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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 422, December 1850
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 422, December 1850" ***

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generously made available by The Internet Library of Early
Journals.)



                               BLACKWOOD'S

                           EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

        *       *       *       *       *

          NO. CCCCXXII.     DECEMBER, 1850.     VOL. LXVIII.

        *       *       *       *       *



CONTENTS.


  MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. PART IV.,                 627

  ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE,                                      645

  LAING'S OBSERVATIONS ON EUROPE,                                    671

  WHO ROLLED THE POWDER IN?                                          689

  A LECTURE ON JOURNALISM,                                           691

  THE GREAT UNKNOWN,                                                 698

  MODERN STATE TRIALS. PART III.,                                    712

  THE DEFENCES OF BRITAIN,                                           736

  THE POPISH PARTITION OF ENGLAND,                                   745

  INDEX,                                                             755

       *       *       *       *       *

                              EDINBURGH:

              WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET;
                    AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

   _To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed._

          SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

       *       *       *       *       *

           PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

                              BLACKWOOD'S

                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

          NO. CCCCXXII.     DECEMBER, 1850.     VOL. LXVIII.



MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.


                        BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.


BOOK II.--CHAPTER VII.

In spite of all his Machiavellian wisdom, Dr Riccabocca had been foiled
in his attempt to seduce Leonard Fairfield into his service, even
though he succeeded in partially winning over the widow to his views.
For to her he represented the worldly advantages of the thing. Lenny
would learn to be fit for more than a day-labourer; he would learn
gardening, in all its branches--rise some day to be a head gardener.
"And," said Riccabocca, "I will take care of his book learning, and
teach him whatever he has a head for."

"He has a head for everything," said the widow.

"Then," said the wise man, "everything shall go into it."

The widow was certainly dazzled; for, as we have seen, she highly
prized scholarly distinction, and she knew that the Parson looked
upon Riccabocca as a wondrous learned man. But still, Riccabocca was
said to be a Papist, and suspected to be a conjuror. Her scruples on
both these points the Italian, who was an adept in the art of talking
over the fair sex, would no doubt have dissipated, if there had
been any use in it; but Lenny put a dead stop to all negotiations.
He had taken a mortal dislike to Riccabocca; he was very much
frightened by him--and the spectacles, the pipe, the cloak, the long
hair, and the red umbrella; and said so sturdily, in reply to every
overture,--"Please, sir, I'd rather not; I'd rather stay along with
mother"--that Riccabocca was forced to suspend all farther experiments
in his Machiavellian diplomacy. He was not at all cast down, however,
by his first failure; on the contrary, he was one of those men whom
opposition stimulates. And what before had been but a suggestion of
prudence, became an object of desire. Plenty of other lads might no
doubt be had, on as reasonable terms as Lenny Fairfield; but the moment
Lenny presumed to baffle the Italian's designs upon him, the special
acquisition of Lenny became of paramount importance in the eyes of
Signor Riccabocca.

Jackeymo, however, lost all his interest in the traps, snares, and gins
which his master proposed to lay for Leonard Fairfield, in the more
immediate surprise that awaited him on learning that Dr Riccabocca had
accepted an invitation to pass a few days at the Hall.

"There will be no one there but the family," said Riccabocca. "Poor
Giacomo, a little chat in the servants' hall will do you good; and the
Squire's beef is more nourishing, after all, than the sticklebacks and
minnows. It will lengthen your life."

"The Padrone jests," said Jackeymo statelily, "as if any one could
starve in his service."

"Um," said Riccabocca. "At least, faithful friend, you have tried that
experiment as far as human nature will permit;" and he extended his
hand to his fellow-exile with that familiarity which exists between
servant and master in the usages of the Continent. Jackeymo bent low,
and a tear fell upon the hand he kissed.

"_Cospetto!_" said Dr Riccabocca, "a thousand mock pearls do not make
up the cost of a single true one! The tears of women, we know their
worth; but the tear of an honest man--Fie, Giacomo!--at least I can
never repay you this! Go and see to our wardrobe."

So far is his master's wardrobe was concerned, that order was pleasing
to Jackeymo; for the Doctor had in his drawers suits which Jackeymo
pronounced to be as good as new, though many a long year had passed
since they left the tailor's hands. But when Jackeymo came to examine
the state of his own clothing department, his face grew considerably
longer. It was not that he was without other clothes than those on
his back--quantity was there, but the quality! Mournfully he gazed
on two suits, complete in the three separate members of which man's
raiments are composed: the one suit extended at length upon his bed,
like a veteran stretched by pious hands after death; the other brought
piecemeal to the invidious light--the _torso_ placed upon a chair, the
limbs dangling down from Jackeymo's melancholy arm. No bodies long
exposed at the Morgue could evince less sign of resuscitation than
those respectable defuncts! For, indeed, Jackeymo had been less thrifty
of his apparel--more _profusus sui_--than his master. In the earliest
days of their exile, he preserved the decorous habit of dressing for
dinner--it was a respect due to the Padrone--and that habit had lasted
till the two habits on which it necessarily depended had evinced the
first symptoms of decay; then the evening clothes had been taken into
morning wear, in which hard service they had breathed their last.

The Doctor, notwithstanding his general philosophical abstraction from
such household details, had more than once said, rather in pity to
Jackeymo, than with an eye to that respectability which the costume
of the servant reflects on the dignity of the master--"Giacomo, thou
wantest clothes: fit thyself out of mine!"

And Jackeymo had bowed his gratitude, as if the donation had been
accepted: but the fact was, that that same fitting-out was easier said
than done. For though--thanks to an existence mainly upon sticklebacks
and minnows--both Jackeymo and Riccabocca had arrived at that state
which the longevity of misers proves to be most healthful to the
human frame,--viz., skin and bone--yet, the bones contained in the
skin of Riccabocca all took longitudinal directions; while those in
the skin of Jackeymo spread out latitudinally. And you might as well
have made the bark of a Lombardy poplar serve for the trunk of some
dwarfed and pollarded oak--in whose hollow the Babes of the Wood
could have slept at their ease--as have fitted out Jackeymo from the
garb of Riccabocca. Moreover, if the skill of the tailor could have
accomplished that undertaking, the faithful Jackeymo would never have
had the heart to avail himself of the generosity of his master. He
had a sort of religious sentiment, too, about those vestments of the
Padrone. The ancients, we know, when escaping from shipwreck, suspended
in the votive temple the garments in which they had struggled through
the wave. Jackeymo looked on those relics of the past with a kindred
superstition. "This coat the Padrone wore on such an occasion. I
remember the very evening the Padrone last put on those pantaloons!"
And coat and pantaloons were tenderly dusted, and carefully restored to
their sacred rest.

But now, after all, what was to be done? Jackeymo was much too
proud to exhibit his person, to the eyes of the Squire's butler, in
habiliments discreditable to himself and the Padrone. In the midst of
his perplexity the bell rang, and he went down into the parlour.

Riccabocca was standing on the hearth under his symbolical
representation of the "Patriæ Exul."

"Giacomo," quoth he, "I have been thinking that thou hast never done
what I told thee, and fitted thyself out from my superfluities. But we
are going now into the great world: visiting once begun, Heaven knows
where it may stop! Go to the nearest town and get thyself clothes.
Things are dear in England. Will this suffice?" And Riccabocca extended
a £5 note.

Jackeymo, we have seen, was more familiar with his master than
we formal English permit our domestics to be with us. But in his
familiarity he was usually respectful. This time, however, respect
deserted him.

"The Padrone is mad!" he exclaimed; "he would fling away his whole
fortune if I would let him. Five pounds English, or a hundred and
twenty-six pounds Milanese![1] Santa Maria! Unnatural father! And what
is to become of the poor Signorina? Is this the way you are to marry
her in the foreign land?"

"Giacomo," said Riccabocca, bowing his head to the storm; "the
Signorina to-morrow; to-day, the honour of the house. Thy
small-clothes, Giacomo. Miserable man, thy small-clothes!"

"It is just," said Jackeymo, recovering himself, and with humility;
"and the Padrone does right to blame me, but not in so cruel a way. It
is just--the Padrone lodges and boards me, and gives me handsome wages,
and he has a right to expect that I should not go in this figure."

"For the board and the lodgment, good," said Riccabocca. "For the
handsome wages, they are the visions of thy fancy!"

"They are no such thing," said Jackeymo, "they are only in arrear.
As if the Padrone could not pay them some day or other--as if I was
demeaning myself by serving a master who did not intend to pay his
servants! And can't I wait? Have I not my savings too? But be cheered,
be cheered; you shall be contented with me. I have two beautiful suits
still. I was arranging them when you rang for me. You shall see, you
shall see."

And Jackeymo hurried from the room, hurried back into his own chamber,
unlocked a little trunk which he kept at his bed head, tossed out a
variety of small articles, and from the deepest depth extracted a
leathern purse. He emptied the contents on the bed. They were chiefly
Italian coins, some five-franc pieces, a silver medallion enclosing
a little image of his patron saint--San Giacomo--one solid English
guinea, and two or three pounds' worth in English silver. Jackeymo
put back the foreign coins, saying prudently, "One will lose on them
here;" he seized the English coins, and counted them out. "But are you
enough, you rascals?" quoth he angrily, giving them a good shake. His
eye caught sight of the medallion--he paused; and after eyeing the tiny
representation of the saint with great deliberation, he added, in a
sentence which he must have picked up from the proverbial aphorisms of
his master--

"What's the difference between the enemy who does not hurt me, and
the friend who does not serve me? _Monsignore San Giacomo_, my patron
saint, you are of very little use to me in the leathern bag. But if
you help me to get into a new pair of small-clothes on this important
occasion, you will be a friend indeed. _Alla bisogna, Monsignore._"
Then, gravely kissing the medallion, he thrust it into one pocket, the
coins into the other, made up a bundle of the two defunct suits, and,
muttering to himself, "Beast, miser that I am, to disgrace the Padrone,
with all these savings in his service!" ran down stairs into his
pantry, caught up his hat and stick, and in a few moments more was seen
trudging off to the neighbouring town of L----.

Apparently the poor Italian succeeded, for he came back that evening in
time to prepare the thin gruel which made his master's supper, with a
suit of black--a little threadbare, but still highly respectable--two
shirt fronts, and two white cravats. But, out of all this finery,
Jackeymo held the small-clothes in especial veneration; for as they
had cost exactly what the medallion had sold for, so it seemed to him
that San Giacomo had heard his prayer in that quarter to which he had
more exclusively directed the saint's direction. The other habiliments
came to him in the merely human process of sale and barter; the
small-clothes were the personal gratuity of San Giacomo!


CHAPTER VIII.

Life has been subjected to many ingenious comparisons; and if we do
not understand it any better, it is not for want of what is called
"reasoning by illustration." Amongst other resemblances, there are
moments when, to a quiet contemplator, it suggests the image of one
of those rotatory entertainments commonly seen in fairs, all known by
the name of "whirligigs or roundabouts," in which each participator of
the pastime, seated on his hobby, is always apparently in the act of
pursuing some one before him, while he is pursued by some one behind.
Man, and woman too, are naturally animals of chase; the greatest still
finds something to follow, and there is no one too humble not to be an
object of prey to another. Thus, confining our view to the village of
Hazeldean, we behold in this whirligig Dr Riccabocca spurring his hobby
after Lenny Fairfield; and Miss Jemima, on her decorous side-saddle,
whipping after Dr Riccabocca. Why, with so long and intimate a
conviction of the villany of our sex, Miss Jemima should resolve upon
giving the male animal one more chance of redeeming itself in her
eyes, I leave to the explanation of those gentlemen who profess to
find "their only hooks in woman's looks" Perhaps it might be from the
over-tenderness and clemency of Miss Jemima's nature; perhaps it might
be that, as yet, she had only experienced the villany of man born and
reared in these cold northern climates; and in the land of Petrarch
and Romeo, of the citron and myrtle, there was reason to expect that
the native monster would be more amenable to gentle influences, less
obstinately hardened in his iniquities. Without entering farther into
these hypotheses, it is sufficient to say, that on Signor Riccabocca's
appearance in the drawing-room, at Hazeldean, Miss Jemima felt more
than ever rejoiced that she had relaxed in his favour her general
hostility to man. In truth, though Frank saw something quizzical in the
old-fashioned and outlandish cut of the Italian's sober dress; in his
long hair, and the _chapeau bras_, over which he bowed so gracefully,
and then pressed it, as if to his heart, before tucking it under his
arm, after the fashion in which the gizzard reposes under the wing of
a roasted pullet; yet it was impossible that even Frank could deny
to Riccabocca that praise which is due to the air and manner of all
unmistakeable gentleman. And certainly as, after dinner, conversation
grew more familiar, and the Parson and Mrs Dale, who had been invited
to meet their friend, did their best to draw him out, his talk, though
sometimes a little too wise for his listeners, became eminently
animated and agreeable. It was the conversation of a man who, besides
the knowledge which is acquired from books and life, had studied the
art which becomes a gentleman--that of pleasing in polite society.
Riccabocca, however, had more than this art--he had one which is
often less innocent--the art of penetrating into the weak side of his
associates, and of saying the exact thing which hits it plump in the
middle, with the careless air of a random shot.

The result was, that all were charmed with him; and that even Captain
Barnabas postponed the whist-table for a full hour after the usual
time. The Doctor did not play--he thus became the property of the two
ladies, Miss Jemima, and Mrs Dale.

Seated between the two, in the place rightfully appertaining to
Flimsey, who this time was fairly dislodged, to her great wonder and
discontent, the Doctor was the emblem of true Domestic Felicity, placed
between Friendship and Love.

Friendship, as became her, worked quietly at the embroidered
pocket-handkerchief, and left Love to its more animated operations.
"You, must be very lonely at the Casino," said Love, in a sympathising
tone.

"Madam," replied Riccabocca, gallantly, "I shall think so when I leave
you."

Friendship cast a sly glance at Love--Love blushed or looked down
on the carpet, which comes to the same thing. "Yet," began Love
again--"yet solitude, to a feeling heart--"

Riccabocca thought of the note of invitation, and involuntarily
buttoned his coat, as if to protect the individual organ thus
alarmingly referred to.

"Solitude, to a feeling heart, has its charms. It is so hard even for
us, poor ignorant women, to find a congenial companion--but for _you_!"
Love stopped short, as if it had said too much, and smelt confusedly at
its bouquet.

Dr Riccabocca cautiously lowered his spectacles, and darted one glance,
which, with the rapidity and comprehensiveness of lightning, seemed
to envelope and take in it, as it were, the whole inventory of Miss
Jemima's personal attractions. Now, Miss Jemima, as I have before
observed, had a mild and pensive expression of countenance, and she
would have been positively pretty had the mildness looked a little more
alert, and the pensiveness somewhat less lackadaisical. In fact, though
Miss Jemima was constitutionally mild, she was not _de naturâ_ pensive;
she had too much of the Hazeldean blood in her veins for that sullen
and viscid humour called melancholy, and therefore this assumption of
pensiveness really spoilt her character of features, which only wanted
to be lighted up by a cheerful smile to be extremely prepossessing.
The same remark might apply to the figure, which--thanks to the same
pensiveness--lost all the undulating grace which movement and animation
bestow on the fluent curves of the feminine form. The figure was a
good figure, examined in detail--a little thin, perhaps, but by no
means emaciated--with just and elegant proportions, and naturally light
and flexible. But that same unfortunate pensiveness gave the whole a
character of inertness and languor; and when Miss Jemima reclined on
the sofa, so complete seemed the relaxation of nerve and muscle, that
you would have thought she had lost the use of her limbs. Over her face
and form, thus defrauded of the charms Providence had bestowed on them,
Dr Riccabocca's eye glanced rapidly; and then moving nearer to Mrs
Dale--"Defend me" (he stopped a moment, and added,) "from the charge of
not being able to appreciate congenial companionship."

"Oh, I did not say that!" cried Miss Jemima.

"Pardon me," said the Italian, "if I am so dull as to misunderstand
you. One may well lose one's head, at least, in such a neighbourhood as
this." He rose as he spoke, and bent over Frank's shoulder to examine
some Views of Italy, which Miss Jemima (with what, if wholly unselfish,
would have been an attention truly delicate) had extracted from the
library in order to gratify the guest.

"Most interesting creature, indeed," sighed Miss Jemima, "but too--too
flattering!"

"Tell me," said Mrs Dale gravely, "do you think, love, that you could
put off the end of the world a little longer, or must we make haste in
order to be in time?"

"How wicked you are!" said Miss Jemima, turning aside.

Some few minutes afterwards, Mrs Dale contrived it so that Dr
Riccabocca and herself were in a farther corner of the room, looking at
a picture said to be by Wouvermans.

MRS DALE.--"She is very amiable, Jemima, is she not?"

RICCABOCCA.--"Exceedingly so. Very fine battle-piece!"

MRS DALE.--"So kind-hearted."

RICCABOCCA.--"All ladies are. How naturally that warrior makes his
desperate cut at the runaway!"

MRS DALE.--"She is not what is called regularly handsome, but she has
something very winning."

RICCABOCCA, with a smile.--"So winning, that it is strange she is not
won. That gray mare in the foreground stands out very boldly!"

MRS DALE, distrusting the smile of Riccabocca, and throwing in a more
effective grape charge.--"Not won yet; and it is strange!--she will
have a very pretty fortune."

RICCABOCCA.--"Ah!"

MRS DALE.--"Six thousand pounds, I daresay--certainly four."

RICCABOCCA, suppressing a sigh, and with his wonted address.--"If Mrs
Dale were still single, she would never need a friend to say what her
portion might be; but Miss Jemima is so good that I am quite sure it is
not Miss Jemima's fault that she is still--Miss Jemima!"

The foreigner slipped away as he spoke, and sate himself down beside
the whist-players.

Mrs Dale was disappointed, but certainly not offended.--"It would be
such a good thing for both," muttered she, almost inaudibly.

"Giacomo," said Riccabocca, as he was undressing, that night, in the
large, comfortable, well-carpeted English bedroom, with that great
English four-posted bed in the recess which seems made to shame folks
out of single-blessedness--"Giacomo, I have had this evening the offer
of probably six thousand pounds--certainly of four thousand."

"_Cosa meravigliosa!_" exclaimed Jackeymo--"miraculous thing!" and
he crossed himself with great fervour. "Six thousand pounds English!
why, that must be a hundred thousand--blockhead that I am!--more than
a hundred and fifty thousand pounds Milanese!" And Jackeymo, who was
considerably enlivened by the Squire's ale, commenced a series of
gesticulations and capers, in the midst of which he stopped and cried,
"But not for nothing?"

"Nothing! no!"

"These mercenary English!--the Government wants to bribe you."

"That's not it."

"The priests want you to turn heretic."

"Worse than that," said the philosopher.

"Worse than that! O Padrone! for shame!"

"Don't be a fool, but pull off my pantaloons--they want me never to
wear _these_ again!"

"Never to wear what?" exclaimed Jackeymo, staring outright at his
master's long legs in their linen drawers--"never to wear--"

"The breeches," said Riccabocca laconically.

"The barbarians!" faltered Jackeymo.

"My nightcap!--and never to have any comfort in this," said Riccabocca,
drawing on the cotton head-gear; "and never to have any sound sleep
in that," pointing to the four-posted bed. "And to be a bondsman and
a slave," continued Riccabocca, waxing wroth; "and to be wheedled
and purred at, and pawed, and clawed, and scolded, and fondled,
and blinded, and deafened, and bridled, and saddled--bedevilled
and--married."

"Married!" said Jackeymo, more dispassionately--"that's very bad,
certainly; but more than a hundred and fifty thousand _lire_, and
perhaps a pretty young lady, and"--

"Pretty young lady!" growled Riccabocca, jumping into bed and drawing
the clothes fiercely over him. "Put out the candle, and get along with
you--do, you villanous old incendiary!"


CHAPTER IX.

It was not many days since the resurrection of those ill-omened stocks,
and it was evident already, to an ordinary observer, that something
wrong had got into the village. The peasants wore a sullen expression
of countenance; when the Squire passed, they took off their hats with
more than ordinary formality, but they did not return the same broad
smile to his quick, hearty "Good day, my man." The women peered at him
from the threshold or the casement, but did not, as was their wont, (at
least the wont of the prettiest,) take occasion to come out to catch
his passing compliment on their own good looks, or their tidy cottages.
And the children, who used to play after work on the site of the old
stocks, now shunned the place, and, indeed, seemed to cease play
altogether.

On the other hand, no man likes to build, or rebuild, a great public
work for nothing. Now that the Squire had resuscitated the stocks,
and made them so exceedingly handsome, it was natural that he should
wish to put somebody into them. Moreover, his pride and self-esteem
had been wounded by the Parson's opposition; and it would be a
justification to his own forethought, and a triumph over the Parson's
understanding, if he could satisfactorily and practically establish a
proof that the stocks had not been repaired before they were wanted.

Therefore, unconsciously to himself, there was something about the
Squire more burly, and authoritative, and menacing than heretofore. Old
Gaffer Solomons observed, "that they had better mind well what they
were about, for that the Squire had a wicked look in the tail of his
eye--just as the dun bull had afore it tossed neighbour Barnes's little
boy."

For two or three days these mute signs of something brewing in the
atmosphere had been rather noticeable than noticed, without any
positive overt act of tyranny on the one hand, or rebellion on the
other. But on the very Saturday night in which Dr Riccabocca was
installed in the four-posted bed in the chintz chamber, the threatened
revolution commenced. In the dead of that night, personal outrage was
committed on the stocks. And on the Sunday morning, Mr Stirn, who was
the earliest riser in the parish, perceived, in going to the farmyard,
that the nob of the column that flanked the board had been feloniously
broken off; that the four holes were bunged up with mud; and that some
Jacobinical villain had carved, on the very centre of the flourish
or scroll work, "Dam the stoks!" Mr Stirn was much too vigilant a
right-hand man, much too zealous a friend of law and order, not to
regard such proceedings with horror and alarm. And when the Squire came
into his dressing-room at half-past seven, his butler (who fulfilled
also the duties of valet) informed him, with a mysterious air, that
Mr Stirn had something "very partikler to communicate, about a most
howdacious midnight 'spiracy and 'sault."

The Squire stared, and bade Mr Stirn be admitted.

"Well?" cried the Squire, suspending the operation of stropping his
razor.

Mr Stirn groaned.

"Well, man, what now?"

"I never knowed such a thing in this here parish afore," began Mr
Stirn, "and I can only 'count for it by s'posing that them foreign
Papishers have been semminating"--

"Been what?"

"Semminating"--

"Disseminating, you blockhead--disseminating what?"

"Damn the stocks," began Mr Stirn, plunging right _in medias res_, and
by a fine use of one of the noblest figures in rhetoric.

"Mr Stirn!" cried the Squire, reddening, "did you say 'Damn the
stocks?'--damn my new handsome pair of stocks!"

"Lord forbid, sir; that's what _they_ say: that's what they have digged
on it with knives and daggers, and they have stuffed mud in its four
holes, and broken the capital of the elewation."

The Squire took the napkin off his shoulder, laid down strop and razor;
he seated himself in his arm-chair majestically, crossed his legs, and
in a voice that affected tranquillity, said--

"Compose yourself, Stirn; you have a deposition to make, touching an
assault upon--can I trust my senses?--upon my new stocks. Compose
yourself--be calm. NOW! What the devil is come to the parish?"

"Ah, sir, what indeed?" replied Mr Stirn; and then, laying the
forefinger of the right hand on the palm of the left, he narrated the
case.

"And whom do you suspect? Be calm now, don't speak in a passion. You
are a witness, sir--a dispassionate, unprejudiced witness. Zounds and
fury! this is the most insolent, unprovoked, diabolical--but whom do
you suspect, I say?"

Stirn twirled his hat, elevated his eyebrows, jerked his thumb over his
shoulder, and whispered--"I hear as how the two Papishers slept at your
honour's last night."

"What, dolt! do you suppose Dr Rickeybockey got out of his warm bed to
bung up the holes in my new stocks?"

"Noa; he's too cunning to do it himself, but he may have been
semminating. He's mighty thick with Parson Dale, and your honour knows
as how the Parson set his face again the stocks. Wait a bit, sir--don't
fly at me yet. There be a boy in this here parish"--

"A boy!--ah, fool, now you are nearer the mark. The Parson write 'Damn
the stocks,' indeed! What boy do you mean?"

"And that boy be cockered up much by Mister Dale; and the Papisher went
and sat with him and his mother a whole hour t'other day; and that
boy is as deep as a well; and I seed him lurking about the place, and
hiding hisself under the tree the day the stocks was put up--and that
ere boy is Lenny Fairfield."

"Whew," said the Squire, whistling, "you have not your usual senses
about you to-day, man. Lenny Fairfield--pattern boy of the village.
Hold your tongue. I dare say it is not done by any one in the parish,
after all; some good-for-nothing vagrant--that cursed tinker, who goes
about with a very vicious donkey--whom, by the way, I caught picking
thistles out of the very eyes of the old stocks! Shows how the tinker
brings up his donkeys! Well, keep a sharp look-out. To-day is Sunday;
worst day of the week, I'm sorry and ashamed to say, for rows and
depredations. Between the services, and after evening church, there are
always idle fellows from all the neighbouring country about, as you
know too well. Depend on it, the real culprits will be found gathering
round the stocks, and will betray themselves: have your eyes, ears, and
wits about you, and I've no doubt we shall come to the rights of the
matter before the day's out. And if we do," added the Squire, "we'll
make an example of the ruffian!"

"In course," said Stirn; "and if we don't find him, we must make an
example all the same. That's where it is, sir. That's why the stocks
ben't respected; they has not had an example yet--we wants an example."

"On my word, I believe that's very true; and the first idle fellow you
catch in anything wrong we'll clap in, and keep him there for two hours
at least."

"With the biggest pleasure, your honour--that's what it is."

And Mr Stirn, having now got what he considered a complete and
unconditional authority over all the legs and wrists of Hazeldean
parish, _quoad_ the stocks, took his departure.


CHAPTER X.

"Randal," said Mrs Leslie, on this memorable Sunday--"Randal, do you
think of going to Mr Hazeldean's?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Randal. "Mr Egerton does not object to it; and
as I do not return to Eton, I may have no other opportunity of seeing
Frank for some time. I ought not to fail in respect to Mr Egerton's
natural heir!"

"Gracious me!" cried Mrs Leslie, who, like many women of her cast and
kind, had a sort of worldliness in her notions, which she never evinced
in her conduct--"gracious me!--natural heir to the old Leslie property!"

"He is Mr Egerton's nephew, and," added Randal, ingenuously letting out
his thoughts, "I am no relation to Mr Egerton at all."

"But," said poor Mrs Leslie, with tears in her eyes, "it would be
a shame in the man, after paying your schooling and sending you to
Oxford, and having you to stay with him in the holidays, if he did not
mean anything by it."

"Anything, mother--yes--but not the thing you suppose. No matter. It is
enough that he has armed me for life, and I shall use the weapons as
seems to me best."

Here the dialogue was suspended, by the entrance of the other members
of the family, dressed for church.

"It can't be time for church! No! it can't!" exclaimed Mrs Leslie. She
was never in time for anything.

"Last bell ringing," said Mr Leslie, who, though a slow man, was
methodical and punctual. Mrs Leslie made a frantic rush at the
door, the Montfydget blood being now in a blaze--whirled up the
stairs--gained her room, tore her best bonnet from the peg, snatched
her newest shawl from the drawers, crushed the bonnet on her head,
flung the shawl on her shoulders, thrust a desperate pin into its
folds, in order to conceal a buttonless yawn in the body of her gown,
and then flew back like a whirlwind. Meanwhile the family were already
out of doors, in waiting; and just as the bell ceased, the procession
moved from the shabby house to the dilapidated church.

The church was a large one, but the congregation was small, and so was
the income of the Parson. It was a lay rectory, and the great tithes
had belonged to the Leslies, but they had been long since sold. The
vicarage, still in their gift, might be worth a little more than £100
a-year. The present incumbent had nothing else to live upon. He was a
good man, and not originally a stupid one; but penury and the anxious
cares for wife and family, combined with what may be called _solitary
confinement_ for the cultivated mind, when, amidst the two-legged
creatures round, it sees no other cultivated mind with which it can
exchange an extra-parochial thought--had lulled him into a lazy
mournfulness, which at times was very like imbecility. His income
allowed him to do no good to the parish, whether in work, trade, or
charity; and thus he had no moral weight with the parishioners beyond
the example of his sinless life, and such negative effect as might be
produced by his slumberous exhortations. Therefore his parishioners
troubled him very little; and but for the influence which, in hours of
Montfydget activity, Mrs Leslie exercised over the most tractable--that
is, the children and the aged--not half-a-dozen persons would have
known or cared whether he shut up his church or not.

But our family were seated in state in their old seignorial pew, and Mr
Dumdrum, with a nasal twang, went lugubriously through the prayers; and
the old people who could sin no more, and the children who had not yet
learned to sin, croaked forth responses that might have come from the
choral frogs in Aristophanes. And there was a long sermon _apropos_ to
nothing which could possibly interest the congregation--being, in fact,
some controversial homily, which Mr Dumdrum had composed and preached
years before. And when this discourse was over, there was a loud
universal grunt, as if of release and thanksgiving, and a great clatter
of shoes--and the old hobbled, and the young scrambled, to the church
door.

Immediately after church, the Leslie family dined; and, as soon as
dinner was over, Randal set out on his foot journey to Hazeldean Hall.

Delicate and even feeble though his frame, he had the energy and
quickness of movement which belongs to nervous temperaments; and he
tasked the slow stride of a peasant, whom he took to serve him as a
guide for the first two or three miles. Though Randal had not the
gracious open manner with the poor which Frank inherited from his
father, he was still (despite many a secret hypocritical vice, at
war with the character of a gentleman) gentleman enough to have no
churlish pride to his inferiors. He talked little, but he suffered his
guide to talk; and the boor, who was the same whom Frank had accosted,
indulged in eulogistic comments on that young gentleman's pony, from
which he diverged into some compliments on the young gentleman himself.
Randal drew his hat over his brows. There is a wonderful tact and fine
breeding in your agricultural peasant; and though Tom Stowell was but
a brutish specimen of the class, he suddenly perceived that he was
giving pain. He paused, scratched his head, and glancing affectionately
towards his companion, exclaimed--

"But I shall live to see you on a handsomer beastis than that little
pony, Master Randal; and sure I ought, for you be as good a gentleman
as any in the land."

"Thank you," said Randal. "But I like walking better than riding--I am
more used to it."

"Well, and you walk bra'ly--there ben't a better walker in the county.
And very pleasant it is walking; and 'tis a pretty country afore you,
all the way to the Hall."

Randal strode on, as if impatient of these attempts to flatter or to
soothe; and, coming at length into a broader lane, said--"I think I can
find my way now. Many thanks to you, Tom;" and he forced a shilling
into Tom's horny palm. The man took it reluctantly, and a tear started
to his eye. He felt more grateful for that shilling than he had for
Frank's liberal half-crown; and he thought of the poor fallen family,
and forgot his own dire wrestle with the wolf at his door.

He staid lingering in the lane till the figure of Randal was out of
sight, and then returned slowly. Young Leslie continued to walk on
at a quick pace. With all his intellectual culture, and his restless
aspirations, his breast afforded him no thought so generous, no
sentiment so poetic, as those with which the unlettered clown crept
slouchingly homeward.

As Randal gained a point where several lanes met on a broad piece of
waste land, he began to feel tired, and his step slackened. Just then a
gig emerged from one of these by-roads, and took the same direction as
the pedestrian. The road was rough and hilly, and the driver proceeded
at a foot's-pace; so that the gig and the pedestrian went pretty well
abreast.

"You seem tired, sir," said the driver, a stout young farmer of the
higher class of tenants, and he looked down compassionately on the
boy's pale countenance and weary stride. "Perhaps we are going the same
way, and I can give you a lift?"

It was Randal's habitual policy to make use of every advantage
proffered to him, and he accepted the proposal frankly enough to please
the honest farmer.

"A nice day, sir," said the latter, as Randal sat by his side. "Have
you come far?"

"From Rood Hall."

"Oh, you be young Squire Leslie," said the farmer, more respectfully,
and lifting his hat.

"Yes, my name is Leslie. You know Rood, then?"

"I was brought up on your father's land, sir. You may have heard of
Farmer Bruce?"

RANDAL.--"I remember, when I was a little boy, a Mr Bruce, who rented,
I believe, the best part of our land, and who used to bring us cakes
when he called to see my father. He is a relation of yours?"

FARMER BRUCE.--"He was my uncle. He is dead now, poor man."

RANDAL.--"Dead! I am grieved to hear it. He was very kind to us
children. But it is long since he left my father's farm."

FARMER BRUCE, apologetically.--"I am sure he was very sorry to go. But,
you see, he had an unexpected legacy--"

RANDAL.--"And retired from business?"

FARMER BRUCE.--"No. But, having capital, he could afford to pay a good
rent for a real good farm."

RANDAL, bitterly.--"All capital seems to fly from the lands of Rood.
And whose farm did he take?"

FARMER BRUCE.--"He took Hawleigh, under Squire Hazeldean. I rent it
now. We've laid out a power o' money on it. But I don't complain. It
pays well."

RANDAL.--"Would the money have paid as well, sunk on my father's land?"

FARMER BRUCE.--"Perhaps it might, in the long run. But then, sir, we
wanted new premises--barns and cattle-sheds, and a deal more--which the
landlord should do; but it is not every landlord as can afford that.
Squire Hazeldean's a rich man."

RANDAL.--"Ay!"

The road now became pretty good, and the farmer put his horse into a
brisk trot.

"But which way be you going, sir? I don't care for a few miles more or
less, if I can be of service."

"I am going to Hazeldean," said Randal, rousing himself from a reverie.
"Don't let me take you out of your way."

"Oh, Hawleigh Farm is on the other side of the village, so it be quite
my way, sir."

The farmer then, who was really a smart young fellow--one of that race
which the application of capital to land has produced, and which, in
point of education and refinement, are at least on a par with the
squires of a former generation--began to talk about his handsome horse,
about horses in general, about hunting and coursing: he handled all
these subjects with spirit, yet with modesty. Randal pulled his hat
still lower down over his brows, and did not interrupt him till past
the Casino, when, struck by the classic air of the place, and catching
a scent from the orange trees, the boy asked abruptly--"Whose house is
that?"

"Oh, it belongs to Squire Hazeldean, but it is let or lent to a
foreign Mounseer. They say he is quite the gentleman, but uncommonly
poor."

"Poor," said Randal, turning back to gaze on the trim garden, the neat
terrace, the pretty belvidere, and (the door of the house being open)
catching a glimpse of the painted hall within--"poor, the place seems
well kept. What do you call poor, Mr Bruce?"

The farmer laughed. "Well, that's a home question, sir. But I believe
the Mounseer is as poor as a man can be who makes no debts and does not
actually starve."

"As poor as my father?" asked Randal openly and abruptly.

"Lord, sir! your father be a very rich man compared to him."

Randal continued to gaze, and his mind's eye conjured up the contrast
of his slovenly shabby home, with all its neglected appurtenances! No
trim garden at Rood Hall, no scent from odorous orange blossoms. Here
poverty at least was elegant--there, how squalid! He did not comprehend
at how cheap a rate the luxury of the Beautiful can be effected. They
now approached the extremity of the Squire's park pales; and Randal,
seeing a little gate, bade the farmer stop his gig, and descended.
The boy plunged amidst the thick oak groves; the farmer went his way
blithely, and his mellow merry whistle came to Randal's moody ear as he
glided quick under the shadow of the trees.

He arrived at the Hall, to find that all the family were at church;
and, according to the patriarchal custom, the church-going family
embraced nearly all the servants. It was therefore an old invalid
housemaid who opened the door to him. She was rather deaf, and seemed
so stupid that Randal did not ask leave to enter and wait for Frank's
return. He therefore said briefly that he would just stroll on the
lawn, and call again when church was over.

The old woman stared, and strove to hear him; meanwhile Randal turned
round abruptly, and sauntered towards the garden side of the handsome
old house.

There was enough to attract any eye in the smooth greensward of the
spacious lawn--in the numerous parterres of varying flowers--in the
venerable grandeur of the two mighty cedars, which threw their still
shadows over the grass--and in the picturesque building, with its
projecting mullions and heavy gables; yet I fear that it was with no
poet's nor painter's eye that this young old man gazed on the scene
before him.

He beheld the evidence of wealth--and the envy of wealth jaundiced his
soul.

Folding his arms on his breast, he stood awhile, looking all around him
with closed lips and lowering brow; then he walked slowly on, his eyes
fixed on the ground, and muttered to himself--

"The heir to this property is little better than a dunce; and they tell
me I have talents and learning, and I have taken to my heart the maxim,
'Knowledge is power.' And yet, with all my struggles, will knowledge
ever place me on the same level as that on which this dunce is born? I
don't wonder that the poor should hate the rich. But of all the poor,
who should hate the rich like the pauper gentleman? I suppose Audley
Egerton means me to come into Parliament, and be a Tory like himself.
What! keep things as they are! No; for me not even Democracy, unless
there first come Revolution. I understand the cry of a Marat--'More
blood!' Marat had lived as a poor man, and cultivated science--in the
sight of a prince's palace."

He turned sharply round, and glared vindictively on the poor old hall,
which, though a very comfortable habitation, was certainly no palace;
and with his arms still folded on his breast, he walked backward, as if
not to lose the view, nor the chain of ideas it conjured up.

"But," he continued to soliloquise--"but of revolution there is no
chance. Yet the same wit and will that would thrive in revolutions
should thrive in this commonplace life. Knowledge is power. Well, then,
shall I have no power to oust this blockhead? Oust him--what from? His
father's halls? Well--but if he were dead, who would be the heir of
Hazeldean? Have I not heard my mother say that I am as near in blood to
this Squire as any one, if he had no children? Oh, but the boy's life
is worth ten of mine! Oust him from what? At least from the thoughts
of his uncle Egerton--an uncle who has never even seen him! That, at
least, is more feasible. 'Make my way in life,' sayest thou, Audley
Egerton. Ay--and to the fortune thou hast robbed from my ancestors.
Simulation--simulation. Lord Bacon allows simulation. Lord Bacon
practised it--and"--

Here the soliloquy came to a sudden end; for as, rapt in his thoughts,
the boy had continued to walk backwards, he had come to the verge where
the lawn slided off into the ditch of the ha-ha--and, just as he was
fortifying himself by the precept and practice of my Lord Bacon, the
ground went from under him, and slap into the ditch went Randal Leslie!

It so happened that the Squire, whose active genius was always at
some repair or improvement, had been but a few days before widening
and sloping off the ditch just in that part, so that the earth was
fresh and damp, and not yet either turfed or flattened down. Thus when
Randal, recovering his first surprise and shock, rose to his feet, he
found his clothes covered with mud; while the rudeness of the fall
was evinced by the fantastic and extraordinary appearance of his hat,
which, hollowed here, bulging there, and crushed out of all recognition
generally, was as little like the hat of a decorous hard-reading young
gentleman--_protégé_ of the dignified Mr Audley Egerton--as any hat
picked out of a kennel after some drunken brawl possibly could be.

Randal was dizzy, and stunned, and bruised, and it was some moments
before he took heed of his raiment. When he did so, his spleen was
greatly aggravated. He was still boy enough not to like the idea of
presenting himself to the unknown Squire, and the dandy Frank, in such
a trim: he resolved at once to regain the lane and return home, without
accomplishing the object of his journey; and seeing the footpath right
before him, which led to a gate that he conceived would admit him into
the highway sooner than the path by which he had come, he took it at
once.

It is surprising how little we human creatures heed the warnings of our
good genius. I have no doubt that some benignant Power had precipitated
Randal Leslie into the ditch, as a significant hint of the fate of all
who choose what is, now-a-days, by no means an uncommon step in the
march of intellect--viz., the walking backwards, in order to gratify a
vindictive view of one's neighbour's property! I suspect that, before
this century is out, many a fine fellow will thus have found his ha-ha,
and scrambled out of the ditch with a much shabbier coat than he had
on when he fell into it. But Randal did not thank his good genius for
giving him a premonitory tumble;--and I never yet knew a man who did!


CHAPTER XI.

The Squire was greatly ruffled at breakfast that morning. He was too
much of an Englishman to bear insult patiently, and he considered that
he had been personally insulted in the outrage offered to his recent
donation to the parish. His feelings, too, were hurt as well as his
pride. There was something so ungrateful in the whole thing, just after
he had taken so much pains, not only in the resuscitation, but the
embellishment of the stocks. It was not, however, so rare an occurrence
for the Squire to be ruffled, as to create any remark. Riccabocca,
indeed, as a stranger, and Mrs Hazeldean, as a wife, had the quick tact
to perceive that the host was glum and the husband snappish; but the
one was too discreet and the other too sensible, to chafe the new sore,
whatever it might be; and shortly after breakfast the Squire retired
into his study, and absented himself from morning service.

In his delightful _Life of Oliver Goldsmith_, Mr Foster takes care to
touch our hearts by introducing his hero's excuse for not entering
the priesthood. He did not feel himself good enough. Thy Vicar of
Wakefield, poor Goldsmith, was an excellent substitute for thee; and
Dr Primrose, at least, will be good enough for the world until Miss
Jemima's fears are realised. Now, Squire Hazeldean had a tenderness
of conscience much less reasonable than Goldsmith's. There were
occasionally days in which he did not feel good enough--I don't say
for a priest, but even for one of the congregation--"days in which,
(said the Squire in his own blunt way,) as I have never in my life met
a worse devil than a devil of a temper, I'll not carry mine into the
family pew. He shan't be growling out hypocritical responses from my
poor grandmother's prayer-book." So the Squire and his demon staid at
home. But the demon was generally cast out before the day was over;
and, on this occasion, when the bell rang for afternoon service, it
may be presumed that the Squire had reasoned or fretted himself into
a proper state of mind; for he was then seen sallying forth from the
porch of his hall, arm-in-arm with his wife, and at the head of his
household. The second service was (as is commonly the case, in rural
districts) more numerously attended than the first one; and it was our
Parson's wont to devote to this service his most effective discourse.

Parson Dale, though a very fair scholar, had neither the deep theology
nor the archæological learning that distinguish the rising generation
of the clergy. I much doubt if he could have passed what would now be
called a creditable examination in the Fathers; and as for all the nice
formalities in the rubric, he would never have been the man to divide a
congregation or puzzle a bishop. Neither was Parson Dale very erudite
in ecclesiastical architecture. He did not much care whether all the
details in the church were purely gothic or not: crockets and finials,
round arch and pointed arch, were matters, I fear, on which he had
never troubled his head. But one secret Parson Dale did possess, which
is perhaps of equal importance with those subtler mysteries--he knew
how to fill his church! Even at morning service no pews were empty, and
at evening service the church overflowed.

Parson Dale, too, may be considered, now-a-days, to hold but a mean
idea of the spiritual authority of the Church. He had never been
known to dispute on its exact bearing with the State--whether it
was incorporated with the State, or above the State--whether it was
antecedent to the Papacy, or formed from the Papacy, &c., &c. According
to his favourite maxim, _Quieta non movere_, (not to disturb things
that are quiet), I have no doubt that he would have thought that the
less discussion is provoked upon such matters, the better for both
church and laity. Nor had he ever been known to regret the disuse of
the ancient custom of excommunication, nor any other diminution of
the powers of the priesthood, whether minatory or militant; yet for
all this, Parson Dale had a great notion of the sacred privilege of a
minister of the gospel--to advise--to deter--to persuade--to reprove.
And it was for the evening service that he prepared those sermons,
which may be called, "sermons that preach _at_ you." He preferred the
evening for that salutary discipline, not only because the congregation
was more numerous, but also because, being a shrewd man in his own
innocent way, he knew that people bear better to be preached at after
dinner than before; that you arrive more insinuatingly at the heart
when the stomach is at peace. There was a genial kindness in Parson
Dale's way of preaching at you. It was done in so imperceptible
fatherly a manner, that you never felt offended. He did it, too, with
so much art that nobody but your own guilty self knew that you were
the sinner he was exhorting. Yet he did not spare rich nor poor: he
preached at the Squire, and that great fat farmer, Mr Bullock the
churchwarden, as boldly as at Hodge the ploughman, and Scrub the
hedger. As for Mr Stirn, he had preached at _him_ more often than at
any one in the parish; but Stirn, though he had the sense to know
it, never had the grace to reform. There was, too, in Parson Dale's
sermons, something of that boldness of illustration which would have
been scholarly if he had not made it familiar, and which is found in
the discourses of our elder divines. Like them, he did not scruple, now
and then, to introduce an anecdote from history, or borrow an allusion
from some non-scriptural author, in order to enliven the attention of
his audience, or render an argument more plain. And the good man had
an object in this, a little distinct from, though wholly subordinate to
the main purpose of his discourse. He was a friend to knowledge--but
to knowledge accompanied by religion; and sometimes his references
to sources not within the ordinary reading of his congregation would
spirit up some farmer's son, with an evening's leisure on his hands, to
ask the Parson for farther explanation, and so be lured on to a little
solid or graceful instruction under a safe guide.

Now on the present occasion, the Parson, who had always his eye and
heart on his flock, and who had seen with great grief the realisation
of his fears at the revival of the stocks; seen that a spirit of
discontent was already at work amongst the peasants, and that
magisterial and inquisitorial designs were darkening the natural
benevolence of the Squire; seen, in short, the signs of a breach
between classes, and the precursors of the ever inflammable feud
between the rich and the poor, meditated nothing less than a great
Political Sermon--a sermon that should extract from the roots of social
truths a healing virtue for the wound that lay sore, but latent, in the
breast of his parish of Hazeldean:

And thus ran--

_The Political Sermon of Parson Dale._


CHAPTER XII.

              "For every man shall bear his own burden."
                                         _Galatians_, c. vi. v. 5.

"Brethren, every man has his burden. If God designed our lives to end
at the grave, may we not believe that he would have freed an existence
so brief from the cares and sorrows to which, since the beginning of
the world, mankind has been subjected? Suppose that I am a kind father,
and have a child whom I dearly love, but I know by a divine revelation
that he will die at the age of eight years, surely I should not vex
his infancy by needless preparations for the duties of life. If I am
a rich man, I should not send him from the caresses of his mother to
the stern discipline of school. If I am a poor man, I should not take
him with me to hedge and dig, to scorch in the sun, to freeze in the
winter's cold: why inflict hardships on his childhood, for the purpose
of fitting him for manhood, when I know that he is doomed not to grow
into man? But if, on the other hand, I believe my child is reserved for
a more durable existence, then should I not, out of the very love I
bear to him, prepare his childhood for the struggle of life, according
to that station in which he is born, giving many a toil, many a pain
to the infant, in order to rear and strengthen him for his duties as
man? So is it with our Father that is in Heaven. Viewing this life as
our infancy, and the next as our spiritual maturity, where 'in the ages
to come, he may show the exceeding riches of his grace,' it is in his
tenderness, as in his wisdom, to permit the toil and the pain which, in
tasking the powers and developing the virtues of the soul, prepare it
for 'the earnest of our inheritance, the redemption of the purchased
possession.' Hence it is that every man has his burden. Brethren, if
you believe that God is good, yea, but as tender as a human father,
you will know that your troubles in life are a proof that you are
reared for an eternity. But each man thinks his own burden the hardest
to bear: the poor man groans under his poverty, the rich man under
the cares that multiply with wealth. For, so far from wealth freeing
us from trouble, all the wise men who have written in all ages, have
repeated with one voice the words of the wisest, 'When goods increase,
they are increased that eat them: and what good is there to the owners
thereof, saving the beholding of them with their eyes?' And this is
literally true, my brethren; for, let a man be as rich as was the great
King Solomon himself, unless he lock up all his gold in a chest, it
must go abroad to be divided amongst others; yea, though, like Solomon,
he make him great works--though he build houses and plant vineyards,
and make him gardens and orchards--still the gold that he spends feeds
but the mouths he employs; and Solomon himself could not eat with a
better relish than the poorest mason who builded the house, or the
humblest labourer who planted the vineyard. Therefore, 'when goods
increase, they are increased that eat them.' And this, my brethren, may
teach us toleration and compassion for the rich. We share their riches
whether they will or not; we do not share their cares. The profane
history of our own country tells us that a princess, destined to be
the greatest queen that ever sat on this throne, envied the milk-maid
singing; and a profane poet, whose wisdom was only less than that of
the inspired writers, represents the man who by force and wit had risen
to be a king, sighing for the sleep vouchsafed to the meanest of his
subjects--all bearing out the words of the son of David--'The sleep
of the labouring man is sweet, whether he eat little or much; but the
abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep.'

"Amongst my brethren now present, there is doubtless some one who has
been poor, and by honest industry has made himself comparatively rich.
Let his heart answer me while I speak: are not the chief cares that
now disturb him to be found in the goods he hath acquired?--has he not
both vexations to his spirit and trials to his virtue, which he knew
not when he went forth to his labour, and took no heed of the morrow?
But it is right, my brethren, that to every station there should be its
care--to every man his burden; for if the poor did not sometimes so far
feel poverty to be a burden as to desire to better their condition, and
(to use the language of the world) 'seek to rise in life,' their most
valuable energies would never be aroused; and we should not witness
that spectacle, which is so common in the land we live in--namely, the
successful struggle of manly labour against adverse fortune--a struggle
in which the triumph of one gives hope to thousands. It is said that
necessity is the mother of invention; and the social blessings which
are now as common to us as air and sunshine, have come from that law
of our nature which makes us aspire towards indefinite improvement,
enriches each successive generation by the labours of the last, and,
in free countries, often lifts the child of the labourer to place
amongst the rulers of the land. Nay, if necessity is the mother of
invention, poverty is the creator of the arts. If there had been no
poverty, and no sense of poverty, where would have been that which
we call the wealth of a country? Subtract from civilisation all that
has been produced by the poor, and what remains?--the state of the
savage. Where you now see labourer and prince, you would see equality
indeed--the equality of wild men. No; not even equality there! for
there, brute force becomes lordship, and woe to the weak! Where you
now see some in frieze, some in purple, you would see nakedness in
all. Where stand the palace and the cot, you would behold but mud huts
and caves. As far as the peasant excels the king among savages, so
far does the society exalted and enriched by the struggles of labour
excel the state in which Poverty feels no disparity, and Toil sighs
for no ease. On the other hand, if the rich were perfectly contented
with their wealth, their hearts would become hardened in the sensual
enjoyments it procures. It is that feeling, by Divine Wisdom implanted
in the soul, that there is vanity and vexation of spirit in the things
of Mammon, which still leaves the rich man sensitive to the instincts
of heaven, and teaches him to seek for happiness in those elevated
virtues to which wealth invites him--namely, protection to the lowly
and beneficence to the distressed.

"And this, my brethren, leads me to another view of the vast subject
opened to us by the words of the apostle--'Every man shall bear his
own burden.' The worldly conditions of life are unequal. Why are they
unequal? O my brethren, do you not perceive? Think you that, if it had
been better for our spiritual probation that there should be neither
great nor lowly, rich nor poor, Providence would not so have ordered
the dispensations of the world, and so, by its mysterious but merciful
agencies, have influenced the framework and foundations of society?
But if, from the remotest period of human annals, and in all the
numberless experiments of government which the wit of man has devised,
still this inequality is ever found to exist, may we not suspect that
there is something in the very principles of our nature to which that
inequality is necessary and essential? Ask why this inequality! Why?
as well ask why life is the sphere of duty and the nursery of virtues.
For if all men were equal, if there were no suffering and no ease, no
poverty and no wealth, would you not sweep with one blow the half at
least of human virtues from the world? If there were no penury and
no pain, what would become of fortitude?--what of patience?--what of
resignation? If there were no greatness and no wealth, what would
become of benevolence, of charity, of the blessed human pity, of
temperance in the midst of luxury, of justice in the exercise of power?
Carry the question farther; grant all conditions the same--no reverse,
no rise and no fall--nothing to hope for, nothing to fear--what a moral
death you would at once inflict upon all the energies of the soul, and
what a link between the heart of man and the Providence of God would
be snapped asunder! If we could annihilate evil, we should annihilate
hope; and hope, my brethren, is the avenue to faith. If there be 'a
time to weep, and a time to laugh,' it is that he who mourns may
turn to eternity for comfort, and he who rejoices may bless God for
the happy hour. Ah! my brethren, were it possible to annihilate the
inequalities of human life, it would be the banishment of our worthiest
virtues, the torpor of our spiritual nature, the palsy of our mental
faculties. The moral world, like the world without us, derives its
health and its beauty from diversity, and contrast.

"'Every man shall bear his own burden.' True: but now turn to an
earlier verse in the same chapter.--'Bear ye one another's burdens,
and so fulfil the law of Christ.' Yes; while Heaven ordains to each his
peculiar suffering, it connects the family of man into one household,
by that feeling which, more perhaps than any other, distinguish us
from the brute creation--I mean the feeling to which we give the name
of _sympathy_--the feeling for each other! The herd of deer shun the
stag that is marked by the gunner; the flock heedeth not the sheep that
creeps into the shade to die; but man has sorrow and joy not in himself
alone, but in the joy and sorrow of those around him. He who feels only
for himself abjures his very nature as man; for do we not say of one
who has no tenderness for mankind that he is _inhuman_? and do we not
call him who sorrows with the sorrowful, _humane_?

"Now, brethren, that which especially marked the divine mission of our
Lord, is the direct appeal to this sympathy which distinguishes us
from the brute. He seizes, not upon some faculty of genius given but
to few, but upon that ready impulse of heart which is given to us all;
and in saying, 'Love one another,' 'Bear ye one another's burdens,' he
elevates the most delightful of our emotions into the most sacred of
his laws. The lawyer asks our Lord, 'Who is my neighbour?' Our Lord
replies by the parable of the good Samaritan. The priest and the Levite
saw the wounded man that fell among the thieves, and passed by on the
other side. That priest might have been austere in his doctrine, that
Levite might have been learned in the law; but neither to the learning
of the Levite, nor to the doctrine of the priest, does our Saviour even
deign to allude. He cites but the action of the Samaritan, and saith
to the lawyer, 'Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour
unto him that fell among the thieves? And he said, He that showed mercy
unto him. Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.'

"O shallowness of human judgments! It was enough to be born a Samaritan
in order to be rejected by the priest, and despised by the Levite.
Yet now, what to us the priest and the Levite, of God's chosen race
though they were? They passed from the hearts of men when they passed
the sufferer by the wayside; while this loathed Samaritan, half thrust
from the pale of the Hebrew, becomes of our family, of our kindred;
a brother amongst the brotherhood of Love, so long as Mercy and
Affliction shall meet in the common thoroughfare of Life!

"'Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.'
Think not, O my brethren, that this applies only to almsgiving--to that
relief of distress which is commonly called charity--to the obvious
duty of devoting, from our superfluities, something that we scarcely
miss, to the wants of a starving brother. No. I appeal to the poorest
amongst ye, if the worst burdens are those of the body--if the kind
word and the tender thought have not often lightened your hearts more
than bread bestowed with a grudge, and charity that humbles you by a
frown. Sympathy is a beneficence at the command of us all,--yea, of the
pauper as of the king; and sympathy is Christ's wealth. Sympathy is
brotherhood. The rich are told to have charity for the poor, and the
poor are enjoined to respect their superiors. Good: I say not to the
contrary. But I say also to the poor, '_In your turn have charity for
the rich_;' and I say to the rich, '_In your turn respect the poor_.'

"'Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.'
Thou, O poor man, envy not nor grudge thy brother his larger portion
of worldly goods. Believe that he hath his sorrows and crosses like
thyself, and perhaps, as more delicately nurtured, he feels them
more; nay, hath he not temptations so great that our Lord hath
exclaimed--'How hardly they that have riches enter into the kingdom
of heaven?' And what are temptations but trials?--what are trials but
perils and sorrows? Think not that you cannot bestow your charity on
the rich man, even while you take your sustenance from his hands. A
heathen writer, often cited by the earliest preachers of the gospel,
hath truly said--'Wherever there is room for a man, there is place for
a benefit.'

"And I ask any rich brother amongst you, when he hath gone forth to
survey his barns and his granaries, his gardens and orchards, if
suddenly, in the vain pride of his heart, he sees the scowl on the
brow of the labourer--if he deems himself hated in the midst of his
wealth--if he feels that his least faults are treasured up against
him with the hardness of malice, and his plainest benefits received
with the ingratitude of envy--I ask, I say, any rich man, whether
straightway all pleasure in his worldly possessions does not fade from
his heart, and whether he does not feel what a wealth of gladness it is
in the power of the poor man to bestow! For all these things of Mammon
pass away; but there is in the smile of him whom we have served, a
something that we may take with us into heaven. If, then, ye bear one
another's burdens, they who are poor will have mercy on the errors, and
compassion for the griefs, of the rich. To all men it was said--yes,
to the Lazarus as to the Dives--'Judge not that ye be not judged.'
But think not, O rich man, that we preach only to the poor. If it be
their duty not to grudge thee thy substance, it is thine to do all
that may sweeten their labour. Remember, that when our Lord said 'How
hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven,'
he replied also to them who asked, 'Who then shall be saved?' 'The
things which are impossible with men are possible with God:' that is,
man left to his own temptations would fail; but strengthened by God,
he shall be saved. If thy riches are the tests of thy trial, so may
they also be the instruments of thy virtues. Prove by thy riches that
thou art compassionate and tender, temperate and benign; and thy riches
themselves may become the evidence at once of thy faith and of thy
works.

"We have constantly on our lips the simple precept, 'Do unto others
as ye would be done by.' Why do we fail so often in the practice?
Because we neglect to cultivate that SYMPATHY which nature implants
as an instinct, and the Saviour exalts as a command. If thou wouldst
do unto thy neighbour as thou wouldst be done by, ponder well how
thy neighbour will regard the action thou art about to do to him. Put
thyself into his place. If thou art strong, and he is weak, descend
from thy strength, and enter into his weakness; lay aside thy burden
for the while, and buckle on his own; let thy sight see as through his
eyes--thy heart beat as in his bosom. Do this, and thou wilt often
confess that what had seemed just to thy power will seem harsh to his
weakness. For 'as a zealous man hath not done his duty, when he calls
his brother drunkard and beast,'[2] even so an administrator of the law
mistakes his object if he writes on the grand column of society, only
warnings that irritate the bold, and terrify the timid: and a man will
be no more in love with law than with virtue, 'if he be forced to it
with rudeness and incivilities.'[3] If, then, ye would bear the burden
of the lowly, O ye great--feel not only _for_ them, but _with_! Watch
that your pride does not chafe them--your power does not wantonly gall.
Your worldly inferior is of the class from which the apostles were
chosen--amidst which the Lord of Creation descended from a throne above
the seraphs."

