose and
Crown had not been backward in singing the praises of his generosity and
riches.

"Them Chobbs has cotch another pigeon," said the hostler to the boots;
"and a rare good thing they makes of that 'ere old house. The last
tenant paid 'em two years's rent in forfeit; and this 'un will do the
same."

"They are the bullyingest, meanestest, lyingest fellies as ever I heard
of," replied the boots. "Tom Chobbs, the eldest one, owes me no end of
money; but there aint no use asking it, for the whole kit on them--the
lawyer, the doctor, and the old corporal, his stepfather--would all
swear they had seen him pay it."

"They'll be found out some day, and the village cleared of them,"
replied the hostler; "and if they're in want of rope, I'll not grudge
ere a halter in the stable."

"But there he goes, poor young gentleman!--they'll not leave him a
farden of money if they get him into their clutches."

This pitying observation was made as Frank Edwards crossed over from the
hotel, and knocked at the door of the great house, to pay his respects
to The Chobb. Before he left the hotel, the landlord, with many
apologies, had presented his bill for the dinner of the day before,
which the military gentleman had forgotten to discharge. The door was
opened, and he was shown into a parlour on the ground floor, and told to
sit down till his arrival was announced.

"Maister's just a-coming, sir," said the slipshod maid, again putting
her head into the parlour where Frank was sitting; and in a few minutes
The Chobb, the general, the lawyer, and the medical man, walked into the
room.

"I must say, sir," said The Chobb, touching his hat slightly, which he
kept on while he spoke, "that this is rather extraordinary conduct, and
needs explanation."

"What do you allude to, sir? You asked me to call, and I now wait on
you."

"But you have not apologised, sir, nor rectified the mistake, if it
_was_ a mistake," he added, looking for support to the general.

"If it _was_ a mistake!" repeated that distinguished commander, looking
very stiff and solemn.

"Appearances are against it," chimed in the lawyer.

"What is it all about, gentlemen?" enquired Frank Edwards, biting his
lip.

"All about this, sir," replied The Chobb. "I am a gentleman, and I was
in hopes any tenant of mine would be a gentleman also; but when you
descend to such conduct as, in presence of these parties, you did last
night--there is no excuse for it--even the state of intoxication you
were in is no excuse--no excuse for it at all."

"No excuse for it at all!" repeated the general, looking stately and
solemn, as before.

"Perhaps the gentleman did it for a joke, and will make it good,"
suggested the benevolent lawyer.

"Oh, that's a different matter!" said The Chobb, slightly relaxing; "and
if the gentleman withdraws it, and replaces the sum correctly, I am the
last man in the world to find fault with a harmless pleasantry."

"As I don't know what you mean,"--Frank began.

"Oh, let me explain it!" interposed the general. "You offered last night
to pay my step-son, Colonel Chobb, a month's rent of your _cottage orné_
in advance. He agreed to accept it, and the ten-pound note with which
you discharged the amount turns out to be a flash note on the Bank of
Fashion. These are the simple facts. I regret to state that appearances
are against you."

"We do not know you, you will observe," said the lawyer. "And my
brother, Colonel Chobb, is always a great deal too careless in money
matters. He should not have let you the cottage without a reference."

"You also raised a slight suspicion by your attempt at a wrangle on the
guinea stakes," added the medical man.

"I am bound to say," observed the general, "that it would have an
awkward appearance in a court of justice."

"But"--

"Oh, you need not deny it!" said The Chobb. "I hate roundabout stories.
I am a gentleman. Was it a joke or not? Will you pay me a good ten-pound
note or not?"

"Where is this note?"

"It is in the hands of my children's governess. I have lodged it with
her for security, and gain her evidence if, unfortunately, the business
goes further."

"Gentlemen," said Frank, "before I answer you, I must insist on seeing
the lady, and the note exactly in the state it now is."

"Certainly! nothing can be fairer," said the general. "I will conduct
you to the school-room at once."

"I should like, if you please, to be paid for these documents first,"
said the lawyer. "The agreement stamp is very high."

"And, as short accounts make long friendships," said the medical man, "I
should like to receive my fee for attendance."

"What attendance, sir?" said Frank, whom even the approaching interview
with Alice could scarcely keep cool.

"I visited you professionally at the inn yesterday, sir, and sat by your
side till nearly twelve o'clock. Time with a medical man is money; and I
think my demand moderate at five guineas."

"Very moderate, indeed!" said The Chobb. "Sir Henry Halford would have
charged you five times the sum for half the time."

"But I never called this skilful physician in," said Frank, amazed in
spite of himself.

"Didn't you? But here comes General Hosham. General Hosham, did this
gentleman call me in professionally yesterday?"

"Most assuredly he did," replied the general. "I have a perfect
recollection of the fact; but perhaps he may confuse it with something
else. I thought I heard the name of Sir Henry Halford. He did not call
_him_ in. If I might advise, as an older man than any of you, and a
mutual friend of both parties, I would suggest that this gentleman had
better at once pay my step-son, George--Dr Chobb--five pounds--pounds
instead of guineas--a compromise is always best between friends. Pay him
the money, my good sir, and come up with me to the school-room."

A five-pound note instantly covered the doctor's face with smiles, and
two tens had the same effect upon the lawyer's.

"Now, sir," he said, "I go with you;" and, preceded by the general, he
went up a narrow flight of stairs.

"The French and Italian lessons are over," said the general, "and the
music is not yet begun." He opened a door, and, at the farther end of
the room, a young woman, with extraordinary breadth of back, was busy
over a large washing-tub, in the act of wringing a child's shirt. Five
or six dirty children were sewing and knitting, in different parts of
the room, and Frank looked round, enquiringly, to discover Alice
Elstree.

"This is the young lady that keeps the note," said the general. "Miss
M'Screigh, you have the evidence?"

"Tiel a toot!" said the lady thus appealed to in a broad Highland
accent, turning round from her labours, and displaying a countenance as
strongly redolent of Aberdeenshire as her tongue.

But Frank would wait for no further parley. He passed rapidly down
stairs, but was waylaid at the foot of them by The Chobb in person.
Frank was endowed with prodigious strength, and favoured the head of the
distinguished family with a dig in the ribs, that left him in the
condition of an exhausted air receiver.

"That's enough--assault and battery," said the philanthropist; "swinging
damages at the next assizes, and a comfortable bill of costs."

But Frank, regardless of Chobbs and assizes, pursued his way. He kicked
the crazy door open, and was rejoiced to find himself in the open air.
His progress through the village had not been unobserved by other eyes
besides those of the hostler and boots of the Rose and Crown. There was
a low thatched cottage on the opposite side of the road from the
residence of The Chobb; clusters of white roses clambered in all
directions over the wall, and the little lawn in front was tastefully
laid out, and the turf and shrubs kept in perfect order. Along the
gravel walks of this little lawn, walked slowly, as if in infirm health,
a middle-aged lady, leaning for support on the arm of a tall and
graceful girl; and ever and anon she turned on her companion's suffering
face a look of such love and sweetness--it was sure to create a smile
even on the wan lips of the invalid. That girl's eyes had rested on
Frank Edwards as he passed--a red flush had crossed her brow--a
whiteness, as of death, had come upon her cheek--and, leading the elder
lady with tottering steps to the garden bower, she had sat down beside
her, and covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

At the moment Frank Edwards emerged into the road, he was nearly jammed
against the railings in front of the thatched cottage, by the rapid
approach of a post-chaise. While he looked in at the window, the wheel
dipped into a rut, the axle instantaneously broke, and the body of the
carriage bumped upon the ground. In an instant he had secured the
horses, and the Chobb family, rushing out, advanced to the door of the
vehicle. With some difficulty the passengers were extracted, and
consisted of a tall dark-complexioned gentleman, with mustaches, looking
as sheepish and uncomfortable as possible.

"What! Marvale!" exclaimed Frank, "What has brought you here? and who is
the lady beside you?"

"Hush, my dear sir, she's in a faint."

"Why, William," cried the philanthropic attorney, "do you pretend not to
know us?"

"Ah! how d'ye do, George--ha'n't seen you a long time," said Percy
Marvale, looking contemptuously at the lawyer.

"You look very grand with these mustaches," continued George; "your own
father would scarcely know you."

"Is the old snob alive, then?" enquired the dutiful son.

"To be sure, and here he's coming. General Hosham, here's Bill come back
again."

"Has he brought back the watch and spoons?" enquired the affectionate
father; "if not, I'll have him up for the theft."

The fainting lady had been carried in the mean time by the villagers
into the thatched cottage, and into it Frank also proceeded to watch
over her recovery. Two ladies were bending over her; and, on Frank's
approach, the elder one looked up. The younger one also saw him. There
was nothing more needed than that look. Frank took a hand of each. There
was an end of his uncertainties. It was Alice Elstree and her mother.

While the recognitions were going on outside, and Sibylla was slowly
recovering, a phaeton had driven rapidly up, and Old Smith and his son
had jumped out, and laid violent hands on Percy Marvale's collar.

"You villain, you ruffian, you swindler!" began my old friend out of
breath.

"Actionable!" observed the philanthropic attorney. "I'll take down his
words."

"Where is my daughter, sir?"

"I don't know. I--that is--my friend Edwards"--

"What has he to do with it, sir?"

"I should say, sir," said General Hosham, advancing in a most polite
manner, and lifting his hat--"that it is probable the person alluded to
by my son is guilty of the crime, whatever it is you now charge my boy
with. The person has gone into that cottage, and you can arrest him on
the spot."

"Oho!" said Mr Smith, "I think I recollect your faces, my fine fellows.
Haven't we met at the quarter sessions? Was not there some rumour about
your extorting money from a tenant a year or two ago, by threats of
accusing him of passing a forged note?"

The general made a stately bow, and The Chobb himself, who had joined
the crowd, felt crestfallen, and limped back again into the house.

In the cottage all things proceeded favourably. Frank Edwards, with an
adroitness that would have done honour to the hero of one of Percy
Marvale's melodramas, assured the angry father that Sibylla had come, at
his special request, to act as companion to his bride, and consult as to
the preparations for the approaching wedding. And on that same evening
Sibylla and Frank accompanied Mrs Elstree and her daughter to my house,
where it was arranged they were to remain for three weeks or a month,
till the ceremony took place.



A HISTORICAL ACCOUNT OF THE CANAL WHICH CONNECTED THE NILE AND THE RED
SEA IN ANCIENT TIMES.


The questions relating to the different lines of communication between
Europe and India have been so frequently discussed of late, and such a
mass of ill-digested information on the subject has been printed, that
we shall not plunge into any discussion relating to the conflicting
opinions of the moderns, but proceed, without preface, to supply an
accurate history of the ancient canal which connected the Nile with the
Red Sea.[1] We are satisfied that any exact knowledge of what actually
existed in former times, and the precise object of the ancient
undertaking, are necessary, in order to form sound conclusions
concerning the future.

[1] For modern information, we refer our readers to the Reports on Steam
Navigation with India. Ordered by the House of Commons to be printed.
14th July 1834, and 15th July 1837.

This canal, like every other in Egypt, had its origin in the formation
of a canal for irrigation, caused by an increased demand for arable
land, in consequence of the augmentation of the population. It was, in
its origin, one of the numerous canals which spread the waters of the
Nile for the irrigation of the land of Egypt.

The country between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea is intersected in
its longitude by a valley, which commences at Suez and joins the lake
Menzaleh and the eastern mouth of the Nile. The level of the Red Sea is
considerably higher than that of the Mediterranean. The difference at
high water is about thirty-two feet, six inches; and this difference is
seldom less than twenty-five feet, even at low water. The whole of this
valley would be inundated, and the waters of the Red Sea would flow into
the Mediterranean, through a series of lakes, were it not for a strong
embankment of elevated sand which forms the shore at Suez.

The existence of the bitter lakes in the lower levels of this valley
induced Aristotle,[1] and many of the ancients, to believe that Africa
had once been an island--Egypt having been separated from Syria and
Arabia by the union of the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. Colonel Leake,
in his map of Egypt, observes, "that there is no material obstacle to a
communication by lakes and inundations from Suez to the lake Menzaleh,
and to Tineh--by which Africa would become an island." And some
observations on the formation of a canal in this valley, will be found
in the _Mémoire sur la communication de la Mer des Indes à la Méditerranée
par la Mer Rouge et l'Isthme de Soueys_, in the great French work on
Egypt.[2]

[1] Meteorologica, i. 14.

[2] Chap. iii. § iii. and iv. p. 60 of the _Mémoire_.

The valley running from Suez to Tineh is joined, about halfway between
the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, by another valley called Seba Biar,
which meets it at right angles, stretching in latitude from the
elevated ground on the right bank of the eastern branch of the Nile.
The valley of Seba Biar was the land of Goshen.[1] When this district
is first mentioned in history, it consisted of a low level, liable to
partial inundation, and affording good pasturage, though hardly suited
to regular cultivation. For this reason, and from its vicinity to
Syria, it was given by Joseph to the children of Israel, who were a
pastoral tribe. Though Joseph was the prime minister of the country,
under a dynasty of foreign conquerors--the Hyksos or Nomad Arabs--still
the laws and usages of a dense native population placed such restraint
on the sovereign's power, that the Israelites, being a race of
shepherds, would not be mixed with the Egyptians, or put in possession
of any arable land. On this account, Joseph told his father and
brethren to say to the king--"Thy servants' trade hath been about
cattle from our youth even until now, both we and also our fathers;
that ye may dwell in the land of Goshen: for every shepherd is an
abomination unto the Egyptians."[2]

[1] On this point D'Anville, Gosselin, and Major Rennell agree.

[2] Genesis, xlvi. 34.

Yet, with this restraint on his power, Joseph succeeded in effecting
the greatest change in the condition of the Egyptians which any nation
ever submitted to in peace. As vizier of the country, he converted the
property of all the agricultural class from a freehold inheritance into
a lease from government, at a rent of one-fifth of the produce of the
land.[1] The project was doubtless adopted to augment the revenues of
the crown, for the purpose of improving the irrigation, and augmenting
the produce and population of Egypt. We know that it made the race of
Egyptians a race of warriors and conquerors, until it exhausted their
resources; and then, by placing the property of the people at the mercy
of the government, is prepared the way for the extermination of the
native Egyptian or Coptic population.

[1] Genesis, xlvii. 18-26.

The Nomads, or Hyksos, were driven from the throne of Egypt by the kings
of Thebes, a native race; and under their government the prosperity and
population of the country rapidly increased. The demand for land capable
of cultivation became immense. Moeris constructed the wonderful
artificial lake, for the purpose of regulating the inundation, and
augmenting the productive powers of Egypt, which was always regarded as
one of the most extraordinary undertakings of man. Monsieur Linant has
lately discovered the traces of this lake, and has shown that it was
formed by making embankments round a high level, from which the waters
could be drawn off for irrigation. The absurd opinion of many travellers
and geographers, that the _Birket-el-Karaun_, a salt lake in a deep
natural basin, was the lake of Moeris, is therefore completely exploded;
that lake could never have been any thing but a cess-pool for the
superabundant waters of the lake Moeris, and a sink for the waste waters
of the Nile.

When land became of so great value in Egypt as to cause such vast
undertakings to be made for improving its fertility as the formation of
the lake Moeris, it is not to be supposed that the Egyptians would
overlook the capabilities of the land of Goshen. The Israelites were
regarded with no favourable eye. They had been the friends of the
foreign rulers of the land; and, consequently, both the people and the
native princes declared against them, and resolved to drive them from
the territory they occupied.[1] This was effected in the reign of
Amenoph II., after they had remained in Egypt 430 years.[2]

[1] Exodus, i. 8, 9.

[2] Exodus, xii. 40.

At the time of the exodus, therefore, it is evident that no canal could
have existed in the valley of Goshen. The population of Israelites and
Nomads, however, which dwelt on the confines of the irrigable land, must
have been very great; as the Hebrews alone exceeded 600,000 souls, and
they were accompanied by "a mixed multitude," which is the phrase used
in Scripture to designate the nomad Arabs. But though no canal existed
at this period, we find evidence that a considerable trade in the
produce of Egypt was already carried on through this district, caused by
the want of agricultural produce in Arabia; and this trade induced the
Egyptians to "guild for Pharaoh treasure-cities, Pithom and Raamses."[1]

[1] Compare Genesis, xlvii. 11, Exodus, i. 11, and xii. 37.

As soon as the children of Israel were driven out of the land of Goshen,
the new occupants would naturally commence the formation of a canal, for
irrigating the land they had gained. Now, a great part of the valley of
Seba Biar is lower than the level of the Nile at the height of the
inundation, this was easily done. A canal from the eastern branch of the
river, near Bubastes, did not require to be cut to a greater distance
than seven miles, in order to allow the waters to fill the valley. By
this operation, the irrigation could have been carried as far as the
northern boundary of the bitter lakes, between Suez and the
Mediterranean; and at least 20,000 acres of land gained for agricultural
purposes. This irrigation would extend itself to the Serapeion--a
distance of about forty-five miles from Bubastes, and about forty from
the Red Sea.

Let us now observe the chronology of the events we have already
noticed. Without pretending to offer any opinion on the disputed
questions of Egyptian chronology, we shall adopt the dates given by Dr
Nolan in his memoir on the use of the ancient cycles in settling the
differences of chronologists, published in the Transactions of the
Royal Society of Literature.[1] It must be observed, that the 430 years
of the sojourning of the children of Israel in Egypt is to be computed
from the call of Abraham, and not from the going down of Israel, as is
explained by St Paul in the Epistle to the Galatians, chap. iii. v.
17.[2]

[1] Vol. iii. p. 2.

[2] Josephus, Antiquit. Jud. ii. 15, 2; Clinton's Fasti Hellenici,
i. 297.

The administration of Joseph occurred during the reign of
the last king of the race of the Hyksos, B.C. 1687
The reign of Mephres, or Moeris,         B.C. 1538
The exodus occurred in the year          B.C. 1492

The Egyptians enjoyed a long period of prosperity after they had driven
out the Israelites. Their national history, during a period of four
hundred years, is recorded on their monuments; and, though not very
intelligible in its details, it affords irrefragable proof that their
country was always in a flourishing condition, and possessed a
considerable commerce with other nations. The Egyptians, however, had as
great an aversion to foreign traders as to shepherds; and it was long
before they undertook any work for improving their commercial
communications. At length, however, the canal, which had been carried as
far as the longitudinal valley between the Red Sea and the
Mediterranean, began to excite their attention as affording a cheap
means of transport for that portion of the produce of the country which
was purchased by the inhabitants of Arabia and of the shores of the Red
Sea. We have the testimony of Aristotle, Strabo, and Pliny, that the
project of forming a canal to unite the Nile with the Red Sea was
entertained by Sesostris.[1] Aristotle says, "that Egypt, the most
ancient seat of mankind, was formed by the river Nile, as appears from
the examination of the country bordering on the Red Sea. One of the
ancient kings attempted to form a navigable communication between the
river and the sea; but Sesostris, finding that the waters of the Red
Sea were higher than those of the Nile, both he and Darius, after him,
desisted from the attempt, lest the lower part of the delta should be
inundated with salt water." It is extremely difficult to ascertain what
king is meant by Sesostris, since that name seems to have been given by
the Greeks to more that one of the distinguished monarchs of the
country. Aristotle, however, clearly refers in his account to the king
he calls Sesostris, and to an earlier monarch. The one may have been
Sethosis, who reigned about B.C. 1291, and the other, Sesonchis of
Bubastes, the Shishac of Scripture, in the year B.C. 976. These
sovereigns may have converted the canal of irrigation into a regular
commercial route; and the last may have commenced the greater work of
connecting it with the bitter lakes. The fear of inundating the Delta
with salt water, by cutting through the northern shore of the Red Sea,
and allowing a communication with the bitter lakes to remain always
open, has been shown by the French engineers, whose report is printed
in the great work on Egypt, to be no idle fear.[2]

[1] Arist. Meteorol. i. 14. Strabo, lib. i. c. 2, vol. i. p. 60; lib.
xvii. c. 1, vol. iii. 443.--Ed. Tauch. Plinii Natur. Hist., lib. vi. 33.

[2] _Mémoire sur la communication de la Mer des Indes à la Méditerranée,
par la Mer Rouge et l'Isthme de Soueys, par_ M.J.M. Le Père.

Several circumstances combine to show that the completion of the canal,
and the importance of opening a direct navigable communication between
the Nile and the Red Sea, must have occupied more particularly the
attention of Sesonchis than of the preceding kings. He was a native of
Bubastes; and the seat of his power was in the Delta. The importance of
this navigation for enriching his fellow-citizens, and placing the
whole trade of the Delta, to the eastward, under his control, was
evident; but the great wealth which might be gained from sharing in the
trade on the Red Sea, was also forced on his attention, by the immense
riches which Solomon had been able to accumulate on acquiring a share
in this trade, which had been previously in the hands of the
Phoenicians. Solomon had extended the trade he carried on in the Red
Sea, by means of the ports on the gulf of Eloth, (Ailath,) far beyond
its former bounds.[1] Now, as the grain and provisions, required for
supplying the fleets in the Red Sea, and the greater part of the
commercial population on its coasts, must have been drawn from Egypt by
the port of Suez, and as Egypt must have afforded one of the most
valuable markets for the produce of Arabia and India, it is not
surprising that Sesonchis made great endeavours to obtain a share in a
branch of commerce from which he had seen Solomon derive such wealth.
From some reason, he abandoned the project of completing the canal to
Suez; but, in order to secure a portion of Solomon's riches, he invaded
Judea, and plundered Jerusalem.[2] "So Shishak king of Egypt came up
against Jerusalem: and he took away the treasures of the house of the
Lord, and the treasures of the king's house; he even took away all: and
he carried away all the shields of gold which Solomon had made." That
this Shishak, or Sesonchis of Bubastes, was the Sesostris alluded to by
Aristotle, Strabo, and Pliny, though it cannot perhaps be positively
proved, can nevertheless hardly admit of a doubt.

[1] I Kings, ix. 26; 2 Chronicles, viii. 17.

[2] I Kings, xiv. 27; 2 Chronicles, xii. 2.

Thus far we have only been able to draw a few inferences relating to the
canal, from historical facts connected with the subject; but from this
period we become furnished with materials for a consecutive history.
Herodotus is the earliest author who affords direct testimony of the
completion of the canal, and its employment for carrying on a navigable
communication between the Nile and the Red Sea. His description requires
to be cited in his own words, in order to testify the sagacity of his
enquiries and the accuracy of his information. "Psammetichus had a son,
whose name was Nekos. This prince first commenced that canal leading to
the Red Sea, which Darius, king of Persia, afterwards continued. The
length of the canal is equal to a four days' voyage, and it is wide
enough to admit two triremes abreast. The water enters it from the Nile,
a little above the city of Bubastes. It terminated in the Red Sea, not
far from Patumos, an Arabian town. In the prosecution of this work,
under Nekos, no less than 120,000 Egyptians perished. He at length
desisted from his undertaking, being admonished by an oracle, that all
his labour would turn to the advantage of a barbarian." As soon as Nekos
discontinued his labours with respect to the canal, he turned all his
thoughts to military enterprise. He built vessels of war, both on the
Mediterranean and in that part of the Arabian gulf which is near the Red
Sea.[1]

[1] Herod. book ii. § 158. Beloe's Translation, vol. i. p. 411.

This statement of Herodotus is confirmed by Diodorus Siculus, another
Greek historian, who had visited Egypt, and, like Herodotus, paid great
attention to its history and antiquities. The words of Diodorus are--"A
canal has been dug from the Pelusiac branch of the Nile to the gulf of
Arabia and the Red Sea. It was commenced by Nekos, son of Psammetichus,
and afterwards continued by Darius, king of the Persians, who made some
progress with the work, but abandoned it when he learned that, if the
isthmus was dug through, all Egypt would be inundated, as the level of
the Red Sea is higher than that of the soil of Egypt. At last Ptolemy
II. (Philadelphus) completed the undertaking; having adapted an
ingenious contrivance to the ingress of the canal, which was opened when
a vessel was about to enter, and afterwards closed. Experience proved
the utility of this invention. The waters which flow in this canal are
called the river of Ptolemy, the king who executed this great work. The
town of Arsinöe is constructed at its mouth."[1]

[1] Diodorus Siculus, i. 33. Nekos reigned B.C. 616 to 601. See also 2
Kings, chap. xxiii. ver. 29.

It must be recollected that Diodorus wrote about four hundred years
after Herodotus; and his information concerning the earlier events, from
want of precision, appears to be deficient in accuracy. These two
passages make it evident that Nekos had commenced some great
improvements on the canal of Sesostris; and it appears to have been his
intention to have made use of it in order to secure a naval superiority
in the Red Sea. It is plain, too, from the statement of Herodotus, that
Darius had completed the canal, in so far as that was possible, without
the invention of locks, for forming an immediate communication with the
Red Sea. And from the account of Diodorus, it seems that he viewed the
canal of Darius, which for ages had served for a commercial route, as
incomplete; because the actual junction of the waters of the canal and
the Red Sea had not taken place until Ptolemy Philadelphus, by applying
the invention of locks, had enabled vessels to quit the canal in order
to navigate the sea.

Strabo, who was also well acquainted with Egypt, from personal
residence, mentions the locks constructed by Ptolemy. After saying that
even Darius had left the junction of the canal with the Red Sea
incomplete, from the danger of inundating the country, he adds--"During
the government of the Ptolemies, the isthmus was cut through, and a
closed passage (a _euripus_) formed, so that a ship, whenever it was
required, could enter the outer sea or pass into the canal."[1]

[1] Strabo, xvii. c. 1. Vol. iii. p. 444.--Ed. Tauch.

Though the canal constructed by Darius had been in general use for
commercial purposes, and was regarded by Herodotus, when he visited
Egypt, as a work in every way complete, still there can be no doubt that
its importance would be greatly increased by the locks connecting it
with the Red Sea. The augmentation in the trade, and the improvement in
the class of vessels which navigated the canal, induced Ptolemy to make
the changes in the whole course, from which it received the name of the
river of Ptolemy. A very great addition was thus made to the prosperity
of Egypt, as the canal would remain navigable for four months annually,
from the end of August to the end of December. During this season of the
year, the people of the Delta had little to attend to but the
exportation of their surplus produce, and clearing their granaries for a
new harvest, by selling all that portion of their grain which was
neither required for seed nor for the maintenance of their families.

It has been supposed very generally, but on no adequate authority, that
Ptolemy Philadelphus constructed this canal, with a view of making it
the route of the Indian trade; but this was by no means the case. Even
Robertson, in his historical disquisition concerning ancient India,
falls into this error, to which he adds the greater mistake of
declaring, "that the work was never finished."[1] On the other hand, he
points out with accuracy the real direction which Ptolemy gave to the
trade with India, by Berenice and Coptos, and the great works he
constructed for the convenience of transporting goods from the Nile
across the desert to the Red Sea; and it may be remarked, that the
Indian trade always kept this route, or one similar, until the
discovery of that by the Cape of Good Hope--the great route of the
merchants being either by Coptos and Berenice, or by Coptos and Myos
Hormos, or, at a later period, by the Vicus Apollinis to Philotera.
Ptolemy was perfectly aware of all the difficulties of the navigation
of the northern part of the Red Sea, during the summer months, against
the north wind. The great object of the canal was, the export of
produce from the Delta, for which there was a great demand in the
countries on the northern shores of the Red Sea. But there can be no
doubt that ships would often sail from Arsinöe to India, disposing of
their Egyptian cargo on the way, and returning with their Indian goods
to Berenice, and sometimes to Arsinöe. Lucian, indeed, mentions, that
"a young man, having sailed up the Nile to Clysina, and finding a ship
ready to depart for India, was induced to embark."[2]

[1] P. 46, and note xvii.

[2] Alexander, 44.

The fact that the ancients found the navigation of the Nile more
commodious and cheaper than that of the Red Sea, even though it entailed
on them the burden of transporting their merchandise from Coptos by
caravan, for six or seven days, to Berenice or Myos Hormos, should not
be lost sight of in examining the objects for which the ancient canal to
Arsinöe was constructed. The immense extent of the Indian trade, by
Berenice and Myos Hormos, is attested by many passages in the Greek and
Roman classics.[1]

[1] Compare Strabo, xii. c. 5, vol. i. p. 187, ed. Tauch.; xviii. i.
vol. iii. p. 461. Plinii Hist. Nat. vi. 23; xii. 18. Arriani Perip.
maris Erythr. in Hudson's Geog. min. Tom. i. 32. Athenaeus, v. p. 201.

The opinion which prevails very generally concerning the great
inferiority of the ancients in naval skill, requires also to be confined
strictly to nautical knowledge, and should not lead us to underrate
their mechanical powers, or their means of transporting objects of as
great bulk as ourselves by sea. The parade which was made at Paris about
transporting the obelisk from Egypt, and erecting it in the Place de
Concorde, caused our neighbours to overlook the fact, that there are
several larger obelisks still existing at Rome, which were brought from
Egypt, and there is one at Constantinople. The largest obelisk at Rome
was brought there from Alexandria in the tine of Constantius, when the
arts and sciences are generally supposed to have been in a declining
state.[1]

[1] The height of the Parisian obelisk is 76 feet 6 inches, that of the
Lateran, 105 feet 6 inches; of the Piazza del Popolo, 87 feet 6 inches;
of the Piazza San Pietro, 83 feet. Only about 50 feet of the obelisk in
the Atmeidan at Constantinople is now in existence, but its proportions
indicate that it must originally have exceeded 80 feet. We have two
obelisks in the British Museum, but we cannot boast much of our
mechanical or naval skill in transporting them, as they are only eight
feet each in length.

That the Romans found little difficulty in transporting the largest
obelisks and columns by sea, is not wonderful, when we attend to the
great size of some of the vessels which were constructed in ancient
times. Our ignorance of the manner in which forty banks of oars were
disposed in vessels larger than our three-deckers, in such a way as to
enable them to make long voyages, does not authorize us to doubt the
fact, with such proofs as exist. Our ideas of ancient navies are
generally derived from our recollections of the battle of Salamis, as
described by Herodotus, and of the engagements between the Romans and
Carthaginians, in Polybius. This, however, was the infancy of the navel
art, though the Romans had made great advances beyond the Athenians.
Polybius, in noticing the improvement, observes that they never made use
of vessels like the small triremes of the Greek states, but constructed
only quinqueremes for war; and that of these they lost seven hundred in
the first Punic war, while the Carthaginians lost five hundred.[1]

[1] The war lasted twenty-three years, from B.C. 264 to 241.--POLYBIUS,
i. 63.

It may not, however, be superfluous to mention the measurement of some
of the largest ships constructed by the ancients. A very large ship was
built for Hiero, king of Syracuse, under the direction of Archimedes. We
ought, therefore, to pause before we decide, that any deficiency in
scientific skill rendered it a useless and unwieldy hulk. That it was
not calculated to keep the sea when an English frigate would be sailing
under close-reefed topsails, there can be no doubt; but we must know the
intentions with which the ancients constructed their enormous ships,
before we decide on their insufficiency. The ship constructed by
Archimedes had twenty banks of oars, and was built as a man-of-war. It
was sent from Syracuse to Egypt, as a present to Ptolemy Philopater, and
was laid up in the docks of Alexandria.

But the largest vessel on record was a ship constructed for Ptolemy
Philopater, which had forty banks of oars. This vessel was rather a
royal yacht, built to gratify the vanity of the court, than a ship
intended for any useful purpose. It was 424 feet in length, and 58
broad. The height of the forecastle from the water was 60 feet. The
longest oars were 58 feet, and their handles were loaded with lead to
facilitate their motion. The equipage consisted of 4400 men, of whom
4000 were rowers. A ship constructed for the voyages of the court on the
Nile, was 330 feet long, and 45 feet wide.[1]

These passages are sufficient to show the immense size of ancient ships,
and to prove that their system of naval architecture could not have been
directed to contend against contrary winds, but was calculated to
transport the largest burdens.

[1] A modern first-rate is about 205 feet long, 54 feet broad, and
draws 25 feet water. Its weight is about 4600 tons, when the guns and
provisions are on board. Of course, the weight even of Ptolemy's immense
ship could not have approached this. Athen. Deipnosophistae, lib. v.
§ 37, (p. 203.) Our skill in transporting large blocks of marble is so
small, that we have been compelled to cut in two some of the Lycian
monuments of no great size.

We must now notice the passages which have been supposed to controvert
the account we have given of the completion of the canal between the
Nile and the Red Sea. The first is a passage of Pliny the Elder, which
asserts that Ptolemy Philadelphus only carried the canal to the bitter
lakes. "Ex quo navigabilem alveum perducere in Nilum, qua parte ad Delta
dictum decurrit, sexagies et bis centena mill. passuum intervallo, (quod
inter flumen et Rubrum mare interest,) primus omnium Sesostris Aegypti
rex cogitavit: mox Darius Persarum: deinde Ptolemaeus sequens: qui et
duxit fossam latitudine pedum centum, altitudine XL, in longitudinem
XXXVII mill. D passuum usque ad Fontes amaros." It is needless to remind
the reader that Diodorus and Strabo, who lived before Pliny, and had
both resided long in Egypt, had seen the canal finished, and described
the lock by which it communicated with the Red Sea. It appears, indeed,
that the passage, as it stands, has arisen from some inadvertence of
Pliny, or perhaps from some blunder of his copyists; for he contradicts
his statement, that the canal of Ptolemy terminated at the bitter lakes,
in a subsequent passage, in which he mentions that Philadelphus
constructed the branch which reached Arsinöe, and was called the river
of Ptolemy.--"Eae viae omnes Arsinöen ducunt, conditam sororis nomine in
sinu Charandra, a Ptolemaeo Philadelpho, qui primus Troglodyticen
excussit, et amnem qui Arsinöen praefluit, Ptolemaeum appellavit."[1]

[1] Plinii Natur. Hist. lib. vi. § 33.

The other passage is contained in Plutarch's life of Antony; and to a
casual reader, who forgets that the canal could only have been
navigable during the season of the inundation, in consequence of the
high level of the waters of the Red Sea, a difficulty in explaining the
passage will immediately occur, and an inference will be drawn against
the existence of the canal at the time. Monsieur Letronne, with his
usual critical sagacity, has, however, pointed out the combination of
facts which render the anecdote in Plutarch a confirmation of the
ordinary employment of the canal, rather than an argument against its
existence at the time.[1] Cleopatra, when alarmed at the result of the
war between Antony and Augustus, had sent her son Caesario, the reputed
child of Julius Cesar, with a considerable amount of treasure, through
Ethiopia into India.[2] "When Antony returned to Alexandria after the
battle of Actium, he found Cleopatra engaged in a very stupendous and
bold enterprise. She was endeavouring to transport her fleet over the
isthmus between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, which, in the
narrowest part, is three hundred stades, and by this means, with her
fleet in the Arabian gulf, and with her treasures, to escape from
slavery and war."[3] Letronne has pointed out, that the battle of
Actium having been fought on the 2nd of September, B.C. 31, it is
evident from the subsequent events, that Antony could not have rejoined
Cleopatra in Egypt before the month of February, or perhaps even later,
in the ensuing year. Now, this period coincides with that at which the
low state of the waters of the Nile must have rendered the canal
useless for the passage of Cleopatra's fleet. Her extreme terror would
not allow her to wait until the rise of the Nile again rendered the
canal navigable, and she resolved on transporting her fleet to the Red
Sea by land. It must be observed, however, that the project could
hardly have occurred to Cleopatra as feasible, unless she had been well
aware that vessels often passed from the Mediterranean into the Red
Sea. The project was abandoned, as the Arabs of Petra burned the first
ships that Cleopatra attempted to transport; and Antony soon persuaded
her that his affairs were by no means so desperate as she supposed.

[1] Mémoire sur l'Isthme de Suez, dans la Revue des deux Mondes, tom.
xxvii. 223.

[2] Plutarch in Anton., § 81.--Langhorn's Translation, in 1 vol.,
p. 656.

[3] Plutarch in Anton., § 69.--Translation, p. 652.

The canal was of far too great importance to the prosperity of Egypt,
and the revenues of the country were too immediately connected with its
existence, as one of the highways for exporting the produce of the
Delta, for the Romans to neglect its conservation. It is true that the
Romans never paid much attention to commerce, which they despised; and
during the long period they governed their immense empire in comparative
tranquillity, they did less to improve and extend its relations than any
other people of antiquity. But they were always peculiarly attentive to
preserve every undertaking which was connected with the agricultural
industry and land revenue of their provinces. Unless, therefore, their
attention had been directed to the canal of Suez, either as an important
military line of communication, or as an instrument for displaying the
pride and power of the empire, it would have undergone no improvement
under the Roman emperors.

