THE
                            CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

                              JANUARY, 1860.




        Framley Parsonage.                                1
        The Chinese and the “Outer Barbarians.”          26
        Lovel the Widower.                               44
        Studies in Animal Life.                          61
        Father Prout’s Inaugurative Ode                  75
        Our Volunteers.                                  77
        A Man of Letters of the Last Generation.         85
        The Search for Sir John Franklin.                96
        The First Morning of 1860.                      122
        Roundabout Papers.--No. I.                      124




                            Framley Parsonage.


                                CHAPTER I.

                        “OMNES OMNIA BONA DICERE.”

When young Mark Robarts was leaving college, his father might well
declare that all men began to say all good things to him, and to
extol his fortune in that he had a son blessed with so excellent a
disposition.

This father was a physician living at Exeter. He was a gentleman
possessed of no private means, but enjoying a lucrative practice,
which had enabled him to maintain and educate a family with all the
advantages which money can give in this country. Mark was his eldest
son and second child; and the first page or two of this narrative must
be consumed in giving a catalogue of the good things which chance and
conduct together had heaped upon this young man’s head.

His first step forward in life had arisen from his having been sent,
while still very young, as a private pupil to the house of a clergyman,
who was an old friend and intimate friend of his father’s. This
clergyman had one other, and only one other, pupil--the young Lord
Lufton, and, between the two boys, there had sprung up a close alliance.

While they were both so placed, Lady Lufton had visited her son, and
then invited young Robarts to pass his next holidays at Framley Court.
This visit was made; and it ended in Mark going back to Exeter with a
letter full of praise from the widowed peeress. She had been delighted,
she said, in having such a companion for her son, and expressed a
hope that the boys might remain together during the course of their
education. Dr. Robarts was a man who thought much of the breath of
peers and peeresses, and was by no means inclined to throw away any
advantage which might arise to his child from such a friendship. When,
therefore, the young lord was sent to Harrow, Mark Robarts went there
also.

That the lord and his friend often quarrelled, and occasionally
fought,--the fact even that for one period of three months they never
spoke to each other--by no means interfered with the doctor’s hopes.
Mark again and again stayed a fortnight at Framley Court, and Lady
Lufton always wrote about him in the highest terms.

And then the lads went together to Oxford, and here Mark’s good fortune
followed him, consisting rather in the highly respectable manner in
which he lived, than in any wonderful career of collegiate success. His
family was proud of him, and the doctor was always ready to talk of him
to his patients; not because he was a prizeman, and had gotten medals
and scholarships, but on account of the excellence of his general
conduct. He lived with the best set--he incurred no debts--he was fond
of society, but able to avoid low society--liked his glass of wine, but
was never known to be drunk; and, above all things, was one of the most
popular men in the university.

Then came the question of a profession for this young Hyperion, and on
this subject, Dr. Robarts was invited himself to go over to Framley
Court to discuss the matter with Lady Lufton. Dr. Robarts returned with
a very strong conception that the Church was the profession best suited
to his son.

Lady Lufton had not sent for Dr. Robarts all the way from Exeter for
nothing. The living of Framley was in the gift of the Lufton family,
and the next presentation would be in Lady Lufton’s hands, if it should
fall vacant before the young lord was twenty-five years of age, and in
the young lord’s hands if it should fall afterwards. But the mother and
the heir consented to give a joint promise to Dr. Robarts. Now, as the
present incumbent was over seventy, and as the living was worth 900_l_.
a year, there could be no doubt as to the eligibility of the clerical
profession.

And I must further say, that the dowager and the doctor were justified
in their choice by the life and principles of the young man--as far
as any father can be justified in choosing such a profession for his
son, and as far as any lay impropriator can be justified in making
such a promise. Had Lady Lufton had a second son, that second son
would probably have had the living, and no one would have thought it
wrong;--certainly not if that second son had been such a one as Mark
Robarts.