The Parson here paused a moment, and his eye glanced towards the pew
near the pulpit, where sat the magnate of Hazeldean. The Squire was
leaning his chin thoughtfully on his hand, his brow inclined downwards,
and the natural glow of his complexion much heightened.

"But"--resumed the Parson softly, without turning to his book, and
rather as if prompted by the suggestion of the moment--"But he who
has cultivated sympathy commits not these errors, or, if committing
them, hastens to retract. So natural is sympathy to the good man, that
he obeys it mechanically when he suffers his heart to be the monitor
of his conscience. In this sympathy behold the bond between rich and
poor! By this sympathy, whatever our varying worldly lots, they become
what they were meant to be--exercises for the virtues more peculiar to
each; and thus, if in the body each man bear his own burden, yet in the
fellowship of the soul all have common relief in bearing the burdens of
each other.

"This is the law of Christ--fulfil it, O my flock!"

Here the Parson closed his sermon, and the congregation bowed their
heads.



ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE.


Eloquence, in its highest flights, is beyond all question the
greatest exertion of the human mind. It requires for its conception
a combination of the most exalted faculties; for its execution, a
union of the most extraordinary powers. Unite in thought the most
varied and dissimilar faculties of the soul--strength of understanding
with brilliancy of imagination; fire of conception with solidity of
judgment; a retentive memory with an enthusiastic fancy; the warmth of
poetry with the coldness of prose; an eye for the beauties of nature
with a command of the realities of life; a mind stored with facts
and a heart teeming with impressions--and you will form the elements
from which the most powerful style of oratory is to be created. But
this is not all. Physical powers, if not essential, are at least a
great addition to the mental qualities required for its success. The
orator must have at once the lengthened thought which is requisite for
a prolonged argument, and the ready wit which can turn to the best
advantage any incident which may occur in the course of its delivery.
More than all is required the fixity of purpose, the energy in effort,
the commanding turn, which, as it is the most valuable and important
faculty of the mind, so it is the one most rarely to be met with in any
walk of life, and least of all in combination with the brilliant and
imaginative qualities, which are the very soul of every art which is to
subdue or captivate mankind.

It is not surprising that the art of the orator should require, for its
highest flights, so rare a combination of qualities, for of all the
efforts of the human mind it is the most astonishing in its nature,
and the most transcendent in its _immediate_ triumphs. The wisdom
of the philosopher, the eloquence of the historian, the sagacity of
the statesman, the capacity of the general, may produce more lasting
effects upon human affairs; but they are incomparably less rapid
in their influence, and less intoxicating from the ascendency they
confer. In the solitude of his library the sage meditates on the truths
which are to influence the thoughts and direct the conduct of men in
future times; amidst the strife of faction the legislator discerns
the measures calculated, after a long course of years, to alleviate
existing evils or produce happiness yet unborn; during long and
wearisome campaigns the commander throws his shield over the fortunes
of his country, and prepares in silence and amidst obloquy the means
of maintaining its independence. But the triumphs of the orator are
immediate; his influence is instantly felt: his, and his alone, it is

    "The applause of listening senates to command,
       The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
       And read his history in a nation's eyes."

To stand up before a vast assembly composed of men of various passions,
habits, and prepossessions; to conciliate their feelings by the art,
and carry away their judgment by the eloquence, of the orator; to see
every gaze at length turned on his countenance, and every ear intent
on the words which drop from his lips; to see indifference turn into
excitement, and aversion melt away amidst enthusiasm; to hear thunders
of applause at the close of every sentence, and behold the fire of
enthusiasm kindled in every eye, as each successive idea is brought
forth; and to think that all this is the creation of the moment, and
has sprung extempore from the ardour of his conceptions, and the
inspiration they have derived from what passes around him, is perhaps
the greatest triumph of the human mind, and that in which its divine
origin and immortal destiny is most clearly revealed.

It is the magnitude of the combination requisite for its greatest
efforts which renders eloquence of the loftiest kind so extremely rare
among mankind. It is less frequent than the highest flights in epic or
dramatic poetry. Greece produced three great tragedians, but only one
Demosthenes; Cicero stands alone to sustain by his single strength the
fame of Roman oratory. Antiquity could not boast of more than five or
six persons who, by the common consent of their contemporaries, had
attained the highest rank in forensic eloquence; it is doubtful if
modern times could count as many: as many, we mean, who have attained
the very highest place in this noble and difficult art; for, doubtless,
in the second class, great numbers of names are to be found; and in the
third their name is legion. It is not meant to be asserted that great
temporary fame and influence by eloquence may not be, and often has
been, acquired by persons who are deficient in many of the qualities
above enumerated, as required to form a perfect orator. Without doubt,
brilliancy of genius will often, for passing effect, compensate the
want of solidity of judgment; and fire of imagination make us for the
moment forget a squeaking voice, a diminutive figure, an ungainly
countenance. No one, at times, commanded the attention of the House
of Commons more entirely than the late Mr Wilberforce, and yet his
stature was small, and his voice weak and painfully shrill. But great
earnestness of will and brilliancy of fancy are required to compensate
such defects; and we are persuaded that none will more readily admit
the justice of these observations than those who have laboured under,
and, by their powers, in a certain degree surmounted them.

As little is it intended to assert that vast influence may not be
acquired, and unbounded celebrity for the time obtained, not merely
without the cooperation of such varied and extensive qualities, but by
the aid, in many cases, of the very reverse. As temporary influence,
not lasting fame, is the immediate and chief end of oratory, its style
must be adapted to the prevailing cast of mind, and ruling interests
or passions, of the persons to whom it is addressed; and as it will
share in elevation of sentiment, if that is their characteristic, so
it will be deformed by vulgarity or selfishness when they are vulgar
and selfish. It is a common saying, that a speaker must descend to the
level of his audience, if he means to command their suffrages or enlist
their passions; and we have only to look around us to see how often, in
assemblies of an inferior, interested, or impassioned character, the
highest celebrity and most unbounded success are attained by persons
who not only have exhibited few of the qualities of a refined orator,
but who had studiously concealed those which they did possess, and
secretly despised in their hearts the arts to which their triumphs
had been owing.[4] But this is no more than is the case with all the
arts which aim at influencing, or charming mankind. The theatre,
the romance, poetry itself, share at times in the same degradation.
It would be as unjust to stigmatise oratory as the art of sophists
or declaimers, intended to seduce or deceive those who cannot see
through its artifices, as it would be to reproach the stage with the
vulgarity of the buffoon, or novels with the licentiousness of Aretin,
or poetry with the seductions of Ovid. We must not think lightly of an
art which has been ennobled by the efforts of Cicero and Burke in the
most refined assemblies, because it has also led to the triumphs of
O'Connell and Wilkes in the most ignorant.

To the highest triumphs of the art of oratory, that first of blessings,
CIVIL LIBERTY, is indispensable. More truly of it than of the liberty
of the press, it may be said, "It is our vital air: withdraw it, and
we perish." Regulated freedom is essential to its success. It is hard
to say whether it perishes most rapidly amidst the studied servility
of courtly rhetoric, or the coarse adulations of democratic flattery;
whether the atmosphere of Constantinople or that of New York is most
fatal to its existence. Genius, and that of the very highest kind, may
exist in despotic communities; but it is degraded by selfishness and
misdirected by servility.

Where there is only one ruling power in the state--be it monarchical,
aristocratic, or democratic--this corruption is equally certain,
and equally unavoidable. The sonorous periods in which Fontanes
celebrated the triumphs of the empire, the impassioned strains in
which Robespierre eulogised the incorruptible virtue of the people,
the coarse flattery with which O'Connell captivated his ignorant
and excitable audiences, equally marked the approach of the period
in which oratory, if such a _régime_ continued, must die a natural
death. Under such influences it necessarily perished from its own
exaggeration: it ceased to be impressive, it became ridiculous. As in
all the other arts which are intended to please and instruct mankind,
TRUTH, and a regard to the limits of nature, are essential to its
success. Exaggeration and hyperbole not only degrade the character
of eloquence, but destroy its influence, because they induce a style
of expression with which subsequent times, emancipated from passing
influences, cannot sympathise--look upon as contemptible. Then, and
then only, will oratory attain its highest perfection, during that
period "slow to come, soon to perish," as Tacitus said of balanced
freedom, during which no one interest in the state is irresistible; and
truth, in assailing the vices or resisting the encroachments of others,
can find a fulcrum from whence to direct its efforts. Withdraw the
fulcrum--remove the support--and truth, and with it genius, will sink
to rise no more.

It is surprising, however, how solicitous the human soul is for liberty
of expression; how eagerly, if one channel is closed, it seeks out and
often finds another. When the power of Government, or the tyranny of
the majority, has shut out the natural expression of unfettered opinion
in the discussion of the social and political interests of man, it
takes refuge in the regions of imagination. Romance becomes the vehicle
of independent thought: the stage the arena of unrestrained debate.
So delightful is free expression to the human mind, that it proves
agreeable even to those whose ascendency may seem to be endangered by
its prevalence. It may appear strange, but it is undoubtedly true, that
the germ of the doctrines of human perfectibility, the general vices of
those in authority, and the expedience of universal freedom alike in
trade and employment, emanated from the precincts of the most despotic
authority in Europe, and at the period of its highest exaltation. It
was in the palace of Versailles, in the court of the Grande Monarque,
and when discharging the duties of tutor to the Dauphin, that Fenelon
wrote, for the instruction of his royal pupil, _Telémaque_--perhaps the
most thoroughly democratic work, in its principles, that ever emanated
from the pen of genius. It was in the boudoir of Madame de Pompadour,
and when surrounded by the corruptions of Louis XV., that Quesnay
first announced the doctrines of throwing all taxes on the land, and
of universal freedom of trade and occupation, which have subsequently
had so powerful an influence in producing the Revolution of France, and
altering the political system and social conditions of Great Britain.

The extraordinary perfection to which tragedy has been brought in many
modern countries where the institutions are of a despotic character,
is mainly to be ascribed to this cause. The stage became the outlet
of independent thought; it was there alone that unfettered expression
could be safely attempted. Put into the mouths of historical or
imaginary characters, portraying remote events, for the most part
drawn from the classical ages of Greece or Rome, such unrestrained
ideas attracted no disquietude in the depositories of authority. They
were regarded as an attribute of a primeval world, which had as little
relation to the present, and as little bearing on its fortunes, as
the skeletons of the Mammoth, or the backbones of the Ichthyosauri,
on its material interests. A direct argument in favour of republican
institutions would have secured for its author a place in the Bastile,
or in the dungeons of the Inquisition; an incitement to the people to
take up arms, to dethrone the reigning monarch, would have led to the
scaffold; but the most eloquent and impassioned declamations in support
of both the one and the other, when couched in verse, put into the
mouth of Virginius or Brutus, and repeated on the stage by a popular
actor, excited no sort of apprehension. On the contrary, it was only
the more admired from its very novelty. Such ideas fell on the mind,
amidst the seductions and restrictions of a despotic court, with
somewhat of the charm with which the voice of nature, and the picture
of her beauties, was in the last days of the French monarchy listened
to from the gifted pen of Rousseau, or the vehement and imaginary
passions of the Greek Corsairs, as delineated by Byron, were regarded
by the worn-out victims of London dissipation.

If we would see in modern literature the most exact counterpart which
Europe has been able to present to the oratorical perfection of
antiquity, we must look for it, not in the debates of its National
Assemblies, or even the effusions of its pulpit eloquence, but in the
speeches of its great tragic poets. The best declamations in Corneille,
Alfieri, and Schiller, are often nothing but ancient eloquence put
into verse. The brevity and force of Shakspeare belong to the same
school. These men exhibit the same condensation of ideas, terseness
of expression, depth of thought, acquaintance with the secrets of the
heart, which have rendered the historians and orators of antiquity
immortal. Like them in their highest flights, they present intellect
and genius disdaining the attractions of style, the flowers of
rhetoric, the amplifications of imagination, and resting solely on
condensed reason, cogent argument, and impassioned pathos. They are the
bones and muscles of thought, without its ornament or covering. It is
this circumstance which rendered their drama so popular, and has given
its great masters their colossal reputation; and in their lasting fame
may be found the most decisive proof of the undying influence of the
highest species of eloquence on cultivated minds. Men and women went
to the theatre not to be instructed in the story--it was known to all;
not to be dazzled by stage effect--there was none of it: but to hear
oratory of the highest, pathos of the most moving, magnanimity of the
most exalted kind, repeated with superb effect by the first performers.
The utmost vehemence of action, with all the aids of intonation,
action, and delivery, was employed to heighten the effect of condensed
eloquence, conveying free and lofty sentiments which could nowhere
else be heard. This was the secret of the wonderful influence of the
stage on the polished society of Paris, during the latter days of the
monarchy. The audience in the _parterre_ might be seen repeating every
celebrated speech with the actor.

To illustrate these observations, we shall subjoin a few passages--two
from Corneille, one from Shakspeare, one from Alfieri, and two from
Schiller, in prose--partly to show how nearly they approach to the
style of ancient oratory, and partly from a sense of the hopelessness
of any translation conveying more than a prosaic idea of the terseness
and vigour of the originals,--

     "When the people are the master, tumults become national events.
     Never is the voice of reason consulted. Honours are sold to the
     most ambitious, authority yielded to the most seditious. These
     little sovereigns, made for a year, seeing the term of their
     power so near expiring, cause the most auspicious designs to
     miscarry, from the dread that others who follow may obtain the
     credit of them. As they have little share in the property which
     they command, they reap without hesitation in the harvest of the
     public, being well assured that every one will gladly pardon what
     they themselves hope to do on a future occasion. The worst of
     states is the popular state."[5]

Corneille's celebrated picture of Attila, which he puts into the mouth
of Octar, but which was really intended for Louis XIV., exhibits
another example of the condensed style of oratory, perhaps still more
applicable to a greater man than the Grande Monarque,--

     "I have seen him, alike in peace and war, bear everywhere the air
     of the conqueror of the earth. Often have I beheld the fiercest
     nations disarm his wrath by their submission. I have seen all
     the pleasure of his heroic mind savouring of the grand and the
     magnificent, while his ceaseless foresight in the midst of peace
     had prepared the triumphs of war; his noble anxiety, which, amidst
     his very recreations prepared the success of future designs. Too
     happy the people against whom he does not turn his invincible
     arms! I have seen him, covered with smoke and dust, give the
     noblest example to his army--spread terror everywhere by his
     own danger--overturn walls by a single glance, and heap his own
     conquests on the broken pride of the haughtiest monarchs."[6]

Napoleon said, if he had lived in his time, he would have made
Corneille his first councillor of state. He was right: for his thoughts
were more allied to the magnanimity of the hero than the pathos of the
tragedian; and his language savoured more of the sonorous periods of
the orator than the fire of the poet.

Beside these specimens of French tragic eloquence, we gladly place
the well-known speech of Brutus in _Julius Cæsar_, which proves that
Shakspeare was endowed with the very soul of ancient oratory:--

     "Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause, and be
     silent that you may hear; believe me for mine honour, and have
     respect to mine honour that you may believe; censure me in your
     wisdom, and awake your senses that you may the better judge. If
     there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar's, to
     him I say that Brutus' love to Cæsar was not less than his. If,
     then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is
     my answer: not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome
     more. Had you rather that Cæsar were living and die all slaves,
     than that Cæsar were dead to live all free men? As Cæsar loved
     me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice in it; as he
     was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him.
     There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honour for his
     valour, and death for his ambition. Who is there so base that
     would be a bondsman? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who
     is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak, for
     him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his
     country? If any, speak, for him have I offended. I have done no
     more to Cæsar than you should do to Brutus. The question of his
     death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory is not extenuated,
     wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced for which he
     suffered death."[7]

This is in the highest style of ancient oratory. Whoever has had the
good fortune to hear this noble speech repeated by the lips, and with
the impressive manner of Kemble, will have no difficulty in conceiving
how it was that eloquence in Greece and Rome acquired so mighty an
ascendency. Shakspeare has shown, however, in the speech of Antony,
which follows, that he is not less master of that important part of
oratory which consists in moving the feelings, and conciliating by
pathos an adverse audience. Antiquity never conceived anything more
skilful, or evincing a more thorough knowledge of the human heart, than
thus turning aside the lofty patriotic and republican ideas awakened
by Brutus' speech, first by the exhibition of Cæsar's garments, rent
by the daggers of his murderers, and yet wet with his blood, and then
unveiling the mangled corpse itself!

The eloquence of Alfieri and Schiller, perhaps, of all modern writers,
is that which approaches most closely to the brief and condensed style
of ancient oratory. The speech of Icilius, in the noble drama of
_Virginia_, by the first of these writers, affords a fair specimen of
its power:--

     "Listen to my words, O people of Rome! I who heretofore have never
     been deceitful, who have never either betrayed or sold my honour;
     who boast an ignoble origin, but a noble heart! hear me. This
     innocent free maid is daughter of Virginius. At such a name, I
     see your eyes flash with resplendent fire. Virginius is fighting
     for you in the field: think on the depravity of the times;
     meanwhile, exposed to shame, the victim of outrage, his daughter
     remains in Rome. And who outrages her? Come forward, O Marcus!
     show yourself. Why tremble you? He is well known to you: the last
     slave of the tyrant Appius and his first minister--of Appius,
     the mortal enemy of every virtue--of Appius, the haughty, stern,
     ferocious oppressor, who his ravished from you your freedom, and,
     to embitter the robbery, has left you your lives. Virginia is my
     promised bride: I love her. Who I am, I need not say: some one
     may perhaps remind you. I was your tribune, your defender; but in
     vain. You trusted rather the deceitful words of another than my
     free speech. We now suffer, in common slavery, the pain of your
     delusion. Why do I say more? The heart, the arm, the boldness of
     Icilius is known to you not less than the name. From you I demand
     my free bride. This man does not ask her: he styles her slave--he
     drags her, he forces her. Icilius or Marcus is a liar: say,
     Romans, which it is."[8]

That Schiller was a great dramatic and lyric poet, need be told to
none who have the slightest acquaintance with European literature; but
his great oratorical powers are not so generally appreciated, for they
have been lost in the blaze of his poetic genius. They were, however,
of the very highest order, as will at once appear from the following
translation (imperfect as it, of course, is) in prose, which we have
attempted of the celebrated speeches of Shrewsbury and Burleigh, who
discussed before Queen Elizabeth the great question of Queen Mary's
execution, in his noble tragedy of _Maria Stuart_:--

                              SHREWSBURY.

     "God, whose wondrous hand has four times protected you, and who
     to-day gave the feeble arm of gray hairs strength to turn aside
     the stroke of a madman, should inspire confidence. I will not now
     speak in the name of justice; this is not the time. In such a
     tumult you cannot hear her still small voice. Consider this only:
     you are fearful now of the living Mary; but I say it is not the
     living you have to fear. _Tremble at the dead--the beheaded._ She
     will rise from the grave a fiend of dissension. She will awaken
     the spirit of revenge in your kingdom, and wean the hearts of
     your subjects from you. At present she is an object of dread to
     the British; but when she is no more, they will revenge her. No
     longer will she then be regarded as the enemy of their faith; her
     mournful fate will cause her to appear only as the granddaughter
     of their king, the victim of man's hatred and woman's jealousy.
     Soon will you see the change appear! Drive through London after
     the bloody deed has been done; show yourself to the people, who
     now surround you with joyful acclamations: then will you see
     another England, another people! No longer will you then walk
     forth encircled by the radiance of heavenly justice which now
     binds every heart to you. Dread the frightful name of tyrant which
     will precede you through shuddering hearts, and resound through
     every street where you pass. You have done the last irrevocable
     deed. What head stands fast when this sacred one has fallen?"

     BURLEIGH.

     "Thou sayest, my Queen, thou lovest thy people more than
     thyself--show it now! Choose not peace for yourself, and leave
     discord to your people. Think on the Church! Shall the ancient
     faith be restored with this Stuart? Shall the monk of new lord it
     here--the legate of Rome return to shut up our churches, dethrone
     our queen? I demand the souls of all your subjects from you.
     As you now decide, you are saved or lost. This is no time for
     womanish pity: the salvation of your people is your highest duty.
     Has Shrewsbury saved your life to-day? I will deliver England, and
     that is more."--_Maria Stuart_, Act iv. s. 7.

Demosthenes could have written nothing more powerful--Cicero imagined
nothing more persuasive.

We shall now, to justify our assertion that it is in the dramatic poets
of modern Europe that a parallel can alone be found to the condensed
power of ancient eloquence, proceed to give a few quotations from the
most celebrated speeches of antiquity. We have selected, in general,
those from the historians, as they are shorter than the orations
delivered in the forum, and can be given entire. A fragment from a
speech of Demosthenes or Cicero gives no sort of idea of the original,
because what goes before is withheld. To scholars we need not plead
indulgence for the inadequacy of our translations: they will not expect
what they know to be impossible.

Tacitus, in his Life of Agricola, puts into the mouth of Galgacus the
following oration, when he was animating the Caledonians to their last
battle with the Romans under Agricola.

     "As often as I reflect on the origin of the war, and our
     necessities, I feel a strong conviction that this day, and your
     will, are about to lay the foundations of British liberty. For
     we have all known what slavery is, and no place of retreat lies
     behind us. The sea even is insecure when the Roman fleet hovers
     around. Thus arms and war, ever coveted by the brave, are now
     the only refuge of the cowardly. In former actions, in which the
     Britons fought with various success against the Romans, our valour
     was a resource to look to, for we, the noblest of all the nation,
     and on that account placed in its inmost recesses, unused to the
     spectacle of servitude, had our eyes even inviolate from its
     hateful sight. We, the last of the earth, and of freedom, unknown
     to fame, have been hitherto defended by our remoteness; now, the
     extreme limits of Britain appear, and the unknown is ever regarded
     as the magnificent. No refuge is behind us; naught but the rocks
     and the waves, and the deadlier Romans: men whose pride you have
     in vain sought to deprecate by moderation and subservience. The
     robbers of the globe, when the land fails they scour the sea.
     Is the enemy rich, they are avaricious; is he poor, they are
     ambitious--the East and the West are unable to satiate their
     desires. Wealth and poverty are alike coveted by their rapacity.
     To carry off, massacre, seize on false pretences, they call
     empire; and when they make a desert, they call it peace.

     "Nature has made children and relations dearest to all: they are
     carried off by levies to serve elsewhere: our wives and sisters,
     if they escape the lust of our enemies, are seduced by these
     _friends_ and _guests_. Our goods and fortunes they seize on as
     tribute, our corn as supplies; our very bodies and hands they
     wear out amidst strifes and contumely, in fortifying stations in
     the woods and marshes. Serfs born in servitude are once bought,
     and ever after fed by their masters; Britain alone daily buys its
     slavery, daily feeds it. As in families the last slave purchased
     is often a laughing-stock to the rest, so we, the last whom they
     have reduced to slavery, are the first to be agonised by their
     contumely, and reserved for destruction. We have neither fields,
     nor minerals, nor harbours, in working which we can be employed:
     the valour and fierceness of the vanquished are obnoxious to the
     victors: our very distance and obscurity, as they render us the
     safer, make us the more suspected. Laying aside, therefore, all
     hope of pardon, assume the courage of men to whom salvation and
     glory are alike dear. The Trinobantes, under a female leader, had
     courage to burn a colony and storm castles, and, had not their
     success rendered them negligent, they would have cast off the
     yoke. We, untouched and unconquered, nursed in freedom, shall we
     not show, on the first onset, what men Caledonia has nursed in her
     bosom?

     "Do not believe the Romans have the same prowess in war as lust
     in peace. They have grown great on our divisions: they know how
     to turn the vices of men to the glory of their own army. As it
     has been drawn together by success, so disaster will dissolve
     it, unless you suppose that the Gauls and the Germans, and, I am
     ashamed to say, many of the Britons, who now lend their blood to
     a foreign usurpation, and in their hearts are rather enemies than
     slaves, can be retained by faith and affection. Fear and terror
     are but slender bonds of attachment; when you remove them, as fear
     ceases terror begins. All the incitements of victory are on our
     side: no wives inflame the Romans; no parents are there, to call
     shame on their flight; they have no country, or it is elsewhere.
     Few in number, fearful from ignorance, gazing on unknown woods
     and seas, the gods have delivered them shut in and bound into
     your hands. Let not their vain aspect, the glitter of silver and
     gold, which neither covers nor wounds, alarm you. In the very
     line of the enemy we shall find our friends: the Britons will
     recognise their own cause; the Gauls will recollect their former
     freedom; the other Germans will desert them, as lately the Usipii
     have done. No objects of terror are behind them; naught but empty
     castles, age-ridden colonies; dissension between cruel masters and
     unwilling slaves, sick and discordant cities. Here is a leader,
     an army; there are tributes, and payments, and the badges of
     servitude, which to bear for ever, or instantly to avenge, lies
     in your arms. Go forth then into the field, and think of your
     ancestors and your descendants."[9]

It is scarcely necessary to say that this speech was written by
Tacitus: most certainly nothing half so perfect was ever conceived
by Caledonian chief or Caledonian orator, from that day to this.
But as the great speeches in antiquity were all written, this gives
a specimen, doubtless of the most favourable kind, of the style of
oratory which prevailed amongst them. No modern historian has either
ventured or been able to put anything so nervous and forcible into the
mouth of any orator, how great soever. If he did, it would at once be
known that it had not been spoken, but was the fruit of the composition
of the closet.

Catiline, who, like many other revolutionists, possessed abilities
commensurate to his wickedness, thus addressed the conspirators who
were associated to overturn the sway of the Roman patricians:--

     "Had not your valour and fidelity been well known to me, fruitless
     would have been the smiles of Fortune: the prospect of as mighty
     domination would in vain have opened upon us; nor would I have
     mistaken illusive hopes for realities, uncertain things for
     certain. But since, on many and great occasions, I have known
     you to be brave and faithful, I have ventured to engage in the
     greatest and noblest undertaking; for I well know that good and
     evil are common to you and me. That friendship at length is
     secure which is founded on wishing and dreading the same things.
     You all know what designs I have long revolved in my mind; but
     my confidence in them daily increases, when I reflect what our
     fate is likely to be, if we do not vindicate our freedom by our
     own hands. For, since the republic has fallen under the power
     and dominion of a few, kings yield their tributes, governorships
     their profits to them: all the rest, whether strenuous, good,
     noble or ignoble, are the mere vulgar: without influence, without
     authority, we are obnoxious to those to whom, if the commonwealth
     existed, we should be a terror. All honour, favour, power, wealth,
     is centred in them, or those whom they favour: to us are left
     dangers, repulses, lawsuits, poverty. How long will you endure
     them, O ye bravest of men? Is it not better to die bravely, than
     drag out a miserable and dishonoured life, the sport of pride, the
     victims of disgrace? But by the faith of gods and men, victory is
     in our own hands: our strength is unimpaired; our minds energetic:
     theirs is enfeebled by age, extinguished by riches. All that is
     required is to begin boldly; the rest follows of course. Where
     is the man of a manly spirit, who can tolerate that they should
     overflow with riches, which they squander in ransacking the sea,
     in levelling mountains, while to us the common necessaries of
     life are awanting? They have two or more superb palaces each; we
     not wherein to lay our heads. When they buy pictures, statues,
     basso-relievos, they destroy the old to make way for the new: in
     every possible way they squander away their money; but all their
     desires are unable to exhaust their riches. At home, we have only
     poverty; abroad, debts; present adversity; worse prospects. What,
     in fine, is left us, but our woe-stricken souls? What, then, shall
     we do? That, that which you have ever most desired. Liberty is
     before your eyes; and it will soon bring riches, renown, glory:
     Fortune holds out these rewards to the victors. The time, the
     place, our dangers, our wants, the splendid spoils of war, exhort
     you more than my words. Make use of me either as a commander or
     a private soldier. Neither in soul or body will I be absent from
     your side. These deeds I hope I shall perform as Consul with you,
     unless my hopes deceive me, and you are prepared rather to obey as
     slaves, than to command as rulers."[10]

The topics here handled are the same which in every age have been the
staple of the conspirator and the revolutionist; but it may be doubted
whether they ever were put together with such force and address. The
same desperate chief, on the eve of their last conflict with the
consular legions:--

     "I well know, fellow-soldiers, that words add nothing to the
     valour of the brave; and that an army will not be made from
     slothful, strenuous--from timid, courageous, by any speech from
     its commander. Whatever boldness nature or training has implanted
     in any one, that appears in war. It is vain to exhort those whom
     neither dangers nor glory excite. Terror shuts their ears. But I
     have called you together to mention a few things, and to make you
     sharers of my councils. You know, soldiers, what a calamity has
     been brought upon us by the cowardice of Lentulus; and how, when I
     awaited succours from the city, I was unable to set out for Gaul.
     Now, however, I will candidly tell you how our affairs stand. Two
     armies, one issuing from Rome, one from Gaul, beset us: want of
     provisions obliges us quickly to change our quarters, even if we
     inclined to remain where we are. Wherever we determine to go, we
     must open a way with our swords. Therefore it is that I admonish
     you that you have now need of stern and determined minds: and
     when you engage in battle, recollect that riches, honour, glory,
     in addition to liberty, are to be won by your own right hands. If
     we conquer, everything awaits us: provisions will be abundant,
     colonies ready, cities open. If we yield from fear, circumstances
     are equally adverse: neither solitude nor friend shields him whom
     his arms cannot protect. Besides, soldiers, the same necessity
     does not impel them as us. We fight for our country, our liberty,
     our lives; they for the domination of a few. On that account,
     mindful of your pristine valour, advance to the attack. You might
     have, with disgrace, lingered out a miserable life in exile:
     a few, bereft of their possessions, might have remained, fed
     by charity, at Rome: but as such a fate seemed intolerable to
     freemen, you have attended me here. If you would shun these evils,
     now is the moment to do so. None ever exchanged war for peace,
     save by victory. To hope for safety in flight, and, at the same
     time, rescue from the enemy the arms by which the body is covered,
     is the height of madness. Ever in battle they run the greatest
     danger who are most timid: boldness is the only real rampart. When
     I reflect on you and your deeds, O soldiers, I have great hopes
     of victory. Your spirit, your age, your bravery, encourage me:
     besides necessity, which makes heroes even of cowards. The straits
     of the ground secure you from being outflanked by the enemy.
     Should Fortune fail to second your valour, beware lest you perish
     unavenged. Rather fall, fighting like men, and leave a mournful
     and bloody triumph to your enemies, than be butchered like sheep
     when captured by their arms."[11]

With what exquisite judgment and taste is the stern and mournful style
of this speech suited to the circumstances, all but desperate, in which
Catiline's army was then placed!

No one supposes that these were the identical words delivered by
Catiline on this occasion. Unquestionably, Sallust shines through in
every line. But they were probably his ideas; and, unquestionably,
they were in the true style of ancient oratory. And that what was
spoken fully equalled what has come down to us written, is proved by
innumerable passages in speeches which undoubtedly were spoken; among
which, we select the graphic picture of Antony in his revels--spoken by
Coelius, and preserved by Quintilian:--

     "They found him (Antony) oppressed with a half-drunken sleep,
     snoring aloud, lying across the most beautiful concubines, while
     others were reposing around. The latter, when they perceived the
     approach of an enemy, strove to awaken Antony, but in vain. They
     called on him by name, they raised him by the neck: one whispered
     softly in his ear, one struck him sharply; but to no purpose. When
     he was so far roused as to recognise the voice or touch of the
     nearest, he put his arms round her neck, unable alike to sleep and
     to rise up; but, half in a stupor, he was tossed about between the
     hands of the centurions and the harlots."[12]

What a picture of the triumvir and rival of Brutus, as well as of the
corrupted manners of Rome!

Demosthenes, in his celebrated speech against Æschines, burst into the
following strain of indignant invective:--

     "You taught writing, I learned it: you were an instructor, I was
     the instructed: you danced at the games, I presided over them:
     you wrote as a clerk, I pleaded as an advocate: you were an actor
     in the theatres, I a spectator: you broke down, I hissed: you
     ever took counsel for our enemies, I for our country. In fine,
     now on this day the point at issue is--Am I, yet unstained in
     character, worthy of a crown? while to you is reserved the lot
     of a calumniator, and you are in danger of being silenced by not
     having obtained the fifth part of the votes.

     "I have not fortified the city with stone, nor adorned it with
     tiles, neither do I take any credit for such things. But if you
     would behold my works aright, you will find arms, and cities, and
     stations, and harbours, and ships, and horses, and those who are
     to make use of them in our defence. This is the rampart I have
     raised for Attica, as much as human wisdom could effect: with
     these I fortified the whole country, not the Piræus only and the
     city. I never sank before the arms or cunning of Philip. No! it
     was by the supineness of your own generals and allies that he
     triumphed."[13]

We add only an extract from the noble speech of Pericles, on those who
had died in the service of their country, which is the more valuable
that Thucydides, who has recorded it in his history, says that the
version he has given of that masterpiece of oratory is nearly the same
as he heard from Pericles himself.

     "Wherefore I will congratulate rather than bewail the parents of
     those who have fallen that are present. They know that they were
     born to suffering. But the lot of those is most to be envied who
     have come to such an end, that it is hard to say whether their
     life or their death is most honourable. I know it is difficult to
     persuade you of this, who had often rejoiced in the good fortune
     of others; and it is not when we are deprived of goods not yet
     attained that we feel grief, but when we are bereaved of what
     we have already enjoyed. To some the hope of other children,
     who may emulate those who have gone before, may be a source of
     consolation. Future offspring may awaken fresh interests in place
     of the dead; and will doubly benefit the city by peopling its
     desert places, and providing for its defence. We cannot expect
     that those who have no children whom they may place in peril for
     their country, can be considered on a level with such as have
     made the sacrifices which those have made. To such of you as time
     has denied this hope, I would say, 'Rejoice in the honour which
     your children have won, and let that console the few years that
     still remain to you--for the love of glory alone knows no age;
     and in the decline of life it is not the acquisition of gain, as
     some say, which confers pleasure, but the consciousness of being
     honoured.

     "To the children and brothers of those we mourn, who are here
     present, I foresee a noble contest. Every one praises the dead.
     You should endeavour, I will not say to equal those we have lost,
     but to be only a little inferior to them. Envy often divides the
     living; but the grave extinguishes jealousy, for it terminates
     rivalry. I must speak of the virtue of the women who have shared
     in our bereavement; but I shall do so in a few words. Great will
     be your renown, if you do not yield to the weakness of your sex;
     and place as little difference as possible between yourselves
     and the virtue of men. I propose that the children of those who
     have fallen should be maintained, till puberty, at the public
     expense--a reward at once to the virtue of the dead, and an
     incitement to the emulation of the living: for among those to whom
     the highest rewards of virtue are opened, the most worthy citizens
     are found. And now, having honoured the dead by your mourning,
     depart every one to his home."[14]

Enough--and some may, perhaps, think more than enough--has been done to
convey an idea of that far-famed oratory, of which Milton has said--

    "Thence to the famous orators repair,
    Those ancients, whose resistless eloquence
    Wielded at will that fierce democracy,
    Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece,
    To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne."[15]

For comparison with these splendid passages, we gladly lay before
our readers the famous peroration of Mr Burke's oration against Mr
Hastings, long esteemed the masterpiece of British eloquence.

     "My Lords, at this awful close, in the name of the Commons, and
     surrounded by them, I attest the retiring, I attest the advancing
     generations, between which, as a link in the great chain of
     eternal order, we stand. We call this nation, we call the world to
     witness, that the Commons have shrunk from no labour; that we have
     been guilty of no prevarication; that we have made no compromise
     with crime; that we have not feared any odium whatsoever, in
     the long warfare which we have carried on with the crimes--with
     the vices--with the exorbitant wealth--with the enormous and
     overpowering influence of Eastern corruption. This war, my Lords,
     we have waged for twenty-two years, and the conflict has been
     fought, at your Lordships' bar, for the last seven years. My
     Lords, twenty-two years is a great space in the scale of the life
     of man; it is no inconsiderable space in the history of a great
     nation. A business which has so long occupied the councils and
     the tribunals of Great Britain cannot possibly be huddled over in
     the course of vulgar, trite, and transitory events. Nothing but
     some of those great revolutions, that break the traditionary chain
     of human memory, and alter the very face of nature itself, can
     possibly obscure it. My Lords, we are all elevated to a degree of
     importance by it; the meanest of us will, by means of it, more or
     less, become the concern of posterity--if we are yet to hope for
     such a thing, in the present state of the world, as a recording,
     retrospective, civilised posterity: but this is in the hand of the
     great Disposer of events; it is not ours to settle how it shall
     be. My Lords, your House yet stands; it stands as a great edifice;
     but let me say, that it stands in the midst of ruins--in the midst
     of the ruins that have been made by the greatest moral earthquake
     that ever convulsed and shattered this globe of ours. My Lords, it
     has pleased Providence to place us in such a state, that we appear
     every moment to be upon the verge of some great mutations. There
     is one thing, and one thing only, which defies all mutation, that
     which existed before the world, and will survive the fabric of
     the world itself--I mean justice; that justice which, emanating
     from the Divinity, has a place in the breast of every one of us,
     given us for our guide with regard to ourselves and with regard to
     others, and which will stand, after this globe is burned to ashes,
     our advocate or our accuser before the great Judge, when He comes
     to call upon us for the tenor of a well-spent life.

     "My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with your
     Lordships; there is nothing sinister which can happen to you, in
     which we shall not all be involved; and if it should so happen
     that we shall be subjected to some of those frightful changes
     which we have seen--if it should happen that your Lordships,
     stripped of all the decorous distinctions of human society,
     should, by hands at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds
     and machines of murder upon which great kings and glorious queens
     have shed their blood, amidst the prelates, amidst the nobles,
     amidst the magistrates, who supported their thrones, may you in
     those moments feel that consolation which I am persuaded they
     felt in the critical moments of their dreadful agony!... My
     Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall! but, if you stand--and
     stand I trust you will--together with the fortune of this ancient
     monarchy--together with the ancient laws and liberties of this
     great and illustrious kingdom--may you stand as unimpeached in
     honour as in power; may you stand, not as a substitute for virtue,
     but as an ornament of virtue, as a security for virtue; may you
     stand long, and long stand the terror of tyrants; may you stand
     the refuge of afflicted nations; may you stand a sacred temple,
     for the perpetual residence of an inviolable justice."[16]

The peroration of Lord Brougham's speech in favour of Queen Caroline,
which was carefully studied, and, it is said, written over several
times, is not unworthy to be placed beside this splendid burst.

     "Such, my Lords, is the case before you! such is the evidence in
     support of this measure--evidence inadequate to prove a debt,
     impotent to deprive of a civil right, ridiculous to convict of
     the lowest offence, scandalous, if brought forward to support a
     charge of the highest nature which the law knows, monstrous to
     ruin the honour and blast the name of an English Queen! What shall
     I say, then, if this is the proof by which an act of judicial
     legislation, a parliamentary sentence, an _ex post facto_ law,
     is sought to be passed against a defenceless woman? My Lords, I
     pray you to pause: I do earnestly beseech you to take heed. You
     are standing upon the brink of a precipice--then beware! It will
     go forth as your judgment, if sentence shall pass against the
     Queen. But it will be the only judgment you ever pronounced which,
     instead of reaching its object, will return and bound back upon
     those who give it. Save the country, my Lords, from the horrors
     of this catastrophe--save yourselves from this peril. Revere that
     country of which you are the ornaments, but in which you can
     flourish no longer, when severed from the people, than the blossom
     when cut off from the roots and stem of the tree. Save that
     country, that you may continue to adorn it; save the crown, which
     is in jeopardy, the aristocracy, which is shaken; save the altar,
     which must stagger with the blow that rends its kindred throne!
     You have said, my Lords, you have willed, the church to the Queen
     have willed that she should be deprived of its solemn service.
     She has instead of that solemnity the heartfelt prayers of the
     people. She wants no prayers of mine. But I do here pour forth my
     humble supplication to the Throne of mercy, that that mercy may be
     poured down upon the people, in a larger measure than the merits
     of its rulers may deserve, and that your hearts may be turned to
     justice."[17]

On the trial of Mr John Stockdale, Lord Erskine thus spoke:--

     "I have been speaking of man and his nature, and of human
     dominion, from what I have seen of them myself among nations
     reluctant of our authority. I know what they feel, and how such
     feelings can alone be repressed. I have heard them in my youth
     from a naked savage, in the indignant character of a prince,
     surrounded by his subjects, addressing the governor of a British
     colony, holding a bundle of sticks in his hand, as the notes of
     his unlettered eloquence. 'Who is it,' said the jealous ruler
     of the desert, encroached upon by the restless foot of English
     adventure--'who is it that causes to blow the loud winds of
     winter, and that calms them again in summer? Who is it that causes
     this river to rise in the high mountains, and to empty itself
     into the ocean? Who is it that rears up the shade of these lofty
     forests, and blasts them with the quick lightning at his pleasure?
     The same Being who gave to you a country on the other side of the
     waters, and gave ours to us; and by this title we will defend
     it,' said the warrior, throwing his tomahawk upon the ground, and
     raising the war-sound of his nation. These are the feelings of
     subjugated man all round the globe; and, depend upon it, nothing
     but fear will control where it is vain to look for affection."[18]

Some of Mr Grattan's speeches are said to have been the most eloquent
ever delivered in the House of Commons. The following burst of
indignant patriotism, on the supposed wrongs of Ireland, affords a
favourable specimen of his style of oratory:--

     "Hereafter, when these things shall be history, your age of
     thraldom and poverty, your sudden resurrection, commercial
     redress, and miraculous armament, shall the historian stop to
     declare, that here the principal men amongst us fell into mimic
     traces of gratitude: they were awed by a weak ministry, and bribed
     by an empty treasury; and when liberty was within their grasp, and
     the temple opened her folding-doors, and the arms of the people
     clanged, and the zeal of the nation urged and encouraged them on,
     that they fell down, and were prostituted at the threshold.

     "I will not be answered by a public lie in the shape of an
     amendment: neither, speaking for the subjects' freedom, am I to
     hear of faction. I wish for nothing but to breathe in this our
     island, in common with my fellow-subjects, the air of liberty. I
     have no ambition, unless it be the ambition to break your chains,
     and contemplate your glory. I never will be satisfied as long as
     the meanest cottager in Ireland has a link of the British chain
     clanking in his rags: he may be naked, he shall not be in irons.
     And I do see the time is at hand, the spirit is gone forth, the
     declaration is planted: and though great men should apostatise,
     yet the cause will live: and though the public speaker should die,
     yet the immortal fire shall outlast the organ which conveyed it,
     and the breath of liberty, like the word of the holy man, shall
     not die with the prophet, but survive him."[19]

We shall add only to these copious and interesting quotations two
passages from the greatest masters of French eloquence.

Bossuet, in his funeral oration on Henrietta, daughter of France and
Queen of England, the consort of Charles I., thus expresses himself:--

     "Christians!" says he, in the exordium of his discourse, "it is
     not surprising that the memory of a great queen--the daughter,
     the wife, the mother of monarchs--should attract you from all
     quarters to this melancholy ceremony; it will bring forcibly
     before your eyes one of those awful examples which demonstrate
     to the world the vanity of which it is composed. You will see in
     her single life the extremes of human things: felicity without
     bounds, miseries without parallel; a long and peaceable enjoyment
     of one of the most noble crowns in the universe--all that birth
     and grandeur could confer that was glorious--all that adversity
     and suffering could accumulate that was disastrous; the good
     cause attended at first with some success, then involved in
     the most dreadful disasters. Revolutions unheard of, rebellion
     long restrained, at length reigning triumphant; no curb there
     to license, no laws in force. Majesty itself violated by bloody
     hands--usurpation and tyranny, under the name of liberty--a
     fugitive queen, who can find no retreat in her three kingdoms, and
     was forced to seek in her native country a melancholy exile. Nine
     sea voyages undertaken against her will by a queen, in spite of
     wintry tempests--a throne unworthily overturned, and miraculously
     re-established. Behold the lessons which God has given to kings!
     thus does He manifest to the world the nothingness of its pomps
     and its grandeur. If our words fail, if language sinks beneath the
     grandeur of such a subject, the simple narrative is more touching
     than aught that words can convey. The heart of a great queen,
     formerly elevated by so long a course of prosperity, then steeped
     in all the bitterness of affliction, will speak in sufficiently
     touching language; and if it is not given to a private individual
     to teach the proper lessons from so mournful a catastrophe, the
     King of Israel has supplied the words--'Hear, O ye great of the
     earth! Take lessons, ye rulers of the world!'"[20]

A very different man from Bossuet, but who was perhaps his superior in
nervous eloquence, Robespierre, thus spoke on the last occasion when he
addressed the Convention, then bent on his destruction:--

     "They call me a tyrant! If I were so, they would fall at my feet:
     I should have gorged them with gold, assured them of impunity
     to their crimes, and they would have worshipped me. Had I been
     so, the kings whom we have conquered would have been my most
     cordial supporters. It is by the aid of scoundrels you arrive
     at tyranny. Whither tend those who combat them? To the tomb and
     immortality! Who is the tyrant that protects me? What is the
     faction to which I belong? It is yourselves! What is the party
     which, since the commencement of the Revolution, has crushed all
     other factions--has annihilated so many specious traitors? It
     is yourselves; it is the people; it is the force of principles!
     This is the party to which I am devoted, and against which crime
     is everywhere leagued. I am ready to lay down my life without
     regret. I have seen the past; I foresee the future. What lover
     of his country would wish to live, when he can no longer succour
     oppressed innocence? Why should he desire to remain in an order
     of things where intrigue eternally triumphs over truth--where
     justice is deemed an imposture--where the vilest passions, the
     most ridiculous fears, fill every heart, instead of the sacred
     interests of humanity? Who can bear the punishment of seeing
     that horrible succession of traitors, more or less skilful in
     concealing their hideous vices under the mask of virtue, and who
     will leave to posterity the difficult task of determining which
     was the most atrocious? In contemplating the multitude of vices
     which the Revolution has let loose pell-mell with the civic
     virtues, I own I sometimes fear that I myself shall be sullied in
     the eyes of posterity by their calumnies. But I am consoled by
     the reflection that, if I have seen in history all the defenders
     of liberty overwhelmed by calumny, I have seen their oppressors
     die also. The good and the bad disappear alike from the earth;
     but in very different conditions. No, Chaumette! 'Death is _not_
     an eternal sleep!'--Citizens, efface from the tombs that maxim,
     engraven by sacrilegious hands, which throws a funeral pall over
     nature, which discourages oppressed innocence: write rather,
     'Death is the commencement of immortality!' I leave to the
     oppressors of the people a terrible legacy, which well becomes the
     situation in which I am placed: it is the awful truth, 'Thou shalt
     die!'"[21]

It must be evident to every impartial person, from these quotations,
that the superiority of ancient to modern eloquence, so far as the art
itself is concerned, is great and indisputable. The strong opinion of
Lord Brougham, on this subject, must command the universal assent of
every reasonable mind:--

     "It is impossible for any but the most careless observer, to avoid
     remarking the great differences which distinguish the oratory of
     ancient from that of modern times. The immeasurable superiority of
     the former is far from being the only, or even the principal, of
     these diversities: that proceeds, in part, from the greater power
     of the languages, especially the Greek--the instrument wielded
     by the great masters of diction; and in so far the superiority
     must for ever remain undiminished by any efforts on the part of
     modern rhetoricians. If, in such varied and perfect excellencies,
     the most prominent shall be selected, then doubtless is the palm
     due to that entire and uninterrupted devotion which throws the
     speaker's whole soul into his subject, and will not even--no,
     not for an instant--suffer a rival idea to cross its resistless
     course, without being swiftly swept away and driven out of sight,
     as the most rapid engine annihilates or shoots off whatever
     approaches it with a velocity that defies the eye. There is no
     coming back on the same ground, any more than any lingering over
     it. All is done at once; but the blow is as effectual as it is
     single, and leaves not anything to do. All is at each instant
     moving forward, regardless of every obstacle. The mighty flood
     of speech rolls on in a channel ever full, but which never
     overflows. Whether it rushes in a torrent of allusion, or moves
     along in a majestic exposition of enlarged principles, descends
     hoarse and headlong in overwhelming invective, or glides melodious
     in narrative and description, or spreads itself out shining in
     illustrations, its course is ever onward and ever entire; never
     scattered, never stagnant, never sluggish. At each point manifest
     progress has been made, and with all that art can do to charm,
     strike, and please. No sacrifice, even the smallest, is ever
     made to effect; nor can the hearer ever stop for an instant to
     contemplate or admire, or throw away a thought upon the great
     artist, till all is over, and the pause gives time to recover his
     breath."[22]

It is the more remarkable that this great and decisive superiority on
the part of ancient oratory should exist, when it is recollected that
the information, sphere of ideas, and imagery at the command of public
speakers, in modern times, is so widely extended in comparison of what
it was in Greece and Rome. As much as the wide circuit of the globe
exceeds the limited shores of the Mediterranean Sea, do the knowledge
and ideas which the modern orator may make use of outstrip those which
were at the disposal of the brightest genius in antiquity. Science has,
since the fall of Rome, been infinitely extended, and furnished a great
variety of images and allusions--many of them of the most elevated
kind--which at once convey a clear idea to any educated audience, and
awaken in their minds associations or recollections of a pleasing or
ennobling description. The vast additions made to geographical and
physical knowledge have rendered the wide surface of the globe, and the
boundless wonders of the heavens, the theme alike for the strains of
the poet, the meditations of the philosopher, and the eloquence of the
orator. Modern poetry has added its treasures to those which antiquity
had bequeathed to us, as if to augment the chords which eloquence can
touch in the human heart. Chivalry has furnished a host of images,
ideas, and associations wholly unknown to ancient times; but which,
however at times fantastic or high-flown, are all of an ennobling
character, because they tend to elevate humanity above itself, and
combat the selfish by the very excess of the generous affections.
History has immensely extended the sphere of known events, and not
only studded the annals of mankind with the brightest instances of
heroism or virtue, but afforded precedents applicable to almost every
change that can occur in the varied circumstances of human transaction.
Above all, Religion has opened a new fountain in the human heart, and
implanted in every bosom, with the exception only of those utterly
depraved, associations and recollections at once of the most purifying
and moving kind. The awful imagery and touching incidents of the Old
Testament, exceeding those in the Iliad itself in sublimity and pathos;
the pure ideas and universal charity of the New, as much above the
utmost efforts of unassisted humanity, have given the orator, in modern
times, a store of images and associations which, of all others, are the
most powerful in moving the human heart. If one-half of this magazine
of ideas and knowledge had been at the disposal of the orators of
antiquity, they would have exceeded those of modern Europe as much in
the substance and magnificence of their thoughts, as they already do in
the felicity and force of their expression.

A key may be found to the causes of this remarkable superiority in
ancient eloquence, notwithstanding the comparatively limited extent of
the materials of which they had the disposal, in the very qualities
in which the ancient orators stand pre-eminent. It is the exquisite
taste and abbreviated force of their expression which renders them
unrivalled. In reading their speeches, we are perpetually tempted to
shut the book even in the most interesting passages, to reflect on the
inimitable brevity and beauty of the language. It is a mistake to say
this is owing to the construction of the Greek and Roman languages,
to the absence of auxiliary verbs, and the possibility of combining
expression, as in modern German, so as to convey a complex idea in
a single word. Undoubtedly that is true; but who made the ancient
languages at once so copious and condensed? It was the ancients
themselves who did this. It was they who moulded their tongues into so
brief and expressive a form, and, in the course of their progressive
formation through successive centuries, rendered them daily more brief
and more comprehensive. It was the men who made the language--not the
language the men. It was their burning thoughts which created such
energetic expressions, as if to let loose at once the pent-up fires of
the soul. Those who assert the reverse fall into the same error as the
philosophers who ascribe the character of the Anglo-Saxons to their
institutions, when, in truth, their institutions are owing to their
character.

The main causes to which the extraordinary perfection of ancient
oratory are to be ascribed, are the great pains which were bestowed on
the education of the higher classes in this most difficult art, and the
practice of preparing nearly all their finest orations before delivery.
It will sound strange in modern ears to assign these as the causes of
this undoubted superiority, when the practice with them is in both
particulars directly the reverse; but a very little consideration must
convince every reasonable mind that it is to these that it is to be
ascribed.

Great as is the importance and undoubted the influence of eloquence
in modern Europe, it is by no means so considerable as it was in
the states of antiquity. This arises in part from the different
structure of government in ancient and modern times. We hear nothing
of eloquence in Persia, Egypt, or the East. Military power, political
address, were then, as they have ever since been in that part of
the world, the sole passports to greatness. But it was otherwise in
the republics which studded the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.
Universally, in them, supreme power was lodged in the citizens of a
single city, or in them jointly with the landowners in the vicinity,
who could with ease attend its public assemblies. Every free citizen
had a vote in those assemblies, in which every subject, political,
social, and judicial, was discussed and determined. Questions of peace
and war, of imposing or taking off taxes, of concluding treaties, of
domestic laws, of appointing generals and ambassadors, of providing
for the public subsistence, of determining private suits, of criminal
punishments, of life and death, were all submitted to those assemblies,
debated in their presence, and decided by their suffrages. Political
power, personal fame, the direction of the state, the command of its
armaments, the decision of its dearest public and private interests,
were all to be attained by obtaining a sway in these public assemblies,
and could seldom be obtained in any other way. Hence it was that, as
has been finely observed, in modern times, the soldier is brave, and
the lawyer is eloquent; but in ancient, the soldier was eloquent, and
the lawyer was brave. Power of any sort could be attained only by
acquiring an ascendency in the popular assemblies; whoever acquired
that ascendency was liable to be immediately called to command the
fleets or armies of the republic. Whatever opinions may be formed of
the tendency of such a system of government, to insure either the wise
direction of its civil interests or the successful protection of its
military enterprises, there can be but one as to its effect in insuring
the highest attention to oratory, by which alone the command of either
could be obtained.

But, in addition to this, the two great instruments of power which, in
modern times, so often outweigh the influence of spoken oratory, were
awanting. The _press_ was unknown in antiquity; there was no public
religious instruction: there were neither daily newspapers to discuss
passing events, nor a stock of printed works to form the principles
of the people, or mould their judgments, nor an Established Church,
to give them early and creditable impressions. Education, derived
entirely from oral instruction or costly manuscripts, was so extremely
expensive that it was beyond the reach of all but the most wealthy
classes. Three-fourths of the persons who had votes in any public
assembly had their principles formed, their information acquired, their
taste refined, in the theatres and the forum. The temples were open
for sacrifice or ceremonies only; not for instruction in religious
principle or moral duty. Immense was the addition which this entire
want alike of a public press, and a system of religious instruction,
had upon the importance of popular oratory. The tragedian and the
orator had the entire moulding of the public mind in their hand, alike
in fixed principle, previous prepossessions, and instant decision.
No daily, or monthly, or quarterly paper existed to form the subject
of study at home; no standard works were in every one's hands, to
give principles right or wrong, from which they were very unlikely
to swerve:--no religious tuition, to the influence of which, in any
momentous crisis, appeal might be made. The eloquence of the forum, the
transports of the theatre, were all in all.

It resulted, from this extraordinary and most perilous power of oratory
in ancient times, that the attention bestowed throughout life, but
especially in youth, on training to excellence in it, was unbounded.
In truth, education with them was so much directed to the study and
the practice of oratory, that it formed in most of their academies the
main object of instruction. Other topics--philosophy, poetry, science,
mathematics, history--were not neglected, but they were considered
chiefly as _subordinate to oratory_--rather, they were the preparatory
studies, from which a perfect orator was to be formed. Cicero says
expressly, that there is no subject of human knowledge of which the
orator may not avail himself, in his public address, and which may not
serve to enlighten his narrative, strengthen his argument, or adorn
his expression.[23] This shows how lofty was the idea which he had
formed of this noble art, and the aids which he was fain to obtain for
it, from all, even the most dissimilar, branches of human knowledge.
The greatest orators and philosophers of antiquity devoted themselves
to instruction in its principles, and consideration of the manner of
cultivating it with the highest success. Demosthenes taught, as every
schoolboy knows, for a talent: a sum above £200, and equal to at least
£500 in modern times. Cicero has left several beautiful treatises on
oratory; Isocrates owes his fame mainly to his writings on the same
subject; Quintilian has bequeathed to us a most elaborate work on its
principles, and the mode of its instruction; the treatise of Aristotle
on oratory is not the least celebrated of his immortal works. So vast
was the number, and so great was the influence of the schools of
rhetoric, that they came, in the later days of antiquity, to supersede
almost every other subject of study; they attracted the ingenious
youth from every part of the world to the groves of the Academy, and
singly supported the prosperity and fame of Greece, for centuries after
they had sunk under the withering grasp or declining fortunes of the
Byzantine empire.

It is evident from these considerations, as well as the intrinsic
beauties which the great masters of the art exhibit, that oratory in
ancient times was regarded as one of the _Fine Arts_. It was considered
not merely as the means of winning the favour, of convincing the
judgment, or securing the suffrages of the judges, but of moving the
affections, rousing the feelings, and elevating the mind. Quintilian
mentions the various definitions of the art of oratory which had been
invented by the rhetorical writers of antiquity, and he inclines to
that of Cicero, who held that it was the art of speaking "_apte ad
persuadendum_." This was its end, its aim; and undoubtedly it was so:
but the _modes of persuasion_--the methods of influencing the judgment
or moving the affections--were as various as the channels by which the
intellect may be determined, the feelings roused, or the heart touched.
Not less than poetry, painting, or statuary, they classed oratory
among the fine arts; and, indeed, they placed it at the head of them
all, because it embraced all their influences, and retouched, as it
were, by allusion, all the chords which they had previously caused to
vibrate. The surprising force with which they did this, considering the
comparatively limited stock of ideas, knowledge, and imagery which was
at their disposal, compared to what obtains in modern times, affords
the most decisive proof of the great attention they had bestowed on the
principles of the art, and the perfection to which they had brought
the means of influencing the mind--not only by the force of reason, or
the conceptions of genius, but by all the subordinate methods by which
their effect in delivery was to be augmented. With them the object of
oratory was not merely to persuade the understanding, but

    "To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
    To move the passions, and to melt the heart."