It happened, however, that when Trajan became anxious to display his
magnificence in adorning Rome with new buildings, that the fashion of
the times rendered the granite and the porphyry in the neighbourhood of
the Red Sea indispensable. To obtain the immense columns, and the
enormous porphyry vases, which were then admired, with sufficient
celerity and in sufficient quantity, it became necessary to render the
canal navigable for a longer period of time every year. In order to
effect this, Trajan constructed a new canal from the vicinity of
Babylon, and connected it with the ancient canal through the valley of
Seba Biar.[1] This new work is called the river of Trajan by Ptolemy
the geographer; and as it gave an additional elevation of thirteen feet
to the stream which fed the canal, it may have supplied the means of
keeping the navigation open for about six months yearly.[2]

[1] Babylon was near Cairo.

[2] Ptolemy, lib. iv. 5.

The quarries of granite and porphyry which supplied the Romans in the
time of Trajan, were discovered by Sir Gardner Wilkinson and Mr Burton,
in the years 1821-22, at Djebel-Fattereh and Djebel-Dokhan; and
Monsieur Letronne has pointed out the connexion of these quarries with
the improvements made by Trajan in the canal.[1] Many large works of
porphyry exist, which must have been worked in the quarries of
Djebel-Dokhan. We need only enumerate the great porphyry vase in the
Vatican, which exceeds fourteen feet in diameter--that of the museum at
Naples, which is cut out of a block nearly as large--the tombs of St
Helen in the Vatican, and of Benedict XIII. in St John Lateran--and the
blocks of the porphyry column at Constantinople. It is evident that the
masses could never be conveyed from Djebel-Dokhan to the Nile by land;
but no great difficulty would be found in transporting them to Myos
Hormos on the Red Sea, and embarking them there for Arsinöe; from
whence their conveyance to Alexandria, by the canal and the Nile, was
easy. It is well known that the quarries of porphyry in Egypt could not
have grown into importance until after the reign of Claudius, as
Vitrasius Pollio sent the first porphyry statues which had been seen at
Rome as a present to that emperor.[2] The chief, if not the only
quarries of red porphyry known to the ancients were in the Thebaid, at
Djebel-Dokhan.

[1] Journal of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. ii.

[2] Plinii Natur. Hist. xxxvi. 11.

At the granite quarries of Djebel Fattereh, Sir Gardner Wilkinson found
many columns in various stages of completion, some ready to be removed;
and of these there were several of the enormous size of fifty-five feet
long, and nearly eight feet in circumference. These quarries are at
least thirty miles distant from the Red Sea; but, as the ground affords
a continual descent, and some traces of the road exist, there cannot be
a doubt that these immense columns were destined to be carried to
Philotera, and there shipped for Arsinöe, and that, like the porphyry
vases, they were to find their way to Rome, by the canal, the Nile, and
the port of Alexandria. Sir Gardner Wilkinson has shown that these
granite quarries were abandoned not long after the reign of Hadrian; and
an inscription, quoted by Letronne, proves that the granite quarries at
Syene were first worked about the years A.D. 205-209. The great
facilities afforded by the Nile for transporting the largest columns
from Syene to Alexandria, appears to have caused the immediate
abandonment of the quarries of Djebel Fattereh; as the expense of
transporting the columns already finished was doubtless greater than the
cost of working and conveying new ones from Syene to Alexandria.

The canal of Trajan continued to be kept open, after the building mania,
to which it owed its origin, had ceased. It had extended the sphere of
the export trade of the Delta; and it continued to serve as the means of
transporting the blocks of porphyry--for which there was a constant
demand at Rome and Constantinople, and, indeed, in almost every city of
wealth in the Roman empire. Eusebius, in his ecclesiastical history,
mentions that the porphyry quarries of the Thebaid were worked during
the time of the great persecution, in the reign of Dioclesian. He says,
"that one hundred martyrs were selected from the innumerable crowd of
Christians condemned to labour in the Thebaid, in the place called
Porphyritis, from the marble which was quarried at the spot."[1]

[1] Eusebius, lib viii. c. 8.

In the reign of Justinian, we find these quarries still worked on a
considerable scale, as they are alluded to more than once by Paul the
Silentiary, in his description of the Church of St Sophia at
Constantinople. He affords evidence that the porphyry still continued to
be transported by the Nile to Alexandria; and though his words contain
no express mention of the canal, it is evident that the workmen of
Justinian would always prefer the easier road by Myos Hormos and
Arsinöe, to the almost impracticable task of conveying the blocks
across the desert.[1] In the reign of Justin I., the trade of the Red
Sea was of great importance, and must have created an immense demand
for the agricultural produce of Egypt. The King of Ethiopia, resolving
to attack Dunaan, the Jewish king of the Homerites in Arabia,
collected, during the winter, a fleet of seven hundred Indian vessels,
and six hundred trading ships, belonging to the Roman and Persian
merchants who visited his kingdom.[2]

[1] Pauli Silentianii Descripto Magnae Ecclesiae Sanctae Sophiae,
v. 379, 620.

[2] Acts of the Martyrs; Metaphrast. Ap. Sur. tom v. p. 1042.

After the reign of Justinian, it is not improbable that the repairs
necessary for maintaining the navigation of the canal open began to be
neglected, as we know that the population and industry of Egypt began to
decline. The tribute of grain to Constantinople, and the public
distributions to the people of Alexandria, appear to have exhausted all
the surplus produce of the country; and to facilitate their collection,
Justinian forbade the exportation of grain from any part of Egypt but
Alexandria, except under great restrictions.[1] This edict, doubtless,
ruined both the canal and the trade in the Red Sea, and may be looked
upon as one of the proximate causes of the increasing power of the
Arabs about the time of the birth of Mohammed. The Arabian caravans
became possessed of the commerce formerly carried on in the northern
part of the Red Sea; and as the wealth and civilization of the Arabs
increased, a demand for a new religion, and a more extended empire,
arose.[2] Had the complete abandonment of the canal not taken place
shortly after the publication of Justinian's edict, it must have been
completed during the universal anarchy which prevailed while Phocas
reigned at Constantinople. Shortly after Heraclius delivered the empire
from Phocas, the Persians invaded Egypt, and kept possession of it for
ten years; nor is it probable that Heraclius could have made any
efforts to restore the canal during the time he ruled Egypt, after
recovering it from the Persians. When the Saracens conquered Egypt,
they found the canal filled with sand.

[1] Edict xiii., Lex de Alexandrinis et Egyptiaciis provinciis.

[2] Transport, in some states of civilization, is cheaper by caravan
than by sea.

The principle of all Mohammedan governments places the supreme power of
the state in the person of the sovereign; and these sovereigns, in the
simplicity or barbarism of their political views, have always considered
the construction of wells, fountains, caravanseries, and mosques, as the
only public works, except palaces, (if palaces can be properly so
called,) worthy of a monarch's attention. Ports and canals they have
always utterly despised, and roads and bridges have been barely
tolerated. It is as difficult to civilize the mind of a true Mohammedan,
as it is to wash the skin of a negro white. But the earlier caliphs were
not moulded into true Mussulmans; they had been witnesses to the making
of their religion; and, when they forsook the rude superstitions of
their forefathers of the desert, they had admitted some gleams of common
sense and sound reason into their minds, along with the sermons of
Mohammed.

And in the early ages of the caliphate, Syria and Egypt were inhabited
by a numerous Christian population of the Nestorian and Jacobite
heresies, firmly attached to the Saracen power, on their hatred to the
orthodox Roman emperors at Constantinople. The importance of the canal
of Suez to the well-being of these useful subjects of the Arab empire,
could not escape the attention of the caliphs. The native population of
Egypt had, with the greatest unanimity, joined the Saracens against the
Romans; and the Caliph Omar would have been led by policy to restore the
canal, in order to enrich these devoted partisans, as he was induced to
burn the library of Alexandria to diminish the moral influence of the
Greeks.

The Arabian historians and geographers contain numerous passages
relating to the re-opening of the canal, and many of these will be found
translated at the end of the _Mémoire sur le Canal des Deux Mers_. They
state that Omar ordered the canal of Trajan to be cleared out in its
whole extent. The necessity of securing a greatly increased supply of
grain for the holy cities of Medina and Mecca, whose population had been
suddenly augmented by their becoming the capitals of all Arabia, and the
centres of the Mohammedan power, could not be overlooked. But the mind
of Omar was particularly directed to the subject, in consequence of a
famine which prevailed in Arabia in the eighteenth year of the Hegira,
(A.D. 639,) which was afterwards called the year of the mortality. In
that year, the caliph's attention was also more especially called to the
fertility of Egypt, as Amron, at his pressing demand for provisions,
sent such an immense caravan, that the Arabian writers, with their usual
exaggeration, declare, that the convoy was so numerous as to extend the
whole way from Medina to Cairo; the first camel of the train entering
the Holy City with its load, as the last of the uninterrupted line
quitted Misr. The descriptions of the abundance this supply spread among
the Arabs are indeed less miraculous, though such eloquence is displayed
in painting the gastronomic delights of the hungry Mussulmans, in
devouring the savoury food cooked with the fat of the beasts of burden
which had transported it.[1]

[1] Ebn-A'bdoul-Hokin.

The account of the canal given by the geographer Makrizy, requires to be
transcribed in his own words, from the accurate summary which it
contains of the later history of this great monument of civilization.
"When the Most High," says the writer, "gave Islamism to mankind, and
Amrou-Ben-el-A'ss conquered Egypt by the order of Omar-ben-âl-Khatâb,
chief of the Faithful, he cleared out the canal in the year of the
mortality. He carried it to the sea of Qolzoum, from which ships sailed
to the Hedjâz, to Yemen, and to India. This canal remained open until
the time when Mohammed-ben-Abdoullah-ben-El-Hosseïn-ben-Aly-ben-Aby-Thâleb
revolted in the city of the Prophet (Medina) against Abou-dja'far-Abdoullah
ben-Mohammed Al-Manssour, then caliph of Irâk. This prince immediately
wrote to his lieutenant in Egypt, ordering him to fill up the canal of
Qolzoum, that it might not serve to transport provisions to Medina. The
order was executed, and all communication was cut off with the sea at
Qolzoum. Since that time, matters have remained in the state we now see
them."[1] As the rebellion of Mohammed Abdoullah against the caliph,
Al Manssour, occurred between the 145th and the 150th years of the
Hegira, (A.D. 762-767,) the canal had remained open for about 125 years
under the Arab government.

[1] See the extracts of Makrizy in the work on Egypt, and in the
_Notice par Langlès dans les notices et extraits des Manuscrits de la
Bibliothèque du Roi_, vi. 334.

We have now traced the history of the canal to its close; and we believe
our readers will allow that we have proved, by incontrovertible
evidence, that a continued navigation from the Nile to the Red Sea
existed from the time of Darius (B.C. 500) to the time of Al-Manssour,
(A.D. 765,) with the interruption of a short period preceding the
extinction of the Roman power in the east. It hardly requires any proof
to establish that system of navigation, and a commercial route, which
remained in use for nearly 1300 years, must have been based on the
internal sources of Egypt, and been regarded as absolutely necessary,
under every vicissitude of foreign trade, to the prosperity of the
country. The great object of the canal was to afford a high-road for the
exportation of the produce of Egypt; and its connexion with the Indian
trade was merely a secondary and unimportant consideration. Its
connexion with the existence of the agricultural, Egyptian, or Coptic
population, was more immediate.

At present, the question of restoring the canal is solely connected with
the Indian trade. We own we have very great doubts whether its
re-establishment, if destined only to connect our lines of steam-packets
from India to Suez, and from Southampton to Alexandria, would be found a
profitable speculation. The tedious navigation of the Red Sea, and, we
may almost add, of the Mediterranean, would render the route by the Cape
preferable for sailing vessels; and we have not yet arrived at such
perfection in the construction of steamers, as to contemplate their
becoming the only vessels employed in the Indian trade. It appears to
us, that before any reasonable hope of restoring the canal can be
entertained, or, at least, before it can ever be kept open with profit,
that Egypt must be again in a condition to employ the irrigable land on
the banks of the canal for agricultural purposes. Unless the country be
flourishing, the population increasing, and the canal constantly
employed, it would be half-filled with the sand of the desert every
year. On the other hand, as soon as a demand for more irrigable land is
created by an augmented population, a canal of irrigation would soon be
carried through the valley of Seba Biar; and the surplus produce of the
Delta would again seek for a market on the shores of the Red Sea and in
Arabia. Until these things happen, even should a canal be excavated,
whether from Cairo to Suez, or from Suez to Tineh, during some pecuniary
plethora in the city, we venture to predict that the Suez canal shares,
or Mohammedan bonds, will be as disreputable a security as honest
Jonathan's American repudiated stock, or the Greek bonds of King Otho
not countersigned by Great Britain.

We cannot close this article without alluding to two able pamphlets,
which have been recently published, recommending the formation of a
canal from Suez to Tineh, as that line might be kept always open, from
the elevation of the Red Sea above the Mediterranean.[1] The subject
has been ably treated by the French engineers in the great work on
Egypt, and Monsieur Linant has since examined the question; but the
information we possess on the effect of the currents and winds at
Tineh, is not sufficient to enable any engineer to decide on the works
which would be necessary to enable ships to enter the canal in bad
weather. It is clear that a bar would immediately be formed; and almost
as certain that any break-water but a floating one would soon be joined
to the continent by a neck of sand. If it be possible to form any part
at this point on the Egyptian coast, it could only be done at an
enormous cost; and our information is at present too imperfect to
warrant our entering on the subject. The question requires a more
profound scientific examination than it has yet undergone.

[1] Enquiry into the Means of Establishing a Ship Navigation between
the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, with a Map. By Captain Veitch, R.E.,
F.R.S. Communications with India, China, &c.; Observations on the
Practicability and Utility of Opening a Communication between the Red
Sea and the Mediterranean, by a Ship Canal through the Isthmus of Suez,
with Two Maps. By Arthur Anderson.

One of the ablest scholars who has written on the subject of this canal,
has advanced the opinion, that Nekos, the king of Egypt, who, Herodotus
mentions, undertook the completion of this work, borrowed the idea of
his project from the Greeks. Monsieur Letronne conjectures that he only
imitated the plan, which is attributed to Periander, of having designed
to cut through the isthmus of Corinth. Willing as we are to concede a
great deal to Grecian genius, we are compelled to protest against the
probability of the Egyptians having borrowed any project of
_canalization_ from the Greeks. We own we should entertain very great
doubts whether Periander had ever uttered so much as a random phrase
about cutting through the isthmus of Corinth, were it not that there are
some historical grounds for believing that he was a professed imitator
of Egypt. He had a nephew named Psammetichus, who must have been so
called after the father of Nekos.[1] All projects for making canals in
Greece had a foreign origin, from the time Periander imitated Egyptian
fashions, down to the days of the Bavarian regency, which talked about
making a ship canal from the Piraeus to Athens, and instructed a
commission to draw up a plan of canalization for the Hellenic kingdom,
where every thing necessary is wanting--even to the water. The earlier
projectors who proposed to cut through the isthmus of Corinth, after
Periander, were the Macedonian adventurer Demetrius Poliorcetes, and
the Romans, Julius Caesar, Caligula, Nero, and Herodes Atticas.[2] We
should not be surprised to see this notable project revived, or to hear
that the Greeks were on the point of sinking new shafts at the silver
mines of Laurium. A joint-stock company, either for the one or the
other, would be quite as profitable to the capitalists engaged as the
scheme of making sugar from beet-root at Thermopylae, which has found
some unfortunate shareholders, both at Athens and Paris. Travellers,
scholars, and antiquaries, would undoubtedly take more interest in the
progress of the canal, and of the silver mine, than in the confection
of the sugar.

[1] Aristotolis Politic, lib. v. cap. 10, § 22, p. 193.--Ed. Tauch.

[2] A collection of the classic authorities for the different attempts
at cutting the canal through the isthmus of Corinth, may be interesting
to some of our readers. PERIANDER'S Diogenes Laertius, i. 99--DEMETRIUS
POLIORCETES, Strabo, vol. i. p. 86, ed. Tauch.--JULIUS CAESAR, Dion
Cassius, xliv. 5. Plutarch in Caesar, lviii. Suetonius in Caesar.
xliv.--CALIGULA, Suetonius in Calig. xxi.--NERO, Plinii, N.H. iv. 4.
Lucian, Nero. Philostratus in vit. Apollon. Tyan. iv. 24. Zonaras, i.
570, ed. Paris.--HERODES ATTICUS, Philostratus in vit. Sophist. ii. 26.

There was another canal in Greece which proved a sad stumbling-block to
the Roman satirist Juvenal, whose unlucky accusation of "lying Greece,"
is founded on his own ignorance of a fact recorded by Herodotus and
Thucydides.

                       --"Creditur olim
     Velificatus Athos, et quicquid Graecia mendax
     Audet in historia."

The words of Herodotus and Thucydides, would leave no doubt of Xerxes
having made a canal through the isthmus to the north of Mount Athos, in
the mind of any but a Roman.[1] But since there are modern travellers
as ready to distrust the ancients, as a gentleman we once encountered
at Athens was to doubt the moderns, we shall quote better evidence than
any Greek. Our acquaintance of the Athenian inn, who had a very elegant
appearance, appealed to us to confirm the _Graecia mendax_, saying, he
had just returned from Marathon, and his guide had been telling him far
greater lies than he ever heard from an Italian cicerone. "The fellow
had the impudence to say, that his countrymen had defeated 500,000
Persians in the plain he showed me," said the gentleman in green. "Let
alone the number--that fable might be pardoned--but he thought me such
an egregious ass as not to know that the war was with the Turks, and
not with the Persians at all." We bowed in amazement to find our
English friend more ignorant than Juvenal. We shall now transcribe the
observations of Colonel Leake, the most sharp-sighted and learned of
the modern travellers who have visited the isthmus of Mount
Athos:--"The modern name of this neck of land is _próvlaka_, evidently
the Romanic form of the word [Greek: proaulax], having reference to the
canal _in front_ of the peninsula of Athos, which crossed the isthmus,
and was excavated by Xerxes. It is a hollow between natural banks,
which are well described by Herodotus as [Greek: kolônoi ou megaloi],
the highest points of them being scarcely 100 feet above the sea. The
lowest part of the hollow is only a few feet higher than that level.
About the middle of the isthmus, where the bottom is highest, are some
traces of the ancient canal; where the ground is lower, it is indicated
only by hollows, now filled with water in consequence of the late
rains. The canal seems to have been not more than sixty feet wide. As
history does not mention that it was ever kept in repair after the time
of Xerxes, the waters from the heights around have naturally filled it
in part with soil in the course of ages. It might, however, without
much labour, be renewed; and there can be no doubt that it would be
useful to the navigation of the Egean, such is the fear entertained by
the Greek boatmen of the strength and uncertain direction of the
currents around Mount Athos."[2]

[1] Herodotus, vii. 21. Thucydides, iv. 109

[2] Leake's Travels in Northern Greece. Vol. iii. p. 143.



THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER.


     I.

     I'll sing you a new song, that should make your heart beat high,
     Bring crimson to your forehead, and the lustre to your eye;--
     It is a song of olden time, of days long since gone by,
     And of a Baron stout and bold, as e'er wore sword on thigh!
         Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

     II.

     He kept his castle in the north, hard by the thundering Spey;
     And a thousand vassals dwelt around, all of his kindred they.
     And not a man of all that clan had ever ceased to pray
     For the Royal race they loved so well, though exiled far away
         From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, all of the olden time.

     III.

     His father drew the righteous sword for Scotland and her claims,
     Among the loyal gentlemen and chiefs of ancient names,
     Who swore to fight or fall beneath the standard of King James,
     And died at Killiecrankie pass, with the glory of the Graemes,
         Like a true old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

     IV.

     He never own'd the foreign rule, no master he obey'd,
     But kept his clan in peace at home, from foray and from raid;
     And when they ask'd him for his oath, he touch'd his glittering
     blade,
     And pointed to his bonnet blue that bore the white cockade,
         Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

     V.

     At length the news ran through the land--THE PRINCE had come again!
     That night the fiery cross was sped o'er mountain and through glen;
     And our old Baron rose in might, like a lion from his den,
     And rode away across the hills to Charlie and his men,
         With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, all of the olden time!

     VI.

     He was the first that bent the knee when THE STANDARD waved abroad,
     He was the first that charged the foe on Preston's bloody sod;
     And ever, in the van of fight, the foremost still he trod,
     Until, on bleak Culloden's heath, he gave his soul to God,
         Like a good old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

     VII.

     Oh! never shall we know again a heart so stout and true--
     The olden times have pass'd away, and weary are the new:
     The fair White Rose has faded from the garden where it grew,
     And no fond tears but those of heaven the glorious bed bedew
         Of the last old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

                                                            W.E.A.



TRADITIONS AND TALES OF UPPER LUSATIA.

No. III.

THE DWARF'S WELL.


We have been shown, in our two preceding pieces from Ernst Willkomm,
Pathetic Fairies, and Fairies merry to rioting. Here we have, not
without merriment either, Working Fairies. In the mines of the Upper
Lusatian Belief, the tale of THE DWARF'S WELL strikes into a vein which
our author has promised us, but of which we have not heretofore handled
the ore. Here we shall see the imagination touching in some deeper
sterner colours to the sketches flung forth by the fancy; and in the
spirit of unreal creation, a wild self-will which rejoices to waft into
the presence of the beautiful, and of unbridled laughter, cold blasts
from the region of pure affright. There is in this, however, no
prostration of strength--quite the reverse! Not a nervous and enfeebled
sensibility, yielding itself up to a diseased taste for pain.--No child
fascinated with fear, and straining its eyes to take in more horror. But
here the unconquerable consciousness of strong life throws itself with
an unmastered glee of battle, right into the thick of its mortal
adversaries, to slay, and strip, and bind to its own triumphant
chariot-wheels.

The Upper Lusatian Highlander, turned poet, dreaming at his discretion,
amuses himself with converting terror and madness into merriment, and
reconciles conflicting elements of invention--with an overpowering
harmony?--No. But, by subjugating them all alike to one imperious lord,
viz. to himself;--to his own pleasure. Hence, in the Traditions and
Tales, in which he embodies his illusory creed of the Invisible, there
is engendered an esthetical species, which waits, perhaps, for a name
with us, and might accept that of the _Ghastly_, or at least, of the
_Ghostly-Humorous_, the _Gay-Horrible_. The story of the PRIEST'S WELL
soars boldly upon this pinion; that of the WILL-O'-THE-WISP HUSSAR has
gone stark-raving in the same grimly-mirthful temper. The mind in which
Burns imagined and chaunted his TAM-O'-SHANTER, is right down Upper
Lusatian, in this key. Our Elves, however, are not yet witches.

The kinds of the spirits confine, upon every side, with one another, and
the boundary lines vanish. Within the circumscription of the Fairy
domain, an indeterminable difference appears betwixt the truest Fairies
and the Dwarfs. The two sorts, or the two names, are sometimes brought
into glaring opposition. Again, like factions made friends, they blend
for a time indistinguishably. So, in the Persian belief, the ugly
_Dios_, who may represent the Dwarfs of our west, are--under one aspect
of the Fable--the implacable _cannibal_ foes--under another,--the loving
spouses of the beautiful Peris. Comparing the Fairies of our two former
tales, and the Dwarfs of this, the reader will probably see in THOSE,
the daintier, the more delicate: in THESE, a little more hardness of
nature.

The great length of the story precludes all thoughts (be the
opportunities what they may, and these are not deficient) of bringing
its illustration from other expositors--Teutonic or otherwise-of the
Fairy Lore.


THE DWARF'S WELL.

"Nicholas Stringstriker was the most popular ale-house fiddler for a
good twenty miles round, and consequently quite indispensable at all
christenings, marriages, and wakes. Klaus knew this as well as every
body else, and, like a wise man, did the best he could to turn his
popularity to account--the more so, poor fellow! because he was obliged
to put up with all kinds of ridicule and teasing. Stringstriker, you
must know, was a most comical little fellow, with very small thin bandy
legs, that had to bear the burden of a huge square trunk, which, in its
turn, supported a big head that was for ever waggling to and fro,
without affording the slightest indication of a neck. The entire little
man measured exactly three feet five inches and an eighth, and he was
best known to his acquaintance by the name of _Dwarf-fiddler_ or
_Dwarf-piper_; for the little gentleman smoked away for his life, and
liked nothing better.

"So misshapen a figure, it may readily be supposed, made a very good
target for the shafts of mockery. Nicholas, however, troubled himself
but little about them; and it was small complaint you heard from him so
long as he was well paid, got his savoury morsel, and, above all, a
liberal supply of his choice favourite--_Tobacco_. True, folks might now
and then, as the saying is, _draw the cord too tight_ and be too hard
upon the scraper; and then Klaus, like most deformed creatures, had wit
and venom enough at his command, and could rid himself right easily of
his tormentors.

"The Dwarf--it might be to render himself thoroughly independent, or,
more likely still, to surround his diminutive individuality with an air
of mystery--had abandoned his birth-place, and established himself about
two miles away from it, near a singularly-formed sandstone rock,
situated in a small but exceedingly pretty fir-wood, and commonly known
by the name of the Bear's church. Here he spent his quiet life, wholly
engaged in the practice of his art. Travellers taking their road by
night, and in calm weather, from _Bertsdorf_ to _Hörnitz_ or over the
Breitenberg to _Gross-schönau_ were arrested by the exquisite strains,
now touchingly plaintive, now joyously merry, that poured from Klaus's
magical instrument; and many a happy soul, allured by the enchanting
melody, lingered within sound of it, until wholly subdued and rendered
powerless by awe and superstitious fear. Although by day the fiddler was
visible to none, yet by night he was often seen waddling out of the wood
and over the fields, on his way to a clear spring, whence he drew water
for his housekeeping, which--to add to the mystery that he delighted to
create--he doggedly looked after himself. This spring belonged to a
substantial farmer in Bertsdorf, named _Michael Simon_, though called by
the people _Twirling-stick Mike_, in commemoration of his cutting down
yearly in his wood a handsome quantity of young trees, which he
afterwards manufactured into twirling-sticks. Simon not only was master
of a good farm, but proprietor likewise of the village tavern, in which
he gave a dance every Sunday, taking care to secure for the festivity
the services of Stringstriker, to whose fiddle, it was well known, the
lads and lasses invariably danced an hour longer than to that of any
other scraper in the country.

"The visits of Stringstriker to the well were a continual vexation to
the farmer. The Dwarf asked no man's permission to draw his water, but
helped himself as often and as liberally as he thought proper, without
the slightest regard to the wants of other people, which were often left
unsatisfied by his wantonness and extravagance. It was in consequence of
this audacious appropriation, that the spring by degrees acquired the
name of THE DWARF'S WELL. Countless were the complaints and menaces of
Mike--numberless the promised threshings, if he did not give up his
thieving; but the effect of them all upon Klaus was to make him laugh
outright, fill his pipe, and strike up a jolly tune upon his fiddle.

"Now it happened that Twirling-stick Mike held a christening, and he not
only asked the Dwarf as a guest to the feast, but actually went so far
as to invite the creature to stand godfather to his child. Klaus was
mightily pleased with the honour, and behaved like a gentleman on the
occasion. He made his godson a handsome present, and promised to do a
good deal more for him, stipulating only that the child, being a boy,
should be named Nicholas after himself.

"There was a merry party at the christening, and at first matters went
on smoothly and comfortably enough; but as the eating, and drinking, and
dancing advanced, quips and cranks became very plentiful, and the
greater number, as might be expected, were flung, and not very lightly,
at the head of poor Stringstriker. The fiddler for a time received his
cuffs very manfully--but they grew intolerable at last. First, his legs
were criticised--then his lank withered arms; even his fiddling was
disparaged, and he himself pronounced highly indecorous, because he
persisted in smoking his pipe all the while he scraped.

"'Klaus, Klaus!' said the master of the house, his sides shaking with
laughter, 'if you don't forswear smoking this very instant, your
sponsorship sha'n't stand. As sure as my name is Twirling-stick Mike, I
won't allow it; and the boy shall be called Michael after his father.'

"Klaus laughed too, went on smoking, and tuned his fiddle.

"'Did you hear what I said, you bandy-legged Dwarf-piper?' bawled Simon,
in continuation.

"Klaus laid his fiddle aside.

"'Gossip!' said he, in a tone of meaning, 'keep within bounds--within
bounds, I say--and don't force me for once to fiddle to an ugly tune. I
am your boy's godfather; his name is Klaus, and Klaus he shall be called
amongst my children!'

"The whole company simultaneously broke out into loud laughter, and
exclaimed with one voice--

"'Amongst his children!'

"'Why, where have you left your respectable better-half, then?' asked
Simon, 'and what wench ever gave herself up to two such noble shanks?
Where, in Heaven's name, Klaus, was the parson ordained that trusted a
poor woman to you for better or worse?'

"The Dwarf smoked away, and could hardly be seen through the cloud that
enveloped him.

"'Idiots!' he murmured to himself, 'as if we lived like mere human
Creatures'--

"'What's that you say?' asked Simon, interrupting him. 'Don't talk
blasphemy, you heathenish imp, or'--

"'Be quiet, gossip!' returned the Dwarf, with a savage frown. 'Don't put
me up, or I and my children may be troublesome to you and yours yet. You
had better give me some more tobacco, for I love smoking, and so do my
people!'

"'If he isn't cracked, I am a Turk!' exclaimed Simon. 'Pride has turned
that added head of his quite round. Well, Heaven preserve me from a
cracked godfather, any how!'

"'Body of me!' interposed an old boor, one of the party, 'what the crab
says is true.'

"'True!' said Simon.

"'Yes! What, have you never heard of the Spirits and Dwarfs who, for
thousands of years, have carried on their precious games in all kinds of
underground pits and holes? Now, take my word for it, he has something
to do with them. Klaus is just the fellow for the rogues. They make
choice of a king once every fifty years--one of flesh and blood, like
ourselves. His majesty must be shaped like a dwarf--that's quite
necessary; but when he is lifted to the throne, the creatures heap upon
him all sorts of wondrous gifts. They teach him to play the fiddle,
flute, and clarinet like an angel. They put him up to the art of
manufacturing wonderful clocks--of eclipsing the sun and moon, and all
that kind of thing. They once had a dwarf king, a shoemaker, and that
fellow never had his equal. Whenever he took it into his head, he would
sit down, call for seventy thousand skins, and then set to work. How
long do you suppose he was getting them out of hand? Why, in just one
hour and a half the whole stock was manufactured. Shoes, gaiters,
spatterdashes, jack-boots and bluchers for five hundred thousand men,
and all their wives and children. You may believe it. There never was a
chap that flung the things about as he did. And you may take my word for
it, Klaus Stringstriker could do something too, if he chose. Why do you
think he is so insolent and conceited, and presumes so much upon his
playing and smoking? Why--just because these little earthmen are his
familiars, and back him up in every thing!'

"'Oh, that's it--is it?' said Simon dryly. 'Klaus is King of the Dwarfs,
is he? Then if that's the case, he shall perform a trick for us
directly. Now I give you all warning, young and old, not to stop his
pipe, or fill his glass again, till he fiddles himself into a fit, and
glass and pipe replenish themselves!'

"Klaus remonstrated against the proceeding--but the guests were brimful
of fun and mischief, and wouldn't listen to him. It was evident that
nothing would satisfy the company but the exhibition of the misery to
which they resolved to subject the unhappy knave forthwith. The Dwarf
implored, threatened, cursed; he struck about him like a madman,
screamed, roared, and struggled to escape; all in vain. The untractable
little fellow was held fast, and then, amidst the jokes and gibes of the
assembly, securely tied, with his fiddle in his hand, against the
roof-tree of the room. Once pinned, there was no use in further
resistance. The poor deformed creature had nothing better to do than to
play, as commanded.

"And he did play, so touchingly and heartbreakingly, that the listeners
were very soon in agonies before him. The eyes of the Dwarf rolled like
little fire-balls in their cells--his cheeks grew paler and paler, and
cold sweat poured down in a stream from his forehead. Nevertheless, he
fiddled away incessantly--now merrily, now mournfully, now slowly, now
quicker than ever. Every dancer had reason that night to thank his
stars, if he left off without having thrown himself into a phthisic;
for, when he once began, it was as easy for him to fly into the air as
to come to a stand-still, until it pleased Klaus Stringstriker to make a
pause with his fiddle.

"The horrible jest lasted till towards midnight, and then the tormentors
were willing to grant their victim some indulgence. The fiddler was
unbound, and he would have had to eat and drink, and his own dear pipe
of tobacco would have been restored to him, had not the company
immediately perceived to their astonishment that both his pipe and glass
stood already filled before him, although not a single soul amongst them
had lifted or touched either one or the other. If the guests had been
riotous before, they were hushed and quiet enough now. And Klaus, too,
struck up another tune _instanter_. He bowed ironically to the assembly,
emptied his glass, lit his pipe, and tucked his fiddle under his arm.

"'Thank you, gossip!' said he, 'thank you kindly for your christening. I
have enjoyed every thing--thoroughly; your compliments, your beer, your
tobacco, and your sport! Rest assured, Mike, I shall quit scores with
you, in good time, for all. As to my little godchild, you'll be pleased
to call the boy Nicholas, that is to say, if you are not tired of your
life. For yourself, Twirling-stick Mike,' he continued with a frown,
'depend upon it, you shall be settled, all in good time, very
comfortably amongst my children. Meanwhile, Fare-you-well!'

"And with these words, the little fellow, repeating his scornful
obeisance, hobbled away. He was heard to strike up a lively air, and
some of the guests, whose curiosity took them out of doors, averred that
he cut across the fields with supernatural swiftness, whilst there
glittered around him a bright tremulous light, in which at times the
tiniest phantoms were distinguishable.

"Whether this statement were really true, or whether a mere imagination,
came never to be rightly known; and it is most likely that nothing more
would have been said about it, if, on the following morning, the report
had not run like a fire through the village, that the Dwarf-piper, in
the night, had come to an untimely end, and was then lying as dead as
mutton on Twirling-stick Mike's farm and field, with his fiddle jammed
under his broad chin, and the bow still resting on the strings. Half the
village, headed by the authorities, sallied forth upon the intelligence.
Simon, you may be certain, was not long in following--and sure enough,
there lay the poor Dwarf, dead upon the ground. His head was half
immersed in the Dwarf's Well, which, in the dark, he had probably not
observed. But whether or not, Klaus Stringstriker had been upset, and
had stumbled, poor wretch, upon his death!

"It was very natural for Twirling-stick Mike to repent him suddenly of
his wanton cruelty. The scoffing words of the dwarf rang in his ears,
and he felt by no means easy. To make what amends he might to the
deceased, he had him sumptuously buried at his own expense, with funeral
oration, psalms, prayer, and benediction; and what is more, put up a
very pretty monument to his memory, which, in very legible characters,
made known the talents and virtues of the fiddler, and carried them down
to remote posterity. The Dwarf, however, was scarcely in his grave,
before all manner of strange reports were whispered about in the
neighbourhood. In the first place, Twirling-stick Mike's garden was said
to be haunted o' nights. Noises were heard and lights seen on the path
crossing his fields; and you had only to stray into the vicinity of the
Dwarf's Well to be forsaken at once of seeing and hearing. If Simon
enquired more particularly into these worrying rumours, every body
professed to know nothing at all of the matter. One man referred him to
his neighbour, and he to the next; who, in his turn, protested that the
whole was a heap of lies; or said any thing that seemed most likely to
appease the farmer's anxious state of mind. Simon, troubled as he was by
the absurd babbling of the people, was nevertheless unable to suppress
it, or prevent its growth. Indeed there was a small chance of its
diminishing, when, in less than two months, there was not a soul in the
neighbourhood who could not swear that he had been a witness to most
unearthly doings. There was no need of further mystery, of doubtful
head-shaking, and ominous whispers--every one had seen Klaus
Stringstriker near Twirling-stick Mike's house, playing his fiddle in
the clear light of the moon. It was true, none could aver that he had
heard a single note; but it was impossible to mistake his figure, and
that had been seen, time after time, gliding in from the adjoining
field, making the tour of Simon's house, and exhibiting all the
gesticulations of a violin-player. Many affirmed, too, that the fiddler
was followed by a swarm of fluttering lights causing an odd noise, like
nothing so much as the multitudinous clacking of little hammers. If the
Dwarf and his luminous retinue encountered any one, he stood still until
the latter had passed, and then quietly pursued his road. The more
inquisitive who had ventured to steal after the apparition, swore deep
and high that the Dwarf and his lights had gone hissing into the well
that stood upon Twirling-stick Mike's land, and then the ghostly
procession altogether ceased.