Lady Lufton herself was a woman who thought much on religious matters,
and would by no means have been disposed to place any one in a living,
merely because such a one had been her son’s friend. Her tendencies
were High Church, and she was enabled to perceive that those of young
Mark Robarts ran in the same direction. She was very desirous that her
son should make an associate of his clergyman, and by this step she
would insure, at any rate, that. She was anxious that the parish vicar
should be one with whom she could herself fully co-operate, and was
perhaps unconsciously wishful that he might in some measure be subject
to her influence. Should she appoint an older man, this might probably
not be the case to the same extent; and should her son have the gift,
it might probably not be the case at all.

And therefore it was resolved that the living should be given to young
Robarts.

He took his degree--not with any brilliancy, but quite in the manner
that his father desired; he then travelled for eight or ten months with
Lord Lufton and a college don, and almost immediately after his return
home was ordained.

The living of Framley is in the diocese of Barchester; and, seeing
what were Mark’s hopes with reference to that diocese, it was by no
means difficult to get him a curacy within it. But this curacy he was
not allowed long to fill. He had not been in it above a twelvemonth,
when poor old Dr. Stopford, the then vicar of Framley, was gathered
to his fathers, and the full fruition of his rich hopes fell upon his
shoulders.

But even yet more must be told of his good fortune before we can
come to the actual incidents of our story. Lady Lufton, who, as I
have said, thought much of clerical matters, did not carry her High
Church principles so far as to advocate celibacy for the clergy. On
the contrary, she had an idea that a man could not be a good parish
parson without a wife. So, having given to her favourite a position in
the world, and an income sufficient for a gentleman’s wants, she set
herself to work to find him a partner in those blessings.

And here also, as in other matters, he fell in with the views of his
patroness--not, however, that they were declared to him in that marked
manner in which the affair of the living had been broached. Lady Lufton
was much too highly gifted with woman’s craft for that. She never told
the young vicar that Miss Monsell accompanied her ladyship’s married
daughter to Framley Court expressly that he, Mark, might fall in love
with her; but such was in truth the case.

Lady Lufton had but two children. The eldest, a daughter, had been
married some four or five years to Sir George Meredith, and this
Miss Monsell was a dear friend of hers. And now looms before me the
novelist’s great difficulty. Miss Monsell,--or, rather, Mrs. Mark
Robarts,--must be described. As Miss Monsell, our tale will have to
take no prolonged note of her. And yet we will call her Fanny Monsell,
when we declare that she was one of the pleasantest companions that
could be brought near to a man, as the future partner of his home, and
owner of his heart. And if high principles without asperity, female
gentleness without weakness, a love of laughter without malice, and a
true loving heart, can qualify a woman to be a parson’s wife, then was
Fanny Monsell qualified to fill that station.

In person she was somewhat larger than common. Her face would have been
beautiful but that her mouth was large. Her hair, which was copious,
was of a bright brown; her eyes also were brown, and, being so, were
the distinctive feature of her face, for brown eyes are not common.
They were liquid, large, and full either of tenderness or of mirth.
Mark Robarts still had his accustomed luck, when such a girl as this
was brought to Framley for his wooing.

And he did woo her--and won her. For Mark himself was a handsome
fellow. At this time the vicar was about twenty-five years of age, and
the future Mrs. Robarts was two or three years younger. Nor did she
come quite empty-handed to the vicarage. It cannot be said that Fanny
Monsell was an heiress, but she had been left with a provision of some
few thousand pounds. This was so settled, that the interest of his
wife’s money paid the heavy insurance on his life which young Robarts
effected, and there was left to him, over and above, sufficient to
furnish his parsonage in the very best style of clerical comfort,--and
to start him on the road of life rejoicing.

So much did Lady Lufton do for her _protégé_, and it may well be
imagined that the Devonshire physician, sitting meditative over his
parlour fire, looking back, as men will look back on the upshot of
their life, was well contented with that upshot, as regarded his eldest
offshoot, the Rev. Mark Robarts, the vicar of Framley.