Nor was less attention bestowed, in ancient times, upon training young
men, to whatever profession they were destined, in that important and
difficult branch of oratory which consists in intonation and delivery.
It is well known that this is a branch of the art which is susceptible
of the very greatest improvement by education and practice, and that
even the brightest natural genius can rarely attain it, without the aid
of instruction or the lessons of experience. The surprising improvement
which is so often observed in persons trained to different professions
or habits, when they have been for some time engaged in public
speaking--above all, in emphasis and action--affords daily proof of the
vast effects of practice and experience in brightening the delivery of
thought. The prodigious influence of accent and intonation in adding
to the power of eloquence is equally well known, and may often be
perceived in listening to the difference between the same verses when
recited by an ordinary reader, and what they appear when illuminated
by the genius, or enforced by the feeling, of a Kemble or a Faucit.
The ancients, accordingly, were indefatigable in their endeavours
to improve themselves in this particular, and availed themselves of
means to attain perfection in it to which modern genius would scarcely
condescend. Cicero, when advanced in life, and in the meridian of
his fame, took lessons from Roscius, the great tragic actor of the
day; and the efforts of Demosthenes to overcome the impediments of a
defective elocution, by putting pebbles in his mouth, and declaiming
on the shores of the ocean, the roar of which resembled the murmurs
of the forum, demonstrate that the greatest masters of the art of
eloquence were fully alive to the vast influence of a powerful voice
and animated delivery, in heightening the effect even of the most
perfect efforts of oratory, and disdained no means of adding to their
impression. When asked, What is the first requisite of eloquence? the
last of these orators answered "Action;" the second? "Action;" the
third? "Action." Without going so great a length, and admitting the
full influence of the genius of Demosthenes in composing the speeches
which he so powerfully delivered, every one must admit the influence of
an impassioned delivery in heightening the effect of the highest, and
concealing the defects of the most ordinary oratory.

Quintilian opens his second book by a discussion of the question, which
he says occupied a prominent place in the schools of antiquity, at what
age a boy should be taken from the teachers of grammar, and delivered
to the instructors in rhetoric. By the former, they were taught grammar
and the elements of composition; by the latter, exercised in themes,
compositions in their own language, translations from Greek, extempore
debate, and instructed in declamation, intonation, and action. They
were not sent out into the world till they had spent several years in
the latter preparatory studies and exercises; and in them were trained
young men of all sorts, whether intended for the civil or military
classes. It was this which gave its statesmen and generals so wonderful
a command of the means of moving the human heart, and enabled them,
in the most trying situations, and often in the crisis of a battle or
the heat of a tumult, to utter those noble and impassioned sentiments
which so often determined the fate of the day, or even the fortunes
of their country; and which are so perfect that, when recorded in
the historians of antiquity, they have the appearance of having been
imagined by the genius of the writer. Nor was the attention to these
elements of eloquence sensibly diminished in the progress of time, when
the establishment of absolute power in the hands of a single person had
transferred, as in the days of Napoleon, the discussion of all public
or national questions to the council of state, or the private closet
of the emperor. On the contrary, it seems to have daily increased, and
was never so great as when the military fortunes of the empire were
declining, and its external influence yielding to the increasing weight
of the northern nations. A false and turgid style of eloquence, indeed,
became then generally prevalent, as it always does in the later days
of a nation, and in periods of political servitude: but attention to
the means of attaining it underwent no diminution. The wisdom or policy
of the emperors left various important functions to their _municipia_,
or "little senates," as they were called. The judicial functions,
for the most part, were still intrusted to the citizens: they had
the management, almost uncontrolled, of their local concerns: and so
great was the importance of securing their suffrages that the power of
influencing them, by means of oratory, continued to the very last to be
the chief object of instruction to the youth.

The instructors of youth in England have practically solved the
question which divided the teachers of antiquity, for they deliver
the youth at once from the grammar-school to the forum. They teach
him the dead languages incessantly, up to the age of eighteen, at
school: in the universities, mathematics in one university, and logic
in the other, divide his time with the composition of Greek prose or
Latin verse. But in those branches of study which have a bearing on
eloquence, or are likely to improve the style of composition, the
main attention of all is still directed to composition in the _dead
languages_. They think the art of speaking or writing in English is
not to be learned by exercise in that language, but by exercise in
another. They hold we are likely to become eloquent in this our English
isle, not by translating Cicero into English, but by translating
Addison into Latin; to become great poets, not by rendering Horace
into the tongue of Gray and Campbell, but by rendering the immortal
verses of these into the languages of Pindar or Virgil. Cicero and Mr
Pitt were of an opposite opinion. They held that, although the study
of the masterpieces of antiquity is the great school of oratory, and
the best path to rivalling their beauties, yet this is to be done, not
by prosecuting the vain endeavour to emulate, in these days, their
perfection in _their tongue_, but by seeking to _transfer it to our
own_. Translations from the Greek into Latin formed a large part of
the preparatory studies of Cicero,--from Thucydides and Cicero were
the favourite occupation at college of Mr Pitt.[24] It may be that
these great masters of ancient and modern eloquence were wrong--that
their time would have been better employed in composing Greek and
Latin verses, in attaining a thorough knowledge of Greek and Latin
prosody, or becoming masters of all the niceties of Greek or Latin
prose composition; but we shall not enter on the great debate. We are
content to let education for all classes, in our universities, remain
what Mr Locke long ago said it was, the education of schoolmasters;[25]
and shall content ourselves with signalising this peculiar system of
training as one great cause of the admitted inferiority of modern to
ancient eloquence.

None can be more thoroughly impressed than we are with the vast
importance of these noble establishments, or their effect in elevating
the tone of the national mind, and improving the taste of the youth
who daily issue from their walls. It is just from a sense of these
advantages that we are so desirous to enhance and extend the sphere of
their usefulness, and, by keeping them abreast of the age, and prepared
to meet its wants, secure for the classes they instruct the lead in the
national affairs to which they are entitled.

It cannot be disputed that, although English composition, or
translation from the classics into English, is not altogether
overlooked in the English universities, yet it forms a subordinate
object of attention. We are all aware how many eminent men have first
become celebrated by their prize poems. But those are the exceptions,
not the rule. The classics at one university, the higher mathematics at
another, form the great passports to distinction; the highest honours
at either are only to be won by attention to one or other, or both, of
these branches of knowledge. It is not surprising that, when this is
the case, the attention of the young men should be mainly turned to
composition in the dead languages, or to the most abstruse parts of
mathematics; and that when they come to speak in public, or deliver
sermons in their own language, they should, in the great majority of
cases, be entire novices, both as concerns the method of composition
and the graces of oratory. They are, in truth, called upon for the
first time to speak what is to them a _foreign_ language; to discuss
topics, to them, for the most part unknown; and practise a difficult
art, that of delivery, to which they are entire strangers. If they
were to address their audiences in Greek, they might possibly rival
Æschines or Demosthenes; if in Latin, outstrip Cicero; and if required
to compose verses, equal Horace or Pindar. But since they are called
on, when they go out into life, to speak neither in Greek prose nor
Latin prose, to compose neither in Greek verse nor Latin verse, but
to _speak in good English_, and not about gods and goddesses, but the
prices of corn and beef, the evils of pauperism and the load of taxes,
they too often find themselves entirely at a loss, and inwardly lament
the precious years, never to be recalled, which have been devoted to
pursuits of no practical utility in life.

It is the more extraordinary that so little attention should be paid at
our universities to composition, or the art of oratory, in the English
tongue, that every day's experience proves that the power of public
speaking is not only absolutely essential to the most moderate success
in many professions, but is indispensable to the highest grades _in
all_. In the Houses of Lords and Commons, at the Bar, in the Church, it
is of course necessary from the very outset, if the very least eminence
is to be looked for. But not only in the professions of which oratory
is the very foundation, but in every case of life where a certain
degree of eminence has been attained, it becomes of equal importance,
and the want of it will be equally felt. The landed proprietor will
find it impossible to maintain his influence in his county, unless,
on the hustings and in political meetings, on the bench of justices,
at county and railway meetings, he is prepared to take his part in
debate, and can come off with a creditable appearance. The merchant or
manufacturer who has become a _millionnaire_ by a life of laborious
industry, will find that he cannot keep his place in society unless he
call deliver his sentiments with effect at civic dinners, meetings for
business, in the magisterial chair, or at the festive board. Even the
soldier and sailor, when they rise to eminence in their profession,
are called on to speak in public, and grievously suffer if they cannot
do so. Many a gallant spirit, which never quailed before an enemy, has
been crushed, and his reputation injured, by inability to speak in a
public assembly, or to answer appropriately a complimentary speech at a
public dinner. Indeed, the influence of public speaking in the country
is not only great, but daily increasing, and it confers influence and
distinction often far beyond the real merits of the speaker, and, for
its want, the most solid or brilliant parts in other respects can make
no compensation. The great body of men invariably impute inability
to speak well in public to want of ideas; whereas, in reality, it
generally arises from want of practice, and often coexists with the
greatest acquirements and the most brilliant genius. Strange that the
art of English oratory, upon which the experience of all tells them
success in the higher stations of life is entirely dependent, should,
by common consent, be invariably neglected, and that the art of making
Latin verses, which universal experience tells all is of no earthly use
in life, except to one in a thousand, should, by common consent, be
universally cultivated!

It is constantly said, that the object of the extraordinary attention
paid in our schools and colleges to composition in the dead languages,
is to enable the students properly to appreciate the beauties of their
authors, and that, without an exact knowledge of prosody and writing
in them, this appreciation cannot be attained. This is doubtless in
some degree true: but the point is, at what cost is this proficiency
attained, and to what proportion of the students is it of any practical
benefit? Is there one in ten to whom the beauty of poetry will ever be
intelligible, one in a hundred who will ever be a poet? If we were to
live to the age of Methusalem, it might be worth while to set apart
ten years for classical composition, ten more for Italian, and ten for
German; but since our life is limited to threescore and ten years, and
a seventh of that only can be devoted to education, is it expedient to
devote the _whole_ of that time to that one object? If ten years are
devoted to the mastering of Greek composition and Latin prosody, _what
time is left_ for learning to speak or write in English? What should
we say if ten years were devoted by every English young man to the
composition of German or Italian verses, because it would better enable
him to appreciate the beauties of Schiller or Metastasio, of Korner or
Petrarch? Yet is composition in these living languages more practically
useful, both for the business of life and for improvement in our own
tongue, than in the dead, because it is often of advantage in society,
and their tongues are at bottom derived from the same roots, and are
similar in construction to our own.

It is the more to be regretted that, in our Universities, translations
from English into Greek or Latin should be made so great an object,
instead of translations from Greek or Latin into English, because the
latter study is perhaps the most beneficial, both to spread a taste for
ancient beauties, and to diffuse the means of rivalling them in our own
tongue, which the wit of man has ever devised. There is nothing which
improves the style like translation from the masterpieces of foreign
languages. It is far more beneficial than copying or committing to
memory the most perfect specimens of composition in our own tongue,
because it both brings us in contact with the most exquisite specimens
of human genius, and exercises the mind in the endeavour to transfer
them to our own idiom. It varies the thought, it extends the ideas, it
suggests new methods of expression. It is the foreign travelling of the
soul. It renders foreign or ancient languages tributary to our own;
it fills the mind with remote ideas; it not only "elevates us in the
scale of thinking beings," but increases our power of communicating
our thoughts to the world. What boundless treasures have Milton and
Collins, Taylor and Gray, imported into our language from the classical
writers: how much was the nerve and form of their expression enhanced
by their study of antiquity! Of what value are all their Latin
compositions compared to those which, so enriched, they have left in
their own tongue?

The next circumstance which has contributed to stamp its peculiar
style, and hitherto unequalled perfection, on ancient oratory, is the
circumstance that it was all, or nearly all, WRITTEN and committed to
memory. This at least was _certainly_ the case with all the orations
which have come down to our times; for, if not written, how have they
been preserved? There were no short-hand writers in those days. The
art of stenography was unknown. No reporters from the _Times_ were in
attendance, to catch, with almost magical rapidity, every word which
fell from the speaker's lips, and render it with exact fidelity in its
ample columns the following morning. What was written came, and could
only come, from the author himself. It is well known that several of
the most celebrated speeches of Cicero never were delivered at all: the
frequent repetition of the same ideas, in the same identical words, in
the orations of Demosthenes, affords conclusive evidence that they were
not merely carefully prepared, but actually written out. Indeed, to any
one who considers the style of the speeches, not only of these great
masters, but of all the orators of antiquity, it must be sufficiently
evident that nearly all that has come down to us had been written. Some
part, without doubt, was caught from the inspiration of the moment: a
happy retort was sometimes the result of an interruption, a felicitous
reply of an antagonist's attack. But these were the exceptions, not
the rule. These extempore bursts were interwoven with the framework of
the piece, and committed to paper next day, when the author corrected
his speech for permanent preservation. In the dexterous interweaving
consisted no small part of the skill of the orator. But the greater
part of every speech was, beyond all doubt, written and committed to
memory. The style everywhere proves this. It is as impossible for any
man, how bright soever his genius or copious his language, to speak
extempore in the condensed and emphatic style of the ancient orators,
as it would be to compose, as an Improvisatore, the verses of Pope or
Campbell.

This circumstance sounds strange in those times, and especially to an
Englishman, because it is well known that the grand requisite, the
one thing needful to a modern orator, is to speak extempore. Power
in reply is considered as the highest quality; and it is to it, _par
excellence_, that the much coveted phrase "effective" is applied. We
all know what would be the fate of a speaker in the House of Commons
who should commit his speeches to memory, and take lessons from
Macready or Kean in their delivery. Beyond all doubt, derision would
take the place of admiration; the laughs would be much more frequent
than the cheers. Yet this is precisely what Cicero and Demosthenes did;
it was thus that Pericles ruled the Athenian Democracy, and Æschines
all but overturned the giant strength of his immortal adversary. We
are not to imagine that these men, whose works have stood the test
of twenty centuries, were wrong in their system; it is not to be
supposed that every subsequent nation of the earth has misdirected its
admiration. It is more probable that some circumstances have occurred
to turn oratory, in modern times, aside from its highest flights, and
induced a style in public speaking which has now become habitual,
and will alone be tolerated, but which is inconsistent with the most
perfect style of oratory. Nor is it difficult, if we consider the
composition of modern senates, and the objects for which they are
assembled, to see what these circumstances are.

As freedom and popular institutions are indispensable to eloquence,
it is in England and France, since the Revolution, that oratory of
a high description can alone be looked for. But the Anglo-Saxons
are essentially a _practical_ race; and the stamp in this respect
which nature has affixed to their character, appears, in every age,
not less in their deeds than their accomplishments. Imagination has
shone forth most brilliantly in many individuals of the race--but,
generally speaking, we are not an imaginative people. The Fine Arts
have never struck their roots in the open air amongst us; they are
the delicate plants of southern realms, which require the shelter and
warmth of our conservatories. It is in the highly educated classes
alone that a taste for them is general. The romantic, not the classical
drama, alone has ever been popular with the mass of our people; the
attractions and fashion of the opera are required to make even the
beauties of Metastasio tolerable to the very highest ranks. In matters
of business, the same disposition is apparent. What is required, what
commands success, is neither the flowers of oratory nor brilliancy of
imagination nor elegance of diction, but argument to the point. It is
thus that the suffrages of jurymen are to be obtained; it is thus that
a majority in the House of Commons is to be secured. As the assemblies
to whom modern oratory is addressed are much less numerous than those
of antiquity--as they are representatives, not citizens; juries, not
Areopagites--a different style of speaking has become established from
that which was universally felt to be essential in the assemblies of
antiquity. When the crowds of a theatre were no longer to be addressed,
the theatrical style of oratory fell into disuse.

As argument to the point, accurate acquaintance with the subject,
and the power of communicating something of value to the interests
with which senates in modern times are intrusted, are the great
requisites which are now looked for, set and prepared speeches have
been abandoned. It was soon discovered that they would seldom meet
the exigencies of a debate, and still less furnish the materials of
a reply. They were felt to be of little value, because they did not
meet what the audience wished. They were as much out of place as a
set speech would be to a jury, after evidence had been led in a case.
It will always be so in situations where real business is to be done,
and the persons by whom it is to be done are not numerous assemblies,
little acquainted with the subjects of discussion--and therefore liable
to be swayed by the eloquence of the orator--but a limited number of
persons, most of whom are somewhat acquainted with it, and desire to
have their information extended, rather than their feelings touched.
It has accordingly been often observed, that the style of speaking in
the House of Commons has sensibly declined in beauty, though it has
increased in knowledge of the subject, since the Reform Bill introduced
the representatives of the commercial towns, and business men have
found a place in such numbers in the House of Commons. It may be
anticipated that, as their numbers and influence increase, the same
change will become still more conspicuous.

But although these considerations sufficiently explain how it has
happened that the style of speaking, in our national assemblies,
has become more business-like and less ornate than in the republics
of antiquity, and extempore speaking has grown into a universal
practice with all public men who aspire to the honours of "effective"
oratory--or such as would acquire a practical sway in the assemblies
to which it is addressed--it by no means follows from this, that
this system is not a deviation from the method by which alone a
perfect style of eloquence is to be attained, or a step in descent
in that noble art. Because a thing is useful and necessary, or even
unavoidable, with a view to attain certain ends, it is not to be
concluded, that it is by attending exclusively to it that the highest
and most perfect style in it is to be attained. The simple style of
singing best suits private performers, and often appears in the highest
degree charming, when flowing from the lips of taste and beauty; but no
one would compare art, in these its early stages, to what it appears
in the hands of Grisi or Mademoiselle Lind. The style of speaking
adopted by our leaders at the Chancery bar, or on the North Circuit, is
probably the best that could be devised to attain the object to which
the gentlemen of the long robe aspire--that of influencing the judges
or juries of those courts; but every one must see that that object is a
much inferior one to that which was aimed at by Cicero, Demosthenes, or
Bossuet. Their business is with oratory as an art; but, in addition to
this, eloquence is a fine art. Great eminence in the latter department
can never be attained but by sedulous preparation, and the committing
to memory of written compositions; and unless this is done, the fame of
no orator, how much soever he may be celebrated during his career, can
possibly be durable, or exceed the lifetime of the contemporaries to
whom his extempore effusions were addressed.

Nothing is more common than to hear it said, after a powerful speech in
the House of Lords or Commons has been delivered, that it rivalled the
most finished pieces of ancient eloquence; nay, it is sometimes added
that it was "above all Greek, above all Roman fame." In no instance,
however, has it been found that this reputation has been lasting, or
even long survived the actual appearance of the orator before the
Houses of Parliament. The ample columns of Hansard's _Parliamentary
Debates_ are often searched to discover inconsistencies in the
delivered opinions of public men; sometimes to bring to light facts
on statistics which subsequent time has caused to be forgotten; but
rarely, if ever, to cull out specimens of elevated thought, condensed
argument, or felicitous expression. None of these speeches will take
their place beside those of Cicero and Demosthenes, or the _Oraisons
Funèbres_ of Bossuet, all of which were written compositions. When the
historian comes to record the arguments used on the opposite sides, on
great public questions, he cannot refer to a more valuable and faithful
record than the Parliamentary Debates; for they tell at once what was
advanced in the legislature, and said in the nation, on every subject
that came under discussion: but he cannot turn to one which it will be
less safe to transfer unaltered to his pages. If he means to render
the arguments interesting, or even intelligible, to the great body of
readers, he must distil them into a twentieth part of their original
bulk: he must dismiss all the repetitions and circumlocutions; he must
say in words what he finds delivered in sentences; he must abridge a
hundred pages into four or five; he must, in short, do _ex post facto_,
and to convey an impression of the argument to future times, what the
ancient orators did _ab ante_, and in order to secure the suffrages
of the present. It is surprising, when this is carefully done, how
effectually a lengthened argument can be condensed into a few pages;
and how powerful the bone and muscle appears when delivered from the
oppression of the superincumbent flesh.

It is not to be wondered at that it should be so. The reason for it
is permanent, and will remain the same to the end of the world. In
the heat and animation of a debate, a happy idea may occasionally be
struck out, a felicitous retort may be suggested by an interruption.
The Parliamentary speeches contain many instances of such ready talent;
and it need hardly be said that the effect of it, at the moment of
delivery, is in general prodigious. But it is altogether impossible
to keep up a speech extempore in that style. Preparation and previous
study are the parents of brief and emphatic expression: without their
meeting, the offspring need not be looked for. The reason is, that it
is while one thought is in the course of delivery that the mind is
arranging those which are to succeed it. The conception of a ready
extempore speaker must always be two or three sentences ahead of his
elocution. Thence the necessity for circumlocution and repetition. It
is to _gain time_ for thought--to mould future ideas. If it were not
so, he would come to a dead stop, and break down at the end of the
first sentence. The faculty of doing this--of speaking of one thing
and thinking of another; of composing words in one sentence, and
arranging ideas for another, without pause or hesitation--and doing
this often in the midst of applause or interruption, is one of the most
wonderful efforts of the human mind; and it is its extreme difficulty
which renders elegant extempore speaking so very rare, and makes it,
when it does appear, the object of such general admiration. But we
are persuaded that the greatest master of extempore speaking will
admit, that it is wholly impossible to keep up eloquent and condensed
expression, for any length of time, without previous preparation.
Whenever you hear an orator bringing out condensed and elegant
expression for any length of time together, it may be concluded, with
absolute certainty, that he is speaking from preparation.

Nor is such preparation inconsistent with occasional allusion to
previous argument or retort against interruption; on the contrary, it
is by such extempore effusions or sallies, interwoven in the text of a
prepared oration, that the highest perfection in the art of oratory is
to be attained. If it is wholly prepared, it will appear lifeless and
methodical--it will wear the aspect of a spoken essay. If it is wholly
extempore, it will be diffuse and cumbrous--crowded with repetitions,
and destitute of emphasis. It is by the combination of general
careful composition with occasional felicitous reply that the highest
perfection in this noble art is to be attained; for the first will give
it general power, the last the appearance of extempore conception. By
no other method is it possible to combine the two grand requisites of
the highest species of oratory--emphatic and condensed language--with
those occasional allusions and sudden replies which add so much to its
immediate effect, and give it all the air of being produced at the
moment. It is true, this is a dangerous style to adopt, and many are
the speakers who have broken down under it; for nothing is so apt to
induce confusion in the mind, and forgetfulness of what should follow,
as new introductions into a prepared composition. But where is there
anything great or magnificent achieved in life without difficulty and
danger? and the examples of the ancient orators, by whom both were
overcome, is sufficient to demonstrate that it is not beyond the reach
of genius and perseverance.

Still less is it to be supposed that such a style of speaking is
inconsistent with the most vehement and powerful action, and all the
aids which oratory can derive from intonation, gesture, and animation
in delivery. On the contrary, it is in delivering such speeches that
these may be brought to bear with the happiest effect,--as we daily
see on the stage, where known speeches, every word of which is got by
heart by the actor, and often is familiar to the audience, are every
day repeated with the utmost possible effect, and the most impassioned
action. It is the want of such animation in delivery which is the
great cause of the failure of many able speakers, and nowhere more
than in the pulpit. The common opinion that discourses there must be
delivered in a cold inanimate manner, suitable to the gravity of the
subject and the solemnity of the place, is an entire mistake, and has
contributed, perhaps, more than any other cause, to the vast numbers
whom the Dissenters have succeeded, both in England and Scotland, in
enticing away from the Established Church. It is this animation which
generally follows the delivery of thought extempore, compared with
the cold monotonous style in which written discourses are usually
delivered,--which is one great cause of the signal success which has
attended the efforts of the Methodists and Low Churchmen in England,
and the Free Church clergy in Scotland. The common opinion among the
peasants of Scotland, that the inspiration of Heaven only descends
upon extempore speakers, arises from the same cause. They think the
extempore preacher is inspired because he is animated; they are sure he
who reads his discourse is not so, because he is monotonous. But many
examples prove that it is quite possible to combine the most finished
and elaborate written composition with such intensity of feeling, and
vehemence of action, as will give it the appearance of extempore and
uncontrollable bursts of eloquence. The great effect of Dr Chalmers's
sermons in Scotland, and Mr Irving's in England, were not required to
show that it is by this combination that the highest triumphs in pulpit
oratory are to be attained.

Contrast this with the tame and monotonous way in which too many
learned and unexceptionable sermons were delivered in the days of
Addison, and which, it is to be feared, has not become obsolete since
his time:--

     "Our preachers stand stock-still in the pulpit, and will not so
     much as move a finger to set off the best sermons in the world.
     We meet with the same speaking statues at our bars, and in all
     our public places of debate. Our words flow from us in a smooth
     continued stream, without those strainings of the voice, motions
     of the body, and majesty of the head, which are so much celebrated
     in the orators of Greece and Rome. We can talk of life and death
     in cold blood, and keep our temper in a discourse which turns
     upon everything that is dear to us. Though our zeal breaks out
     in the finest tropes and figures, it is not able to stir a limb
     about us. It was just the reverse in antiquity. We are told that
     the great Latin orator very much impaired his health by this
     _laterum contentio_, this vehemence of action, with which he used
     to deliver himself. The Greek orator was likewise so very famous
     for this particular in rhetoric that one of his antagonists, whom
     he had banished from Athens, reading over the oration which had
     procured his banishment, and hearing his friends admire it, could
     not forbear asking them, if they were so much affected by the bare
     reading of it, how much more they would have been charmed had
     they heard him actually throwing out such a storm of eloquence.
     How cold and dead a figure, in comparison of these two great men,
     does our orator often make at the British bar or in the senate! A
     deaf man would think he was cheapening a beaver, when, perhaps, he
     is talking of the fate of the British nation. It is certain that
     proper gestures, and vehement exertions of the voice, cannot be
     too much studied by a public orator. They keep the audience awake,
     and fix their attention on what is delivered to them, at the same
     time that they show that the speaker is in earnest, and affected
     himself with what he so passionately recommends to others. In
     England, we often see people lulled asleep with cold and elaborate
     discourses of piety, who would be transported out of themselves by
     the bellowings of enthusiasm."[26]

It is no answer to our observations to say, that our greatest orators
have been bred at the universities, and that the system cannot be very
faulty which has produced Pitt and Fox, Chatham and Burke, Peel and
Stanley. Supposing that all these orators had devoted themselves, at
college, to classical verses, instead of compositions in their own
tongue--which was by no means the case--still, that would by no means
prove that the system of education in which they were bred was not
eminently defective. They became great speakers, not from having been
proficients in "longs and shorts" at Oxford, or in the differential
calculus at Cambridge, but in spite of these acquirements. They learned
the art of speaking in the forum, as Wellington's soldiers learned
the art of war in the field, by practice, in presence of the enemy.
Doubtless a great deal may be done, by able and energetic men, in this
way; but does it follow from this that education is to go for nothing,
and that the old system of sending out officers to begin a campaign and
besiege towns without knowing a ravelin from a bastion, was advisable,
or likely to insure success in the military art? If you have two or
three thousand young men, comprising the élite of the nation, at
certain seminaries, _you cannot help finding your leading statesmen
and orators there_, whatever they learn at them. They would be found
there, though they were taught at them nothing but riding, music, and
dancing. The whole rulers of Persia were found at its schools, though
they learned nothing at them but to ride, to shoot with the bow, and
speak the truth. But it would be rather dangerous to hold that this
proves that seminaries, where nothing else was taught, were the ones
best suited to secure the first place in society for their scholars, or
the blessings of good government to the state.

Nor let it be said that there is no room, as society is now
constituted, for the triumphs of the higher species of eloquence;
that it cannot be attempted at the bar, and would be hooted down in
the House of Commons, where business men now form a large majority,
and business speeches, not the flowers of rhetoric, will alone be
listened to. There is much truth in these observations, although it
will probably be found that, even in courts of justice and in the
Reformed House of Commons, a study of the condensed and cogent style of
ancient eloquence is not the worst passport to success, and is almost
indispensable to the highest triumphs. But supposing the bar and the
senate set aside, as places in which business will alone be tolerated,
are these the _only_ places in which oratory may be practised, in
which opinion may be moulded, and influence by eloquence obtained? Are
there no public meetings held amongst us for the purposes of political
change, social improvement, religious extension, moral amelioration,
charity, or festivity, in which large numbers of the people, and
often of all ranks and both sexes, are brought together, in which
there is ample room for the display of all the graces of oratory, and
in which the most eloquent and impassioned speaker is sure to carry
away the palm? Are not these meetings the "primary assemblies," as it
were, in which the ideas are elaborated, or the principles formed,
which afterwards make their way into the press and the Legislature,
and so determine the course of national policy, or the fate of
national fortunes? Every day, with the increasing popularising of our
institutions, is adding to the influence of eloquence, and multiplying
the situations in which its highest style may be poured forth with the
greatest effect. Above all, is not the pulpit to be found in every
parish, where every week an opportunity is afforded for the most
earnest appeals to the consciences of men--where the highest temporal
and eternal interests are constantly the subject of discussion--where
the most earnest appeals to the feelings are not only allowed, but
commendable--and where a mixed and willing audience is always to be
met with, of both sexes, who receive, not only with patience, but with
gratitude and admiration, the most powerful and moving strains of
eloquence which can be addressed to them? Rely upon it, opportunities
for oratory in its very highest style are not awanting. What is
awanting is due attention early in life to that noble art, the lofty
spirit which arises at great objects, and the energetic will, the
resolute perseverance, which deem the labour of a lifetime a light
price to pay for their attainment.



LAING'S OBSERVATIONS ON EUROPE.


It is not the least merit of Mr Laing's writings that they embrace
much matter within a manageable compass. The objects claiming our
attention are multiplying so fast upon us--the path of the inquirer
is strewn with so many important topics, that he who would keep pace
with the march of knowledge, must be content to throw aside all but
what is really useful for the journey. The volume before us, forming
a sequel to the _Notes of a Traveller_ published by Mr Laing in
1842, fulfils this condition, and comprises within the limits of a
moderate octavo a vast variety of subjects, social and political,
domestic and foreign--population, the division of land, emigration,
militia, university education, Continental railroads, taxes, theatres,
fresco-painting, and a multitude of other topics. Among so many
subjects, there are of course some on which we are unable to concur
in the opinions expressed by the author; and some of his views we can
hardly reconcile with the acute good sense that characterises most of
his observations. But even on matters where we are forced to differ
from him, his remarks are always instructive, original, and suggestive;
and he generally presents both sides of a disputed question with
remarkable impartiality, leaving the reader to form the conclusion for
himself.

There is one circumstance which, in our opinion, greatly enhances the
value of Mr Laing's observations on the social condition of our own
and other countries. The very worst of all travellers is a political
economist--that is, a dogmatist in the science. Whether his _Magnus
Apollo_ be Smith, or Say, or Ricardo, he sees all things through the
spectacles of his favourite theories. Any inquiries he makes are
directed, not to elicit the truth, but to support his pre-formed
opinions; and, of course, no one who goes forth on this errand ever
fails of finding what he seeks. And thus it happens that a Cobden
may traverse Europe from end to end; and at the very time when the
thunderclouds of social convulsion were about to burst in the most
awful storm that has ever shaken civilised nations, he not only
discerns no symptom of the impending hurricane, but beholds nothing but
the smiling prospect of contented industry--the budding spring-time of
universal peace and reciprocity. But, on the other hand, the observer
who is either unacquainted with the doctrines of political economy, or
who affects to consider them only as objects of speculative curiosity,
is, in the opposite way, just as unfit as the pedant in the science to
form correct and comprehensive views of the social condition of foreign
states. He wants the proper rule to direct his observations, and can
hardly attain any but confused and superficial ideas of the meaning of
what he sees around him. He alone is qualified to observe wisely, and
to write instructively, about the institutions and customs of other
nations, who, having worked out for himself the leading principles of
the science, and ascertained their true limits, possesses at the same
time sufficient common sense and independence of judgment to apply
them. Mr Laing seems to us to be gifted in an eminent degree with these
requisites for making good practical use of his theoretical knowledge
of political economy. He appears to be fully aware of the vast amount
of dangerous error that has resulted from a blind and indiscriminate
application of the same abstract laws to all cases, without fully
ascertaining their true character, or making allowance for those
disturbing causes which often render the law wholly irrelevant.
Political economy, like other sciences, has its two parts--the theory
and the application; and it too often happens that a man who is well
read in the first is totally incapable of giving an opinion on the
second, and infinitely the more difficult branch. The platform orator
or newspaper writer thinks that if he can but refer to an abstract
formula borrowed from Ricardo or M'Culloch, it is sufficient to
settle any question of social interests that may come before him--not
considering that these formula and maxims _are_ abstract: and that
their applicability to the affairs of everyday life may be affected by
so many causes that it is scarcely possible to find any actual example
to which they can be applied rigorously, and to their full extent.
And hence the nonsense that is talked and written, under the name of
political economy; hence the absurdities that are enacted under the
idea, that nations can be governed by the square and plummet of its
rules.

     "The truth has been missed," says Mr Jones, in the preface to his
     work on the Distribution of Wealth, "not because a steady and
     comprehensive study of the story and condition of mankind would
     not yield truth, but because those who have been most prominent in
     circulating error have really turned aside from the task of going
     through such an examination at all; have confined the observations
     on which they have founded their reasonings to the small portion
     of the earth's surface by which they were immediately surrounded;
     and have then proceeded at once to erect a superstructure of
     doctrines and opinions, either wholly false, or, if partially
     true, as limited in their application as the field from which the
     materials for them were collected."

Mr Laing supplies us[27] with an apt illustration of the fallacious use
that is very commonly made of general laws, by neglecting to attend
to the special circumstances of each case. It has been laid down as a
maxim by economists, that a government should not attempt to direct,
restrict, or interfere with the employment of capital and industry;
but that every man should be left free to use the portion of them he
possesses, how, where, and when he pleases. Now this maxim may be true
enough in the abstract, and where there are no conditions to limit its
application; but it is not equally true in all political states, nor
in the same state at different times. The social condition of Great
Britain, at the present day, may admit its application more fully than
that of most other nations. But we have only to cross the German Ocean
to find a circumstance easily overlooked--namely, that of climate,
which upsets its relevancy altogether.

A still more striking exemplification of the same fallacy presents
itself too obviously, in the opening of the corn trade in our own
country. "There should be no artificial restrictions on the food of
the people"--that is the abstract axiom on which our legislators
grounded the abolition of all customs on imported grain. Does any
one question the truth of it as a general axiom? Certainly not: and
if we were setting out on a new social system--if the field on which
we had to work was a _tabula rasa_, and we were free in all other
respects, as well as this, to devise a scheme of government for a
nascent community--that maxim would no doubt be kept in view in the
construction of our code. But we have to legislate for a state of
society in which everything else is artificial--in which restrictions
meet us wherever we turn. Our task is not to rear a new edifice, in
the plan of which we could give free scope to our taste and skill; but
to repair, and if possible improve, an ancient fabric, the work of
many different ages, and abounding in all manner of quaint angles and
irregularities. We have to deal with the case of a country burdened
with an enormous weight of general and local taxation, arbitrarily and
unequally distributed,--where the employment of the people, and the
application of their capital and industry, is founded on the faith of
old laws and a settled commercial principle,--above all, a country
where the business of exchange has to be conducted through the most
anomalous medium--the medium of a _fettered currency_. One and all of
these peculiarities in our condition are so many limitations of the
general maxim; and the attempt to carry it out in its full extent,
in defiance of these limitations, can only end in confusion and
disappointment. Political economy is a safe guide in the hands of a
practical legislator, only when he has fully apprehended the truth that
there is not one of its principles, from beginning to end, that may
not be limited by the special condition of each individual state; and
unless he can carry with him this master-principle, so necessary to a
right use of the theory of the science, it is far better and safer for
those whose interests he directs that he should be wholly ignorant of
it, and should trust altogether to common-sense and experience.

There is a very manifest disposition at present, to extend the
jurisdiction of political economy to all public questions--to take
it for granted that, when a case has once been argued and decided
according to its laws, there is no more to be said on the subject.
We are apt to forget that there is in all cases an appeal to another
court, where the inquiry is not as to what is most favourable to the
production of exchangeable Wealth, but what most conduces to the
Happiness of the people; and that, still beyond, there is the last
supreme tribunal on earth of all human actions, where there is but
one law--the universal law of Morality. Are these three jurisdictions
identical? Or are the decrees that issue from them necessarily in
harmony with each other? So, at least, we are told by those who take
the strongest view of the importance of political economy. Their
doctrine is, that whatever promotes one of these objects promotes the
others; and that wealth, happiness, and virtue, though distinguishable
in thought, are mutually and reciprocally united in the history and
experience of nations. To buy cheap and sell dear is the way for a
man to get rich; but the riches of individuals in the aggregate form
national wealth, national wealth produces civilisation, civilisation
promotes happiness and contentment, and happiness and contentment
promote virtue--such is the sorites on which is founded the creed
of a very large section of the present school of economists. That
country in which the means of production are most developed is the soil
where the higher qualities of man's nature will be found flourishing
in greatest perfection. Wealth, then, is the principal thing in the
guidance of private conduct, as well as in the government of nations;
and with all our getting, the chief concern is to get capital. It is
this disposition to submit everything to the test of productiveness
that Sismondi has so aptly designated by the title of _chrematism_.
The views of that great and philosophic writer, as to the inevitable
tendencies of the doctrine, have been already fully explained in our
pages.[28] We allude to them now only to observe how remarkable a
confirmation of his opinions is furnished by the history of the great
Continental states since that review of his doctrines was written.

Is there, then, no way of reconciling the apparent antagonism between
the development of man's industrial powers, and his higher interests
as a rational and accountable being? Are we to conclude that the roads
that lead to wealth, to happiness, and to virtue, are necessarily
divergent? and that national advancement in any one of these paths
implies a departure from the others? No; not necessarily so. Such is
not the doctrine taught by Sismondi, and by those who, with him, impugn
the title of political economy to be considered as the great paramount
rule of social existence. All that they maintain is, that there is
_no necessary agreement_ between these three great springs of human
action; that though the law of morality may, and obviously often does,
concur with the maxims of happiness, and those again with the rules of
political economy, there are nevertheless many questions on which we
are at a loss to reconcile them. The learned Archbishop of Dublin has
an elaborate argument in his _Introductory Lectures_, to show, on _a
priori_ grounds, that the condition most favourable to the exercise
of man's productive energies must also be favourable, not only to the
highest development of his intellectual faculties, but also to his
advancement in moral purity. Now, we venture to think that no such
argument, however ingeniously conducted, can be satisfactory, simply
because IT IS _a priori_. Reason and experience are at variance; and
no _a priori_ deduction will help us out of the practical difficulty.
We, no doubt, all naturally desire and hope--nay, believe--that at
some future time, and in some way at present unknown, the perplexing
contradiction will be explained. Reason affirms unhesitatingly, that
the same Providence which placed so bounteous a store of the physical
materials of wealth at our disposal, can never have designed that
their cultivation should embitter the lives of those who labour,
still less that it should endanger their moral wellbeing; and we look
forward, therefore, with firm faith to a period when these paths,
which to our present sight seem to lead in directions so opposite,
shall all be seen to reunite and terminate in one common end. But, in
the present state of our powers, that insight is yet far from being
attained, and the great problem yet remains to be solved.--What do
we see around us? In this country--whose physical character and the
spirit of whose people seem to destine her for the very home and centre
of production--are there no discordant elements in our condition?
While wealth has increased among us with a rapidity unexampled in the
history of the world, and the struggling energies of all men have been
strained to the uttermost in the race of industry--while, under the
sway of commercial Ministries, legislation has been specially, almost
exclusively, directed to stimulating manufactures in every way, and
removing every obstacle that could be supposed, however indirectly, to
hinder their extension--can we venture to assert that the condition of
the great mass of the people has improved in proportion to our riches?
Are the relations of employers and the employed on so satisfactory a
footing as to give no grounds for anxiety? Has the labourer, by whose
toil all those vast accumulations of capital are created, enjoyed an
equitable share of them? Have his means of domestic comfort increased
in the same ratio as the wealth of his master? Is not the rate of his
remuneration diminishing with every step in our progress? Has not
crime, during the last half century, increased fully ten times as fast
as the numbers of our population? Who can look at these, and a hundred
other similar indications that readily suggest themselves, and say that
all is well; that, as far as the experience of Britain goes, the road
to national wealth has also conducted us to greater happiness and moral
wellbeing? Alas! the evidence is but too convincing that, if there be
any way of reconciling these ends, we at least have not yet found it.
But we repeat that the contrariety between them is not a necessary or
universal one. The conditions of great advancement in commerce and
the industrial arts, are not all or invariably unfavourable to the
innocent enjoyments of life among the labouring people, or hostile to
their higher interests. It is not asserted that wealth is necessarily,
or in itself, injurious; but only the means which we have hitherto
discovered of acquiring it. The Archbishop imputes the converse of
this doctrine to those who venture to deny the supreme importance of
the objects of political economy, and then proceeds to demolish it by
reducing it to absurd consequences. If, says he, it be true that the
riches and civilisation of a community _always_ lead to their moral
degradation, if you really consider national wealth to be an evil, why
do you not set about diminishing it; and, following out the counsels of
Mandeville, burn your fleets, destroy your manufactories, and betake
yourselves to a life of frugal and rustic simplicity? Such a challenge,
we presume to think, has no bearing on the position we have been
supporting; and it would be just as fair an argument on our side of the
question, if we were to turn round and insist that his Grace should
testify to the truth and consistency of the opinions he maintains by
turning our churches into cotton factories, and the University of
Dublin into a Mechanics' Institute. We go no further than to affirm
that, in the experience of our own and the other most civilised nations
of Europe, the rapid augmentation of wealth has not been attended
with a corresponding increase of rational enjoyment, or of moral
improvement, in the mass of the community. Further, we hold that a
legislator must recognise these three objects not only as distinct, but
as subordinate, one to the other: that is to say, the government of a
country is not justified in fostering the interests of the capitalist
in such a way as to trench upon the enjoyments of the common people,
nor in promoting these to the neglect of their moral and religious
instruction. He is not, for example, justified in allowing the employer
to demand from his operatives the utmost amount of daily toil that
he can extract from them, so as to leave them no time for bodily rest
or intellectual culture. All policy that overlooks or contemns this
natural subordination in the ends of human existence, must terminate in
disaster and misery.

We have been partly led into these reflections through the
consideration of a subject which occupies a prominent place in Mr
Laing's _Observations_, and seems, in some respects, to illustrate--

          "How wide the limits stand
    Between a splendid and a happy land."

The national advantages of small estates, as compared with the scale
of properties most common in this country, have been most fully and
systematically discussed by M. Passy, as well as by Mr Thornton, Mr
Ramsay, and Mr Mill, among our own writers. But Mr Laing has had
the credit of attracting attention to the subject by his extensive
personal inquiries as to the actual results of the Continental plan,
and by showing (what many English readers are slow to believe) that
the "_petite culture_," as pursued in north and central Germany, and
in Belgium, so far from being incompatible with the profitable use of
the land, is, in fact, more productive than the opposite system of
large holdings. These views were strongly expressed in his _Notes of
a Traveller_; and his evidence in favour of peasant proprietorship
is greatly founded on by Mr Mill, in the able defence of that system
which forms part of his work on political economy. The book now before
us takes a more enlarged, and in some respects a different view of
the question, presenting it in all its bearings, favourable and
unfavourable; and thus furnishing the inquirer with all the materials
on which he is left to build his own conclusions.

One who looks at the subject for the first time, and whose beau-ideal
of agricultural perfection is formed on the pattern of Norfolk or
Haddington, finds some difficulty in believing that a country cut
up into small "laird-ships" of from five to twenty acres, can be
advantageously cultivated at all. He naturally takes it for granted
that, as regards efficiency of labour and quantity of produce, the
large scale must always have the advantage of the smaller; and that
the spade and the flail can, in the long run, have no more chance
in competition with the Tweeddale plough and Crosskill's steam
thrashing-machine, than a dray-horse with Flying Dutchman. And in
England, or any country similarly circumstanced, his conclusion would
no doubt be perfectly correct; and yet a visit to Flanders, Holstein,
or the Palatinate, will convince him that the boorish-looking owners
of the patches of farms he finds there, with the clumsiest implements,
and, to his eyes, most uncouth ways of working, do somehow contrive to
raise crops which he, with all his costly engines, and the last new
wrinkle from Baldoon or Tiptree Hall, cannot pretend to match. Their
superiority as to the cereal grains is perhaps questionable; but,
looking to the quantity of produce generally, no impartial observer can
doubt that, after making every allowance for difference of soil and
climate, a given area of land in Belgium _yields more food_ than the
same extent in England. How is this to be accounted for? Let us hear Mr
Laing's explanation.

     "The clean state of the crops here (in Flanders)--not a weed
     in a mile of country, for they are all hand-weeded out of the
     land, and applied for fodder or manure--the careful digging of
     every corner which the plough cannot reach; the headlands and
     ditch-slopes, down to the water-edge, and even the circle round
     single trees close up to the stem, being all dug, and under crop
     of some kind--show that the stock of people, to do all this minute
     handwork, must be very much greater than the land employs with
     us. The rent-paying farmer, on a nineteen years' lease, could not
     afford eighteen-pence or two shillings a-day of wages for doing
     such work, because it never could make him any adequate return.
     But to the _owner of the soil_ it is worth doing such work by his
     own and his family's labour at odd hours; because it is adding
     to the perpetual fertility and value of his own property.... His
     piece of land to him is his savings-bank, in which the value of
     his labour is hoarded up, to be repaid him at a future day, and
     secured to his family after him."[29]

This is the secret of the marvellous industry that has converted even
the barren sands and marshes of these districts into one continuous
garden. It has been accomplished by what, for want of a better
expression, we may call spontaneous, in opposition to hired labour. The
labourer is himself the owner of the soil, and to one so circumstanced
work assumes quite a different aspect; the spade goes deeper, the
scythe takes a wider sweep, and the muscles lift a heavier burden.
No agricultural chemistry is so potent as the sense of property. The
incentive to his daily toil is not the dismal vision of a parish
workhouse in the background, but an ever-fresh hope for the days
that are before him. His fare may be hard, his clothing coarse, and
indulgences rarely procurable; but his abstinence is voluntary--"_et
saltem pauperies abest_."

There can be no doubt that a much larger proportion of the population
will find employment and subsistence from the land under this system
than under ours. Mr Laing illustrates this by supposing the case of an
estate in Scotland of 1600 arable acres divided into eight farms of 200
acres each; and he assumes that the labour employed on each of these
farms, taking one season with another, is equivalent to that of ten
people all the year round--an estimate which is not far from the truth
on a well-managed farm.[30] Such an estate of 1600 acres will thus
afford constant employment to eighty labourers.

     "Now take under your eye a space of land here, in Flanders,
     that you judge to be about 1600 acres. Walk over it, examine
     it. Every foot of the land is cultivated--dug with the spade or
     hoe where horse and plough cannot work; and all is in crop, or
     in preparation for crop. In our best farmed districts there are
     corners and patches in every field lying waste and uncultivated,
     because the large rent-paying farmers cannot afford labour,
     superintendence, and manure, for such minute portions of land
     and garden-like work as the owner of a small piece of land can
     bestow on every corner and spot of his own property. Here the
     whole 1600 acres must be in garden-farms of five or six acres;
     and it is evident that in the amount of produce from the land,
     in the crops of rye, wheat, barley, rape, clover, lucern, and
     flax for clothing material, which are the usual crops, the 1600
     acres under such garden-culture surpass the 1600 acres under
     large-farm cultivation, as much as a kitchen-garden surpasses in
     productiveness a common field. On the 1600 acres here in Flanders
     or Belgium, instead of the eight farmers with their eighty
     farm-servants, there will be from three hundred to three hundred
     and twenty families, or from fourteen hundred to sixteen hundred
     individuals, each family working its own piece of land; and with
     some property in cows, sheep, pigs, utensils, and other stock in
     proportion to their land, and with constant employment, and secure
     subsistence on their own little estates."[31]

The influence such a mode of life produces on the character of the
people is a consideration of higher moment than its economical
results. And on this point observation seems in general to confirm
the opinion which we should naturally form beforehand. Compared with
the employments of mechanics, that of the husbandman demands a much
higher and more habitual exercise of the faculty of judgment. His
mind is not tied down to the repetition of the same act, chipping a
stone, straightening a wire, watching the whirling of a wheel, from
the beginning of the year to the end, but almost each day brings a
new set of thoughts with it. He cannot proceed a step without forming
processes of induction from his observations, and exercising his reason
as to the connection of the manifold phenomena he sees around him with
their proper causes. The peasant proprietor has to task his inventive
faculties too, in order to turn all his humble resources to the best
advantage; and his success depends more upon his intelligent use of
the limited means at his command, than upon the mere bodily energy of
his labour. Of such a person it is, therefore, truly and pregnantly
said by Mr Laing, that though he may not be able to read or write, he
has an educated mind--a mind trained and disciplined in the school of
nature. And his position favours the development of his moral powers
still more than his intellectual faculties, by teaching him patience,
self-restraint, thought for the future, and, above all, that humility
which can scarcely fail to be felt by one who finds himself ever in
contact with unseen powers and influences beyond his control.

The general diffusion of the means of comfort and of simple enjoyment,
earned by unbought rural industry, is an idea that takes a strong hold
of the imagination. The fancy wanders back to the days of the old
yeomen of England, or further still to Horace's charming pictures of
country life, or to Claudian's Old Man of Verona, thus rendered into
glorious English by Sir John Beaumont:--

    "Thrice happy he whose age is spent upon his owne,
    The same house sees him old that him a child hath known;
    He leans upon his staffe in sand where once he crept--
    His memory long descentes of one poor cote hath kept.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Unskilful in affaires, he knows no city neare,
    So freely he enjoys the light of heaven more cleare.
    The yeeres by sev'rall corne--not consuls he computes;
    He notes the spring by floures, and autumne by the fruits--
    One space put down the sun, and bring again his rays;
    Thus by a certaine orbe he measures out his dayes,
    Rememb'ring some greate oke from small beginning spred,
    He sees the woode grow old which with himself was bred," &c.

In every man's mind we believe there is a quiet corner, where the
memories or the imaginations of country life take root and thrive
spontaneously. Even the old, hardened, care-worn dweller among the
sights and sins of cities will "babble o' green fields" when all other
earthly things have faded from his mind. In England especially, the
preference for country life amounts almost to a passion; and most of
us are ready enough to admit, without demanding many reasons, that a
people whose chief employment and dependence is the cultivation of
their own lands, will be individually happier than if the scene of
their labours were in the mine or the mill. But let us beware lest our
rural partialities lead us too far.

We may acknowledge that the social condition of a country in which the
land is distributed into small properties, affords, in many respects,
a better chance of contentment to the people than is enjoyed by the
labouring classes generally in Britain. But whether such a system
be adapted to our circumstances, whether its introduction to any
considerable extent be at all practicable here, is obviously quite
another question. The subject has been treated hitherto by British
authors with too little reference to the condition of their own
country. Benevolent enthusiasts talk of peasant-proprietorship as if
it were a harbour of refuge from all our difficulties, as if a return
to that unsophisticated mode of life under which--_ut prisca gens
mortalium_--each man of us should eat and be satisfied with the fruits
reared by his own labour upon his own land, were at once the simplest
and the most obvious remedy for our complicated social evils, and as
easily accomplished as the passing of a railway suspension bill. Even
Mr Laing, we think, in his former works, directed attention perhaps
too exclusively to the benefits which he saw to be connected with the
system in the northern parts of the Continent, without sufficiently
adverting to the causes which render it unsuitable for countries
situated like ours. But this omission has been remedied in the work
before us, in which, after tracing the beneficial results of a minute
subdivision of land property, he turns the picture, and impartially
points out its unfavourable features; and to any one who has been
indulging in the dream that the culture and territorial system of
Belgium or Norway can be transplanted into the soil of England, we
earnestly recommend the study of Mr Laing's sixth chapter. We cannot
afford space to follow him through the adverse side of the argument,
but may state briefly the chief points he brings forward.

In the first place, the condition of a society in which the population
is principally employed in raising their food upon their own little
properties, is necessarily a _stationary_ condition. We speak, be
it observed, of a people principally engaged in this occupation;
for, in proportion as commerce and manufactures increase among them,
labour will become expensive, capital will accumulate in masses, and
the peculiar advantages of the small estate system will gradually
disappear. The estates themselves will cease to be small; for, as
a natural result, men who have made money will add farm to farm,
and create large properties, unless there be some counteracting
influence, such as the law of equal succession in France, to disperse
these accumulations as fast as they arise. Two conditions, then, are
necessary to the continuance of peasant-proprietorship among a people
as a permanent institution. 1st, An imperfect development of trade and
manufactures; and, 2d, a law of inheritance that shall discourage men
from forming large properties and transmitting them to their heirs.
The state of such a community then, we say, is a stationary one. Every
man is like his neighbour, and each succeeding generation is only a
copy of the one that preceded it--contented, it may be, industrious
and peaceable, but incapable of making a single important step in
civilisation. And here we see the nature and extent of that bewildering
contrariety which we have noticed between man's social progress and
his other interests of happiness and morality. We cannot resist the
conviction that the proper destiny of man is, that in every community
each generation should be wiser, as well as better and happier, than
that which has gone before it. But here we have before us a condition
eminently fitted to favour the latter objects, while it acts as a
barrier to all material improvement in the arts, the economical
applications of science, and all the refinements of social life. In
his habits, tastes, and opinions, the _bauer_ of this generation in
the Rhenish provinces, the _udaller_ of Norway, is just the same as
his forefathers were five hundred years ago. His simple wants are
supplied almost entirely by the industry of his own household, and the
travelling pedlar furnishes him with the few articles of luxury in
which he indulges. He is not only the owner, cultivator, and labourer
of the land, but he is usually his own carpenter, builder, saddler,
baker, brewer--often his own clothier, tailor, and shoemaker. Granting,
then, that the gross produce of the soil is greater when cultivated
by a race of petty landowners, than by capitalists employing hired
labour, and that the land will thus maintain a greater number of
agricultural labourers, it is obvious that the _surplus_ produce that
remains for the support of other branches of industry is diminished in
exactly an inverse ratio. The production of commodities for exchange is
therefore inconsiderable; and the growth and circulation of capital are
necessarily slow.

     "Petty cultivation, when pushed to its farthest extent, terminates
     in spade husbandry, and in it, therefore, the utmost consequences
     of a minute subdivision of land must be seen. There is no doubt
     that a country cultivated in this way could be made to produce
     much more than under any other system of agriculture; and were
     food the only necessary of man, it might therefore support a much
     larger population from the growth of its own soil. But then the
     wealth of this population would be reduced to a bare subsistence;
     the whole crop, or nearly all, would be consumed by those employed
     in raising it, and there would be little or nothing over to
     purchase home or foreign manufactures, the productions of art,
     or the works of genius, and no means of supporting a population
     engaged in such occupations. And even though persons might be
     found willing to addict themselves to the arts and sciences
     without expectation of pecuniary reward, yet none would be rich
     enough to have leisure to follow such pursuits. Thus, gradually, a
     universal barbarism would overspread the land."

Mr Ramsay, from whom we have copied these sentences, and whose
judicious remarks on this subject well deserve the attention of the
inquirer, here supposes the system of petty cultivation carried out to
its utmost limits; but the same consequences, though in a less degree,
will necessarily follow every step in that direction. And in point of
fact, it is precisely the state of matters in those countries of Europe
where agriculture is wholly carried on by peasant proprietors,--where,
consequently, there is no independent and wealthy class to maintain a
home trade; and the trifling commerce that exists is kept alive chiefly
by the demands of that class who live on Government employment, and at
the expense of the public.

We have adverted to the connection between the petty territorial system
and the law of inheritance. If we could suppose the whole surface of
England were to be parcelled out to-morrow into small holdings, and
then placed in the hands of labouring men, it is clear that, while
enterprise and the spirit of accumulation were left as free as at
present, the whole arrangement would be upset before the end of the
twelvemonth; and that, in a few generations at furthest, property would
be found gathered into large masses, just as it is now. Some artificial
means, then, would be necessary for limiting the liberty of disposing
of property--some such contrivance as the compulsory law of equal
succession in France and the Provinces of the Rhine--to provide against
the possibility of the landowner ever becoming wealthy, and rising
above the condition of a peasant. But are we prepared for all the
consequences to which an equal partition of the land among the children
of the peasant proprietor would inevitably lead, and has to a great
extent already led in those countries? In communities such as Norway,
where equal inheritance has grown up with the old institutions of the
nation, and all their domestic customs are intimately connected with
it, its evil effects are in a great measure neutralised by traditionary
usages, which supply the place of law, and prevent the subdivision
of property from reaching a dangerous extreme. But national customs
cannot be adopted _extempore_; and the experience of France is surely
a sufficient proof of the danger of attempting factitiously to adapt
that system of succession to the habits and institutions of an old and
highly civilised nation. And yet, without some such restriction of the
freedom of testation, peasant-proprietorship, as a permanent social
principle, is impossible. It is becoming every day more apparent, that
the compulsory subdivision of landed property is the main source of
the restless and disorganised condition of the French population. The
sons of the peasant proprietor spend their youth in the labours of the
farm, and look to the land alone as the means of their subsistence.
The acre or two that must fall legally to their share at the death of
their father is regarded as a sufficient provision against the chance
of indigence; and they rarely think of seeking employment in other
industrious occupations, or of applying themselves steadily to a trade.
The consequence is, that at that age which, in our country, is the
prime of a working man's life, they find themselves left to the bare
subsistence they can scrape from their miserable inheritance--without
regular occupation, unfit for mercantile pursuits, and ripe for war
and social tumult. Is it possible to imagine a condition more fitted
to foster that reckless and turbulent military spirit--ever ready
to burst the barriers of constitutional law--which lies at the root
of France's social calamities? Subdivision of land property and
perpetual peace--these are the two great elements which our Manchester
lawgivers think are to change the face of civilised Europe. Most truly
does Mr Laing declare, that ingenuity could not have devised two
principles more hostile to each other in their very nature, and more
irreconcilable in the past history of the world, than those which Mr
Cobden and his followers have selected as the twin pillars of their new
social system.

     "If Mr Cobden be right in considering this social state (the
     universal diffusion of property in land) pacific in its elements
     and tendencies, all political economy, as well as all history,
     must be wrong!"--(P. 110.)

No state can be pacific, no state can be secure, in which there is
not an intervening class between those who govern and those who are
governed--a class who shall, as our author says, act "like the buffers
and ballast waggons of a railway train," and prevent those violent
jerks and concussions which shake the machine of government to pieces;
and the existence of such a class is excluded by the very notion of
peasant proprietorship. The truth is, there are two, and only two,
kinds of government compatible with the territorial system of France,
and her law of succession. These are, an absolute democracy on the one
hand, and military despotism on the other--the tyranny of one man or of
millions; and between these two polar points of the political compass,
her destinies have been vibrating for the last half century.