"Simon gave himself a deal of trouble to witness some of these
remarkable things; but he met with nothing; and accordingly, seeing that
the ghost of the dead sponsor in no way molested him, he permitted the
people to chatter on as they would. His indifference, indeed, had nearly
reduced all disagreeable rumours to silence, when another very sensible
unpleasantness took rise under his own roof.

"Young Klaus could hardly run alone before he manifested a most
undesirable faculty of seeing spirits. It grew with his years; and at
last it came to pass that no day or night went by upon which he had not
something very extraordinary to relate. The occurrences certainly were
chiefly of that nature that it required a most resolute and unbounded--
an absolute Christianly-simple faith to believe them: and since the
majority of Klaus's auditors were not excessively that way disposed, the
accounts of the boy were held for so much downright swagger; and the
poor ghost-seer acquired, to the no small vexation of his parent, the
unenviable nickname of _Mike's Lying Klaus_. It was very singular,
however, and could not fail to be remarked by every reflecting mind,
that all the stories related by young Nicholas were in close connexion
with the notorious well belonging to his father. There it was that he
saw prodigious flames blazing forth, gold burning, and dances performed
by the most grotesque and strangely-shaped little creatures. Passing
this spot, earth, sand, glass, and even silver-pieces, would strike him
on the head, without doing him the slightest injury. If he led his
waggon by the spring, his good horses had to strain and torture
themselves for a full quarter of an hour before they could draw the
empty wain from the spot. The wheels seemed to have been locked and set
fast, and yet the slightest hindrance could not be detected.

"Even to these incidents the ageing Simon had, by degrees, accustomed
himself; but at length, and all on a sudden, it became his own frightful
lot to perceive that his fine property was diminishing--yes, daily and
hourly dropping and dropping away from him. He lived economically, as he
had always done, even to parsimoniousness. The produce of his land, the
income from his twirling-stick trade, were as satisfactory as could be--
both improving! How could it happen then? Simon made known his misery to
his neighbours, craved counsel from his pastor. Each chucked in his
farthing's worth of wisdom; but it availed him nothing. In the
meanwhile, the strapping youth grew every day more and more a
ghost-seer; and the Dwarf was said to beset the premises of the farmer
nightly. Simon, at all events to show a reason in his complaints,
building upon these facts, boldly cast upon his son the imputation of
robbing him. Violent scenes ensued between the two--they quarrelled and
wrangled from morning till night; and at length, upon Simon's refusing
his assent to the marriage of his hulking boy with a very honest, but at
the same time somewhat uncouth and very poor girl--went bodily to law.

"Whilst father and son were valiantly tugging against each other in
court, the lawyers gleefully rubbing their hands over the case, and many
a good joint flying into their larders from the stalls of Twirling-stick
Mike, the substance of the honest farmer underwent rapid decay. His
neighbours, soon aware that Simon had falsely taxed his son, cleared up
the question, as folks in such cases are fain to do, with suppositions
and surmises. They gave out that the Dwarfs were gnawing away his
fortune; every body believed it, and from that moment forward, he was a
marked and doomed man.

"As the belief became general, Simon grew irritable and wild. He cursed,
and stormed, and raved, till his people trembled for their master's
reason. Vexation ate his flesh away, and Avarice, which had gained
entire possession of His soul, drove him restlessly about in the
endeavour to save and to secure as much as still remained to him. At
night, with his sullenly-burning lamp, he sped from room to room,
bearing in his two quivering hands leathern purses of money; then
shutting himself up in the most secret of his hiding-places, he counted
his dollars again and again--and with such haste and fear, that the cold
sweat dropped from him as he laboured. Horrible to relate, as often as
he added the same sums together, so often he found the total less. Oh,
it was like nothing else than the devil's own game; for the money,
unperceived by mortal eye, melted in the pure air!

"Unfortunately for Simon, he was a man of violent passions, and on one
occasion his fury betrayed him into blasphemous exclamations. Sadly
beside himself, he swore, with a most fearful oath, that he was ready
and willing to make over body and soul to the devil, or even to his old
gossip the fiddler, provided either of them would undertake to restore
to him the mass of wealth that had so unaccountably escaped from him.

"There is an old proverb that runs--_'Give the devil your little finger,
and he will take your whole hand.'_ And the truth of this saying Simon
was now about to experience; for he had scarcely brought his impious
words to a close, before the fiddler popped into his presence, too
willing to enter into any arrangement which the reckless farmer was
silly enough to propose. 'Here I am, gossip!' said the cunning little
rascal with well-assumed affability, 'and ready to do your will. Not
that I shall ask your body and soul. I am not so greedy. Bequeath me
your head at your death, you shall have all you ask, and I'll be
satisfied.'

"'Go to the devil, you bandy-legged monster!' screamed Michael in his
fury, poking his lamp at the same time under the Dwarf's beard, so that
the vapoury phantom was nigh being in a blaze.

"'Don't put yourself out, Mike; don't put yourself out!' said Klaus
patronizingly, seating himself upon a chest, and then tuning his fiddle.
'Getting into a passion won't bring the shiners back! What do you say,
gossip, to a tune? Will you dance if I play? I have improved
wonderfully, I can tell you, since I left this half-and-half sort of a
world. Nobody dances now to my touch who doesn't praise it to the skies.
You can't care much for dancing at your time of life, I know; and yet,
if you could get a ducat for every step, and one or two for every hop,
you would put your best foot forward, and try to do something any how--
wouldn't you?'

"'What, what, what? What's that you say?' cried Simon, squeezing his
empty money-bags. 'A ducat for every step! two for a hop! _Kremnitz_ or
_Dutch_, my dear old friend?'

"'_Kremnitz_, old gentleman, and full weight too!' replied the Dwarf.
'But,' added the little monster, 'about the head, Mike--what do you say,
am I to get it?'"

Simon put his hand to his hair--involuntarily.

"'Oh! I am no Turk, gossip!' said the fiddler. 'I sha'n't scalp you.
I'll gild every hair that you have on your crown; but your pate I must
have, or else I can say nothing about the ducats.'

"'But what do you mean to do with it, dear ducat--dear Klaus, I mean?'
asked the bewildered Mike.

"'That's my concern. I promise you not to hurt a hair; and your noddle
shall be kept warm enough,' added the creature with a hideous chuckle.
'I engage myself to that, by all the Kremnitz ducats in the world!'

"Hesitation seldom prospers. It was fatal to poor Mike. He couldn't
bring himself to answer. 'What,' he kept saying to himself--'what can I
want with my head when I am dead? What matters who gets it?'

"'Have you settled?' enquired the Dwarf. 'Don't keep me, Mike; there are
plenty of fellows who'll jump to get the ducats.'

"'Ducats! ducats!' continued Simon, still arguing with himself.--'What's
a dead head in a scale with ducats? Nothing at all!--precious ducats!
How many I have lost! one for a step, two for a hop. I had better close
the bargain!'

"'You won't have them, then!' exclaimed the Dwarf. "'Yes! Done--agreed!'
cried Simon eagerly. 'I'll consent, dear Klaus!' "'Very well!' replied
the Dwarf. 'We'll to business, then!'

"'You recollect the terms, dear gossip! One for a step, two for a hop;
and you are to have my head as soon as I die, and have no further use
for it. Now, play a very slow waltz, there's a good Klaus--very slow, if
you love me! Don't fiddle too long, and let the ducats come down
prettily!'

"The Dwarf made no reply; but simply laughed like a growling bear. He
cocked his fiddle under his chin, however, as quick as lightning;
scraped a little by way of timing, and then broke out. Klaus
Stringstriker had fiddled for a very few minutes before Simon was
springing about, and cutting such capers as no professional performer
had ever attempted, whilst the beams and rafters of the house quivered
again. The impoverished farmer held in his hands about twenty large
empty money-bags, which he grasped very tightly. It was quite wonderful
to see how at every caper, at every kick of the foot, there fell at
least two dozen real and true Kremnitz ducats, right down from his head
straight into the pockets. Down they came faster and faster, so thick
that before the dance was half over, the bags were all chokeful, and the
dancer himself hardly able to bear the weight of all his treasure. But,
mad with joy at the unexpected rushing back of all his wealth, he burst
into the wildest laughter, flung himself about like a lunatic, and
devoured with greedy gluttonous eyes the clinking, twinkling gold, that
in starry showers discharged itself around him.

"At the end of a short quarter of an hour, the bags were bursting in
Simon's hands. The Dwarf wriggled with delight, and played on--on--on;
and the old farmer, intoxicated and insane, jumped till his hoary and
fated skull struck against the ceiling. Now his joints cracked under the
weight of gold that he bore; but he could not put it from him, for the
bags stuck to his hands, as though they had grown to them. His strength
decayed; his thoughts languished. He tried to speak; but he could not
stammer out a word.

"'Gos-en-o, Kl-kl-oh-oh-oh'--

"The Dwarf kicked his feet with pleasure, and laughed again like a bear.
He never played in right earnest until now. He scraped with all his
might and main. Poor Twirling-stick Mike groaned, and his unhappy head
dropped exhausted upon his breast. Miserable man, his last capers were
cut! His dancing was no longer worth mentioning. He went up a little
way, like a baby's shuttlecock, and came down again feebly and dull. The
ducats poured out. The bags swelled; playing and dancing--dancing, such
as it was--went forward, and one terrible hour passed away. At last the
wrists of the farmer snapped asunder; his hands and the bags of gold
fell to the ground together. The dancer gave one desperate and
convulsive leap into the air. Klaus stopped his violin; and, in the next
instant, Simon lay dead upon the floor. Will it be believed that the
rascally Dwarf had fiddled every hair of the poor devil's head, and
brought them all down to his feet in the shape of ducats! Simon's skull
was as smooth and clean as if it had been shorn.

"The Dwarf put his fiddle up; quietly possessed himself of the
money-bags, and then grinned at the corpse before him.

"'Well, you old fool!' said he. 'Have I shaved your ugly jobber-nowl
clean enough? I don't want any of your tiresome barbers to do my work!
Are we quits, gossip? Can we wipe off the old scores yet, friend Simon?
No, no! We have something to do still! Let your boy look well to
himself, and get reconciled to my people whilst there is yet time!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

Early in the morning, Simon was found lying dead on the floor. The
hairs of the unfortunate man, plucked out, and scattered over the
boards, in part confirmed the vehement declaration of the servants; viz.
that their master had wrestled with the devil, and had got the worst of
the bout. Young Klaus, however, shaken as he was by the unexpected
sight, at once guessed the true history. Returning home the night
before, from a nocturnal visit to his sweetheart, he had passed his
father's house, and here he had not only heard the playing of the
fiddler, but, looking through a crevice of the garret-door, he had
likewise discerned the very form of the Dwarf-spirit, and heard his
laughter, as well as the noisy leaping of his unhappy parent. In his
first grief at the frightful termination of his father's career, Klaus
hurled the bitterest execrations at the head of the revengeful
Stringstriker; cursed him over and over again, and himself no less, on
account of his plaguing, ghost-seeing faculty. Raving over the handless
body of Simon, he vowed at length, that if ever again the shadow of the
fiend crossed his path, he would double him up in a sack, and hang him
on the first tree that he came to.

This excited state of mind did not last very long with the volatile
youth; for, truth to say, the sudden dereliction of mortality on the
part of his quarrelsome old father, did not come altogether amiss to
him. What hindered him now from wedding the girl of his heart, and
leading as jolly a life as any? According to good old custom, he put on
his dress and looks of mourning, donned his three-cornered hat, pulled
it deep over his forehead, and walked decently and soberly up the
church-path to the parson's house.

'Reverend sir!' said the precious youth to the minister, 'the Lord has
been very gracious to my father, and this night he has taken him to
himself. May the Lord comfort us! If you please, reverend sir, he shall
be buried on Friday next; and I should like him to have a funeral
oration and a parentation. He was a good man, sir, and I know I shall
miss him at every turn and corner. But God's name be praised, sir, he
always sends us what's best!' And so saying, Klaus wiped the tears on
his eyes.

In due time old Simon was put under ground, and there was not a word to
be said by his many followers against either the deceased father or the
living son; for the latter gave a capital feast in honour of the
occasion, which, setting aside two bloody heads, passed off in the most
satisfactory manner. On the evening of the funeral, Klaus got very
impatient to look over his lawful inheritance. Bethinking him of the
avarice of his father, he had made up his mind to routing out no end of
wealth; for as to the old man's continual complaints and grumblings, he
had always looked upon them as so much flummery. To his great
astonishment and dismay, however, he found every chest and coffer empty.
Money-bags there were in plenty; but torn and moneyless, and the very
little ready cash that remained in the house was by no means sufficient
to satisfy the disappointed lawyers, whose bills, drawn out respectively
to the loss which they had suffered through the sudden demise of Mike,
were large enough, as you may believe.

This discovery and turn of affairs sensibly interfered with the
rejoicings of Klaus; and no wonder! For whilst he was still warm with
the idea of bringing his bride home to a well-stocked property, he had
to learn that he was actually as poor as a church-mouse. What could he
do? He was not long in forming a resolution. House and farm, field and
coppice, were in pretty good condition; no mortgages, as far as he knew,
cumbered the estate. Surely, till better times came, there would be no
difficulty in borrowing? At all events, the effort should be made. Klaus
went to Zittau to beg the loan of a thousand dollars from the trustees
of pious legacies. He stammered out his request to the board with as
much confidence as he could command; but whether his awkward way and
manner, or his unsteady look, or the wealth which it was supposed he
possessed, or the nickname which he bore--whether one or all of these
gave rise to suspicion and alarm, it is very certain that although
friend Nicholas received fine words enough to tear his pocket open, not
one farthing of money did he catch, but was fain to return home as rich
as he had come.

This was a heavy blow to the young farmer. As usual with him in seasons
of trouble, he thought of the Dwarf, and cursed him. Then he prayed for
a sight of the monster, only till he had wreaked his vengeance on him;
and then he went like a drunken man homeward. To his intense vexation,
as often as he relieved himself of an execration, his ear was assailed
with a scornful peal of laughter. It escorted him to his very door, and
there left him mad with rage, because he could by no means perceive
whence the mockery proceeded. Once at home again, he repeated the
rummaging of rooms, cellars, and corners, in the still unextinguished
hope of finding something, were it only paper bonds, of which he had
known his father, at one time, to possess several. His search availed
him nothing--the chests were empty--there was not an atom of money left.
As if this were not misery enough, he perceived, with inexpressible
grief, that the rafters of the house, the wainscoting of the rooms, were
beginning to totter and crack so fearful, that it would be impossible to
reside much longer beneath them. And oh, sorrow upon sorrow! those
unpleasant gentlemen, the lawyers, were daily asking payment, and
threatening an execution. Klaus grew very wretched. Breathing time, at
all events, was necessary, and so he sold the tavern and a considerable
portion of his land. With part of the proceeds he appeased the
blood-suckers; and with what remained, he purposed repairing his cracked
and rickety tenement.

Accustomed from his youth upwards to go to work with a full pocket, the
thrifty way of life to which he was obliged to conform, was any thing
but pleasant to him; but worse than all, and more difficult to support,
were the evidences of disrespect which poor Nicholas observed in the
conduct of the neighbouring farmers--and which every day became more
palpable. Before his poverty was known, as the son of his father, he had
been treated with some regard--and if folks did call him _Lying Klaus_,
it was more by way of joke than to give him pain. Now, however, the
neglect of him was bare-faced; and the meanest of the village learnt to
make their ill-natured remarks, and to fling his nickname over meadow
and field after him as he went. He was welcome nowhere--deserted and
forsaken on every side. Even in his work, he was the most unfortunate of
labourers. Ill-luck ever attended it. If he ploughed, either the
ploughshare would go to pieces, or the furrows would turn over so often,
that he could not stir. If he sowed in the serenest weather, when not a
breath of air was moving, a whirlwind would arise as soon as he had
begun, carrying the grain to some one distant spot, and rendering it
there perfectly useless. Sometimes he would find that he held a handful
of mere husks, and then if, in the bitterness of his soul, he began to
curse and tear his hair--he would all at once espy in those very husks--
eyes that fleered at him, whilst a horrible laughter echoed from every
side.

These were Klaus's out o' doors troubles. Those within were still
worse. His sound, strong horses perished one after another--till at last
he had nothing left in his stables but one old gaunt mare called
_Blässel_. A distemper broke out amongst his horned stock, and before a
month passed, destroyed every thing in his stalls, with the exception of
an old goat and a gormandizing and insatiable porker.

A much more sedate man than Klaus would have been ready to jump out of
his skin in the midst of so much disaster. Once more he had recourse to
a sale. With a heavy heart he put up his inheritance, and with
inexpressible dismay he received the first buyers. Upon their close
inspection of house and farm, it soon became too apparent that the whole
of the woodwork was thoroughly worm-eaten, and, in the ground-floor,
destructive fungus hard at work. Those who came inclined to buy, shook
their heads and wished him good-morning: and in less than
four-and-twenty hours after their departure, every soul in the parish knew
that Lying Klaus was as good as a bankrupt; that his house was already
tumbling about his ears; and that he himself would be forced to go from
house to house, and practise the art of lattice-tapping.[1]

[1] The more ancient village houses have still, for the most part,
before the house door, a kind of _lattice_, upon which the beggar taps,
by way of announcing himself to the dwellers.

"Rumour in this case proved a true prophet. The end of the summer found
Klaus's homestead all to pieces. The wind whistled through the broken
windows. Rats frolicked about the floor: a lease of the rafters was
taken by a society of martens, and Klaus was left the choice of making
friends with the vermin, or being dislodged from his miserable den
altogether.

"When a poor man suddenly becomes rich, there is no lack of good words
thrown away; but when a rich man suddenly comes to beggary, all that is
said is--that he is a deplorable wretch--that everybody expected it--and
that it serves him right. Klaus led a horrid life. He was shunned by
universal consent. The youngest urchins of the parish threw dirt at him,
made faces, called him Lying Klaus, and trotted after him, imitating the
gait and gestures of an ill-conditioned dwarf. If Klaus entered the
tavern--so lately his own property--the boors shrunk from him as though
he were a leper--the landlord lazily shoved a dirty glass before him,
and looked at the piece of money which he got in exchange, a dozen times
before he put it into his till. The most abandoned criminal, who had
undergone his ten years of imprisonment and hard labour, could not have
been treated more ignominiously. Had Klaus not lived on in a sort of
mental intoxication, he must have committed murder or manslaughter, if,
in his desperation, he had not even laid unholy hands upon himself.

"All help cut away, every means of support dried up, and the beggar
denied even the bread of charity, Klaus at length resolved upon
abandoning his birthplace, and seeking his fortune in the open world. He
had all along carried on his stick trade without being able to earn even
salt to his porridge. A small piece of copse-wood, of little value, for
which he had been unable to find a purchaser, he could yet call his
own--the lean and bony Blässel was also spared him. With sticks and
steed, therefore, he quitted his native place, and began to take his
rounds abroad, scarcely hoping to gather what was denied him amongst his
own people--a scanty pittance. It was little that poor Nicholas got to
break and bite upon his road; he made amends for the deficiency by
consulting the brandy flask, from which the deserted one sucked his
temporary solace. With the hot liquor in his head, he could whistle and
sing, forget his misery, and boldly face mankind.

"Late one evening, Klaus returned from a distant business tour. Blässel
had not a leg to stand upon, Klaus himself had eaten nothing the whole
day, and he was besides parched with thirst. To satisfy the cravings of
nature, he stepped, unwillingly enough, into _The Sun_ at _Herwigsdorf_.
The parlour was full of boors, one of whom, in a gruff voice, read aloud
the Weekly Intelligencer, whilst the rest remarked upon its contents.
Klaus edged himself into a corner to avoid observation, and mine host
brought him, for his two or three pence, a very melancholy supper. The
reading came at length to a close, and the stage then became alive. The
farmers discussed and argued the news that had been delivered to them,
until they grew very warm, and had exhausted all their eloquence, when
they commenced knocking the table with their doubled fists, for want of
better arguments. In the height of the dispute, a neighbouring miller--a
very learned gentleman--entered the apartment. He was at once
unanimously appealed to for a decision, and then nobody would abide by
his verdict. A general tumult ensued; in the midst of it, unlucky Klaus
was detected, and then politics and the welfare of mankind were
immediately lost sight of.

"'Devil take me!' cried one, advancing towards the wretched man, 'If
there doesn't sit Lying Klaus from _Starving Castle_!'

"Klaus was surrounded in an instant. The whole assembly hooted him, and
he for shame and rage would gladly have buried himself for ever in the
earth.

"Well, I will say," continued the unfeeling boor, "the rich Klaus has
become the very careful and thrifty. I wonder if the churchwarden means
to give him the bell-purse money for ever!"[1] Well, Liar, how gets on
the stick trade? Will you soon be able to patch your coat out of your
earnings? If you happen now to have a sixpence more than you want, I
think we may do a little business together. I have some four-year-old
straw that will come in well for your palace. It is eaten away a little
by the mice, but that doesn't matter. Why, what are you thinking of,
you nincompoop? Don't you know when Klaus wants straw, or money, or an
honest name, he has only to go to his couch-grassed stubble-fields, and
sneeze three times into the Dwarf's wall, and then he gets directly
what he asks for? Who wouldn't have a Dwarf for his godfather! a fellow
just three cheeses high, and a fiddle-scrapper A pretty scrape he has
made of it for you--only scraped your precious soul into hell, as he
would have done if Holy Peter had bound it three times round his
key-bit. It is a great pity though, that Dwarf-piper don't fiddle money
into his darling's pocket, as well as out of it. Kick the blackguard
out, pull his ears for him--I say he isn't honest. He can't be, for he
has dealings with the devil!'

[1] The churchwardens go about the church during the service, and
collect alms from the congregation _in a purse with a bell_.--TRANSLATOR.

"Many sinewy arms were stretched out at the moment to grasp the weak
defenceless man, who sat gnashing his teeth, and awaiting the assault,
whilst in his heart he cursed himself and all the world besides. The
miller called upon the company to desist, and they retreated a stop or
two, whilst he stepped forth, and placed himself at the side of the
unprotected wanderer.

"'Come, come!' said the unexpected friend, 'this isn't fair. Klaus is a
very worthy fellow, though things are going against him, because, as I
believe, his old father bore too hard upon that imp Stringstriker. If
Klaus were only a clever fellow, and knew how to say a private word or
so to his godfather, he would soon make it all right with him again.
Dwarfs must be managed. Bless you, I have one in my own mill. Every
ninth night he hammers away on the twenty-first cog of the third wheel;
and as soon as he begins, three honey cells must be put upon the
millstone for him, if I don't wish the mill to stand still immediately,
and all the grain to breed worms. It is nothing but Dwarf's roguery, and
so I say let Klaus go quietly his way. I'll wager what you like, if the
fellow asks the Dwarf's pardon, and makes it up with him, he'll be as
rich as ever again. For you see, masters, Dwarfs must sometimes play all
sorts of pranks with poor mortals, that they may so have occasion to
help them at a future time, and secure for themselves a place in Heaven
at last.'

"This learned address so dumbfoundered the peasants, that they retreated
by degrees further and further from their intended victim, who, like a
shrewd fellow, seized his opportunity, and made his escape. He was not
long in harnessing his hack, mounting his cart, and driving from the
inhospitable spot. The words of the miller had made a deep impression on
his mind. The wish to hold communion by any means with the world of
spirits, which had been closed upon him from the moment that he had
hurled his curse against one of them--grew strong and lively within him.
His miserable condition subdued him into sorrow and repentance, and, in
a loud and earnest voice, he implored his godfather to take pity upon
him, to forgive him, and to show him the means by which he might be
reconciled again to _him_, and made worthy of the regard and
consideration of his people.

"He had reached _Hörnitz_ when his stricken heart indulged itself in
such outpourings. _Breiteberg_ arose at a short distance before him,
with the few acres of land that still belonged to him lying waste for
want of hands. Klaus threw a look of sullen discontent towards the land,
and lo--he beheld there the figure of the Dwarf gliding along, and
surrounded by countless sparkling lights. The lad stood still, and
stared with astonishment at the apparition. Dissevered tones, as of a
violin, floated in the disturbed air; and when the phantom lifted his
fiddlestick, it seemed as if he sent a recognising nod towards his
godchild. Klaus urged his beast forward, and at the same moment the
Dwarf turned off at a cross-road, and with the speed of an arrow swept
towards the neighbourhood of the Dwarf's well.

"Klaus lay awake half the night dwelling upon this encounter, and when
he fell to sleep, it was the subject of his dreams. 'The miller,'
thought he, 'is right, after all! Godfather may be pacified yet, if he
is properly and becomingly spoken to. How kindly he nodded to me! O, if
I could get only half my fortune back!' Before Klaus was out of bed
again, he resolved to have a trial, and, on the very next day, humbly to
present himself to his godfather, if that great personage would deign
him an interview. He had to go to the wood for sticks, and time and
place were both favourable to a meeting with the spirit.

"The road to the wood lay hard by the Dwarf's well. Klaus, arriving
there, reined his horse up, and looked upon the spring with profoundly
cogitative eyes. It was clear and still. Pearly bright the water
ascended from the rent basaltic bottom, and rippled in a small
thread-like rill through whispering rushes, across meadows and fields,
until it reached the village.

"'Now, this is the strangest well!' quoth Klaus, knocking out the ashes
from his short stump of a pipe--'always humming and brumming when I take
my way by it--and when I have passed it, it is just as though I had
loaded on another hundred-weight. The poor thing regularly gasps, and
plants her hoof as if she were pulling the church after her. Now, wo-ho,
Whiteface!--wo-ho!"

As Klaus spoke, the horse snorted, gasped, and stamped, without making
any way. It was as though the devil had tied a hair about the spokes.
After fearful struggling and long agony, the wood was at length reached.
Klaus fell manfully to work. A sheaf of young trees were presently down
before his axe. In the haste of the felling, he cut down some shrubbery,
of no use in the manufacture of twirling-sticks, but trees and shrubs
were heaped together on his cart; he stopped his pipe, and with
provision at least for the next week, he gaily pushed towards home.

"It was a fine warm evening of autumn. The moon stood in the cloudless
heavens above the blue hills, and the rich region lay in her splendour.
Klaus hummed a careless tune; smoked and hummed, hummed and smoked. In
the swampy marsh meadows to the right and left of him, number of social
frogs joined in the concert; the streams were steaming in the valleys,
and silvery mists strayed, catching the radiance, along the mountain
forests.

"'Wo-ho, Blässe!' growled Klaus, as his favourite began to snort and
caracole. 'No shying, Whiteface! It is only the night-fog bubbling up a
bit. 'Twon't singe thy poor bones, wo-ho!' and then he cracked his whip,
and made it sing about the ears of the mulish beast. At the same moment,
a bright flame sprang up before him--but only like a flash of lightning;
for in an instant all was again hushed, dim, and lonely. The moon was
visible through the mist, and in Hörnitz the lights were seen
glimmering.

"'Oho!' thought Klaus, 'godfather is lighting his pipe, is he? We shall
soon see, then, how the world wags with him. Hollo! Godfather
Stringstriker, be good and kind to your child, and show yourself. Tell
me, dear godfather, how I am to fill my money-bags again; for you know
who had the emptying of them! There's a nice dear old gentleman, come
out to me--I do so long to see you!'

"It was all very proper for Klaus to evince such amiability, but it had
not the effect intended. Not a sound could he hear in reply. He waited
for a space; then bellowed again into the open air--waited again, and
holloed again. But all was quiet save the water of the spring which
purled amongst the pebbles, and the grassy reeds that rustled and sighed
through the mist, now reeking thicker and thicker around the speaker and
his sorry jade. Klaus waxed spiteful.

"'Godfather!' he cried, striking poor Whiteface in his wrath, 'thou art
a thick-lipped, crooked-legged lubber; that's what you are! Every
question is worth an answer; it is a rule that holds good with man and
beast; and why not amongst ghosts? Why did you beckon to me yesterday if
you did not mean to show? You invited me here, and now that I have come,
the tortoise creeps into his hole. You are a cruel, hard-hearted
godfather. But never mind--good-night, Dwarf-piper Here's a present for
thee. I bear thee no malice!'

"So speaking, Klaus threw a pocket-knife into the well, which he passed
at the moment. The knife dropped into the water; a flame shot suddenly
up, and was as quickly out. Klaus pressed his nag again; but the poor
beast reared, snorted, and dragged at the gearing, without being able to
move the cart an inch. The fog severed a little, and the moonbeams lay
in great beauty upon a hundred acres. Klaus attempted to give his animal
ease; but let Whiteface tug as she would, the cart stood still as if it
had been frost-bound.

"'That ugly thick head of godfather's has certainly caught amongst the
felloes," said Klaus, almost worried to death, and looking about him
half-curiously, half-timorously. It wanted very little to pitch him
backwards out of the vehicle, so astonished and affrighted was he with
all that he beheld. The ghost-seer had seen many sights, but this
beggared them all. His cart, in length and breadth, was covered with
millions of dwarfs; every fir-spray, every dark green spike of a leaf,
every pole, nay, even wheels and wheelspokes to the nave itself, were
beset with the creatures. And what were they all about? Tiny, miraculous
beings! labouring with unexampled diligence at the prettiest
dancing-pumps ever seen! The Lilliput shoelings glistered like Spelt in
the tiny brown hands of the workmen, as, turned to and fro, they came
under the numerous and almost invisible hammers and awls. Every
brilliant pair finished, and out of hand, was briskly strung up on
cobwebs, with which the cart, vaultwise, was overwoven; and upon which,
at the very first glance, Klaus himself could count more than three
hundred thousand finished shoes. The astounded waggoner could for a long
time do nothing more than fold his arms, and stare on in silence. The
little rogues looked inexpressibly comical, it must be confessed. They
were exactly half an inch in length, with great thick heads, on which
were fixed leathern-coloured caps, at least six times the size, every
one being decorated in front, by way of clasp, with a tiny glow-worm.
Their legs were very slender and very crooked, although their feet were
delicate and beautifully formed. Their little bodies, endowed in excess
with high shoulders, were clad in fine dark-brown satin jackets, and about
the waist were girdles of glistening silver, from which jingled the
needful workman's apparatus. As soon as one of the little fellows had to
hammer a sole, he adroitly tucked round his left leg, and, upon his tiny
heel, beat out the bit of leather into order.

"'This must be profitable work any how!' quoth Klaus, breaking out at
length, and, at the instant, the busy workers raised their headikins,
and goggled so drolly at the young boor, that the latter was seized with
a laughter which he found it impossible to control. The Dwarfs were set
off also, and for some time they roared together; that is to say, Klaus
roared, but the voicelets of the Dwarfs sounded only like a light
whisper. Their laughing, however, did not prevent the smoking of their
twirling-stick pipes, which they seemed to take much delight in; each
Dwarf, it must be known, carrying in his mouth the strangest little
twirling-stick, the four little arms of which reeked like pipe-heads.

"'If it is quite allowable, gentlemen!' said Klaus, taking off his hat--
a politeness which was immediately responded to by every dwarf--'I
should be glad to have a minute's chat with you; and to ask, first and
foremost, for whom all this tremendous stock is that you are finishing
off so busily and magnificently?'

"One of the cordwainers fastened the shoe that he had just finished,
close before the young boor's eyes, upon the cobweb; then he folded his
arms in imitation of Klaus, stared at him roguishly, and answered,

"'They are dancing-pumps for thy wedding, Klaus!'

"'For my what?' exclaimed the youth.

"'Thy wedding, Klaus!'

"'Ah, my pretty shoemakers, that's a long way off, I fear. Annie has no
great longing to milk the spiders in my stalls, and who can blame her?
But who gave you the order? Who took the measures? I guess our Marthas
and Marys will want a considerable shoe-horn to get the pumps on, if the
greater number don't prove misfits!'

"The Dwarfs laughed and clapped their hands for joy, nodding to one
another with such vivacity, that the glow-worms upon their bonnets flew
one amongst another.

"'Don't believe it, gossip--don't believe it,' rejoined the spokesman.
'We work for ourselves only. We mean to dance at thy wedding--every one
of us, regularly one after the other, with thy virtuous bride."

"'What! all of you?' asked Nicholas, hurriedly.

"'All, all! as many of us as there are pairs of shoes!'

"'Thank you for nothing!' returned Klaus. 'Why, you would make me a
widower before my wedding was over. Annie is a good strapping girl I
know, and she carries her bushel of winter wheat, in defiance of
Geordie, the miller's man, up three flights without stop or sigh; and
that, from old time, has always been with us a sign of sound lungs: but
a man can't drink, my little cobblers, beyond his thirst. You
understand? Now would it not be better--mind you I am much obliged to
you for the honour, all the same--if you sent a few delegates, say two
or three; wouldn't that be more considerate to the lady, and show your
politeness just as well?'

"'Not a bit of it, not a bit of it!' screamed the broad-bonnets. 'We
must all eat, and all dance!'

"'Just like all the world!' muttered Klaus to himself. 'If you invite
one of the townsfolk to a church ale he'll take three cakes for one, and
stuff himself till the steps groan as he goes down again. I say,
gentlemen,' he continued, turning to the Dwarfs, 'are you aware that I
am your king's godson, and on the most intimate terms with him?'

"'And that thy father made him fiddle himself to death?' answered the
little one resentfully; 'and that thou hast grown a good-for-nought,
ready to bung up our whole gracious kingdom in a mouse-hole, had'st thou
thy will? Eh, Master Nicholas?"

'Ah, don't be too hard now! Recollect what your king did to my father,
and all that I have suffered for the last six months. Look at me! Hasn't
Gossip Crookleg stripped me of money, field, and house?'

Again the dwarfs laughed.

'Ha, Klaus!' said the speaker, "Tell us, now, wouldn't you like to see
all that went out at the doors fly in again, ere to-morrow, at the
windows?"

'Only tell me,' said Klaus quickly, 'how to fill my bags again, and I
invite you all, every man Jack of you, to the wedding. There's nothing
like shaking hands and being friends again. Forget and forgive, say I!'

'And Annie dances with us?' interposed the Dwarf with eagerness,
swinging a pair of newly-made shoes at the same time so impetuously that
they slipped out of his hand, and dropped just into the young boor's
lap.

'Hollo! I didn't say that!' cried Klaus. 'I'll turn that over in my
mind, and give you an answer in the morning.'

A marvellous kind of whining interrupted the discourse. The innumerable
band of dwarfs pulled the drollest faces, folded their handikins, and
made the most lamentable gesticulations; but the speaker slid like a
spider, upon one of the threads which canopied over the cart, down into
Klaus's lap; thence he clambered up his jacket, and mounted until he
reached the youngster's hand--'Give me the shoes!' he exclaimed
maliciously, snatching and catching at the lost property.

"'Not so, not so, dear cousin Broadcap. This bit of workmanship will I
hoard up against my marriage, when I promise to put them on you myself,
if you will visit me.'

"'No, no, no--give me the shoes!' said the Dwarf fiercely, stamping with
both feet, and lifting his manikin fists in menace against Klaus. 'I
must and will have the shoes!'

"The remaining dwarfs again set up their sorrowful whine; and then Klaus
became aware that an accident had happened which, with prudence, might
be turned to great account.

"'Now, fine fellows, listen to me!' said he. 'The shoes you don't have
back. But if you will promise to set me to rights again with your king
and people, and to give me only the neediest livelihood, then are you
welcome to my wedding, to eat and dance as much as you like.

"'Well, Klaus!' answered the Dwarf, 'I see thou hast the best of us; and
we have no time to spend in disputation. In thirteen hours from this, we
must breathe upon the silver veins of the earth, that they may keep
nicely fresh, and in good growth. But an thou wilt hold faith with us,
hear my proposal. Come hither again to-morrow evening, and strike with
that sprig of yew, that hangs down below thee, into the well water. So,
perchance, shalt thou learn what is best to do. Quick, yea or nay?'

"'There can be little harm in that!' returned the farmer. 'I
answer--_yea!_'

"'Brrrr----!' snarled and whizzled behind him all over the cart. The
dwarfs tumbled down from every twig, bough, spoke, and felloe, and
vanished in one large pointed flame, that could be seen for a second
blazing from the well.