But little has as yet been said, personally, as to our hero himself,
and perhaps it may not be necessary to say much. Let us hope that by
degrees he may come forth upon the canvas, showing to the beholder
the nature of the man inwardly and outwardly. Here it may suffice to
say that he was no born heaven’s cherub, neither was he a born fallen
devil’s spirit. Such as his training made him, such he was. He had
large capabilities for good--and aptitudes also for evil, quite enough:
quite enough to make it needful that he should repel temptation as
temptation only can be repelled. Much had been done to spoil him, but
in the ordinary acceptation of the word he was not spoiled. He had too
much tact, too much common sense, to believe himself to be the paragon
which his mother thought him. Self-conceit was not, perhaps, his
greatest danger. Had he possessed more of it, he might have been a less
agreeable man, but his course before him might on that account have
been the safer.

In person he was manly, tall, and fair-haired, with a square forehead,
denoting intelligence rather than thought, with clear white hands,
filbert nails, and a power of dressing himself in such a manner that
no one should ever observe of him that his clothes were either good or
bad, shabby or smart.

Such was Mark Robarts when at the age of twenty-five, or a little
more, he married Fanny Monsell. The marriage was celebrated in his own
church, for Miss Monsell had no home of her own, and had been staying
for the last three months at Framley Court. She was given away by Sir
George Meredith, and Lady Lufton herself saw that the wedding was what
it should be, with almost as much care as she had bestowed on that of
her own daughter. The deed of marrying, the absolute tying of the knot,
was performed by the Very Reverend the Dean of Barchester, an esteemed
friend of Lady Lufton’s. And Mrs. Arabin, the Dean’s wife, was of the
party, though the distance from Barchester to Framley is long, and the
roads deep, and no railway lends its assistance. And Lord Lufton was
there of course; and people protested that he would surely fall in love
with one of the four beautiful bridesmaids, of whom Blanche Robarts,
the vicar’s second sister, was by common acknowledgment by far the most
beautiful.

And there was there another and a younger sister of Mark’s--who did
not officiate at the ceremony, though she was present--and of whom no
prediction was made, seeing that she was then only sixteen, but of whom
mention is made here, as it will come to pass that my readers will know
her hereafter. Her name was Lucy Robarts.

And then the vicar and his wife went off on their wedding tour, the old
curate taking care of the Framley souls the while.

And in due time they returned; and after a further interval, in due
course, a child was born to them; and then another; and after that came
the period at which we will begin our story. But before doing so, may
not assert that all men were right in saying all manner of good things
to the Devonshire physician, and in praising his luck in having such a
son?

“You were up at the house to-day, I suppose?” said Mark to his wife, as
he sat stretching himself in an easy chair in the drawing-room, before
the fire, previously to his dressing for dinner. It was a November
evening, and he had been out all day, and on such occasions the
aptitude for delay in dressing is very powerful. A strong-minded man
goes direct from the hall-door to his chamber without encountering the
temptation of the drawing-room fire.

“No; but Lady Lufton was down here.”

“Full of arguments in favour of Sarah Thompson?”

“Exactly so, Mark.”

“And what did you say about Sarah Thompson?”

“Very little as coming from myself; but I did hint that you thought,
or that I thought that you thought, that one of the regular trained
schoolmistresses would be better.”

“But her ladyship did not agree?”

“Well, I won’t exactly say that;--though I think that perhaps she did
not.”

“I am sure she did not. When she has a point to carry, she is very fond
of carrying it.”

“But then, Mark, her points are generally so good.”

“But, you see, in this affair of the school she is thinking more of her
_protégée_ than she does of the children.”

“Tell her that, and I am sure she will give way.”

And then again they were both silent. And the vicar having thoroughly
warmed himself, as far as this might be done by facing the fire, turned
round and began the operation _à tergo_.

“Come, Mark, it is twenty minutes past six. Will you go and dress?”

“I’ll tell you what, Fanny: she must have her way about Sarah Thompson.
You can see her to-morrow and tell her so.”

“I am sure, Mark, I would not give way, if I thought it wrong. Nor
would she expect it.”

“If I persist this time, I shall certainly have to yield the next; and
then the next may probably be more important.”

“But if it’s wrong, Mark?”

“I didn’t say it was wrong. Besides, if it is wrong, wrong in some
infinitesimal degree, one must put up with it. Sarah Thompson is very
respectable; the only question is whether she can teach.”