Let us turn our view once more homewards. We have frequently and
earnestly endeavoured to impress upon the public that the accumulation
of property, real as well as movable, into vast and unwieldy masses,
has gone too far in our own land. We have consistently opposed that
policy which tends to give capital an undue and factitious influence,
and, in its precipitate zeal to stimulate production, overlooks all
other interests. But we cannot deceive ourselves with the imagination,
that peasant proprietorship is the specific antidote to these evils.
Pleasing as such Arcadian visions may be to the speculative man, who
turns away in weariness and perplexity from the struggle of discordant
and competing interests, no one surely can believe that they can
possibly be realised here, or that the cultivation of the land by
peasant owners can ever become a normal and permanent element in our
social condition. The ingenious reasonings of Mr Mill and Mr Thornton
seem to establish nothing more than that such a state is compatible
with good agriculture, and with that contentment which Mandeville calls
"the bane of industry;" and that nations, like young couples in the
honeymoon--

    "Though very poor, may still be very blest."

But no one has seriously set himself to show how a system in such
direct antagonism to all our existing institutions and habits--a system
tantamount to a retrogression of three hundred years in our history,
is to be engrafted on the laws of Great Britain. Some writers, indeed,
are fond of referring obscurely to the great measures of Prince
Hardenberg and Von Stein in Prussia, and to their beneficial results,
as if they formed a precedent and argument for the creation of peasant
estates in this country. But every one who has made himself acquainted
with the true nature and purpose of the change introduced by those
ministers--which was merely a commutation of certain burdens on the
beneficiary owners of the land--knows that no such change is possible
in Britain, simply because there are no such burdens to commute.[32] An
isolated experiment of such plantations may be tried here and there,
and by artificial culture may be kept up for a time: but it can have no
permanent influence on the nation at large. Acts of Parliament cannot
make us forget what we have learnt, and relapse into the condition our
fathers were in before the Revolution. We cannot retrace our steps at
will, and fall back upon some imaginary stage of our past history, when
contentment and rude simplicity are supposed to have overspread the
land. Examples there are, no doubt, of nations once great and opulent,
whose arts, inventions, and civilisation, are now almost forgotten. But
changes like these are not studiously brought about by the politic
enactments of rulers, but by indirect causes of decay; and a people
that has once begun to go back in civilisation must gradually sink into
indigence and barbarism. Whether our past advancement, then, has been
for good or for evil, it is now too late to retreat. The progress of a
society, composed chiefly of peasant landowners, resembles the motion
of an eddy at the margin of a great stream--slowly circling for ever in
the same narrow round. We, more daring than others, have ventured out
into the very centre of the flood where the current rolls strongest;
and to stand still now is as impossible as to breast the Spey when the
winter's snows are melting on the Grampians.

Following Mr Laing's footsteps, we have pointed out some of the dangers
inseparable from a division of the soil into small estates; but we are
very far indeed from considering the tenure of land in this country
as incapable of amendment. It is mischievous as well as visionary to
talk of remodelling our territorial system on the pattern of Prussia
or Belgium, or any other country; but it is also mischievous, and most
impolitic, to create or continue legal impediments to the _natural_
subdivision of property. It is impossible to doubt that a very general
desire prevails among the labouring classes, and those who have laid up
little capitals in banks and friendly societies, to acquire portions
of land suitable to their means of investment. The large prices paid
for such lots when they are found in the market, and the eagerness
with which even such dubious projects as Mr Feargus O'Connor's have
been laid hold of, prove the fact to a certain extent; and it has been
strongly confirmed by the inquiries of the committee which sat last
session for investigating the means available to the working-classes
for the investment of their small savings. The great extension of
allotments, in late years, may perhaps have helped to foster this
disposition; while it shows how anxious these classes are to acquire
the possession of land, even on the most uncertain and unfavourable
tenure. However disapprovingly our political economists may shake their
heads at the progress made by that system, as not squaring with their
doctrines, we cannot doubt that, so far as it has gone, its results
have been eminently beneficial; and the thanks of the nation are due
to that enlightened nobleman who has taken the lead in this course,
and has created, we are told, no less than four thousand holdings
of this description on his estates. But allotments do not meet the
difficulty of finding a field for the secure investment of the smaller
accumulations of industry. The question then is, whether it be right
or safe that so strong and healthful a wish should prevail among the
people, without the means of gratifying it? Let us shut out of view all
the crude and disjointed schemes for a redistribution of property on a
wider basis, and the limitation of the right of testation; and, without
undermining the structure of the law, endeavour to remove those parts
of it which present technical or fiscal impediments to the acquisition
of small properties, and to adapt it generally to the wants of the
community. The amendment of the Scotch entail law, and of the process
of conveyance, as well as the recent remission of part of the burden
of stamp duties, have already cleared away some of those obstacles.
But much remains to be done, especially in England, in simplifying
technical forms, and abridging the expense of conveyances in small
transfers. In this respect, we are still far behind the nations of the
Continent. Until the recent alteration of the stamp duties, the expense
of effecting a sale of land in England, and of creating a mortgage,
was in ordinary circumstances thus proportioned to the value of the
subject:--

  Value of               Expense of         Expense of
   Estate.                 a Sale.          a Mortgage.

      £50                30 per cent        30 per cent
      100                15   ...           20  ...
      600                 7-1/2 ...          9  ...
     1500                 5   ...            3  ...
  100,000                 4   ...           12  ...

Who would ever dream of applying his savings in the purchase of a piece
of land of £50 value, when he must pay £30 more to make a title to it?
The new scale of stamp duties alters the proportion; but the expense
of legal writings, which forms the larger half of the charges above
stated, remains undiminished, and operates as an absolute prohibition
of the sale and purchase of land for investment under £1000 value.
Such are the intricacies of the system, and such the want of a proper
registry,[33] that we are told by the highest authorities that there
is scarcely a title to be met with on which a purchaser can be quite
secure, and which does not afford room for dispute and litigation. Now,
contrast all this with the way in which the transfer of property is
effected abroad. We have before us a copy[34] of an actual conveyance
of a parcel of land in the Duchy of Nassau, the price of which was
£181. The form of the contract extends to only four lines, and contains
a reference to an appended schedule, which specifies briefly in
separate columns the description of the subject, its extent, and its
number on the register. The expense of the whole transaction, including
government charges, was £4, 7s. The sale of a similar estate in England
would, until the other day, have been attended with an expense of about
£24.

But we cannot enter into the specific means by which the exchange
of land properties, especially those of small amount, may yet be
facilitated; our object being merely to show how desirable, and how
strictly coincident with the soundest conservative policy, it is to
remove all discouragements to the natural employment of capital on the
soil of the country.

This leads us to the mention of one of those topics of Mr Laing's
_Observations_, in which his opinions seem to be more ingenious than
correct; we allude to the apparently paradoxical view he takes of the
ultimate consequences of abolishing agricultural protection.

Mr Laing is not an observer who runs any risk of being entangled in the
obvious meshes of the Free-Trade net. He has seen too much of other
countries, and has too just an appreciation of the practical value of
politico-economical theories, to be deceived by the common sophisms of
the Manchester dialectics. No one has more ably exposed the cardinal
fallacy on which the whole system hinges--that a permanently low price
of corn is necessarily beneficial to the people. In the former series
of his _Observations_, published at a time when the common-sense of
the country was beginning to give way before the bold and clamorous
assertions of the League, he showed, by arguments sufficient to have
convinced any one who would have listened to calm reason, that, in a
country like Great Britain, the cheapness of imported corn, though
it may enrich the employer of labour, cannot in the long run be an
advantage to the working man. He pointed out clearly, too, the fallacy
that ran through all the calculations of Dr Bowring and Mr Jacob,
as to the supply of grain which the Northern countries of Europe
could send us, and the price they could afford to take for it. Every
week's experience is now showing the utter worthlessness of the large
mass of estimates and returns compiled by these great statistical
authorities, and confirming what Mr Laing foretold in opposition to
all their calculations--that our principal imports would be drawn from
the countries whose produce reaches us through the Baltic, at prices
which, in ordinary seasons, must uniformly undersell the English grower
in his own markets. The reason assigned by him is a very clear one,
and well deserves the attention of those landowners and farmers at
home, who are still flattering themselves with the belief that the
rates and quantities of the grain imports of the last two years have
been occasioned by temporary causes--that the importers must have been
losing largely, and will soon cease to prosecute an unremunerative
trade.

     "Why cannot the British farmer, with his greater skill, capital,
     and economy of production, raise vastly greater crops, and
     undersell with advantage, at least in the British market, the
     foreign grain, which has heavy charges of freight, warehouse rent,
     and labourage against it? The reason is this: The foreign grain
     brought to England from the Continent or Europe consists either
     of rents, quit-rents, or feu-duties, paid in kind by the actual
     farmer; or it is the surplus produce of the small estate of the
     peasant proprietor. In either case the subsistence of the family
     producing it is taken off, and also whatever is required to pay
     tithe, rates, and even taxes, which, as well as rent, are not paid
     in money, but in _naturalia_--in grain, and generally in certain
     proportions of the crops raised. The free surplus for exportation
     may be sold at any price in the English market, however low;
     because, if it bring in nothing at all, the loss neither deranges
     the circumstances nor the ordinary subsistence and way of living
     of the farmers producing it. All their rents or payments are
     settled in grain; all their subsistence, clothing, and necessary
     expenditure are provided for; and the surplus is merely a quantity
     which must be sold, because it is perishable; and which, if it
     sells well, may enable them to lay out a little more on the
     gratifications and tastes of a higher state of civilisation; but
     if it sells badly, or for nothing at all, does not affect their
     means of reproduction, or even their ordinary habits, enjoyments,
     way of living, or stock. They have not paid a price for their corn
     in rent, wages, manures, and other outlay of money, as the British
     farmer does before he brings his corn to market, _and have,
     therefore, no minimum below which they cannot afford to sell it
     without ruin_."[35]

Mr Laing's intimate acquaintance with the habits and condition of those
countries, which now seem destined to stand in the same relation to
Great Britain as Numidia did to decaying Rome, has enabled him also
to point out how vain is the expectation that they will permanently
extend the use of our manufactures in proportion to our consumption of
their corn. No one has more forcibly shown the insanity of sacrificing,
for so vague a prospect, the prosperity of those classes who chiefly
maintain the home market.

     "The superior importance of the home market for all that the
     manufacturing industry of Great Britain produces, compared to
     what the foreign market, including even the colonial, takes off,
     furnishes one of the strongest arguments against the abolition
     of the Corn Laws.... The home consumpt, not the foreign, is
     undeniably that which the great mass of British manufacturing
     labour and capital is engaged in supplying. Take away from the
     home consumers the means to consume--that is, the high and
     artificial value of their labour, or rate of wages produced by the
     working of the Corn Laws--and you stop this home market. You cut
     off the spring from which it is fed. You sacrifice a certain home
     market for an uncertain foreign market. You sacrifice four-fifths
     for the chance of augmenting one-fifth. If the one-fifth,
     the foreign consumpt, should be augmented so as to equal the
     four-fifths--the home consumpt--it would still be a question of
     very doubtful policy whether it should be so augmented: whether
     the means of living of so large a proportion of the productive
     classes should be made to depend so entirely upon a demand which
     political circumstances might suddenly cut off," &c.[36]

Knowing the opinions held by Mr Laing to be thus adverse to that change
of the law which virtually gave to the _metayeur_ or proprietor of
Holstein, Pomerania, or Poland, a preference in Mark Lane over the
farmer of Norfolk or Lincolnshire, it was with some surprise, and some
apprehension for the consistency of the author, that, in turning over
the table of contents of the volume before us, we came to the following
heading:--"On the abolition of the Corn Laws _as a Conservative
measure_ for the English landed interest."

The process by which he has arrived at the conclusion, that a measure
confessedly so disastrous in its immediate consequences will ultimately
turn out beneficial to one section at least of the landed interest,
seems to be this: He thinks that, in the chief corn-growing countries
of the Continent, cultivation is already so generally extended over all
the soils capable of yielding any return, that the land cannot, in any
circumstances, give employment to a greater number of the inhabitants
than it does already; whereas Great Britain contains, in his opinion, a
much larger proportional area of improvable soil, which forms a reserve
or provision for the future increase of our population. A succession
of bad harvests in Germany or France, or any considerable addition to
their present population, would necessarily reduce these countries, he
believes, to extreme famine and misery; because, the land being already
fully occupied and filled up, and their surplus numbers having no
considerable outlet in manufacturing or commercial industry, they have
no resources to fall back upon in seasons of calamity. But in England
there still remains a large extent of "woods, and groves planted and
preserved for ornament, parks, pleasure-grounds, lawns, shrubberies,
old grass-fields producing only crops for luxury, such as pasture and
hay for the finer breeds of horses;" while a still larger area of
arable ground is left uncultivated in Ireland and Scotland. Hence, as
our population increases, we possess a safety-valve in our untilled
soil which does not exist on the Continent; we have still the means of
subsisting our daily-increasing numbers; and, so long at least as these
means last, it is probable that the owners of the already cultivated
lands will be left in the peaceable enjoyment of their property. But
that possession would not have been secure had the abolition of the
Corn Laws not been conceded at the time it was--the people might have
driven the landowners from their occupations, as they did in the
first French Revolution; "the free importation of food has averted a
similar social convulsion, and has deprived the agitator and hireling
speech-maker of his plea of oppression from class interests, and
conventional laws in favour of the landowners."[37] These seem to be
the grounds on which Mr. Laing regards the abolition of the Corn Laws
as a Conservative measure--"which will preserve, for some generations
at least, to our nobility, gentry, and landed interests, their domains,
their estates, and their proper social interests."

As this line of defence seems to be a favourite one with the straggling
remnant of that party, who, having been the immediate instruments by
which the change was effected, nevertheless still venture to claim
for themselves the title of Conservatives, we may shortly review the
grounds on which it rests. So far as Mr. Laing's adoption of it is
concerned, we may remark that the conclusion, taken by itself, is not
absolutely incongruous with that disapproval of the measure of 1816
which the author has elsewhere expressed so strongly; because, in
fact, he regards the question from two very different points of view.
The political philosopher occupies a very different standing ground
from a minister or senator. From his speculative elevation, his eye
passes over the events and consequences nearest to him, and strives to
penetrate the dim possibilities of the future; and if we look at human
events from this ground, there are perhaps few even of the severest
public calamities that are not followed by some compensatory, though it
may be distant, benefit. If we can shut our eyes to the wretchedness
and desolation caused by a great fire in a crowded town, we may look
forward to a time when the narrow alleys and unwholesome dwellings,
now in ruins before us, shall be replaced by roomy and well-built
habitations, and we may perhaps consider the prospective health and
comforts of the next occupants as counterbalancing the present misery.
It _may_ or it may not prove true, that the concession of 1816 will put
an end to disaffection, and be remembered for generations to come in
the hearts of a contented and grateful people; it _may_ or it may not
secure the aristocracy in the peaceable enjoyment of their patrimonial
estates and privileges.

These, however, are results that every one will admit to be at least
problematical, while there can be no doubt whatever as to the direct
and immediate consequences of the measure. The most obstinate partisan
no longer ventures to question the distress and ruin that is every
day spreading among the larger section of the British people--the
labourers, tenant farmers, and smaller landowners. And now the
sufferers are told to make the most of what is left to them, and be
thankful that they have escaped a revolution. It may, perchance, occur
to them to question whether, in regard to their property at least, the
chances of a revolution would have made their condition much worse
than it is at present. Looking at the estimates of the depreciation of
their possessions, which have been so triumphantly paraded by their
enemies, they may be inclined to doubt whether an insurrection, or even
a foreign invasion, would have cost them greatly more than ninety-one
millions a-year. To the humbler and most oppressed section of the
agricultural body, the congratulation on their escape from a worse fate
than that they now complain of, may sound not unlike the exhortation
of a highwayman who, having stripped his victim of his cash, bids
him bless his stars that he is allowed to get off with whole bones,
and a coat to cover them. It is true, indeed, that the pressure is
not so severely felt by the lords of great domains--cannot indeed be
so; for to the owner of £10,000 a-year the loss of one-fourth of his
income--though it may oblige him to curtail his expenses in matters
of external show, still leaves ample means for the gratification of
his accustomed habits and tastes. But what comfort is it to the owner
of a small estate, who is reduced to the necessity of selling it for
what it will bring--perhaps for some such price as we see recorded
in the transactions of the Encumbered Estates Court of Dublin--or to
the farmer, who is preparing to carry his family and the remnant of
his capital to some other land--or to the labourer, who finds his
earnings cut down to 6s. 6d. a-week--what consolation is it to men so
circumstanced, that the policy which has caused their ruin may possibly
enable the great territorial lords to retain their overgrown estates,
and the privileges of their order, "for some generations to come?" Mr
Laing, observe, does not venture to anticipate more than a respite for
them; and some will be disposed to doubt whether even their permanent
safety, and the perpetuation of their rights, would not be too dearly
purchased at the price we are now paying for it in the ruin of a far
more numerous, and perhaps not less valuable, class of the community.
We have often had occasion to express our opinion as to the alleged
crisis of 1846, which is said to have been so opportunely averted--as
well as to the principle which ought to animate a Government in meeting
such difficulties. We are not of those who think the main business of
a cabinet is to keep on good terms with "the agitator and hireling
speech-maker,"--and that he is the wisest minister who is most adroit
in timing his concessions, and casting off his principles at the
moment they become inconvenient. Any seeming tranquillity, any truce
with the enemies of constitutional order purchased by such a policy,
can never be otherwise than temporary and precarious, because, it
is insincere--insincere on both sides--a hollow compromise between
principle and the expediency of the hour.

When we look to the reasons Mr Laing gives for the opinion we have been
commenting on, they will be found to hang together rather loosely. They
pre-suppose that agitation _de rebus frumentariis_, and specially the
agitation of the League, could only proceed from the pressure of want.
Now, the very week that the Bill passed, the price of wheat was 52s.
2d.--which, curiously enough, is the exact sum fixed on by Mr Wilson as
the natural price of wheat in England. At that time beef was selling
in London at 7s. 3d. a stone. The corn averages for the whole previous
year were a fraction over 49s. 6d. The average of the _ten_ previous
years was 56s. 6d., which, by another strange coincidence, corresponds
to a sixpence with the price admitted by Sir Robert Peel. With such
rates of the chief articles of subsistence, how can it be said that
scarcity was the cause of the Corn-Law agitation? The idea of famishing
millions imploring bread may have been an appropriate figure of speech
in the rabid cantations of an Ebenezer Elliot; but who seriously
believes that the cry of "abolition" was the voice of a starving
people, and not the mere watchword of a faction? Scarcity was only the
pretext for the clamour before which the Government yielded; and is
there any one weak or sanguine enough to believe that, by removing
that pretext, and yielding to that clamour, we have silenced the voice
of discontent, and ruined the trade of the demagogue? Is agrarian
agitation no longer possible? Can we shut our eyes to what is even now
passing in the north of Ireland? The fire which we are told was finally
extinguished in 1846, has reappeared in that quarter, and already
the sparks from it are kindling up in other parts of the empire. The
demand for what is called "fixity of tenure" is but the germ of a new
agitation, the future phases of which, unless it shall be met in a very
different spirit from that which has characterised our recent policy,
it is not difficult to foresee. It will become the new rallying point
of disaffection--the centre of inflammatory action. The old machinery
of the League will be set up anew, and the passions of the people will
again be excited by a course of studious and systematic irritation.
Ministers will hesitate, deprecate, and dally with the difficulty;
rival statesmen will by turns fan the flame, or feebly resist it,
as suits the party tactics of the day; until, at length, some one
more yielding or less scrupulous than his competitors, will discover
that the demand is founded on justice and sound policy--will concede
all that is asked of him, and finally will turn round complacently
and claim the gratitude of his country for having saved it from a
revolution.

Our view, then, of this vindication of abolition, on the ground that
it has averted a social convulsion, is briefly this. The discontent
which then prevailed was not, as it pretended to be, the consequence
of scarcity and dearness of provisions, or of any real grievance,
but was in truth produced and fostered by artificial influences,
which may at any time be again called into action. The spirit of
agitation which then found a convenient pretext in the corn duties,
will not fail to find an equally fit handle to lay hold of on the next
favourable opportunity; and it is vain, therefore, to hope that we
have purchased by our concessions a lasting immunity from disturbance,
or any enduring guarantee for the safety of property on its present
basis. It is on grounds of justice, and not of mere statecraft, that
so great a question must be argued. Had the corn-laws been founded
on injustice and partiality, that surely was in itself an ample and
all-sufficient reason for sweeping them away. But if, on the contrary,
they were productive of no such injustice to the people at large--if
equity, as well as the implied guarantee of a long succession of laws,
demanded an adherence to their principle as a partial compensation
for the disproportionate burdens we have imposed on the land--then
the allegation that their maintenance might have produced a popular
outbreak, is, after all, but a feeble and ambiguous defence for the
Ministry who so readily surrendered them. The _coup d'état_ which
we are now asked to applaud as the crowning act of Conservative
wisdom, sinks into a mere wily evasion of a difficulty by giving over
the interests of the weaker party as a peace-offering to the more
clamorous--a sacrifice of established rights to the "civium ardor prava
jubentium."

It is quite true, as Mr Laing tells us, that there exists a very large
reserve of available land in Great Britain--a reserve quite sufficient,
under proper management, to maintain our population for centuries to
come, even at its present large ratio of increase. But that there
is no similar reserve on the Continent, we beg leave to doubt. The
statement may be true as regards those districts to whose condition
Mr Laing has paid most attention. It may be true of France, and the
peasant-cultivated parts of West Prussia, and the North of Germany;
but can we say that the countries watered by the Vistula, the Bug,
the Dniester--can we say that Livonia, Volhynia, Podolia--that those
vast districts whose produce reaches us through Odessa, (whence it was
shipped to England last winter, at a freight of 6s. a-quarter,) are
already cultivated up to the full measure of their capabilities? The
following comparative statement of the proportion which the cultivated
land bears to the superficial extent of the different countries of
Europe, is taken from the _Annuaire Statistique_ for 1850:--

  England,            55 hectares in 100[38]
  France,             54    "        "
  Belgium,            43    "        "
  Prussia and }
  Denmark,    }       40    "        "
  Italy and   }
  Portugal,   }       30    "        "
  Germany and }
  Spain,      }       25    "        "
  Holland and }
  Austria,    }       20    "        "
  Russia and  }
  Poland,     }       18    "        "
  Sweden and  }
  Norway,     }       14    "        "

Unless we assume, (which we have no right to do,) that the extent of
irreclaimable mountain, marsh, and sand, is much greater in proportion
to the area of Belgium, Prussia, and Germany, the countries chiefly
referred to by Mr Laing, than it is in Britain, we apprehend that
their reserve is, to say the least, considerably larger than ours.
We must notice also, that our author seems to regard the unreclaimed
land of Britain as if it were a fund on which we can fall back at
any time, when unfavourable harvests abroad shall have curtailed our
accustomed supplies from the countries of the Continent. But a little
consideration will show that, after we have once learnt to trust to
annual foreign supplies, it is utterly vain to expect that their
occasional deficiency will be supplemented, in case of emergency, from
our own spare resources. Land is not like the instruments of production
employed by the manufacturer. People talk of having recourse to our
less fertile soils, as if it were a matter as easily and speedily
accomplished as setting a mill in motion by raising the sluice. But
the ponderous machine of agriculture is not so easily set a-going.
On unreclaimed soils, an expenditure of from £12 to £25 an acre is
required at the very outset. Fences and houses have to be erected,
roads and drains to be formed, roots to be grubbed up, stones to be
removed, before even the seed can be placed in the ground. Taking the
farmer's capital into account, we are probably within the mark when
we assert that £26 an acre, on the average, must be laid out on new
land, before a single bushel can be reaped from it; and, even when
ready for a rotation, an additional preparation of two or three years
is necessary to bring it into a state for bearing wheat. Now, is there
any speculator so insane as to risk such an expenditure on the possible
chance of an occasional and simultaneous failure of the crops on the
Continent? Even if grain were at a famine price, will any one be found
to throw away his money in ploughing up "lawns, woods, shrubberies,
village greens, and waste corners," when the very next season may see
our ports swarming as usual with foreign grain ships, and "buyers firm"
at 35s. a quarter?

A bad harvest is not an event that can be foreseen, and provided
against, in the same way that the thrifty housekeeper lays in an
additional stock of fuel, when there is talk of a strike among the
colliers. The calamity is upon us long before the most skilful and
far-sighted husbandman can arrange his plans and modify his rotations
for the purpose of meeting the emergency. It is out of the question,
then, under the present system at least, to talk of our spare land as
if it were a spare coach-horse, or a spare pair of breeches, ready
for use at any moment. We have taken away the only incitement to
improvement, by taking care that it shall never be profitable. We
have dammed back from our own fields that fertilising stream which
is now spreading over and enriching the land of our neighbours.
And now that we have chosen to throw ourselves on the resources of
other nations--now that we may say, as the Romans did in the days of
Claudian, "pascimur arbitrio Mauri"--we must not wonder if occasionally
the supply turns out to be insufficient. We do not apprehend that a
general scarcity can be of very frequent occurrence; but of this we may
rest assured, that when it does happen, there is no portion of Europe
in which the scourge of famine will be so severely felt as in this
island, and it will then be utterly vain to look for relief from an
expansion of that native agriculture which we have been at such pains
to cripple and discourage.

We should convey to our readers a very incorrect notion of Mr Laing's
work, if we led them to believe that it is wholly occupied with such
subjects as we have been discussing. The commercial, military, and
administrative systems of European governments certainly form his
most important themes; but his remarks on the arts, customs, and
literature of those countries are always amusing, and uttered with a
straightforward and fearless disregard of what other people have said
upon the same topic. He has no respect for conventional opinions in
matters of taste; and he avows an English preference for the solid
utilities and material comforts of everyday life over mere ornament.
In fact, his views on the fine arts generally, are, to say the least,
rather peculiar. The art of fresco-painting seems somehow to excite
his bile more than anything else. His aversion to it is as intense and
contemptuous as that with which Cobbett regarded the opera. It is clear
to us that his digestive organs must have been fearfully disordered
during his visit to Munich. From the Pinakothek to the spittoons in
the Hall of the Graces, nothing seems to have pleased him--all is
tawdry hollow, and out of place--and that æsthetic refinement which
the ex-king of Bavaria took under his especial protection is, in his
eyes, opposed to all common sense and true civilisation. We cannot join
him in regarding the art of the upholsterer as more important than
that of the sculptor, or in thinking the possession of hearth-rugs
and window-curtains, and plenty of earthenware utensils, truer tests
of national civilisation than libraries and picture-galleries. But,
to a certain extent, we are disposed to share in his distrust of
the genuineness of that progress in art which depends on Government
encouragement. The taste which is reared and stimulated in the
artificial air of palaces, instead of attaining a healthy and vigorous
development, often yields little fruit except empty mannerisms. And,
if the labours of the painter and the sculptor be apt to take a
questionable direction under courtly tutelage, there is still more
room to doubt whether any important progress in manufactures, or the
mechanical arts, can be prompted by princely patronage, however well
designed. We have already had proof in England of what enterprise
and ingenuity can accomplish without such aid--it remains to be seen
what advancement they are to make in the leading-strings of court
favour, and under the inspiration of puffs in the _Times_ newspaper,
and promises of medals, with suitable inscriptions, and the bustling
exertions of a semi-official staff of attachés.

Notwithstanding his heretical notions about the value of the fine arts,
in a national point of view, Mr Laing's pictures of Continental life
and scenery, and his criticisms on foreign manners and customs, will
be found full of information and instruction, even by those who have
resided for years in the countries he describes.



WHO ROLLED THE POWDER IN?

A LAY OF THE GUNPOWDER PLOT.

     ["Upon this the conversation dropped, and soon afterwards Tresham
     departed. When he found himself alone, he suffered his rage to
     find vent in words. 'Perdition seize them!' he cried: 'I shall
     now lose two thousand pounds, in addition to what I have already
     advanced; and, as Mounteagle will not have the disclosure made
     till the beginning of November, there is no way of avoiding
     payment. They would not fall into the snare I laid to throw the
     blame of the discovery, when it takes place, upon their own
     indiscretion. But I must devise some other plan.'"--AINSWORTH'S
     _Life and Times of Guy Fawkes_.]


    They've done their task, and every cask
      Is piled within the cell:
    They've heaped the wood in order good,
      And hid the powder well.
    And Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,
      Remarked with cheerful glee--
    "The moon is bright--they'll fly by night!
      Now, sirs, let's turn the key."

    The wind without blew cold and stout,
      As though it smelt of snow--
    But was't the breeze that made the knees
      Of Tresham tremble so?
    With ready hand, at Guy's command,
      He rolled the powder in;
    But what's the cause that Tresham's jaws
      Are chattering to the chin?
    Nor wine nor beer his heart can cheer,
      As in his chamber lone
    He walks the plank with heavy clank,
      And vents the frequent groan.
    "Alack!" quoth he, "that this should be--
      Alack, and well-a-day!
    I had the hope to bring the Pope,
      But in a different way.

    "I'd risk a rope to bring the Pope
      By gradual means and slow;
    But Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,
      Won't let me manage so.
    That furious man has hatched a plan
      That must undo us all;
    He'd blow the Peers unto the spheres,
      And throne the Cardinal!

    "It's time I took from other book
      Than his a saving leaf;
    I'll do it--yes! I'll e'en confess,
      Like many a conscious thief.
    And on the whole, upon my soul,
      As Garnet used to teach,
    When human schemes are vain as dreams,
      'Tis always best to peach!

    "My mind's made up!" He drained the cup,
      Then straightway sate him down,
    Divulged the whole, whitewashed his soul,
      And saved the British crown:--
    Disclosed the walks of Guido Fawkes,
      And swore, with pious aim,
    That from the first he thought him cursed,
      And still opined the same.

    Poor Guido died, and Tresham eyed
      His dangling corpse on high;
    Yet no one durst reflect at first
      On him who played the spy.
    Did any want a Protestant,
      As stiff as a rattan,
    To rail at home 'gainst priests at Rome--
      Why, Tresham was their man!

    'Twas nothing though he'd kissed the Toe
      Abroad in various ways,
    Or managed rather that his wife's father
      Should bear the blame and praise.
    Yet somehow men, who knew him when
      He wooed the Man of Sin,
    Would slightly sneer, and whisper near,
      WHO ROLLED THE POWDER IN?

                 MORAL.

    If you, dear youth, are bent on truth
      In these degenerate days,
    And if you dare one hour to spare
      For aught but "Roman Lays;"
    If, shunning rhymes, you read the _Times_,
      And search its columns through,
    You'll find perhaps that Tresham's lapse
      Is matched by something new.

    Our champion John, with armour on,
      Is ready _now_ to stand
    (For so we hope) against the Pope,
      At least on English land.
    'Gainst foreign rule and Roman bull
      He'll fight, and surely win.
    But--tarry yet--and don't forget
      WHO ROLLED THE POWDER IN!



A LECTURE ON JOURNALISM.

BY AN OLD STAGER.


And so, Dick my boy, you are now on the staff of "our Special
Commissioners;" and you are going to favour the public with the
results of your investigations on the subjects of native industry,
free trade, wages, competition, and so forth? Well, it does good to
the heart of an aged veteran of the press like myself, to see the
sphere of our labours, as we used to call it, so capitally enlarged. It
shows me that people are rapidly getting rid of a good many idiotical
prejudices which stood in the way of social progress; and that they
don't care from what quarter their information comes, so that it is
properly spiced and made palatable to their taste. Upon my soul, Dick,
and without any humbug, I almost envy you your present position. Two
years ago when you came up to London, and were entered in the junior
reporting department, you knew as much about political economy as you
do of algebra, and would as soon have handled a red-hot poker as a
volume of parliamentary returns. And now they tell me that you are the
smartest hand going at statistics, and think no more of tossing off
an article on the Currency at a quarter of an hour's notice, than my
cook does of elaborating a pancake! Why, sir, you are a far greater
man than a peer of the realm, or a member of the House of Commons. You
are a whole committee in your own person, for you are going to take
evidence, just wherever you please, and to report upon it too, without
the remotest chance of contradiction. Help yourself, Dick, and pass the
decanter. Here is your very good health, and prosperity to the Fourth
Estate!

You intend to do your duty manfully and impartially? Of course, Dick,
you do. Nobody who has the pleasure of your acquaintance can doubt
it. Your virility is beyond all dispute, and how can you be otherwise
than impartial when you are writing up your own side? You are not
much of a lawyer, perhaps, but common sense will suggest the first
plain rules for leading evidence. Your employers want to show that
everybody is prospering under the cheerful influences of free trade.
They don't, of course, care twopence halfpenny whether their dogma
is right or wrong: they are committed to it, and that is enough.
They give you a certain allowance per week--I hope, by the way, it
is a handsome one--to prosecute your inquiries, and they intend that
the results shall be such as to justify their general assertion. And
no doubt they will justify it, Dick; for I say, and I care not who
knows it, that a cleverer, sharper, more acute and knowing dog than
yourself never dipped goose-quill into a standish. You need not blush
at the compliment. Was it not you who wrote that leader last week,
recommending the agriculturists to regulate their operations on the
same principle which is followed in the factories, and to look to
short and speedy returns as the best means of making money? Ha, ha,
ha! Dick--that certainly was a masterpiece! How the poor devils of
chaw-bacons must have stared when they heard you gravely recommending
them to raise three or four consecutive crops in the year, to turn
the seasons topsy-turvy, and to sow in August that they might reap in
January! No wonder that they are angry, for the best of the joke is,
that a number of people believed you. The Cockneys have got it into
their heads that wheat can be grown by machinery, and I, for one,
shan't be in any hurry to disabuse them. If I were you, I would give
them another leader or two in the same strain, insisting of course that
the agriculturists are a pack of infernal asses, who don't understand
the first principles of their own trade, and that Mechi, the razor-man,
is their only creditable apostle.

Never mind though it may be necessary for you soon to eat in your own
words. Between you and me, Dick--but don't let it go any farther--I
have been of opinion for some time back that Free-trade is a total
delusion. It may be bolstered up for a little longer, but it can't by
possibility last our time. There was too much lying and pulling and
quackery and braggadocio at the outset. I told Cobden so, at the time
when he was descanting upon the blessings of the cheap loaf, but he
would have his own way, and in his very next speech proposed to lay
Manchester alongside of the Mississippi! I said the same thing to
M'Gregor, but he would not be deterred from promising his hearers an
additional two millions per week. And a pretty kettle of fish he has
made of it! I am told that he dares not venture to show his face in
the Gorbals. You see, Dick, all that nonsense is telling confoundedly
against us just now. Wheat is down to zero, in so far as the profits
of cultivation are concerned. The farmers are wellnigh ruined--that is
plain beyond the power of contradiction, and in the course of another
year they will be utterly and effectually spouted. The artisans are
beginning to find out that cheap foreign bread means less labour and
lowered wages, and they complain that they are driven to the wall by
the free importation of foreign goods. If that notion once seizes hold
of their minds--and it is doing so rapidly--it won't be long before
they begin a tremendous agitation on the other side. Yes, Dick; the
Protectionists were right after all, and in the long run they will
carry their point with the general consent of the country. In the mean
time, however, thanks to Sir Robert Peel, we have got into office,
and we shall be consummate idiots if we don't make hay while the sun
shines. You are doing capital service, Dick, by throwing dust in
people's eyes. Keep it up as long as you can. Sneer at facts when you
can't answer them; distort evidence boldly; laugh down the idea of
retrogression; assume the existence of unexampled prosperity, in spite
of every testimony to the contrary; assert even in the face of hostile
elections and powerful gatherings, that the cause of Protection is dead
and coffined--and the odds are that you may still induce a good many
people to believe you. Stout averments, Dick, are capital things, and
the broader you can make them the better. I would advise you, though,
to be chary of statistics. They are dangerous weapons in the hands of
the inexperienced, and you may chance to break your own head, whilst
attempting to tomahawk your antagonist. But if you must use them, apply
to me or Heavywet. We have a prime stock on hand, carefully prepared
for service, and I think we could still put you up to a dodge or two.
By the way, who wrote that song upon Heavywet? You know the one I mean,
beginning with some such words as--

    "All in my den, I cooper up the figure-list,
    Which I've been working at a twelvemonth and a day.
    Where there was a lesser one I substitute a bigger list'
    Saying that the true bill is far, far away."

I wish you had seen Heavywet's face when young Fitztape of the Treasury
sang it in his presence on Tuesday last! The old fellow looked as
though the waiter had handed him verjuice instead of curaçoa.

I hope, Dick, you are not above receiving a hint from an old hand, who
has seen some service in his day. I am sure I have every reason to
acknowledge my infinite obligations to the pen which I have wielded
with more or less effect for wellnigh forty years, and which has
not only provided me with food and raiment, but with a snug patent
Government office, which makes me entirely independent of any change
of Ministry. These are the kind of prizes, Dick, which are open to us
literary men, who have the sense to adopt politics as a trade, and to
write up our party, without troubling ourselves about that fantastic
commodity which the parsons term conscience. I never could see why
a public writer should have a conscience any more than a lawyer.
The French fellows are better up to this, and don't even pretend to
its possession. And it must be acknowledged that they are allowed
occasionally far better chances than we have. Only fancy, Dick, you
and I members of a Provisional Government! Wouldn't we have a pluck at
Rothschild and the Bank? Don't your fingers itch at the bare idea of
such close contact with the feathers of the national pigeon? But it is
of no use indulging in those fairy dreams. And after all, I daresay
that neither Etienne Arago, nor Armand Marrast, nor Ferdinand Flocon,
nor Louis Blanc, are half so well off at the present moment as I am,
with my snug salary payable quarterly, and no arrears. It is better not
to be too ambitious, Dick, nor to overshoot the mark; for I have always
remarked that your most prominent men are precisely those who pocket
the least in the long-run. I am for your golden mediocrity, which
insures an easy berth, and the power of offering to a friend a cool
bottle of claret. You like the wine, Dick? Help yourself again; there's
more where that came from.

As I was saying, you should not despise a hint from an old hand.
We ancients may not be quite so smart as you moderns, but we are
tolerably good judges of the taking qualities of an article--we know,
by experience, the sort of thing which is likely to tickle the public
ear. Now, you will forgive me for saying, that in your late writings
you exhibit, now and then, certain marks of precipitancy, which it
might be as safe to avoid. What I mean to express is, that you are too
dashing--too daring--too ready to encounter your antagonist with his
own weapons. You assume the part of Achilles, instead of imitating the
example of Ulysses; you don't touch the Hospitaller's shield, though he
has the worst seat of the party, but you make your lance ring against
the buckler of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. This may be plucky, but it is
not wise. People may applaud you for your hardihood, but it is not a
pleasant thing to be chucked over your horse's croup, among shard, and
mire, and the general laughter of mankind. You made a great mistake
the other day in pitting yourself against Lord Stanley. You might have
known better. You were no more than a baby in the hands of the best
lance of the Temple; and the attempt only ended, as all must have
foreseen, in your own confusion. Don't be angry, Dick. I know you only
obeyed orders, but the result demonstrates, very clearly, the utter
imbecility of the clique under which you have had the misfortune to
serve.

You say you did not write the article about gestures and looks being
more expressive than words? I am aware you did not. I am talking to
a sensible man, and not to an irreclaimable idiot. It is no fault of
yours if the dunderheads, who find the money, will occasionally mistake
their vocation, and commit themselves by using the pen. Such things
are inevitable in journalism; and they are enough to sow the seeds of
decline in the bosom of a printer's devil. But you know very well,
notwithstanding, that you committed yourself most egregiously. You were
laughed at, Dick, and held up to scorn in every paper from Truro to
Caithness. And for what? Why, for attempting pertinaciously to maintain
that a statesman meant and said one thing, whereas he distinctly meant
and said another. Did you seriously expect to impose upon any one by
such a stale device as that--so palpable, and, moreover, so exceedingly
open to contradiction? You might as well expect the public to believe
that the Duke of Wellington has broken his neck on the hunting-field,
in the teeth of a letter from the Field-marshal announcing that he is
well and hearty. Yes; I know very well that John Bull is a gullible
animal, but not to the degree which you assume. You may state, if you
like, that the moon is made of green cheese; or, as some wiseacre
did the other day, that the electric telegraph is to be superseded
by the employment of magnetic snails; but you won't persuade any one
that Ferrand is a friend of Cobden, or that Sir Robert Inglis is a
Jesuit in disguise who is working for the supremacy of the Pope. By
the way, I was wrong in recommending you to persist in your averment
that Protection is dead and coffined. You have, I observe, of late
dedicated at least a couple of Jeremiads each week to that topic, and
there is a degree of ferocity coupled with the announcement revolting
to the feelings of a Christian. You should assume the fact, Dick;
not insist upon it in this absurd manner. If the old lady really is
under the sod, and beyond the power of resuscitation and the reach of
the resurrection-men, e'en let her repose in quiet. In that case she
can do you no further harm, and it would be but decent to give her
the benefit of a final forgiveness, or at all events to leave her to
oblivion. Queen Anne has been defunct for a good many years, but nobody
thinks it necessary to proclaim the fact weekly in a couple of leaders.
You differ from me, do you? Very well, then; carry on in your own way;
all I shall say is, that if your muttered conjurations don't evoke the
shade of the departed saint, in a shape that may appal you consumedly,
you run a mighty risk of calling a counterfeit into being. It is a good
maxim never to put forward anything which the public cannot readily
swallow.

I think that, in one respect, the modern system is decidedly preferable
to the older. Formerly, we used to combat arguments; now, I observe,
you evade them. This I hold to be a great improvement. In the first
place, it saves trouble both to the writer and the reader. It is
not always easy to reply to a fellow who knows his subject a great
deal better than you do. You have to follow him from point to point,
investigate his facts, controvert his reasoning, and take, in short,
such a world of trouble, as would render the life of a gentleman
journalist absolutely insupportable. Milton was occupied nearly a
year with one of his replies to Salmasius,--Selden, I believe, took a
longer time to double up his opponent Grotius. This is slow work, and
you cannot reasonably be expected to submit to it. If anything like
argument is to be brought forward, you are entitled to look for it in
the _Edinburgh Review_, though I do not intend by any means to assume
that your expectations will be realised in that quarter. Costive,
beyond the power of medicine, must be the man who battens on the hard
dough dumplings, dished up quarterly under cover of the Blue and
Yellow! But I forgot--you are not entirely with the Whigs, though you
agree with them as to commercial policy.

You do well, therefore, to avoid argument in all points that require
previous preparation and study. A general slashing style, without
condescending to particulars, is undoubtedly your forte, and I cannot
sufficiently admire your dexterity in avoiding a direct reply. You
have got hold of a capital phrase in answer to everything that can
be advanced against you. No matter how clearly your opponent may
have stated his case, no matter how distinct his logic, or how
incontrovertible his facts, you come down upon him with your pet cry
of "exploded fallacies," and extinguish him at once and for ever.
Very righteously you eschew the trouble of pointing out where, when,
and by whom, the said obnoxious fallacy was exploded. It is perfectly
possible--nay, in nine cases out of ten, absolutely certain, that you
never in your life heard that particular view stated before, and that
you do not comprehend it when stated; still, you continue to occupy
the vantage ground, and pooh-pooh it down as calmly as though it were
one of the Manchester unfulfilled prophecies. This is a pleasant
way of getting out of a dilemma; and the best of it is, that by
generalisation you may contrive to apply your epithet to every fact,
however notorious, which has been brought forward by your antagonist.
For instance, an indignant farmer writes you a letter enclosing a
balance-sheet of his operations for the last year, which shows that,
instead of making any profit, he is out of pocket some ninety or a
hundred pounds; and he argues, quite fairly, that if grain is to
continue at its present rate, in consequence of importations from
abroad, he will be a ruined man before the expiry of his lease, and
his labourers thrown out of employment. Six months ago, your answer
would have been hopeful, courteous, and encouraging. You would have
assured him that the present depression was merely temporary, and that
in the course of a short time wheat must be at sixty shillings. You
are wiser now. You are perfectly aware that any considerable rise in
the value of agricultural produce, under the operation of the present
law, is a pure impossibility; and you resort to no such assurance.
Three months later you would have told him to go to the devil or the
antipodes, whichever he pleased, and not bother the public with his
wicked and insensate clamour. But you are also tolerably aware, by
this time, that the public does not exactly approve of a wholesale
system of expatriation, however admirable it may appear in your eyes;
and that you have exposed yourself, by recommending it, to certain
reflections, which are not very creditable to your character either
as a philanthropist or a Christian. Nor can you much mend the matter
by insisting upon another pet phrase of yours, which did good service
so long as it was new. You cannot always aver that we are in "a
transition state" of society. In the first place, the expression, when
you analyse it, has no meaning. In the second place, granting that
it had a meaning, people are naturally anxious to know, what sort of
state of society is to be consequent on the "transition state"--a
piece of information which neither you nor any one else have it in
your power to supply. So that an ignorant or commonplace person,
who is not versed in the mysteries or resorts of journalism, may be
well excused for wondering in what possible way you can meet the
allegations of Mr Hawbuck. You cannot refuse to print his letter and
his statement, for, if you don't, somebody else will; and either you
lay yourself open to the charge of suppression, or it may be held that
you cannot frame an answer. How valuable, in such a position, is the
shield of "exploded fallacies!" You assume, in your commentary on the
letter, a tone of heartfelt commiseration, not for the circumstances,
but for the prejudices and benighted mental condition of the writer.
"We willingly give a place in our columns to the communication of Mr
Hawbuck, not on account of its intrinsic worth--not because it contains
any novel information--but because it is a fair specimen of that
state of intellectual depression and economical ignorance, which the
existence for so many years of a false protective system has unhappily
fostered, even among that class of agriculturists who are entitled to
the epithet of respectable. Here is a man who, from the general wording
and caligraphy of his letter, appears to have received the advantages
of an ordinary good education--a man who, by his own confession, is
the tenant of a farm for which he pays five hundred pounds a-year of
rent, and upwards--a man who, we doubt not, is most estimable in his
private relations, a kind husband, an indulgent father, and possibly a
considerate master--a man who, not improbably, is on good terms with
the squire, and, it may be, visits at the parsonage--and yet this very
individual, Mr Hawbuck, is complaining that he cannot make ends meet!
We shall not, at the present time, minutely question the accuracy of
his statements. These may be grossly exaggerated, or they may contain
nothing more than a simple narrative of the truth. Assuming the latter
to be the case, we ask our readers, with the most perfect confidence,
whether the whole of the argument which he has attempted to rear upon
such exceedingly slender foundations, is not, from beginning to end,
a tissue of exploded fallacies? Here we have the whole question of
British taxation brought forward, as if it was something new. Hawbuck
ought to know better. His father was taxed before him, and so, we doubt
not, were several antecedent generations of Hawbucks, supposing that
the family lays claim to a respectable agricultural antiquity. Hawbuck
junior--who, we hope, will have more sense than his father--must make
up his mind, in future years, to contribute his quota to the national
burdens, in return for which we receive the inestimable blessings
of good government, [O Dick!] sound legislation, and impartial
administration of the laws. Then Mr Hawbuck, as a matter of course,
acting upon the invariable example of the writers and orators of that
unhappy faction to which he has the misfortune to belong, drags in the
'foreigner,' just as the Dugald creature is dragged into the hut at
Aberfoil by the soldiers of Captain Thornton. This is another exploded
fallacy, which we had fondly hoped was set to rest for ever. It seems
we were mistaken. Mr Hawbuck cannot dispense with the 'foreigner.'
He haunts him ever and anon in the silence of the night like the
Raw-head-and-bloody-bones of the nursery, or like the turnip lantern
placed on the churchyard wall by some juvenile agricultural humourist.
Really it is very distressing that any one should be so persecuted by
a phantom which is the pure growth of mental apprehension and disease.
Mr Hawbuck certainly ought to consult his medical adviser; or, if
distance and the embarrassed state of his affairs preclude him from
applying to the village Galen, perhaps he will allow us to prescribe
for him. A good dose of purgative medicine twice a-week, moderate
diet, abstinence from intoxicating liquors, and change of scene--we
would suggest a visit to Mr Mechi's farm of Tiptree--will work wonders
with our patient. But he must beware of all excitement. He must on
no account attend any gatherings where Mr Ferrand is a speaker, and
he had better refrain from passing his evenings at the Agricultural
Club. He will thus be able to effect considerable retrenchment in
his expenditure by avoiding beer, and Mrs Hawbuck will love him none
the less. By attending to these few simple rules, we are convinced
that a radical cure may be effected. We shall then hear no more of Mr
Hawbuck's complaints, nor will it be necessary again to reprehend him
for the adoption of exploded fallacies. We shall not do the farmers of
Great Britain the injustice to suppose that this gentleman is a type of
their class. We regard him simply as an honest, easy-natured, but very
credulous person, who has been unfortunately imbued with false notions
of political economy, and used as a tool in the hands of others to
promote their interested designs."

There, Dick, is a leader for you cut and dry; and I think you must
admit that it will answer every purpose. In the first place, you won't
hear any more of Hawbuck. Men of his class cannot bear to be laughed
at, so that his only revenge will be a muttered vow to break your head,
if it should ever come knowingly within the sweep of his cudgel. In
the second place, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you
have raised a laugh, which is at all times equivalent to a triumph in
argument. The majority of your readers will esteem you a very clever
fellow, and henceforward the name of Hawbuck will be the signal for
general cachinnation. It is quite true that Hawbuck's statement is in
no way refuted, or the cause of his distress investigated--but how can
you possibly be expected to occupy your time with his affairs? As a
"special commissioner," indeed, you may treat him more minutely. You
may pry into his pigsty, investigate his stable, criticise his mode of
drainage, disapprove of his rotation of crops, inquire into the wages
which he pays, and decidedly object to his turnips. You may hold him
up as a lamentable victim of that species of wretched farming which,
under the baneful shadow of protection, could do no more than render
British agriculture by far the finest and the most productive in the
world. You may exhort him to lay out more capital--you need not care
about the amount, as he is not likely to ask you for a loan, nor would
you be willing to advance it, if he did, on such dubious security; and
you may abuse him as an obstinate ass, because he does not plough with
a steam-engine. All this you may do with impunity, (provided you never
visit the district again;) and you will be hailed by your own party
as a genuine national benefactor, and as an oracle of agricultural
progress. But don't mix up the two characters--that is, keep statistics
for your report, and general assertions for your leading article.
Hold hard by the doctrine of "exploded fallacies." It will apply
to everything, and every system, which was ever hatched under the
influence of the sun. You may adapt the term to physics quite as
appropriately as to opinions. If you are inclined to set forward as an
exploded fallacy the dogma that climate has any influence upon crops,
you are perfectly entitled to do so, on the authority of the Huxtables
of the present generation.

But I fear that I am exhausting your patience, and, as it is now
rather late, I shall merely add a word of personal advice. Never
attempt to rear up your independent judgment against the wishes of
your proprietors. In ordinary times this caution might be unnecessary,
since few men are sincerely desirous to quarrel with their bread and
butter. But there is a foolish spirit of insubordination visible just
now on the surface of society, against which you ought to guard. Young
men are beginning to fashion out opinions for themselves. The old
traditional landmarks are not sufficient for their guidance; and I,
who am a veteran in politics, find myself not unfrequently bearded
by some pert whippersnapper, just escaped from school, who is now
setting up, as the phrase is, on his own hook, as an earnest man and a
patriot, and who probably expects before long to hold office in that
new Downing Street which has been so seductively prophesied by the
blatant seer of Ecclefechan. I need hardly tell you, Dick, that this
is all mere moonshine--pure flatulency, superinduced by a vegetable
diet upon a stomach naturally feeble. If you wish to see the results
of young independent journalism, you have only to step over to the
Continent. I have been watching the progress of events there with
considerable interest for the last three years, and my only wonder is,
how several scores of able German editors have managed to escape the
gallows. You see what a pass they have arrived at in France. Nobody is
allowed to write an article in the most paltry paper without affixing
his name; and the consequence is, that journalism, as a profession, is
terribly on the decline. I don't like this, I own. I wish to see its
respectability kept up, and its decencies preserved; and I don't think
that can be accomplished by the suppression of the editorial We. People
are very anxious to know what are the opinions of a leading London
journal upon any given point, but I question if they would pay twopence
to ascertain what Jenkins, or Larkins, or Perkins may please to
think, should the names of these gentlemen appear at the end of their
respective lucubrations. Therefore, Dick, stand up for your order, and
do not be led astray by the impulses of individual vanity. Dismiss all
egotism from your mind, and keep in your proper place. Supposing that
you have achieved any notable feat of arms, rest contented with the
consciousness thereof, and don't run about telling the whole world that
it was you who did it. Benvenuto Cellini would have been a precious ass
had he stated during his lifetime that it was he who shot the Constable
Bourbon. He was wiser, and kept the statement for his memoirs. This
would be no world to live in if reviewers were obliged to give up their
names. Fancy Hawbuck at your door, or lurking round the corner, armed
with a pitchfork or a flail! The bare idea is enough to make one's
blood curdle in the veins. Far rather would I evacuate my premises in
the full knowledge that two suspicious gentlemen of the tribe of Gad
were waiting to capture me on a writ.

And now, Dick, good night. You see I have used my privilege of
seniority pretty freely; but you are not the lad I take you for, if you
are offended at a friendly hint. By the way, how do you intend to come
out on the Catholic question--strong or mild? Are you going to back up
Lord John Russell's "noble letter" to the Bishop of Durham?--or do you
intend to twit him with his support of Maynooth, his acknowledgment
in Ireland of the territorial titles of the Papist bishops, and the
rank which he has given them in the Colonies? You don't like to commit
yourself, I suppose? Ah, well; perhaps you are right. But this I
will say for Lord John, that whatever may be his capabilities as a
statesman, he would have made a first-rate editor. Upon my conscience,
sir, I believe that there never lived the man who had a finer finger
for the public pulse. He knows to a scruple the amount of stimulants
or purgatives which the British constitution will bear; and the moment
that the patient becomes uneasy, he changes his mode of treatment. I
should like to see Shiel's countenance when he reads the letter. I have
no doubt that by this time he is convinced that he might have saved
himself the trouble of excising _Dei Gratia_ from the coinage, and that
his tarry in Tuscany will hardly give him a complete opportunity of
studying the relics of ancient art. Seriously, Dick, I look upon the
almost unanimous opinion expressed by the British press, with regard to
this insolent Roman aggression, as by far the best and surest symptom
of its vitality.



THE GREAT UNKNOWN.

A JEST FROM THE GERMAN.


It was a bright afternoon in the beginning of October, and the
little town of Miffelstein lay basking in the genial sunbeams. But
its streets, generally so cheerful, were upon that day solitary. The
town seemed deserted, and its unusual aspect evidently surprised a
pedestrian, who ascended the steep slope of the main street, and
gazed curiously about him, without perceiving a single face at the
windows. Everything was shut up. No children played on the thresholds;
no inquisitive serving wench peeped from door or garret: some fowls
were picking up provender in the road, and a superannuated dog blinked
and slumbered in the sun; but of human beings none were to be seen.
In seeming perplexity the traveller shook his head. Then--not with
the hesitating step of a stranger in the land, but with firm and
confident strides--he walked straight to the principal inn, whose
doors stood invitingly open upon the market-place. Like one familiar
with the locality, he turned to his left beneath the entrance archway,
and ascended the stairs leading directly to the coffee-room. The
coffee-room was empty. A waiter, who sat reading in the bar, welcomed
the new comer with a slight nod, but did not otherwise disturb his
studies.

"God bless you, old boy!" cheerfully exclaimed the traveller, casting
from his shoulders a handsome knapsack; "just see if you can manage
to leave your chair. I am no travelling tailor or tinker, but the
long-lost Alexis, returned from his wanderings, and well disposed to
make himself comfortable in his uncle's house."

With an exclamation of joyful surprise, the old servant sprang from his
seat, and grasped the hand of the unexpected guest.

"Thanks, my honest old friend," replied the young man to his
affectionate greeting, "and now tell me at once what the deuce has
come over Miffelstein? Has the plague been here, or the Turks? Are
the worthy Miffelsteiners all gathered to their fathers, or are they
imitating the southerns, and snoring the siesta?"

The waiter hastened to explain that the great harvest feast was being
celebrated at a short distance from the town, and that the entire
population of Miffelstein had flocked thither, with the exception of
the bedridden and the street keepers; and of his master, and the young
mistress, he added, the former of whom was detained by business, and
the latter was dressing herself, but who both would follow the stream
before half-an-hour was over.

"True!" cried Alexis, striking his forehead with his finger: "I have
almost forgotten my native village, with its vintage and harvest joys;
and I much fear it returns the ill compliment in kind. I can pass my
time, however, till my worthy uncle and fair cousin are visible. Bring
me something to eat: I am both hungry and thirsty."

"What cellar and kitchen contain is at your honour's service," replied
the waiter. "We had no strangers at table to-day, but cold meat is
there; and, if it so please you, some kail-soup shall be instantly
warmed."

"Kail-soup," said Alexis with a smile; "none of that, thank you. Cold
meat--_bene_. But don't forget the cellar."

"Assuredly not. Whatever your honour pleases. A flask of sack, or a jug
of ale?"

"Sack! sack!--Miffelstein sack!" cried Alexis, laughing heartily.
"Anything you like. Only be quick about it."

Whilst the waiter hurried to the larder, Alexis examined the apartment,
which struck him as strangely altered since his boyish days. The old
familiar furniture had disappeared, and was replaced by oaken tables,
stools, and settees of rude and outlandish construction. The shining
sideboard had made way for an antiquated worm-eaten piece of furniture
with gothic carvings. Altogether the cheerful dining-room had undergone
an odd change. The walls were papered with views of bleak mountain
scenery, dismal lakes and turreted castles, enlivened here and there
with groups of Scottish peasantry. The curtains, of many-coloured
plaid, were not very elegant, and contrasted strangely with the long
narrow French windows. "What on earth does it all mean?" exclaimed
the puzzled Alexis. Just as he asked himself the question, the waiter
entered the room, with a countenance of extraordinary formality,
bearing meat and wine upon a silver salver. This he placed before him
with an infinity of ceremonious gestures and grimaces.

"Your lordship will graciously put up with this poor refreshment," he
said. "The beef is as tender as if it came from the king's table, (God
bless him;) the sack, or rather the claret, is of the best vintage. The
kail-soup would hardly have been forthcoming; for although the cook is
kept at home by a cold, she is reading, and cannot leave her book. And
now, if it will pleasure your lordship, I will play you a tune upon the
bagpipes."