"Baldface took fright, tore from the spot, and galloped as if for life
and death, over stock and stone, until the village was reached. As for
Klaus, he did not recover his senses until he found himself again in his
own farmyard.

"It was with solicitude and a beating heart that Nicholas awaited the
arrival of the next evening. In the meanwhile, he took another and more
exact survey of his already half-ruined house; and the result was so
melancholy that he felt he must stake life itself for the chance of
bettering his fortune. There was not a beam, a board, a rafter, a lath,
in the whole house that was not ready, upon the slightest assault, to go
to wreck. Of glass windows the rumour was long since extinct. All stood
open; and had Klaus been a student of meteorology, a better observatory
than his loopholed, tumble-down homestead could not have been to be had.
He returned from his tour of inspection more firmly resolved than ever
to risk his adventure; and as soon as the sun was set, and the moon
traced darker shadows upon the ground, he took his yew-branch and
dwarfs' shoes, and set out.

"Klaus made a long circuit, and lingered a long time in the fields,
before he could summon courage to approach the spring. He plucked up a
heart at last, struck a light, and lit his pipe. Thus armed, he advanced
to the well. The yew-twig struck the bright motionless water, and
strongly agitated it. The stream exundated on every side; kindled as it
mounted, and, tumbling and commingling, in a few seconds, like an
enormous flame of fire, rolled forwards and backwards round the margin
of the fountain.

"Klaus steadily regarded the mysterious phantasm. The flame enringed the
whole well, and at length falling back, in an incomprehensible manner,
into itself, began to darken, and to emit vapour. In the midst of the
smoke, the young boor recognized Godfather Stringstriker. He was sitting
upon a crystal throne, a-squat, with his crooked legs tucked under him,
smoking with exquisite complacency a pipe as thick as his arm,
terminating in a bowl as large as his head. He seemed wholly occupied in
tracing the progress of the massive curls of smoke, which gushed
abundantly from his capacious mouth, and took no notice of his godchild.
It was left to young Nicholas, therefore, to commence the colloquy.

"'Good even, godfather!' said the lad, not quite at ease. 'I hope you
enjoy your evening pipe. You need something to keep yourself warm and
comfortable. The air strikes chilly hereabouts!'

"A smile diffused itself over the whole breadth of the dwarf's face, and
he puffed away for his life.

"'You're i' th' right, Godson Klaus. I like my bit of pipe! That I can
say, and honestly. It's good tobacco, too; a little dear, no doubt, but
fairly earned. Wilt try a Whiff?'

"'I--I--I am much obliged, Godfather Stringstriker, but I am no great
smoker, and I like to stick to one sort--Porto-rico--threepence a
packet. Would you like to taste it?'

"'Cabbage!' rejoined the Dwarf, contemptuously. 'Tobacco, to be good,
must smell like mine. Here, put your nose to it. It's Hungarian of the
best!'

"The Dwarf pushed out his broad hand, and Klaus stooped towards it. His
heart leaped into his throat as he gazed upon a dozen or two of the
purest Kremnitz ducats. He darted at them like a tiger; but the Dwarf
was prepared for him.

"'Not so, not so!' replied the latter, drawing his hand back. 'Ere thou
have them, we must strike a bargain.'

"And with these words the Dwarf took up his pipe, which only a moment
before he had laid aside. The attention of young Nicholas was drawn more
closely to it by the movement, and he perceived, for the first time,
that the colossal bowl was neither more nor less than a bald, smooth,
and perfectly white human skull. A closer inspection convinced him that
it was that of his own deceased and venerated parent. Above, upon the
forehead, there was a moveable clapper, through which the superfluous
smoke ascended; the tube was fixed in the mouth, and the eye-holes were
continually supplied with gold pieces by a couple of thousand of
indefatigable dwarfs, twenty or thirty of whom tugged along one ducat,
and were sorely put to it to bring it to the proper place. Klaus was
almost unsettled by the discovery.

"'I see,' he said with an unsteady, tremulous voice--'I see, godfather,
you have quite a new-fashioned headpiece there. Is it your own
particular fancy, or a new French mode?'

"'Quite my own private and individual _goût_, godson Klaus!' answered
the Dwarf proudly. 'The flavour is perfect out of an old rogue's skull,
that has been danced to death. When it is thoroughly smoke-seasoned, I
expect the Grand Turk will give me a million piasters for it. Before
then I must look about, and get me another. Heark'ee, godson! how clear
it rings already!' And before Klaus could get in a word, the Dwarf gave
the well-smoked skull a dozen unmerciful kicks with his heavy topboots.

"'For God's sake, godfather Stringstriker,' exclaimed Klaus, 'have some
discretion, or I shall forget myself, and fall foul of you! What! do you
think a child has no feeling for his dead parents? and is that a
respectable way of treating your friends?'

"'Spare your breath, child!' interposed the Dwarf; 'talking makes no
headway with men of my stamp. Let us come to an understanding! Tell me,
Klaus--art thou content that, in ten years' time, when this pipe-head is
handed over to the Grand Turk, to give up thy numskull for my evening
pipe? I own to thee, I envy it. It is of first-rate thickness, and would
smoke a pretty while, for thou dost hold, I think, a good quantity.'

"'Come to an end--out with it all, godfather!' said Klaus in a tone of
wretchedness. 'What do you wish me to do? I am willing to fast till I
die of hunger, and whatever is humanly possible to perform, I will do;
but as to your cursed head-smoking, I tell you, once for all, it's out
of the question. The thing must be put an end to; for it is a disgrace
to me, and a shame to all Christendom!'

"As Klaus spoke in sheer vexation, he smote several times with his
yew-slip into the water of the well, without noticing that the clear
flood swelled over upon all sides like a lightning fire-glow; whilst a
whining moan was plainly audible. The Dwarf put on a very serious
countenance, his pipe slipped from his mouth, and, in a completely
altered tone, he rejoined--

"'Godchild Klaus, take heed to me! I like your ways, and will make you a
well-meant offer. As for this head here,' and he knocked the ducat-ashes
out of Simon's skull--'it shall be transferred to thee, and thou shalt
keep thine own too, provided thou wilt give me back the two shoes which
yesterday one of my merry pages lost. What say you to it?'

"'Eh! what?' said Nicholas, in doubt.

"'Give me the shoes!' repeated Stringstriker.

"'Now look you, godfather!' said Klaus determinedly, 'what if I accept
your proposal! Here are your shoes, and you are welcome to them. But I
ask you, is life worth having, if I am to be for ever a poor eschewed,
scoffed, and scorned castaway? The devil a bit you care for what the
world says; but one of us, who is a mere man, spitted upon by a whole
village, feels what it is to be poor and contemned. I tell you boldly,
godfather, and on my very heart, you must put an end to my misery--for
you can do it. Give me back my money and land, and make me honourable
amongst my neighbours. I can't sit alone like a night-owl in my hovel. I
like to have my fellow-creatures about me, to eat bread and drink water,
or it may be a draught of beer with me. I can't live the life of a
blessed hermit. I am, as you know, but a simple plain fellow, a boor, a
foolish forlorn lad, the unhappy son of poor Mike, danced to death for
his sins.'

"Here Nicholas stopped, sobbing piteously, and dropping big and heavy
tears, that found their way to the well beneath him.

"'Have you done?' said Stringstriker.

"'I have nothing more to say, godfather,' sighed the lad; 'only be kind,
and put all to rights again. I have paid dearly for cursing you upon
occasion, and now I humbly ask your pardon for my fault. Give me a
handful or two of ducats, that I may get my barn repaired, marry my poor
Annie, and again set up for an honest boor. If you will do this,
Godfather Stringstriker, your children shall dance at my marriage, and
here are your shoes!'

"'A bargain, godson!' said the Dwarf. 'Thou art a right sort of lad, and
I will help thee. My children must have their shoes too; for by the loss
of them they have gone already a great stride back in their education.
Thou canst hear how they cry and beg, the poor things! Come here, and
dip into thy father's head. The poor dog no longer feels it. So! that'll
do. For the skull, concern thee no further. In a quarter of an hour, it
shall be where it should be. But now, I rede thee, look that thou art
presently ready to marry, and neglect not bidding good plenty of guests;
but invite especially those that have hitherto tightly toused, mocked,
and scorned thee. If thou hast lack of coin, thou wottest where
Godfather Stringstriker dwells. On thy wedding-day, send hither thy
three largest waggons, and to each a team of four strong horses, for I
shall load them heavily--and hear'st, Godson Klaus? they shall drive
nice and slowly round about the springlet, and then away again at a good
gallop back to thy farm-yard. As to thyself, mark me, Klaus! upon thy
wedding-day thou shalt stick a yew-leaf in thy left ear, and, as soon as
I sign to thee, throw some handfuls of the like upon all the tables.
Now, at once, good-night!'

"The shoes were already delivered up. There was a hissing in the air,
the water in the well moved in luminous circles, and a hearty laughter
seemed to force its way out of all the fissures of the earth. All was
then still. The moon burst forth, and shone so brightly that one might
have looked for a pin. Klaus felt his good gold in his pockets, and
returned gleesome, and in ease of heart, back to his ruinous house.

"After a night spent in pleasant dreams, Klaus reckoned up his cash, and
found it sufficient to procure some horses, a few cows, waggon, and
gearing. As to the repairs of the mansion, his notion was to do at first
only the indispensable, clearly discerning that, in order to live
comfortably in future, an entire pulling down and rebuilding was
inevitable. He was much more bent upon reappearing as a man of money and
estate in the eyes of his fellow farmers. His first care, accordingly,
was to hire domestics, male and female, to rig himself out a little, and
then, without delay, to push on the preparations for his marriage.

"In less than a fortnight, every thing requisite was done, and the
neighbours opened their eyes to thrice their usual size as they suddenly
saw life moving again in Nicholas's farmhouse--active labourers once
more in his fields. Their astonishment increased upon hearing, next
Sunday, the banns published from the pulpit. But when, a week
afterwards, the functionary whose office it was, with silver-headed
cane, velvet waistcoat and frill, to bid the guests to the approaching
wedding, appeared upon the farms of those who, a little before, were
Klaus's most memorable calumniators, and invited all, without exception,
to the merry-making, then indeed, as if by magic, did the despised Lying
Klaus become 'a worthy creature after all,' 'a capital fellow at last,'
and have his praises echoed from every beer-bench in the parish. Nobody
ever thought of asking how Klaus got possessed of his new money. He had
it; that fact was all-sufficient for the multitude. One or two might
itch to make their comments upon the quick metamorphosis, but self-love
kept them quiet; for every man already licked his lips in anticipation
of the marriage-feast that awaited all.

"The preparations for the wedding were busily pushed on. Joiners and
carpenters were closing windows, and fastening tottering beams from
morning till night. Walls were broken down, and kitchens built up.
Nothing had been seen like it by 'the oldest inhabitant.'

"Well, time ran on, and the banns were three times called; there was the
spousal at the parsonage, the fetching of the bride by the bridegroom,
with an escort of musicians, and at length there was the marriage
ceremony itself--all happily got through. The guests, men and women,
were numerous, and amongst them not a few who, for a sennight, had lived
on half-allowance, the better and more steadily to devour at Klaus's
marriage.

"In due time, orders were given to take the three largest waggons to the
Dwarf's well, to drive slowly round this thrice, and then to push back
at a gallop. The servants did not dare to refuse their master's bidding;
but they shook their heads significantly when they received their
strange commission, and suspected, firm and fast, that Klaus, in his
excessive joy, had already drunk a cup or two beyond his thirst.

"The pastor, sitting at the right hand of the bride, had said grace, and
the schoolmaster and the marriage-entreater were about commencing the
distribution of the enormous masses of carp, beneath which the tables
fairly groaned, when the rattle of the three returning waggons made
known to Klaus the arrival of his subterranean guests. His heart beat
violently, for at the same instant a well-known whispering and humming
met his ear. In obedience to command, he secured the yew-leaf in his
left ear, and prepared himself for what might follow. He expected much,
but what he saw almost threw him from his seat with astonishment.

"Wherever there was an aperture, a split, or a rent in walls, windows,
doors, there came in the dwarfs by hundreds: so as that in a few minutes
the whole space was swarming with the little ones. They were most
smartly dressed, just as Klaus had previously seen them, only that now,
instead of the top boots, they wore those delicate dancing-pumps, upon
which the young husbandman had at first caught them at work.

"Klaus attentively noted whether any of his guests had a suspicion of
the apparition of these earth mannikins, but there was not a sign of it.
The gentlemen forked away gallantly, and the tankards were not running
over. As the bridegroom saw the spiritual company still gliding in, so
that their number amounted already to hundreds of thousands, and
stove-cornices, window-sills, joint-stools, and backs of chairs were
thickly beset with the comical companions, he began to be uneasy. He
feared lest the brothers of the bride, who were waiting upon the guests,
might trample the small brood into fine dust; and in order to divert at
least all blame from himself, he addressed himself to his godfather,
then approaching him.

"'You do me great honour, respected godfather, by your presence--but
please remember, I cannot answer for dwarf slaughter--and murderous
crushings. Only look at the quantity of spruce vermin you have done me
the favour to bring with you!'

"Stringstriker waved his hand magnanimously, and told his godson that it
was of little consequence. Then with a bold leap, the king mounted the
long table, picked his way to the middle of it, and there, with legs
astride, fast planted himself. Not one of all the guests perceived the
larger Dwarf, any more than they could see the countless little ones.
Even Annie and the clergyman were stone-blind: so that Klaus, speaking
unintelligibly at every turn, had to bear the jokes of all; for young
and old, woman and man, chimed readily in with the tone of sportive
raillery, as soon as it was once pitched.

"The company indeed persisted in laughing and rioting so loudly at the
bridegroom's expense, that the pastor of the flock at length felt
himself called upon to assume his face of office--to put a damper, as it
were, upon the unseemly proceeding. Just as he began, a new dish, soup
with crabs' noses, (hotchpotch,) engaged exclusively the regard of the
whole of the guests. A full plate was set before every visitor, but
scarcely set before him, before, with the speed of lightning, from
chair-backs, window-sills, stove-cornices, nay, from the floor itself,
innumerable dwarfs bounded on to the table, and, taking their places by
all the plates, in three seconds consumed the savoury viand. To complete
the astonishment, the confusion, the wrath, the fury of the voracious
boors, Stringstriker himself galloped up and down the whole length of
the table, breaking all the vessels, and draining all the beer and
brandy with wonderful celerity.

"Had the most precious jewels of the Holy Roman Empire been plundered by
the Turks, there could not have been a greater commotion than arose
among the wedding-guests. Every man jumped up, turned in anger and
disgust towards his neighbour, sate down again, and again began to reach
after the food, without being able, of course, to get a morsel. Then
every man swore his neighbour was making a fool of him, and, from the
coarsest words, it came, without loss of time, to dreadful menaces and
blows. So greedy were some after the liquorish cookery that they gave
themselves good smart punctures in lip and tongue; inasmuch as the
mischievous dwarfs, as soon as any in his haste forked up a piece of
meat, incontinently had it down their own throats. With such
provocation, the blows, on all sides, came down in showers; more ears
were peppered, backs thumped, ribs punched, than the prize-ring of
England had ever seen. And, as if it were not enough for the men to be
sparring, the women, seeing their husbands covered with blood and
bruises, must needs take up the cudgels, and fall to fighting too! A
hundred arms were a-kimbo in a twinkling. Caps were dragged off, and
nails shown with amazonian spirit. There was a general mêlée; every soul
at the table was engaged in the contest. Marriage and bridal pair were
forgotten; and Klaus roared at the droll uproar till his throat smarted
again: for, not much to his regret, he soon enough became aware that his
enemies and his calumniators were the parties who were coming off second
best.

"This mutual threshing had lasted a good quarter of an hour, when a sign
from Stringstriker directed the bride-groom to scatter the yew-leaves.
In an instant the table was covered with them; and the guests, as if
bewitched, dispersed in grotesque groups, and remained transfixed. Every
eye was on the busy dwarfs. Klaus's godfather, crossing his legs, seated
himself upon the table, and began to scrape his fiddle. The earth
mannikins then arranged themselves in order, swung their broad hats
gracefully, and, one stepping upon the shoulder of another, built up a
living pyramid above the bride. A number clambered up to the very top of
her tinsel crown, where, still two and two, they took possession of a
spangle, fixed themselves upon it, and rocking to and fro, set up a soft
and tender song. The bride danced to its tune, the pyramid of dwarfs
along with her; and it was enchanting to see how their shining silvery
girdles, and the bright clasps upon their caps, flashed and sparkled in
the varying figure. Three times the dwarfs changed in the building of
this pyramid, and three times, attended by it, must the bride dance
round the table, through the gaping groups of guests. This done,
Stringstriker played a lively march, broke through a window with his
fiddlestick, and leapt out through the opening--whilst the whole dwarf
brotherhood, waltzing, laughing, tumbling, in a countless crowd,
prepared to follow him. For a time the procession fluctuated through the
air, where the girdles yet sparkled. Soon, like a dissolving gleam, all
vanished!

"The stupified boors were now able to stir themselves again. Doubtless
there were many bumps, black and blue faces, and bloody noses: but the
sight of all could not suppress the most extravagant merriment. All that
had happened was looked upon as a prank of the fiddler, and many in
their hearts felt that they had only received a just punishment for
their coarse and unchristian calumnies.

"Klaus Stringstriker's fame lived upon every tongue. The dwarfs obtained
no mean eulogies: and when it was at last discovered that the small
mannikins had, close before the window, one and all thrown down their
broad brown capkins with the brilliant clasps, the company for joy was
almost mad. The bridegroom was importuned, in remembrance of this
marvellous festival, to bestow upon each guest one such dwarf-hatkin,
and Klaus did not need a long begging. Each one acquired a hatkin with
its agraffe: some of a greedy nature, by stealth, possessed themselves
of two. The presents given, the company returned to the board, and drank
and uproared far into the night.

"Upon the morrow, Klaus found the Dwarf-hatkins turned into so many
Kremnitz double ducats, and upon each there lay, glittering in the
sunshine, a fine diamond. As he gathered them, a delicate voice from
unseen lips whispered to him that these were his father's hairs. All the
gift-receivers had the same wonder to tell. Those, however, who had
secretly taken away the second dwarf's cap were punished for the theft--
for they got nothing from the transformation but a wet and worthless
beech-leaf.

"From that hour all haunting upon Klaus's estate ceased. Even at the
Dwarf's well nothing remarkable was seen, save once a-year--upon the
anniversary of the young boor's wedding-day--when a great gamboling
flame appeared upon the waters, in which a singing and ringing might be
heard, like the voices of the smallest beings. The fortunate Klaus built
himself a great house, repurchased the tavern, and upon the pillar where
Stringstriker, tied up by his father, had had to fiddle so long, he
carved an inscription which published the Dwarf's praise to every guest
And his father's grave he surrounded with a fair iron grating. As for
himself, his intercourse with the Dwarf had made him prudent. He ruled
his substance discreetly, helped the poor, and cautioned the
light-witted by the relation of his own history. So he became the
richest and most respected man of the whole neighbourhood; and at length
acquired the name of the _Dwarf's advocate_: because, as Klaus
maintained, and as it was generally believed, a most important service
had been rendered, by the passages of Klaus's history, to these singular
and benevolent earth-spirits themselves."



SOME REMARKS ON SCHILLER'S MAID OF ORLEANS.


Perhaps there is no play of Schiller's which is read with more general
pleasure than the _Maid of Orleans_, nor one against which so many
critical objections have been raised. Some of these we wish to examine,
in order either to remove, or with greater accuracy to re-state them. It
will be seen at once that we have no intention of entering into any
general review or estimate of this great dramatic poet. Too much has
been written, and especially in this place, on Schiller, to permit us to
be tempted into any such design. We shall not wander from the single
play we have selected for our criticism.

On recalling to mind the story of Joan d'Arc, what is the point of view
in which that singular person presents herself to us? Joan d'Arc--whom
we shall call, after her title in the play, Johanna--a village maiden,
and a fugitive from her home, turned the tide of victory in the great
war which, in her time, was raging in France. As she effected this
through the influence which a belief in her supernatural power and
celestial inspiration exerted upon the army of Charles; and as, on the
other hand, the cruel fate she herself personally encountered from her
enemies, was the consequence of an opposite belief in her witchcraft, or
possession by the devil; the unhappy maiden presents herself to us, in a
strictly historical point of view, as one of those wild visionaries whom
solitude occasionally rears, become suddenly the sport of the tumultuous
feelings of two rival hosts, elevated by the one to a saint and the
companion of angels, and by the other blackened into a witch and the
associate of demons. History has relieved her moral character from the
aspersions thrown upon it, and philosophy has quite denuded her of the
least claims to supernatural power, whether derived from above or from
below: nothing remains but the enthusiast and the visionary, and the
strange position into which circumstances conducted her. And this
position of the thought-bewildered maid is rendered the more striking,
when we consider that it was her own countrymen who judged of her in so
contradictory a manner; for the war which raged around her was rather a
civil war, in which one of the parties had formed an alliance with
England, than a national war between France and England. It was by
Frenchmen that she was extolled and reverenced, and by Frenchmen that
she was condemned and executed: it was under the auspices, and with the
blessings, of the church that she conquered; it was the church that
execrated her, and sent her as an abomination to the stake.

This point of view is not only historically true, but replete, we think,
with poetic interest. The maiden is not, indeed, invested with any
supernatural attributes; we see her here neither more nor less than the
pious and day-dreaming enthusiast; but an enthusiast for her country--an
enthusiast for a young prince whom she has been taught to honour, and
whose reverse of fortune has deeply affected her. We see this young
enthusiast--her imagination swarming with visions, her heart beating
with generous aspirations--thrown out from her village retirement upon
the tumult of war; we see her snatched up, as by a whirlwind, by the
fanaticism of the multitude, who bear her, as she bears her banner,
onwards in their career, and conquer under this new standard they have
reared. We see her arriving at a success which, notwithstanding her own
prophecies, must have astonished herself. When the king has been crowned
at Rheims, something whispers to her that she ought now to retreat into
her native village, or, what was the only fitting termination for her
course, into some religious house, and find there a harbour from the
tempest on which she is tossing. But the selfish men around her will not
let her go. She may guide them a little yet. They bear the torch while
there is an ember left. Then comes the changeful fortune of war, defeat
and imprisonment; and now we see the same poor human heart, its visions
soiled and clouded, its courage beaten down, surrounded only by enemies
and scoffers, beginning even to suspect itself of imposture and impiety.
She who had felt as a saint, hears herself exorcised as a sorcerer; and,
by and by, a crowd of men, churchmen and civilians, stand round in
triumph to see her burnt and consumed as a thing unholy and impure,
whose life had been, not, as she had deemed, a perpetual devotion, but a
perpetual blasphemy.

But although it appears to us that this, which is the true historical
point of view, is also the most replete with poetic interest, it may not
be an interest so well adapted to the drama as to other species of
poetry. The heroine is here made the prey of the two rival factions, who
appear to contend, not only for the possession of her person, but for
the domination over her mind; not enough is attributed to her individual
will and character; the action of the piece does not immediately flow
from her; and the people, with its strange faiths and monstrous
caprices, becomes the veritable hero. It was for this reason, we
presume, that Schiller rejected what, in our days, is the simple and
natural manner of considering his subject, and adopted a different point
of view. Designating his play as a _romantic_ tragedy, he resolved to
represent the maid as really inspired by Heaven--as veritably
commissioned by the Virgin--as endowed, _bonâ fide_, with miraculous
powers. She is thus the living centre of the action. Whatever is
effected by the appearance of the Maid of Orleans, is effected by her
individual prowess, or the aid of heaven administered through her.

This was a bold attempt, and very boldly has Schiller executed it. He
has stopped at no middle point. He has not scrupled to represent the
fabulous miracles of a superstitious age as actually taking place before
us. Johanna gives proofs of her faculty of second-sight; she sees, while
at the camp of the Dauphin, the death of Salisbury before Orleans; she
performs in our presence those miracles by which she is said to have
first established her reputation at the court--recognising the Dauphin
at once, although he had purposely resigned his post of dignity to
another, and reciting to him the secret prayer which he had, the night
before, offered up to God in the solitude of his own chamber. And not
only are the fables, which the chronicles of the times have handed down
to us, enacted as veritable facts, but the poet has added miracles and
prodigies of his own invention; and in particular, a certain spectre of
a black knight--who appears to us to have been introduced as much for
the sake of supporting the supernatural character of the piece as for
any other purpose.

This hardihood of the poet has by some critics been censured. For
ourselves, we have a lingering and obstinate regret that Schiller ever
thought it necessary to forsake the true for the fabulous; that he did
not restrict himself to representing the faith of the age in the
dialogue of his personages; that he did not content himself with marvels
related only in the imitated conversation of superstitious persons. The
most sceptical of men admit the reality and fervour of superstitious
beliefs; and in depicting _them_ in all their vitality, the poet is
still adhering rigidly to truth: it is for the reader to sympathize with
them or not at his pleasure. But Schiller having resolved to represent
as fact the superstitious faith of the times, instead of building upon
that faith as his _fact_; having determined that Johanna should be
verily inspired, and see visions, and be the champion of the Holy Virgin
for the salvation of France--we think he was quite right in casting
aside all timidity, all remaining scruples of reason, and freely giving
up his scene to prodigies and marvels. If you must lie, lie boldly--is a
good maxim for poets as well as rogues. Above all, do we dislike that
dubious and pitiful position which a narrator of supernatural events
sometimes falls into, where the reader is perpetually asking himself
whether the author seriously intends to task his credulity or not.

We must here, however, remark that, even when the poet represents the
supernatural as the faith only of others, he must still, in order to do
this effectively, awaken some degree of superstitious feeling in
ourselves. To understand the belief or delusion of another without more
or less participating in it, is a state of mind in which the philosopher
might be very well content to place us, but which by no means suits the
purposes of the poet. We must be made to partake for the moment, to some
slight degree, in the superstitious feelings of the past age which is
brought before us, or we can no longer feel that sympathetic interest
which the poet seeks to create. The spectacle presented to us becomes
one of mere curiosity. As well might we look through a microscope, and
watch the world of _animalculae_ it reveals. Very curious that little
world; but we take no part in any of its proceedings, violent as they
evidently are. And here lies the reason, we apprehend, why dramatic
representations of insanity are so generally unsuccessful. We cannot
participate in the capricious delusions of the maniac, who becomes,
therefore, a mere object of wonder or curiosity. The moment when the
lunatic affects us most deeply is, when he approaches nearest to the
ordinary current of human thought--it is the moment when he comes _back_
to reason, and its too frequent companion, the sense of pain.

We make this observation, because it probably had its weight in
determining the poet in the course he pursued. Schiller probably
reflected that, whether he _related_ his marvels in the dialogue of his
personages, or represented them as _facts_ in his drama, he must in both
cases depend, for the impression he should produce, on a successful
appeal to the superstitious feelings of his contemporaries. In whatever
era a poet may find his materials, his authority for using them must lie
in the age he writes for--in the interest they are capable of exciting
in that age. His success as a dramatic poet required that he should
kindle the love of the marvellous; and he may have thought that, in an
artistical point of view, the question resolved itself into one of
policy, of means to an end--whether it were better to assail our
credulity by open force, and so take it by storm, or to content himself
with a less advantage, gained by more insidious but surer approaches.

With all his boldness, and all his genius, has Schiller succeeded in his
treatment of the miraculous? We hesitate to reply. There is a peculiar
difficulty in deciding how far a poet has been successful in an appeal
to superstitious feelings; it is this, that in such cases every
intelligent reader feels that he must be aidant and assistant in the
subjection of his own rebellious reason, prompt at every moment to turn
with impatience and derision from the utterly incredible. This necessity
to be a party concerned in the business, leaves him in doubt how far he
has been compelled by the poet, and how far he has, or _ought to have_,
voluntarily surrendered. After all, the use of the marvellous in poetry
is not so much itself to impress us with awe and astonishment, as to
supply novel and striking situations for the display of human feelings.
When Johanna, for instance, describes the visitation by the Virgin, and
declares her sacred mission, we listen unmoved. Not so, when, having
felt the touch of human passion, she sighs to re-enter into the common
rank of mortals, and laments the dreadful honour that has been imposed
upon her. Yet this latter sentiment, so natural and so affecting, could
not be separated from the previous fable. In this lies the difference
between the poetry of a rude and a cultivated age. In the first, the
supernatural is for itself sought for and admired; in the second, it is
admitted for the sake of the singular opportunities it affords for the
display of natural and powerful emotions.

There is another point in the tragedy of _The Maid of Orleans_, on which
we feel no hesitation whatever in expressing a decisive opinion--
namely, the violent departure from history in the catastrophe. But in
order to make our remarks on this and some other points intelligible, we
must enter a little further into the plot of the drama. Our detail shall
be as brief as possible.[1]

[1] In the few extracts we shall have occasion to make, we would have
willingly had recourse at once to an English translation, if such had
been within our reach. That not being the case, the reader must accept
our own attempts at translation.

The drama opens with a scenic prologue. The scene is the village of Dom
Remi; on the left is the Druid oak--on the right, the image of the
Virgin in a small chapel. Thibaut d'Arc enters with his three daughters,
Margaret, Louison, and Johanna, together with their three suitors,
Etienne, Claude Marie, and Raimond. Thibaut deplores the state of his
fatherland. Young Henry VI. of England has just been crowned at Paris,
and Charles, the hereditary prince, is wandering a fugitive through his
own kingdom. They themselves are in danger every day of seeing the enemy
pour down into their own quiet valleys. Nevertheless, partly from this
very cause, he determines upon giving his daughters in marriage without
further delay. He bestows Margaret upon Etienne. Then, turning to the
second daughter, Louison, and to her suitor, who, it seems, can lay
little claim to worldly possessions, he says--

     "Shall I, because ye proffer me no wealth,
     Sunder two hearts that seem so well attuned?
     Who _has_ wealth now? Home and homestead now
     Are booty for the robber and the flames:
     The strong heart of a brave and constant man
     Is the sole roof-tree which these stormy times
     Must pass unshaken."

Hitherto father Thibaut seems an amiable personage, but he turns out to
be one of the most disagreeable atrabilious parents that ever made his
appearance on the stage. He next addresses and reproaches his daughter
Johanna, who is beloved by Raimond, but who rejects the ties of earthly
affection. He has taken an exceedingly morose view of the character of
his daughter; a circumstance which becomes of great importance in the
progress of the piece; for Johanna's reverse of fortune is brought about
by the strange intervention of this dark and sinister parent. He
believes his child more prone to ally herself with evil spirits, through
a vain and sinful ambition, than, inspired by piety, to emulate the
lives of saints. Raimond combats this gloomy notion. He thinks that the
love of Johanna, like the most costly fruits, is only late in ripening.

       "_Raimond._--As yet she loves to dwell upon the hills,
     And trembles to descend from the free heath
     To man's low roof, beset with narrow cares.
       _Thibaut._--Ay, that it is displeases me. She flies
     Her sisters' frolicsome companionship
     For the bare hills--deserts her sleepless couch
     Before the cock-crow--in that fearful hour
     When man so willingly his shelter seeks,
     Housed with his kind, within familiar walls,
     She, like a solitary bird, hies forth
     Into the gloomy, spirit-haunted, night,
     Stands on the cross-way, holding with the air
     Mysterious intercourse. Why will she choose
     Perpetually _this_ place? Why will she drive
     Her flocks for ever _here?_ I've seen her sit
     Musing whole hours together underneath
     This Druid oak, which all good Christians shun;
     There's nothing blest beneath it; a foul spirit
     Has made his refuge in it ever since
     The old and sinful times of Paganism.
     The old men of the village can relate
     Horrible tales of this same tree: one hears
     Oft, in its thick dark branches, whisperings
     Of strange unearthly voices. I, myself,
     As once my way led past the tree at night,
     Saw sitting at its trunk a spectral woman,
     Who slowly, from her wide enfolding robe,
     Stretch'd a thin hand and beckon'd me."

Raimond points to the sacred image of the Virgin, which stands opposite
the oak, and replies that _it_ is the attraction which brings Johanna to
this spot. But the old man persists in his own interpretation. Because
his daughter is more beautiful than any other maiden in the valley, she
is proud, and disdains her humble condition. He has had, moreover,
ominous dreams. The entrance of Bertrand, a countryman just arrived from
the neighbouring town of Vaucouleurs, interrupts the conversation. He
carries a helmet in his hand, which has been forced upon him, in the
marketplace, by a strange woman. Johanna, who has all this while
remained quite silent, not answering a word to the rebuke of her parent,
comes suddenly forward, and claims the helmet as having been sent for
her. Through the interposition of her lover, it is granted to her.
Bertrand, being asked what news of the war he has heard at Vaucouleurs,
gives a desponding account of the king's cause, and brings the report
that Orleans, pressed by the besiegers, is on the point of surrendering.
Johanna now breaks forth:--

     "Of treaty, of surrender not a word!
     A saviour comes and arms her for the fight.
     At Orleans wrecks the fortune of the foe!
     His measure full, he is for harvest ripe,
     And with her sickle shall the virgin come,
     And reap the rank luxuriance of his pride.
     Down from the heavens she tears that blazon'd fame
     These English knights have hung about the stars.
     Fly not! droop not!
     Before the corn is yellow in the fields,
     Before this moon has fill'd her globe of light,
     There shall not drink an English horse
     Of the sweet-flowing waters of the Loire.
       _Bertrand._--Alas! the age of miracles is past.
       _Johanna._--Not past! ye shall behold a miracle.
     Lo! a white dove with eagle courage flies
     Down on the vulture that still rends his prey,
     Our mangled country. The traitor Burgundy,
     The haughty Talbot that would storm the skies,
     This Salisbury, scandal of the Temple's order,
     And all these insolent proud islanders
     Shall fly before her like a herd of lambs."

Of this prologue it has been justly said, that it might as well have
been the first scene of the first act: for it is as essential to the
progress of the piece as any one scene in the play; and the speakers
re-appear, and for very important purposes, in the body of the drama.
For our part, we look upon prologues of this description as little else
than a device of the poet to gain more space than his five acts afforded
him. When it has no connexion with the action of the piece, we wish to
know what claim it has to be there at all; and when it is so connected,
we are at a loss to perceive what end it answers, which could not be as
legitimately prosecuted under the old title of Act I. Scene 1.

The nominal first act opens with the little court of Charles at Chinon.
Here all is verging towards a state of desperation. Finances exhausted,
troops threatening to disband, and a deputation from Orleans to inform
the king that the town had agreed to surrender, if, within fourteen
days, effectual succour was not sent to relieve it. Charles answers in
despair:--

             "Can I by stamping with my feet
     Raise armies from the ground? Can I
     Pour granaries from this bare and naked palm?
     Rend me in pieces! Tear me out this heart,
     And coin it for gold! Blood have I for you,
     But silver have I none, nor corn, nor soldiers."

Agnes Sorel enters with a casket of jewels in her hand. Although she has
always refused to accept of the king any more costly present than a rare
flower, or an early fruit, she now comes to devote all her wealth and
possessions to his service. But her aid affords him little more than a
noble proof of her love and generosity: it can effect nothing to the
restoration of his shattered fortunes. He dismisses the deputies from
Orleans with permission to make the best terms they can for themselves.
Dunois, the bastard of Orleans, who has eloquently protested against
this desponding desertion, as he deems it, of his own cause, quits the
king in anger. Sorel dispatches La Hire after him to persuade him to
return. La Hire re-enters.


     "_Sorel_. You come alone, you bring him not with you.
             _[then observing him more closely._
     La Hire! What is it? What means this kindled look?
     Alas! Some new misfortune.

       _La Hire_.         Misfortunes
     Are overblown--'tis sunshine, lady, sunshine!

        _Sorel_. What is it?--I entreat--

        _La Hire to the King_. Call back the embassy,
     The deputies from Orleans!

       _Charles_. Why? What is this?

       _La Hire_. Haste! call them back! Thy fortunes change,
     A battle has been fought, and thine the victory.

       _Sorel_. Victory! Oh, heavenly music!

       _Charles_.           La Hire,
     Some fabulous report has cheated you.
     Victory! I believe no more in victories.

       _La Hire_. You will believe--in greater wonders still
     Here comes the archbishop, and with him Dunois.