The young wife, though she did not say so, had some idea that her
husband was in error. It is true that one must put up with wrong, with
a great deal of wrong. But no one need put up with wrong that he can
remedy. Why should he, the vicar, consent to receive an incompetent
teacher for the parish children, when he was able to procure one
that was competent? In such a case,--so thought Mrs. Robarts to
herself,--she would have fought the matter out with Lady Lufton.

On the next morning, however, she did as she was bid, and signified to
the dowager that all objection to Sarah Thompson would be withdrawn.

“Ah! I was sure he would agree with me,” said her ladyship, “when he
learned what sort of person she is. I know I had only to explain;”--and
then she plumed her feathers, and was very gracious; for, to tell the
truth, Lady Lufton did not like to be opposed in things which concerned
the parish nearly.

“And, Fanny,” said Lady Lufton, in her kindest manner, “you are not
going anywhere on Saturday, are you?”

“No, I think not.”

“Then you must come to us. Justinia is to be here, you know”--Lady
Meredith was named Justinia--“and you and Mr. Robarts had better stay
with us till Monday. He can have the little book-room all to himself on
Sunday. The Merediths go on Monday; and Justinia won’t be happy if you
are not with her.”

It would be unjust to say that Lady Lufton had determined not to invite
the Robarts’s if she were not allowed to have her own way about Sarah
Thompson. But such would have been the result. As it was, however, she
was all kindness; and when Mrs. Robarts made some little excuse, saying
that she was afraid she must return home in the evening, because of the
children, Lady Lufton declared that there was room enough at Framley
Court for baby and nurse, and so settled the matter in her own way,
with a couple of nods and three taps of her umbrella.

This was on a Tuesday morning, and on the same evening, before
dinner, the vicar again seated himself in the same chair before the
drawing-room fire, as soon as he had seen his horse led into the stable.

“Mark,” said his wife, “the Merediths are to be at Framley on Saturday
and Sunday; and I have promised that we will go up and stay over till
Monday.”

“You don’t mean it! Goodness gracious, how provoking!”

“Why? I thought you wouldn’t mind it. And Justinia would think it
unkind if I were not there.”

“You can go, my dear, and of course will go. But as for me, it is
impossible.”

“But why, love?”

“Why? Just now, at the school-house, I answered a letter that was
brought to me from Chaldicotes. Sowerby insists on my going over there
for a week or so; and I have said that I would.”

“Go to Chaldicotes for a week, Mark?”

“I believe I have even consented to ten days.”

“And be away two Sundays?”

“No, Fanny, only one. Don’t be so censorious.”

“Don’t call me censorious, Mark; you know I am not so. But I am so
sorry. It is just what Lady Lufton won’t like. Besides, you were away
in Scotland two Sundays last month.”

“In September, Fanny. And that is being censorious.”

“Oh, but, Mark, dear Mark! don’t say so. You know I don’t mean it.
But Lady Lufton does not like those Chaldicotes people. You know Lord
Lufton was with you the last time you were there; and how annoyed she
was!”

“Lord Lufton won’t be with me now, for he is still in Scotland. And
the reason why I am going is this: Harold Smith and his wife will be
there, and I am very anxious to know more of them. I have no doubt that
Harold Smith will be in the government some day, and I cannot afford to
neglect such a man’s acquaintance.”

“But, Mark, what do you want of any government?”

“Well, Fanny, of course I am bound to say that I want nothing; neither
in one sense do I; but nevertheless, I shall go and meet the Harold
Smiths.”

“Could you not be back before Sunday?”

“I have promised to preach at Chaldicotes. Harold Smith is going to
lecture at Barchester, about the Australasian archipelago, and I am to
preach a charity sermon on the same subject. They want to send out more
missionaries.”

“A charity sermon at Chaldicotes!”

“And why not? The house will be quite full, you know; and I dare say
the Arabins will be there.”

“I think not; Mrs. Arabin may get on with Mrs. Harold Smith, though
I doubt that; but I’m sure she’s not fond of Mrs. Smith’s brother. I
don’t think she would stay at Chaldicotes.”

“And the bishop will probably be there for a day or two.”