In mute and open-mouthed astonishment, Alexis stared at the speaker.
But the old man's earnest countenance, and a movement he made to fetch
the discordant instrument, restored to him his powers of speech.

"For heaven's sake!" he cried, "Tobias! stop, come hither, and tell me
if you have lost your senses! Lordship! claret! A cook who can't leave
her book! A bagpipe! Tobias! what has come to you?"

"Ah, Mr Alexis!" said the old fellow, suddenly exchanging his quaint
and ceremonious bearing for a plaintive simplicity of manner, "to say
the truth, I hardly know myself what has come to me. But pray don't
call me Tobias before the master. Caleb has been my name now for a
matter of three years. Master and the customers would have it so."

"Caleb?"

"Yes, my dear Mr Alexis. I and the inn were rebaptised on the same
day. I am sorry for both of us, but I am only the servant, and what
everybody pleases--"

Alexis pushed open the window and thrust out his head. "True, by all
that's ridiculous!" he exclaimed, turning to the rebaptised waiter;
"the old Star hangs there no longer. What is your house called now?"

"The Bear of Bradwardine; and since that has been its name, and
everything in it has been so transmogrified, the place is full of
strangers, particularly of English, who throng us in the summer. And
there's such laughing and tomfoolery, that at times I'm like to go
crazy. They stare at old Caleb as if he himself were the Bear, laugh
in his face, and apologise by a handsome tip. That would be all very
well, but the neighbours laugh at the master and the inn, and at me
and Susan, whose name is now Jenny, and never think of putting hand in
pocket to make amends. But what can I do, Mr Alexis? Master is wilful,
and I'm sixty. If he discharged me, who would give old Tobias--Caleb, I
mean--his daily bread?"

"I would, old fellow," replied Alexis heartily; "I would, Tobias.
You've saved me a thrashing for many a prank, and were always kinder to
me than my own uncle, who sometimes forgot that I was his sister's son.
If ever you want, and I have a crust, half is yours. But go on, I do
not yet understand--"

Tobias cast a timid glance at the door, and then continued, but in a
lower tone than before.

"Three years ago," he said, "the mistress died, and soon afterwards
things began to go badly. Your uncle neglected the house, and at last,
if we had one customer a-day, and three or four on Sundays, we thought
ourselves well off. It was all along of books. Every week there came
a great parcel from the next town, and master read them through and
through, and then the young lady, and then master often again. He
neither ate, nor drank, nor slept: he read. That may have made him
learned, but it certainly did not make him rich. One day, when things
were at the worst, a stranger came to the inn, and wrote himself down
in the book as an Englishman. He it was who turned master's head. The
first night they sat up talking till morning; all next day and the
day after that, they were poring over books. Then the folly began;
everything must be changed--house and furniture, sign and servants.
They say the Englishman gave your uncle money for the first expenses.
If everything had gone according to his and master's fancy, you would
have found us all in masquerade. The clothes were made for us just
like yonder figures on the paper. But we only wore them one day. The
blackguards in the street were nigh pulling down the house, and"--here
Tobias again lowered his voice--"Justice Stapel sent word to master
that he might make as great a fool of himself as he pleased, but that
he must keep his servants in decent Christian-like clothing. So we got
back to our hose and jackets. The Englishman, when he returned the
following spring, and a whole lot of people with him, made a great
fuss, and scolded and cursed, and said that we upon the Continent were
a set of miserable slaves, and that it was a man's natural right to
dress as he liked--or not at all, if it so pleased him. For my part,
slave or no slave, I was very glad Justice Stapel had more power
here than the mad Englishman. As it was, I had to learn to play the
bagpipes; and Jenny had to learn to cook as they do in England or
Scotland; and we all had to learn to speak as they speak in master's
books, eight pages of which we are obliged to read every day. Jenny
likes the books, and says they are better fun than cooking: for my
part, I can make nothing of them, and always forget one day what I
learned the----"

The old man paused in great trepidation, for just then the door opened,
and a beautiful girl, attired in gorgeous Scottish tartans, entered the
room.

"Emily! dear cousin!" cried Alexis, springing to meet the blooming
damsel, "though eighteen years instead of nine had elapsed since we
parted, I still should have recognised your bright blue eyes." Bright
the eyes certainly were, and at that moment they sparkled with surprise
and pleasure at the wanderer's return; but before Alexis had concluded
his somewhat boisterous greetings, their brightness was veiled by an
expression of melancholy, and the momentary flush upon the maiden's
cheek was replaced by a pallid hue, which seemed habitual, but
unnatural. The change did not escape the cousin's observant glance, and
he pressed her with inquiries as to its cause. At first he obtained no
reply but a sigh and a faint smile. His solicitude would not be thus
repelled.

"Upon my word, cousin," he said, "I leave you no peace till you tell
what is wrong. I see very well that, during my absence, house and
furniture, master and servants, have all been turned upside down. But
what can have caused this change in you? Have you too been rebaptised?
Has the barbarous Englishman driven you too through the wilderness of
his countryman's romances? Have you been compelled, like this poor
devil, to swallow Redgauntlet in daily doses, like leaves of senna?
Speak out, dear cousin, my old friend and playmate. Assuredly, I
little expected to find you still Miss Wirtig. Ere now, I thought
some fortunate Jason, daring and deserving, would have borne away the
treasure from the Miffelstein Colchis."

Emily cast a side-glance at Tobias, who stood at a short distance,
listening to their conversation with an air of respectful sympathy.
As if taking a hint, the old man left the apartment. When Emily again
turned to her cousin, her eyes glistened with tears.

"Dear Emily," said Alexis, laying aside his headlong bantering tone,
and speaking earnestly and affectionately, "place confidence in me,
and rely on my zeal to serve you and desire to see you happy. True, I
left this house clandestinely, because your father would have made a
tradesman of me, when my head was full of Euclid and Vitruvius, and my
fingers itched to handle scale and compasses. But it is not the worst
sort of deserter who returns voluntarily to his regiment. Think not ill
of me therefore, and confide to me your sorrows. It is nearly three
years since William Elben wrote to me that he hoped speedily to take
you home as his bride. But now I see that he deceived me."

"William spoke the truth," the maiden hastily replied; "the hope was
then justified. He had my consent, and my father did not object. But
fate had otherwise decreed. The author of _Waverley_ is the evil
genius who prevents our union and causes our unhappiness."

"The devil he does!" cried Alexis, starting back.

"Alas! good cousin," continued Emily sentimentally, "who knows how the
threads of our destiny are spun!"

"They are not spun in the study at Abbotsford, at any rate," cried the
impetuous Alexis. "But it is all gibberish to me. Our neighbours beyond
the Channel have certainly sometimes had a finger in our affairs, but I
never knew till now that their novelist's permission was essential to
the marriage of a Miffelstein maiden and a Miffelstein attorney. But--"

He was interrupted by Tobias, who threw open the door with much
unnecessary noise, and thrust in his head with an ominous winking of
his eyes, and a finger upon his lips. The next moment the innkeeper
entered the room.

Alexis found his uncle grown old, but he was more particularly struck
by his strange stiff manners, which resembled those of Caleb, but
were more remarkable in the master than the servant, by reason of
the solemn and magnificent style in which they were manifested. Herr
Wirtig welcomed his nephew with infinite dignity; let fall a few words
of censure with reference to his flight from home, a few others of
approbation of his return, and inquired concerning the young man's
present plans and occupations.

"I am an architect and engineer," replied Alexis. "My assiduity has won
me friends; I have learnt my craft under good masters, and have done my
best to complete my education during my travels in Italy, France, and
England."

"England?" cried Wirtig, pricking his ears at the word: "Did you visit
Scotland?"

With a suppressed smile, Alexis replied in the negative. His uncle
shrugged his shoulders with an air of pity. "And what prospects have
you?" he inquired.

"Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim has given me a lucrative appointment
in his dominions. Before assuming its duties, I have come to pass a few
days here, and trust I am welcome."

Wirtig shook his nephew's hand.

"Welcome you are!" said he, kindly. "Hospitality is the attribute of
the noblest races. So long it please ye, remain under this poor roof.
By the honour of a cavalier! I would gladly have you with me in the
spring, when I think of rebuilding my house on a very different plan.
You will find many changes here, kinsman Alexis. Come, fill your glass.
A health to the Great Unknown! He has been my good genius. But we will
talk of that on our way to the harvest feast."

The innkeeper's conversation on the road to the hamlet, where the
festival was held, was in complete accordance with Caleb's account of
his vagaries. He was perfectly mad on the subject of the author of
_Waverley_. Never had human being, whether sage, poet, or philosopher,
made so extraordinary an impression on an admirer as had the poet
of Abbotsford on the host of the Star--now the Bear of Bradwardine.
Wirtig identified himself with all the most striking characters of the
Scottish novels. He assumed the tone by turns of a stern Presbyterian,
a gossiping and eccentric antiquary, a haughty noble, an enthusiastic
royalist, a warlike Highland chief. His intense study of the Waverley
Novels, at a time when he was much shaken by his wife's sudden death,
had warped his mind upon this particular subject. Combined with this
monomania was a feeling of boundless gratitude to the Scottish bard for
the prosperity the inn had enjoyed under the auspices of the Blessed
Bear. His portrait hung in the dining-room, where his birthday was
annually celebrated. Wirtig scarcely ever emptied a glass but to his
health, or uttered a sentence without garnishing it with his favourite
oaths and expressions. In his hour of sorrow, the honest German had
made himself a new world out of the novelist's creations. The sorrow
faded away, but the illusion remained. And Wirtig deeply resented
every attempt to destroy it. Emily's lover, Elben, a thriving young
attorney, had dared to attack the daily increasing folly of his future
father-in-law, and had boldly taken the field against his Scottish
idol. He paid dearly for his temerity. Argument sharpened into irony,
and irony led to a quarrel, whose consequence was a sentence of
banishment from the territory of the Clan Wirtig, pronounced against
the unlucky lover, who then heartily bewailed his rashness--the more so
that, whilst he himself was excluded from the presence of his mistress,
he was kept in constant alarm lest some one of the numerous English
visitors to the Bear of Bradwardine should seduce her affections, and
bear her off to his island. In vain did he endeavour, through mutual
friends, to mollify Scott's furious partisan; in vain did Emily, in
secret concert with her lover, exert all her powers of coaxing. At last
Wirtig declared he would no longer oppose their union when Elben should
have atoned for his crime by presenting him with a novel from his own
pen, written in the exact style of that stupendous genius whom the rash
attorney had dared to vilify. Elben was horrified at this condition,
but nevertheless, remembering that love works miracles, and has even
been known to make a tolerable painter out of a blacksmith, he did not
despair. He shut himself up with a complete edition of the Waverley
novels, read and re-read, wrote, altered, corrected, and finally tore
up his manuscripts. A hundred times he was on the point of abandoning
the task in despair; a hundred times, stimulated by the promised
recompense, he resumed his pen. But his labour was fruitless. A year
elapsed; he had consumed sundry reams of paper, bottles of ink, and
pounds of canister; the result was _nil_. The time allowed him expired
at the approaching Christmas. Poor Emily's cheeks had lost their roses
through anxiety and suspense. The Miffelstein gossips pitied her,
abused her father, and laughed at Elben.

These latter details did not reach Alexis through either his uncle
or his cousin. The former, on casual mention of the attorney's name,
looked as grim as the most truculent Celt that ever carried claymore;
in her father's presence Emily--or Amy, as the Scotomaniac now called
her--dared not even allude to her lover. Elben himself, whom Alexis
encountered gliding like a pale and melancholy ghost amidst the throng
of holiday-makers, confided to his former school-mate the story of his
woes. Alexis alternately pitied and laughed at him.

"Poor fellow!" said he, "how can I help you? I am no novelist, to write
your book for you, nor yet a magnificent barbarian from the Scottish
hills, to snatch your mistress from her father's tyranny and bear her
to your arms amidst the soft melodies of the bagpipe. I see nothing for
it but to give her up."

Elben looked indignant at the coldblooded suggestion.

"You do not understand these matters," said he, with an expression of
disdain.

"Possibly not," replied Alexis, "but only reflect--you a
romance-writer!"

Elben sighed. "True," he said, "it is a hopeless case. How many nights
have I not sat in the moonlight upon the ruins of the old castle, to
try and catch a little inspiration. I never caught anything but a cold.
How many times have I stolen disguised into the lowest pot-houses,
where it would ruin my reputation to be recognised, to acquire the
popular phraseology. And yet I am no further advanced than a year ago!"

To the considerable relief of Alexis, the despairing lover was here
interrupted by the explosion of two little mortars; a shower of squibs
and rockets flew through the air, and the women crowded together in
real or affected terror. In the rush, the two friends were separated,
and Alexis again found himself by the side of old Wirtig, who was
soothing the alarm of his timorous daughter. "Fear nothing, good Amy,"
he said; "danger there is none." Then turning to Alexis: "Cousin!" said
he solemnly, "by our dear Lady of Embrun! yon was a report! the loudest
ever made by mortar. The explosion of the steamboat which yesterday
blew Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim and his whole court into the
air, could scarcely have been louder."

"Nay, nay," said Alexis, "things were not quite as bad as that. Rumour
has exaggerated, as usual. No one was blown into the air--no one even
wounded. The steamboat which the prince had launched on the lake near
his capital, was certainly lost, in consequence of the badness of the
machinery. But the prince and all on board had left the vessel in good
time. The slight service it was my good fortune to render, by taking
off Prince Hector in a swift row-boat, doubtless procured me, more
than any particular abilities of mine, my appointment as his royal
highness's architect."

The bystanders looked with redoubled respect at the man thus preferred
by the popular sovereign of the adjacent state. The sentimental Emily
lisped her congratulations. Her father shook his nephew vehemently by
the hand.

"By St Dunstan! kinsman," he cried, "it was well done, and I dare swear
thou art as brave a lad as ever handled oar! Give me the packet of
squibs; Amy, thou shall see me fire one in honour of thy cousin Alexis!"

The firework, unskilfully thrown, lodged in the coat skirts of a
stout broad-shouldered man in a round hat and a long brown surtout,
who was elbowing his way through the crowd. The stranger, evidently a
foreigner, strove furiously against the hissing sputtering projectile,
and at last succeeded in throwing it under his feet and trampling
it out with his heavy boot-soles. Then, brandishing a formidable
walking-cane, and grumbling most ominously, he began to work his way as
fast as a slight lameness in one of his feet permitted, to the place
where Wirtig was blowing his match and preparing for another explosion.
Emily called her father's attention to the stranger's hostile
demonstrations, but the valiant host of the Bear of Bradwardine heeded
them not. From time immemorial, he said, it had been use and custom
at Miffelstein harvest-home to burn people's clothes with squibs, and
he certainly should not, in the year of grace 1827, set an example of
deviation from so venerable a practice. When, however, he distinguished
some well-known English oaths issuing from the stranger's lips--and
when Caleb came up and whispered in his ear that the traveller had
alighted at the Bear, and, finding himself lonely, had demanded to
be conducted to the festival--the worthy innkeeper regretted that he
had directed his broadside against the stern of a natural ally, and
seemed disposed to make due and cordial apology. After some cursing
and grumbling in English, the stranger's wrath was appeased, and in a
sort of Anglo-German jargon, he declared himself satisfied. He said
some civil things to Emily, took a seat by her side, abused the squib
and rocket practice, praised his host's wine, and made himself at home.
Wirtig's attention seemed greatly engrossed by the new comer, whom he
examined with the corner of his eye, taking no further part in the
diversions of the festival, and quite omitting to observe the furtive
glances exchanged between his daughter and Elben, who lurked in the
vicinity.

Presently Alexis, who had been overwhelmed by the greetings of old
acquaintances and playmates, returned to his uncle's party. He started
at sight of the Englishman.

"How now!" he exclaimed; "you here, my good sir? By what chance?"

The stranger evidently shared the young man's surprise at their
meeting. Hastily quitting his seat, he took Alexis by the arm, and
led him out of the throng. At a short distance off, but out of all
earshot, Wirtig saw them walking up and down, the Englishman talking
and gesticulating with great earnestness, Alexis listening with smiling
attention. The host of the Bear sat in deep thought, his eyes riveted
upon the Englishman.

"Caleb," he suddenly demanded of the old waiter, who was moistening
his larynx with a mug of cider--"Caleb, how came yon gentleman to our
hostelry?"

"On horseback, Master Wirtig," replied Caleb, mustering up his
reminiscences of the _Tales of my Landlord_, "on a gallant bay gelding.
His honour wore spatterdashes, such as they wear to hunt the fox, I
believe, in his country. His cane hung from his button; and if it so
please ye, Master Wirtig, I will describe his horse furniture as well
as my poor old memory will permit."

"Enough!" said Wirtig, impatiently. "Whence comes the traveller, and
whither is he bound?"

Caleb shrugged his shoulders.

"Has he written his name in the strangers' book?"

"He has so, Master Wirtig, after long entreaty; for at first he
steadfastly refused. At last he wrote it. 'Let none see this,' he said,
'save your master; and let _him_ be discreet, or--'"

"Glorious!" interrupted Wirtig, and, in the joy of his heart, was near
embracing his astonished servant. "I had a presentiment of it, but
say--his name?"

Caleb looked embarrassed. "You alone were to see it, Master Wirtig, and
I--you know I am not very good at reading writing. I looked into the
book, but--"

"How looked the word, fellow?"

"To me it looked a good deal like a blot."

"Now, by St Bennet of Seyton! thou art the dullest knave that ever wore
green apron! How many letters?"

Caleb scratched his head. "Hard to say exactly; but not more than five,
I would wager that."

"FIVE! Varlet, thou rejoicest me. Heavens! that such good fortune
should be mine! Run, man, run as you never ran before! Bid Jenny kill,
roast and boil! A great supper! Scottish cookery! The oak-table shall
groan with its load of sack, ale, and whisky. Let Quentin put the
horses to, and fetch us with the carriage. Rob Roy must go round to
all the best houses, and invite the neighbours. Tell Rowena to leave
the goats, and help Jenny in the kitchen. By my halidome! I had almost
forgotten. Old Edith must sweep out the ballroom, and Front-de-Boeuf
put wax-lights in the chandeliers. Go! run! fly!"

Caleb disappeared. In his place came a crowd of the innkeeper's friends
and gossips. "What now? What is up?" was asked on all sides. And Wirtig
exultingly replied:--"A feast! a banquet! such as the walls of the Bear
of Bradwardine never yet beheld. For they are this day honoured by
the presence of the most welcome guest that ever trod the streets of
Miffelstein. Wine shall flow like water, and there's welcome to all the
world."

Breaking through the inquisitive throng, Wirtig hurried to meet Alexis,
who was now returning alone from his mysterious conference with the
stranger.

"Well?" cried the uncle, with beaming countenance and expanded eyes.

"Well?" coolly replied the nephew.

"Is it he, or is it not?"

"Who?"

"Who? Now, by the soul of St Edward! thou hast sworn to drive me mad.
You say you have not been in Scotland? Was it in Paris you knew him? Or
do you think I am blind? Is not that his noble Scottish countenance?
the high cheek-bones--the sharp gray eyes--the large mouth, and the
bold expression? And then the lame foot, and five letters! What would
you have more?"

"Really, uncle, I would have nothing more."

"Obstinate fellow! you will explain nothing! But the portrait, the
face, the five letters--your mystery is useless--the secret is out--the
stranger is--Scott!"

"Scott!" cried Alexis, greatly surprised. "How do you know that?"

"Enough! I know it. 'Tis the Great Unknown! Shame on you, Alexis, to
try to deceive your uncle! Tell the great man, with whom you, unworthy
that you are, have been so fortunate as to make acquaintance, that his
_incognito_ shall be respected, as surely as I bear an English heart in
my bosom. By the rood, shall it! For all Miffelstein he shall be the
Unknown. But I crave his good leave to celebrate his coming."

"I will answer for his making no objection," replied Alexis, who
apparently struggled with some inward emotion, for his voice was
tremulous, his face very red, and his eyes were steadfastly fixed on
the toes of his boots.

"Answer for yourself, Sir Architect!" said his uncle, somewhat sharply.
Then, in a lower and confidential tone, "Where is the immortal genius?"
he inquired.

"If I mistake not," replied Alexis, "I see him yonder, eating curds and
pumpernickel."

"Ah, the great man!" ejaculated Wirtig; "to condescend to food so
unworthy of his illustrious jaws. And see, he is about to fire off
the mortar! Engaging familiarity! Boom! The loudest report to-day!
The piece is mine, though it cost me a thousand florins! It shall be
christened Walter Scott!"

"Hush, hush!" interposed Alexis; "if you go on in this way, the
incognito will be in danger. And he himself must not perceive that
you--"

"True!" interrupted the excited Wirtig, clapping his hand on his lips.
"Ah, could I but speak Gaelic, or even English, the better to commune
with the inspired bard! But he has translated _Goetz von Berlichingen_,
so must understand the pure German of Miffelstein. But now tell me,
Alexis, in strict confidence, how comes the first of the world's
poets in our poor village? Has he, perchance, heard of the Bear of
Bradwardine, and of his faithful clansman, John Jacob Wirtig? Or does
he seek subject for a new romance, and propose to place his hero at
Miffelstein, as he conducted Durward to Plessis-les-Tours, and the
brave knight Kenneth to Palestine?"

"Neither the one nor the other, my dear uncle, unfortunately for
us," replied Alexis thoughtfully, and pausing between his sentences.
"Trusting to your discretion, and to convince you of its necessity, I
will not conceal from you that a great peril has brought the Author
of Waverley to Miffelstein. You must know that he has just published
an historical romance, in which, availing himself of the novelist's
license, he has represented Charlemagne and Henry the Fourth of France
vanquished in single combat by William Wallace and Robert the Bruce.
A French general, taking offence at this, has insisted upon his
retracting the statement, or fighting a duel with blunderbusses at six
paces. Of course a man of honour cannot retract--"

"Of course not! Never did Scottish chief so demean himself! I see it
all. The ---- Unknown has shot the general, and--"

"On the contrary, uncle. He does not want to be shot by the general,
and that is why he is here, where none will look for him."

"What!" cried the host of the Bear, taken very much aback; "but that
looks almost like--like a weakness, unknown to his heroes, who so
readily bare their blades! I scarcely understand how--"

"You misapprehend me," interrupted Alexis: "the baronet only asks to
put off the duel until he has finished a dozen novels, each in three
volumes, which he has in progress. And as the Vandal refuses to wait--"

"I see it all!" cried Wirtig, perfectly satisfied: "the Unknown
is right. What! the base Frenchman would rob the world of twelve
masterpieces! Not so. In Miffelstein is safe hiding for the Genius of
his century. _Montjoie_, and to the rescue! Let him wrap himself in his
plaid, and fear no foe! I will cover him with my target, and my life
shall answer for his! Where should he find refuge, if not in the shadow
of the Bear?"

Meanwhile, taking advantage of Wirtig's relaxed vigilance, Elben had
stolen to Emily's side.

"What is the matter with your father to-day?" said the lovesick
attorney to his mistress, when Wirtig and Alexis walked away in the
direction of the mortar, and the crowd that had assembled round the
host of the Bear dispersed, laughing and shaking their heads. "What new
crotchet possesses him, and whence comes his extraordinary excitement
and exultation?"

Emily pressed her lover's hand, and the tears stood in her sentimental
blue eyes.

"William," she said, "I greatly fear that all is over with our dearest
hopes. I am oppressed with a presentiment of misfortune. My father
is about to execute an oft-repeated threat. He will force me to wed
another!"

"Whom?" cried the unfortunate lawyer, his hair standing on end with
alarm: "surely not that rattlepate Alexis? The relationship is too
near, and the canon forbids."

"You mistake me, William," replied Emily; "I mean the Englishman. My
father's strange agitation--his boundless joy--certain hints that he
has let fall--I am convinced he has discovered in this stranger some
rich son-in-law for whom he had written to England."

"You pierce my very heart!" plaintively exclaimed Elben. "Unhappy day!
Accursed festival, date of my last hope's annihilation! How all this
merriment grates upon my soul! So might the condemned soldier feel,
marching to execution to the sound of joyous music!"

"William! William! what frightful images!" sobbed Emily from behind her
handkerchief.

"Romance! poetry!" continued the incensed attorney; "now, indeed,
might I hope to compose some tragic history, which should thrill each
reader's heart. Despair not, dearest Emily. There is still justice upon
earth. I will bring an action against your father. Or perhaps--from
this to the new-year there is yet time to invent tales and write
volumes. As to yonder lame foreigner, I will try some other plan with
him. By the bye, who knows if he has got a passport? I don't think he
has, by his looks. Respectable people do not travel about on horseback.
I must find out what he is, and his name."

And Elben was moving off, to commence his investigations, but Emily
detained him.

"Such means are unworthy your noble nature, my William," she said. "In
your cooler moments you will assuredly reject them."

Elben shrugged his shoulders. "At your command," he said, "even stern
Themis would drop the sword. But what can I do? Must I resort to a
pistol-ball, or to prussic acid, as sole exit from my misery? That
would be unbusinesslike, very unbefitting a respectable attorney. Nor
would it rescue you from persecution."

"Is there no way out of this labyrinth?" said Emily pensively,
apparently little apprehensive of her lover's resorting to suicide. "No
flight from the clutches of this odious foreigner?"

"Flight!" repeated Elben, catching at the word. "What a bold idea!"

"Realise it," said Emily, speaking low and very quickly. "Run away with
me!"

The attorney started.

"_Raptus_!" he exclaimed. "Dearest, what do you propose? The law
punishes such an act. The third chapter of our criminal code--"

"You have little chivalry in your nature," interrupted Emily,
reproachfully. "You are no Douglas! Leave me, then, to my fate. Alas!
poor Emily! to be thus sacrificed ere thy twenty-second summer has
fled!"

"Twenty-second!" cried the prosaic lawyer, unheeding the implied
inferiority to the Douglas; "there is something in that. I knew not
you were of age. You have a right to decline the paternal authority.
That alters the case entirely. Since you have completed your
one-and-twentieth year, an elopement is less perilous."

The lovers' colloquy was here interrupted by the arrival of Wirtig,
accompanied by his nephew and the Englishman. The festival approached
its close, and Wirtig, at last missing his daughter, and hearing
that she was with Elben, hurried in great alarm to seek her. He
was accompanied in his search by Alexis and the lame stranger, who
conversed in English.

"Is the innkeeper mad?" inquired the latter. "Does he want to borrow
money of me? Or what is he driving at?"

"He merely desires to make himself agreeable to you," replied Alexis.

"The devil take his agreeableness. I hate such fawning ways. You know
the unfortunate motive of my visit to Miffelstein. In my position,
compliments and ceremony are quite out of place."

"You must nevertheless endure them. They insure your safety. For a few
days you must be content to pass for a great man."

"There's none such in my family."

"No matter. Greatness is thrust upon you. Try to persuade yourself that
you are the great Scottish Unknown."

"Never heard of him. What has he done?"

"He has written romances."

"Pshaw! I hate your scribblers. For heaven's sake, don't say I am an
author."

"Unfortunately I have said so already. For your own sake, beware
of contradicting me. It is most unfortunate that you forgot your
passport. If Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim learns that you are at
Miffelstein, you are no safer here than in his capital."

"Curse my luck," growled the Englishman between his teeth, "and
confound all smiths and boiler-makers! Had I but remained in Old
England! There, if a boiler does burst, money and a letter in the paper
will make all right. But the Continent is worse than a slave-market. No
_habeas corpus_ here! A foreigner is no better than an outlaw, and if
an accident occurs, he has no bail but leg-bail."

"It is certainly very wrong of the prince to be angry at such a trifle.
You were only within a hair's breadth of drowning him and his whole
court. However, it is for you to choose whether or not I shall say who
you really are."

"Not! certainly not! To get out of this scrape, I would consent to pass
for a Yankee. By all means let me be your Unknown friend."

"You shall," said Alexis, laughing; "but on one condition. You must
assist me to bring about the happiness of two deserving persons."

"Cost any money?" inquired the stranger suspiciously.

"Not a kreutzer. A few fair words, which I will teach you."

"I am willing. What is to be done? Who are the persons!"

"That pretty girl you were sitting by just now, and her lover, a worthy
young man."

"But I do not know him."

"Not necessary."

"Whatever you like, if it costs me neither liberty nor money. Though I
would give all the money in my pocket for a scrap of passport. Cursed
Continent! In my country, we don't know such things. Had I only--but in
my haste to escape the gendarmes, I forgot everything."

It was at this point of the conversation, carried on in English, and
therefore unintelligible to Wirtig, that the innkeeper pounced upon his
daughter and her lover.

"How now, attorney!" he exclaimed; "what means this? By St Julian of
Avenel! who permitted you to walk with my daughter? _Tête Dieu!_ let it
be for the last time! I trust thee not, attorney. But this is a happy
day, and you shall not be excluded from the banquet in honour of our
distinguished visitor. You will be welcome at the Bear of Bradwardine.
And what you there shall see and hear will quickly rid you of your
prejudices against--"

Alexis trod on the foot of his garrulous uncle. Elben looked daggers at
the Englishman. Emily smiled, and sighed.

"Now, your lordship, if it so please ye," quoth Wirtig, in huge
delight, "we will return to my poor house. The sun is below the
horizon, and the evening dews might endanger your precious health. My
forgetful Caleb has assuredly forgotten to send us the carriage."

"I am ready," replied the stranger. "I have had enough and to spare of
your rocket practice, and your music makes my head ache."

"The bagpipes are certainly pleasanter to the ear," said Wirtig,
submissively, "and I am grieved that I forgot to command Caleb's
attendance with them. Pardon the omission. At the house, things shall
be better managed. Amy, entertain Sir Wal--"

A crushing application of Alexis' boot-heel to Wirtig's tenderest toe,
substituted an exclamation of agony for the second syllable of the
forbidden name. The Englishman offered Emily his arm, and a signal
from her father compelled its acceptance. By the light of torches,
and preceded by a band of music, the Miffelsteiners now moved in long
procession homewards, forming a sort of escort for the stranger, who
was in front, attended by Wirtig and Alexis. The attorney marched close
behind, glaring like a hyena at his supposed rival. Amidst the cracking
of fireworks and the reports of guns and pistols, the procession
reached the town, and a considerable number of the men went direct to
the hotel of the Bear--some eager to profit by the gratuitous good
cheer, and others yet more desirous to ascertain its motive. Of this,
however, most of Wirtig's guests were by this time aware. Rumours will
arise, in small towns as in large cities; and thus it was that at
Miffelstein twenty busy tongues whispered the presence of the Great
Unknown. At the Bear, Wirtig's liberal instructions had been zealously
executed. Caleb, Rowena, Jenny, Front-de-Boeuf, and the rest of the
household, had done their duty. The table was loaded with English
and Scottish delicacies; the portrait of the Great Unknown--its frame
adorned with lamps of many colours--stared somewhat wildly, but, upon
the whole, benevolently, from the wall, doubtless well satisfied to
see its original doing ample honour to the repast. The appetites of
the other guests, which ungratified curiosity might have damped, were
sharpened by a confidential communication from the host of the Bear.
Notwithstanding his nephew's injunctions to secrecy, Wirtig could
not refrain from exhibiting to his friends, before they sat down to
supper, and of course in the strictest confidence, the name of W.
SCOTT, inscribed upon the last page of the strangers' book. There was
no mistaking the characters, blotted and strangely formed though they
were. Great were the awe and reverence with which the Miffelsteiners
contemplated the stranger, who, for his part, gave his chief attention
to his supper. He bolted beefsteaks, reduced fowls to skeletons, and
poured down, with infinite gusto, bumper after bumper of Burgundy
and Hochheimer. The guests remarked with admiration that he avoided,
doubtless with a view to the preservation of his incognito, the
Scottish drinks and dishes that adorned the board. He affected disgust
at a Miffelstein haggis, and neglected the whisky-bottle for the wines
of France and Germany. Once he was observed to smile as he glanced at
his portrait, and it was inferred that he was amused at the badness
of the likeness, which certainly did little credit to the artist. But
he made no remark, excepting that, the next moment, he requested his
neighbour to pass him a dish of pork with plum sauce.

Wirtig's discretion was far from equalling that of the Unknown. Seated
beside his honoured guest, in the joy of his heart he overwhelmed him
with compliments, made countless allusions to his works and genius,
and kept his glass constantly full. The stranger let him talk on,
and answered nothing, or only by monosyllables. In proportion to the
flattery and attentions lavished by Wirtig, were the sadness and
sullenness of Elben the attorney. He had arrived later than the other
guests. Seated at one end of the table, he looked Medusas at the
Unknown.

"What think you, nephew," said Wirtig aside, "if I were to send for Amy
and her harp to entertain our illustrious visitor? The bagpipes he has
forbidden."

"An excellent thought," replied Alexis; "but it cannot be, for Caleb
tells me that my cousin has retired to her apartment, complaining of a
violent headache."

"Mere woman's fancies!" grumbled the father. "Amy is no Die Vernon.
Did the girl but know whom our roof this day shelters--St George of
Burgundy how gladly would she come! How warm would be her welcome of
him she is bound to love and reverence!"

Elben overheard these last words, and smiled a grim smile. Owing to
his tardy arrival and mental preoccupation, he was unaware of the real
motive of the attentions paid to the stranger, and still believed him
to be a favoured candidate for the hand of Emily.

The Unknown had finished his pork and plums, and was resting on his
knife and fork.

"Where is Miss Amy?" said he, at last, looking particularly tender,
either at thoughts of the young lady or at sight of a dish of
partridges just then placed smoking before him. The jealous attorney
could stand it no longer. Starting from his chair, he rushed from the
room.

Wirtig apologised for his daughter's absence, and resumed his
complimentary strain.

"By our Lady of Cléry, noble sir!" he said, "the productions of your
genius have delighted my understanding, and made my house to prosper. I
am under the greatest obligations to you, and my debt of gratitude is
doubled by the honour of your visit. I pray you to command me in all
things."

The stranger seemed embarrassed by this excessive homage. Just then
Alexis spoke a few words to him in English. The Unknown emptied his
glass, laid his finger thoughtfully on his nose, and, after a minute's
pause, turned to his entertainer.

"You consider yourself under obligations to me?" he said. "I take you
at your word. Prove your sincerity."

"In purse and person, hand and heart, command me," cried Wirtig,
"Lord of the Isles and most honourable baronet. Do you lack money?
What I have is yours. Do you desire protection from the bloodthirsty
Frenchman? In my house you shall find shelter. In your defence, I and
mine will don tartan, gird claymore, and shoulder Lochaber axe."

"You are a gentleman," said the Englishman, looking rather puzzled,
"and I thank you for your good will, but have no need of your money.
The favour I would ask is not for myself, but for others. Consent to
your daughter's marriage with the man of her choice. You will do me a
great pleasure."

"Ha!" quoth the mystified Wirtig. "Blows the wind from that quarter?
The sly puss has enlisted a powerful ally. _Pasques Dieu!_ 'Tis a mere
trifle you ask, worshipful sir. I had gladly seen you tax my gratitude
more largely."

"Consent without delay," whispered Alexis to his uncle. "Let not the
great man think you hesitate."

"With all my heart," said Wirtig. "I had certainly made a condition,
and would gladly--but will Amy be happy with the prosaic attorney?"

Once more the Great Unknown laid his finger solemnly upon his nose.
"Undoubtedly," he said, tossing off another bumper of his host's best
Burgundy. He spoke rather thick, and his eyes had a fixed and glassy
look. "Undoubtedly," he repeated, as if speaking to himself. Just then
Caleb and Front-de-boeuf placed a fresh battery of bottles on table and
sideboard. "Upon my soul," added the stranger, in English, "this old
tavern-keeper is a jolly fellow, and his Burgundy is prime." He nodded
oracularly, and again filled his glass.

"Listen to him!" said Alexis to his uncle, who hung upon each sound
that issued from his idol's lips. "He prophesies! The second-sight is
upon him! He foretells their happiness. Consent at once!"

"The second-sight!" exclaimed Wirtig reverently. "Nay, then, in
heaven's name, be it as he wishes! I freely give my consent!"

Alexis would fain have left the room to seek Elben, and inform him of
his good fortune; but his uncle would not spare him. The Englishman
continued to imbibe the Burgundy, the other guests zealously followed
his example, conviviality was at its height, songs were sung, and the
evening wore on. During a tumultuous chorus of hurrahs, elicited by
an impromptu allusion to the guest of the evening, introduced by the
Miffelstein poet into a bacchanalian ditty, Caleb entered the room
with an important countenance, and beckoned Alexis from the table.
A foreigner, he said, who spoke more French than German, was making
anxious inquiries about one Schott or Scott, and insisted upon seeing
the landlord. At first somewhat staggered by this intelligence, which
threatened destruction to his schemes, the ready-witted architect
soon hit upon a remedy. Sending Caleb to announce to the stranger his
master's speedy appearance, he called Wirtig aside.

"Uncle," he said, "the moment for decisive action has arrived. The
French general is below. He is on the track of the Great Unknown,
and insists that he is here. Keep him at bay for a while, and I will
contrive the escape of your illustrious guest. Above all, parley not
with the false Frenchman."

"Ha! Beauséant!" exclaimed the valorous and enthusiastic Wirtig. "Is
it indeed so? Methinks there will be cut-and-thrust work ere the proud
Norman reach his prey. Ha! St Andrew! he shall have a right Scottish
answer. And though he were the bravest knight that ever put foot in
stirrup--"

"Expend not the precious moments in similes," interrupted Alexis.
"Remember only that the man is glib of tongue, and let him not mislead
you by friendly professions."

"Not I, by the soul of Hereward!" replied Wirtig, leaving the room.

Alexis hastened to the Englishman.

"You must be off, my good sir," he said. "A detachment of the bodyguard
of Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim is in pursuit of you. Their
officer is in the house, making clamorous inquiry."

"The devil he is!" cried the stranger, sobered by the intelligence.
"What is to be done? The horse I came upon is foundered. Infernal
country! Accursed steamboat! I cannot leave the place on foot."

"Leave the house, at any rate," said Alexis, "and we will then see what
to do. Delay another minute, and escape is impossible. Follow me, as
you love liberty and life."

The Englishman obeyed. Alexis led the way into a back-room, threw open
a window, and stepped out upon a balcony, whence a flight of steps
descended into the garden of the hotel. This was quickly traversed, and
the two men reached a narrow and solitary lane, formed by stables and
garden walls, and close to the outskirts of the town. Ten paces off
stood a postchaise, the door open and the steps down.

"Now then, sir," said the driver in a sleepy voice, as they approached
his vehicle, "Jump in. No time to lose."

"How fortunate!" said the Englishman, "here is a carriage."

"But not for you, is it?" said Alexis.

The Englishman laughed, and clapped his hand on his pocket.

"Everything for money. Drive on, postilion, and at a gallop. A double
_trinkgeld_ for you."

And he jumped into the vehicle, which instantly drove off, and had
disappeared round a corner before Alexis, astonished by the suddenness
of the proceeding, had time to reciprocate the farewell shouted to him
by the fugitive. He was about to re-enter the garden, when a man came
running down the lane. It was Elben.

"How now, William," cried Alexis, "what do you here?"

"The postchaise," cried the attorney, "where is it?"

"The postchaise, was it for you?"

"To be sure."

"It has just driven off with the Englishman."

"With the Englishman!" gasped Elben. "Destruction! And Emily in it!"

"Emily! my cousin! The devil! What do you mean?"

"Alexis, you are my friend--with you I need not dissemble. That
carriage was to bear me and Emily from her father's tyranny. I put her
into it ten minutes ago. She insisted I should be armed, and I returned
for these!"

And, throwing open his cloak, he exhibited a pair of enormous horse
pistols, and a rapier, which, from its antiquated fashion, might have
belonged to a cotemporary of the Great Frederick.

"And whilst you were arming," cried the incorrigible Alexis, convulsed
with laughter, "the Great Unknown ran off with your bride. Well, you
may rely he will not take her far. He is in too great haste to escape,
to encumber himself with baggage. And you will be spared a journey, for
my uncle no longer opposes your marriage."

At that moment the garden door opened, and Emily stood before them. No
sooner had the romantic damsel sent her knight to arm himself, than she
remembered an indispensable condition of an elopement, which she had
forgotten to observe, and hurried back to her apartment, to leave upon
her table a line addressed to her father, deprecating his wrath, and
pleading the irresistible force of love. A few words from Alexis gave
her and Elben the joyful assurance that no obstacle now barred their
union.

On re-entering the inn, Alexis encountered a French equerry of
Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim, who at once recognised him as his
sovereign's newly appointed architect.

"Ah! _Monsieur l'Architecte_," he exclaimed, "how delighted I am to
meet with a sane man. The people here are stark mad, and persist in
knowing nothing of Scott, the engineer. I know very well he is here.
Tell the drunken dog that the prince forgives him. I have ordered his
baggage to be sent hither, and here is money for his expenses. The
prince never seriously intended to visit upon him the fault of his bad
machinery."

Alexis undertook to transmit Prince Hector's bounty and pardon, and
was enabled to take his uncle the joyful intelligence that the
bloodthirsty French general had departed in peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

Elben and Emily were married. Alexis forwarded the property of the
Great Unknown, and soon afterwards left Miffelstein. Wirtig wondered to
hear nothing more of his illustrious visitor and benefactor, when one
day a letter reached him, bearing the London postmark, and scrawled in
execrable German. Its contents were as follows:--

"Dear Sir,--Once more back in Old England, which I ought never to have
left, I remit you the enclosed note in discharge of my reckoning.
Before this, you will doubtless have discovered who your Great Unknown
really was, and that his business is with pistons and paddlewheels, not
with novels and romances. My best regards to that merry fellow Alexis,
and to your sentimental little daughter. And you, my comical old
friend, have my best wishes for your welfare and prosperity.--WILLIAM
SCOTT."

When Wirtig had read this epistle, he remained for some time plunged in
thought. From that day forward he left off novel-reading, and attended
to his business; called Caleb Tobias; eschewed bagpiping and Scottish
cookery; consigned plaid-curtains, oaken sideboards, and portraits of
the Great Unknown to the lumber-room. And before the new year arrived,
the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine had disappeared from the door, and the
thirsty wayfarer might once more drink his glass by the light of the
jolly old Star.



MODERN STATE TRIALS.

PART III.--DUELLING.


    [_Note on Part II. on Criminal Responsibility in cases of
      Insanity._--A physician in a responsible official situation,
      affording him great opportunities for observation, has addressed
      to us a note from which we extract the following passages. Our
      only object is to aid in eliciting truth; and our anxiety to
      do so is proportionate to the difficulty and importance of the
      subject to which the ensuing letter has reference.[39]

"The article on Oxford and M'Naughten has interested me very much; and
though I cannot at all admit the principle of punishing a man for his
misfortune, I am yet satisfied that the doctors have assumed too much,
and have helped to let loose upon society some who deserved hanging as
much as any who have ever suffered the extreme penalty. The test of
insanity, as laid down by the Judges on the solemn occasion to which
you refer, is manifestly of no value; for it is, I might almost say,
_the exception_ for an insane person _not_ to know the difference
between right and wrong. Many of them deliberately commit acts which
they know to be wrong. Dadd killed his father, and immediately fled
to France to avoid the consequences of his crime; and nobody ever
doubted that he was one of the maddest, if not the maddest, of the
mad. Touchet shot the gunmaker, not only with a full knowledge of the
nature of the crime, but for the express purpose of bringing about
his own death. He has entertained various delusions: amongst others,
the notion that certain passages of Scripture have special reference
to himself personally; and, as regards those in actual confinement,
on account of their mental malady, the majority know perfectly well
that it is wrong to tear, break, and destroy, to injure others, and
indulge their various mischievous propensities. So well satisfied are
many of them that they are doing wrong, that they will try to conceal
acts which they know are not permitted; and, in this way, a propensity
to bite, or kick, is indulged in only when it is believed that it
can be done unobserved. It seems to me that, in these most painfully
embarrassing cases, every one must stand on its own particular merits;
and, as neither judges nor doctors can say where sanity ends, and
insanity begins, so no possible rule that can be devised will be alike
applicable to all; but the previous habits and course of life of the
person accused, together with the absence or presence of any motive,
will go far to remove the difficulties which necessarily beset the
question. I am not at all prepared to say that, because any degree of
mental disturbance has been shown to exist, a person should be held
_irresponsible_. It is a doctrine fraught with such dreadful danger
to society, that it is very properly viewed with jealousy; but, when
clearly proved that the mind was so far disturbed as to entertain
delusions before and at the time of committing the offence, I would
never resort to capital punishment. The Omniscient alone can tell how
far the disease has gone, and to what extent the unfortunate being was
really responsible for his actions to his follow men."]

Is, or is not, a trial in this country for duelling to be regarded as
a Farce following a Tragedy? There are those who say that it is; but
we are not of the number. Such trials often greatly excite the public
mind, and array opinions and prejudices against each other in such
a manner as to disturb and derange the judgment. Then more or less
is expected from the law, and its administration, than is right. If
the heated public should have prepared itself for a conviction, loud
and violent is its reclamation against an acquittal, especially if it
have been brought about by what are styled technical objections, and
_vice versâ_. They forget, under the impetuous impulses of a sense
of natural justice, that settled rules of legal procedure must be
observed indifferently on all occasions, if even-handed justice is to
be administered in a court of justice. How did these rules come to
be settled? They are the results of centuries of experience--of ten
thousand instances of the advantage, nay, the absolute necessity, for
observing them. If it could be imagined with any, even the slightest
foundation of truth, that those sworn to decide according to the law
and the facts had wilfully shut their eyes to the one or the other--or,
either directly or indirectly, connived at an evasion of the letter or
a violation of the spirit of the law, in order to secure a particular
result--then there is no power in language adequate fitly to denounce
so deliberate and awful a perjury, so monstrous an outrage on the
administration of justice.

_Bonâ fide_ duels are always lamentable affairs, under whatever
circumstances they may happen, especially when attended by loss of
life or serious personal injury--occurring, too, in a highly civilised
and Christian country like ours. They properly arouse the grief and
indignation of every thoughtful and virtuous member of the community;
whom, however, they also satisfy as to the prodigious practical
difficulty of dealing with such cases. While the law of the land is
clear on the subject as the sun at noonday--alike unquestionable and
unquestioned--there yet exist, in almost every detected duel, far
greater difficulties than are suspected by the public, in bringing
to justice the guilty actors. First of all, it must be borne in mind
how deep an interest they have in cutting off all means of future
evidence, by intrusting a knowledge of the affair to the fewest persons
necessary for carrying it out, and by selecting scenes remote from
observation. Then, again, let it be remembered that both principals
and seconds, and all others present aiding and abetting, have incurred
heavy criminal liability--are liable to be indicted for murder, as
principals or accessories; and, consequently, none of them can be
compelled to furnish any evidence which may even _tend_ to criminate
himself. This great rule of criminal law has doubtless operated as a
great indirect encouragement to duelling; but how is this difficulty to
be encountered? Must the rule be abrogated?

Assuming, however, the existence of evidence, and that it is
satisfactorily adduced before the jury, it then becomes the duty of the
judge and the jury to act in accordance with their oaths: the former to
lay down the law distinctly and unequivocally; the latter to find their
verdict conscientiously according to the principles of law so laid
down, as applicable to the proved facts of the case. If a conviction
ensue, the judge must then pronounce the sentence of the law; and
it then depends upon the discretion and firmness of the executive
whether that sentence shall be carried into effect. Take the case of a
fatal duel, conducted with unimpeachable fairness, as far as concerns
the practice of duelling--and that the prisoner had received great
provocation from his deceased opponent, who had obstinately refused
retractation or apology. What is to be the decision of the executive?
What will be its moral effect, as an encouragement or discouragement of
duelling? Will it operate as a tacit recognition, to any extent, of the
practice of duelling, as at all events a necessary evil, and denuded of
moral turpitude? These are questions by no means of easy solution.

In the present constitution of society in this country--a Christian
community--duelling is a practice environed with difficulties,
whichever way it may be approached by its most discreet and resolute
opponents. We must deal with men and things as they are, at the same
time that we would make them what we think they ought to be. How many
professing Christians--men of otherwise pure and virtuous lives--have
gone out deliberately to take the life of an opponent, or expose
or sacrifice their own!--solely, it may be, from a puerile notion
that their _honour_ required the committing of the crime! "It is not
one of the least evils of this system," it has been well observed,
"that the word _honour_--which, rightly understood, denotes all that
is truly noble and virtuous--should be prostituted as a pretext for
gratifying the most malignant of human passions, _or as a cover for
that moral cowardice--the fear of being thought afraid_." This is one
of the chiefest roots of the poisonous tree: and can human laws kill
it? We think they can. If the legislature were really intent upon
annihilating duelling, its members would long ago have acted on the
suggestion of Addison--that, "if every one who fought a duel were to
stand in the pillory, it would quickly diminish the number of these
imaginary men of honour, and put an end to so absurd a practice." If
men will fight for a little stake, let them be made into little men, by
enduring a degrading punishment; if for a great stake--that is to say,
the gratification of malignant passions--let them be treated as great
criminals, and die the felon's death, or live his life. Let justice be
really blind in all such cases, her sword descending upon noble and
ignoble of station alike.

We acknowledge that there is one aspect of the practice of duelling,
which somewhat perplexes the moralist: for it cannot be denied,
or doubted, that duelling operates as a great preventive check to
ruffian insolence and violence--as a potent auxiliary in preserving
the necessary restraints and the courtesies of society. "It must be
admitted," says Robertson, "that to this absurd custom we must ascribe,
in some degree, the extraordinary gentleness and complaisance of modern
manners, and that respectful attention of one man to another, which
at present renders the social intercourse of life far more agreeable
and decent than among the most civilised nations of antiquity." How
many a viper-tongued slanderer's lips have been sealed by the dread
of a bullet! How many an insolent inclination to personal violence
has been checked--how many a truculent heart has sickened, before the
prospect of a "leaden breakfast!" Take a single case, which is really
embarrassing to the candid opponent of duelling; an insult offered,
by either words or deeds, to the character or person of a lady whom
one is bound to protect--an injury beyond all legal cognisance, and
perpetrated by one occupying the station of a gentleman. To one who
does not bow under the paramount influence of religion, the harassing
question occurs,--What is to be done? Cases may be easily imagined in
which it would be idle to say--"treat the offence and the offender with
contempt--leave them to the contempt of society;" where such a course
would only add to the poignancy of the wrong or insult, and invite
aggravation and repetition. Let the outraged lady be imagined one's
own wife, or daughter, or sister! Is the wrong to be perpetrated with
impunity? asks the upholder of duelling. "What would you do," retorts
his opponent; "will you deliberately take the life of the offender, and
give him an opportunity of taking yours?[40] Is that your notion of
_punishment_, or _satisfaction_? What will be the effect of an example
such as this, upon society at large? Is every one to be at liberty to
do the like?--thus deliberately to ignore the law of God and of man?"

Duelling is, in truth, almost always the resource of the weak-minded,
the vain, the vindictive, or the cowardly; and it is not right to ask
society to be liberal in its allowances for the wrongdoings of its
less worthy members. There are, nevertheless, cases in which persons
have found themselves involved in duels under circumstances pregnant
with extenuation in the eyes of even the hardest moralist, and such as
warrant the executive, when the majesty of the law has been vindicated,
and its authority recognised, in mitigating or remitting the punishment
due to an acknowledged violation of the law.

The law of the land is better able to vindicate really outraged
character and honour than may be imagined by many foolish hot-blooded
persons, who give or accept "hostile messages." It is armed with ample
powers of compensation and punishment, as may easily be ascertained
by those who can satisfy it that they have been the victims of
deliberate and wanton insult and injury. Little more than a year ago,
one gentleman thought proper to write to some naval and military
friends of another most offensive imputations upon his honour. When
apprised of this, he instantly wrote to demand that his traducer should
either prove the truth of his assertion, or unequivocally retract and
apologise for them. Both alternatives were very contemptuously refused,
on which the injured party brought an action for libel against his
traducer; who, unable to justify, and unwilling to apologise, allowed
the case to go before a jury. On their learning the true nature of the
affair, and being reminded that they were appealed to as a jury of
twelve gentlemen, to vindicate the honour of an unoffending gentleman,
they gave such heavy damages (£500) as soon brought his infuriate
opponent to his senses, and elicited an unequivocal retractation, and
as ample an apology as could have been desired. A few instances of
this kind would soon satisfy the most sceptical of the potency of the
law in cases too often deemed beyond its reach, and of the effective
reality of its redress in cases of wounded honour. Who could lightly
esteem being solemnly and publicly branded by its _fiat_ as a liar and
a slanderer--its blighting sentence remaining permanently on record?
He who would regard such a circumstance with indifference surely is
not worth shooting, or running the risk of being shot by, or of being
hanged or transported for shooting or attempting to shoot! If a person
of distinguished station or character receive an insult or an injury of
such a nature, as not to admit of being treated with silent contempt,
it becomes his duty to society to set an example of magnanimous
reliance on the protection of the laws of his country, and pious
reverence for the laws of God. Against one thing, however, every one
should be constantly on his guard--the entertaining and cherishing that
false overweening estimate of personal dignity and importance, which
predisposes too many to take offence, and then hurry to revenge it.

According to the law of England, as already stated, a death caused by
duelling, though in the "fairest" possible manner, is clearly murder,
to all intents and purposes whatsoever. In the year 1846, the majority
of the Criminal Law Commissioners suggested a change in this law,
recommending that, where two persons agree to fight, and a contest
ensues, and one of them is killed, the homicide should be extenuated.
The reasons on which this suggestion was founded appear to us of a
very unsatisfactory nature; and one of the Commissioners--the late Mr
Starkie--altogether dissented from the views of his brethren, embodying
his reasons in an able and convincing protest or counter-statement.
"Whilst," he observes, at its close, "as it seems to me, little good
could be expected from the proposed alteration, it might be productive
of much harm in a _moral_ point of view. It would be understood to
manifest an alteration in the opinion of the Legislature as to the
heinousness of the crime of homicide, and of course tend to diminish
the efficacy of the law against it." We entirely concur in the
following remarks of Mr Townsend, in one of the best expressed passages
in his book:--

"Founded on the law of God, the law of the land should remain clear
and stringent, that whoever kills in a deliberate duel commits murder.
The sanctity of human life would be impaired were this denunciation
lessened, and the forfeit, for expediency's sake, commuted. The
very good to be obtained by the compromise with 'codes of honour'
would be temporary; for arguments of hardship, as the consequences
of conviction, and appeals to compassion against a _gentleman_ being
adjudged guilty of felony, and transported--it might be for life--would
equally tickle the ears of credulous jurors, and be listened to with
as much avidity as the present topic of capital punishment. Let the
law maintain its own independent straightforward path--_irretortis
oculis_--and, be the fluctuations in fashionable feeling what
they may, continue, in its austere regard for life, unchanged and
unchangeable."[41]

Thus stands the matter: the Legislature not having ventured to
interfere with the law, which must be administered with rigorous
faithfulness by those to whom that severe and responsible duty has been
entrusted, God forbid that there should ever be coquetting with an oath
on these occasions!

We have no hesitation in saying that our English Judges, as far as
our inquiries have gone, invariably lay down the law, in these cases,
with clearness and unfaltering firmness. The only approach towards a
departure from this rule of right, is one which we trust has no other
foundation than an erroneous report of what fell from Baron Hotham
at Maidstone, in the year 1794, in trying a Mr Purefoy, who shot his
late commanding officer, Colonel Roper. That Judge, according to
Mr Townsend[42]--who also intimates a hope that the judge has been
incorrectly reported--concluded his summing up, which produced, as
might have been expected, an instant acquittal, by the following
extraordinary passage:--

"It is now a painful duty which jointly belongs to us; it is mine to
lay down the law, and yours to apply it to the facts before you. The
oath by which I am bound obliges me to say that homicide, after a
due interval left for consideration, amounts to murder. The laws of
England, in their utmost lenity and allowance for human frailty, extend
their compassion only to sudden and momentary frays; and then, if the
blood has not had time to cool, or the reason to return, the result is
termed manslaughter. Such is the law of the land, which, undoubtedly,
the unfortunate gentleman at the bar has violated, _though he has acted
in conformity to the laws of honour_. His whole demeanour in the duel,
according to the witness whom you are most to believe, Colonel Stanwix,
was _that of perfect honour and perfect humanity_. Such is the law,
and such are the facts. _If you cannot reconcile the latter to your
consciences_, you must return a verdict of guilty. But if the contrary,
_though the acquittal may trench on the rigid rules of the law, yet the
verdict will be lovely in the sight both of God and man_."

If Baron Hotham really uttered this drivel, he was totally unfit to
administer justice, and should have been removed from the Bench. Mr
Townsend, in one place, observes that Baron Hotham "must have allowed
his kindly feelings to master his judgment;" and in another cites the
case as "a very _famous_ one, being the first of those occasions on
which judges admitted, from the bench, the necessity and expediency
of juries tempering the law, where, by a stern necessity, they have
held themselves bound by it;" that is, in plain English, where judges
advised juries to violate their oaths, in order to defeat the just
administration of the law. We know no parallel to this "famous" case,
except that of Justice Fletcher, a judge in Ireland, in the year
1812; who--as we learn from Mr Phillips' very interesting _Memoirs
of Curran_, about to issue from the press--thus addressed an Irish
jury, in a trial for murder occasioned in a duel: "Gentlemen, it is
my business to lay down the law to you, and I shall do so. Where two
people go out to fight a duel, and one of them falls, the law says it
is murder. And I tell you, by law it _is_ murder; but, at the same
time, _a fairer duel I never heard of in the whole coorse_ [_sic_] _of
my life_!" The prisoners were, of course, immediately acquitted.

Mr Townsend states, that "the long series of judicial annals has not
been darkened by a single conviction for murder, in the case of a duel
fairly fought."[43] If this be a correct statement, which we greatly
doubt, it argues either a signal deficiency of evidence in every case,
or a perverse disregard of duty by either judges or juries, or both.
We repeat it, and do so anxiously desirous of giving every degree of
publicity in our power to the fact, that our judges discharge their
duties on these occasions with unwavering firmness. We shall give two
or three modern and interesting instances. The late eminent Mr Justice
Buller tried a clergyman--the Reverend Bennet Allen,(!)[44] and his
second, for killing a Mr Dulany, in a duel fought at ten o'clock at
night, in Hyde Park, at the distance of eight yards: the reverend
duellist had put on his spectacles, in order to see his man. Mr Justice
Buller told the jury that "they were bound to adhere to the law, as to
which there never," he continued, "has been a doubt. In the case of a
deliberate duel, if one person be killed, it is murder in the person
killing him. Of that proposition of law there is not, there never has
been, the smallest doubt. Sitting here, it is my duty to tell you
what the law is, which I have done in explicit terms; and we must not
suffer it to be frittered away, by any false or fantastical notions
of honour." Here the judge did his duty: but the jury seem, according
to Mr Townsend, who doubtless spoke after having duly examined the
facts of the case, "to have temporised between their consciences and
wishes, by acquitting the second, and finding the principal guilty of
manslaughter."