And with them comes also a knight, who relates how this victory has been
won by the sudden appearance of an armed virgin, who scattered dismay
and terror amongst their enemies. Shouts are heard from without, and
Johanna enters. Here the course of history is followed in the account
the maid gives of herself, and the proofs she affords of her divine
mission.

At the opening of the second act, we find that Orleans has been relieved
by the inspired Johanna. Talbot and Lionel, the English leaders,
attribute the late defeat to the Burgundians; the Duke of Burgundy
retorts. These angry chiefs are on the point of separating, and
terminating their alliance, when the queen-mother Isabeau enters, and
reconciles them. But when Isabeau, who, from her unnatural hatred to her
son Charles, and a certain coarseness of temper, is altogether a very
disagreeable personage, offers, woman against woman, to lead her own
party against Johanna, they all unite in bidding her return forthwith to
Paris. The army, they say, is dispirited when it thinks it fights for
_her_ cause--the cause of the mother against the son. Isabeau says:--

     "Ye know not, weak souls, that ye are the rights
     Of a wrong'd mother. I, for my part, love
     Who honours me; who injures me, I hate;
     And should this be my own begotten son,
     He is for this more hateful. I gave life,
     And I will take--if he, with shameless rage,
     Scandal the womb that bore him. Ye proud nobles
     Who war against my son, ye have no right
     To pillage him. What injury has he done
     To you? what duty violated?
     Ambition and low envy spur ye on:
     I, who begot him, have a right to hate."

While the English are still in their camp, little dreaming of surprise,
the maiden rushes on them, conquers and disperses them. Here passes a
scene between Johanna and Montgomery, a young Welsh knight, who begs for
his life in a truly Homeric manner--pleading his youth, the anguish of
his mother, and the sweet bride he had left upon the Severn. It is quite
Homeric, professedly and successfully so, and therefore quite out of
place. The Welsh knight speaks in a most unknightly strain. And the
change of metre that is adopted assists in giving to the whole the air
of a mere poetical exercise. The scene is not, however, without its
purpose in the development of the character of the maid, because it
shows how utterly she is at this time engrossed in her warlike mission;
she is not a moment affected by the entreaties of Montgomery, and dooms
him to death without pity.

The war still continues fatal to the English. Talbot is slain. In the
next scene, the ghost of this warrior appears to Johanna, under the form
of a black knight with the visor closed. The apparition lures her away
from the heat of the contest, and then addresses to her this solemn
warning:--

                         "Johanna d'Arc!
     Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou been borne
     Upon the wings of victory. Now pause.
     Content thee with the fame that thou hast won.
     Let fortune go, whom thou hast held in bonds,
     Ere it in anger shall break loose from thee;
     For never is it constant to the end."

Johanna, however, who can hear of nothing, and think of nothing, but of
fighting for her country, and who has a particular detestation for this
black knight, strikes at it with her sword. It vanishes with the
appropriate accompaniments of thunder and lightning.

The apparition of the black knight has occasioned some embarrassment and
discussion among the critics. It was at first quite plain that it was
the ghost of Talbot; and when there was no longer any doubt on this
head, it was not easy to decide what brought the ghost of Talbot there,
and why he should give what, knowing as we do the history of Johanna,
has the appearance of very sound advice. But in that lay the very snare
of Satan. It was wise counsel that the devil, through this ghost, gave
to Johanna; but it was _worldly_ wise. It was well suited to some
ambitious person engaged in a career of conquest. Had such a black
knight appeared, for example, to Napoleon, on the eve of entering on his
war with Russia, and warned him to furl his banner of conquest, it would
have been a friendly and intelligent ghost, though we do not believe it
would have been listened to for a moment. A human passion is stronger
than a whole regiment of ghosts. But such advice addressed to Johanna,
the missionary of heaven, who fought from duty, not ambition, could have
no other effect than to infuse into her mind ideas of vain-glory and
love of fame, a selfish regard to personal consequences, and a distrust
of the protection of her divine mistress. The ghost of Talbot,
therefore, was evidently in league with her enemies, the devils, in the
insidious counsel it gave. But the counsel was rejected with disdain,
and Johanna went on still victorious over all.

But the maiden next encounters a more pernicious apparition than the
black knight. She contends with the gallant Lionel. Here, as elsewhere,
she is the victor; she raises her sword to strike, but, fatally for her
peace, she looks twice before she deals the blow. She cannot strike.

Now follows--but in vain for Johanna--the full accomplishment of her
glorious enterprise, in the coronation of the king at Rheims. Contrary
to the obligation of her high mission, she has received into her heart a
human passion. Her peace is gone. Here the poet, in order to express the
rapid alternations of feeling to which she is a prey, breaks from the
even tenor of blank verse into a lyrical effusion of remarkable beauty
and pathos. She is sought for to take her part in the ceremony of the
coronation; it is now with a feeling of horror that she receives into
her hands the sacred banner, which she had borne triumphantly to so many
victories.

Amongst the crowd who have flocked from all parts to witness the
ceremony, are the family of Johanna, and her old lover Raimond. Her
father Thibaut is also there. He has come to save, if yet possible, his
child from perdition, whom he still persists in thinking under the
influence of wicked spirits, and to have wrought all her wonders by the
aid of diabolic enchantments. Now, therefore, when the king, after his
coronation, turns towards Johanna, and, in the presence of all his
nobility, addresses her as the deliverer of France, this melancholy
father rushes forward to reproach and to blaspheme his child. She,
heartstricken, and conscious of a secret error, though of a quite
different kind from what is laid to her charge, receives in submissive
silence, as the chastisement of heaven, the strange inculpations of her
parent:--


       "_Thibaut, to the King_. Thou deem'st thyself deliver'd by
     God's power. Thou art abused--this people of France are
     blinded! Thou art deliver'd by the devil's craft!

       _Dunois_. Does this man rave?

       _Thibaut_. Not I, but thou art raving; All these, the wise
     archbishop at their head, Rave, in believing that the voice
     of heaven Speaks in this wicked girl. Mark, if she dare
     Maintain, before her father's face, the juggle With which
     she cheats the people and her king. In the name of the Holy
     Trinity! Speak! I conjure thee! Dost thou serve with saints,
     And with the pure in heart?

              [_A universal silence. Every eye
              is strained towards Johanna, who stands motionless._

        _Sorel_. God! she is mute!

        _Thibaut_. So must she be before that awful name Which, in
     the depth of hell itself, is fear'd. She--she a saint! she
     sent from God! No, in a cursed spot--our magic tree Where
     devils from of yore their Sabbath keep--Has all this been
     contrived; there did she sell Her soul to the eternal Fiend,
     to be With brief vain-glory honour'd in this world. Bid her
     stretch forth her arm, and ye will see The punctures by
     which hell has mark'd its own.

        _Burgundy_. Horrible! Yet must the father be believed Who
     thus against his own child testifies.

       _Dunois_. No, no, the madman shall not be believed Who in
     his own child vilifies himself.

       _Sorel to Johanna_. O speak! break this disastrous
     silence! we Believe in _thee_. We have firm trust in thee.
     One word from thy own mouth, one only word, Shall be enough.
     But speak! Denounce, confound This hideous accusation. Do
     but say That thou art innocent, and we believe it.

                             [_Johanna remains motionless. Agnes
                             Sorel steps back with horror._

       _La Hire_. She is amazed! Astonishment and terror Have
     closed her mouth. Before such hellish charge Must purity
     itself recoil with fright.

                             [_Approaches her._

     Take courage! Be thyself! The innocent Have their own proper
     language, and their look Is lightning to consume foul
     calumny. In noble scorn, arouse thyself--look up--Confound
     with shame this most unworthy doubt, Which wrongs thy sacred
     virtue.

                             [_Johanna remains motionless. La Hire steps
                              back. The general horror increases._

       _Dunois_. What scares the people? What dismays the king?
     Oh, she is innocent! I pledge myself, I pledge for her my
     honour as a prince. Here do I throw my gauntlet down. Who
     dares To slander her with guilt?

                             [_A violent peal of thunder is heard. All
                               start back terrified._

       _Thibaut_. God answers! God, Who thunders from above.
     Pronounce thyself, Child of perdition, guiltless, if thou
     dar'st--

                             [_A second peal of thunder is heard. The
                             people fly on all sides._

      _Burgundy_. God shield us! What an awful signal!

      _Du Chatel_. Come, come, my sovereign, let us fly this
     place!

       _Archbishop to Johanna_. In the name of God, I speak to
     thee. Art silent From pride of innocence, or shame of guilt?
     If now this voice of thunder testify _For_ thee,--in sign
     thereof embrace this cross.

                             [_Johanna remains motionless. Repeated
                             peals of thunder. All leave the church
                             except Dunois._

       _Dunois._ Thou art my own bride, Johanna! I
     Have from the first believed, and still believe.
     Thee will I rather trust than all these signs,
     Than even this thunder speaking from above.
     'Tis noble pride withholds thee, thou disdain'st
     Wrapt in thy sacred innocence, these mad
     Outrageous charges to refute.
     Disdain so still; confide alone in me,
     Who of thy purity have doubted never,
     I ask no word; place but thy hand in mine,
     In token that thou wilt confide in me,
     In this arm and thy own good cause.

                             [_He extends his hand. She turns away with
                             convulsive start._


         (_Du Chatel re-enters, and afterwards Raimond._)

       _Du Chatel_. Johanna d'Arc! The king permits
     That undisturb'd you quit the town of Rheims.
     The gates stand open; no man shall molest you.
     Count Dumois, follow me--you gain no honour in lingering here.

                             [_Du Chatel and Dunois leave_

       _Raimond_. Seize on this moment! The streets are empty--give me
       your hand.

                             [_Johanna looks upwards to heaven, then
                             hastily taking his hand, goes out_.


Under the guidance of Raimond, the prophetess and champion, deserted it
seems by man and heaven, enters a wood, where she is taken prisoner by a
party of English. She is sent a captive to _Lionel_. But adversity has
now reinstated her in all the primitive austerity of her heart; the
weakness she has so severely expiated, has left her; she has no heart
now but for her country. In vain Lionel promises all--for Lionel, as
well as Dunois, loves her; she answers only by denouncing the enemies of
France.

A battle is joined under the walls of the tower in which she is
imprisoned; she has been bound in fetters of threefold strength; Lionel
has gone forth to lead his army, and the fierce Isabeau is her jailer.
She holds a drawn dagger over her head. If the king of France conquers,
Johanna dies. Nevertheless, she ceases not to pray for his success; and
when she hears that the king is so closely beset by his enemies that he
is in danger of his life, she implores heaven with such fervour, that
power is given her to rend asunder her chains. Snatching a sword from
one of her guards, she makes from the tower, and appears on the field of
battle in time to rescue her monarch. But she herself has received a
mortal wound; she sinks on the ground, and expires in the moment of
victory. They cover her with the banners of the victorious army. The
curtain falls.

Now, this violent departure from history, in the latter part of the
play, is what we chiefly regret in the tragedy of Schiller. The
melancholy fate of Joan d'Arc is so inseparably connected with her
memory, that we cease to identify the portrait of Schiller with the
personage of history. As the tragedy proceeds, we feel that it is no
longer our Joan d'Arc that it concerns--so impossible is it for us to
forget, that the village maiden of Dom Remi expiated her pious and
visionary patriotism in the flames at Rouen. Only half her tragedy has
been written; the other half remains for some future Schiller. Nor can
we conceive of a better opportunity for the display of the peculiar
powers of this poet, than would have been afforded by that catastrophe
he has chosen to alter. Was the opportunity felt to be _too great_? Had
the poet become wearied and exhausted with his theme, and did he feel
indisposed to nerve himself afresh for scenes which called for the
strenuous efforts of his genius? We know that it was not his original
intention to make this violent departure from history, and that he came
to the determination with regret.

We wish to state distinctly on what grounds we make our objection;
because there is current among a class of critics a censure for the mere
departure from historical truth--made, it would seem, out of a sensitive
regard for history--in which we by no means acquiesce. We have no desire
to bind a poet to history, merely because it is history. He has his own
ends to accomplish, and by those shall he be judged. As, assuredly, we
should not accept it as the least excuse for the least measure of
dulness, on the part of the poet, that he had followed faithfully the
historical narrative, so neither do we impose upon him a very close
adherence to it. We censure the course which Schiller has here pursued,
not because he has marred history, but because he has marred his own
poem. The objection lies entirely within the boundary of his own art. He
has selected a personage for his drama with whom a certain fate is so
indissolubly associated, that it is impossible to think of her without
recalling it to mind; and this ineffaceable trait in her history he has
attempted, for the time, to obliterate from our memory. By this
procedure, the imagination of the reader is divided and distracted. The
picture presented by the poet _is and is not_ a portrait of the
historical figure which lives in our recollection. There are many points
of resemblance; but the chief is omitted. And we always feel that it is
omitted; for history here is too strong for the poet: he cannot expel
her from the territory he wishes to enclose for himself. As well might
one describe a Socrates who did not drink the hemlock--as well a
Napoleon who did not die at St Helena, as a Joan d'Arc who did not
suffer in the flames of Rouen.

_Von Hinrich_, in his critical work upon Schiller, gives a curious
defence of this departure from history:--"The martyrdom," he says, "of
the forlorn maiden could hardly satisfy us on the stage. In history it
is different; we see these events in their connexion with the past and
the future, and we do not abstract some single fact, and judge of it
apart from all others. The history of the world is the tribunal of the
world. It has justified Johanna; posterity has restored to her the fame
and honour of which a malicious fate had for a season deprived her. The
poet was obliged to change his catastrophe, in order to introduce, in
his own epoch, that finger of justice which, in reality, revealed itself
only at a subsequent period."[1]

[1] Part II., p. 183.

But who sees not that, in all such cases, the poet sufficiently and
completely reverses the unjust sentence of contemporaries, by
representing the sufferer as undeserving of it?--that, by depicting her
as innocent, he anticipates and introduces the equitable judgment of
posterity? When Schiller had described the Maid of Orleans as pious in
heart--as the chosen of Heaven, he had at once reversed the sentence of
the court of Rouen. It was assuredly not necessary that he should
conceal the fact of any such sentence having been passed, in order to
exculpate Johanna: and to exculpate, or to spare, the august judges, was
no part of the business of the poet. Socrates dies in prison, denounced
as a corrupter of youth. He himself is sufficiently vindicated when he
is shown to be no corrupter of youth. Is there any sentiment of equity
that would prompt us to suppress the fact, that he died by the public
executioner of Athens? Or would it be doing honour to history--to this
great tribunal of appeal--to stifle our indignation against the unjust
and criminal sentences which she has had to repeal?

No doubt the poet would have had difficulties to contend with, in
following the course of history. In particular, as he had chosen to
represent Johanna as veritably inspired, he would have been tasked to
reconcile this severity of her fate, on the one hand, with the justice
of Heaven towards its own missionary; or on the other, with the
unblemished character of his heroine. Either Heaven must appear
forgetful of Johanna, or Johanna must be represented as having forfeited
a right to its protection. But this difficulty Schiller has not entirely
escaped in his own plot, and he has shown how it may be encountered.
Johanna might well yield to the tenderness of a human passion without
forfeiting our sympathy, or incurring a stain upon her moral character;
and yet this aberration of heart--this dereliction from the austere
purity required by her sacred mission--might, in a theological point of
view, be supposed to have forfeited her claim to the miraculous
interposition of Heaven in her behalf. So that, in the closing scenes,
though Johanna might have no claim on the miraculous favours of Heaven,
she would still be a saint at heart, and entitled to our deepest
sympathy; and Heaven would receive back, if not its prophetess and
champion, yet a noble child of earth, still further purified by more
than expiatory sufferings.

This species of difficulty meets us, in one instance, in the tragedy of
Schiller, in an unexpected and unnecessary manner. How are we to
understand the thunder which is heard in apparent confirmation of the
cruel accusation of Thibaut? As a mere coincidence, as a mere natural
phenomenon, we can hardly view it; appearing as it does in this
atmosphere of wonders. The archbishop seems to think that possibly the
thunder might testify _for_ Johanna. But as the effect is to produce her
condemnation, it is impossible it could have been _intended_ by Heaven
for her acquittal. And yet, if we are to look upon it as corroborating
the accusation of the father, it not only passes a very severe sentence
upon Johanna, but it sanctions the gross falsehood of this atrabilious
parent.

Amongst the continental critics, Schiller's _Maid of Orleans_ has been
especially commended as a vindication of the character of Johanna from
the vile representation it had endured from the hands of Voltaire. But
here, in England, _La Pucelle_ was never more popular than it deserved
to be--was never popular at all; no one had taken his impression of Joan
d'Arc from this tawdry performance; and we find a difficulty in
understanding how Schiller, writing to Wieland, could represent the poem
of Voltaire as a great obstacle in his way. As little had we received
our impression of Joan d'Arc from Shakspeare's tragedy of the _First
Part of Henry VI_., where she is represented as a mere witch and
courtesan, represented, in fact, in the vulgar aspect in which she still
probably appeared to an English populace. The subject was with us, when
Schiller wrote, new and open; we had received our impression only from
history, and history had spoken well of Johanna.[1]

[1] It is thus that Hume concludes his account of her:--"This admirable
heroine, to whom the more generous superstition of the ancients would
have erected altars, was, on pretence of heresy and magic, delivered
over alive to the flames, and expiated by that dreadful punishment the
signal services she had rendered to her prince and her native country."

Madame de Staël, after applauding Schiller's tragedy for the restoration
it effected of the character of the French heroine, adds:--"The French
alone have consented to this degradation of the character of the maiden;
even an Englishman, Shakspeare, represents her in the beginning as
inspired by Heaven, and afterwards led astray by the demons of
ambition." The delineation of the Maid of Orleans, in the _first Part of
Henry VI_., is associated with the greatest name in our literature, and
therefore, we presume, must be treated with respect; but it is the only
title to respect we can discover in it. We cannot, with Madame de Staël,
trace the inspired maid in any part of the play. La Pucelle gives us, it
is true, in the commencement, a very good account of herself; as she was
playing the part of an impostor, it was not probable she would do
otherwise: but her own manner very soon betrays the courtesan; and, when
alone, we find her in the Company of no other spirits than such as
witches are accustomed to raise.

We were still more surprised to find Schlegel describing the Maid of
Orlean of _Henry VI_. as more _historical_ than the portraiture of
Schiller. There is the same amount of fable in both. In _Henry VI_., we
have an echo of the coarse superstition and vulgar scandal of the
English camp--in Schiller, the fable is beautiful, and assists to
develop a character of exquisite purity.



THE STOLEN CHILD.

A TRUE TALE OF THE BACK-WOODS.


It was towards the commencement of the month December 1825, that I was
going down the Mississippi in the steam-boat Feliciana. We had arrived
in the neighbourhood of Hopefield, Hampstead county, when one of our
paddles struck against a sawyer,[1] and was broken to pieces. We were
obliged in consequence to cast anchor before the town.

[1] The local name for large tree-trunks which get partially buried in
the mud, one end sticking, up just below the surface of the water. They
cause frequent accidents to the steam-boats on the Mississippi.

Hopefield is a small town on the west bank of the river, about six
hundred miles above New Orleans, and five hundred below the junction of
the Ohio and Mississippi. It consisted, at the time of which I speak, of
about fifteen houses, two of which were taverns and shops of the usual
kind found in such places--their stock in trade consisting of a cask or
two of whisky, a couple of dozen knives and forks, a few coloured
handkerchiefs, some earthenware, lead, powder, and the like. Our party
was composed of ten ladies, the same number of young men, and several
elderly gentlemen. Nothing appears so desirable, during a long voyage in
a river steam-boat, as a stroll upon shore; and, as there was nothing to
be done at Hopefield, the proposal of one of our number to take a ramble
in the forest, was met with unqualified approbation by all the young
men. We equipped ourselves each with a rifle, and a bottle of wine or
brandy, to keep the vapours of the swamps out of our throats; the son of
one of the tavern-keepers, who offered himself for a guide, was loaded
with a mighty ham and a bag of biscuits, which we procured from the
steam-boat; and, thus provided, we sallied forth on our expedition,
attended by the good wishes of the ladies, who accompanied us a few
hundred yards into the wood, and then left us to pursue our march.

I have often had the occasion to notice, that the first entrance into
one of our vast American forests is apt to reduce the greatest talker to
silence. In the present instance, I found the truth of this remark fully
confirmed. Whether it was the subdued half-light of the luxuriant
wilderness through which we were passing, the solemn stillness, only
broken by the rustling of the dead leaves under our feet, or the
colossal dimensions of the mighty trees, that rose like so many giants
around us, that wrought upon the imagination, I cannot say; but it is
certain that my companions, who were mostly on the northern states, and
had never before been beyond Albany or the Saratoga springs, became at
once silent, and almost sad. The leaves of the cotton-tree, that giant
of the south-western forests, had already assumed the tawny hues of
latter autumn; only here and there a streak of sunbeam, breaking through
the canopy of branches that spread over our heads, brought out the last
tints of green now fast fading away, and threw a strange sparkling ray,
a bar of light, across our path. Here was a magnolia with its snow-white
blossoms, or a catalpa with its long cucumber-shaped fruit, amongst
which the bright-hued red birds and paroquets glanced and fluttered.

We walked for some time through the forest, amused more than once by the
proceedings of two young clerks from Boston, who saw a wild animal in
every thicket, and repeatedly leveled their guns at some bear or
panther, which turned out to be neither more nor less than a bush or
tree-stump. They pestered our guide with all sorts of simple questions,
which he, with a true backwoodsman's indifference, left for the most
part unanswered. After about an hour, we found ourselves on the borders
of a long and tolerably wide swamp, formed by the overflowings of the
river, and which stretched for some five miles from north to south, with
a broad patch of clear bright-green water in the centre. The western
bank was covered with a thick growth of palmettos, the favourite cover
of deer; bears, and even panthers; and this cover we resolved to beat.
We divided ourselves into two parties, the first of which, consisting of
the New Englanders, and accompanied by the guide, was to go round the
northern extremity of the swamp, while we were to take a southerly
direction, and both to meet behind the marsh, on a certain path which
led through a thicket of wild plum-trees and acacias. Our guide's
instructions were not of the clearest, and the landmarks he gave us were
only intelligible to a thorough backwoodsman; but as too many questions
would probably have puzzled him, without making matters clearer to us,
we set off, trusting to our eyes and ears, and to the pocket-compasses
with which several of us were provided.

After another hour's walk, during which we had seen nothing but wild
pigeons and squirrels, and a few mocassin snakes warming themselves in
the sunbeams, which latter, on our approach, drew hastily back under the
heaps of dry leaves, we arrived at the southern extremity of the swamp.
Proceeding a short distance westward, we then took a northerly
direction, along the edge of the palmetto field, with the marsh upon our
right hand. It was a sort of cane-brake we were passing through, firm
footing, and with grass up to our knees; the shore of the swamp or lake
was overgrown with lofty cedars, shooting out of water four or five feet
deep, which reflected their circular crowns. The broad streak of water
looked like a huge band of satin, and the slightest motion of the leaves
was immediately perceptible in the mirror beneath them. From time to
time, the least possible breeze rustled through the trees, and curled
the water with a tiny ripple. The water itself was of the brightest
emerald-green; and the forest of palmetto stems that grew along the
edge, was reflected in it like myriads of swords and lances. In the
small creeks and inlets, flocks of swans, pelicans, and wild geese, were
sunning themselves, and pluming their feathers for their winter flight.
They allowed us to come within a score of paces of them, and then flew
away with a rushing, whirring noise.

We had been for some time plodding patiently along, when our attention
was suddenly attracted by a slow but continued rustling amongst the
palmettos. Something was evidently cautiously approaching us, but
whether panther, stag, or bear we could not tell--probably the last. We
gave a glance at our rifles, cocked them, and pressed a few paces
forward amongst the canes; when suddenly a bound and a cracking noise,
which grew rapidly more distant, warned us that the animal had taken the
alarm. One of our companions, who had as yet never seen a bear-hunt, ran
forward as fast as the palmettos would allow him, and was soon out of
sight. Unfortunately we had no dogs, and after half an hour's fruitless
beating about, during which we started another animal, within sight or
shot of which we were unable to get, we became convinced that we should
have to meet our friends empty-handed. It was now time to proceed to the
place of rendezvous, on the further side of the palmetto field, which
was about half a mile wide. The man who had gone after the bear, had
rejoined us, and from him we learned that the brake was bordered on the
western side by a dense thicket of wild-plum, apple, and acacia trees,
through which there was not the least sign of a path. On arriving there
we saw that his account was a correct one; and, to add to our
difficulties, the nature of the ground in our front now changed, and the
cane-brake sank down into sort of swampy bottom, extending to the
northern extremity of the lake. Our situation was an embarrassing one.
Before us, an impassable swamp; to our right, water; to our left, an
impenetrable thicket; and four hours out of the eight that had been
allotted to us already elapsed. There seemed nothing to be done but to
retrace our steps; but, before doing so, we resolved to make a last
effort to find a path. To this end we separated, taking different
directions, and for nearly half an hour we wandered through the thicket,
amongst bushes and brambles, tearing and scratching ourselves to no
purpose. At last, when I for one was about to abandon the search in
despair, a loud hurrah gave notice that the path was found. We were soon
all grouped around the lucky discoverer; but to our considerable
disappointment, instead of finding him at the entrance of the wished-for
road, we beheld him gravely contemplating a cow, which was cropping the
grass quite undisturbed by our approach. Nevertheless, this was no bad
find, if we could only ascertain whether it was a strayed cow that had
wandered far from its home, or a beast of regular habits that passed
each night in its master's cow-house. An Ohioman solved the question, by
pointing out that the animal had evidently been milked that morning; and
as we were debating how we should induce Brindle to proceed in the
direction of its domicile, he settled that difficulty also, by firing
off his rifle so close to the beast's tail, that the bullet carried off
a patch of hair, and grazed the skin. The cow gave a tremendous spring,
and rushed through a thicket, as if a score of wolves had been at its
heels. We followed, and the brute led us to a tolerably good path
through the wilderness, which we had thought impenetrable. It was
doubtless the path that was to take us to the appointed place of
meeting; and we now slackened our pace, and followed the cow's trail
more leisurely. We had proceeded about a mile, when a strong light in
the distance made us aware that we were coming to a clearing; and on
arriving at the place, we found several maize fields enclosed by hedges,
and a log-house, the smoking chimney of which bespoke the presence of
inhabitants.

The dwelling was pleasantly situated on a gentle slope, roofed with
clapboards, and having stables and other out-houses in its rear, such as
one usually finds in backwood settlements of the more comfortable kind.
Peach-trees were trailed against the house, in front of which stood some
groups of papaws. The whole place had a rural and agreeable aspect.

We were scarcely within the hedge that surrounded the domain, when a
brace of bull-dogs rushed upon us with open jaws. We were keeping off
the furious brutes with some difficulty, when a man came out of the
barn, and, upon seeing us, again entered it. After a few moments, he
appeared for a second time, in company with two negroes, who were
leading by the horns the very same cow which we had so unceremoniously
compelled to become our guide. We greeted the man with a "good-morning;"
but he made no answer, merely gazing hard at us with a cold sullen look.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man, with an expressive but
extraordinarily sad, gloomy, and almost repulsive countenance. There was
a restless excitement of manner about him, which struck us at the very
first glance.

"A fine morning," said I, approaching the stranger.

No answer. The man was holding the cow by one horn, and staring at the
tail, from which a drop or two of blood was falling.

"How far is it from here to Hopefield?" asked I.

"Far enough for you never to get there, if it's you who've been drivin'
my cow," was the threatening reply.

"And if we had driven your cow," said I, "you would surely not take it
amiss? It was a mere accident."

"Such accidents don't often happen. People don't shoot cows, if they
haven't a mind to eat other folk's beef."

"You do not suppose," said the Ohioman, "that we should wish to hurt
your cow--we, who have no other intention but to shoot a few turkeys for
the voyage. We are passengers by the Feliciana--one of our paddles is
broken; and that is the reason that our boat is at anchor in front of
Hopefield, and that we are here."

This circumstantial explanation seemed to produce little effect on the
backwoodsman. He made no reply. We walked towards the house, and, on
stepping in, found a woman there, who scarcely looked at us, or seemed
aware of our entrance. There was the same appearance of fixed grief upon
her countenance that we had remarked in the man; only with the
difference, that the expression was less morose and fierce, but on the
other hand more mournful.

"Can we have something to eat?" said I to the woman.

"We don't keep a tavern," was the answer.

"The other party cannot be far off," said one of my companions. "We will
give them a sign of our whereabout." And so saying, he passed out at the
door and walked a few paces in the direction of a cotton field.

"Stop!" cried the backwoodsman, suddenly placing himself before him.
"Not a step further shall you go, till you satisfy me who you are, and
where from."

"Who and where from?" replied our comrade, a young doctor of medicine
from Tennessee. "That is what neither you nor any other man shall know
who asks after such a fashion. If I'm not mistaken we are in a free
country." And as he spoke he fired off his rifle.

The report of the piece was echoed so magnificently from the deep
forests which surrounded the plantation, that my other companions raised
their guns to their shoulders with the intention of firing also. I made
them a sign in time to prevent it. Although there could hardly be any
real danger to be apprehended, it appeared to me advisable to hold
ourselves prepared for whatever might happen. The next moment a shot was
heard--the answer to our signal.

"Keep yourself quiet," said I to the backwoodsman; "our companions and
their guide will soon be here. As to your cow, you can hardly have so
little common sense as to suppose that five travellers would shoot a
beast that must be perfectly useless to them."

As I left off speaking, there emerged from the forest our other
detachment and the guide, the latter carrying two fat turkeys. He
greeted the backwoodsman as an old acquaintance, but with a degree of
sympathy and compassion in the tone of his salutation which contrasted
strangely with his usual rough dry manner.

"Well, Mr Clarke," said he, "heard nothing yet? I'm sorry for it--very
sorry."

The backwoodsman made no reply, but his rigid sturdy mien softened, and
his eyes, as I thought, glistened with moisture.

"Mistress Clarke," said our guide to the woman, who was standing at the
house-door, "these gentlemen here wish for a snack. They've plenty of
every thing, if you'll be so good as to cook it."

The woman stood without making any reply: the man was equally silent.
There was a sort of stubborn surly manner about them, which I had never
before witnessed in backwoodspeople.

"Well," said the doctor, "we need expect nothing here. We are only
losing time. Let us sit down on a tree-trunk, and eat our ham, and
biscuits."

The guide made us a significant sign, and then stepping up to the woman,
spoke to her in a low and urgent tone. She did not, however, utter a
word.

"Mistress," said the doctor, "something must have happened to you or
your family, to put you so out of sorts. We are strangers, but we are
not without feeling. Tell us what is wrong. There may be means of
helping you."

The man looked up; the woman shook her head.

"What is it that troubles you?" said I, approaching her. "Speak out.
Help often comes when least expected."

The woman made me no answer, but stepped up to our guide, took a turkey
and the ham from him, and went into the house. We followed, sat down at
the table, and produced our bottles. The backwoodsman placed glasses
before us. We pressed him to join us, but he obstinately declined our
invitation, and we at last became weary of wasting good words on him.
Our party consisted, as before mentioned, of ten persons: two bottles
were soon emptied and we were beginning to get somewhat merry whilst
talking over our morning's ramble, when our host suddenly got up from
his seat in the chimney-corner, and approached the table.

"Gemmen," said he, "you mus'n't think me uncivil if I tell ye plainly,
that I can have no noise made in my house. It aint a house to larf in--
that it aint, by G--!" And having so spoken he resumed his seat, leant
his head upon both hands, and relapsed into his previous state of gloomy
reverie.

"We ask pardon," said we; "but really we had no idea that our
cheerfulness could annoy you."

The man made no reply, and half an hour passed away in whisperings and
conjectures. At the end of that time, a negro girl came in to spread the
table for our meal.

After much entreaty, our host and hostess were prevailed on to sit down
with us. The former took a glass of brandy, and emptied it at a draught.
We filled it again, he drank it off, and it was again replenished. After
the third glass, a deep sigh escaped him. The cordial had evidently
revived him.

"Gemmen," said he, "you will have thought me rough and stubborn enough,
when I met you as you had been huntin' my cow; but I see now who I have
to do with. But may I be shot myself, if, whenever I find _him_, I don't
send a bullet through his body; and I'll be warrant it shall hinder his
stealin' any more children."

"Steal children!" repeated I. "Has one of your negroes been stolen?"

"One of my niggers, man! My son, my only son! Her child!" continued he
pointing to his wife. "Our boy, the only one remaining to us out of
five, whom the fever carried off before our eyes. As bold and smart a
boy as any in the back woods! Here we set ourselves down in the
wilderness, worked day and night, went through toil and danger, hunger
and thirst, heat and cold. And for what? Here we are alone, deserted,
childless; with nothin' left for us but to pray and cry, to curse and
groan. No help; all in vain. I shall go out of my mind, I expect. If he
were dead!--if he were lyin' under the hillock yonder beside his
brothers, I would say nothing. _He_ gave, and He has a right to take
away! But, Almighty God!"---And the man uttered a cry so frightful, so
heartrending, that the knives and forks fell from our hands, and a
number of negro women and children came rushing in to see what was the
matter. We gazed at him in silence.

"God only knows," continued he, and his head sank upon his breast; then
suddenly starting up, he drank off glass after glass of brandy, as fast
as he could pour it out.

"And how and when did this horrible theft occur?" asked we.

"The woman can tell you about it," was the answer.

The woman had left the table, and now sat sobbing and weeping upon the
bed. It was really a heartbreaking scene. The doctor got up, and led her
to the table. We waited till she became more composed, anxiously
expecting her account of this horrible calamity.

"It was four weeks yesterday," she began; "Mister Clarke was in the
forest; I was in the fields, looking after the people, who were
gathering in the maize. I had been there some time, and by the sun it
was already pretty near eleven; but it was as fine a morning as ever was
seen on the Mississippi, and the niggers don't work well if there's not
somebody to look after them--so I remained. At last it was time to get
the people's dinner ready, and I left the field. I don't know what it
was, but I had scarcely turned towards the house, when it seemed as if
somebody called to me to run as fast as I could; a sort of fear and
uneasiness came over me, and I ran all the way to the house. When I got
there I saw little Cesy, our black boy, sitting on the threshold, and
playing all alone. I thought nothing of this, but went into the kitchen,
without suspecting any thing wrong. As I was turning about amongst the
pots and kettles, I thought suddenly of my Dougal. I threw down what I
had in my hand, and ran to the door. Cesy came to meet me:" "Missi," said
he, "Dougal is gone!"

"Dougal is gone!" cried I. "Where is he gone to, Cesy?"

"Don't know," said Cesy; "gone away with a man on horseback."

"With a man on horseback?" said I. "In God's name, where can he be gone
to? What does all this mean, Cesy?"

"Don't know," said Cesy.

"And who was the man? Did he go willingly?"

"No! he didn't go willingly!" said Cesy: "but the man got off his horse,
put Dougal upon it, and then jumped up behind him, and rode away."

"And you don't know the man?"

"No, missi!"

"Think again, Cesy," cried I; "for God's sake, remember. Don't you know
the man?"

"No," said the child, "I don't know him."

"Didn't you see what he looked like? Was he black or white?"

"I don't know," said Cesy, crying; "he had a red flannel shirt over his
face!"

"Was it neighbour Syms, or Banks, or Medling, or Barnes?"

"No!" whined Cesy.

"Gracious God!" cried I. "What is this? What is become of my poor
child?" I ran backwards and forwards into the forest, through the
fields. I called out. I looked every where. At last I ran to where the
people were at work, and fetched Cesy's mother. I thought she would be
able to make him tell something more about my child. She ran to the
house with me, promised him cakes, new clothes, every thing in the
world; but he could tell nothing more than he had already told me. At
last Mister Clarke came.

Here the woman paused, and looked at her husband.