“That is much more likely, Mark. If the pleasure of meeting Mrs.
Proudie is taking you to Chaldicotes, I have not a word more to say.”

“I am not a bit more fond of Mrs. Proudie, than you are, Fanny,” said
the vicar, with something like vexation in the tone of his voice,
for he thought that his wife was hard upon him. “But it is generally
thought that a parish clergyman does well to meet his bishop now and
then. And as I was invited there, especially to preach while all these
people are staying at the place, I could not well refuse.” And then he
got up, and taking his candlestick, escaped to his dressing-room.

“But what am I to say to Lady Lufton?” his wife said to him, in the
course of the evening.

“Just write her a note, and tell her that you find I had promised to
preach at Chaldicotes next Sunday. You’ll go, of course?”

“Yes: but I know she’ll be annoyed. You were away the last time she had
people there.”

“It can’t be helped. She must put it down against Sarah Thompson. She
ought not to expect to win always.”

“I should not have minded it, if she had lost, as you call it, about
Sarah Thompson. That was a case in which you ought to have had your own
way.”

“And this other is a case in which I shall have it. It’s a pity that
there should be such a difference; isn’t it?”

Then the wife perceived that, vexed as she was, it would be better that
she should say nothing further; and before she went to bed, she wrote
the note to Lady Lufton, as her husband recommended.


                               CHAPTER II.

                THE FRAMLEY SET, AND THE CHALDICOTES SET.

It will be necessary that I should say a word or two of some of the
people named in the few preceding pages, and also of the localities in
which they lived.

Of Lady Lufton herself enough, perhaps, has been written to introduce
her to my readers. The Framley property belonged to her son; but
as Lufton Park--an ancient ramshackle place in another county--had
heretofore been the family residence of the Lufton family, Framley
Court had been apportioned to her for her residence for life. Lord
Lufton himself was still unmarried; and as he had no establishment at
Lufton Park--which indeed had not been inhabited since his grandfather
died--he lived with his mother when it suited him to live anywhere
in that neighbourhood. The widow would fain have seen more of him
than he allowed her to do. He had a shooting-lodge in Scotland, and
apartments in London, and a string of horses in Leicestershire--much to
the disgust of the county gentry around him, who held that their own
hunting was as good as any that England could afford. His lordship,
however, paid his subscription to the East Barsetshire pack, and then
thought himself at liberty to follow his own pleasure as to his own
amusement.

Framley itself was a pleasant country place, having about it nothing
of seignorial dignity or grandeur, but possessing everything necessary
for the comfort of country life. The house was a low building of two
stories, built at different periods, and devoid of all pretensions to
any style of architecture; but the rooms, though not lofty, were warm
and comfortable, and the gardens were trim and neat beyond all others
in the county. Indeed, it was for its gardens only that Framley Court
was celebrated.

Village there was none, properly speaking. The high road went winding
about through the Framley paddocks, shrubberies, and wood-skirted home
fields, for a mile and a half, not two hundred yards of which ran in
a straight line; and there was a cross-road which passed down through
the domain, whereby there came to be a locality called Framley Cross.
Here stood the “Lufton Arms,” and here, at Framley Cross, the hounds
occasionally would meet; for the Framley woods were drawn in spite of
the young lord’s truant disposition; and then, at the Cross also, lived
the shoemaker, who kept the post-office.

Framley church was distant from this just a quarter of a mile, and
stood immediately opposite to the chief entrance to Framley Court. It
was but a mean, ugly building, having been erected about a hundred
years since, when all churches then built were made to be mean and
ugly; nor was it large enough for the congregation, some of whom
were thus driven to the dissenting chapels, the Sions and Ebenezers,
which had got themselves established on each side of the parish, in
putting down which Lady Lufton thought that her pet parson was hardly
as energetic as he might be. It was, therefore, a matter near to Lady
Lufton’s heart to see a new church built, and she was urgent in her
eloquence, both with her son and with the vicar, to have this good work
commenced.

Beyond the church, but close to it, were the boys’ school and girls’
school, two distinct buildings, which owed their erection to Lady
Lufton’s energy; then came a neat little grocer’s shop, the neat grocer
being the clerk and sexton, and the neat grocer’s wife, the pew-opener
in the church. Podgens was their name, and they were great favourites
with her ladyship, both having been servants up at the house.