Mr Justice Patteson, in trying the seconds for murder, in the case
of the fatal duel between Dr Hennis and Sir John Jeffcott, who
shot the former, thus plainly put the matter to the jury: "Whether
duelling ought to be tolerated in this land, I say nothing. It is
no question for any _jury_ at all. The law of the land does not
tolerate it. I repeat that, if you are satisfied on this evidence,
that the three gentlemen went out to Haddon, knowing that Sir John
Jeffcott and Dr Hennis were about to fight a duel there, without heat
or irritation--but deliberately aiding and assisting the affair on
a point of honour, after vainly endeavouring to effect an amicable
arrangement--I cannot tell you, in point of law, that it is anything
short of murder." The jury at once acquitted the prisoners![45]

In the year 1838, a young man named Mirfin was shot in a duel at
Wimbledon, by a young man named Elliott, twenty-five years of age,
under deplorable and aggravated circumstances. The former had been a
linendraper in Tottenham Court Road; and, together with the latter,
seemed to have led the dissolute life, for some time, of men about
town. The duel arose out of a quarrel which had occurred in a certain
indecent scene of infamy near Piccadilly! Two young men named Young and
Webber, respectively only twenty-four and twenty-six years of age, were
tried for the wilful murder of Mirfin. They had not acted as seconds
of the survivor, but had accompanied him and his second to the scene
of action. The chief witness was a surgeon, who detailed with a deadly
simplicity and matter-of-fact air the whole particulars of the duel,
at which he was present; and produced such an effect on the jury that,
on delivering their verdict, they expressed the "horror" with which
they had heard his evidence and regarded his conduct, and their regret
that he had not himself been put upon his trial for murder. The reader
shall have an opportunity of judging for himself on the subject, from a
portion of the evidence given by this person.[46]

"After the pistols were loaded, Mr Elliott and Mr Mirfin were
placed on their ground, and a pistol was delivered to each. I
then went and stood seven or eight paces from them, with the two
seconds. I looked at the principals. The word to fire was given by
Mr Elliott's second: he said, 'Gentlemen, are you ready?--_Stop!_'
That was the agreed signal for firing: they were to fire instantly
on the last word 'stop' being uttered, and not before.They fired
together immediately on the signal. After they had fired, I observed
that _the ball had passed through the crown of Mr Mirfin's hat_:
I saw something fly up in the air: I saw a portion of the crown
just raised at the moment. As soon as they had fired, the seconds
interfered. I and they were standing together. They moved towards
the principals, who remained in their places. Some conversation
took place between the principals and seconds, and then between the
seconds themselves--which lasted for a few minutes only. Mr Mirfin
insisted on a second shot. He spoke loud enough for all present to
hear. I stood within seven or eight paces of him, and could hear
every word he said. I was intent looking at his hat--I saw the ball
had passed through it. I could hear that the conversation was with
a view to reconcile the parties; but Mr Mirfin would not hear of
any reconciliation. I believe Mr Elliott would have made a verbal
apology; but Mr Mirfin would accept nothing but a written apology,
and insisted on a second shot. After he had made this statement,
another pistol was delivered to each. They next left their ground.
I told Mr Mirfin that his hat had been shot through, and he took
it off and looked at it, and said nothing, but replaced it on his
head. The second pistols were Mr Mirfin's, and were fired at a
signal exactly similar to the former one. Mr Elliott fired first,
but not till after the signal had been given. I distinctly heard the
sound of his pistol, immediately after the word had been given; and
Mr Mirfin's shot was fired almost immediately. I think his pistol
was discharged after he had received the fatal shot. I think he
felt the wound previous to his firing off his pistol. He did not
sufficiently raise his hand. His ball struck the ground. He was in
the act of bringing his pistol to the level, when he fired. After
both shots had been fired, I looked at each of the men, and did not,
at first, perceive that either was injured. Mr Mirfin walked towards
me about six paces, I think, with his left hand on his right side,
and, I think also, the pistol still in his right hand. I think he
gave it to me. He advanced towards me saying, 'I am wounded.' I
asked him where; he looked towards the wound and raised his fingers,
showing me where he was wounded, but without speaking. I said, 'I am
exceedingly sorry to hear it: good bye. God bless you!' He replied,
'_Good bye, old fellow!_' I then assisted him to lie on the grass.
He did not fall immediately. I undid his pea-jacket and waistcoat,
and pulled up his shirt, and probed the wound. The other persons
were standing by. Mr Mirfin's second walked up, and asked if the
wound were fatal. I said it was a very fatal wound. Mr Elliott and
his second said nothing, merely looking on. Mr Broughton asked me
again, after I had probed the wound, whether it was fatal. I said it
was. He asked, 'What shall we do?' I replied, 'The sooner you leave
the ground the better, and I will wait.' They all three left the
ground together. Mr Mirfin died within ten minutes. I did not speak
to him after this. I saw I could be of no service to him, and did
not wish to fatigue him by saying anything to him. I examined the
body after I had got it home, and discovered a small wound not quite
the size of a (bird's?) egg, between the fifth and sixth ribs."

We have given these details in all their sickening simplicity and utter
hideousness, because they are worth a world of comment on the nature
and tendency of affairs of honour.

The trial came on before the late Baron Vaughan, and the present Baron
Alderson, at the Old Bailey, on the 22d Sept. 1838; and the former
thus laid down the law to the jury: "When upon a previous arrangement,
and after there has been time for the blood to cool, two persons meet
with deadly weapons, and one of them is killed, he who occasions the
death is guilty of murder; and the seconds are also equally guilty. The
question then is, did the prisoners give their aid and assistance by
their countenance and encouragement of the principals, in this contest?
Though neither of the prisoners acted as second, still, if either
sustained the principal by his advice _or his presence_--or, if you
think he went down for the purpose of encouraging and forwarding the
unlawful conflict, although he did not say or do anything, yet if he
were present, and was assisting and encouraging, at the moment when the
pistol was fired--he will be guilty of the offence of wilful murder.
Questions have arisen as to how far the second of a party killed in a
duel is liable to an indictment for the murder of the deceased: I am
clearly of opinion that he is."

The prisoners were convicted; but under the special circumstances of
the case--for there existed, in the evidence, considerable doubt as
to the part taken in the murderous affair by the prisoners--or even
whether they, in fact, took _any_ part in it--sentence of death was not
passed upon them, but only ordered to be recorded against them; and
they were afterwards sentenced to a lengthened term of imprisonment. Mr
Townsend does not seem to have been aware of this case, as he makes no
allusion to it.

We ourselves were present at a remarkable trial for duelling, about
eighteen or twenty years ago, at the Old Bailey, before the late
excellent and very learned Baron Bayley, on which occasion he also laid
down the rule of law respecting duelling, with uncompromising firmness
and straightforwardness. This was the case of Captain Helsham, who had
shot Lieutenant Crowther in a duel, at Boulogne. There were rumours
of foul play having been practised; and a clergyman, the brother of
the deceased, made strenuous and persevering efforts to bring Captain
Helsham to trial. The latter continued, for some time after the duel,
in France, though anxious to return to England; and after (as we have
heard) taking the opinion of a well-known counsel at the criminal
bar--who advised him that he could not be tried in this country for a
duel fought in a foreign country not under the British crown--he came
to England, where he was instantly arrested, under Stat. 9 Geo. IV. c.
31, § 7, which had been passed two or three years previously--viz., in
1828--and must have altogether escaped the notice of the counsel in
question. That act authorises the trial, in England, of any British
subject charged with having committed any murder or manslaughter
abroad, whether within or without the British dominions, as if such
crimes had been committed in England. Captain Helsham was admitted to
bail to meet the charge, and, having duly surrendered, took his place
at the bar of the Old Bailey, at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning.

He was a middle-aged man, of gentlemanly appearance, his features
indicating great determination of character; but they wore an
expression of manifest anxiety and apprehension as he entered the dock,
and, looking down, beheld immediately beneath him the brother of the
man whom he had shot, and through whose ceaseless activity he was then
placed on trial for his life as a murderer. And he was to be tried by
an uncompromising judge--stern and exact in administering the law, and
animated by pure religious spirit; but, withal, thoroughly humane.
Throughout the whole of that agitating day, the prisoner stood firm as
a rock--sometimes his arms folded, at others his hands resting on the
bar; while his eyes were fixed intently on the judge, the witnesses, or
the counsel--every now and then glancing with gloomy inquisitiveness
at the jury and the judge. His lips were from first to last firmly
compressed. It was understood that the counsel for the prosecution
were in possession of a damning piece of evidence--viz., that the
prisoner had spent nearly the whole of the night immediately preceding
the duel in practising pistol-firing. However the _fact_ might be, it
nevertheless was not elicited at the trial; and probably the prisoner,
who had been prepared for such evidence being produced, began, on
finding that it was not so, to take a more favourable view of his
chances. As the case stood, however, it looked black enough to those
who knew the law, and the character of the judge who sat to administer
it. That venerable person began his summing up to the jury about seven
o'clock in the evening, and the scene can never be effaced from our
memory. The court was extremely crowded; the lights burned brightly,
exhibiting anxious faces in every direction: but what a striking figure
was the central one--that of the prisoner! Immediately over his head
was a mirror, so placed as to reflect his face and figure vividly,
especially to the jury. A few moments after the judge had commenced
his charge, we observed the Ordinary of Newgate glide into court, the
late Rev. Dr Cotton, in full canonicals, and with flowing white hair,
having a picturesquely venerable and ominous appearance, and take his
seat near to, but a little behind the judge. It was then usual for
the Ordinary to be present at the close of capital cases, in order to
add a solemn "amen" to the prayer with which the sentence of death
concluded--that "God would have mercy on the soul" of the condemned.
"Gentlemen of the jury," commenced Mr Baron Bayley, amidst profound
silence, "we have heard several times, during the course of this trial,
of _the law of honour_; but I will now tell you what is the _law of the
land_, which is all that you and I have to do with. It is this: that if
two persons go out with deadly weapons, intending to use them against
each other, and _do_ use them, and death ensue, that is--murder,
wilful murder." He paused for a moment, as if to give the jury time to
appreciate the dread significance of his opening. As soon as he had
uttered the last two words, Captain Helsham's cheek was instantaneously
blanched. We were eyeing him intently at the moment, and shall never
forget it. He stood, however, with rigid erectness, gazing with
mingled anger and fear at the judge, whom he felt to be uttering his
death-warrant; and after a while bent his eyes on the jury, from whom
they wandered scarce a moment during that momentous summing-up--one
which, with every word, was letting fall around him, as he must have
felt, the curtain of death. "The law of honour," said the judge,
towards the close of his charge, "is an imposture--a wicked imposture,
when set against the law of the land, and the law of God Almighty,
claiming the right to take away human life. I tell you, who sit there
to discharge a sworn duty, that a fatal duel is malicious homicide--and
_that_ is wilful murder." The jury retired to consider their verdict;
and the judge at the same time quitted the court till his presence
should be required again. Captain Helsham, however, continued standing
at the bar almost motionless as a statue. After a prolonged absence of
an hour and forty minutes, the jury returned into court. The prisoner
eyed them, as one by one they re-entered their box, with a solicitude
dismal to behold, and the irrepressible quivering of his upper lip
indicated mortal agitation. The verdict, however, was--Not Guilty; on
which the prisoner heaved a heavy sigh, passed his hand slowly over his
damp forehead, bowed slightly, but rather sternly to the jury, and was
then removed from the bar and released from custody. When the verdict
was a few minutes afterwards communicated to Baron Bayley, who had
remained in attendance in an adjoining room, he remarked gravely, "I
did _my_ duty! It is well for Captain Helsham that the verdict is as
it is; had it been the other way, I should certainly have left him for
execution." In that case, the duellist would have died on the gallows
on the ensuing Monday morning.

It is now, however, time to return to Mr Townsend's volumes, where we
find two trials for duelling. One is that of the late Mr Stuart, who
killed Sir Alexander Boswell, in Scotland, on the 26th March 1822, in
a duel conducted with undisputed regularity and fairness. The other is
that of the Earl of Cardigan, who fought and wounded Captain Harvey
Tuckett, but not mortally, in a duel, on the 12th September 1840. This
trial is one of remarkable interest, in every point of view; and we
shall take some pains in bringing it distinctly and intelligibly before
our readers.

About five o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday, the 12th September
1840, a person named Daun, a miller, together with his wife and
son, observed from the stage of their mill, on Wimbledon Common,
two carriages approaching it from opposite directions, and at once
suspected what was about to take place. Two gentlemen first quitted the
carriages--each with a pistol-case--duly loaded a brace of pistols,
and stepped out twelve paces; on which two other gentlemen, the Earl
of Cardigan and Captain Tuckett, came up, and took their stations
at the points indicated. To each was given a pistol; the other two
withdrew to a little distance; the word to fire was uttered, and
immediately followed by an ineffectual discharge of both pistols.
The principals remained at their posts; a second brace of pistols
was given them; again both fired and Captain Tuckett fell, wounded
in the small of the back--bleeding profusely, but, as it proved, not
from a mortal, or even dangerous wound. Thus the aristocratic affair
of _honour_ was more fortunate in its issue than that plebeian one
in which, two or three years before, the young linendraper Mirfin
had received his mortal "satisfaction." Lord Cardigan's second was
Captain Douglas, and Captain Wainwright was that of Captain Tuckett.
The whole affair of the duel had been witnessed by the miller, (who
was also a constable,) and his wife and son, standing on the stage
of the windmill. The moment that Captain Tuckett fell, the miller
and his son quitted their post of observation, ran up to the scene
of action, and intimated to all the parties that they must consider
themselves in his custody. Lord Cardigan still held in his right
hand the pistol with which he had fired; and there lay on the ground
two pistol-cases, one of them bearing the Earl's coronet. Captain
Tuckett lay on the ground, his second Captain Wainwright kneeling
beside him, supporting him; while Sir James Anderson, a surgeon,
who had attended them to the field, was examining the wound. One of
these three entreated the constable to allow the wounded gentleman
to be removed to his own house, giving a solemn pledge that, on his
recovery, he should attend before the magistrate. At the same time
one of them took out a card, on which was printed--"Captain Harvey
Tuckett, No. 13 Hamilton Place, New Road," and wrote in pencil, on the
back of the card, the words, "Captain H. Wainwright." Who gave this
card remains, in the evidence, a mystery; nor did it appear whether
Lord Cardigan saw the card given, or knew what was printed or written
on it, or heard what was said. As almost the whole interest of the
trial, and also its unexpected issue, turned upon the identity of the
wounded duellist, and the requisite adroitness and vigilance of the
late Sir William Follett, the Earl's counsel, in dealing with this
card, and the circumstances attending its delivery to the constable,
the reader will find his account in remarking these circumstances
accurately. On the constable's receiving the card, and the pledge above
mentioned, he allowed those who had given it to depart. The conduct
of the Earl of Cardigan was undoubtedly distinguished by soldierly
straight-forwardness and frankness. He went direct, with Captain
Douglas, to the Wandsworth police station, and, tapping at the door,
the inspector presented himself, and asked what was wanted. "I am
a prisoner, I believe," said Lord Cardigan. "Indeed, sir!--on what
account?" asked the surprised inspector, as Lord Cardigan entered the
station-house. "I have been fighting a duel," said his Lordship, "and
hit my man--but not seriously, I believe--slightly--merely a graze
across the back"--drawing his hand across his own back, to indicate
the region where he believed his ball had struck Captain Tuckett. Lord
Cardigan then turned to Captain Douglas, and said, "This gentleman,
also, is a prisoner--my second, Captain Douglas." He then took several
cards out of his right breast pocket, and handed one of them to the
inspector. It bore the words, "The Earl of Cardigan, 11th Dragoons."
On reading the name, the inspector said, "I hope the duel was not with
Captain Reynolds?"--alluding to the notorious disputes between his
Lordship and that officer, and which led to a court-martial on the
latter. Lord Cardigan "stood up erect," said the inspector in giving
his evidence, and seemed to reject the notion with the utmost disdain:
saying, "Oh no, by no means!--do you suppose I would fight with one of
my own officers?"[47] He duly appeared before the magistrates, and
was bound over in heavy recognisances to appear whenever his presence
should be required. He did so from time to time. As soon as Captain
Tuckett had sufficiently recovered, he also made his appearance at
the police office, _and gave his name_. The affair had by this time
attracted much public attention, chiefly, there can be little doubt,
from the unpopularity of the Earl of Cardigan; the newspapers teeming
with accounts of his alleged discourteous and oppressive treatment of
the officers under his command. The prosecution of Lord Cardigan was
loudly called for; it being alleged that the high rank of the offender
imperiously demanded that evenhanded justice should be dealt to him.
Mr Townsend speaks of this demand for prosecution as "a very pitiful
manifestation of popular rancour and spleen."[48] "As the duel," he
adds, "had been fairly fought, and the code of honour satisfied,
without loss of life, it seemed strange that the first unsheathing of
the statute should be directed against a high-spirited and gallant
nobleman, who had been exposed to violent prejudice and popular
clamour; and the prosecution seemed justly obnoxious to the supposition
that it originated in party malevolence, and not in respect to the
law." _We_ never shared in the hostility here spoken of as existing
towards the gallant nobleman in question. Our political opinions are
also his; and we are disposed to believe that he has been the victim
of much misrepresentation and injustice. We desire, nevertheless,
to be understood as vindicating the call for judicial inquiry into
the transaction to which Lord Cardigan and his opponent, with their
seconds, were parties, if that transaction had been of a criminal
character. Only three or four years previously, two young men had been
tried and convicted of wilful murder, for having only been present at
the duel which cost one of the principals (Mirfin) his life. If Captain
Tuckett had been killed, Lord Cardigan would clearly have been guilty
of wilful murder--that is beyond all question, if the law of England
be not a dead letter, and those who affect to set it in motion be not
guilty of a vile mockery of justice. If, therefore, a peer of the
realm, a member of the supreme judicature in the kingdom, had really
been guilty of a conspicuous and grave violation of the law, which
all are required to obey with implicit reverence, those who demanded
inquiry ought to have been given credit for acting on public grounds.
The peer should not escape, where the plebeian would be condemned.
Let us see, then, how stood, and how stands the law on this momentous
subject--for momentous it is.

In the first place, let it be understood that _the mere challenging_ to
fight a duel, whether verbally or in writing, and the mere _carrying_
any such challenge, is a high misdemeanour, punishable by fine and
imprisonment, according to the circumstances of the particular case.
This offence consists in the provoking or inciting others to commit
a breach of the peace; but may also be regarded in a much more
serious light--namely, as an attempt to commit or provoke others to
commit a felony,--and even wilful murder. In the present case, a
challenge had been sent and accepted: those who had done so, met,
and fired deliberately at each other with deadly weapons, at only a
few paces distance--they fired twice; the first time innocuously;
the second time, one of them was wounded. Every single step was here
highly criminal; the earlier ones as misdemeanours, the later ones
as felonies; the last indeed a capital felony, for which, beyond
all question, the life of Lord Cardigan had become forfeited to
the outraged law of the land. This we will shortly show, for the
consolation of all future duellists. By the common law of the land,
no personal violence, unattended by death, amounted to more than a
misdemeanour. In the year 1722, was passed "the Black Act,"[49] which,
amongst various enactments levelled at the class of offenders who
caused the passing of the statute, contains this brief general one.
"If any person shall wilfully and maliciously _shoot at_ any person,
in any dwelling-house, _or other place_, he shall be adjudged guilty
of felony, and suffer death." This was the first statute which made
the mere act of shooting wilfully and maliciously at another--without
reference to the result--felony. Subsequent statutes, respectively
known as Lord Ellenborough's and Lord Lansdowne's Acts, made it a
capital offence to shoot at another with intent to murder, or do
grievous bodily harm, provided the death which might be occasioned
would amount to murder. Though the matter had never become the subject
of judicial decision, it had been suggested by a late eminent writer
on the criminal law,[50] that, where an ineffectual interchange of
shots took place in a duel, both parties might be deemed guilty of
the offence of maliciously shooting, within one of these acts, passed
in the year 1803, (43 Geo. III. c. 58,) and the seconds also, as
principals in the second degree. In the year 1837, however, was passed
the Statute of the 1st Victoria, c. 85, which we advise every intending
duellist to consult very deliberately, before committing himself to
its meshes. It enacts first, (§ 2,) that "whoever shall _wound_ any
person, or by any means whatsoever cause to any person any bodily
injury dangerous to life, with intent to commit murder, shall be guilty
of felony, and suffer death." Again, secondly, (by § 3,) "whosoever
shall shoot at any person, or, by drawing a trigger, or in any other
manner, attempt to discharge any kind of loaded arms at any person,
_with intent_ to commit the crime of _murder_, shall, _although no
bodily injury be inflicted_, be guilty of FELONY, and liable to be
transported for life, or for any term not less than fifteen years, or
imprisoned for any term not exceeding three years, at the discretion
of the court." Lastly, thirdly, (by § 4,) "Whoever shall maliciously
shoot at any person, or, by drawing a trigger, or in any other manner,
attempt to discharge any kind of loaded arms at any person, or wound
any person, with intent to maim, disfigure, or disable, _or to do some
other grievous bodily harm_ to such person, shall be guilty of felony,
and liable to the same punishment contained in the previous section."

Blackstone, following Hawkins, thus lays down the law in the case of
duelling: "Express malice is, where one, with a sedate deliberate mind,
and formed design, doth kill another,--which formed design is evidenced
by external circumstances, discovering that inward intention,--as lying
in wait, antecedent menaces, former grudges, and concerted schemes to
do him some grievous bodily harm. _This takes in the case of deliberate
duelling, where both parties meet avowedly with an intent to murder;
thinking it their duty as gentlemen, and claiming it as their right,
to wanton with their own lives and those of their fellow creatures,
without any warrant or authority from any power either divine or
human, but in direct contradiction to the laws of both God and man;
and therefore the law has justly fixed the crime and punishment of
murder on them, and on their seconds also_."[51] This passage may be
said to reflect a somewhat ghastly light on the three sections of
the statute law given above, such as must have startled the Earl of
Cardigan and his advisers, as soon as they found that he had been
made the subject of _bonâ fide_ prosecution under that statute. We
affirm unhesitatingly, and no one will deny, that the facts relating
to the duel, as they appear above stated, brought Lord Cardigan's case
within every one of these three sections--as clearly within the first,
rendering the offence capital, as within the other two, declaring
it felony punishable with transportation. This the Attorney-General
himself stated to the House of Lords, in opening the case against
the prisoner: "The present indictment might have been framed on the
_capital_ charge." _A wound had been inflicted_, which constituted one
branch of the capital offence; but "the prosecutor had, very properly,
restricted the charge to firing with _an intent_, without alleging
that a bodily injury _dangerous to life_ had been inflicted."[52]
The indictment was founded on the third and fourth sections alone;
charging, in the first count, a shooting with _intent_ to murder; in
the second, to maim and disable; in the third, to do some grievous
bodily harm. Indictments were preferred before the grand jury, at the
Central Criminal Court, against both principals, and both seconds.
The grand jury ignored those against Captain Tuckett and his second,
but "found" those against Lord Cardigan and his second. As probably
the same evidence, precisely, was laid before the grand jury in both
cases, it is certainly difficult to account for the totally different
results, except on the supposition that the grand jury weakly suffered
themselves to be hurried into a forgetfulness of their sworn duty, by
feelings of commiseration for the party who had been wounded by one
who had escaped unhurt. Lord Cardigan was reputed to be "a dead shot,"
and was certainly very unpopular; but there was no pretence whatever
for saying that he had acted otherwise than with rigorous fairness in
his encounter with Captain Tuckett, who, for all the grand jury could
tell, was as "dead a shot" as the Earl. We would, however, fain hope
that this secret-sworn inquest were not obnoxious to the censures which
Mr Townsend[53] and others have levelled at them in this matter. On
the bill being found, Lord Cardigan, of course, claimed his right to
be tried by his peers--(_i. e. pares_, _æquales_)--a right which he
possessed in common with every fellow-subject; and the indictment was
removed by _certiorari_, to be tried before the House of Peers in full
Parliament. The court of the Lord High Steward of Great Britain is one
instituted for the trial of a Peer indicted for treason, or felony,
or misprision of either;[54] but when the trial take place during
the session of Parliament, as was the case on the present occasion
it is before the High Court of Parliament. A Lord High Steward is
appointed in either case; but in the latter he officiates, not as the
supreme judge in matters of law--as he would be in a trial during the
recess--but as speaker, or chairman, having an equal voice with his
brother peers, in matters both of law and fact.

This was the first time that duelling had been made the subject of
prosecution under the statutes against shooting with intent to kill,
maim, disable, or do grievous bodily harm; and the position of the Earl
of Cardigan had suddenly become perilous in the extreme, and doubtless
occasioned most serious apprehensions to himself and his advisers. If
his case should be held to fall within the statute in question, not
only was he liable to transportation for life,--and he knew that the
House of Peers would firmly do its duty, especially conscious as it
was that upon it were fixed the eyes of the whole country,--but what
would be the effect of _a conviction of felony_ on his property? Four
days after the trial, it was stated in the _Times_ newspaper,[55] and
has not been, as far as we know, contradicted, that "such had been the
doubts as to the issue of the trial, entertained by Lord Cardigan and
his legal advisers, that his lordship, to prevent the whole of his
property being forfeited to the crown, executed, some time before, a
deed of gift, assigning over the whole of his valuable possessions
to Viscount Curzon, the eldest son of Earl Howe, who had married a
sister of the Earl of Cardigan. It is stated that the legal expenses
of this transfer of property, arising from fines on copy-holds and the
enormous stamp-duties, amounted to about £10,000; and as the deed of
transfer was said to have been enrolled in due form, in the event of
an acquittal the immense expenditure would have to be again incurred,
in order to effect a re-transfer." So serious a matter, even in a
pecuniary point of view, has now become the fighting a duel, to a
nobleman or gentleman of fortune, who are recommended, consequently,
not to fight in a hurry--at all events, till they shall have had an
opportunity of taking the best advice of counsel learned in the law.
The deed of transfer in question, if executed at all, had probably been
executed before it was known to Lord Cardigan and his advisers, that it
was not intended to indict him for a capital offence, under the second
section of stat. 1 Vict. c. 85, and that he could not, consequently, be
attainted. Even, however, as the case stood, if he had been convicted
of the felony with which he was charged, the validity of his expensive
attempt to obviate the legal effect of that conviction upon his large
property would have been gravely questionable, had the law advisers of
the crown felt it their duty to impugn the transaction.

The House of Lords presented, on the morning of Tuesday the 16th
February 1841, a most imposing appearance. Lord Denman, the Lord
Chief Justice of the Queen's Bench had been appointed by commission
from the Queen, _pro hâc vice_, Lord High Steward.[56] The judges
were in attendance in their state robes, and took their seats on the
woolsack. The peers were attired in their robes, such of them as were
knights also wearing the collars of their respective orders. The Lord
Chancellor (Lord Cottenham) was absent through illness; but there were,
independently of the Lord High Steward, no fewer than five law lords
present--Lords Lyndhurst, Brougham, Wynford, Abinger, and Langdale.
The side galleries were covered with ladies; and the scene was one
of great solemnity and magnificence. The Lord High Steward having
made reverences to the throne, to which he had been conducted by the
state officer--the Garter King-at-Arms bearing the sceptre, and the
Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod the Lord Steward's staff--took his
seat on the chair of state placed on the upper step but one of
the throne. The necessary formalities of reading the commission, the
writ of certiorari, and indictment, having been gone through, the Lord
High Steward ordered proclamation to be made to the Yeoman Usher of
the Black Rod "to bring James Thomas, Earl of Cardigan, to the bar."
This was quickly complied with--the Earl, accompanied by the officer
above mentioned, appearing at the bar, dressed in plain clothes. As he
approached, he made three "reverences," and knelt, till directed by the
Lord High Steward to rise. He again made three reverences, respectively
to the Lord High Steward, and his brother peers on each side of the
house, they returning his courtesy. He was then conducted to a stool
within the bar near his counsel. His demeanour was calm and dignified,
and he had a very soldierly bearing. He was then in his forty-fourth
year. The Lord High Steward's deep impressive tones were then heard, as
he thus addressed the noble prisoner: "My Lord Cardigan, your lordship
stands at the bar charged with the offence of firing with a loaded
pistol at Harvey Garnett Phipps Tuckett, with intent to murder him; in
a second count, you are charged with firing with intent to maim and
disable him; and in a third count, you are charged with firing with
intent to do him some grievous bodily harm. Your lordship will now be
arraigned on that indictment." The Earl was then arraigned in the usual
manner, by the Deputy Clerk of the Crown, in the Queen's Bench, who
thus proceeded:--

"How say you, my Lord, are you guilty of the felony with which you
stand charged, or not guilty?"

_Earl of Cardigan._--Not guilty, my lords.

_Deputy Clerk of the Crown._--How will your lordship be tried?

_Earl of Cardigan._--By my peers.

_Deputy Clerk of the Crown._--God send your lordship a good deliverance.

The Earl then, by leave of the House, sate down uncovered: and after
the usual proclamation had been made for all persons to come forward
and give evidence, the Lord Steward, with the leave of the House,
descended from his seat on the throne, and took his seat at the table.
The counsel for the Crown were the Attorney-General (the present Lord
Campbell), and Mr Waddington, (now Under Secretary of State); and for
the prisoner, Sir William Follett, Mr Serjeant Wrangham, and the late
Mr Adolphus. It has been said, and is indeed intimated by Mr Townsend,
that, imperturbable as was the self-possession of Sir William Follett,
on this occasion he exhibited unusual indication of an oppressive sense
of responsibility. Both facts, indeed, and law were so dead against
his noble client, and the consequences of conviction so exceedingly
serious, that nothing was left for him but to watch with lynx-eyed
acuteness, in order to see that nothing but rigorously exact legal
proof was adduced against his client.

The opening address of the Attorney-General was temperate, clear, and
able; most faithfully stating the law which he charged Lord Cardigan
with having violated, and the facts constituting the violation.
He reminded the House that sixty-four years had elapsed since a
similar trial had taken place--that of Lord Byron, for killing his
opponent in a duel. "I am rejoiced, my Lords, to think," continued
the Attorney-General, in terms which immediately occasioned great
observation, "that the charge against the noble prisoner at the bar
_does not imply any degree of moral turpitude_; and that, if he should
be found guilty, the conviction will reflect no discredit upon the
illustrious order to which he belongs. But, my Lords, it seems to me
that he has been clearly guilty of a breach of the statute law of
the realm, which this and all other courts of justice are bound to
respect and enforce. Your lordships are not sitting here as a court of
honour, or as a branch of the legislature, but as a court of justice,
bound by the rules of law, and under a sanction as sacred as that of
an oath.... Your lordships are aware that the noble Earl is in the
army--Lieutenant-colonel of the 11th Hussars; and I have no doubt that,
on this occasion, he only complied with what he thought necessary to
the usages of society. But, under these circumstances, though it would
have been considered, if death had ensued, _a great calamity, and not a
great crime_--though moralists of the highest authority have defended
duelling--it remains for your lordships to consider what duelling is by
the law of England." After quoting from the known great authorities,
Hale, Hawkins, Foster, and Blackstone, proving that a death by duelling
was wilful murder, the Attorney-General correctly observed--"It
necessarily follows, from this definition of murder, that the _first
count_ of the indictment is [that is, he expected that it would be]
completely proved. The only supposition, my Lords, by which the case
can be reduced to one of _manslaughter_ would be, that Lord Cardigan
and Captain Tuckett _casually_ met at Wimbledon Common--that they
_suddenly_ quarrelled--and that, while their blood was up, they fought.
But your lordships can hardly strain the facts so far as to suppose
that this was a casual meeting, when you find that each was supplied
with his second--that each had a brace of pistols--and that the whole
affair was conducted according to the forms and solemnities observed
when a deliberate duel is fought." Could anything be more clear and
cogent? "Then, my Lords, with regard to the second and third counts
of the indictment, I know not what defence can possibly be suggested;
because, even if there had been this casual meeting, contrary to all
probability and all the circumstances of the case--if it would only,
had death ensued, have amounted to the crime of manslaughter--that
would be no defence to the second and third counts of the indictment,
as has been expressly decided (in the case of _Anonymous_, 2 Moody's
Crim. Cases, p. 40) by the fifteen Judges of England."

Such was the opening of the Attorney-General--such as must have left
not a single crevice through which a glimpse of hope could be caught.
The words of the Act of Parliament could not have applied more exactly
to the facts of the case, as our readers must see, even if the act
had been expressly framed to meet these particular facts! The miller
of Wimbledon, his wife and son, had witnessed the whole affair--the
arrival of the parties on the ground, and the double interchange of
shots. Lord Cardigan, on the spot, and at the police office, in plain
terms avowed who he was, and what he had done, and who had been his
second--the inspector of the police-station being present to prove
such avowal. Sir James Anderson, the surgeon, who had also seen the
duel, and accompanied Captain Tuckett home, was in attendance as a
witness. The miller, who had received Captain Tuckett's card, went, a
week afterwards, to the residence mentioned in the card, and asked for,
and saw, Captain Tuckett. It would seem as though the wit of man could
not suggest how these facts could be evaded, or how they could fail of
being proved! Yet the case totally broke down; the whole prosecution
crumbled into pieces, under the subtle and watchful dexterity of the
consummate advocate to whom Lord Cardigan had committed his almost
hopeless case. What does the reader suppose to have been the fatal
flaw? The prosecution could not prove THE IDENTITY OF CAPTAIN TUCKETT!
Each of the three counts in the indictment charged Lord Cardigan
with having fired at--Harvey _Garnett Phipps_ Tuckett. That was his
real name, but it became impossible to prove the fact; and, without
such proof, the prisoner was, beyond all question, entitled to an
acquittal. A man cannot be indicted for firing at A B, and convicted
of firing at C D. If Captain Tuckett had been called, he could, of
course, have instantly disposed of the difficulty; and it is said that
that gentleman was actually in, or near, the House of Lords; but the
Attorney-General explained that he could not call that gentleman, nor
his second, because, though the bill against them had been ignored by
the grand jury, "they were still liable to be tried," and therefore
"it would not be decorous to summon them to give evidence which
might afterwards be turned against themselves." And as for Captain
Wainwright, he was in the situation of his noble fellow prisoner,
as a true bill had been found against him at the Central Criminal
Court. What, then, shall be said against calling Sir James Anderson?
Fortunately for himself and for Lord Cardigan, he was in a position
to be tried himself on a charge of having been present, aiding and
assisting at the commission of a felony. On this gentleman being sworn,
the Lord High Steward thus cautioned him, as he was bound to do in the
case of any witness similarly situated:--

"Sir James Anderson,--With the permission of the House, I think it
my duty to inform you, after the opening we have heard made by the
Attorney-General of the facts of the case, that you are not bound to
answer any question _which may tend to criminate yourself_." Doubtless,
Sir James Anderson expected nothing less, and had come to the House of
Lords perfectly at his ease. Therefore he came like a shadow, and so
departed. Thus "had he his entrance and his exit."

"_Attorney-General._--Of what profession are you?

"_A._--I am a physician.

"_Q._--Where do you live?

"_A._--New Burlington Street.

"_Q._--Are you acquainted with Captain Tuckett?

"_A._--I must decline answering that.

"_Q._--Were you on Wimbledon Common on the 12th September last?

"_A._--I must decline answering that also!

"_Q._--Were you on that day called in to attend any gentleman that was
wounded?

"_A._--I am sorry to decline that again!

"_Q._--Can you tell me where Captain Tuckett lives?

"_A._--I must decline answering the question!

"_Q._--Has he a house in London?

"_Sir William Follett._--He 'declines to answer the question.'

"_A._--I have already said that I decline answering the question.

"_Attorney-General._--Where did you last see Captain Tuckett?

"_Sir William Follett._--We [the counsel for the prisoner] have no
_right_, my Lords, to interfere in this case;[57] but, the witness
having several times declined to answer the question, I apprehend that
it is not regular for the Attorney-General, by circuitous questions,
to endeavour to get him to answer.

"_Attorney-General._--I have never pressed him in any question I have
put. [_To Sir James Anderson._]--Do you decline answering any question
whatever respecting Captain Tuckett?

"_A._--_Any_ question which may 'tend to criminate' myself.

"_Q._--And you consider that answering any question respecting Captain
Tuckett _may_ tend to criminate yourself?

"_A._--It is possible that it would.

"_Q._--And on that ground you decline?

"_A._--Yes.

"_Attorney-General_, [_to the House_.]--Then, unless your Lordships
wish to ask any question of the witness, he may withdraw.

"The witness was directed to withdraw."

Here, then, were four avenues through which light might have been
thrown on a transaction which was the subject of such solemn and
dignified inquiry by the most illustrious judicial assembly in the
world, carefully closed: Sir James Anderson, Captain Tuckett, Captain
Douglas, and Captain Wainwright. It will be further observed that Lord
Cardigan, in his frank avowal at the police station, had happened not
to mention the name of the gentleman whom he had fought and wounded--an
omission probably altogether accidental, for his Lordship seems to have
been in a humour of signal yet becoming and characteristic frankness.

The sole question in this celebrated case thus became one of
identity--the indictment charging Lord Cardigan with having fired
at one _Harvey Garnett Phipps Tuckett_--it being the duty of the
prosecutors to prove that the prisoner fired at a person _bearing these
names_. There was abundant evidence that Lord Cardigan had fired at and
wounded a Captain Harvey Tuckett; but this might be a person totally
different from him named in the indictment. The skill and vigilance
of the prisoner's counsel were visible in tripping up his opponents
whenever they approached inconveniently near his client. There is no
reason to believe that Lord Cardigan's counsel were aware of there
being the slightest difficulty, on the part of the prosecution, in
proving the identity of the wounded man with the one specified in the
indictment; but at the very first start, Sir William Follett perceived
a faint possible advantage, and never for one instant lost sight of it.

"You tell us," said the counsel for the prosecution, examining the
first witness--the miller, "that you saw the pistols fired a second
time: did you observe whether either of the shots took effect?

"_A._--I thought Captain Tuckett was wounded--or, at least, the other
gentleman: _I did not know who it was_.

"_Q._--You thought that the gentleman, whom you afterwards knew to be
Captain Tuckett, was wounded?

"_A._--Yes.

"_Q._--Did you see what that gentleman did with his pistol, after the
second shots were fired?

"_A._--No.

"_Q._--You did not see whether he held it in his hand, or what he did
with it?

"_A._--Which are you alluding to?

"_Q._--I am speaking of Captain Tuckett.

"_Sir William Follett._--He has said he did not know who it was!"

Here was a stumble by the prosecutors, which their wary adversary
never allowed them to recover. The miller then stated the giving of
the card of address of "Captain Harvey Tuckett, 13 Hamilton Place, New
Road," and produced it; but Sir William Follett would not allow it
to be read in evidence against Lord Cardigan, without evidence that
Lord Cardigan had seen it given, and was aware of what it was: and
such evidence was not forthcoming. The Attorney-General then withdrew
the card for the present, and asked the miller whether, on receiving
it, he allowed the wounded gentleman to go; to which the answer was
"Yes."--"In consequence of receiving this card, did you afterwards call
at a particular house?" (meaning the house mentioned on the card, but
which Sir William Follett had succeeded in excluding, for the present,
from evidence.) Sir William Follett objected that the question was a
leading one, and it was not pressed. The witness then stated that, a
week afterwards, he called at No. 13 Hamilton Place; asked for "Captain
Harvey Tuckett."

"_Q._--Whom did you see?

"_A._--Captain Harvey Tuckett.

"_Q._--Did you speak to him?

"_A._--I did.

"_Sir William Follett._--I wish you would put your questions
differently!

"_Attorney-General._--We ask him whom he saw.

"_Sir William Follett._--He does not know Captain Harvey Tuckett, I
suppose.

"_Q._--Did you speak to him?

"_A._--I did."

The Attorney-General then tendered the card in evidence: and Sir
William Follett, ignorant of what was written in it, (for the
Attorney-General had not specified in stating the case,) objected to
its being received. On this a very ingenious and elaborate argument
ensued between him and the Attorney-General, whether this card was or
was not admissible in evidence, at all events in that stage of the
case. The latter insisted on the affirmative, on the ground that the
card had been given to the constable in Lord Cardigan's presence, and
the constable had afterwards gone to the address specified in the
card. It was therefore a part of the _res gestæ_. "No," answered Sir
William Follett; "it does not appear who it was that gave this card,
or that Lord Cardigan saw it, nor that he knew what was written on
it. The Attorney-General is trying to prove an important fact in the
case, by an apparent _admission_ of Lord Cardigan; whereas he is not
shown to have had any cognisance whatever of the fact which he is
supposed to have admitted!" The Lord High Steward said that, at all
events, the House would postpone for the present its decision as to the
admissibility of the card. "Whether the Attorney-General," said Sir
William Follett, "will have any other evidence to prove who it was that
had given the card, or to connect the card with the Earl, is another
question"--which doubtless occasioned no little anxiety to the Earl and
his astute counsel.

The next witnesses were the miller's wife and son, who were
cross-examined by Sir William Follett irritably and severely, but
ineffectually. They did not, nevertheless, appear to carry the case
much farther than had the miller. Then came Mr Busain, the police
inspector, who gave evidence of the facts already stated in connection
with his name, in the Earl's avowal that he had just fought a duel, and
hit his man. On his being asked a very critical question, viz., as to
Captain Tuckett's having called at the magistrate's office _and given
his name_, Sir William Follett anxiously and hastily interposed--"Was
Lord Cardigan present then and there?" to which the answer was, "No,
he was not." Sir William Follett therefore succeeded in excluding what
Captain Tuckett had said on calling at the magistrate's office, and
thus again "averted the decisive stroke."[58]

Then the Attorney-General called a Mr Matthew, a chemist in the
Poultry, in whose house "Captain Tuckett" occupied rooms for business.
Mr Matthew said that Captain Tuckett lived at "No. 13, Hamilton Place,
New Road." He was then asked the Christian names of Captain Tuckett.
On this Sir William Follett interposed, and having elicited the fact
that the witness had never been at the house No. 13, Hamilton Place,
New Road, objected to the witness being asked the Christian names of
the gentleman who had lodged with the witness in the Poultry! This
objection, however, was overruled; but on the question being put, it
turned out that the only names by which the witness knew his lodger
were "Harvey Tuckett!" As a last resource, the Attorney-General called
Mr Codd, an army agent, who paid "Captain Tuckett," of the "11th Light
Dragoons," his half-pay, _and knew his name to be "Harvey Garnet Phipps
Tuckett_!!" But the witness added that he used to pay the money at his
own house in Fludyer Street, Westminster, and had never seen Captain
Tuckett except there, and at an insurance office! Again was the Earl of
Cardigan's star in the ascendant. How could the prosecutor connect the
half-pay officer spoken of by this witness, with the Captain Tuckett
shot by Lord Cardigan, and afterwards seen wounded in Hamilton Place?

The case was brought, at length, pretty nearly to a stand-still. "Is
_that_ your case, Mr Attorney?" inquired Lord Brougham; on which the
Attorney-General pressed for the decision of the House as to the
admissibility in evidence of the card which had been delivered by one
of the parties on the ground to the constable.

"_Lord High Steward._--You object to its being received, Sir William
Follett?

"_Sir William Follett._--Certainly, my lord: and I should wish to
address your lordships, if any doubt is entertained on the subject.

"_Lord High Steward._--Their lordships are ready to hear your objection.

"_Sir William Follett_, (to the Attorney-General.)--Will you let me
look at the card?"

The card was handed to Sir William Follett, who, on examining it,
addressing the Lord High Steward, said calmly and resolutely--"My lord,
I do not think it necessary to object to this card being read." And,
indeed, he had no need to do so; for, as the reader must see, it did
not advance the case a single hair's-breadth.

"Is _that_ your case, Mr Attorney?" inquired Sir William Follett, with
mingled anxiety and hope. "That, my lords, is the case on the part of
the prosecution," said the Attorney-General:--on which, turning to
the High Steward with a confident exulting air, Sir William Follett
"submitted to their lordships that no case had been made out, requiring
an answer from the prisoner at the bar."

Into what a minute point this great case had dwindled! "There is no
evidence whatever to prove," said Sir William Follett, "that the
person at whom the noble Earl is charged to have shot, on the 12th
September last, was Harvey Garnett Phipps Tuckett--the name contained
in every count of the indictment. The evidence would rather lead to a
contrary presumption, if presumption could be entertained in such a
case; but it is incumbent on the prosecutor to give positive evidence
of the identity of the person named in the indictment with the person
against whom the offence is alleged to have been committed.... Is
there anything before your lordships to identify the Captain Tuckett
spoken of by the army agent, Mr Codd, with the person who is said to
have been at Wimbledon Common on the 12th September last? There is
nothing whatever."--"If there be the smallest _scintilla_ of evidence,"
answered the Attorney-General, "the prosecution cannot be stopped
on this ground; and there is abundant evidence from which it may be
inferred that the person wounded in this duel was--Harvey Garnett
Phipps Tuckett. We prove that the wounded gentleman was _a_ 'Captain
Tuckett;'--that it was 'Captain _Harvey_ Tuckett:' that the wounded
Captain Tuckett lived at 13 Hamilton Place, New Road. Is there any
doubt that it was _that_ Captain Tuckett who had taken the premises in
the Poultry? When he did so, he gave a reference to No. 13 Hamilton
Place, New Road. Is it not an irresistible evidence, then, that the
Captain Tuckett of the Poultry and of Hamilton Place, and who fought
with Lord Cardigan, was one and the same person? There is only one
other stage--that this Captain Tuckett is the Captain Tuckett of whom
Mr Codd speaks. Is there not cogent evidence to prove the identity
here? Would any person, out of a court of justice, for a moment doubt
the identity here? If not, can this House undertake to say _that there
is not a scintilla_ of evidence of identity before it?" "What we
object," said Sir William Follett, in reply, "is this--that Mr Codd,
who says he knows _a_ Captain Tuckett who bears the names mentioned
in the indictment, gave no _scintilla_ of evidence to connect that
individual with the gentleman who was on Wimbledon Common on the
12th September last. It depended altogether on Mr Codd to give such
proof--and that proof he wholly failed to give. Your Lordships are now
sitting as judges, to decide solely on the evidence which has been laid
before you. The Attorney-General says that the card afforded _one_ of
the Christian names--'_Harvey_ Tuckett;' but is that proof that the
person mentioned in that card is the 'Harvey _Garnett Phipps_ Tuckett'
mentioned in this indictment? There may be two, or ten, or fifty
persons named 'Harvey Tuckett.' I ask your Lordships, sitting as judges
on a criminal case, and looking at the evidence alone--disregarding
surmise, conjecture, and what you may have heard out of doors--whether
there is any evidence to prove that the gentleman wounded on Wimbledon
Common bears the name and surname of 'Harvey Garnett Phipps Tuckett?'"

The Lord High Steward, during the deliberation of the House with closed
doors, delivered a luminous and convincing exposition of the legal
merits of the case before the House:--

"There is an absolute want of circumstances to connect the individual
at whom the pistol was fired, and who afterwards was seen wounded in
Hamilton Place, with the half-pay officer known to Mr Codd as bearing
the names set forth in the indictment on which your Lordships are
sitting in judgment; for the mere fact of the wounded person bearing
_some_ of the names used by the half-pay officer, is no proof that
the former and the latter are the same; and the representation by
that officer of his having held a commission in the same regiment of
which Lord Cardigan told the policeman that he himself was colonel,
(which, coupled with the actual receipt of half-pay, may sufficiently
prove that fact,) cannot, I apprehend, be turned into a presumption
that those two individuals would meet in hostile array. Here are two
distinct lines of testimony, and they never meet in the same point."

       *       *       *       *       *

"No fact (_i. e._ of identity) is easier of proof in its own nature;
and numerous witnesses are always at hand to establish it, with respect
to any person conversant with society. In the present case, the
simplest means were accessible. If those who conduct the prosecution
had obtained your Lordships' order for the appearance at your bar of
Captain Tuckett, and if the witnesses of the duel had deposed to his
being the man who left the field after receiving Lord Cardigan's shot,
Mr Codd might have been asked whether that was the gentleman whom he
knew by the four names set forth in the indictment. His answer in the
affirmative would have been too conclusive on the point to admit of the
present objection being taken.

"Several other methods of proof will readily suggest themselves to your
Lordships' minds. Even if obstacles had been imposed by distance of
time and place, by the poverty of those seeking to enforce the law, by
the death of witnesses, or other casualties, it cannot be doubted that
the accused must have had the benefit of the failure of proof, however
occasioned; and here, where none of those causes can account for the
deficiency, it seems too much to require that your Lordships should
volunteer the presumption of a fact which, if true, might have been
made clear and manifest to every man's understanding by the shortest
process. Your Lordships were informed that no persons out of doors
could hesitate, on the proof now given, to decide that the identity
is well made out. Permit me, my Lords, to say that you are to decide
for yourselves upon the proofs brought before you, and that nothing
can be conceived more dangerous to the interests of justice, than for
a judicial body to indulge in any speculations on what may possibly
be said or thought by others who have not heard the same evidence,
nor act with the same responsibility, nor (possibly) confine their
attention to the evidence actually adduced. Your lordships," continued
the Lord High Steward, "sitting in this High Court of Parliament,
with the functions of a judge and a jury, I have stated my own views,
as an individual member of the court, of the question by you to be
considered, discussed, and decided. Though I have commenced the debate,
it cannot be necessary for me to disclaim the purpose of dictating
my own opinion, which is respectfully laid before you with the hope
of eliciting those of the House at large. If any other duty be cast
upon me, or if there be any more convenient course to be pursued, I
shall be greatly indebted to any of your lordships who will be so
kind as to instruct me in it. In the absence," concluded the noble
Lord, "of any other suggestion, I venture to declare my own judgment,
grounded on the reasons briefly submitted, that the Earl of Cardigan
is entitled to be declared NOT GUILTY."[59] This was followed by
the unanimous declaration of "Not Guilty,"--pronounced successively
"upon my honour"--by every peer present, beginning with the junior
baron. The only variation of the form occurred in the case of the Duke
of Cleveland, who said--instead of not guilty, upon my honour"--not
guilty, _legally_, upon my honour." The white staff of the Lord High
Steward was then broken in two; and so was dissolved the first--may it
be the last--commission, during the present century, for the trial of a
peer on a charge of felony.

Lord Denman's reasons for recommending an acquittal were unanswerable;
and by special direction of the House of Lords, though not in
conformity with precedent,[60] were published, to enable the country
to judge of the grounds on which the House had proceeded. The result,
however, so contrary to that which had been expected, excited no little
indignation; and the _bonâ fides_, even of those who conducted the
prosecution, was very sternly questioned. It was insinuated by some
of the most powerful organs of public opinion, that the prosecution
had been taken up unwillingly, and with not even ordinary precautions
to secure the ends of justice. "We ask," said the _Times_, "whether
the law officers of the Crown had no foresight to anticipate, or no
disposition to provide against, a conclusion so unsatisfactory? Is
any man capable of believing that if some tailor, or linendraper, had
been indicted at the Old Bailey for the crime of stealing--or that
he, having an honour to vindicate equally with noble lords, pistolled
and wounded one of his companions--does any man believe that, in such
a case, we should have heard of any miscarriage, or of any name that
could not be proved? Oh no! there would then have been precautions in
abundance--there would have been no loophole left--there would have
been no lack of friends and relatives carefully subpoenaed to prove all
the Christian names of the necessary party."

We ourselves have reflected frequently on the result of this trial;
and the points which have occurred to us are two. _First_, Why was not
Captain Tuckett summoned to the bar of the House of Lords--if merely to
be asked his name[61]--or even only to be pointed out to the witnesses
to see if they could identify him? The miller could have been required
to look at him, and been then asked--"Is that the person whom you saw
lying wounded on the common?"--and Mr Codd could then have been also
required to look at Captain Tuckett, and say--"Is that the gentleman
to whom you used to pay half-pay as Captain Tuckett of the 11th Light
Dragoons, and whose name you knew to be Harvey Garnett Phipps Tuckett?"
On both these witnesses answering these questions in the affirmative,
it would have required a thousand times even Sir William Follett's
ingenuity to suggest a further doubt on the point of identity. This
was the course which the Lord High Steward plainly pointed at, in his
address to his brother peers, as that which might have been adopted.
_Secondly_, Why was not the name of Captain Tuckett varied in various
counts of the indictment, so as to meet not every probable, but every
possible doubt and difficulty? If in one count he had been called
"Harvey Tuckett," it would have sufficed to meet the evidence actually
adduced; and the other counts might have, respectively described him
as "Harvey Garnett Phipps Tuckett"--"Harvey Garnett Tuckett"--"Harvey
Phipps Tuckett"--"Garnett Tuckett"--"Phipps Tuckett"--even adding to
these other combinations of the four names in which Captain Tuckett
rejoiced. To dispose first of this latter point--we verily believe
that, up to the moment when the question of identity was started, the
counsel for the prosecution, and their clients, believed that the
proof of identity was a matter of course. The indictment had been
preferred before the Grand Jury at the Central Criminal Court; and was
doubtless framed, in the ordinary course, by the clerk of indictments,
from the depositions--in which might have appeared all the four names
of Captain Tuckett, without any intimation of doubt or difficulty as
to the fact of those being his names, or as to proof that they were.
Possibly the clerk had before him a positive statement that Mr Codd,
the army agent, who paid Captain Tuckett his half-pay, could clearly
prove that his name was "Harvey Garnett Phipps Tuckett;" and that,
if so, it was a needless and expensive encumbering of the record to
insert counts aimed at only imaginary difficulties. The indictment
having once gone before the Grand Jury, and been returned a true bill,
no alteration could have been made in it, especially after it had been
removed by _certiorari_.... Doubtless the brief of the counsel for the
prosecution would contain the evidence of Mr Codd, in as direct and
positive a form as could be imagined; and they would regard him, as the
army-agent of Captain Tuckett, as peculiarly qualified to prove his
real names. When the difficulty had been started, we know of no degree
of ingenuity that could have been exhibited by counsel, exceeding
that of the Attorney-General, in his contests on the point with Sir
William Follett. All experienced practical lawyers will acknowledge
the probability that the solution of the question here proposed is the
true one. It is easy to be wise after the result. A blot is not a blot,
until it has been _hit_.

_Secondly_, Why was not Captain Tuckett brought to the bar, to be asked
his names, or identified by Mr Codd? There is no evidence that he
was in attendance, or that he could have been met with, at the exact
moment when his presence was required. It may have been that no order
of the House had been obtained for his attendance, only because it had
not been thought necessary--that no difficulty would arise which his
attendance could solve; and in the absence of direct legal compulsion,
Captain Tuckett may have felt it a point of honour not to volunteer
himself as a witness against his brother duellist. We can also readily
believe that the counsel for the prosecution were anxious to conduct
a perfectly novel case--the first instance on record of an attempt to
bring an abortive duel under the category of felony, with its alarming
incidents and consequences--with unusual liberality, and not to exhibit
anything like a vindictive pressure upon the accused. They also knew
that Captain Tuckett was himself liable, at that very moment, to be
placed in the same situation as Lord Cardigan, and that it would have
been idle to call before the House of Lords a witness who would come
armed with a right to decline answering any single question--possibly
even that above suggested as to his name--which he believed might even
_tend_ to criminate himself. It must also be borne in mind that the
Attorney-General boldly avowed, before the House of Lords, that he
regarded the act with which Lord Cardigan stood charged as one devoid
of "any degree of moral turpitude," and that "a conviction would
effect no discredit on the illustrious order to which he belonged."
These observations, proceeding from an Attorney-General on a solemn
official occasion, became, a few days afterwards, the subject of grave
discussion and censure in the House of Lords. But even the excellent
Earl of Mountcashel thus pointed at the practical hardship of Lord
Cardigan's position,--"An officer in the army receives an affront. His
brother officers expect he shall go out. If he do, he encounters the
pains and penalties of the statute 1 Victoria c. 85; if he refuse, he
is obnoxious to the contempt of his brother officers."[62] It was,
certainly, not to be expected that an Attorney-General, entertaining
and averring the views of duelling which he did--and having to deal
with a nobleman bearing her Majesty's commission, who was placed in the
dilemma indicated by Lord Mountcashel, and had fought his duel fairly,
and unattended by fatal consequences--should have been as eagle-eyed
a prosecutor as if he had had to deal with a man, gentle or simple,
military or civil, who had shamefully provoked, and as disgracefully
fought, a fatal duel.

Had Lord Cardigan been convicted, he had still a _chance_ of escaping
the serious personal consequences by claiming that absurd and unjust
privilege of the peerage of which Lords Mohun, Warwick, and Byron in
past times had respectively availed themselves, immediately on their
having been convicted, in cases of fatal duels, of manslaughter. This
privilege had been confirmed by statute, 1st Edward VI. c. 12, § 14,
which was passed in the year 1547, and consisted in enabling a lord of
parliament and peer of the realm to have benefit of clergy for a first
conviction of felony,--that is to say, to escape the penal consequences
of conviction, on simply alleging that he was a peer, and praying the
benefit of that act! In 1827, however, by one of the statutes which
effected so salutary a reform of our criminal law, (statute 7th and
8th Geo. IV. c. 28, § 6,) it was enacted as follows,--that "benefit
of clergy, with respect to persons convicted of felony, shall be
abolished." It had been intended, by this section, to repeal that of
the 1st Edward VI. c. 12, § 14; but serious doubts were entertained,
during the pendency of Lord Cardigan's trial, whether that intention
had been effectuated. We offer no opinion on the point, which would
have been argued, of course, with desperate pertinacity, and consummate
learning and ingenuity, had the occasion for such an exhibition arisen.
To extinguish, however, all possible doubt, and prevent any future
failure of justice, an act was passed in the same session during
which Lord Cardigan was tried, (statute 4th and 5th Vict. c. 22, 2d
June 1841,) asserting that "doubts had been entertained" whether,
notwithstanding the statute of 1827, that of 1547 "might not, for
some purposes, still remain in force." The statute of 1841 had but
one section, which declared the 1st Edward VI. c. 12, § 14, to be
"thenceforth repealed, and utterly void, and no longer of any effect;"
and enacted that "every lord of parliament, or peer of the realm having
place in parliament, against whom any indictment for felony may be
found, shall plead to such indictment, and shall, upon conviction, be
liable to the same punishment as any other of her Majesty's subjects
are, or may be, liable upon conviction for such felony."