"When I came home," continued the latter, "the woman was nearly
distracted; and I saw directly that some great misfortune had happened.
But I should never have guessed what it really was. When she told me, I
said, to comfort her, that one of the neighbours must have taken the
child away, though I didn't think it myself; for none of the neighbours
would have allowed themselves such a freedom with my only child. I
shouldn't have thanked 'em for it, I can tell you. I called Cesy, and
asked him again what the man was like; if he had a blue or a black coat?
He said it was blue. 'What sort of horse?' 'A brown one.' 'What road he
had taken?' 'That road!' answered the boy, pointing to the swamp. I sent
all my niggers, men, women, and children, round to the neighbours, to
seek for the child, and tell them what had happened. I myself followed
the path that the robber had taken, and found hoof-prints upon it. I
tracked them to the creek, but there I lost the trail. The man must have
got into a boat, with his horse and the child, had perhaps crossed the
Mississippi, or perhaps gone down the stream. Who could tell where he
would land! It might be ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred miles lower
down. I was terribly frightened, and I rode on the Hopefield. There
nothing had been seen or heard of my child; but all the men got on their
horses to help me to find him. The neighbours came also, and we sought
about for a whole day and night. No trace or track was to be found.
Nobody had seen either the child or the man who had carried him off. We
beat the woods for thirty miles round my house, crossed the Mississippi,
went up as far as Memphis, and down to Helena and the Yazoo river;
nothing was to be seen or heard. We came back as we went out,
empty-handed and discouraged. When I got home, I found the whole county
assembled at my house. Again we set out; again we searched the forest
through; every hollow tree, every bush and thicket, was looked into. Of
bears, stags, and panthers there were plenty, but no signs of my boy. On
the sixth day I came home again; but my home was become hateful to me--
every thing vexed and disgusted me. My clothes and skin were torn off by
the thorns and briers, my very bones ached; but I didn't feel it. It was
nothing to what I suffered in my mind."

On the second day after my return, I was lying heart and body sick in
bed, when one of the neighbours came in, and told me that he had just
seen, at Hopefield, a man from Muller county, who told him that a
stranger had been seen on the road to New Madrid, whose description
answered to that which Cesy had given of the child-stealer. It was a man
with a blue coat and a brown horse, and a child upon his saddle. I
forgot my sickness and my sore bones, bought a new horse--for I had
ridden mine nearly to death--and set out directly, rode day and night,
three hundred miles, to New Madrid, and when I arrived there, sure
enough I found the man who had been described to me, and a child with
him. But it was not my child! The man belonged to New Madrid, and had
been on a journey with his son into Muller county.

I don't know how I got home again. Some people found me near Hopefield,
and brought me to my house. I had fever, and was raving for ten days;
and during that time the neighbours advertised the thing in all the
papers in Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. We had ridden
altogether thousands of miles, but it was no use. "No!" continued he,
with a deep groan; "if my child had died of the fever, if he had fallen
in with a bear or panther, and been killed, it would be bitter, bitter
sorrow--he was my last child. But, merciful God--stolen! My son, my
poor child, stolen!"

And the man cried aloud, sprang from his seat, and wrung his hands and
wept like an infant. Even his wife had not shown such utter agony of
grief.

"When I go to work," continued he after a pause, "my little Dougal seems
to stand before me, and my hands fall by my sides, as stiff and heavy as
though they were lead. I look round, but no Dougal is there. When I go
to bed, I put his bed beside mine, and call him, but no one answers.
Sleeping or waking, my poor boy is always before me. Would to God I were
dead! I have cursed and sworn, prayed and supplicated, wept and groaned,
but all--all in vain!"

I have seen many persons suffering from distress of mind, but never did
I meet with one whose sorrow was so violent and overpowering as that of
this backwoodsman. We did our utmost to console him, and to inspire him
with new hope, but he was inconsolable; his eyes were fixed, he had
fallen into a sort of apathy, and I doubt if he even heard what was said
to him. We ourselves were so affected that our words seemed almost to
choke us. Time pressed, however; it was impossible for us to remain any
longer, nor could we have done any good by so doing. We shook the
unfortunate couple by the hand, promised to do all in our power to learn
something of their child's fate, and took our departure.

It was six weeks after the time above referred to, that I found myself
compelled by business to make a journey to Natchez. I had often thought
of poor Clarke's misfortune, and, in conjunction with my friends, had
done all in my power to discover the villain who had robbed him of his
child. Hitherto all our endeavours had been fruitless. The facts were
circulated in every newspaper, were matter of conversation at every
teatable in the country; rewards were offered, researches made, but not
the smallest trace of the boy or his stealer was to be found.

It was a bright January afternoon when I landed at Natchez. In company
with some acquaintances, I was ascending the little hill between the
lower and upper town, when we heard an unusual noise and bustle; and on
reaching the summit, we saw a crowd assembled before the door of Justice
Bonner's house. Upon going to see what was the matter, we found that the
mob consisted of the better class of people in Natchez, both women and
men, but especially the former. Every face wore an expression of
interest and anxiety; and upon making enquiry, we learned that the
child-stealer had been at length discovered--or rather, that a man had
been taken up on strong suspicion of his having stolen Mr Clarke's son,
of Hampstead county. I was heartily rejoiced at the news and endeavoured
to press forward through the throng, in hopes of hearing some
particulars; but the crowd was so dense that it was impossible to get
through. I stood there for nearly two hours, the concourse all the while
increasing, none stirring from the places they occupied, while every
adjacent window was filled with eager, anxious faces.

At last the door opened, and the prisoner, guarded by two constables,
and followed by the sheriff, came out of the house, and took the
direction of the town prison. "That is he!" whispered the women to one
another, with pale faces and trembling voices, clasping their children
tighter, as though fearful they would be snatched from them. The
countenance of the culprit was the most repulsive I had ever seen--a
mixture of brutal obstinacy and low cunning, with a sort of sneering,
grinning, expression. His small green-grey eyes were fixed upon the
ground; but as he passed through the lane opened by the crowd, he from
time to time partially raised them, and threw sidelong and malicious
glances at the bystanders. He was rather above the middle height, his
complexion of a dirty greyish colour, his cheeks hollow, his lips
remarkably thick and coarse, his whole appearance in the highest degree
wild and disgusting. His dress consisted of an old worn-out blue frock,
trousers of the same colour, a high-crowned shabby hat, and tattered
shoes. The impression which his appearance made might be read in the
pale faces of the spectators. They gazed after him with a sort of
hopeless look as he walked away. "If that is the man who stole the
child," murmured several, "there is no hope. The boy is lost!" I
extricated myself from the throng, and hastened to Justice Bonner, with
whom I was acquainted, and who gave me the following particulars.

About four weeks after our excursion in the neighbourhood of Hopefield,
Clarke had received a letter, signed Thomas Tully, and stamped with the
Natchez postmark. The contents were to the effect that his child was
still living, that the writer of the letter knew where he was, and that,
if Mr Clarke would enclose a fifty-dollar bank-note in his answer, he
should receive further information. On receipt of the said sum, the
writer said he would indicate a place to which Mrs Clarke might repair,
unaccompanied, and there, upon payment of two hundred dollars more, the
child should be delivered up.

Upon receiving this letter, the unfortunate father consulted with his
friends and neighbours; and, by their advice, he wrote immediately to
the postmaster at Natchez, informing him of the circumstances, and
requesting that the person who applied for his answer might be detained.
Four days afterwards, a man came to the window of the post-office, and
enquired if there was any letter to the address of Thomas Tully. The
postmaster pretended to be searching for the letter amongst a pile of
others, and meanwhile a constable, who was in attendance, went round and
captured the applicant. Upon the examination of the letter, it appeared
that he was an Irishman, who had some time previously been hanging about
Natchez, and had endeavoured to establish a school there. As he,
however, had been unable to give any satisfactory account of himself, of
where he came from, or what he had been doing up to that time, and as
his manner and appearance were moreover in the highest degree suspicious
and repulsive, he had not succeeded in his plan, and the few parents who
sent their children to him had speedily withdrawn them. He was known at
Natchez by the name of Thomas Tully, nor did he now deny that that was
his name, or that he had sent the letter, which was written in a
practised schoolmasterlike hand. It was further elicited that he was
perfectly acquainted with the paths and roads between Natchez and
Hopefield, and in the neighbourhood of those two places, as well as with
the swamps, creeks, and rivers there adjacent. He was fully committed,
till such time as the father of the stolen child should be made
acquainted with the result of the examination.

In five days Clarke arrived with the negro boy Caesar. The whole town
showed the greatest sympathy with the poor man's misfortune, the lawyers
offered him their services free of charge, and a second examination of
the prisoner took place. Every thing possible was done to induce the
latter to confess what had become of the child; but to all questions he
opposed an obstinate silence. The negro boy did not recognize him. At
last he declared that he knew nothing of the stolen child, and that he
had only written the letter in the hope of extorting money from the
father. Hardly, however, had this been written down, when he turned to
Clarke, with an infernal grin upon his countenance, and said, "You have
persecuted and hunted me like a wild beast, but I will make you yet more
wretched than you are able to make me." He then proceeded to inform him
of a certain place where he would find his child's clothes.

Clarke immediately set out with a constable to the indicated spot, found
the clothes, as he had been told he would do, and returned to Natchez.
The accused was again put at the bar, and said, after frequently
contradicting himself, that the child was still alive, but that, if they
kept him longer in prison, it would inevitably die of hunger. Nothing
could persuade him to say where the boy was, or to give one syllable of
further explanation.

Meantime the quarter-sessions commenced, and the prisoner was brought up
for trial. An immense concourse of persons had assembled to witness the
proceedings in this remarkable case. Every thing was done to induce the
accused to confess, but all in vain. Promises of free pardon, and even
of reward, were made to him, if he told where the child was; but the man
maintained an obstinate silence. He at last again changed his story,
retracted his previous declaration as to his knowledge of where the boy
was, said he had found the clothes, which he had recognised by the
descriptions that had been every where advertised, and that it was that
which had put it into his head to write to the father, in hopes of
making his profit by so doing. In the absence of witnesses, although
there was strong suspicion, there could be no proof of his having
committed the crime in question. In America, circumstantial evidence is
always received with extreme caution and reluctance; and even the fact
of the child's clothes having been found in the place the prisoner had
pointed out, was insufficient to induce the jury to find the latter
guilty of the capital charge brought against him. Many of the lawyers,
indeed, were of opinion, that the man's last story was true, that he had
found the clothes, and, being a desperate character and in needy
circumstances, had written the letter for purposes of extortion. Of this
offence only was he found guilty, and condemned, as a vagrant and
impostor, to a few months' imprisonment. By the American laws no severer
punishment could be awarded. The one, however, was far from satisfying
the public. There was something so infernal in the malignant sneer of
the culprit, in the joy with which he contemplated the sufferings of the
bereaved father, and the anxiety of the numerous friends of the latter,
that a shudder of horror and disgust had frequently run through the
court during the trial. Even the coolest and most practised lawyers had
not been free from this emotion, and they declared that they had never
witnessed such obduracy.

The inhabitants of Natchez, especially of the upper town, are, generally
speaking, a highly intelligent and respectable class of people; but upon
this occasion they lost all patience and self-control, and proceeded to
an extreme measure, which only the peculiar circumstances of the case
could in any degree justify. Without previous notice, they assembled in
large numbers upon the night of the 31st of January, with a firm
determination to correct for once the mildness of the laws, and to take
the punishment o the criminal into their own hands. They opened the
prison, brought out the culprit, and after tying him up, a number of
stout negroes proceeded to flog him severely with whips of bullock's
hide.

For a long time the man bore his punishment with extraordinary
fortitude, and remained obstinately silent when questions were put to
him concerning the stolen child. At last, however, he could bear the
pain no longer, and promised a full confession. He named a house on the
banks of the Mississippi, some fifty miles from Natchez, the owner of
which, he said, knew where the child was to be found.

The sheriff had, of course, not been present at these Lynch-law
proceedings, of which he was not aware till they were over, but of which
he probably in secret did not entirely disapprove. No sooner, however,
was he told of the confession that had been extorted from the prisoner,
than he set off at once in the middle of the night, accompanied by
Clarke, for the house that had been pointed out. They arrived there at
noon on the following day, and found it inhabited by a respectable
family, who had heard of the child having been stolen, but, beyond that,
knew nothing of the matter. The mere suspicion of participation in such
a crime, seemed in the highest degree painful and offensive to them. It
was soon made evident that the prisoner had invented the story, in order
to procure a cessation of his punishment of the previous night.

The fatigues and constant disappointments that poor Clarke had endured,
had worn him out, and at last again stretched him on a bed of sickness.
His life was for a long time despaired of, but he finally recovered, and
shortly afterwards the term of imprisonment to which the child-stealer
(for such the public persisted in considering Tully) had been condemned,
expired. There was no pretext for detaining him, and he was set at
liberty. Clarke was advised to endeavour to obtain from him, by money
and good treatment, some information concerning the child. Both father
and mother threw themselves at the man's feet, implored him to name his
own reward, but to tell them what had become of their son.

"You have flogged and imprisoned me," replied the man, with one of his
malicious grins; "you would have hung me if you could; you have done all
in your power to make me miserable. It is now my turn."

And he obstinately refused to say a word on the subject of the lost
child. He left town, accompanied by Clarke, who clung to him like his
shadow, in the constant hope that he would at last make a revelation
They crossed the Mississippi together, and on arriving behind Concordia,
the bereaved father once more besought Tully to tell him what had become
of his son, swearing that, if he did not do so, he would dog him day and
night, but that he should never escape alive out of his hands. The man
asked how long he would give him. "Six-and-thirty hours" was the reply
Tully walked on for some time beside Clarke and his wife, apparently
deep in thought. On a sudden he sprang upon the backwoodsman, snatched a
pistol from his belt, and fired it at his head. The weapon missed fire.
Tully saw that his murderous attempt had failed, and apprehensive
doubtless of the punishment that it would entail, he leaped, without an
instant's hesitation, into the deepest part of a creek by which they
were walking. He sank immediately, the water closed over his head, and
he did not once reappear. His body was found a couple of hours
afterwards, but no trace was ever discovered of the Stolen Child.[1]

[1] Various particulars of the above incident may be found in the
Mississippi newspapers, of the years 1825-6.



M. GIRARDIN.


A word, before we speak of the lectures of M. Saint-Marc Girardin, on a
topic which stands at the threshold of dramatic criticism. What is the
nature of that _imitation_ of life at which the drama aims, and of that
_illusion_ which it creates?

Before the time of Dr Johnson, the learned world were accustomed to
insist upon the observance of the _unities_, on the ground that they
were necessary to uphold the illusion of the theatre. The doctor, in his
preface to Shakspeare, demolished this argument, by showing that the
illusion they were declared so necessary to support, does not, in fact,
exist. No man really believes that the stage before him is Rome, or that
he is a contemporary of the Caesars. To insist, therefore, upon the
unities of time and place, is to sacrifice to a grave _make-belief_ the
nobler ends of the drama--the development of character and passion. "The
objection," says Dr Johnson, "arising from the impossibility of passing
the first hour at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes that, when
the play opens, the spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and
believes that his walk to the theatre has been a voyage to Egypt, and
that he lives in the days of Antony and Cleopatra. _Surely he that
imagines this may imagine more._ He that can take the stage at one time
for the palace of the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for the
promontory of Actium."

If the delusion of the theatre, we will add, should, at certain moments,
reach such a point that we may be said to believe ourselves transported
to the place represented on the stage, this, not being a _continuous_
delusion, cannot be disturbed by the mere changing of the scene; it will
not the less take place at the promontory of Actium, because we had felt
it, five minutes before, in the city of Alexandria.

Since the appearance of the celebrated preface to Shakspeare, it has
been the habit of critics to speak, not of a delusion, but of an
imitation, which is _felt to be_ an imitation, and which pleases us in
great part by this perceived resemblance to an original. "It will be
asked," continues Dr Johnson, "how the drama moves, if it is not
credited? It is credited with all the credit due to a drama. It is
credited wherever it moves, _as a just picture of a real original_--as
representing to the auditor what he would himself feel if he were to do
or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The
reflection that strikes the heart is not that the evils before us are
real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be
exposed."[1] * * * _The delight of tragedy proceeds from our
consciousness of fiction_; if we thought murders and treasons real,
they would please no more. Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not
because they are mistaken for realities, but because they bring
realities to mind.

[1] _Cours de Littérature Dramatique; ou de l'Usage des Passions dans le
Drame_. Par M. SAINT-MARC GIRARDIN, Professeur à la Faculté des Lettres
de Paris, &c. &c.

This appears to us a very indifferent account of the matter. In the far
greater number of instances, we can never have formed any conception of
an _original_ of which the actor and the scene are supposed to present
us a _picture_. Who that witnesses the play of _Venice Preserved_, has
formed any other image of Jaffier or Pierre than what the actors are
presenting to him, or may already, on some previous occasion, have
presented to him? Even when the characters are strictly historical, the
imagination is little better provided. The spectator does not refer to
any faint conception in his own mind of a Brutus, or a Mark Antony, and
then derive his pleasure from watching how closely the mimic
representation imitates the original. Very often the scene must present
something entirely new to the imagination, and yet the pleasure is not
diminished on this account. A simple man, who has never seen the
interior of a palace, never looked on royalty, never beheld even a
veritable courtier, feels no embarrassment when he is suddenly called to
witness the pomps and miseries of "imperial tragedy."

The imitation of the drama is not that of any specific original; it is a
mimic scene, having human nature for its type. It has a life of its own,
constructed from the materials which the records and observations of
real life have supplied. In order to move us, it needs no reference to
any recognised original. It is there in virtue of the vesture of
humanity in which it is clothed, and makes its appeal at once and
directly.

It is usual to speak of all the fine arts as _imitative arts_. The term
is not always applicable, and, when most applicable, requires
explanation. What does the poetry of sentiment imitate? What does a song
imitate? How can the term be applied to all that class of poetry where
the writer pours out his own reflections and feelings? The poetry of
Wordsworth or of Burns can no more be said to be imitative, than the
conversation of the same men, when, in their hours of intimate
intercourse, the one may have given expression to his philanthropy, and
the other to his friendship. But where the term is most applicable, it
requires to be used guardedly. Even in painting and sculpture, the
artist does not imitate the object in its totality--does not strive to
make an approximation to a _fac-simile_--but he selects certain
_qualities_ of the object for his imitation. The painter confines
himself to colour and outline; the sculptor abstracts the form, and give
it us in the marble.

Accordingly, when we stand before a statue, we do not think of a man,
and then of the statue as the imitation of this original; but the statue
is itself clothed with some of the qualities of the human being, which
give to the cold marble that _half-life_ which we feel the moment we
look upon it. In the same manner, when the dramatist puts his characters
on the stage, they are not imitations of any definite originals, but
they are invested with certain accidents and attributes of humanity,
which give them at once the interest we feel in them, and set them
living and moving in their own mimic world.

And this mimic world is capable of creating an illusion--not such as Dr
Johnson combated--but of a kind he does not appear to have taken into
account. The doctor is triumphant when he denies the existence of that
theatrical delusion presupposed as a ground for the unities. We do not,
as soon as the curtain rises, believe ourselves transported to Rome, nor
do we take the actor upon his word, and believe him to be Caesar the
moment he proclaims his imperial dignity. The illusion of the theatre
springs directly from the _passion_ with which we are infected, not from
the outward pomp and circumstance of the stage. These, even on the most
ignorant of spectators, produce barely the sentiment of wonder and
surprise, never a belief in their reality. The real illusion of the
drama begins, so to speak, not at the beginning, but at the end; it is
the last result, the result of the last vivid word which sprung from the
lips of the actor; and it diffuses a momentary reality over all that
stage apparatus, animate and inanimate, which was there only as a
preparation for that vivid word of the poet.

When the curtain rises, we see very plainly--quite unmistakeably--the
boarded stage before us. It may fill with men and women most gorgeously
attired, and these may proceed to declare their rank and condition, and
the peculiar dangers which environ them, and still there is nothing
better before us than the boarded stage and the talking actor. But, by
and by, the word of passion is uttered, and the heart beats, and the
wooden stage is seen no more, and the actor is forgotten in his griefs
or his anger, and the fictitious position is a real life, and the pomp
and circumstance of the scene, if not believed in, are no longer
questioned. We are not perhaps at Rome, nor is that Mark Antony--for we
never knew Mark Antony to recognise him--but this mimic world has
assumed an independent life and reality of its own. When, indeed, the
passion subsides, and the eloquence of the poet is mute, things revert
to their matter-of-fact condition, the actor is again there, and the
boards of the stage again become visible.

To the passage we last quoted from Dr Johnson, some other objections
suggest themselves; but, as we have not quoted it in a polemical spirit,
but merely to illustrate our own position, we have no wish to enter upon
them. One remark only we will make, and that because it admits of a
general application. Dr Johnson describes the sympathy we feel at the
theatre, as the result of a reference to what our own _personal_
feelings would be in the situation we see represented on the stage. The
auditor represents to himself "what he would himself feel, if he were to
do or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The
reflection that strikes the heart is not, that the evils before us are
real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be
exposed." We do not think that, in order to sympathize with what takes
place on the stage, or in real life, there is any necessity for this
circuitous proceeding. We do not detect in ourselves this constant
reference to our own personality, and, least of all, in those moments
when we are most moved. It is enough that there be a vivid conception of
any passion, for this passion to become for a moment our own. If this
reference to our probable feelings, in such or such a position, were
necessary, how is it that we men sympathize so promptly and so keenly in
the distresses of the heroine? We certainly do not, for instance, set to
work to imagine ourselves women and mothers--which would be a difficult
exercise of the imagination--before we feel the grief of Constance for
the loss of her child. In short, we at once assume to ourselves the
passions of another; we do not wait, as it were, to try them on; to make
experiment how we, with all our dispositions, natural and acquired,
should feel in the supposed predicament.

It is far from our intention to give a full and methodical account of
the lectures of M. Saint-Marc Girardin, the perusal of which led us to a
reconsideration of some of our critical principles. They are far above
mediocrity, distinguished by strong sense and vivid expression. Their
principal feature is the just and animated protest they contain against
the literary taste of the present day in France; a taste for the
perverted, the horrible, the monstrous; a taste that welcomes Victor
Hugo with outstretched arms, and retains but a frigid recollection of
Racine. With this literary taste is intimately connected an unhealthy
and feverish condition of the moral sentiments, against which the
lecturer directs his most eloquent attacks; so that his book may be
commended for its sound ethical as well as critical instruction. The
circumstance that the lectures were delivered before the University of
Paris, renders this strain of remark still more appropriate and useful.

Such a strain of remark, based as it is upon general principles, cannot
be useless in our own country; although we do not suspect that the same
perverted taste which meets its reproof in these lectures is common
amongst us. Were we called upon to describe the malady under which our
countrymen labour in respect to literary taste, we should describe it as
a state of torpor and lethargy, rather than of virulent disease. It is
indifference, more than any morbid taste, which an imaginative work
would have to struggle against in this country. There is little
necessity here to guard the public against any species of literary
enthusiasm; certain writers of very dubious merit may be extensively
read, but they are not esteemed. It is only necessary to listen to the
conversation that goes on around us, to be convinced that the extensive
circulation of a book has ceased to be a decisive proof even of its
_popularity_. We seem too idle, or too busy, to give attention to a
thoughtful literature which is not at the same time _professional_--and
we have too much good sense amongst us to admire the sort of clever
trash we are contented to read and to talk about. For something in
leisure hours must be read. A book must be had, if only as a companion
for the sofa, if only to place in the hand, as we place the ottoman
under our feet, to steady and complete our repose.

We will at once introduce a striking quotation from the author before
us, which has immediate reference to the _Lucrèce Borgia_ of Victor
Hugo. To those who have not read the play it is only necessary to
observe, in order to understand what follows, that Victor Hugo, with
that violent effort after a moral novelty which distinguishes him, has
chosen to represent the infamous Lucretia Borgia as under the influence
of maternal love, while in all other respects she fully sustains her
odious and infernal reputation.

     The author wished, he tells us in his preface, to retrieve
     the moral deformity of Lucretia Borgia by the beauty of the
     maternal sentiment; he wished, according to his own
     energetic expression, 'to place the mother in the monster.'
     Here let us make a distinction. I admire the tenderness
     which the most ferocious animals have for their offspring,
     and when the dying lioness covers her young with her wounded
     and bleeding body, I admire and am moved. But a woman who is
     a mother ought, in her tenderness to her children, to have
     more intelligence, more of elevation of thought, than the
     lioness. Instinct is not enough; there must be a sentiment,
     a sentiment which does not exclude, but perfects and
     purifies the instinct. Thus, when in Florence, a mother cast
     herself in desperation before the lion who had taken her
     child, and the lion, astonished at her despair, or perhaps
     comprehending it, replaced the infant at her feet, it was
     instinct which impelled the mother, and it was probably
     instinct in the lion which responded to her. But good
     instincts, whatever admirable actions they may occasionally
     produce, are but the germ and commencement of human virtues;
     they are indeed radically distinguished from human virtue by
     this, that, of themselves, however strong, they are sterile:
     a good instinct dwells by the side of a bad without effort
     to reform or to purify it, and equally without danger of
     being itself perverted. One virtue only in a vicious
     character might convert it entirely to virtue, as one vice
     only in a virtuous might lead it to utter depravation. But
     an instinct, however good, supports without disquietude the
     neighbourhood of evil, and it is thus that, in Lucretia
     Borgia, the mother and the monster are placed side by side,
     without affecting, without combating each other. Now there
     is nothing less natural, and nothing less dramatic than this
     mutual toleration. Characters wherein good and evil are
     mixed together, are dramatic, only because the conflict of
     opposite sentiments which takes place in the mind, is
     brought before the view of the spectator. But where, in
     Lucretia, is the struggle between good and evil? At what
     moment does the maternal virtue enlighten and purify this
     soul lost in darkness? When does this transfiguration take
     place, so marvellous and yet so natural? * * *

     It is singular, and marks the change which has taken place
     in our moral notions. Formerly poets gave to their
     personages one only vice or passion, taking care in other
     respects to render them virtuous, in order that they should
     be worthy of interest; at the present day, our poets give
     their personages I know not how many passions and vices,
     with one only virtue as a counterpoise. And this virtue,
     weak and solitary, is by no means charged with the task of
     purifying the corrupted mind in which it has by chance been
     preserved. It carefully respects the independence of those
     vices which permit it to dwell with them. Neither is it
     commissioned to inspire an interest in the spectator;
     because it is vice which now inspires all our interest,
     thanks to a certain noble and proud bearing which has been
     assigned to it, and which has been imitated from the heroes
     of Lord Byron.

M. Girardin, it will have been remarked from the above extract, is
disposed to reproach our Lord Byron as the source from which some of his
countrymen have drawn their dark inspiration. This may be true. But
without defending our Byron from charges to which he is manifestly
exposed, let us say thus much for him, that in his poetry he was still
too much a classic not to be a worshipper of the beautiful; that he did
not court for itself the monstrous, the ugly; his mind did not willingly
associate with what was revolting in outward form or human passion. If
there was any thing Satanic, as some were pleased to express it, in his
poetry, he was not, at all events, of the hobgoblin or demoniac school.
It was the Satan of Milton, with its ruined beauty and clouded dignity,
that had taken possession of his imagination. He delighted to depict the
pride, the love, the generosity, of hearts at war with man, and not on
too good terms with heaven; but still it was their pride, their love,
their generosity, that occupied his imagination. They are bad men; he
takes care to tell us so himself; but he has not the heart to make them
act otherwise than as noble fellows while they are under his guidance.
The Corsair, from his very name and profession, is a declared criminal;
but this once said, the poet occupies himself and his reader with
nothing but what is generous and heroic in Conrad. Byron had no
disposition, had a certain antipathy, to paint the virtuous man; but it
was a virtue, nevertheless, that attracted his pencil. He felt it
necessary, as a preliminary condition, to remove his hero from the
category of good men; but this being fairly done, he resigned himself to
the natural bent for what is good and great. A Borgia, whether male or
female, in all its native deformity, was not the subject to allure him.

Nowhere is the rebuke of M. Girardin of certain of his contemporaries,
more dignified, or more justly merited, than where, discoursing on the
manner in which the moderns have delineated paternal love, he reproves
that exaggeration and falsification which has represented the father
describing the affection he bears to his daughter in a style of language
devoted to another species of love. Nothing can be more odious and
offensive than to transgress, even in language, the bounds between the
two affections, and to put into the mouth of a parent, as Victor Hugo
and Balzac have done, a style appropriate to the lover speaking of his
mistress. But we will not quote these passages from M. Girardin, because
they will require long quotations in order to justify the censure
contained in them. At the close of the lecture upon paternal love, we
find the following general remarks on the composition of a modern French
drama; and the slightest acquaintance with this drama will enable the
reader to appreciate their justice and analytic accuracy:--

     Formerly a dramatic character was an assemblage of
     qualities good and bad, which, on the one hand, were in
     conflict amongst themselves, and, on the other, were
     subjected to some superior law of religion, of honour, or of
     patriotism. This twofold struggle constituted the interest
     of the person brought upon the scene, and this superior law,
     which he strove to accomplish, constituted the morality of
     his character. According to the incidents of the piece, each
     passion might take the ascendant, none being represented as
     irresistible; and the moral law which predominated over the
     drama, did not prevent this play of the passions--it being
     visibly suspended during the whole piece over the heads of
     the personages, and receiving its fulfilment only at the
     close. In the present day dramatic characters are composed
     differently. Instead of representing the whole of the
     character, and the struggle between its good and evil
     passions, one only passion is selected, which is made
     violent, irresistible, fatal, the absolute mistress of all
     the others; that is to say, a part is taken instead of the
     whole. At the same time the moral law which, in the ancient
     drama, (_i.e._ the drama of Racine and Corneille,) sustained
     also a struggle against the passions--this law which those
     even avowed who transgressed it, which had always its place
     in the piece, whether through virtue or remorse--this law
     also disappears before the ascendency of the sovereign
     passion. No counterpoise of any kind, whether on the side of
     rival passions or on the side of duty. What remains, then,
     to struggle against this arbitrary passion? Nothing but
     chance--circumstance--the hazard of events. And thus it is
     that, in the modern drama, the interest resides rather in
     the strange complication of events than in the shock of
     opposite passions. The poet has only the power of chance, a
     power sovereignly capricious, to contend against the passion
     he has chosen to represent. And thus it is that the modern
     drama has something also of arbitrary and fantastic.
     Incidents and theatrical effects are accumulated, but the
     incidents do not spring from the natural movement of the
     passions brought upon the stage; they have no longer their
     cause in the characters of the drama; they issue from the
     fancy of the poet, who, feeling the necessity of arousing
     his spectators from time to time, complicates the action
     after a strange fashion, and aims always at surprise.

M. Girardin has a lecture upon suicides, in which he attacks that
sentimentality--a mixture, in reality, of weakness and impatience--which
in modern literature, and in modern life, often conducts to suicide. The
following passage will be acknowledged to be eloquent, and even poetic,
unless our translation of it shall have entirely obscured its beauty.
After having described the proud and _philosophical_ suicides of ancient
Rome, he adds:--

     There is another species of suicide more in credit in our
     days, which is rather occasioned by the weakness and
     impatience of men than by the violence of their passions, or
     the eccentricity of their philosophies. This species of
     suicide is so much the peculiar malady of our times, that we
     are tempted to think that men are now for the first time
     infected by it. But no; there exists a literature which has
     already expressed this our state of restlessness and
     disquietude, which has described men consuming with
     melancholy in the midst of riotous joys, and seeking suicide
     rather as the natural termination of their career than the
     remedy of their evils. It is the literature of the fathers
     of the church.

     I find amongst the homilies of St Chrysostom a certain
     Stagyra who was possessed by a demon. To be possessed by a
     demon is certainly not a malady of our times; but yet we do
     not wander from our theme. For the demon of Stagyra--it is
     melancholy, despondency, or, in the much more powerful
     expression of the Greek, it is _athumia_--exhaustion of all
     energy, all vitality of the soul. This is the demon of
     Stagyra. He is one of those sick and agitated souls who
     think they belong to the selected portion of mankind,
     because they want the energy of the vulgar; who contrive for
     themselves pleasures and afflictions apart from the rest of
     the world, and who (last trait of weakness and impatience)
     at once despise and envy the simplicity and the calm of
     those whom they call little souls. Stagyra, in order to
     deliver his spirit from its disquietudes, had entered into a
     monastery; but neither there did he find the peace and
     lightness of heart which he craved; for man finds at first,
     in solitude, that only which he brings to it. Stagyra
     complains to the saint--and the complaint is curious, for it
     indicates the knowledge of a cure for the evils which
     torment him, and shows that Stagyra, like many other
     patients, had neither resolution to support his disease, nor
     to accept its remedy. 'You complain,' says St Chrysostom,
     'that while you, with all your fasts, and vigils, and
     monastic austerities, have failed to appease your
     disquietudes, others who, like yourself, had been tormented
     by the demon of melancholy, while living in the midst of
     idle pleasures and luxurious indulgence, have found a remedy
     in marriage, and felt themselves cured the moment they
     became fathers.' A sentence this full of sound instruction.
     It is not, then, because life is devoid of pleasure, that
     men are the prey of melancholy. That demon pierced, it is
     true, like a gnawing worm, through all the luxuries of the
     Roman world; there was no resource against it, either in
     beautiful slaves, or Ionian dances, or magnificent repasts,
     or the combats of gladiators, or Milesian tales, or the
     voluptuous pictures which garnish the walls of Pompeii and
     Herculaneum. _Athumia_ poisoned all, and the demon possessed
     the voluptuary in the midst even of the debauch. But if,
     fatigued with these alternate pleasures and disgusts, he
     adopted regular and simple manners, married and had
     had children, then, as if by enchantment the demon quitted him.
     No more despondency, no more bitterness. The spirit of the
     possessed was revived, refreshed, renewed by the caresses of
     his children. There is no demon, not even the demon of
     melancholy, which dares to encounter the presence of a
     little child. There is in the innocent fresh breathing of
     these creatures, something mortal to evil spirits, and a
     cradled infant in the house is sure talisman against all
     demoniac possession.

     What is it, in fact, which man requires, in order to escape
     from this _athumia_, this exhaustion of the heart? Hope--a
     future. He must have a faith in the future. This is the
     nourishment of his soul; without it he cannot live, he
     despairs and dies. Well, the very charm of children, that
     which has ranked them, from of old, amongst the blessings of
     God, is this, that they form the future of every family--
     that they sustain in every house that sentiment by which the
     soul of man lives. Children represent the future, and in a
     form the most joyous and attractive. It is this which
     constitutes their irresistible fascination--it is this which
     sheds around their little heads that light of happiness and
     joy which reflects itself on the countenances of the
     parents--which warms the heart--which gives to the poor the
     force to labour, and to the miserable the force to live.
     Blessed be infancy, which chases the demon!--Blessed be
     infancy, which keeps alive in each family the sentiment of
     hope, indispensable to run as the air and the light!


Amongst the faults of his contemporaries, M. Girardin remarks a
disposition to _materialize_ the expression of passion, depicting it
constantly by violent physical distortions; and also, a tendency to
carry that expression to the extremity of rage, where, as he finely
observes, all distinction between the various passions is lost, and man
deserts his rational nature.

According to the ancient classic imagination, when passion becomes
excessive, the man disappears; and this, he adds, is the foundation of
what we call the philosophy of the _Metamorphoses_ of Ovid.

In the course of this censure he makes use of a common-place expression,
which, we think, includes a common-place error, and therefore we pause
for a moment to take notice of it. "It is the pretension of modern art,"
he tells us, "to say all. What then is left to the imagination of the
public? It is often well to trust to the spectator to complete the idea
of the poet or the statuary."

This is a mode of expression frequently made use of. Even Lessing has
sanctioned it, when in his _Laocoon_, he speaks of "the highest
expression leaving nothing to the imagination."

The leaving something to the imagination can mean this only, that the
expression of the artist is suggestive, and kindles thought, and in fact
conveys more than is found in its literal interpretation. Now, whatever
is highest in art, and especially in poetry, is pre-eminently
suggestive; and the highest expression does in fact leave most, or, in
other words, suggest most, to the imagination. M. Girardin, in common
with many others, speaks of this suggestive quality, the characteristic
of the highest form of art, as if it were the result of a voluntary
surrender of something by the poet to the reader, as if it were an act
of moderation on his part. Surely the poet does not proceed on the
principle of saying half, and permitting us to say the other half--out
of compliment, perhaps, to our understanding, and as a little bribe to
our vanity. The more vivid and powerful his expressions, the more must
he leave, or rather the more must he give, indirectly as well as
directly, to the imagination of the reader. He will sometimes even
bestow what he himself never possessed. The great poet, in pouring out
his feelings, must always give something less and something _more_ than
was in him at the time.

It has been the fashion to illustrate the principle of leaving something
to the imagination, by the ancient picture of the sacrifice of
Iphigenia, where we are told that Agamemnon, the father, was painted
hiding his face in his robe. The expression of grief and horror had been
given in the countenance of the other bystanders, and it was left to the
imagination to divine what passion would have been seen depicted on the
face of Agamemnon if that robe had been torn aside. Lessing, and after
him M. Girardin, have indeed given a different account of the intention
of the painter. The Greek artist, say they, sedulously avoided that
distortion of features through excessive grief, which was incompatible
with beauty of form. They would _tone down_ the expression, as Lessing
argues that the sculptor did in the features of Laocoon, until it became
consistent with the lines of beauty. Timanthes, therefore, finding that,
in order to render with fidelity the expression of Agamemnon, he must
admit such a distortion of the features as would violate the rule, chose
rather to veil the countenance. But we would suggest that something else
must have weighed with the artist; for if it was an acknowledged
principle of Greek art rather to sacrifice a portion of the passion, so
to speak, than to admit a distortion of the features, why should
Timanthes have felt any scruple, in this instance, in modifying the
expression of the father's countenance in obedience to a known rule of
art? Why should he have thought himself obliged to resort to the
expedient of concealing the face?

We make bold to adopt neither one account nor the other. We neither
believe that Timanthes concealed the expression of the father's face
upon some principle of "leaving it to the imagination of the reader,"
nor that he acted in obedience to the rule of art which Lessing lays
down with so much ingenuity. We are persuaded that Timanthes painted
Agamemnon in the attitude he did, simply because it was the most
natural--because it was, in fact, the only attitude in which it was
possible to conceive a father present at the sacrifice of his own
daughter. Other spectators might have looked on with different degrees
of grief or horror, but we feel that the father could not _look_; he
must veil his head. This natural attitude, bespeaking the grief it only
seemed to hide, was no doubt highly expressive.

And in this point of view, it may afford no bad illustration of that
suggestive language of poetry, which sometimes throws the veil, not to
conceal the passion, or to leave it to another imagination to discover,
but as the best means of betraying it.

We repeat that we do not profess to give any thing approaching to an
analytical review of the lectures of M. Girardin; the illustrations,
being taken from the poetry of another nation, would often require a
length of explanatory detail quite inconsistent with our limits. We
persist, therefore, in regarding them in the one point of view already
indicated-namely, as a protest against certain vitiated tastes and
deleterious sentiments which prevail at the present day.

We again revert, therefore, to the lecture upon suicide, for the sake of
a remark that we find there upon _Werther,_ and on its celebrated
author. It is rarely that we hear any one speak out so plainly upon
Goethe. After speaking of the "moral vitality" which supports the
fatigues and inures us to the self-denials of life, he says:--

     There are characters, on the contrary, who we perceive, at
     first sight, are predestined to die. Ardent and enthusiastic,
     wanting force and patience--life is evidently not made for them.
     Such is Werther. Goethe had not created him to live, and he knew
     this well; so that when some German author, I know not whom,
     undertook to correct the catastrophe of the romance, and make
     Werther live instead of committing suicide, Goethe said--'The poor
     man has no idea that the evil is without remedy, and that a mortal
     insect has stung our Werther in the flower of his youth.'

     What is this mortal insect that has stung the youth of
     Werther? Mistake it not, it is the spirit of doubt, the
     spirit of the eighteenth century; and it is not Werther only
     that the insect has stung--it is Goethe himself. Goethe
     belongs to the eighteenth century; he is its disciple, its
     heir; he is, like it, the sceptic, but he is also the poet.
     It is this which conceals his universal doubt. Besides, as
     he perceived, with that admirable tact which accompanies his
     genius, that his scepticism would injure his poetry, he has
     laboured to correct its influence, and, for this purpose,
     has called to his aid all the resources of art and science.
     He has adored nature, he has been a pantheist, he has distributed
     God everywhere, to compensate for not having him in his own heart;
     he has adored Greece, and rendered a sort of worship to beauty
     such as the Greeks conceived it, and endeavoured to find an
     enthusiasm in the arts; he has adored the south, and sung the Land
     of the orange grove, because the south is the region of strong
     faiths, and is repugnant to scepticism; he has adored the middle
     ages, because they were ignorant of doubt, everywhere he has
     sought to cure the wound of that insect which had stung his youth.
     But no; his scepticism pierces through all his enthusiasm, and the
     very variety of his inspirations proves his indifference. He is
     neither philosopher, nor devotee, nor Christian, nor pagan, nor
     courtier, nor citizen, nor of times ancient or modern, nor of the
     north, nor of the south-or rather, he is all these at once. He is
     the echo of nature, he repeats to us all her harmonies; but he
     fails to add that utterance, which unites so well with the
     harmonies of the world the utterance of his own heart. Ask of
     Goethe to represent man and nature in all their variety and
     extent, and he will do it. There is one thing you must not ask of
     him--himself. This _self_ fails in Goethe; not the self which
     knows it is a great poet, and will to be one; but that other self,
     which has a thought, a principle to contend for, which, in
     short, believes in something. It is there the insect stung; both
     in Goethe and in Werther.

After discussing the character of modern French literature, there
remains the important question to determine, how far the state of
literature represents the state of society--how far the one is a
faithful picture of the other. Upon this subject M. Girardin concludes
his volume with some excellent remarks; but here we must also conclude
our notice of this interesting work.



LORD ELDON.


In a free country, if there ever was or will be a truly free country
besides our own, the life of every public man ought to be written. All
would supply a lesson of more or less value; and it is upon lessons of
that order that the vigour of the rising generation can alone be
trained. Undoubtedly, in the mixed qualities of human nature, there
might now and then be formidable displays; the development of the heart
might often startle the eye which looked to it for healthy action; the
machinery of the mind would require to be examined with the hand of
charity as well as the hand of science: but the general result must be
knowledge--always interesting, and often of the highest value; for the
tendency of manners is, to disappoint that research. The habits, the
associations, almost the general peace of society, unite in covering the
actual nature of man with a uniform aspect. The unquestionable effect of
civilization is, not merely to smooth the inequalities of the surface,
but to conceal the actual material--the rough, the hard, the cold, or
the pernicious within. But there is no one operation of man, by which
human nature is so deeply and so distinctly penetrated and tested, as a
true narrative of the career of men acting a prominent part in the
world. History is comparatively feeble to this powerful searcher. Its
heroes and heroines are placed so palpably on a stage; its _dramatis
personae_ are so distant and so disciplined; its positions are so openly
arranged for effect, that the nearest approach is only conjecture, as
the nearest approach to reality is only illusion. Courts and campaigns
are not human life. Kings and ministers, in their court pageantry, are
scarcely more entitled to the name of human beings. They are factitious
forms, showy spectacles, glittering effigies. But strip off the state
costume; stand beside them while they are unconscious of a spectator;
enter into their minds; seize their motives; measure their impulses: it
is only then that we discover their affinity to the family of man, and
by their vigour and virtue model our own.

The life of the Earl of Eldon is an important addition to public
biography. Written by a lawyer, it has the advantage of professional
knowledge--by a man of a certain experience in public, and even in
official life, it exhibits that practical knowledge of affairs which
nothing but practice can gain--and by a man of literary accomplishment,
it adds, to its more solid merits, those graces of style which supply
the last attraction to a work of manly utility. We feel even, in some
degree, an uncritical, yet a not less authentic satisfaction in giving
our tribute to the work of one connected with a family, whose name
brings to the public mind such deep recollections of fine ability finely
employed--of talents combined with the noblest triumphs of past genius
and of forms and countenances eminently fitted to represent the grand
and beautiful of the classic drama of England.

The father of Lord Eldon was William Scott, a merchant of good means and
good repute at Newcastle, his principal business being connected with
the coal trade. He lived to be seventy-nine years old, and his wife (a
second marriage) to be ninety-one. By her he had thirteen children, of
whom John (Lord Eldon) was the eighth. William (Lord Stowell) was born
in 1745, the year of the Scottish invasion, in Heworth, where his mother
had been sent for her accouchement, to avoid the perils, Newcastle then
expecting a siege. After her return to Newcastle, she gave birth to
John, June 4, 1751. The house was situated at the end of one of those
narrow streets, which in the native dialect are called _chares_, the
extremity being a "chare-foot." A bar story is told of a judge on
circuit, who hearing a witness depose that he had seen three men come
out of a "chare-foot," desired the jury to disregard his evidence
altogether, as none but a madman could say that he saw three men come
out of the "foot of a chair." Lord Eldon appears to have been so fond of
the jest, that he once stated in the Court of Chancery, that "he had
been born in a chair-foot." At the suitable age, John and his brothers
were sent to the Foundation Grammar School of Newcastle, then under the
headship of one Moises, fellow of Peterhouse. His predecessor had been
Dawes, the well-known author of the "Miscellanea Critica"--an able
scholar, but only an additional example of the frequent insufficiency of
scholars to teach. Dawes was eccentric, and injured the reputation of
the school. His predominant propensity while in Newcastle was
bell-ringing. On his leaving that place he adopted a new taste, that of
rowing. If Moises had any peculiar taste, it seems to have been flogging.

"I was once," said Lord Eldon, "the _seventeenth_ boy whom Moises
flogged, and richly did we merit it. There was an elderly lady who lived
in Westgate Street, whom we surrounded, and would not allow her to go
either backward or forward. She complained, and he flogged us all. When
he came to me, he exclaimed, 'What, John Scott! were you there too?' And
I was obliged to say, 'Yes, sir.' 'I will not stop,' said he, 'you shall
all have it.' But I think I came off best, for his arm was rather tired
with the sixteen who went before me."

A flogging may be all very well in its recollection fifty years after.
But the impression of the moment was, we presume, not quite so
favourable. The inevitable consequence of this habit was to spoil both
master and scholars. It made the timid boy pusillanimous, while it made
the fierce more indignant and resentful. What could be the feelings of
the master who could inflict almost agony on seventeen mere children,
let the offence be what it might? Yet the offence was trifling;
troublesome behaviour to an old woman in the street. A slight reprimand,
or trivial fine, would have properly finished the affair; but then comes
the flagellation.

But our great public schools exhibit another offence; the system of
fagging alike foolish and mischievous. It only teaches the elder boys to
be tyrants, and the younger to be liars and slaves. In practice, it
promises to correct itself, by destroying the great schools. The
proprietary schools, and other institutions for the education of the
people, have uniformly discountenanced this abominable nuisance; and we
know none whose abolition would do more credit to the heads of the
church, or, if they should remain indolent on the subject, to the heads
of the legislature.

William Scott, in 1761, was sent to Oxford as a candidate for a Durham
scholarship, which he obtained, but which was perilled by a blunder of
the head of Corpus Christi college. This worthy person delivered his
opinion in this style:--"I think, gentlemen, there can be no doubt that
young Scott is by far the best scholar of them. But he has told us that
his father is a fiddler, and I do not quite like to take the son of a
fiddler into the college." The doctor was an ass for his dictum; and it
is only to be regretted that he did not live to express this impudent
opinion in our day. England is certainly growing more rational, whatever
colleges may be. Language of that sort, used in a country which boasts
that no artificial impediment can be suffered to exist in the career of
genius and virtue, would quickly meet the reception merited by its
arrogant absurdity. The "fiddler" was a blunder of the doctor for
"fitter," the local name of the coal trade.

William, in his twentieth year, became a tutor; John was intended for a
coal-merchant, but his brother desired that he should be sent to Oxford.
"Send Jack up to me," were the words; "I can do better for him here." He
was then under fifteen.

A striking anecdote marks his first starting in life. "When I left
school to go to Oxford," said Lord Eldon, "I came up from Newcastle to
London in a coach, then denominated, on account of its _quick_
travelling, 'a Fly,' being three or four days and nights on the road. On
the panels were the words, _Sat cito, si sat bene_, (Fast enough, if
well enough,) which made a most lasting impression on my mind, and have
had their influence on my conduct in all subsequent life." He then
exhibits a specimen of that sly humour which characterized him to the
last.

"A Quaker fellow-traveller stopped the coach at the inn at Tuxford to
give the chambermaid a sixpence, telling her that he had forgotten it
when he slept there two years before. I was a very saucy boy, and I said
to him, 'Friend, have you seen the motto on the coach?' 'No.' 'Then look
at it, for I think giving her only sixpence _now_ is neither _sat cito_
nor _sat bene_."

On his arrival in London, he was overturned, with his brother, in a
sedan chair. "This," thought he, "is more than _sat cito_, and it
certainly is not _sat bene_." He concludes more gravely by saying, "It
was this impression which made me that deliberative judge, as some have
said _too_ deliberative. And reflection upon all that is past, will not
authorize me to deny, that while I have been thinking, 'Sat cito, si sat
bene,' I may not have sufficiently remembered whether 'Sat bene, si sat
cito' has had its due influence."

The chief feature of this portion of the biography is its recollections
of remarkable persons. We have heard this one of Johnson before: but the
names and place are now first given from Lord Eldon's anecdote-book.

"I had a walk in the New Inn Hall garden with Dr Johnson, Sir Robert
Chambers, and some other gentlemen, (Chambers was principal of the Hall,
and Vinerian professor of law. He was at this period on the point of
proceeding to India as judge.) Sir Robert was gathering snails, and
throwing them over the wall into his neighbour's garden. The doctor
attacked him roughly, and charged his conduct as being unneighbourly.
'Sir,' said Sir Robert, 'my neighbour is a dissenter.' 'Oh,' said the
doctor, 'if so, toss away, toss away as hard as you can!'"

This was evidently one of Johnson's odd freaks, a piece of his growling
humour; for though no man disliked sectarianism more, no man had a
stronger sense of charity to all.

His manners now and then exhibited strange absence. Lord Eldon says that
he had seen him standing for a considerable time, with one foot on each
side of the kennel of the High Street of Oxford, gazing at the water.

It was proverbially dangerous to contradict him. Dr Mortimer, head of
Lincoln college, happened occasionally to interrupt him, by saying, "I
deny that," while Johnson was holding forth. At length he said, "Sir,
sir, you must have forgotten that an author has said, (he then repeated
in Latin,) one ass will deny more in one hour, than a hundred
philosophers will prove in a hundred years."

During the year 1774 and 1775, John Scott held the office of a tutor of
University college; but he appears to have left the duty to Fisher and
William Scott, his brother, those two dividing the emoluments. However,
he was more importantly employed when he gave lectures on the law as
deputy to Sir Robert Chambers, for which he had L.60 a-year. His first
essay was sufficiently ridiculous. The law professor sent him his first
lecture, which he was to read immediately to the students, and which he
began, without knowing its contents. It happened to be on the statute
4th and 5th, Philip and Mary, on young men running away with young
women. "Fancy me," said his lordship, "reading with about 140 boys and
young men giggling at the professor." While Scott was eating his terms
at the Middle Temple, he had some opportunities of seeing Mr Sergeant
Hill, the great lawyer of his day, eminent for learning, and scarcely
less so for eccentricity. Hill one day stopped Scott in the hall, and
said, "Pray, young gentleman, do you think herbage and pannage rateable
to the poor's rate?" Scott replied "that he could not presume to give an
opinion to so learned a personage." "Upon my word," said the sergeant,
"you are a pretty sensible young gentlemen--I don't often meet with
such. If I had asked Mr Burgess, a young leader upon our circuit, the
question, he would have told me that I was an old fool." Hill began an
argument in the King's Bench thus:--"My Lord Mansfield and judges, I
beg your pardon."--"Why brother Hill, do you ask our pardon?"--"My
lords," said he, "I have seventy-eight cases to cite."--"Seventy-eight
cases!" said Lord Mansfield; "you can never have our pardon if you cite
seventy-eight cases!" After the court had given its decision, which was
against the sergeant's client, Lord Mansfield said, "Now, brother Hill,
that the judgment is given, you can have no objections, on account of
your client, to tell us your real opinion, and whether you do not think
we are right; you know how we all value your opinion and judgment." Hill
wished to be excused; but as he always thought it his duty to do what
the court desired, "Upon my word," said he, "I did not think that there
were four men in the world who could have given such an ill-founded
judgment as you four, my lords, have pronounced." This style, however,
must have been now and then intolerable.

When Baron Hotham was placed in the Exchequer, he gave a dinner, as is
usual on those occasions, at Sergeant's Inn, to the judges and
sergeants. Hotham had been unsuccessful at the bar. Hill, in drinking
his health, called him Baron Botham. Somebody whispered the real name to
him. Hill said aloud, "I beg your pardon, Mr Baron Hotham; but none of
us ever heard your name in the profession before this day." In justice
to the baron, however, Lord Eldon adds the following note:--"The Baron
made an extremely good judge. He had not much legal learning; but he had
an excellent understanding, great discretion, unwearied patience, and
his manners were extremely engaging; and those qualities ensuring to him
in a very large measure the assistance of the bar, he executed his
duties as a judge with great sufficiency."

Shortly after his commencing the profession, Scott reduced himself into
a state of invalidism by excessive study. In 1774, when he and Cookson,
another invalid, were returning to Oxford from Newcastle, where they had
gone to vote at the general election, the good-natured cook of the inn
at Birmingham, where they arrived at eleven at night, insisted on
dressing something hot for them, saying that she was sure neither of
them would live to see her again. A medical friend remonstrated with him
on the severity of his studies. "It is not matter," answered Scott, "I
must either do as I am now doing, or starve." He rose at four in the
morning, observed a careful abstinence at his meals, and, to prevent
drowsiness, read at night with a wet towel round his head. At last it
became necessary, as the time of being called to the bar approached, to
provide a dwelling in London. In his latter days, he pointed out a house
in Cursitor Street. "There," said he, "was my first perch. Many a time
have I run down from that house to Fleet Market, to get sixpennyworth of
sprats for supper." At this period, in mentioning to his brother the
kindness of a great conveyancer, Mr Duane, whom he attended as a
gratuitous pupil, he says--"This conduct of his has taken a great load
of uneasiness off my mind; as, in fact, our profession is so exceedingly
expensive that I almost sink under it. I have got a house barely
sufficient to hold my small family, which will, in rent and taxes, cost
me L.60. I have been buying books, too, for the last ten years; but I
have got the mortification to find that, before I can settle, that
article of trade--for so I consider it--will cost me near L.200." Of
Duane's service to him, he said, a little more than a fortnight before
his death, "The knowledge I acquired of conveyancing in his office, was
of infinite service to me during a long life in the Court of Chancery."

In Hilary Term 1776, Scott was called to the bar by the Society of the
Middle Temple. When we recollect what a leviathan of wealth the Lord
Chancellor was in his latter days, it is amusing to read the statement
of his early struggles, however painful they must have been at the time.
"When I was called to the bar," said he, "Bessy (his wife) and I thought
all our troubles were over. Business was to pour in, and we were to be
almost rich immediately. So I made a bargain with her, that, during the
following year, all the money that I should receive during the first
eleven months should be mine, and whatever I should get in the twelfth
month should be hers. What a stingy dog I must have been to make such a
bargain! I would not have done so afterwards. But, however, so it was--
that was our agreement; and how do you think that it turned out? In the
twelfth month I received _half-a-guinea_. Eighteen-pence went for fees,
and Bessy got nine shillings. In the other eleven months I got not one
shilling." This was but sorry encouragement; but such is the profession.
Men must wait. Property, or perhaps life, will not trust themselves to
inexperience; and thus, from the very nature of the Bar, a long period
of probation must be borne by all.

There had been an old and invidious conception which represented the
Lord Chancellor as the son of a coal-heaver. It appears from the memoir
that his father was, on the contrary, possessed of property very
considerable in those days. He was what we should now call a broker in
the coal-trade--technically, a coal-fitter or factor--who transacted
business between the coal-owner and the ship-owner. He was intelligent
and industrious, and prospered accordingly; leaving, at his death,
property worth L.25,000 to his eldest son William; another L.1000 to
John; making, in the whole, L.3000, and respectable sums to his other
children. He appears to have realized above L.30,000--a sum equal to
nearly double at the present day.

Lord Eldon, though all gravity on the bench, and seldom indulging in any
sportiveness in parliament, was a humorist at table, and fond of
humorous recollections. His story of Dunning on his travels has got into
print; but, in the hands of a genuine humorist, it must have been an
incomparable ground for burlesque. Dunning, when solicitor-general, had
gone to see the Prussian reviews. Some of these were profoundly secret,
and were presumed to be experiments in those tactical novelties with
which Frederick dazzled Europe. But others were showy displays, to which
the king invited the princes and generals of the Continent. Dunning had
announced himself as Solicitor-General of England. Frederick, either
knowing nothing of solicitors, though much of generals, or what is more
probable--for he was the most deliberate wag in existence--determining
to play the lawyer a trick, ordered him to be received as a general
officer, and provided him with a charger for his presence at the grand
display. Dunning, long unused to ride, soon found that he had his master
_under_ him. The charger, as well disciplined as one of his majesty's
grenadiers, and delighting, like the horse of Joab, in the "trumpets and
the shouting" of the captains, rushed every where with his unwilling
rider; and it was not till after a day of terror, in which his cavalry
exploits must have exposed him to frequent laughter, that the lawyer
escaped from the din of battles, and rejoiced to find himself with
unfractured bones, resolved never to play the general officer again.

There may be "some things new under the sun," in contradiction to the
proverb; but they are not many, at least in wit. The story of the
celebrated cardinal, who proved that the sun went round the moon, and
_vice versa_, is sufficiently wall known. Dunning's pleading _pro_ and
_con_. is vouched for from Scott's personal experience. Dunning led in a
cause in which Scott was junior counsel. The leader so evidently
reasoned against his own client, that Scott, after long amazement, at
last touched his arm, and whispered that he was speaking on the wrong
side. Dunning instantly perceived his mistake, and gave him a rough
reprimand (we may presume _sotto voce_) for having suffered him to go on
so long. He then recovered himself with his habitual dexterity; said
that he had stated all that could be urged against his client, and that
he would then proceed to show how utterly futile was the argument.

A good deal of his early life on the circuit was passed with Lee, then
the leader of the northern circuit, and a man of great vigour of mind. A
curious question once rose between them on professional morality. At
supper one night, Scott made the remark, that Lee always exerted himself
to gain a verdict by a display of his great legal knowledge; but not
always with a regard to the accuracy of either his law or his facts. Lee
contended that it was the duty of counsel to state what the party
himself would have stated, and get a verdict if he could. He, however,
pondered on it; and, as they were retiring for the night, said, "Scott,
I have been thinking of the question you asked me; and I am not _quite_
sure that the conduct you represented will bring a man peace at the
last."

Lord Eldon quotes Johnson's opinion, which had been referred to--and
which stated that it was the duty of counsel, after having stated the
law and the facts exactly, to exert his abilities to the utmost to gain
his cause--the judge being supposed the abler lawyer, and the reasoning
of the bench amending what was erroneous in that of the bar. Lord Eldon
adds, in his rather too dubious way--"It may be questioned whether even
this can be supported." Of course it may. The object of law is to do
justice; and justice is not done if the ingenuity of an able advocate is
entitled to gain a false verdict. For how is this to be gained? Either
by a suppression of the truth in part, or by a colouring of the
falsehood, or by an invention of facts, aided by a misinterpretation of
law; all palpably against conscience. The true rule appears to be--the
lawyer stands in the place of the client, to do what the client would
and could have done, if he had equal skill in exhibiting the
circumstances, and equal knowledge of the law which bore upon them. But
as the client has no right to tell an untruth of any kind for himself,
so neither has the lawyer the right to tell it for him. The lawyer's
taking a brief in a cause of which he has a bad opinion, is wholly a
different matter. The custom of the bar justly decides that he must not
refuse the brief, because he cannot be sure that he knows the whole
cause; for facts unexpected, and even unknown, may start up; he may be
mistaken in his personal conception of the facts, the motives, and the
law: new facts may come out on the trial. There is a judge to decide on
hearing both sides, and the counsel has no right to assume the office of
the judge. Of course, if he is made aware of any fraud in the conduct of
the case, or even suspects it, he must abandon his brief at once.

Lee's manner was of that rough and ready kind which always tells with a
jury. Once, after a very keen cross-examination, the witness charged him
with severity to one who was his relation. "Why, how do you make that
out," said Lee. The man stated the genealogy. "Well," said Lee, "I
believe you are right. I only wish, my good fourth or fifth cousin, you
would speak a little truth for the honour of the family; for not one
word of truth have you spoken yet."

Even this able man had gone many years to York without a single brief;
and even then began only on a burlesque case, fabricated by his brother
barristers.

Accuracy of recollection is obviously of peculiar importance at the bar;
but the profession has sometimes exhibited surprising instances of this
faculty. Lord Eldon spoke of Chief Justice De Grey's powers of memory as
extraordinary. De Grey suffered so much from the gout, the he used to
come into court with both hands wrapped in flannel. He thus could not
take a not. "Yet I have known him," said Lord Eldon, "try a cause that
lasted nine or ten hours, and then, from memory, sum up all the evidence
with the greatest correctness. When counsel offered any intimation of
his inaccuracy, his answer was--'I am sure I am right; refer to your
short-hand writer's notes;' and he was invariably found to be right." A
similar faculty is possessed by that very distinguished person, Lord
Lyndhurst.

It is remarkable that none of the lucky accidents which have raised so
many inferior men into prosperity ever occurred to Scott, who was yet
destined to rise to such opulence and eminence. His first steps in life
might be regarded as all but ruin. He abandoned his college, where he
had secured at least existence; and he abandoned it for a profession
proverbially hazardous, and in which, for whole years, he made nothing.
At this period, too, when scarcely able to support himself, he ran away
with a portionless wife; and thus began the world not merely helpless,
but with a new weight which has broken down many a strong mind. The
opinion of every one who took an interest in him was, that this marriage
was fatal to all his prospects. It necessarily compelled him to give up
all collegiate objects; and we recollect to have seen in print a
fragment of a letter from his elder brother (afterwards Lord Stowell) to
a friend, in these words--"Have you seen what my foolish brother has
done? He has made a runaway match; he is utterly ruined." The opinion of
Moises, his schoolmaster, was equally decided. "Jack Scott has run off
with Bessy Surtees, and the poor lad is undone."

Scott entered as a student of the Middle Temple in January 1773. In six
years after, what was his progress? We have this letter from Lord
Stowell about 1779. "Business is very dull with poor Jack, very dull
indeed, and of consequence he is not very lively. I heartily wish that
business may brighten a little, or he will be heartily sick of his
profession. I do all I can to keep up his spirits, but he is very
gloomy. But mum, not a word of this to the wife of your bosom."

At length, however, day began to dawn, and his powerful understanding
and solid knowledge found the opportunity, which to such means is
generally all that is wanting. A conversation with an old friend lets us
into a curious trait of Lord Mansfield. "Was the Court of Chancery your
object when you first came to the bar?" asked Farrar. "Certainly not,"
answered Lord Eldon. "I first took my seat in the King's Bench; but I
soon perceived, or thought I perceived, a preference in Lord Mansfield
(the Chief Justice) for young lawyers who had been bred at Westminster
School and Christ Church; and so, as I had belonged to neither, I
thought I could not have fair chance with my fellows, and therefore I
crossed over to the other side of the hall. (The Courts of King's Bench
and Chancery were at that time on the opposite sides of Westminster
Hall.) Lord Mansfield, I believe, was not conscious of the bias; he was
a good man." Mansfield's goodness was sufficiently questioned by his
contemporaries; yet if he exhibited this bias, he could not have been a
just man. The cause which first made Scott known was Acroyd v. Smithson.
The question was--whether, in a property willed in fifteen shares to
fifteen people, one of them dying in the testator's lifetime, the lapsed
share did not belong to the heir at law. He argued the case before the
Master of the Rolls, Sir Thomas Sewell. "He has argued it very well,"
said Sewell. But he gave it against Scott. An appeal came before Lord
Thurlow. Scott argued his point. Thurlow took three days to consider,
and then gave his decision in favour of the heir-at-law--a decision
which has settled all similar questions ever since. He then had an omen
of his prosperity. As he left the hall, a solicitor of some note touched
him on the shoulder, and said, "Young man, your bread and butter is cut
for life."

He then had another golden opportunity. Fatigued with waiting for
fortune, he was on the point of leaving London, and taking up his abode
at Newcastle, of which he was offered the recordership. A house was even
taken for him, when, one morning at six o'clock, Mr, afterwards Lord,
Curzon, and four or five other gentlemen, came to his door, mentioning
that the Clitheroe election case was to come on that morning at ten
before a committee of the Commons; that one of their counsel was
detained at Oxford by illness, and their second was unprepared and would
not appear; and that they were sent to him as a young and promising
counsel. Scott told them that, on so short a notice, all he could do
would be to give a dry statement of facts. The cause thus put into his
hands went on for fifteen days. "It found me poor," said Lord Eldon,
"but I was to be rich before it was done. They left me fifty guineas at
the beginning; then there were ten guineas every day, and five guineas
every evening, for a consultation--more money than I could count. But,
better still, the length of the cause gave me time to make myself
thoroughly acquainted with the law." After all this, the side on which
Scott was, was beaten by a single vote. But Mansfield, (afterwards Sir
James,) on hearing his speech in the committee, came up to him in
Westminster Hall, and strongly advised him to remain in London. Scott
answered that an increasing family compelled him to leave London.
Wilson, a barrister, advised as Mansfield had done, and even generously
offered to make up his income to L.400 a-year. He received the same
answer. "However," said the chancellor, with natural selfgratulation, "I
did remain, and lived to make Mansfield chief justice of the common
pleas, and Wilson a judge." Moreover, his sagacity gave him additional
triumphs on the northern circuit, where he soon took the lead. He was
counsel in a cause which depended on his being able to make out who was
the founder of an ancient chapel in the neighbourhood. "I went to view
it," said Lord Eldon. "There was nothing to be observed which gave any
indication of its date or history. However, I remarked that the ten
commandments were written on some old plaster, which, from its position,
I conjectured might cover an arch. Acting on this, I bribed the clerk
with five shillings to allow me to chip away a part of the plaster; and
after two or three attempts, I found the keystone of an arch, on which
were engraved the arms of an ancestor of one of the parties. This
evidence decided the cause. Here was an instance of good-luck,
undoubtedly, but also of great diligence and great sagacity. A negligent
counsel would never have thought of examining the chapel in person; a
dull counsel would never have thought of examining the arch; but it
happens that the sagacious are generally lucky, and that, therefore, the
first quality is sagacity."

Another remarkable case occurred at Durham. On this occasion, Scott,
though a junior counsel, was appointed to lead by his seniors, the case
being relative to collieries, and he being a Newcastle man. When Buller
the judge, who was a coarse man, and fond of saying abrupt things, saw
him, he said, "Sir, you have not a leg to stand upon." Scott answered,
"My lord, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, I should sit down on
hearing the judge so express himself; but so persuaded am I that I have
the right on my side, that I must entreat your lordship to allow me to
reply, and I must also express my expectation of gaining a verdict." He
replied, and the jury, after consulting six or eight hours, gave the
verdict in his favour. When he went to the ball that evening, he was
received with open arms by every one.

When he went to Carlisle, Buller sent for him, and told him that "he had
been thinking over that case on his way from Newcastle, and that he had
come to the conclusion that he was entirely wrong, and that I was right.
He had, therefore, sent for me to tell me this, and to express his
regret for having attempted to stop me in court. This cause," said Lord
Eldon, "raised me aloft."

Yet this man, with all his ability, had already attended the Cumberland
assizes for seven years without receiving a brief. After the celebrity
of this cause, when he next attended, he received seventy guineas in
fees at Carlisle.

So much has been said in parliament, and in the newspapers lately, of
_Gentlemen of the Turf_, and the very dubious nature of that
appellation, that the following case comes curiously in point. A
question arose as to the winner of the stakes in a race--there having
been a condition, that the horses should be ridden by gentlemen; and it
was disputed whether the winning horse had been ridden by a gentleman or
not. The judge finally addressed the jury in these words--"Gentlemen of
the jury, when I see you in that box I call you gentlemen, for I know
you are such. Custom has authorized me, and, from your office there, you
are entitled to be called gentlemen; but out of that box, I do not know
what may be deemed the requisites that constitute a gentleman--therefore
I can give you no direction," (a laugh.) The jury returned a verdict
that he was not a gentleman. The next morning he challenged the two
counsel, Law and Scott. They answered, they could not possibly fight one
who had been pronounced by the verdict of a jury to be no _gentleman_.

Politics now began to rise in the prospects of this intelligent and
indefatigable mind. The condition of the English lawyer forms as
striking a contrast to that of the Continental _jurisconsult_, as the
English constitution to the despotisms of Europe. Abroad, the lawyer may
be a man of whatever extent of attainment, but his sphere is strictly
professional; within that range he lives, makes a scanty income, with a
still more scanty fame, disputes for forty or fifty years, and dies.
France, of late years, is partially an exception, for France now extends
the range of her professions; but in all the rest, the existence of the
lawyer closely resembles the existence of the quadruped in the mill. In
England all is of a different and a higher order. The bar itself is but
a step; distinction in the courts is only the first stage of an ascent
which may raise the individual to eminence in government, as well as
dignity in the high places of his profession--it is the preparative for
wearing those honours which form a family, and give a pledge to fortune.
As the ancients said of the eagle, that, before he takes his flight for
the day, he prepares his wings by plunging them in the mountain stream,
the great lawyer has plunged in the depths of his profession only to
ascend into a higher range of power and prospect, and there to steer his
strong flight to the possession of all that man can desire.

On the formation of the Coalition ministry under North and Fox in 1783,
the great seal being in commission, Scott was appointed king's counsel;
but in this instance, so important to a young barrister, he yet showed
manliness. Saturday was the day on which he was to receive this honour;
but on ascertaining the Erskine and Pigot, both his juniors, and who
were also to have silk gowns, were to be sworn in on the Friday, he
instantly retracted his acceptance, as, "he could not submit to any
waiver of his professional rank." The lords-commissioners called him
before them, and argued the matter pressingly. But he would not give
way. At last, as the patents for the two other counsel had already
passed the great seal, they were sworn in on the Friday; but a patent of
precedence was given to Scott, by which he took rank before them. The
day of his patent was the 4th of June 1783: he was then thirty-two years
old. Late in life, a friend asked whether he thought it was important
thus to insist on retaining his rank. Eldon, with the experience of half
a century, answered with great earnestness, "It was every thing. I owed
my future success to it." There is a moral in the words of Wiseman--"The
man who begins by humiliation, will soon find that the world will judge
of him by his own deed."

Lord Eldon, in one of those conversations, strikingly remarked a similar
conduct in the celebrated Lord Collingwood, who had been his
schoolfellow. "Medals were given," said his lordship, "on the 1st of
June, but not to him. When the medal was sent to him for Cape St
Vincent, he returned it, saying that he felt conscious he had done his
duty as well on the 1st of June as at Cape St Vincent; and that, if he
did not merit the first medal, neither could he merit the second. He was
quite right," said Lord Eldon, "he would have both or neither. Both were
sent to him."

Parliament now opened to his ambition. Lord Thurlow, at Lord Weymouth's
request, offered him Weobly, a borough in his patronage, (extinguished
by the Reform Act of 1832.) Scott accepted the offer, on the condition
that he should be left independent in his opinions. Thurlow said the "he
had stipulated that already." Scott went down to the borough
accordingly, made a "long speech," which the electors said they expected
from him, "as he was a lawyer: it being also a treat which they had not
enjoyed for thirty years." Lord Surrey, (afterwards Duke of Norfolk,) a
prodigious reformer--a profession which, however, did not prevent him
from constantly dabbling in the intrigues of electioneering--had
harangued against him at Hereford, while Scott retorted at Weobly by
smartly saying--"That though then unknown to them, he hoped he should
entitle himself to more of their confidence, than if, being the son of
the first Duke of England, he had held himself out to them as a
reformer, whilst riding, as the Earl of Surry rode, into the first town
of the county, drunk, upon a cider-cask, and talking in that state of
_reform_!" Lord Surrey had been his client, and on meeting him in France
afterwards, good-humouredly said--"I have had enough of meddling with
you; I shall trouble you no more."

An odd incident, valuable to those who value foresightedness in this
world's affairs, occurred at the time Scott was lodged at the vicar's,
Mr Bridges. He had a daughter, a young child, and he said--"Who knows
but you may come to be chancellor. As my girl can probably marry nobody
but a clergyman, promise me you will give her husband a living when you
have the seals." His answer was, "My promise is not worth half-a-crown;
but you may have my promise." In after life, the child, then in
womanhood, walked one morning into the chancellor's drawing-room, and
claimed the fulfilment of his promise. It was duly performed, and she
married.