Here stands the law of duelling, alike for lord and commoner, whom
we trust we have satisfied of the really alarming responsibilities
entailed upon those who may choose to perpetuate these outrages upon
the laws of their country.

In closing this paper, and taking leave of a painfully interesting
topic, we would fain express a hope and a belief, that a better feeling
on the subject of duelling is gaining ground, in this country, than
has existed for centuries. There is growing up a spirit of dignified
submission to the law of man, based as it is on the law of God, which
totally prohibits these unholy exhibitions of murderous malevolence.
A truer estimate is formed of the nature of HONOUR--one which forbids
alike the offering and the resenting of insults. The following noble
paragraph, recently introduced into the Articles of War, is worthy of
being written in letters of gold--of being exhibited (with suitable
variation of expression) in every place of public resort, and in every
possible manner brought under the notice of men of the world, and the
youths in our public schools:--

"We hereby declare our approbation," says her most gracious
Majesty,[63] "of the conduct of all those who, having had the
misfortune of giving offence to, or of injuring, or of insulting
others, shall frankly explain, apologise, or offer redress for the
same; or who, having had the misfortune of receiving offence, injury,
or insult from another, shall cordially accept frank explanation,
apology, or redress for the same; or who, if such explanations,
apology, or redress, are refused to be made or accepted, and the
friends of the parties shall have failed to adjust the difference,
shall intrust the matter to be dealt with by the commanding officer
of the regiment or detachment, fort or garrison; and we accordingly
acquit of disgrace, or opinion of disadvantage, all officers who, being
willing to make or accept such redress, refuse to accept challenges, as
they will only have acted as is suitable to the character of honourable
men, and have done their duty as good soldiers, who subject themselves
to discipline."

There speaks the Queen of England!

The following is the stringent Article of War (Art. 101) on the subject
of duelling:--

"Every officer who shall give, send, convey, or promote a challenge; or
who shall accept any challenge to fight a duel with another officer;
or who shall assist as a second at a duel; or who, being privy to
an intention to fight a duel, shall not take active measures to
prevent such duel; or who shall upbraid another for refusing or for
not giving a challenge; or who shall reject, or advise the rejection
of, a reasonable proposition made for the honourable adjustment of a
difference, shall be liable, if convicted by a general court-martial,
to be cashiered, or suffer such other punishment as the court may award.

"In the event of an officer being brought to a court-martial for
having assisted as a second in a duel, if it shall appear that such
officer had strenuously exerted himself to effect an adjustment of the
difference, on terms consistent with the honour of both the parties,
and shall have failed, through the unwillingness of the adverse
parties to accept terms of honourable accommodation, then our will and
pleasure is, that such officer shall suffer such punishment, other than
cashiering, as the court may award."



THE DEFENCES OF BRITAIN.[64]


Sir Francis Head is a bold man. When the cry for economy and
retrenchment, arising out of the straightened circumstances of
the nation, is at its loudest, he has ventured to argue the
proposition--once admitted as a truism, but now apparently denied
by many--that there are national duties, of surpassing magnitude,
which must be undertaken and fulfilled irrespective of pecuniary
considerations, if we intend to preserve this country, not simply
from a diminution of its greatness, but from the imminent danger of
invasion and of hostile occupation. His courage is not lessened by the
fact that, in maintaining that axiom, he is fortified by the practical
testimony, without any exception whatever, of all our greatest living
military and naval authorities; his boldness is not less notable
because the Duke of Wellington, Sir John Burgoyne, Admiral Bowes,
Admiral Sir Thomas Cochrane, Sir Charles Napier, Captain Plunkett, and
others, have year after year protested against the insufficiency of our
national defences; and demonstrated that, under the present system, and
with the inadequate force at our disposal, we could not, in the event
of a rupture with France, calculate on maintaining the inviolability of
the British coast, or the security of our capital, London. He is a bold
man, and a man of moral courage, because he has ventured once more to
stem the tide of popular prejudice and clamour; to expose himself to
the sneers of the unthinking, the foolish, and the ignorant, and to the
insolent imputations of the professional agitator and demagogue. The
individual who was base enough to insult the gray hairs and honoured
age of the first soldier of the world, was not likely to refrain from
vituperation in the case of a humbler antagonist; and, accordingly,
we are not in the least degree surprised to observe, that, at a late
meeting in Wrexham, this person, Cobden, who three years ago insinuated
that the Duke of Wellington was a dotard, has now turned his battery of
coarse abuse against Sir Francis Head.[65]

We have, fortunately, something else to do than to answer the wretched
calumniator. We consider it our bounden duty, in so far as we can, to
recommend to our readers the exceedingly able and temperate work of Sir
Francis Head, which not only embraces all that can be said upon the
topic in the way of abstract argument, but exhibits in the clearest
form, and from the most authentic sources, the amount of foreign
military and naval preparation, at the present moment, as contrasted
with our own. It is, we think, a most timely and needful warning, which
every one will do well to consider, not in a rash or hasty manner,
but calmly, deliberately, and dispassionately, with reference to his
own individual interests, and to those of the nation at large. The
question, as it now presents itself to our notice, is not one of peace
or war. The most zealous peace-monger alive need not be ashamed of
adopting the conclusions or seconding the suggestions of the writer.
The question, as put by Sir Francis Head, is simply this,--Are we, or
are we not, supposing us to become involved in hostilities with France,
in a condition successfully to resist all attempts at invasion?

Of course there are several considerations collateral and connected
with this. Military and naval establishments being, in effect, the
insurance which we pay against the risk of invasion, the risk must be
calculated in order to ascertain the amount. Only in one respect the
parallel does not hold good between national and private insurance. A
man may insure his premises or his life inadequately, and yet he or
his representatives will be entitled to recover something. In the case
of a nation, inadequate insurance is really equivalent to none. Either
the insurance is good altogether, and fully adequate to the risk, or
it need not have been effected at all. Therefore, in estimating this
matter of sufficiency of defence, we must attempt to ascertain, as
clearly as can be done by human foresight, aided by past experience,
the amount of possible danger. This is unquestionably a most intricate
consideration, yet no one can deny its importance.

It is a very simple matter for those who have never turned their
attention to the state of Great Britain, as one great military and
naval power surrounded by others, to treat with entire contempt the
idea of any possibility of invasion. We have no doubt that a large
proportion of the British nation consider themselves at this moment
invincible. It is quite natural that this should be the case. We have
accustomed ourselves, in consequence of the result of the last war,
to look upon British prowess as something absolutely indomitable. The
issue of Waterloo has wiped away all memory of the disastrous retreat
to Corunna. We remember Trafalgar with pride, and forget that even in
naval matters we found our match in the American. The flag of England
has not always been supreme on the seas, or even in her own estuaries.
Little more than a century and a half has elapsed since a Dutch fleet
entered the Thames without resistance, burned the shipping in the
Medway, and held Chatham at its mercy. But the present generation knows
little about those things, and is disposed to limit its recollections
to comparatively recent events. Nor are even these viewed fairly and
fully. We are content to take the catastrophe as the measure of the
whole. We overlook the disasters, loss, misery, and bloodshed, which
our former state of bad preparation entailed upon the nation, and we
will not listen to the testimony of the great living witness--still
happily spared to us--when he raises his voice to warn us against
wilfully incurring a repetition of the same, or the infliction of worse
calamities. Not even by tradition do our common people know anything of
the horrors of foreign and invasive war. Of all the European nations
we are incomparably the least warlike in our ideas and our habits. Our
population knows nothing of military training, is wholly unaccustomed
to the use of arms. A few muskets in the hands of a few old pensioners
have been found sufficient to overawe and disperse the most infuriated
mob. And yet we are told to consider ourselves, and do in part
believe it, as capable of resisting any attempt at organised military
invasion, at a moment's notice, notwithstanding the enormous numerical
inferiority of the whole disciplined troops which we could summon from
all parts of the kingdom, to even a fractional part of the force which
could easily be brought against us!

Assuredly we have no reason or wish to undervalue the greatness of
English courage. That quality alone will turn the scale when the match
is otherwise equal. Our wild and rude ancestors, who opposed the
landing of the legions of Cæsar, were certainly not one whit inferior
in courage or in strength to their descendants, and yet those qualities
could not save them from being utterly routed by the discipline of
the Italian invaders. It may be questioned whether, in the case of
a sudden emergency, the British population at the present day could
offer so formidable a resistance to a regularly disciplined force.
The odds are that they could not. The aboriginal British tribes, like
our Highlanders in last century, were trained to the use of arms,
however simple, and versed in some kind of tactics, however rude.
They knew how to stand by each other, and they were not terrified by
the sight of blood. Whereas the modern operative, suddenly summoned
from the factory to take his place as a national defender, would be
of all creatures the most incompetent and helpless. To mount a horse,
or rather, to guide a horse when he had mounted it, would be to him a
thing impossible. He would as lieve thrust his hand into the flames as
attempt to fire a cannon. His ideas as to the distinction between the
but-end and the muzzle of a musket are so extremely indefinite, that
you might as well arm him at once with a boomerang; and the odds are,
that, in masticating a cartridge, he would consider it part of his duty
to swallow the ball. Or, supposing that his piece is adequately loaded
and primed, what is the betting that he does not bring down a comrade
instead of disabling an enemy? A random shot strikes the midriff of
Higgins, who has just patriotically rushed from the manufacture of
_domestics_ to do his duty on the battle-field. He falls gasping in his
gore; and Simpkins, who is his right-hand man, grows pale as death,
and is off in the twinkling of a billy-roller. A single bivouac, on
a frosty night, would send half the awkward squad to the hospital
shivering with ague. Those who had previously pinned their faith on
Hogarth's caricature of the spindle-shanked Frenchman toasting frogs
on the point of his rapier, would speedily discover their mistake at
the apparition of the grim, bearded, and bronzed veterans of Algeria,
armed to the teeth, and inflamed with that creditable "morale," of
which so much has been said, but which resolves itself simply into a
burning desire for vengeance on "perfidious Albion." They would then
begin, though rather late, to perceive the advantages of preparation,
discipline, and science, and bitterly to regret that they had turned a
deaf ear so long to the warnings of wisdom and experience. Discipline
is as powerful now, in strategy, as it was nineteen hundred years
ago. The cotton-clad Briton would not be one whit more able to repel
invasion than his remote skin-clad progenitor. And as for a leader,
are we liable to the charge of prejudice when we aver that we would
rather march to combat under the guidance of a Caractacus than that of
a Cobden?

But is there any chance of an invasion? We reply--that depends in a
great measure upon the extent of our actual preparation. If it is known
abroad, and notorious, that we have made our citadel impregnable,
the probabilities of any such attempt are extremely lessened. If, on
the contrary, we are manifestly unable to resist aggression, we do
unquestionably increase our risk to an enormous degree. Which of us can
calculate on our escaping from the embroilment of war, in the present
distracted state of European politics, for a year, or even for a month?
The last time we approached this subject of the national defences was
towards the commencement of the year 1848, when Cobden was attempting
to preach down military establishments. Our readers may recollect the
arguments which he used at that time. He represented that the whole
world was at profound peace and tranquillity; that the nations were
thinking of nothing else but relaxation of tariffs, and the interchange
of calicoes and corn; that men were a great deal too wise ever again
to appeal to the rude arbitration of the sword--and much more trash
of a similar nature, which seemed to give intense delight to his
cultivated Manchester audience. We considered it necessary to tie him
up to the halberts, and gave him a castigation which to this hour he
writhingly remembers. We pointed out then the utter absurdity of his
notion, that Free-trade was to supersede Christianity as a controller
of the passions of mankind; and we insisted that, so far from real
tranquillity being established on the Continent, it was "quite possible
that France may yet have to undergo another dynastic convulsion."
What followed? Before the number of the Magazine which contains that
paper was published, the Revolution broke out in France, and extended
itself over more than half the Continent. It is not yet completed, or
anything like completed--it is resolving itself into war, the natural
and inevitable sequence of all such revolutions. Hitherto we have kept
out of it by good fortune, if not by dexterous management. But our
escape was a very narrow one. Once we were so very near a rupture, that
the French ambassador was recalled from St James's, and the Russian
ambassador just about to retire. Was there no danger then? Who that
regards the political aspects abroad, will give us a guarantee that
some new emergency may not arise, involving a _casus belli_, from some
circumstance almost as trivial and insignificant as the claims of Don
Pacifico? His Holiness the Pope, in return for Mintonian advice and
Whig support, has been pleased to prefer a spiritual claim over the
British dominions--how if France, rather at a loss for some enterprise
abroad to sustain her government at home, should take a fancy for a
new crusade, and determine on backing, by temporal artillery, the less
dangerous thunders of the Vatican?

But France, say Cobden and his crew, does not desire war. Cobden is a
precious expositor of the cabinet councils of France! What took the
French to Rome? What is taking them at this moment to the eastern
frontier? Not the dread of invasion, we may be sure; for the unhappy
states of Germany have quite enough business on hand to settle among
themselves, without attempting to push westward. France may not,
indeed, desire war in the abstract, but war may become a political
necessity for France; and we think that we can discern symptoms
which indicate that the necessity must soon arrive. Once unsettle
a nation, as France has been unsettled, and there is no security
for its neighbours. France is at this time nominally a republic,
practically a military despotism. Military despotism is always, sooner
or later, compelled to support itself by aggression. It gets rid of
the contending elements within by giving them a foreign outlet; for,
if it did not do so, it must in the end inevitably succumb to anarchy.
These things may not be known in the mills, or familiar to men whose
intellect is beneath that of the aggregate average of ganders; but they
are nevertheless true, and all history confirms them.

We therefore think that--looking to the present state of the Continent
and its political relations, the hostile jealousy of some states,
and the extreme instability of others--there is anything but reason
to predict the return of a settled European peace. The first act
of the drama may have been played, but the whole piece is not yet
nearly concluded. If we are right in this, what are the chances that
we escape, whilst the other nations are contending? Extremely small.
Now, is there any man (except Cobden) silly enough to suppose, that,
in the event of further and more serious hostilities occurring on the
Continent, we should be able to escape from embroilment, _on the ground
that we have not sufficient forces in Great Britain to protect the
integrity of our shores_? If there exist any such individual, let him
go back to his Æsop, and he will find various illustrations bearing
strongly upon the subject. It is no difficult matter for the strong to
pick a quarrel with the weak. Our monstrous and almost insane position
is this, that, with all the elements of strength existing abundantly
among ourselves, we have obstinately resolved not to call them forth,
so as to prepare for any emergency, or for any contingency whatever.

Cobden's opinion is, that the governments cannot go to war, because the
people will not let them. Does the prophet of Baal allude to Russia,
Austria, Prussia, or France? We presume it will not be held that these
states fortify that opinion. If not, to _what_ governments and _what_
people does he allude? The truth is, that he is possessed by the most
monstrous hallucination which ever beset a human brain. He believes
that the population of Europe are so enamoured of his flimsy rags as
to be ready to sacrifice everything for the privilege of putting them
next their skins, and that no government dare interpose between them
and that most inestimable luxury. Whereas, in reality, Manchester and
its products are detested, both by governments and people, from one
end of Europe to the other. Why it should be so is not in the least
degree perplexing. Every nation (except perhaps our own, which is for
the present labouring under a most miserable delusion) has the natural
wish to protect and foster its internal industry. A purely agricultural
state is necessarily a very poor one--it is the mixture of agriculture
and manufactures which tends to create wealth. Our neighbours on the
Continent are doing all in their power to promote manufactures, and we
have helped them to attain their object by allowing a free export of
machinery. They have not the slightest intention of permitting that
portion of their capital, which is already invested in manufactures,
to be destroyed by submitting to the operation of Free Trade; so, very
wisely, they take advantage of our open ports to get rid of their
superfluous agricultural produce, whilst they continue or augment their
duties upon the articles of manufacture which we export. Not a man of
them would break his heart if every mill in Manchester were burned to
the ground to-morrow, nor would they subscribe one kreutzer for the
benefit of the afflicted sufferers. Such is their feeling and their
policy even in time of peace; in time of war they are somewhat apt to
clap on an entire embargo.

The governments, however, are going to war, and at war, notwithstanding
all that can be said or written to the contrary; nor have we been
able to discover that the people--at least that portion of the people
which, in time of tumult, is the most influential--has manifested
the slightest indisposition to push matters to extremity. The small
still voice of Elihu Burritt has failed to tranquillise the roar of
conflict in Denmark and the Holstein Duchies. It may possibly be matter
of wonder to some folks that all national quarrels are not instantly
submitted to the arbitration of a peripatetic blacksmith, or an equally
ubiquitous cotton-spinner. Oliver Dain, more popularly designated _Le
Diable_, had once a good deal to say in matters of state, though his
avowed function was only that of a barber, and it may be that the
Peace Congress set considerable store by that notable precedent. We,
however, are not ashamed to confess that our faith is small in the
efficacy of the Columbian Vulcan. Mars, we suspect, will prove too
much for him in the present instance, and escape the entanglement of
the net. Seriously, we apprehend that there is less to fear from the
deliberate intentions of governments, than from the inflamed passions
of the people. At all events the two co-operate, and must co-operate in
producing war; and public opinion in this country, as to the propriety
of maintaining peace, is of as little effect or practical use, owing to
our notorious weakness, as the sighing of the summer wind.

Such being the signs of conflict abroad, the next consideration is,
how are we affected by them--or rather, what course ought we to
pursue in the present distracted state of European politics? We think
that common-sense dictates the answer--we ought to prepare ourselves
against every possible emergency. We do not know from what quarter the
danger may come, or how soon; but the horizon is murky enough around
us to give warning of no common peril. What should we think of the
commander of a vessel who, at the evident approach of a storm, made no
preparation for it? Yet such is, in truth, at the present time, the
fatuous conduct of our rulers. They have been advised by the best and
most experienced pilot of their danger, and yet they will do nothing.
They are drifting on as heedlessly as if the breeze were moderate, no
reefs ahead, and no scud visible in the sky.

We have said that we do not know from what quarter the danger may come.
There is, however, one quarter from which we may, legitimately enough,
apprehend danger; and that not only on the score of most tempting
opportunity, but because from it we have, ere now, been threatened
under circumstances of greater difficulty. The meditated invasion of
England by France, under Napoleon, ought not to be effaced from the
recollection of the British people. We were then infinitely better
prepared to resist such an attempt than we are now. We had troops and
levies in abundance, a large and powerful navy, manned by experienced
sailors, and full intimation of the design; whilst, on the other hand,
the French were deficient in shipping, and, what is even more material,
unassisted by that wonderful agent steam, which has made the crossing
of the Channel in a few hours, despite of contrary winds, a matter
of absolute certainty. Because that expedition failed, is it a fair
conclusion--as we have seen it argued in the public journals--that
another expedition, aided by that science which has reduced the
intervening arm of the sea to a mere ditch or moat, must also
necessarily fail? We cannot understand such reasoning. It is allowed
by all military and naval men who have studied the subject, or written
upon it--and we confess that, in a matter of this kind, we should
prefer eminent professional opinions to the mere dicta of a journalist,
or the sweeping assertions of a civilian--that a French army could now,
by the aid of steam, be ferried across the Channel without encountering
the tremendous opposition of a fleet. If that be admitted, then
invasion becomes clearly practicable, and the next consideration is its
probability.

It is always instructive to know what is going on on the other side of
the Channel. It is no Paul Pry curiosity which prompts us to inquire
into the proceedings of our eccentric neighbours; for, somehow or
other, we very frequently find them swayed in their actions either by
our example or our position. And, in order to prosecute this inquiry,
we shall make room for Sir Francis Head, and accept such information as
he can give us:--

     "There is often so much empty bluster in mere words, that,
     if there existed no more positive proof of danger than the
     statements, arguments and threats above quoted, we might perhaps,
     in the name of 'economy,' reasonably dismiss them to the winds.
     The following evidence will, however, show that the French nation,
     notwithstanding the violence of the political storms which have
     lately assailed them, and notwithstanding the difference of
     opinion that has convulsed them, have throughout the whole period
     of their afflictions, and under almost every description of
     government, _steadily_, _unceasingly_, and at _vast cost_, been
     making preparations for _performing_ what for more than half a
     century they have THREATENED--namely, the invasion of England.

    "_Extracts from the correspondence of the_ Times, _described as
        from 'an Officer of Experience in our own Service._'--(See
        _Times, September 10, 1850_.)

                                  "'CHERBOURG, Saturday night.

     "'The spectacle of to-day was perhaps one of the most splendid
     of its kind that has been ever witnessed. Nothing short of the
     terrible glories of actual warfare could have exceeded it; and,
     without being an alarmist, I may safely say that the effect made
     on the mind of an Englishman by such a display of force and power
     on the part of an ally who has been our bitterest foe in times
     gone by, in a port almost impregnable, and within a few hours'
     sail of the shores of Great Britain, was not calculated to put him
     at ease.'

                         "'CHERBOURG, Monday, _Sept. 10_.

     "'There are not many Englishmen who know that, within less than
     sixty-six miles of Portsmouth, there is a French port in which the
     most extensive works have been for years carried on, till nature
     has given way to the resources of skill and infinite art, and the
     sea and land, alike overcome, have yielded to our ancient foe one
     great naval entrepot,--placed in a direct line with our greatest
     dockyards, fortified at an enormous cost, till it is impregnable
     to everything but desperate daring and lucky hardihood, increasing
     day after day in force and power, accessible from every point of
     the compass and at all states of the tide to a friendly fleet,
     capable of crushing beneath an almost irresistible fire the most
     formidable of hostile armaments--in a word, "the eye to watch and
     the arm to strike the ancient enemy." There is no geographical
     necessity for such a port opposite to our coast. The commerce of
     France does not need it. Our neighbours may well remark that they
     are justified in protecting a place which has already felt the
     force of our arms, and that they are bound to protect Cherbourg
     from such a contingency as that which occurred in the last
     century, when Admiral Bligh laid it in ruins. But Admiral Bligh
     would not have attacked Cherbourg had it not been a menacing
     warlike station; and, talk as they may, there can be no doubt that
     the whole of these immense works are prepared _for a war with
     England, and with England alone_. When I say this, of course I do
     not mean to say that France will take any unjust advantage of her
     position; but we ought not to shut our eyes to the fact that such
     a place is within seven or eight hours' sail of England; and that
     a French fleet leaving it in the evening with a leading wind could
     be off Portsmouth next morning, and could bombard any of our towns
     on the southern coast.

     "On the above graphic description, the editor of the _Times_
     offered to the country the following just remarks:--

     "'It is impossible to forget--perhaps, without the slightest
     imputation on our neighbours' good-will, we may say it was not
     intended we should forget--that the fleet which issued, in such
     magnificent style, from behind the Cherbourg breakwater, might
     some day sail straight across the Channel; that those heavy
     guns might all be pointed in anger; and that each of the black
     rakish-looking steamers might throw a thousand men on a hostile
     shore without warning given or suspicion raised. Such a suggestion
     cannot be thought out of place or ill-timed, for doings of this
     kind are the very vocation of the vessels paraded before us. If
     guns were not meant to be fired, or steamers to be employed for
     transport, there would be no use in manufacturing either one or
     the other. From the extent of our liabilities we may measure our
     precautions; and it is undoubtedly not advisable that we should be
     without the wherewithal to receive such visitors as might possibly
     be some day despatched from Cherbourg. The point is certainly a
     brave one for the economists, who will appeal to the folly thus
     probably exemplified of nations urging each other forward in the
     ruinous race of public expenditure. The argument sounds very
     plausible, but it is, in plain truth, impractical.'

     "Lastly, during England's late disagreement with France and Russia
     on the subject of Greece, after the French Ambassador had left
     this country, and while the Russian Ambassador was ready to leave
     it also, the _Times_, without creating the smallest excitement
     throughout the country, informed its readers of two ominous facts,
     namely--

     "1st, That, during the said discussion, France was _increasing_
     her number of seamen.

     "2d, That, as soon as the foresaid discussion ended, they were
     _dismissed_."

We regret to observe that, since then, the _Times_ seems to have
changed its tone on this very important subject, and it now regards
the preparation necessary to insure the security of England as too
costly for the object proposed. This is a novel view, even in ethics.
We have been taught that it was our duty, in case of necessity, to
expose even our lives in defence of our country; and we do hope that
there are some among us who still adhere to that noble lesson. No such
sacrifice is required just now. All that is demanded--and demanded
it ought to be, not by isolated writers, or even high and competent
authorities, but by the general voice of the nation--is, that our navy
should be put upon an efficient footing--that the Admiralty should
be reformed, and no chief of it appointed who is not conversant with
the details of the service of which he is selected as the head--that
no other Minto should be allowed to make his high maritime office
the source of family patronage--that a ready and constant supply of
skilled and experienced seamen should be secured--and that the vast
expenditure lavished on our ships should not be rendered nugatory
for want of hands to man them adequately when launched. Furthermore,
we require that the standing force of our army at home should be so
augmented as to render it certain that, in any sudden emergency, we may
not have to depend upon the voluntary efforts of a panic-stricken and
undisciplined mob. We have already spoken of the chances of our being
involved in war, and also of the possibility of an invasion: let us now
examine what amount of disposable forces we have ready, in the event
of such a terrible emergency. Our muster-roll, inferior certainly to
the Homeric catalogue, is as follows:--In Great Britain and Ireland we
have precisely 61,848 regular enlisted soldiers of all departments of
the service! Of these, 24,000 are stationed in Ireland alone, whence,
in the event of the occurrence of any disturbance, they could scarcely
be withdrawn; so that the whole defensible force of England and of
Scotland is reduced to rather less than 38,000 soldiers! That number
would hardly be doubled were we to add the whole of the pensioners,
more or less worn out, the corps of yeomanry, and the half-drilled
workmen of the dockyards: and with this force some of us are content to
await invasion; whilst others, more reckless still, are even clamouring
for its reduction! Farther, as if we were resolved to push on folly
to the furthest extreme, the drawing of the militia has been, by Act
of Parliament, suspended; so that even that slender thread, which
in some degree connected the civilian with the military service, has
been broken. This is the bare naked truth, with which foreigners are
perfectly well acquainted, and which they will continue to bear in
mind, notwithstanding our attempts to amuse them, with glass-houses and
gigantic toy-shops.

What would not the elder Buonaparte have given to find us in such
a state! Very far, indeed, are we from imagining that the present
President of the French Republic bears any personal ill-will to this
country, wherein he has met with much hospitality; but, giving him the
utmost credit for amicable dispositions and pacific intentions, we
cannot forget the peculiarity of the position which he occupies, or the
varied influences which control him. However we may wish to believe
the contrary, it is certain that France regards herself rather as the
rival than as the ally of England. It cannot, indeed, be otherwise.
France has recollections, not of the most soothing kind, which no lapse
of time has been able to efface; and these will infallibly, when an
opportunity occurs, regulate her future conduct.

And how stands France at this moment with regard to military
preparation? Observe--there is no enemy threatening her from without.
Of all states in Europe she is the least likely to be attacked. Yet we
find her available force as follows:--

      Regular troops.

    Staff,                         3,826
    Cavalry,                      58,932
    Infantry, &c.,               301,224
    Artillery,                    30,166
    Engineers,                     8,727
    Pontoon train, &c.,            5,755
                                 _______
        Total,                   408,630

      Garde Nationale.

    82 battalions of 1500 men,   123,000
    2378  do.  of 1000 men,    2,378,000
                               _________
                               2,501,000

        Of whom 2,000,000 are armed with firelocks.

    To the above are to be added:--
      Garde Nationale of Paris,  129,800
                                 _______
        Total,                 2,630,800

      Together, more than three millions of trained men!

We need not dwell on the disproportion which is apparent here; indeed,
our whole task is one from which we would most willingly have been
held excused. It is not pleasant either to note or to reiterate the
undoubted fact of our weakness; and yet what help is there, when
purblind demagogues are allowed by senseless clamour to drown the
accents of a voice still speaking to us from the verge of the grave?
Let Sir Francis Head illustrate this point, and may his words sink deep
in the heart of an unwise generation.

     "Why, we ask, have the Duke of Wellington's repeated prayers,
     supplications, admonitions, and warnings "to various
     Administrations," and through the press to the British people,
     been so utterly disregarded? Without offering one word of
     adulation--we have personally no reason to do so--we cannot but
     observe, that no problem in science, no theory, important or
     unimportant, has ever been more, thoroughly investigated than the
     character of the Duke of Wellington by his fellow-countrymen.

     "During the spring and summer of his life, the attention of the
     British nation followed consecutively each movement of his career
     in India, Portugal, Spain, Denmark, the Low Countries, France,
     and latterly in the senate. In the autumn of his life, the secret
     springs which had caused his principal military movements,
     as well as his diplomatic arrangements, were unveiled by the
     publication of despatches, letters, and notes, official as well
     as private, which without palliation or comment developed the
     reasons,--naked as they were born,--upon which he had acted,
     on the spur of the moment, in the various predicaments in which
     he had been placed. In the winter of his life, bent by age, but
     with faculties matured rather than impaired by time, it has been
     his well-known practice, almost at the striking of the clock, to
     appear in his place in the House of Lords, ready not only to give
     any reasonable explanations that might be required of him, but to
     disclose his opinions and divulge his counsel on subjects of the
     highest importance. Every word he has uttered in public has been
     recorded; many of his private observations have been repeated;
     his answers to applications of every sort have usually appeared
     in print; even his "F.M." epigrammatic notes to tradesmen and
     others, almost as rapidly as they were written, have not only been
     published, but in one or two instances have actually been sold by
     auction. Wherever he walks, rides, or travels, he is observed; in
     short, there never has existed in any country a public servant
     whose conduct throughout his whole life has been more scrupulously
     watched, or whose sayings and doings have _by himself_ been more
     guilelessly submitted to investigation. The result has been
     that monuments and inscriptions in various parts of London, of
     the United Kingdom, and throughout our colonial empire, testify
     the opinion entertained in his favour; and yet although in the
     Royal Palace, in both Houses of Parliament, at public meetings,
     and in private society, every opportunity seems to be taken to
     express unbounded confidence in his military judgment, sagacity,
     experience, integrity and simplicity of character, yet in our
     Legislature, in the Queen's Government, as well as throughout the
     country, there has for many years existed, and there still exists,
     an anomaly which foreigners observe with utter astonishment, and
     which history will not fail to record--viz., that his opinion of
     _the defenceless state of Great Britain_ has, by statesmen, and by
     a nation who almost pride themselves on their total ignorance of
     the requirements of war, been utterly disregarded!"

We have but little space left for further comment. We do not consider
it necessary to follow Sir Francis Head through almost any portion of
his masterly details, or to sketch, even in outline, the picture which
he has drawn of the possible consequences of our supineness. On these
points the book must speak for itself. We venture to think that it
will not be without some effect, however it may be assailed by vulgar
abuse, or depreciated by contemptible flippancy. It speaks home to the
feelings of Englishmen, has the merit of great perspicuity, and deals
prominently with facts which can neither be gainsaid nor denied.

Even to the apostles of peace--the fanatics, as we think, of the
present age--Sir Francis holds out the olive branch. He represents
to them, what they probably cannot see, that the only method of
realising their cherished idea of voluntary arbitration and reduction
of armaments, is by maintaining at a crisis like the present the true
balance of power. And certainly he is right, if there be anything at
all in their scheme. For our own part, we hold it to be absolutely and
entirely chimerical. It is a mere phase or fiction of that wretched
notion of cosmopolitanism, which some years ago was preached by
Cobden--a notion to which the events and experiences of each successive
month have given the practical lie, and which never could have been
hatched except in the addled brain of some ignorant and vainglorious
egotist. By herself, Britain must stand or fall. The good and the
evil she has done--the influence which she has exerted, one way or
the other, over the destinies of the human race, is written in the
everlasting chronicle; and her fate is in the hand of Him who raises or
crushes empires. What trials we may have to undergo--what calamities to
suffer--what moral triumphs to achieve--are known to Omnipotence alone.
But as a high rank in the scale of nations has been given us, let
us, at all events, be true to ourselves, in so far as human prudence
and manly foresight can avail. Let us not, for the sake of miserable
mammon--or, still worse, for the crude theories of a pragmatical
upstart--imperil the large liberties which have been left to us, as the
best legacy of our forefathers. Our duty is to uphold, by all the means
in our power, the honour and the integrity of our native land: nor dare
we hope for the blessing or the countenance of the all-controlling
Power, one moment after we have proved ourselves false to the country
which gave us birth.



THE POPISH PARTITION OF ENGLAND.


If a religious Revolution consists in a powerful change in the
religious feelings of a country, then are we at this moment in the
midst of a religious Revolution! If a spirit of ardour suddenly
starting forth in a period of apathy, if public zeal superseding public
indifference, and if popular fidelity to a great forgotten cause,
pledging itself to make that cause _national_ once more, exhibit an
approach to a miracle, then there has been made on the mind of England
an impression not born of man. But if those high interpositions have
always had a purpose worthy of the source from which they descend,
we must regard the present change of the general mind as only a
precaution against some mighty peril of England, or a preparation for
some comprehensive and continued triumph of principle in Europe. That
England is a tolerant country has never been questioned. Though the
whole frame of its constitution is actually founded on the supremacy
of the sovereign, and, of course, on the derivation of ecclesiastical
power, as well as of every other, from the throne; though therefore
the high appointments of the Church have been vested in the Crown,
and the subordination of the great body of the clergy has necessarily
connected them with the throne, the principle of toleration shapes all
things. The ecclesiastical constitution excludes all violence to other
disciplines; allows every division of religious opinion to take its
own way; and even suffers Popery, with all its hostility, to take its
own way--to have its churches and chapels, its public services, its
discipline, and all the formalities, however alien and obnoxious, which
it deems important to its existence.

None familiar with the history of Popery can doubt that its principle
is directly the reverse--that it tolerates no other religion; that
it suffers no other religious constitution; that where the tree of
Popery lifts its trunk and spreads its branches, all freedom of opinion
withers within its shade.

Rome, by an usurpation unexampled even in the wildest periods of
heathenism, insists on seizing that which is wholly beyond human
seizure--the conscience; demands that uniformity of opinion which it
was never within the competency of man to enforce on man; and punishes
man by the dungeon, confiscation, and death, for feelings which he can
no more control, and for truths which he can no more controvert, than
he can the movements of the stars.

If it has been argued that Protestantism is equally condemnatory of
those who dissent from its doctrine, the obvious answer is, that it
simply declares the condemnation annexed by Scripture to vice. But it
attempts no execution of that punishment, leaving the future wholly to
the mercy or the justice of the Judge of the quick and dead. Popery not
merely passes the sentence, but executes it, as far as can be done by
man. Thus the distinction is, that Protestantism goes no further than
to declare what the welfare of mankind requires to be declared. But
Popery takes the judgment into its own hands; and, where it has power,
punishes by confiscation and chains, by the dungeon and the grave.
And the especial evil of this usurpation is, that this punishment may
exist, not for notorious vice, but for conspicuous virtue; not only
that it takes God's office into its grasp, but that it insults the
whole character of God's law. It goes farther still, and gathers within
its circle of reprobation things which are wholly beyond the limit of
crime--the exercise of knowledge, the right of conscience, and the
sincerity of decision.

Yet, by this violent assumption of divine right, and lawless
comprehension of crime, Popery has slain millions!

This distinction draws the broad line between Popery and Protestantism.
The Protestant never persecutes; he is barred by his religion.
The Papist never tolerates; he is stimulated by his creed. When
Protestant worship is tolerated in Popish countries, the toleration
is either compelled by Protestant superiority, or purchased by
Popish necessities. But the claim of supremacy corrupts the whole
combination. Where it is not extorted from the hands of Government,
it still remains in the mind of the priesthood. Where it is blotted
from the statute book, it is still registered in the breviary. Where
it is extinguished by policy, it is revived by priestcraft. Like the
pestilence, disappearing from the higher orders, it lurks in the rags
of the populace, and waits only some new chance of earth or air, to
ravage the land again. Or, like the housebreaker, hiding his head while
day shines, but waiting only for nightfall to sally forth, and gather
his plunder when men are vigilant no more.

The Papal Bull which has aroused such a storm of wrath in England,
gives the full exemplification of this undying spirit of usurpation in
Popery.

Beaten down in field and council three centuries and a half
since--baffled in every attempt to domineer over England from the
Reformation--in every instance sinking from depth to depth--wholly
excluded from legislative power by the greatest of British kings,
William III., for a hundred years of the most memorable triumphs of the
constitution--Popery has now, before our eyes, to the astonishment of
our understandings, and to the resistless evidence of its own passion
for power, returned to all its old demands, and to more than its old
demands; and, as if to make the evidence more glaring, returned at the
moment when England is at the height of power, and Rome in the depth
of debasement; when England is in her meridian of intelligence, and
Rome in her midnight; when England is the great influential power of
peace and war to all nations, and when Rome is a garrison of foreign
hirelings, and her monarch the menial of their master's will.

If those demands are made, with Popery living in an actual paralysis
of all the functions of sovereignty, what would be their execution
with Popery lording it over the land? If Popery can issue these
proclamations from the floor of its dungeon, what would be the sway of
its sword when it strode over the neck of the empire? If, stript and
manacled, it can thus rage against Protestantism, what would be its
fury when, with new strength and unrestrained daring, its march headed
by treachery in the higher orders, and followed by fanaticism in the
lower, it should take possession of the Constitution?

While England was in a state of drowsy tranquillity, a Papal
Bull appeared, under the signature of Cardinal Lambruschini, the
Papal Secretary. A more daring document never was fabricated in
the haughtiest days of Papal tyranny. It divided England into
twelve Dioceses of the _Popedom_; it appointed twelve bishops, and
appropriated to them all the rights and privileges of Episcopacy in
England; and it called on all the Papists to contribute to the new pomp
of the Popish worship, and the subsistence of the Diocesans.

This document is long and desultory; but as it is of importance to lay
the case authentically before the reader, it shall be given in its own
words, abbreviating only the formalities of the verbiage.

"Pius P. P. IX.--The power of ruling the _Universal Church_, committed
by our Lord Jesus Christ to the Roman Pontiff in the person of St
Peter, _Prince of the Apostles_, hath preserved through every age in
the Apostolic See this remarkable solicitude, by which it consulteth
for the advantage of the Catholic religion in all parts of the world,
and studiously provideth for its _extension_. And this correspondeth
with the design of its Divine founder, who, when he ordained a _head_
to the Church, looked forward to the consummation of the world. Among
other nations, the famous realm of England hath experienced the effects
of this solicitude on the part of the Sovereign Pontiff."

After referring to the agency sustained by the Papacy in England from
1623, by nominal bishops, the Bull declares that, from the commencement
of his pontificate, Pius had his attention fixed on the "promotion of
the _Church's advantage in that kingdom_. Wherefore, having taken into
consideration the present state of Catholic affairs in that kingdom,
and reflecting on the _very large and everywhere increasing number_
of Catholics there; considering also that the impediments which
principally stood in the way of the _spread of Catholicity_ were daily
being removed, we judged that the time had arrived when the form of
Ecclesiastical Government in England might be brought back to that
model in which it exists freely among other nations." It seemed good
to the Pope to establish his Bishops among us, as they were in Popish
countries. The result is, "that in the kingdom of England, according to
the common rule of the Church, we constitute and decree that there be
restored the hierarchy of ordinary bishops."

Before we proceed, we must observe the quantity of assumption, even in
this fragment. 1st, That Christ gave the Headship of the _Universal
Church_, (he himself being the _only_ Head); 2d, That St Peter was the
_head_ of the apostles, (which is contradicted by the whole apostolic
history;) and 3d, That this right has _always_ and everywhere belonged
to Rome!--(a right resisted by the Greek Church, by a large portion of
even the Latin Church, by the early British Church, and by the Syrian.)

It is further admitted, that a _change_ has lately taken place in the
relative conditions of English Protestantism and Popery, and that
the appointment of bishops is for the purpose "of extending that
change"--in other words, of acquiring power, and urging proselytism, in
a Protestant state, where the Papist is tolerated only on the promise
of peace.

But all disguise is now thrown aside, as if it was no longer necessary.
The movement is acknowledged to be one of _national conversion_;
religious conquest is declared to be the object; the Pope, in planting
twelve new bishops in British sees, declares that he is resuming the
old supremacy of Rome--thus, holding out reconciliation in one hand,
and retaliation in the other, he is prepared at once to supersede the
national religion.

In conformity with this declaration, he has taken the map of England
into his hand; and, surrounded by his cardinals, has dissected it into
dioceses in the following style:--

All England and Wales shall henceforth form one Archiepiscopal Province.

In the district of London there shall be an Archbishopric of
Westminster, comprising Middlesex, Essex, and Hertfordshire.

The See of Southwark is to be suffragan to that of Westminster, and is
to comprehend the counties of Berks, Southampton, Surrey, Sussex, and
Kent, with the isles of Wight, Jersey, Guernsey, and the adjacent isles.

In the north there is to be the Diocese of Hexham.

The Diocese of York will be established at Beverley.

In the west, the See of Liverpool, comprehending the Isle of Man,
Lonsdale, Amounderness, (?) and West Derby.

The See of Salford, comprising Blackburn and Leyland.

In Wales, there shall be the Diocese of Shrewsbury, comprising
Anglesea, Caernarvon, Denbighshire, Flintshire, Merionethshire,
Montgomeryshire, Cheshire, and Salop.

And the Diocese of Newport, comprising Brecknockshire, Glamorganshire,
Carmarthenshire, Pembrokeshire, Monmouthshire, and Herefordshire.

The West is divided into two Bishoprics:--

Clifton, comprising Gloucestershire, Somersetshire, and Wiltshire; And
Plymouth, comprising Devonshire, Dorsetshire, and Cornwall.

In the Central District, the Diocese of Nottingham shall comprise
Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Lincolnshire, and
Rutlandshire.

The Diocese of Birmingham, comprising the counties of Stafford,
Warwick, Worcester, and Oxford.

The Eastern district shall form one Diocese, under the name of
Northampton.

Thus England shall form one Ecclesiastical Province, under one
Archbishop and twelve Bishops.

They are to correspond with the College de Propagandâ Fide.

The new Bishops are to be unshackled by any previous customs of the
Romish Church in England, and to have full Episcopal powers.

The Papal letter concludes by a recommendation to the Roman Catholics
of England "_to contribute, so far as in their power_," by their
pecuniary means, to the dignity of their Prelates and the "splendour of
their worship," &c.

To prevent all idea that this division is merely nominal or spiritual,
or unconnected with penalties on Protestantism, the principal Popish
journal in England has added the following comment:--

"Rome has more than spoken; she has spoken and _acted_. She has again
_divided_ our land into dioceses, and has placed over each a pastor,
to whom _all baptized persons_ (!) _without exception_ (!) within
that district, are openly _commanded_ to submit themselves in all
ecclesiastical matters, _under pain of damnation_ (!) And the _Anglican
Sees_--those ghosts of realities long past away--_are utterly ignored_."

The bull proceeds: "Thus, then, in the most flourishing kingdom of
England, there will be established one Ecclesiastical Province,
consisting of an Archbishop or metropolitan head, and twelve Bishops,
his suffragans, by whose _exertions_ and _pastoral_ cares we trust
God will give to Catholicity in that country a fruitful and daily
increasing extension.

"Wherefore we now reserve to ourselves and our successors, the Pontiffs
of Rome, the power of again _dividing_ the said province into others,
and of _increasing the number of dioceses_, as occasion shall require;
and, in general, as it shall seem fitting in the land, we may freely
declare new limits to them."

Thus we find that the Pope is to hold a perpetual bag of mitres in
his hand, out of which every aspirant for the honours of Rome and the
lucre of England is to have his dole. Every head among us that aches
for honours may now know where to look for them. Professorships and
parishes need no longer keep the new school lingering on the edge
of Popery; their _consciences_ (!) may be relieved without injuring
their pockets; they may allow themselves to "speak out;" and after
half-a-dozen years of the most stubborn denials of Popery--of paltry
protests and beggarly equivocation--of defending their orthodoxy in the
press, and betraying their apostacy in the pulpit--they will be enabled
to turn their backs on Protestantism, probably with a very useful
addition to their resources, and start up from Curates and Canons into
"My Lords." England would give very comfortable room for a speculation
of this kind. Sixpence a piece from twenty millions of people would be
better than all the Professorships of both Universities; and a seat in
the House of Lords (which would be inevitably demanded, and which would
be unhesitatingly conceded by Whig flexibility) would place the obscure
and the avaricious very much at their ease.

To a Roman financier the prospect might have other charms. The present
budget of the Popedom is supposed to be within a couple of millions
sterling, and even that paid in a manner by no means creditable to
Italian punctuality. As for the old tributes from Naples, Spain, and
France, we may fairly return them as _nil_, those powers having more
use for money than they possess bullion, and none of them being secure
of army, populace, or parliament. A twelvemonth, in these times, may
see the monarchs of the three succeeding to the vacant apartments of
the Orleans dynasty at Claremont.

But what an incomparable windfall would England be to the Papal
pauperism of these times! A bishop in every county gathering the alms
of the faithful! or, if one bishop were not enough, might not the
"sovereign pontiff," as the little Welsh Bishop reverently names Pio
Nono, make fifty? He has graciously reserved to himself the right of
"increasing and multiplying them" to the extent of all exigencies. We
might soon have a bishop in every city, or a bishop in every village.
We might have those holy locusts coming on the wing from every corner
of the Continent; those cormorants of Rome fishing in our waters, until
they carried off their prey to disgorge it into the capacious maw of
Rome!

And that this operation would take place, on the first opportunity, is
as certain as that "Peter's pence" were once raised in England with as
much regularity as the king's taxes; that every Papist in Europe paid
his portion of pence to Rome; that every bishop received his mitre
from Rome; and that Rome never gave anything without a sum in hand, or
a handsome promissory note--and that Rome boasts of being always the
same. All this traffic would be under the name of charity; the old cry
of Judas, "Ought not this ointment to have been sold for three hundred
pence, and given to the poor?" would be echoed by the new keeper of
the bag; and we should establish an annual drain of our circulation,
to which all the contrivances of taxation would be child's play. For
what could be the limit to the demands of foreign avarice invested with
domestic authority, extortion calling itself zeal? or what could be the
limits of a market selling absolution here, and Paradise hereafter, to
profligate men and silly women--to lives wallowing in voluptuousness,
and death-beds groaning in despair? It has been distinctly stated that,
at the Reformation, _one-third_ of the whole land of England had been
absorbed into the possession of the Popish priesthood!

In all the annals of usurpation, there never was a broader grasp than
in this Bull; in all the annals of effrontery there never was a more
impudent assumption; but, in all the annals of infatuation, there never
was an act of more headlong absurdity. It instantly roused the whole
people; it reinforced every argument of the honest against Popery; it
overthrew every pretence of the dishonest on behalf of Popery; and it
worked the still greater wonder of forcing the loose and the lukewarm,
the waverers and "waiters on the turn of things;" the "decently"
knavish, the "respectably" hollow, and the "reputably" unprincipled,
to acknowledge that Popery was really a "presuming kind of thing;" and
that it ought to be, in some delicate way or other, _if possible_, put
down.

But England contains other men than those smirking scandals to
manhood. The nation burst out into a flame of indignation wherever
man met man: in whatever occupation, in whatever rank of life, under
whatever form of politics, in all hues of religious opinion, there
was but one language. "Was ever insolence like this? Is a foreign
friar to carve out the empire? Is a worshipper of stocks and stones
to teach us religion? Is a persecutor to mutilate our laws? Is a
despot to scandalise our liberties? Is the dependent of France, of
Austria, or Spain, or any power that will suffer him to hang upon
it, to be the actual divider of England among his dependents? Is a
demand of power and possession, that would not be endured in any
Popish country of the earth, to be quietly submitted to in the chief
of Protestant kingdoms? And is this most insolent of all aggressions
to be inflicted by the meanest of all sovereigns on the most powerful
of all nations, and that nation the one which has most triumphantly
abjured Popery?--England--whose fathers drove it headlong from the
land, and cashiered a dynasty for daring to attempt its return; whose
Constitution loathes its tyranny, whose honour abhors its artifice,
whose literature exposes its deceptions, and whose religion brands its
apostacy!"

That this description of the national feeling is not exaggerated,
must be evident from the tone of the numberless speeches made at the
parochial and provincial meetings, immediately on the publication of
the atrocious Bull. The clergy of London and Westminster, as first
insulted, took the lead; and their language expressed the natural
feelings of offence and scorn excited by this intolerable presumption.
The sentiment was unanimous.

Of course Rome is at her old work, and every trick is tried to smooth
down the universal disdain. A Dr Ullathorne, who has taken time by
the forelock, and _bemitred_ himself without delay, wishes to tell
the world that the Bull is a very harmless bull indeed; that the
Vicars-Apostolic only wished for a change of name; and that the
appointment of dioceses is merely what the Wesleyans and Sectaries
effect, in marking out their preaching districts year by year.

But, do the Wesleyans give their preachers titles and badges of
dignity? Do they locate them in cathedrals, build palaces for them, and
enjoin the whole body of the faithful to "supply the splendour of their
worship and themselves?" Do they declare that everything in religion
is false but Wesleyanism; that all else have no orders, no Baptism, and
no Christianity; that all other beliefs are rebels to the supremacy
of John Wesley, and are liable to be punished as rebels in the coming
day of Wesleyan power? That such poor evasions should be attempted is
a scandal to the talents of Rome as an _equivocator_, but is not less
a scandal to the brains of the man who attempts them, for they can
deceive no one. They certainly have not deceived "Father Newman," who
daily trumpets forth the triumph of the Bull; nor "Dr Wiseman," who
has, by virtue of his red hat, ordered his _jubilate_ to be chanted
in every Popish chapel of London; nor the Liverpool Papists, who have
actually sung _Te Deum_ on the national victory of Popery; nor have
they deceived even the English prelacy, who had gone so much farther
than the winking Virgin, and seemed not inclined to use their eyes at
all.

Nor will they deceive the people of Scotland, who, in the land of
John Knox, are not forgotten by the Pope, but are understood to have
allotted to them seven bishops by his provident bounty, seven delegates
of Jesuitism, seven ambassadors of his triple-crowned highness, seven
sons of the Scarlet Lady of Babylon, seven "purple and fine linen"
representatives of Dives, before he was sent "_to his place_."

In the midst of this busy period, a letter appeared from the pen of the
Premier. It was received by the multitude with a burst of acclamation;
for this there were reasons of very different colours. Some were glad
that Ministers could feel _anything_ on a religious subject; some,
that Lord John was on the national side; some that, after having so
long raised the suspicions of one side, he had at last challenged the
hostility of the other.

We must acknowledge that our gratulation was not altogether so ardent,
and that we conceived this letter to be very much more the offspring of
his Lordship's fears than his feelings. It was obviously unfortunate
that his zeal had been kindled so _late_, there being no imaginable
doubt that the Pope had marked out Westminster for the See of his new
Archbishop several years ago. And it is clear, that the appointment
of one Archbishop would have been as great an encroachment as the
fixture of fifty. The principle was _there_, and it would evidently be
prolific. Yet not a syllable of remonstrance had transpired. Wisdom
was silent in the streets, and precaution slumbered within the Cabinet
curtains. Whitehall was as quiet as Lambeth, and Lambeth of course
was Lethe. No Minister hurried to the palace, with pallid lips and
faltering nerves, like him who

    "Drew Priam's curtain at the dead of night,
     To tell him Troy was burned."

But the Dean and Chapter of Westminster had actually attempted to break
the slumber, by an address deprecating the appointment, as utterly
unconstitutional. This occurred in 1848. It was heard of no more, and
silence came again.

As his Lordship's Letter is probably to be regarded as a Cabinet
_minute_, we shall give its chief portions _verbatim_.

It begins by referring to a letter of the Bishop of Durham, which
termed the Bull "insolent and _insidious_," the latter epithet
appearing to us to have no other merit than that of alliteration, the
measure not being _insidious_ at all--but, by a remarkable deviation
from the customary craft of the Papacy, being one of the most open and
audacious insults on record.

The Letter then proceeds to say, that its writer, having "promoted to
the utmost of his power the claims of the Roman Catholics to all civil
rights"--a fact with which the country was fully acquainted--thought
"it right, and even desirable, that the _ecclesiastical system_ of
the Roman Catholics should be the means of giving instruction to the
numerous Irish immigrants in London and elsewhere, who, without such
help, would be left in heathen ignorance."

The latter sentence we do not profess to understand. Does it allude
to any _arrangement_, by which the Papacy was to change the system
of simple superintendence, and adopt Dr Wiseman as archbishop, after
all? Is this the preliminary to further _development_, and is the
common rumour on the subject the reverse of a mistake? How the kind
of religion imported by the legions of Irish beggary into England
was to be purified by a new episcopal staff, is wholly beyond our
comprehension. Or why the Protestant people of England, after feeding
the pauperism of Ireland at home, should be bound to provide for its
heresy here--or how, for the further allurement of the superfluous
rabble of Ireland, we are to provide, for either their poverty or their
pride, the pageant of twelve Popish mitres, we must leave it to his
Lordship to explain.

His next sentence is more intelligible.

"There is an _assumption of power_ in all the documents which have come
from Rome--a pretension to supremacy over the realm of England, and
a claim to _sole and undivided_ sway, which is inconsistent with the
Queen's supremacy, with the rights of our bishops and clergy, and with
the spiritual independence of the nation, as asserted even in Roman
Catholic times."

How this discovery should have been delayed till November 1850, in the
apprehension of a public personage acquainted with the general facts
of history, handling Popish concerns all his life, and an inveterate
supporter of the Popish Bill of 1829, is not easily accounted for. But
every man of common intelligence in Europe, (his Lordship excepted,)
knew that Popery has existed in a perpetual struggle with _all_
governments for temporal supremacy, under the _pretence_ of spiritual;
that it has attempted a constant usurpation of royal authority even in
the Popish kingdoms; and that its restless appetite for power requires
constant coercion, even by those governments, to render it compatible
with any government at all. What is to be said, when Pio Nono has
excommunicated the Sardinian government before our eyes? The next
sentence is significant: "I confess that _my_ alarm is not equal to my
indignation."

Does his Lordship mean by this that we have been frightened by a
shadow, while _he_ has preserved his fortitude? or that the nation has
been somewhat inclined to play the fool in its fright, while he has
preserved his serenity through his superior knowledge? But he then
proceeds to inform us what should be the true object of national alarm,
and that is Tractarianism!

Without implying that his Lordship here employs that well-known species
of diplomacy which substitutes conjecture for reality, we shall tell
him that Tractarianism, though exciting much regret, and bringing much
discredit on the laxity of discipline which has so long suffered its
existence, is _not_ the real danger; that, compared with Popery, it is
but the "fly on the chariot wheel;" and that its influence is not to be
named for a moment beside the systematic art, the vast extent, and the
indefatigable ambition of Popery.

We are not much more reassured by his Lordship's hint of the smallness
of the Pope's territorial power.

"What is the danger to be apprehended from a foreign prince of _no
great power_, compared to the danger within the gates?" &c.

But does his Lordship conceive that we are afraid of the Pope's
territorial power?--that we are alarmed at an invasion of his Hundred
Swiss?--or that any man ever supposed that a minister in the Pontine
Marshes was to shake the Religion and State of England? The Popedom
has _always_ been a narrow territory, and yet the Papacy has been the
great disturber of Europe for a thousand years. Does his Lordship
doubt that its weapon was superstition, and that superstition was once
universal? But, while we can feel no terror at the sickly absurdities
of a few fanatics, or the low artifices of a few hunters after vulgar
popularity, who have never reckoned within their ranks any one man
of name, or ability, or learning, or even of station--who owe their
sole publicity to what the Bishop of London calls a "poor imitation of
Popery," and whose bowings and gesticulations are actually objects of
national ridicule--we see a wholly different antagonist in a system,
possessed of the power of the multitude, addressing itself to every
weakness and pampering every passion of man, offering every prize to
avarice, and stimulating every appetite for possession; unceasing
in pursuit of all its objects, and making everything an object;
desperately inimical to religious liberty, and perpetually labouring
to establish over every people an authority fatal to the progress of
mankind. We see it now with a hundred and forty millions of souls in
Popish Europe, with nearly all the Continental thrones Popish, with
hundreds of thousands of monks and friars devoted to all the purposes
of its ambition, with its seculars mingled through every population,
and with the wealth of the whole Popish community ready to be lavished
in a crusade of Monkism. We must confess that we feel as much anxiety
in the issue of a contest with such a power as is consistent with a
feeling of courage in the performance of our duty.

We have never doubted that England, under the protection of a higher
power than man, and awakened to a sense of her peril, will triumph in
the most hazardous struggle. But her safety must be grounded on her
vigilance. The sleeping giant is as helpless as a child.

So fully are we convinced that Rome is the _real_ danger, that we
not merely laugh at Tractarianism, in comparison, but we look with
suspicion on every attempt to set it up as _the_ danger. To compare
this dwarf with the gigantic bulk of Popery seems absurd; and we must
therefore reject it as argument altogether. It is also unfortunate for
this bugbear that it has been so slow in its discovery, and that the
Ministerial terrors have already slept so long, Tractarianism being now
a well-grown peril--its siege of the Church having already lasted some
years beyond the renowned siege of Troy!

The Letter, however, closes with the spirit of an enthusiast in the
"good cause,"--"I will not abate a jot of heart or hope so long as the
_glorious principles_ and the _immortal martyrs of the Reformation_
shall be held in reverence by the great mass of a nation which looks
with contempt on the _mummeries_ of superstition."

All this is what Dominie Sampson would have pronounced "prodigious!"
with his loudest and longest suspiration. And all is eminently curious,
in the man whose whole career has been devotion to every Popish demand,
and advocacy of every Popish measure; who has risen into office by the
influence of Popish voices, and who has been in the _intima concilia_
of the imaginary Archbishop of Westminster!

Must not Protestants ask, By whose advice was Mr Wyse planted in the
Greek embassy?--by whom was Mr O'Farril planted in the government of
Malta?--by whom was Mr Shiel planted in the embassy to Tuscany--or
rather to the whole of western and middle Italy, and in immediate
approximation to Rome? Were three Papists selected for those express,
and at present most important missions, without a purpose?--were they
flung up merely by the diplomatic wheel?--or were those extraordinary
appointments of untried men produced by a sudden, and a _Papal_ demand,
for the support of a plan?