There is perhaps no subject of human interest more entitled to an
anxious and solemn curiosity, than the sentiments of a man of powerful
and fully furnished mind in the immediate prospect of death. The coming
change is so total and so tremendous, alarm and a sense of the unknown
are so natural, that to find unpresuming confidence, and virtuous
constancy of heart, in that awful time, cheers human nature. William
Scott, always distinguished for great capacity and remarkable
acquirements, about this period being seized with an illness, which he
thought mortal, writes these memoranda on the verge of the grave:--

My great comfort is, to write on to my dearest Jack, and about my wife.
Act for me. _Wife, child_. She knows I recommend her to your care.

Object of my life, to make my sisters easy.

Save ------ from ruin if we can.

Protect my memory by your kindness. Life ebbs very fast with me. My
dying thoughts are all kindness and fraternal love about you.

While sensation remains, I think on my dearest brother, with whom I
have spent my life. I die with the same sentiments. As the hand of death
approaches, it is a consolation to think of him. Oh, cherish my wife! If
you loved me, be a brother to her. You will have trouble about my
affairs; you will not grudge it. Oh, take care of _her_! I leave you
that duty. It is the last relief of my failing mind. Cherish my memory.
Keep ----- from ruin, if you can, by any application of any part of my
child's fortune that is reasonable. Once more, farewell! God bless you.

These are affecting testimonials, and show singular tenderness of heart
and truth of attachment; for they were written, to be transmitted only
in case of death. Those who in after times saw Lord Stowell on the
bench, the solemn, and even the stern depository of justice, could
scarcely imagine, in that searching glance and compressed lip, the
softness of heart which those fragments indicate. Death may be a great
subduer of the fierce spirit of man as it approaches; but their language
is not the phrase of puling softness, or pusillanimous alarm; it is at
once calm and fond, collected and fervid. The writer's natural and
honourable feelings are all alive at the moment when the last pang might
seem to be at hand; and though nothing is said of his Christian hopes,
(probably because the care of his family demanded more urgent
consideration than his personal conceptions,) language like theirs could
scarcely have come but from a Christian. His disorder was a violent
bilious fever, which exhausted him so much that his recovery was slow.
But to those who are in the habit of consigning their friends to
"inevitable death" on every infliction of disease, it may excite some
useful doubt of their own infallibility, to know that this dying man,
then thirty-eight, survived for half a century, dying in his
ninety-first year.

But the whole biography is a warning--especially against despondency.
Who could suppose that, after Lord Eldon's success up to this point; his
distinction on the principal circuit; the compliments of the judges; the
respect of his seniors in the profession, some of them very remarkable
men; his silk gown in the days of Erskine; his seat in Parliament; and,
more than all, the consciousness which men of large faculties naturally
have of their suitableness, and almost their certainty, to command
fortune at some tine or other; we should find the future peer and
chancellor desponding? Yet what but deep complaints of his cloudy
prospects could have produced this reply from his clever friend Lee,
(who, within three weeks' became Attorney-General?)

    DEAR SCOTT--Your letter, which I received this minute,
    was a very cheering one to me. But _keep up your
    spirits_, and let it not be said that a good
    understanding, and an irreproachable life, and an
    uncommon success, and every virtuous expectation, are
    insufficient to support tranquility and composure of
    mind. _If you are cast down_ who is to hold up? In a few
    days I hope to meet you in good health and good heart;
    and, in the mean time, remain your faithful and
    affectionate.

      (Nov. 1783)                                 "J. LEE."

On the opening of the session, great popular feeling was excited against
the coalition. The furious invectives which Fox had been for some years
heaping on Lord North's luckless head, were now flung upon his own.
Traitor, liar, swindler, were "house-hold words;" and Fox, with all his
ability, and that happiest of all ability for the crisis, great
constitutional good-humour, found himself suddenly overwhelmed. In the
House he was still powerful; but, outside its doors, he was utterly
helpless. Like the witches recorded in some of the German romances,
though within the walls chosen for their orgies they could summon
spirits, and revel in their incantations uncontrolled, yet, on passing
the threshold, they turned into hags again. But as if to make the
coalition still more odious in the popular eye, there was presented the
most resistless contrast to both its chiefs in the young and
extraordinary leader of the Opposition, Pitt; with the ardour of youth
and the wisdom of years, at once master of the most vigorous logic, and
the loftiest appeal to the public feelings; honoured as the son of
Chatham; and yet, even at that immature period of his life and his
career, still more honoured for the promise of talents and services
which were to throw even his own eminent predecessor into the shade.

But North, apart from the cabinet, was always delightful. He had more of
easy pleasantry in his manner than any favourite of English
recollection. Lord Eldon, in his anecdotal book thus tells--"Lord North
had gone, at the Prince of Wales's desire, to reconcile the King to him.
He succeeded, and called on the Prince to inform him of his success.
'Now,' said he, 'let me beseech your Royal Highness in future to conduct
yourself differently. Do so, on all accounts; do so, for your own sake;
do so, for your excellent father's sake; do so, for the sake of that
good-natured man, Lord North; and don't oblige him again to tell the
King, your good father, so many lies, as he has been obliged to tell him
this morning'"

Lord Eldon's personal narrative is a sort of comment on the whole public
history of his time. Why did not such a man write his own "Life and
Times?" Intelligent as are the Volumes before us, the personal
conceptions arising on the personal knowledge, would have been
invaluable as experience. His view of transactions in their embryo, in
their full growth, and in their impression on the general policy and
progress of the government, would have formed an important lesson for
statesmanship to come. But what an indulgence must it have furnished to
the national curiosity, which, seeing the origin of all things in
individual character, justly regards the eminent characters of that day
as the founders of every remarkable change which has shaped the
constitution in our own! Public life has never before or since abounded
in such variety, strength, and brilliancy of character. A combination of
talents of the very highest order was exhibited in both the Lords and
Commons; and it would actually seem as if this combination were
preparatory to the tremendous demands which, before the close of the
century, were to be made upon the wisdom, the courage, and the constancy
of the British legislature. And why should there not be such
preparation? We see preparation a principle in the whole course of
nature. We see, in the formation of individual character, a preparative,
and sometimes a most distinct and powerful one, for the duty which the
coming crisis is yet to demand; and why shall not legislatures, as well
individuals, be placed in that condition of effectiveness, and trained
to that exertion of power, which is subsequently to be required for the
providential deliverance of nations? It is remarkable that the
discussions in which parliament at this period was engaged, though
local, and of course altogether inferior to those comprehensive
struggles which were to follow, were yet of a nature singularly
calculated to call forth practical ability. There never was a period
since the Revolution of 1688, in which party was so vigorously brought
into conflict, in which personal interests gave so strong a stimulus to
the association of principles, in which office so rapidly shifted hands,
and power was so much the creature of reputation. Thus the whole
character of this period was an appeal to popularity; an appeal of all
others the most calculated to bring out every latent faculty of the
orator, the constitutionalist, and the statesman. A still greater
period, unknown and unexpected by every man, was to have the advantage
of this preparation. The French Revolution, which burst with such
irresistible violence over the Continent, was to find the ramparts of
public principle and legislative wisdom repaired and strengthened in
England, and those ramparts manned with defenders who had learned the
use of their weapons in the mock conflicts of peace, and, when the day
of danger came, showed themselves invincible.

The India bill broke down the Coalition ministry; it was the most
insolent experiment ever made on the constitution--a compound of
republican daring and despotic power. It would have made the king a
cipher, and parliament a slave. The exclusive patronage of India would
have enabled the minister to corrupt the legislature. The corruption of
the legislature would have made the minister irresponsible: the
constitution would thus have been inevitably suspended, and the national
liberties incapable of being restored except by a national convulsion.
But those evils were happily avoided by the manliness of the king and
the loyalty of the lords. The India bill was thrown out in the House of
Lords on the 17th of December. The king lost no time in giving effect to
this discomfiture. At the extraordinary hour of twelve o'clock on the
following night, an order was sent to the two secretaries of state,
North and Fox, that they should deliver up the seals by his majesty's
command; adding the contemptuous injunction, that they should send them
by the under-secretaries, the king not suffering a personal interview.

Pitt was placed at the head of the new administration as first lord of
the treasury and chancellor of the exchequer. Thurlow was again made
lord chancellor, and Kenyon and Arden attorney and solicitor-generals.
In the debates on the India bill, one of Sheridan's pleasantries is
recorded. As Fox's majorities declined, it was hinted by his party that
John Robinson, the secretary of the treasury, was purchasing the votes.
On Sheridan's making the charge without naming the supposed culprit, a
great outcry arose in the House of "Name him, name him!" "Sir," said
Sheridan, addressing the Speaker, "I shall not name the person; it is an
invidious and unpleasant thing to do; but don't suppose that I could
find any difficulty in naming him: I could do it as soon as you could
say _Jack Robinson_."

Pitt having waited with consummate judgment, though against the advice
of all his supporters, until Fox had worn down his majorities in the
House, and totally disgusted the nation, dissolved the parliament. The
measure was triumphant; an unequaled Tory majority was returned in the
next session, and the Whigs were extinguished as a party for nearly
twenty years. Lord Eldon records a curious acknowledgment of Fox with
respect to the power of the pencil. "Sayers's caricatures," said he,
"did me more mischief than the debates in Parliament or the attacks of
the press." Lord Eldon observes that the prints of Carlo Khan; Fox
running away with the India House; Fox and Burke quitting Paradise when
turned out of office, and similar publications, had certainly a vast
effect on the public mind. Let HB triumph on this, and make his claim on
the ministry. Scott was again returned for Weobly, and gives a curious
instance of the slight incidents by which elections are sometimes
determined. In crossing the country from Lancaster to the hustings at
his borough, he stopped at the last stage to have his hair dressed. The
hairdresser asked him whether Sir Gilbert Elliott was not one of the
seven kings--a name of ridicule given to Fox's seven proposed
commissioners for India. "Because," said the man, "there is a Sir
Gilbert Elliott a candidate for the borough; and we are all agreed that,
if he is one of the seven kings, we will have nothing to say to him; and
as we wish to be sure about it, and as you must know, sir, excuse my
freedom in asking whether he really is one of the seven kings." Scott
answered that he certainly was. The hairdresser immediately made
proclamation of the fact, and Sir Gilbert was totally defeated.

Very curious instances of character occur in the experience of counsel.
Lord Eldon gives one of them as occurring to himself. "Once," said he,
"I had a very handsome offer made to me. I was pleading for the rights
of the inhabitants of the Isle of Man. Now I had been reading in Coke,
and I found there that the people in the Isle of Man were no beggars,"
(the words are, 'The inhabitants of this Isle are religious,
industrious, and true people, without begging or stealing.') "I
therefore do not beg their rights, I demand them. This so pleased an old
smuggler who was present, that when the trial was over, he called me
aside and said, 'Young gentleman, I tell you what, you shall have my
daughter if you will marry her, and one hundred thousand pounds for her
fortune.' That was a very handsome offer, but I told him that I happened
to have a wife who had nothing for her fortune, therefore I must stick
to her." In December of this year 1784, Johnson died. "He was a good
man," said Lord Eldon; "he sent me a message on his death-bed, to
request that I would make a point of attending public worship every
Sunday, and that the place should be the Church of England."

An excellent anecdote, illustrative of the advantages of knowing some
thing of every thing, is given on a trial at Carlisle. Bearcroft, a
celebrated advocate, was brought down on a special retainer of three
hundred guineas, in a salmon fishery cause. Scott led on the other side;
and at a consultation held the evening before, it was determined to
perplex Bearcroft, by examining all the witnesses in the dialect of
Cumberland, and, as it appears, in the _patois_ of the fishermen.
Accordingly, when Scott began to cross-examine his first witness, who
said a good deal out the salmon good and bad, he asked whether they were
obliged to make _ould soldiers_ of any of them. Bearcroft asked for an
explanation of the words, which Scott would not give him. He then asked
the judge, who answered that he did not know. After a squabble, the
phrase was explained; but nearly every other question produced a similar
scene. The jury were astonished that neither judge nor Bearcroft
understood what they all understood so well, and they inferred from
Bearcroft's ignorance that he had a rotten cause. The consequence was,
that Bearcroft lost the cause; and he swore that no fee should ever
tempt him to come among such a set of barbarians as the Cumberland men
again.

An _ould soldier_ is made by hanging up in a chimney a salmon caught out
of season, when the fish is white instead of red, and it acquires by
hanging the colour of an old red coat.

Cross-examination may sometimes produce peril to the performer. At the
assizes, Scott once examined a barber severely. The barber got into a
great passion, and Scott desired him to moderate his anger, and that he
should employ him to shave him as he passed through Kendal to the
Lancaster assizes. 'The barber said, with great indignation, "I would
not advise you, lawyer, to think of that, or risk it."

Scott's reputation was now rising year by year, in both Parliament and
his profession; and Lord Mansfield's resignation, in 1788, of the
chief-justiceship of the King's Bench making a general move in the
higher orders of the bar, Scott was appointed solicitor-general, Kenyon
being appointed to the chief-justiceship, and the attorney-general,
Arden, succeeding to the Rolls. On this occasion he was knighted. A
melancholy event soon gave him the most public opportunity for the
display of his official faculties. In the autumn of 1788, the king was
attacked with disorder of the mind, and the great question of the
regency necessarily came before Parliament. The Whigs, who regarded the
Prince of Wales as their dependent, if not as their dupe, insisted on
his succession to the unlimited prerogatives of the sovereign; the
Tories insisted, on the other hand, that Parliament alone had a right to
confer the regency and to assign its powers, though they admitted that
the choice, in the present instance, ought to fall upon the Prince of
Wales. A question of this importance naturally brought out all the
ability on both sides. Pitt and the solicitor-general took the lead on
the side of limitation, and the prince ultimately accepted the regency
on their terms. It became unnecessary, however; for, while the bill was
in the House of Lords, a communication was made by the chancellor, that
the king's health was in a favourable state.

His majesty was able to return to business in March.

Lord Thurlow had been universally charged with carrying on an intrigue
with the Opposition, for the purpose of continuing in office under the
regency. Lord Eldon's belief is introduced against that charge; but
there can be no doubt whatever that the charge was universally rumoured
at the time; that anecdotes confirmatory of the fact were told in every
direction; that no known attempt was ever made to answer them; and that,
from the period of the regency, an alienation arose, which finally
determined his dismissal by the minister. The well-known boast of the
chancellor's loyalty to the incapacitated king, which produced such
animadversion in the House, and such burlesque out of it--Burke's
ridicule of his official sensibilities, "the iron tears down Pluto's
cheeks," were all founded on the public belief of this intrigue. And it
is certainly no answer, at the end of half a century of uncontradicted
opinion, to say that no formal accusation on the subject was made on the
king's recovery, when the whole subject of the regency had become alike
distasteful to both sides of the House--to Ministers, from delicacy to
the king; and to Opposition, from a sense of failure.

Soon after Scott became solicitor-general, the king, at Weymouth, said,
"Well, I hope your promotion has been beneficial to you?" He asked his
majesty if he meant his professional income. "Yes," said the king, "in
that and in other respects." Scott told him that he must lose by it
about £2000 a-year; and on the king expressing surprise, he said "That
the attention of the law-officers was called to matters of international
law, public law, and revenue law--matters which, as they were not
familiar to them, took up a good deal of their time, and that the fee
usually given to the solicitor-general with the government cases was
only three guineas, while those from private cases were from ten to
twenty-five." "Oh!" said the king, "then for the first time I comprehend
what I never could understand, why it has always been so difficult to
get any opinion from my law-officers."

At the close of the session of 1792, Lord Thurlow gave up the great
seal. "What it was," said Lord Eldon afterwards, "that occasioned the
rupture between Lord Thurlow and his colleagues, I never could find
out." We here see an instance of the ignorance in which a high official
was content to remain, on a subject which might naturally and fairly
excite his curiosity. It is obvious that he wished to keep himself out
of the mêlée and took the best probable way of doing so, by asking no
questions. But a dilemma arose out of this resignation to Scott himself.
Pitt sent for him, and said, "I have a circumstance to mention to you,
which, on account of your personal and political connexion with Lord
Thurlow, I wish that you should first hear from myself. Lord Thurlow and
I have quarreled, and I have signified to him his Majesty's commands
that he should resign the great seal." Scott replied, that he was not at
all surprised at the event which had taken place; but added, that he
owed too great obligations to Lord Thurlow to reconcile it to himself to
act in political hostility to him, and he had also been too long in
political connexion with the minister to join any party against him; so
that nothing was left but to resign his office, and make his bow to the
House of Commons. Pitt argued against this, and finally induced him to
consult Lord Thurlow. Thurlow at once told him, that to resign would be
a foolish thing; adding in the spirit of a prediction, which was
afterwards strikingly realized, "it is very possible that Mr Pitt, from
party and political motives, at this moment may overlook your
pretensions; but, sooner or later, you, _must_ hold the great seal. I
know no man but yourself qualified for its duties."

If the ex-chancellor was complimentary to Scott, it notoriously was not
his habitual style; the fierceness of his tone was well known. His
language of Loughborough, who succeeded him, was savagely contemptuous.
On one occasion, when the latter was speaking with considerable effect
on a subject on which Lord Thurlow had an adverse opinion, though he did
not regard himself as sufficiently master of it for direct refutation,
he was heard to mutter, "If I was not as lazy as a toad at the bottom of
a well, I could kick that fellow Loughborough heels over head, any day
in the week."

Thurlow told the Prince that though Loughborough "had the gift of the
gab in a marvellous degree, he was no lawyer;" and added, "in the house
of Lords I get Kenyon or somebody to start some law doctrine, in such a
manner that the, fellow _must_ get up to answer it, and then I
leave the woolsack, and give him such a thump in his bread-basket that
he cannot recover himself."

The solicitor-general was now growing rich, and he purchased for
L.22,000 the manor of Eldon, a property of about 1300 acres in the
county of Durham. He was an "improving landlord," and for several years
he expended the income of the estate on planting--which at once much
increased its value, and added to the beauty of that part of the county
of Durham.

In 1793, he ascended another step in his profession, by his appointment
to the great office of attorney-general, in succession to Sir Archibald
Macdonald, who was made chief baron of the exchequer. The new
attorney-general was soon summoned to the highest exercise of his
abilities, his learning, and his courage; he commenced office in the midst
of national convulsion.

The Revolution of France, which had been growing violence and havoc for
the last four years, had now arrived at its height. The change,
beginning with popular reform in 1789, had, in 1793, been consummated in
regicide. The republic proclaimed in the year before, within three
months had darkened into a democracy. The general alarm of the
continental kings; combined them in an attempt to overthrow a government
which threatened them all; the attempt was found to result only in
consolidating its power; and, in the first year of war, France presented
to the disaffected of all nations, the tempting spectacle of a land in
which the foremost prizes of power had fallen into the hands of men of
the humblest condition; and in which those men humbled to the dust the
proudest diadems of Europe. Obscure pamphleteers, country advocates,
monks, and editors of struggling journals, were suddenly seen in the
first offices of state, wielding the whole power of the mightiest
kingdom of the Continent, absorbing its revenues, directing its armies,
and moving in the rank of princes among the proud hereditary
sovereignties of the world. To the crowd of unprincipled men, engendered
by the habits of European life, and their consciousness of abilities
fully equal to those which had won such opulent enjoyments and lofty
distinctions in France, the success of the Revolution was an universal
summons to conspiracy. On the Continent that conspiracy was, according
to the habits of the people, crafty and concealed. In England, equally
according to the habits of the people, it was bold and public, daring
and defying. Great meetings of the population were held in the open air;
committees of grievance were appointed; correspondences were spread
through the country; the whole machinery of overthrow was openly
erected, and worked by visible hands. Even where secresy was deemed
useful by the more cautious or the more fearful, it was of a different
character from the assassin-like secresy of the foreign insurgent; it
was more the solemn and regulated observance of a secret tribunal. The
papers which have transpired of those secret committees have all the
forms of diplomacy, combined with a determination of language, and an
intensity of purpose, which would do honour to a nobler cause. But the
contest was now at hand, and on three men in England depended the
championship of the monarchy. These three were the King, the Minister,
and the Attorney-General. There were never three individuals more
distinctly, and we shall scarcely hesitate to say, more providentially,
prepared to meet the crisis. George III., a sovereign of the most
constitutional principles, and of the most unshaken intrepidity; William
Pitt, the most sagacious and the most resolute statesman that England
had ever seen, formed by his manly eloquence to rule the legislature,
and, by his character for integrity, to obtain the full confidence of
the empire; and Sir John Scott, at once wise, calm, and bold, profoundly
learned in his profession, personally brave, and alike incapable of
yielding to the menaces of party or the corruptions of power. It is not
to be forgotten, as a portion of that genuine public respect which in
England is always withheld from even the most shining personal gifts,
when stained by private profligacy, that those three were wholly and
alike above the breath of slander. The king, eminent for domestic
virtue; Pitt, unstained by even an imputation; and Scott, fondly
attached to his wife and family.

In January 1793, the cruel murder of the innocent and unfortunate Louis
XVI. had been perpetrated by the National Convention--an act which
Napoleon long afterwards pronounced "a grand political error; sufficient
to stamp the government not merely with guilt, but with infatuation."
The French minister at the Court of St James's was ordered to leave the
country, and war was proclaimed. The revolutionary committees in England
now assumed increased activity. Communications were established between
them and the Jacobin government; and while France prepared for War,
English republicanism prepared for revolution. The time of the struggle
was fully come. The English minister now buckled on his armour. A
succession of vigorous measures employed the legislature during the
whole period; they were fiercely combated, but they were all ultimately
carried. Opposition never exhibited more brilliant parliamentary powers.
Fox was matchless in declamation, alternately solemn and touching;
Sheridan, Grey, and a long list of practised and indefatigable talent,
were in perpetual debate; but Pitt, "with huge two-handed sway", finally
crushed them all. The classic illustration of Hercules destroying the
Hydra, was frequently used to express the solitary prowess of this
extraordinary man in resisting the multiplied, wily, and envenomed
attacks of his opponents; and he realized the fable to the full--he
not merely crushed the heads, but he seared them. He extinguished that
principle of evil increase, by which all the efforts of foreign
governments had been baffled in their contests with Jacobinism; and in
the midst of an empire at all times inclined to look with jealousy on
power, and at that moment nervous for the suspended privileges of its
constitution, Pitt utterly extinguished the Whigs. Fox was defeated so
hopelessly, that he gave up Parliament altogether, and his party
followed his example. Pitt had not merely cut down the statelier trunks
of Opposition, but he had swept away the brushwood, and smote the ground
with sterility. His bold enterprise had not merely taken the citadel Of
faction by storm, and driven its defenders, faint-hearted and fugitive,
over the face of the land, but he had sown the foundations with salt.
The total solitude of the Opposition benches, during the greater part of
the minister's political life, was the most unequivocal and striking
evidence ever given to ministerial supremacy.

The services of the attorney-general were in another less wide, but not
less important province. On the Continent, the conspirators against the
state would have been thrown into dungeon for life, or shot. In France,
the idol of the revolutionist of all countries, they would heave been
carried before a mob tribunal, their names simply asked, their sentences
pronounced, and their bodies headless within the first half hour. In
England, they had the benefit of the law in all its sincerity, the
assistance of the most distinguished counsel, the judgment of the most
impartial tribunal, and the incalculable advantage of a trial by men of
their own condition, feelings, and passions. On the 28th of October, at
the Old Bailey, commenced the trial of Hardy, one of the secretaries of
the chief treasonable society. The bill brought in by the grand jury had
included twelve. The charges were those of "compassing the death of the
king, and the subversion of the government." Hardy was a shoemaker, a
man of low attainments, but active, and strongly republican. His
activity had made him secretary to the London Corresponding Society, and
by its direction a member of a similar body, named the Society for
Constitutional Information. The direct object of all those societies was
the same--to summon a national convention, which must, of course,
supersede Parliament. As those societies grew more mature, instead of
becoming more rational they exhibited more savage ferocity. Placards
were distributed in the form of a playbill, announcing, "For the Benefit
of John Bull, La Guillotine," or, "George's Head in a Basket." The airs
of their meetings were Ca Ira and the Marseillaise. Attempts were made
to corrupt the army. It was openly declared in their harangues, that it
was "impossible to do any thing without some bloodshed, and that Pitt's
and the King's heads would be upon Temple Bar." The sentiment was
general, but at the conclusion of the especial harangue in which this
atrocious language was first used, the whole meeting rose up, and shook
hands with the madman by whom it was uttered.

The attorney-general's speech on this occasion was masterly; English
jurisprudence had never before witnessed so striking a combination of
refined knowledge with clear arrangement and unanswerable facts. It had
one disadvantage, it was overwhelmingly long; it lasted nine hours, a
period, if not beyond the strength of the advocate, palpably beyond any
power of attention in the jury. But even this disadvantage arose from an
honourable public feeling. The judges who examined the papers declared
them to be high treason. The warrants of commitment had declared them to
be high treason. Lord Eldon, in his "anecdotes" of this period, says,
that, "after this, he did not think himself at liberty to _let down_ the
character of the offence." An additional and still stronger reason is
given, that "unless the _whole_ evidence was laid before the jury, it
would have been impossible that the country should have ever been made
fully acquainted with the danger to which it was exposed. And it
appeared to him more essential to the public safety that the whole of
those transactions should be published, than _that any of these
individuals should be convicted_." This was a sentiment which does
honour to the memory of a great man. He had been urged by his fellow
counsel, and probably by others, to bring the accused to trial only for
a misdemeanour, in the expectation of thus being sure of a verdict. But
he determined to bring the case before the jury in its true shape, be
the result what it might. It has been rumoured that this, too, was the
opinion of Pitt, in contradiction to that of some of the cabinet. With
that pre-eminent man the blood of these criminals could never have been
the object. No servant of the British crown was ever less chargeable
with cruelty. But the true object was, to expose the treason; to prove
to the nation the actual hazards of revolutionary intrigue, and to
extinguish conspiracy, however the conspirators might escape. The
consequence amply justified this bold and candid determination. _The_
conspiracy was crushed; all conspiracy was crushed. Nothing of the same
degree of guilt, nor even of the same shape of guilt, ever recurred. The
lesson was not the less complete, for its sparing the country the sight
of the abhorred scaffold. The conspirators, though successively
acquitted, were so warned by their peril that they never sinned again.
All, if not converted, sank into total obscurity. The nation, freed from
this nightmare, started up in fresh vigour, and began, with a unanimity
in its heart, and irresistible strength in its hands, that illustrious
battle for Europe, which accomplished the liberation of mankind.

The attorney-general had now given such undeniable proofs of fitness for
the highest rank of his profession, that office seemed to fall to him by
right of universal acknowledgment; and on a vacancy in the Common Pleas,
he was promoted to the chief-justiceship in 1799, and at the same time
raised to the peerage by the title of Baron Eldon. It is an instance of
the dutiful and affectionate nature, which long connexion with the world
and the pride of success--the two strongest temptations to
heartlessness--could not extinguish, that he made a point of writing the
first letter which he signed with his title to his aged mother. In this
interesting document, after mentioning his double promotion, and
attributing it, "under the blessing of Providence," to the lessons of
virtue which he had received from his parents; he adds--"I hope God's
grace will enable me to do my duty in the station to which I am called.
I write in some agitation of spirits; but am anxious to express my love
and duty to my mother, and affection to my sisters, when I _first_
subscribe myself, your loving and affectionate son, ELDON."

Lord Kenyon, then chief-justice of the King's Bench, pronounced a
panegyric on this promotion, congratulating the profession, and
especially those who practised in the Common Pleas, on the appointment
of one who would probably be found "the most consummate judge that ever
sat in judgment."

The step from the office of attorney-general to the presidency of one of
the courts, has been not unusual; but, as modern experience has shown,
it is by no means a necessary procedure. In Lord Eldon's instance, it
received the universal approval of the bar. But he held the
chief-justiceship only for a year and a half, when he was raised to the
summit of the bar, and sat down lord chancellor.

We hasten over the melancholy details of the following period. The
labours of the attorney-general were light and cheerful compared with
the toils and responsibilities of the chancellor; the disturbed state of
the king's mind; the growing difficulties of that millstone round the
neck of English legislation, the Popish claims; the retirement of Pitt,
and the general alarm of the nation at its external hazards, formed a
trial of unexampled severity to all public men. The death of the Great
Minister in 1806, (23d of January,) at length broke up the Tory
administration; the Whigs assumed power, and Lord Eldon, of course,
resigned the Seals.

But the mere official routine of a chancellor's life is tremendous. Lord
Eldon's account of one of his days, shows at what a price the honour of
the Seals must be purchased. In one of his letters he says--"Mine has
been no easy life. I will tell you what once happened to me. I was ill
with the gout, it was in my feet, and so I was carried into my carriage,
and from it was carried into court. There I remained all the day, and
delivered an arduous judgment. In the evening, I went straight from my
court to the House of Lords. There I sat until two in the morning, when
some of the lords came and whispered to me, that I was expected to
speak. I told them that I really could not, that I was ill, and could
not stand. It was an important question, (the peace of Amiens,) I forgot
my gout, and spoke for two hours. Well, the House broke up, I was
carried home, and at six in the morning I prepared to go to bed. My poor
left leg had just got in; when I recollected that I had important papers
to examine; so I put on my clothes, and went to my study. I examined the
papers; they related to the Recorders' Report, which had to be heard
that day. I was again carried into court, where I had to deliver another
arduous judgment. Again went to the House of Lords, and it was not till
the middle of the second night that I got into bed!" Such desperate
performances do not occur every day in the life even of lord
chancellors; but the judicial labours, combined with the political, are
too heavy a task for the body or the mind of any man.

The Whigs are never destined to a long supremacy. They have never come
into power but in some perverted state of the public feelings. There
must be some terror, or some infatuation, in the public mind, before it
calls in the quack; but the moment that sees quiet succeed to
disturbance, and the nation has recovered its composure, always sees the
Whigs driven out of office. The death of Fox, in 1806, unquestionably
deprived the party of a great popular name, but the whole strength of
Whiggism survived. It was in full possession of power, and the late
dissolution had filled Parliament with its adherents; still its old fate
prevailed. Like ships floating over the land only by the help of an
inundation, when the waters return to their channel the ships remain,
only to be broken in pieces, the Whig government was broken up never to
be restored, until a new convulsion in France, producing a corresponding
convulsion in England, brought them into office, after a lapse of
another quarter of a century.

In March 1807, a bill having been prepared as a preliminary to the
Popish concession, the king pronounced it contrary to his coronation
oath, and insisted on its withdrawal; the Whigs consented; but the king
further insisting on a pledge that they would attempt no similar
measure, they demurred, and his majesty instantly dismissed them, amidst
the general rejoicing of the empire. The Duke of Portland was placed at
the head of a new ministry, and Lord Eldon received the Seals.

We have now seen his lordship secure in that station which he was to
retain until the close of his useful and vigorous life; we shall,
therefore, abandon politics, and turn to his more numerous recollections
of incident and character.

Lord Eldon as a warrior. "During the war," says his lordship, "I became
one of the Lincoln's Inn volunteers--Lord Ellenborough, at the same
time, being one of the corps. It happened, unfortunately for the
military character of both of us, that we were _turned out of the
awkward squad for awkwardness_! I think Ellenborough was more awkward
than I was; but others thought that it was difficult to determine which
was the worse." His brother William, however, was a smart officer, and
commanded a corps.

Of Chief-Justice Eyre, whom he succeeded in the Common Pleas, he
told--"Eyre once demanded of Wilkes, why he abused him so unmercifully
in his speeches to the Livery while he was Recorder, though in private
he expressed a regard for him?"--"So I have," said Wilkes, "and it is
for that reason I abuse you in public. I wish to have you promoted to a
judgeship."

"When Sir Robert Henley was keeper of the Great Seal, and presided in
the House, he was often indignant at seeing his decrees reversed, while,
not being a peer, he was not entitled to support his decisions. In the
famous case of Drury and Drury, his decision having been reversed,
though the bar then and still pronounced it valid, the lord keeper was
very angry; and, in driving home, his coachman checked the horses. He
asked--'Why he did not drive on?' The man saying--'My lord, I can't. If
I do, I shall kill an old woman.'--'Drive on,' cried Henley; 'if you do
kill her, she has nothing to do but to appeal to the house of Lords.' He
was afterwards made lord chancellor, and this habit of reversals came to
an end."

On his quitting the chancellorship, and accepting the inferior office of
lord president, the Archbishop of Canterbury congratulating him on his
removal from an office of unceasing fatigue to one of so much quiet, the
ex-chancellor not being at all satisfied with the difference of the
emoluments, answered very sulkily, "I suppose, now, you would think I
was extremely civil and kind if I were to congratulate your grace on a
transition from Canterbury to Llandaff."

Taylor, an extravagant personage who called himself a chevalier, and who
professed extraordinary skill in the diseases of the eye, dining one day
with the bar on the Oxford circuit, related many wonders which he had
done. Bearcroft, a little out of humour at his self-conceit,
said--"Pray, Chevalier, as you have told us a great many things which
you have done, try to tell us something which you cannot do." "Nothing
so easy," said Taylor; "I cannot pay my share of the dinner-bill; and
that, sir, I must beg of you to do."

Lord Thurlow's oddity and abruptness, both sometimes amounting to
brutality, were the constant source of amusement--at least to all but
the sufferers. On a trial in which an attorney gave evidence respecting
the will of a man whose death was in question, the attorney, after some
puzzling, said--"My lord, hear me, the man is dead; I attended his
funeral; he was _my client_." "Why, sir," said Thurlow, "did you not
mention _that_ at first? a great deal of time and trouble might have
been saved. That he was _your_ client is some evidence that he was dead;
nothing was so likely to kill him."

At Buxton, Thurlow lodged with a surgeon, opposite to a butcher's shop.
He asked his landlord whether he or his neighbour killed the most.

Thurlow, on being asked, how he got through all his business as a
chancellor, answered--"Just as a pickpocket gets through a horse-pond.
He _must_ get through." Dunning, when a similar question was put to him,
answered in much the same spirit, though in a more professional style.
"I divide my business into three parts: one part I do; another does
itself; and the third I leave undone."

In 1807, Lord Eldon purchased the estate of Encombe in the Isle of
Purbeck, for which he paid between £52,000 and £53,000, comprising a
mansion with 2000 acres, a fertile valley, with a fine sea view.

In 1809, the charges brought by Colonel Wardle against the Duke of York
excited great public interest. The very sound of malversation in high
employments excites all the feelings of a nation with whom character is
the first requisite; and the rumour that the Duke had been a party to
the sale of commissions in the army by Mrs Clarke, with whom he had
formed an unfortunate connexion, produced a public uproar. After
discussions and examination of witnesses, which lasted six weeks, and
brought infinite obloquy on the Duke and his defenders, the House of
Commons resolved, by 278 to 196, that the charge of corruption, or even
of connivance, against the Duke, was wholly without foundation. Upon
this clearance of his character, the Duke resigned the command of the
army; a subsequent motion for a censure on his conduct, was negatived
without a division. The Duke of York was, beyond all question, clear of
any knowledge of the practices of the very ingenious person with whom he
associated, but few men have ever paid more dearly for their offence.
The storm of public abuse which poured on him for months, must have been
torture; and his resignation of office must have stung every feeling;
and even his pecuniary sacrifice during the three years of his
retirement, must have been severely felt by a prince with a narrow
income for his rank. That loss could not have been less than £50,000. In
1811 he resumed the command. We must hasten to the conclusion. Lord
Eldon, after witnessing the two great changes of the constitution, the
Popish bill of 1829--which he calls the "fatal bill," and which he had
resisted with all his vigour and learning for a long succession of
years--and the Reform bill of 1832, at length found that period coming
to him which comes to all. Retiring from public life, he devoted himself
to his study, the society of a few old friends, and those considerations
of a higher kind which he had cultivated from early life, and which
returned to him, as they return to all who reverence them, with
additional force when their presence was more consolatory and essential.
But old age naturally strips us of those who gave an especial value to
life; and after seeing his brother Lord Stowell, and Lady Eldon--his
Elizabeth, for whom he seems to have always retained the tenderness of
their early years--taken from him, he quietly sank into the grave, dying
in 1838, January 13th, aged 87. He deserved to rest in peace--for he had
lived in patriotism, integrity, and honour.

The three volumes exhibit a research which does much credit to the
intelligence and industry of Mr Twiss, their author. They abound in
capital anecdotes, but a few of which we have been able to give--possess
passages of very effective writing--and form a work which ought to be in
the library of every lawyer, statesman, and English gentleman.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 346, August, 1844" ***

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