But this is a time of wonders, and his Lordship's conversion may rank
at the summit of them all. However, there is a reason for everything
in art and nature; and it is said that a very high personage had a
share in this rapid operation on the Ministerial understanding; that
the question was asked,--"Pray, who is to be the sovereign?" and
that the answer was his Lordship's letter. It concludes by giving
the _coup-de-grace_ to the character of Popery, of whose present
performances it speaks with scorn, as "laborious endeavours to _confine
the intellect, and enslave the soul_."--(Downing Street, Nov. 4.)

In the meantime "my Lord Cardinal," who had stopped in his posthaste
journey, on learning John Bull's theological opinions of his Manifesto,
was comforted by an emissary despatched to inform him that the bonfires
of the 5th of November had all been suffered to sink into ashes, and
that he would escape any severer trial of his fortitude than being
burnt in effigy. But the Doctor, now fearless of his _auto-da-fé_,
is also said to have determined on carrying the war into the enemy's
quarters, and showing that every step which he has taken has been
_sanctioned_ by his denouncers; and that, instead of being the foolish
and impudent intruder which the public have believed him to be, he has
been actually only the submissive follower and ready agent of councils
far enough removed from the Quirinal.

We shall advert to but one matter in addition, yet the most important
of all. From the accession of Pio Nono, there has been a decisive
change of the old Papal plan. For the last three hundred years,
Popery, smitten by the Reformation, had limited its efforts to keeping
itself in existence, the stern power of the military thrones having
prohibited its excitement of the people. But times changed; the power
of the multitude increased, the power of the monarchs diminished, and
the appeal was now to be made to the multitude. Europe then saw, with
sudden astonishment, a _liberal_ Pope, and heard the sound of popular
emancipation from the recesses of the Conclave. If the rash ambition
of the King of Sardinia had not thrown Italy into war, and his shallow
generalship turned the war into a flight, the plan of popular appeal
would probably have made Popery the head of Red Republicanism. But
the whole affair was managed as everything beyond the confessional is
managed by monkery--and the Pope was glad to escape from the blaze
which he had kindled with his own hasty hand.

His restoration by the French sword, drawn for republicanism in France
and for despotism in Rome, has set the machinery in movement again; and
we now see its first manufacture in the actual claim of supremacy in
England. Whether its contemptuous repulse here will check its progress
abroad, who shall say? But, that a conspiracy for the extinction of
Protestantism exists in Europe; that the ten foreign cardinals were
appointed to propagate the plan; and that it is to be defeated only
by vigilance and principle, there can be no doubt in the mind of any
rational being.

But, since we began this paper, two events have occurred, which,
trifling as they may be as to the individuals concerned, give too clear
an evidence of the spirit of Popery and public men to be wholly passed
by.

That excellent paper, the _Standard_, thus briefly states the first:
"In May 1845 the late Lady Pennant expressed to her parish minister
(the Rev. Mr Briscoe) her intention to build a church near her
residence, in Wales, for the use of her poor neighbours. This she
also stated to her daughter, who promised to fulfil it. This daughter
married Lord Fielding, and brought him a fortune, part of which, of
course, was apparently pledged to the building of the church. On Lady
Pennant's death, writes the Bishop of St Asaph to Lord Fielding--'You
publicly declared that you purposed to bestow a large sum of money in
founding a church, and all things belonging to it. _You invited me and
my clergy to join in laying the foundation._ You seemed to understand
it so. _We certainly understood it so_; and we received _the Lord's
Supper_ together, with this understanding.

"'Now, I must say, that I regard this as a promise made to me, and my
clergy, as solemnly as it could be made on earth.'

"Lord Fielding," says the _Standard_, "sets about the building,--plain
proof that he perfectly understood his duty. Before the completion of
the church, however, his Lordship falls into the hands of Tractarians,
who, as usual, deliver him over to Romanist priests, who furnish
him with the _miserable_ arguments, which, grounded on the two
extraordinary notions, that what a man promises as a Protestant he is
not bound to perform as a Papist, and that, no distinct fund having
been appropriated in Lady Pennant's will, he is not _bound_ to apply
any whatever--finishes by saying, 'My duty appears clear to me, to
devote that church which is being built at my own cost, and which yet
remains mine, to the furtherance of _God's truth_, as I find he himself
delivered it to his Holy Catholic Church.'"

So that the result of Lady Pennant's wish, and her money, left for a
Protestant church, is the building of a Popish chapel! and the result
of a Protestant bishop's laying the foundation, is the erection of
a place for the mass and the worship of the Virgin Mary! We disdain
comment on this transaction. But it is eminently _Popish_.

The other instance is the attendance of Mr Hawes, the Under Secretary
of State, at a congratulatory public meeting in honour of Dr Wiseman's
appointment as a cardinal, and his actually subscribing money to buy
him a _Red Hat_.

The office of Under Secretary, though not one of much public
consideration, and often given to persons of none whatever, is yet
regarded as extremely _confidential_; and, in the instance of Mr
Hawes, it has unusual weight, from his being the actual representative
of the Colonial Secretary in the House of Commons, Lord Grey being
in the House of Lords. But Mr Hawes is also understood to possess a
confidence _out_ of his Department, and to be on the most intimate
terms with the Premier. Indeed, the admiration of the Under Secretary
for the noble Lord, the delicate attention of generally escorting him
into the House, and seldom being able to remain in it after it has lost
the light of his Lordship's countenance--his ecstasy of admiration at
every sentence which slips from the Premier's lips, and the fixedness
of his eye on his Lordship's features during the sitting--have often
excited the surprise, and occasionally the amusement, of the members
of the Legislature. But that Mr Hawes should have attended a public
meeting, or done any one act on earth in which he conceived it possible
to have produced a frown on the noble Lord's brow--or, indeed, should
do anything without a consciousness of the most PERFECT acquiescence in
the most important quarter--was among the "grand improbabilities" of
the age. But Mr Hawes _did_ go to the meeting, and subscribed for what
our ancestors called a "rag of Popery," and what their sons call one of
its "mummeries."

On this subject a correspondent of the _Morning Chronicle_ writes the
following queries:--

"_Can_ Lord John Russell be _sincere_ in his new-born zeal against
what he pronounces the 'mummeries of superstition,' when he allows
one of his _subordinates_, Mr B. Hawes, M.P., to attend a meeting
of 'Catholics of the London district,' for the purpose of moving
a resolution," &c. He adds: "Let me ask his Lordship, is it true
that his Under Secretary for the Colonies, besides speaking at the
meeting, has publicly subscribed £10 towards procuring one of those
said 'mummeries'--a Cardinal's hat--for Dr Wiseman?" To this, the
only answer given by Mr Hawes is, that he declined signing the Popish
resolutions, but that he spoke, and offered to give his tribute, &c.,
from friendship to the Doctor; which this Papist, however, graciously
condescended to receive.

Now, if Mr Hawes were attending to his parental trade on this occasion,
there would have been nothing to say, but that it showed the smartness
of an expert trafficker. But, as a fragment of the Ministry, he had
another character to sustain, and he ought to have been aware of the
conclusions which would be drawn, by both Papists and Protestants, as
to the degree of approval under which he might have acted.

The "Cardinal's hat," too, by no means mends the matter. If his
_friendship_ for Dr Wiseman must overflow to the amount of £10, could
it have taken no less official shape? Might he not have made it up to
the Doctor in teacups or teaspoons, in a dozen of pocket-handkerchiefs,
or in an addition to his shoes and stockings? But the hat is a _badge_:
it has the effect of a _cockade_. What if it is a thing of red stuff?
What is a cockade?--a thing of ribbon--which, however, makes the
difference between armies!

Without any particular respect for Mr Hawes' shrewdness, we cannot
believe that he was unacquainted with the natural conclusions; nor
do we believe that it _can_ be passed over, when the day comes for
national inquiry into the whole course of Papal politics in England for
the last half-dozen years. Meanwhile, the spirit of the people is high,
their determination is decided, and the time is at hand for a great
restoration to the principles of England.



INDEX TO VOL. LXVIII.


  Abinger, lord, 563.

  Adelaide, madame, and Chateaubriand, 44, 45.

  Adolphus, Mr, 553.

  Afghanistan, Peel's conduct on the disasters in, 359.

  AFRICA, NORTH, MILITARY LIFE IN, 415.

  AFRICAN SPORTING, 231.

  Agdolo, colonel, the case of, 343.

  Agricultural Interest, state and prospects of the, 109.

  Agricultural produce, comparative value of, 112
    --amount of depreciation in it, 617
    --direct and indirect burdens on it, 614.

  Agriculture, capital invested in, 119
    --and manufactures, comparative importance of, 115
    --relations of small farming to, 675, _et seq._

  Alderson, baron, 553, 559, 569.

  Aldossar, captain, 311, _et seq._, 317.

  Alexander, the emperor, and his father's dethronement, 338, _et
     seq. passim_.

  Alfieri, specimens of eloquence from, 649.

  Algeria, sketches of the war in, 415.

  Allen, rev. Mr, trial of, for duelling, 717.

  ALTON LOCKE, review of, 592.

  Andelot, brother of Coligny, 18.

  ANNA HAMMER, 573.

  ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE, 645.

  Anthony of Bourbon, 456, _et seq. passim_.

  Antoinette de Bourbon, 2.

  Architecture, mediæval, on, 219.

  Aristotle, his definition of the poet, 480.

  Army, errors of Louis XVIII. regarding the, 35
    --the Prussian, rise of, 519.

  Art, increasing taste for, in Great Britain, 77
    --early, its absorption in architecture, 219.

  Aumale, Francis, count d', 7
    --his career, 9, _et seq._
    --the duke d', his power, popularity, &c. 12.

  Austria, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --and of imports of corn from, 130
    --the war between, and Frederick the Great, 522, _et seq._
    --and Hungary, conduct of Great Britain regarding, 329
    --and Sardinia, 327.

  Aytoun, William, the architect of Heriot's hospital, 227.

  Bacon, account of, by Symonds d'Ewes, 142
    --his definition of the poet, 486.

  Balafré duke of Guise, 19.

  Bar, the English, Ledru Rollin on, 170.

  BARONIAL AND ECCLESIASTICAL Antiquities of Scotland, the, 217.

  Bayley, baron, on duelling, 719.

  Bean, the attack on the queen by, 552.

  Bechuanas, sketches of the, 237.

  Belgium, state of, exports of cotton to, 127
    --and of imports of corn from, 129.

  Bellingham, the case of, 564.

  Benningsen, general, 338, 341, _et seq._

  Bentinck, lord George, exposure of free trade statistics by, 123.

  Bèze, Theodore de, anecdote of, 460.

  BILLINGS' ANTIQUITIES OF SCOTLAND, 217.

  BISSET'S MEMOIRS OF SIR A. MITCHELL, 516.

  Bodkin, Mr, counsel for Oxford, 553.

  Bolza, count Joseph, 344.

  Borthwick castle, ruins of, 226.

  Bossuet, example of the oratory of, 656.

  BOUILLÉ'S lives of the Guises, vol. i., 1
    --vol. ii., 456.

  Bourbon, the constable of, 4.

  Bourbon and Guise, struggles between the houses of, 456.

  Bourbons, difficulties of the, on the restoration, 36.

  Brandenburg, the electorate of, 517.

  Brantôme, account of the cardinal of Lorraine, by, 8.

  Brazil, state of exports of cotton to, 133.

  Brick duty, repeal of the, 612.

  BRITAIN, THE DEFENCES OF, 713.

  British farmer, position of, compared with the foreign, 615, 682.

  Brougham, lord, and the criminal law reform, 357
    --his speech on the Durham clergy case, 378, 655
    --on ancient and modern eloquence, 657.

  BULAU, PROFESSOR, his work on the Mysteries of History, 335.

  Buller, Mr Justice, on duelling, 717.

  Bullion committee, and its report, 360.

  Buonaparte, Lucien, and madame Recamier, 42.

  Buonaparte, Napoleon, the return of, from Elba, 37
    --character of, by Chateaubriand, _ib._
    --Chateaubriand on his fall, 39
    --persecution of madame Recamier by, 40
    --and the Bourbons, Chateaubriand's pamphlet on, 34.

  Burke, example of the oratory of, 654.

  BURNET'S LANDSCAPE PAINTING IN OIL, 185.


  Caerlaveroc castle, ruins of, 225.

  Calderon, the dramas of, 539.

  Calisto y Meliboea, drama of, 536.

  Cameleopard, hunting the, 238.

  Campbell, sir John, at Frost's trial, 379, _et seq._
    --counsel on Oxford's case, 553
    --and on Lord Cardigan's, 725
    --his Lives of the Chancellors, &c., 374, _note_.

  Canada, Rollin on the conduct of England toward, 166.

  Canning, political intrigue of, 211.

  Capital, agricultural and manufacturing, 119
    --recent legislation directed to favour, 115.

  Capitalists, English, Rollin on, 168
    --Peel's connection with the, 362.

  Caracci, landscape style of the, 192, 193.

  Cardigan, the earl of, trial of, 377, 720.

  Cardonnel, Adam de, Scottish views by, 228.

  Cash payments, the resumption of, in 1819, 360.

  CASTELLANE'S MILITARY LIFE IN NORTH AFRICA, 415.

  Catherine of Medicis, 456, _et seq. passim_.

  Catholic question, Palmerston's speech on the, 215
    --Peel's conduct on the, 355, 363.

  Catholic emancipation, results of, 363.

  Catiline, speeches of, from Sallust, 652.

  Cattle, decline in the value of, 108.

  Cavaignac in Algeria, 417, 418.

  Cavalry, on the use of, 531.

  CAXTON, PISISTRATUS, My Novel by, part i., 247
    --part ii., 393
    --part iii., 499
    --part iv., 627.

  Celestina, the drama of, 535.

  Changarnier, general, in Algeria, 417.

  Charles V., war between, and Francis I., 4
    --siege of Metz by, 14.

  Charles IX., notices of, 458, _et seq. passim_
    --his death, 471.

  Charles X., Chateaubriand's loyalty to, 43.

  Charles, cardinal of Lorraine, character and career of, 11, 14.

  Chartist outbreak, the trials for, 381.

  CHATEAUBRIAND'S MEMOIRS, 33.

  CHESS MATCH, THE LONDON AND EDINBURGH, 97.

  Chess player's Chronicle, the, on the London and Edinburgh match, 100.

  China, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --Peel's conduct regarding the war in, 359.

  Christoval de Vines, the dramas of, 538.

  Cicero, the representative of Roman oratory, 645
    --on the education of the orator, 660.

  Civilisation, influence of peasant properties on, 678.

  Clairvoyance, remarks on, 275.

  Claude, duke of Guise, career of, 2
    --his death, 13.

  Claude Lorraine, the landscapes of, 192, 193.

  Clergy, the English, Ledru Rollin on, 169.

  Coal as a pigment, on, 187.

  Cockburn, Mr, counsel for M'Naughten, 564, 565.

  Coelius, the oratory of, 658.

  Coleridge, Mr Justice, 564.

  Coligny, admiral, sketches of, 16, _et seq._, 456, _et seq. passim_
    --his murder, 470.

  Commerce, British, injury inflicted on, by intervention abroad, 324.

  Commercial crisis of 1847, the, 124.

  Condamine, Charles Marie de la, 352.

  Condé, the prince of, 456, _et seq. passim_
    --his death, 468.

  Constant, B., sketch of Madame Recamier by, 41.

  Convulsionnaires, the, 352.

  Cordiner's Scottish views, on, 228.

  Corn, importations of, compared with exports of cotton, 128.

  Corn laws, Peel's conduct regarding the, 355
    --false application of political economy shown in the repeal of, 672
    --Laing on, 682, _et seq._

  Corneille, the declamation of, 648.

  Cosel, the countess, 348.

  Cotton manufactures, relations of free trade to, 123, _et seq._
    --effects of free trade on, 126, _et seq._
    --exports of, compared with imports of corn, 128
    --exports of, at various times, 124, 125
    --yarn, exports of, 1845 and 1848, 126.

  COURTSHIP IN THE TIME OF JAMES I., 141.

  Courvoisier, the trial of, 378
    --sketch of, 545.

  Cox, D., the water-colour painter, 186.

  Craniology, fundamental error of, 266.

  Crichton castle, architecture of, 225.

  Crime, true causes of the increase of, 357.

  Criminal, responsibility of the, 547, _et seq._, 712.

  Criminal law, Peel's reform in the, 357.

  Croix, madame de la, 351.

  CROWE'S NIGHT SIDE OF NATURE, review of, 265.

  Crowther, lieut., the duelling case of, 719.

  Cultivation, effects of peasant properties on, 675, _et seq._

  CUMMING'S SOUTH AFRICA, 231.

  Currency measures of 1819, Peel's, 360.


  Dairsie, church of, 224.

  DAISY, the, by ®D®, 471.

  Daun, Marshal, defeat of, at Leuthen, 529.

  Debt, effects of the resumption of cash payments on, 361.

  DEFENCES OF BRITAIN, THE, 713.

  Delta, a Wild-Flower Garland by
    --The Daisy, 471
    --The White Rose, 472
    --The Sweetbriar, _ib._
    --The Wallflower, 473.

  Demosthenes, the representative of Greek oratory, 645
    --example of his, 653.

  Denman, Lord, Oxford tried before, 553
    --and Lord Cardigan, 725.

  Denmark, conduct of Britain to, 328.

  Despotic governments, danger of revolutionary fervour to, 321
    --oratory impossible under, 647.

  D'Ewes, Symonds, the courtship of, 114.

  Dewint, the water-colour painter, 186.

  Diana of Poitiers, notices of, 11, 456.

  DIES BOREALES. No. VIII.
    --Christopher under Canvass, 479
    --on Dugald Stewart's ideal of the Poet, 480, _et seq._

  Direct taxes, distribution of the, 614.

  Direct and indirect taxation, on, 623.

  Doppelgangers, on, 273, 276.

  Domenichino, the style of, 192, 193.

  Drama, the English and Spanish, connection between, 537
    --the modern, the declamation of, 648.

  Dramatic art, capabilities of the French for, 415.

  Dreams, on, 273.

  Dresden, the Austrian siege of, 532.

  Dreux, the battle of, 461.

  Drummond, Mr, M'Naughten's trial for the murder of, 561.

  Duelling, trials for, 712.

  Dutch school of landscape, the, 191.


  East, oratory unknown in the, 659.

  Ecclesiastical architecture, on, 217.

  Economist, the, on the American President's message, 132
    --on the increased exports to the East, 134
    --on the state of the home market, 135.

  EDINBURGH AND LONDON CHESS MATCH, the, 97.

  Egypt, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --and of import of corn from, 130.

  Elephant, hunting the, 239.

  Elgin cathedral, state of, 220.

  Ellenborough, lord, on our foreign policy, 334.

  Elliott, the duelling case of, 717.

  ELOQUENCE, ANCIENT AND MODERN, 645.

  ENGLAND, LEDRU ROLLIN, ON, 160
    --THE POPISH PARTITION OF, 745
    --taste for landscape painting in, 185
    --the water-colour painters of, 186
    --neglect of Spanish literature in, 535
    --defective training to oratory in, 662
    --modern style of it in, 666
    --extent of unimproved land in, 686.

  English church, Ledru Rollin on the, 168
    --drama, connection of, with the Spanish, 537.

  Erskine, Mr, defence of Hadfield by, 552
    --example of the oratory of, 655.

  EUROPE, LAING'S OBSERVATIONS ON, 671
    --importance of oratory in, 659
    --extent of unimproved land in, 686.

  EXHIBITION OF 1851, THE, 278
    --of paintings, the, 77.


  Factories, number of, in the United States, 132.

  FAMILY FEUD, A, 174.

  Farmers, loss sustained by the, through free trade, 112
    --their conduct toward their landlords, 113
    --their condition as purchasers of manufactures, 135
    --mode of assessing them for the income-tax, 620.

  Figueroa, denunciations of the drama by, 539.

  Fittler's Scotia Depicta, on, 228.

  Flamboyant architecture, the, in Scotland, 224.

  Flanders, the peasant proprietors of, 675, _et seq._

  Flemish school of landscape painting, the, 191.

  Flemming, colonel, sketches of, 348.

  Follett, sir W., 564, 726, _et seq._

  FOREIGN AFFAIRS, 319.

  Foreign farmer, advantages of the position of the, 615, 683.

  Foreign policy, Peel's, review of, 360.

  Forey, major, in Africa, 417, 418.

  Forsyth's Beauties of Scotland, on, 228.

  Fouché, aversion of Chateaubriand to, 38.

  Fouvert, fidelity of, to the duke of Guise, 3.

  Fox, sketch of, by Ward, 207
    --the accession and fall of, 214.

  France during the sixteenth century, connection of the Guises
     with, 1, _et seq._, 456, _et seq._
    --impatience of repose in, 36
    --state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --and of imports of corn from, _ib._
    --moderation of England toward, 161
    --defence of, by Ledru Rollin, 164
    --rapid changes of property in, 168
    --aggressive spirit of, 319
    --English institutions unadapted to, 320
    --value of Prussia as a barrier against, 516
    --neglect of Spanish literature in, 535.

  Francis I., sketches of, 2, _et seq._
    --his death, 11.

  Francis II., notices of, 456, _et seq. passim_.

  Francis of Lorraine, death of, 5.

  Francis, the attack on the Queen by, 552.

  Frederick the Great, career of, 520.

  Frederick William I., character of, 518
    --II., character, &c. of, _ib. et seq._

  FREE-TRADE AND OUR COTTON MANUFACTURES, 123
    --depreciation of agricultural produce under, 112
    --review of Peel's conduct regarding, 365
    --relations of taxation to, 617.

  Free-traders, representations of, regarding the state of the country, 106
    --their encomiums on sir R. Peel, 354.

  FREEDOM, THE MASQUERADE OF, 475.

  FRENCH WARS OF RELIGION, the, 456
    --tragedy, the perfection of, 647.

  French, military abilities of the, 415.

  Frost, the trial of, 379.

  Funds, taxation of the, 620.


  Galgacus, the speech of, 651.

  Game-law revolt in Saxony, 347.

  Gemsbok, description of the, 234.

  George III., Hadfield's attack on, 551.

  Germany, courts of, sketches of, 348.

  Gibbon's political economy, on, 620, _note_.

  Gil of the green trousers, drama of, 543.

  Girtin the painter, 186.

  Glasgow Daily Mail, letter from the, on recent legislation, 138
    --on the exhibition of 1851, 286, 288.

  Glockner, a Bavarian adventurer, 429.

  Gouge, rev. Mr, 142, _et seq. passim_.

  Graham, sir James, views of, regarding the prices of grain, 107.

  Grain, views of the free-traders regarding prices of, 107.

  Grattan, Mr, the oratory of, 656.

  GREAT BRITAIN, THE DEFENCES OF, 736,
    --increasing taste for art in, 77
    --prices at which wheat can be grown at in, 109
    --her moderation toward France, 161
    --Rollin on her conduct in the opening of the war, 164
    --extent of her interests, 319
    --effects on herself of her intervention in the Peninsula, 323
    --encouragement given by her to foreign liberalism, 324
    --her defenceless state, 333
    --Prussia her natural ally, 516.

  GREAT UNKNOWN, THE, 698.

  Greece, conduct of Britain toward, 330.

  Greek oratory, Demosthenes the representative of, 645.

  Green, the dramas of, 538.

  GREEN HAND, the, a short yarn, part xi., 48
    --part xii., 291
    --a wind-up, 433.

  Gregory, professor, his translation of Reichenbach's researches,
     265, _et seq._

  Grose's Scottish antiquities, on, 228.

  GUISE, BOUILLÉ'S LIVES of the House of, vol i., 1
    --vol. ii., 456
    --Claude, duke of, 2, _et seq._
    --Francis, 9, _et seq._; 457, _et seq. passim_
    --his murder, 464
    --and Bourbon, struggle between the houses of, 456.

  Gurney, baron, 548, 553.


  Hadfield, James, the attack on George III. by, 551.

  Hamilton, W., the attack on the Queen by, 553.

  HAMM'S CAMPAIGN IN SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, 308.

  Hanover, exports of cotton to, 127.

  Hanse Towns, exports of cotton to, 127.

  Hardenberg, Prince, the territorial reforms of, 680.

  Havil, the water-colour painter, 186.

  HEAD'S DEFENCELESS STATE OF BRITAIN, 736.

  Helsham, Captain, trial of, 719.

  Henry VIII., enmity of, to the Guises, 9.

  Henry II. of France, notices of, 11, _et seq._
    --III., 467, _et seq._
    --IV., 468, _et seq._
    --V., Chateaubriand's speech for, 46.

  Henry of Guise, character, &c. of, 465.

  Heriot's hospital, architecture of, 227.

  High treason, trial of Frost for, 379
    Tindal's definition of, 380.

  HISTORY, THE MYSTERIES of, 335.

  Hobbima, the style of, 88, 193.

  Hobert, chief-justice, 144, _et seq. passim_.

  Hohenstein, game-law revolt at, 347.

  Holland, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --and of imports of corn, 129.

  Home market, value of the, 134.

  Horace on the Poet, 493.

  Hotham, baron, on duelling, 716.

  HOURS IN SPAIN, 534.

  HOUSE OF GUISE, the, 1, 456.

  Huguenots, the wars with the, 456, _et seq._
    --massacre of, at Vassy, 459.

  Hungarian exiles, interference of England on behalf of the, 329.

  Hungary, conduct of Great Britain regarding, 329.


  Imagination, Dugald Stewart on, 480.

  INCOME-TAX, RENEWAL OF THE, 611
    --Peel's conduct in imposing, 359
    --inequalities in assessment of, 620.

  India, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --of exports and imports, 134
    --growth of British power in, 163
    --Peel's conduct regarding, 359.

  Indirect taxation, pressure of, on agricultural produce, 614
    --and direct, comparison of, 623.

  INDUSTRY OF THE PEOPLE, the, 106
    --mutual dependence of various branches of, 115.

  Inheritance, law of, relations of small properties to, 679.

  Insanity in connection with crime, on, 547, _et seq._, 712.

  Intervention, the system of, 322, _et seq._

  Ireland, English institutions unadapted to, 320
    --police force introduced by Peel into, 356
    --results of Catholic emancipation in, 363
    --exemption of, from the income-tax, 622.

  Italian school of landscape painting, the, 191, 192.

  Italy, the French invasion of, under Francis I., 3
    --Palmerston's defence of his policy toward, 326.


  Jackson, Cyril, 201.

  JAMES I., COURTSHIP IN THE TIME OF, 141.

  Jarnac, battle of, 468.

  Jeffcott, the duelling case of, 717.

  JEW BILL, THE, 73.

  Jew, reasons against admission of, to the legislature, 73
    --the modern, his character, 599.

  Joinville, Henry prince of, 19.

  John, cardinal of Lorraine, character and career of, 7
    --his death, 13.

  Johnson on duelling, 714.

  Jones, Inigo, not the architect of Heriot's hospital, 227.

  Jones, trial of, with Frost, 381, _et seq._

  JOURNALISM, A LECTURE ON, 691.

  Juan de la Cueva, the dramas of, 538.

  Judges, Townsend's Lives of the, 374
    --decision of the, regarding insanity, 549.

  Jury trial in England, Rollin on, 168.

  Jutland, sketches of, 315.


  Kabyles, contests of the French with the, 417.

  Kelly, Mr Fitzroy, 388, _et seq._

  Kerr, R., letter from, on the exhibition of 1851, 286, 288.

  Kinkel, Godfrey, a Family Feud by, 174.

  Kolin, battle of, 526.

  Kuruman, missionary station of, 237.


  Labourers, effects of free trade on, 136.

  LA DECADENCE D'ANGLETERRE, Ledru Rollin's, 160.

  La Harpe and Madame Recamier, 41.

  LAING'S OBSERVATIONS ON EUROPE, 671.

  Land, unimproved, in England and the Continent, 686.

  Landed interest, burdens on the, 614.

  Landed property, transfer of, 168.

  Landlords, prospects of the, 109
    --apathy of, toward their tenantry, 113.

  LANDSCAPE PAINTING IN OIL, 185.

  Landscape, passion for, in England, 185.

  Latour Maubourg, general, 34.

  Lawyers, English, Rollin on, 170.

  LECTURE ON JOURNALISM, A, 691.

  LEDRU ROLLIN ON ENGLAND, 160.

  Legislature, reasons against the admission of the Jew to, 74.

  Leuthen, battle of, 529.

  Lewis, Mr, on the London and Edinburgh chess match, 101.

  Liberal institutions, danger of forcing, on nations unprepared, 320.

  Liberty, necessity of, to oratory, 646.

  Lion, hunting the, 235, 236.

  Litakoo, missionary station of, 237.

  Lombardy, conduct of Palmerston regarding, 327.

  LONDON AND EDINBURGH CHESS MATCH, the, 97.

  London, increasing taste for pictures in, 77
    --sketch of, by Ledru Rollin, 162
    --police force, established by Peel, 357.

  Lope de Vega, the dramas of, 539.

  Lords, trial of Lord Cardigan before the, 725.

  Lorraine, celebrity of the house of, 1
    --Francis of, slain at Pavia, 5
    --John, cardinal of, 7
    --and Charles II., 456, _et seq. passim_, 466.

  Louis XII., marriage and death of, 2.

  Louis XVIII., the entry of, into Paris, 35
    --his difficulties, 36
    --conversation of Chateaubriand with, 38.

  Louis Philippe, fall of, foreseen by Chateaubriand, 44
    --remarkable interviews between them, _ib. et seq._

  Louvre, the exhibition in the, 77.

  Ludlow, sergeant, at Frost's trial, 380.


  Macaulay on the restoration of the Bourbons, 36.

  Mackintosh, sir James, and the reforms in criminal law, 357.

  M'Naughten, the trial of, for murder, 378, 548, 561
    --interview with, 570.

  Madness, degree of, necessary to exonerate from crime, 547, _et seq._

  Magnetism, Reichenbach's researches in, 266.

  Malta, state of exports of cotton to, 127.

  Manchester economists, the, 124.

  Mansurow, colonel, 339, 341.

  Manufacturers and agriculturists, comparative numbers of the, 115.

  Manufactures, capital invested in, 119
    --alleged value of the proposed exhibition to, 278
    --the income tax imposed for behoof of, 612
    --direct burdens on, 614.

  Marignano, the battle of, 3.

  Marin, lieutenant, 339, 341.

  Marlow, the dramas of, 538.

  Mary, the empress, wife of Paul, 343.

  MASQUERADE OF FREEDOM, the, 475.

  Massena and Madame Recamier, 41.

  Maule, Mr, 383.

  Maule, Mr justice, 553.

  Mayenne, the marquis of, 11.

  Mayo, Dr, his letters on popular superstitions, 274.

  Megulp as a varnish, on, 195.

  Méré, Poltrot de, the assassin of Guise, 464.

  Mesmeric trance, theory &c. of the, 274.

  Metz, defence of, by Guise, 14.

  Mexico, exports of cotton to, 133.

  Milanese, conquest of the, by Francis I., 3.

  Milianah, combat at, 417
    --sieges &c. of, 422.

  MILITARY LIFE IN NORTH AFRICA, 415
    --art, capabilities of the French for the, _ib._

  Ministry, probable policy of the, regarding the income tax, 611.

  Minto, lord, proceedings of, in Italy, 326.

  Mirfin, the duelling case of, 717.

  MITCHELL, SIR ANDREW, THE MEMOIRS OF, 516.

  MODERN STATE TRIALS, part i., Frost, &c., 373
    --part ii., Oxford and M'Naughten, 545
    --part iii., Duelling, 712.

  Mohamed Ould Caid Osman, adventures &c. of, 426.

  Moncontour, battle of, 469.

  Montesquiou, murder of Condé by, 468.

  Montluc, a partisan of the Guises, 18, _et seq._

  Montmorency, the constable de, 17, 456, _et seq. passim_
    --his death, 467.

  Moral insanity, the modern dogma of, 558.

  Mulgrave, lord, 205, _et seq. passim_.

  MY NOVEL, by Pisistratus Caxton
    --initial chapter, showing how my novel came to be written, 247
    --chap. ii., 250
    --chap. iii., 252
    --chap. iv., 254
    --chap. v., 256
    --chap. vi., 257
    --chap. vii., 258
    --chap. viii., 260
    --chap. ix., 261
    --chap. x., 393
    --chap. xi., 399
    --chap. xii., 405
    --chap. xiii., 414
    --Book II., initial chapter, showing how this book came to have
      initial chapters, 499
    --chap. ii., 500
    --chap. iii., 504
    --chap. iv., 507
    --chap. v., 508
    --chap. vi., 511
    --chap. vii., 627
    --chap. viii., 630
    --chap. ix., 632
    --chap. x., 634
    --chap. xi., 638
    --chap. xii., 640.

  MY PENINSULAR MEDAL, part viii., chap. xix., 20
    --chap. xx., and last, 22.

  MYSTERIES OF HISTORY, the, 335.


  Naples, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --lord Minto's proceedings at, 326.

  Napoleon, resistance in Spain to, 534.

  National debt, objects of the radicals regarding the, 109.

  National industry, probable effects of the exhibition of 1851 on, 283.

  National institute, exhibition of the, 77.

  Newgate chapel, a visit to, 545.

  New Holland, exports of cotton to, 127.

  Newport, the chartist outbreak at, 381.

  NIGHT SIDE OF NATURE, the, 265.

  Norman architecture, remains of, in Scotland, 223.

  NORTH AFRICA, MILITARY LIFE IN, 415.


  OIL, LANDSCAPE PAINTING IN, by Burnet, 185
    --and water colours, comparison between, 190.

  Omars, the, an Arab tribe, 423.

  Oratory, extent of powers necessary for, 645
    --ancient study of, 660.

  Orleans, the duchess of, and Chateaubriand, 44, 45.

  Oryx, description of the, 234.

  Oued Foddha, combat of, 417.

  Oxford, E., sketch of, 546
    --the case of, 548, 551, 553, _et seq._
    --interview with, 571.


  Pacifico, M., 330.

  Pahlen, count, 337, _et seq._

  Paintings, the exhibitions of, 77.

  Palmerston, lord, the first appearance of, 214
    --on the probable prices of grain, 107
    --defence of the Spanish intervention by, 322, _et seq._
    --on the state of Spain, 325
    --on that of Italy, 326
    --account of the Greek affair by, 330.

  Panin, count, 338.

  Paré, Ambrose, 10.

  Paris, entry of Louis XVIII. into, 35
    --removal of Napoleon's remains to, 39.

  Parke, Mr Baron, at Frost's trial, 380.

  Parker, admiral, his proceedings at Sicily, 326
    --interference of, on behalf of Turkey, 330
    --in Greece, 331.

  Parliament, Peel's appearances in, 368
    --the style of eloquence in, 667.

  Pate, Robert, the attack on the queen by, 553, 569.

  Patteson, Mr Justice, on duelling, 717.

  Paul, the emperor, history of the dethronement and death of, 336.

  Pavia, the battle of, 5.

  Peasant properties, the advantages and disadvantages of, 675, _et seq._

  Peasantry, state of the, in Saxony, 347.

  PEEL, SIR ROBERT, 354
    --his anticipations regarding the price of grain, 107
    --character of the legislation of, 115
    --circumstances under which he imposed the income tax, 612
    --on taxing the funds, 621.

  Peninsula, intervention in the, 322.

  Pennant's Scottish views, on, 228.

  Perceval, Palmerston first brought forward by, 214
    --Bellingham's trial for the murder of, 564.

  Pericles, example of the oratory of, 653.

  Peronne, relief of, by Guise, 7.

  PHIPPS' MEMOIRS OF R. P. WARD, review of, 199.

  Phrenology, fundamental error of, 266.

  Physicians, the, on moral insanity, 548.

  PICTURES OF THE SEASON, the, 77.

  Pious Martha, the drama of, 542.

  Pirna, Frederick the Great at, 524.

  Pitt, charges of Ledru Rollin against, 164
    --ancedote of, in connection with the treason trials, 203
    --letter of, on the peace of Amiens, 209
    --letter to R. P. Ward from, 210
    --intrigue of Canning regarding, 211.

  Poet, the, on Dugald Stewart's ideal of the, 480, _et seq._
    --Horace on the, 493, _et seq._

  Poland, persecution of the Protestants in, 519, 520.

  Police, introduction of the system of, 356.

  POLITICAL AND LITERARY BIOGRAPHY, 199.

  Political economy, misapplications of, by travellers, 671.

  Pollock, sir F., 380, _et seq._, 553.

  Popery, effects of, on Spanish literature, 534.

  POPISH PARTITION OF ENGLAND, THE, 745.

  Population, classification of the, 116, 117.

  Porter, misstatements of, regarding agriculturists and
     manufacturers, 116.

  Portland gallery, exhibition of paintings in the, 77.

  Portland ministry, the, 214.

  Portugal, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --Palmerston on the intervention in, 322.

  Poussin, Gaspar, the landscapes of, 192, 194.

  Pragmatic Sanction, the, 522.

  Prague, the battle of, 526.

  Presentiment, on, 273.

  Produce, dependence of revenue on, 614.

  Propagandism, system of, 320.

  PROPOSED EXHIBITION OF 1851, the, 278.

  Protestantism, first blows at, in France, 6
    --Prussia the champion of, 519.

  PRUSSIA, THE RISE, POLITICS, AND POWER OF, 516
    --Hardenberg's territorial reforms in, 680.

  Pulpit eloquence, defects of, 668.

  Purefoy, Mr, trial of, 716.

  Puritans in the time of James I., the, 141.


  Quarterly Review, the, on the London and Edinburgh chess match,
     98, _et seq._

  Queen, Oxford's trial for shooting at the, 551.

  Quintilian on oratory, 660
    --on training for it, 661.


  Radicals, objects of the, regarding the national debt, 109.

  Railway crisis, effects of the, 125
    --losses, use made of, by the free-traders, 135.

  Ramsay, Mr, on peasant properties, 678.

  Rantzau, count, free corps under, 311.

  Recamier, madame, 40.

  Reform bill, Peel's conduct regarding the, 358.

  Reichel, Mdlle, 268, 269.

  REICHENBACH'S RESEARCHES, review of, 265.

  RELIGION, FRENCH WARS OF, 456.

  Rembrandt, the landscapes of, 192.

  RENEWAL OF THE INCOME-TAX, the, 611.

  Republican spirit, aggressive character of the, 319.

  Restoration, Chateaubriand at the, 34
    --his account of its errors, 35
    --difficulties of the government of, 36.

  Revenue, dependence of, on produce, 614.

  Revolution, alleged influence of, on commerce, 128, _et seq._
    --propagandist system of, 320
    --of 1830, Chateaubriand's conduct during the, 43.

  Rhinoceros, hunting the, 238, 244.

  Ribain, captain, 417, 419.

  Ricot, lieut., death of, 418.

  Rivas, admiral, 338, 339.

  Robertson on duelling, 714.

  Robespierre, the oratory of, 657.

  ROLLIN, LEDRU, ON ENGLAND, 160.

  Roman oratory, Cicero the representative of, 645.

  Romantic drama, Tellez on the, 540.

  Romilly and the reforms in criminal law, 357.

  Rosbach, battle of, 528.

  Rouen, the siege of, 460, 461.

  Royal Academy, exhibition of the, 77, _et seq._

  Rubens, the landscapes of, 197.

  Russell, lord John, on the probable prices of grain, 107.

  Russia, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --history of the Revolution of 1801 in, 336
    --value of Prussia as a barrier against, 516.

  Rutowski, the countess, 344.

  Ruysdael, the paintings of, 88, 194.


  Sacken, count, Saxon minister, 344.

  St André, marshal, death of, 463.

  St Denis, battle of, 467.

  St Helena, the removal of Napoleon's remains from, 39.

  St Michael's palace, description of, 340.

  St Quentin, battle of, 17.

  St Vallier, the count of, 9.

  Sallust, speeches of Catiline from, 652.

  Salvator Rosa, the style of, 193.

  Sandal wood tree, the, 238.

  Sardinia, state of exports of cotton to, 127
    --conduct of Palmerston toward, 327.

  Saxony, sketches of court of, 344.

  Science, love of the marvellous in, 265.

  Schiller, examples of eloquence from, 650.

  SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, sketches and episodes of campaign in, 308
    --conduct of Great Britain regarding, 328.

  Schwerin, marshal, death of, 526.

  SCOTLAND, BARONIAL AND ECCLESIASTICAL ANTIQUITIES OF, 217.

  Scott's provincial antiquities, on, 228.

  Self-seeing, on, 273.

  Shakspeare, acquaintance of, with the Spanish drama, 536
    --specimens of eloquence from, 649.

  Sicily, Minto's proceedings in, 326.

  Sidi Embarek, the, an Arab tribe, 425.

  Sidmouth, lord, intrigue of Canning against, 211.

  Siquot, Alfred, sketch of, 425.

  Sketching, colour-box for, 187, 190

  Sleep, Reichenbach's theory of, 269.

  Slezer, John, his views of Scottish castles, &c., 220, 227.

  Small farms, advantages and disadvantages of, 675, _et seq._

  Society of British artists, exhibition of the, 77.

  Somnambulism, theory of, 274.

  Souaves, the, an African corps, 416.

  Soubise, prince of, at Rosbach, 528.

  South America, exports of cotton to, 133.

  Sovereign, state of the law regarding attacks on the, 551.

  Spackman, classification of the population by, 116, 117.

  Spahis, the Algerian, 416
    --of Mascara, 425.

  SPAIN, HOURS IN, 534
    --exports of cotton to, 127
    --Rollin on the conduct of England toward, 166
    --the intervention on behalf of, 323
    --heroism shown by, at various times, 534.

  Spanish America, the attempt to introduce liberal institutions into, 320
    --literature and drama, 534
    --treasure frigates, affair of the, 212.

  SPORTING IN SOUTH AFRICA, 231
    --alleged inhumanity of, 241.

  Springboks, migration of the, 234.

  Statistics, true value of, &c., 123.

  Staunton, Mr, on the London and Edinburgh chess match, 100.

  Stewart, Dugald, on his ideal of the poet, 480.

  Strozzi, marshal, death of, 18.

  Stuart, James, the trial of, 468
    --Robert, murder of, 378.

  Suavey, Christoval, 599.

  SWEET BRIAR, the, by ®D®, 472.


  Tacitus, the speech of Galgacus from, 651.

  Tailors, the working, state of, 598.

  Talbanow, colonel, 339, 341.

  Talbot, Hon. J. C., at Frost's trial, 380.

  Talfourd, Mr Justice, 380.

  Talizin, general, 338, 340.

  Talleyrand, Chateaubriand's aversion to, 38.

  Tartas, colonel, 428.

  Tatarinow, general, 339, 341.

  Taxation, necessity for adjustment of, 613
    --on direct and indirect, 623.

  Taxes, present distribution of, 614.

  Taylor, president, protectionist policy advocated by, 131
    --Mr Sidney, counsel for Oxford, 553.

  Taylor's medical jurisprudence, on insanity, 550
    --on the case of M'Naughten, 567.

  Telémaque, democratic character of, 647.

  Tellez, Gabriel, 539.

  TEMPLE OF FOLLY, the, 229.

  Tempoure, general, 427.

  Therouenne, siege of, by the Germans, 16.

  Thiébault, sketch of Mitchell by, 523.

  Thionville, siege of, 18.

  Tindal, chief-justice, 380, 564.

  Titian, the landscape style of, 192, 195.

  Tirso de Molina, the dramas of, 539.

  Toulon, lord Mulgrave at, 205.

  Towie castle, architecture of, 225.

  TOWNSEND'S STATE TRIALS, Part I., 373
    --Part II., 545
    --Part III., 712
    --sketch of the author's career, 373.

  Trees, Burnet on painting, 195.

  Tschitscherin, general, 339, 341.

  Tuckett, captain, the duelling case of, 720.

  Turkey, exports of cotton to, 127
    --interference of Britain on behalf of, 329.

  Turner, paintings by, in present exhibition, 81
    --the water-colour paintings of, 186.


  United States, expectations of the free-traders from the, 130
    --their protectionist policy, _ib._
    --factories in, 132
    --imports of grain from, and exports of cotton to, 133
    --aggressive spirit of, 319.

  Universities, the English, Ledru Rollin on, 170
    --value of the, 201
    --defective system of, as regards oratory, 669.

  Utrecht, treaty of, violation of, 323.


  Valée, marshal, in Algeria, 422.

  Vandervelde, the sea pieces of, 198.

  Varley, John, the painter, 186.

  Vassy, the massacre of, 459.

  Vaughan, baron, on duelling, 718.

  Vernet the painter, anecdote of, 421.

  Vivonne, François de, death of, 12.

  Von Ende, Saxon minister, 344.

  Von Sachsen, duchess, the court of, 348.


  Wages, state of, 136.

  Waldgrave, Miss Jemima, 144, _et seq._
    --lady, 151, _et seq. passim_.

  WALLFLOWER, the, by ®D®, 473.

  WARD, R. P., MEMOIRS OF, reviewed, 199.

  Water, sketching of, 188.

  Water-colour painting, the English school of, 186.

  Water colours and oil, comparison between, 190.

  Wealth, classification of the creation of, 117
    --not the greatest social good, 673.

  Whately on social advancement, 673.

  Wheat, loss on cultivation of, 109.

  Whig ministry, attempts of the, regarding the income tax, 619.

  Whigs, state of the, under Fox, 206.

  WHITE ROSE, the, by ®D®, 472.

  WHO ROLLED THE POWDER IN? 689.

  Wightman, Mr Justice, 380, 553.

  WILD FLOWER GARLAND, a, by ®D®
    --The daisy, 471
    --the white rose, 472
    --the sweetbriar, _ib._
    --the wallflower, 473.

  Wilde, sir T., 379, _et seq._, 553, 559.

  Williams, Ambrose, the trial of, 378, 381 _et seq._
    --Mr Justice, 380, 564.

  Wilson, the landscape painter, 192.

  Wood carving, mediæval, 217.

  Working classes, condition of the, 594, _et seq. passim_.

  Wordsworth on the aim of poetry, 490.

  Wostitz, general, death of, 529.

  Wrangel, general, 313.


  YEAR OF SORROW, the
    --Ireland. Spring Song, 93
    --Autumnal Dirge, 94
    --Winter Dirge, 95.

  Yeschwel, colonel, 339, 341.


  Zehmin, baron, 345.

  Zorndorf, the battle of, 531.

  Zoubow, the brothers, 338, _et seq._

        _Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._


       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES:

[1] By the pounds Milanese, Giacomo means the Milanese lira.

[2] JEREMY TAYLOR--_Of Christian Prudence._ Part II.

[3] Ib.

[4] This was well known in ancient times. "Corruptas," says
Quintilian, "aliquando et vitiosas orationes, quas tamen plerique
judiciorum pravitate mirantur, quam multa impropria, obscura, tumida,
humilia, sordida, lasciva, effeminata sunt; quæ non laudantur modo a
plerisque, sed quod pejus est, _propter hoc ipsum, quod sunt prava
laudantur."--Inst. Orat_. ii. 5.

[5] _Cinna_, Act ii. s. 1.

"Quelle prodigieuse supériorité," says Voltaire in his _Commentaries_
on this passage, "de la belle Poésie sur la prose! Tous les écrivains
politiques ont délayé ces pensées, aucun n'a approché de la force,
de la profondeur, de la netteté, de la précision de ce discours de
Cinna. Tous les corps d'état auraient du assister a cette pièce,
pour apprendre à penser et à parler."--VOLTAIRE, _Commentaires sur
Corneille_, iii. 308.

[6] CORNEILLE, _Attila_, Act ii. s. 5.

[7] _Julius Cæsar_, Act iii. s. 2.

[8] _Virginia_, Act i. s. 3.

[9] _Agricola_, c. 31, 32.

[10] SALLUST, _Bell. Cat._

[11] SALLUST, _Bell. Cat._

[12] QUINTILIAN, lib. iv. 2.

[13] _De Coronâ, Orat. Græc._ i. 315, 325.

[14] THUCYDIDES, ii. § 32, 33.

[15] _Paradise Regained_, iv. 268.

[16] BURKE'S _Works_, vol. xvi. pages 415, 416, 417, 418, 420.

[17] BROUGHAM'S _Speeches_, i. 227, 228.

[18] ERSKINE'S _Speeches_, ii. 263.

[19] GRATTAN'S _Speeches_, i. 52, 53.

[20] BOSSUET, _Oraisons Funèbres_.

[21] _Hist. Parl._, xxxiii. 406.

[22] Lord Brougham on the Eloquence of the Ancients. _Speeches_, iv.
379, 445, 446.

[23] "Quis enim nescit, maximam vim existere oratoris in hominum
mentibus vel ad iram aut ad odium aut dolorem meitandis, vel, ab bisce
usdem permotionibus, ad lemtatem misericordiamque revocandis quare,
nisi qui naturas hominum, vimque omnem humanitatis, causasque eas
quibus mentes aut incitantur aut reflectuntur, penitus perspexerit,
dicendo, quod volet, perficere non poterit. Quam ob rem, si quis
universam et propriam oratoris vim definire complectique vult,
is orator erit, meà sententri, hoc tam gravi dignus nomine, qui,
_quæcumque res inciderit_, quæ sit dictione, explicanda, prudenter, et
composite, et ornate, et memoriter dicat, cum quàdam etiam actionis
dignitate. Est enim finitimus oratori poeta, numeris adstrictior paulo,
verborum antem heentia liberior, multis vero ornandi generibus socius,
ac pæne par."--_De Oratore_, hb 1 cap. 17.

[24] "Postea mihi placuit, eoque sum usus adolescens, ut summorum
oratorum Græcas orationes explicarem; quibus lectis, hoc assequebar,
ut, cum ea, quæ legerem _Græce, Latine redderem_, non solum optimis
verbis uterer, et tamen usitatis, sed etiam exprimerem quædam verba
imitando, quæ nova nostris essent, dummodo essent idonea."--_De
Oratore_, 1. i. 34. "All Mr Pitt's leisure hours at college were
devoted to translating the finest passages in the classical authors,
especially Thucydides, into English, which he did freely, to the no
small annoyance of his tutors."--TOMLINE'S _Life of Pitt_, i. 23.

[25] "For the exercise of the student's writing, let him sometimes
_translate Latin into English_. But by all means obtain, if you can,
that he be not employed in making _Latin_ themes and declamations,
and, least of all, verses of any kind. Latin is a language foreign in
this country, and long since dead everywhere--a language in which your
son, it is a thousand to one, shall never have occasion once to make a
speech as long as he lives, after he comes to be a man; and a language
in which the manner of expressing one's-self is so far different from
ours, that, to be perfect in that, would very little improve the purity
and facility of his English style. I can see no pretence for this sort
of exercise in our schools, unless it can be supposed that the making
of set Latin speeches should be the way to teach men to speak well in
English extempore. Still more is to be said against young men making
Latin verses. If any one thinks poetry a desirable quality in his son,
and that the study of it would raise his fancy and parts, he must needs
yet confess that, to that end, _reading_ the excellent Greek and Roman
poets is of more use than _making bad verses of his own in a language
that is not his own_. And he whose design it is to read in English
poetry would not, I guess, think the way to it was to make his first
essays in Latin verses."--LOCKE _on Education_, § 169, 174.

[26] _Spectator_, No. 407; _Addison's Works_, iv. 327.

[27] _Observations_, p. 158.

[28] See _Blackwood's Magazine_, vol. lvii. p. 529.

[29] _Observations_, p. 24.

[30] The paternal care which our Government takes of agriculture
leaves us to grope our way by mere guess-work in all statistical
questions affecting it. For want of a better guide, we may refer to
Mr M'Culloch's often-quoted estimates, according to which, it would
appear, that there is one labourer to each 13-1/2 acres of arable land
in England, one to each 19-5/7 acres in Scotland--almost exactly the
proportion assumed by Mr Laing.

[31] _Observations_, p. 39.

[32] Previous to Hardenberg's administration, the peasants enjoyed the
_dominium utile_ of their lands, (_bauern hofe_, as they were called,)
but subject to the payment of a certain quit-rent or feu-duty to the
superior lord; and the scope of the change was to make these quit-rents
redeemable, by the cession of a certain fixed proportion of the land
and to vest the absolute property of the remainder in the vassal. It
is obvious, therefore, that there is not the slightest analogy between
the case of the Prussian feuar (as we should call him in Scotland) and
that of an ordinary tenant-at-will or lessee of land, and that the
commutation we have described has no similarity whatever to the schemes
of "tenant-right," of which we now hear so much.

[33] We are glad to observe, in the recently published Report of the
Royal Commission presided over by Lord Langdale, some indication
of progress towards supplying the want of a system of Registry in
England,--a want which, as the Commissioners truly affirm, operates as
a heavy burden on land property, and a material diminution of its value.

[34] Evidence of Lords' Committee on the Burdens affecting Land, p. 423.

[35] _Observations_, p. 154.

[36] _Notes_, p. 287.

[37] _Observations_, p. 153.

[38] The estimate for this country is clearly too small. Out of one
hundred acres in England, seventy-eight are under cultivation, or in
meadow. For the British Islands, the proportion is about sixty-four to
one hundred. As to the extent of uncultivated but available land in
Prussia, see the Evidence of Mr Banfield before the Committee of the
House of Lords on Burdens affecting Land.

[39] _Modern State Trials_: Revised and Illustrated, with Essays
and Notes. By WILLIAM C. TOWNSEND, Esq., M.A., Q.C., Recorder of
Macclesfield. In 2 vols. 8vo. Longman & Co. 1850.

[40] In one of Dr Johnson's various conversations with Boswell and
others, on the subject of duelling, he said, "A man is sufficiently
punished [for an injury] by being called out, and subjected to the risk
that is in a duel. But," continues Boswell, "on my suggesting that
_the injured person_ is equally subjected to risk, he fairly owned he
could not explain the rationality of duelling." It will be remembered
that, in previous conversations, the Doctor had endeavoured to do so,
by various unsatisfactory and sophistical reasons; and one of his
arguments, recorded by Boswell, was quoted by the counsel of Mr Stuart,
when tried for having shot in a duel Sir Alexander Boswell, the eldest
son of Boswell!

[41] Townsend, vol. i. p. 170-171.

[42] _Ibid._, p. 154-5.

[43] Townsend, vol. i. p. 152.

[44] _Ibid._, p. 162.

[45] _Ibid._, p. 163.

[46] Regina _v._ Young. 8 Carr and Payne, 644.

[47] In opening the case against Lord Cardigan, at the bar of the House
of Lords, the Attorney-General, (now Lord Campbell,) of course speaking
from erroneous instructions, imputed to Lord Cardigan the utterance
of a most unbecoming and offensive expression,--"Do you think I would
_condescend_ to fight with one of my own officers?" We are satisfied
that no such language could have fallen from a British officer; and the
evidence shows that it did not in point of fact.

[48] Vol. i. p. 210.

[49] It was called "the Waltham Black Act," as occasioned by the
devastations committed near Waltham, in Hampshire, by persons
disguised, and with _blackened_ faces--"who seem" says Blackstone,
"to have resembled the followers of Robert Hood, who in the reign of
Richard I. committed such great outrages on the borders of England and
Scotland."--4 Black. Com. 245.

[50] Mr Chitty. Townsend, i. p. 209.

[51] 4 Black. Com. p. 199.

[52] 1 Townsend, p. 215, 216.

[53] Ibid. p. 210.

[54] For misdemeanour, a peer has no such privilege, but must be tried
by a jury.

[55] 20th February 1841.

[56] The mode of appointing this high officer, and of constituting
the court, will be found explained at length in Blackstone's
Commentaries.--Vol. iv. p. 259, _et seq._

[57] The meaning of this observation is, that the privilege of not
answering questions tending to criminate the witness belongs to the
witness, and not to the parties wherefore the objection to such
questions ought to come from the witness, and not from the counsel for
either of the parties.

[58] TOWNSEND, vol. i. p. 229.

[59] Townsend, p. 239, 240, 241.

[60] Ibid., p. 238.

[61] We are by no means sure, however, that he could have been
compelled to answer the question, if he had stated that he believed his
answer might tend to criminate himself.

[62] 1 Townsend, p. 211. Lord Campbell has included his opening
address in Lord Cardigan's case among his published speeches, and thus
deprecates the censures which had been passed upon him: "I was much
hurt by an accusation that my address contained a defence of duelling,
and had a tendency to encourage that practice. Nothing could be further
from my intention.... I continue to think that to engage in a duel,
which cannot be declined without infamy, and which is not occasioned
by any offence given by the party whose conduct is under discussion,
whether he accepted or sent the challenge, though contrary to the law
of the land, is an act free from moral turpitude.... I consider that
to fight a duel must always be a great calamity, but it is not always,
necessarily, a great crime." Fully acknowledging the difficulties of
the subject, we publicly and solemnly disclaim participation in these
opinions, for reasons already laid before our readers. We give Lord
Campbell full credit for the purity of his motives, and the sincerity
of his convictions; but we must withhold our concurrence from opinions
which ignore _moral_ turpitude in a breach of THE LAW OF GOD!

[63] Articles of War. Art 17.

[64] _The Defenceless State of Great Britain._ By Sir F. B. HEAD, Bart.
London. Murray: 1850.

[65] The following is an extract from Cobden's speech at Wrexham,
on 12th November last, as reported in the _Times_ of 14th November:
"He had no doubt that, in the volume written by Sir F. Head, (which
had been referred to,) the author of _Bubbles from the Brunnens of
Nassau_--and he dared say those bubbles were just as substantial as the
facts in that volume, (cheers and laughter,)--but there was something
in the antecedents of Sir F. Head, and his conduct in Canada, which
did not recommend him to him (Mr Cobden) as a good authority in this
affair of our finances. (Hear, hear.) But, no doubt, he should be told
that we were in great danger from other countries keeping up large
military establishments, and coming to attack us. Now, the answer he
gave to that was, that he would rather run the risk of France coming
to attack us, than keep up the present establishments in this country.
He had done with reasoning on the subject. He would rather cut down
the expenditure for military establishments to L.10,000,000, and run
every danger from France, or any other quarter, than risk the danger of
attempting to keep up the present standard of taxation and expenditure.
(Cheers.) _He called those men cowards who wrote in this way._ He was
not accustomed to pay fulsome compliments to the English, by telling
them that they were superior to all the world; but this he could say,
that they did not deserve the name of cowards. (Hear, hear.) _The
men who wrote these books must be cowards_, and he knew nothing so
preposterous as talking of a number of Frenchmen coming and taking
possession of London."



     Transcriber's Notes:


     Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors
     were corrected.

     Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_.

     Greek text is transliterated and enclosed in ®registered signs®.





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