And here the road took a sudden turn to the left, turning, as it were,
away from Framley Court; and just beyond the turn was the vicarage,
so that there was a little garden path running from the back of the
vicarage grounds into the churchyard, cutting the Podgens’s off into
an isolated corner of their own;--from whence, to tell the truth, the
vicar would have been glad to banish them and their cabbages, could he
have had the power to do so. For has not the small vineyard of Naboth
been always an eyesore to neighbouring potentates?

The potentate in this case had as little excuse as Ahab, for nothing
in the parsonage way could be more perfect than his parsonage. It
had all the details requisite for the house of a moderate gentleman
with moderate means, and none of those expensive superfluities which
immoderate gentlemen demand, or which themselves demand--immoderate
means. And then the gardens and paddocks were exactly suited to it;
and everything was in good order;--not exactly new, so as to be raw
and uncovered, and redolent of workmen; but just at that era of their
existence in which newness gives way to comfortable homeliness.

Other village at Framley there was none. At the back of the Court, up
one of those cross-roads, there was another small shop or two, and
there was a very neat cottage residence, in which lived the widow of
a former curate, another _protégé_ of Lady Lufton’s; and there was a
big, staring brick house, in which the present curate lived; but this
was a full mile distant from the church, and farther from Framley
Court, standing on that cross-road which runs from Framley Cross in a
direction away from the mansion. This gentleman, the Rev. Evan Jones,
might, from his age, have been the vicar’s father; but he had been for
many years curate of Framley; and though he was personally disliked by
Lady Lufton, as being low church in his principles, and unsightly in
his appearance, nevertheless, she would not urge his removal. He had
two or three pupils in that large brick house, and if turned out from
these and from his curacy, might find it difficult to establish himself
elsewhere. On this account, mercy was extended to the Rev. E. Jones,
and, in spite of his red face and awkward big feet, he was invited to
dine at Framley Court, with his plain daughter, once in every three
months.

Over and above these, there was hardly a house in the parish of
Framley, outside the bounds of Framley Court, except those of farmers
and farm labourers; and yet the parish was of large extent.

Framley is in the eastern division of the county of Barsetshire, which,
as all the world knows, is, politically speaking, as true blue a county
as any in England. There have been backslidings even here, it is true;
but then, in what county have there not been such backslidings? Where,
in these pinchbeck days, can we hope to find the old agricultural
virtue in all its purity? But, among those backsliders, I regret to
say, that men now reckon Lord Lufton. Not that he is a violent Whig, or
perhaps that he is a Whig at all. But he jeers and sneers at the old
county doings; declares, when solicited on the subject, that, as far
as he is concerned, Mr. Bright may sit for the county, if he pleases;
and alleges, that being unfortunately a peer, he has no right even to
interest himself in the question. All this is deeply regretted, for, in
the old days, there was no portion of the county more decidedly true
blue than that Framley district; and, indeed, up to the present day,
the dowager is able to give an occasional helping hand.

Chaldicotes is the seat of Nathaniel Sowerby, Esq., who, at the moment
supposed to be now present, is one of the members for the Western
Division of Barsetshire. But this Western Division can boast none of
the fine political attributes which grace its twin brother. It is
decidedly Whig, and is almost governed in its politics by one or two
great Whig families.

It has been said that Mark Robarts was about to pay a visit to
Chaldicotes, and it has been hinted that his wife would have been as
well pleased had this not been the case. Such was certainly the fact;
for she, dear, prudent, excellent wife as she was, knew that Mr.
Sowerby was not the most eligible friend in the world for a young
clergyman, and knew, also, that there was but one other house in the
whole county, the name of which was so distasteful to Lady Lufton. The
reasons for this were, I may say, manifold. In the first place, Mr.
Sowerby was a Whig, and was seated in Parliament mainly by the interest
of that great Whig autocrat the Duke of Omnium, whose residence was
more dangerous even than that of Mr. Sowerby, and whom Lady Lufton
regarded as an impersonation of Lucifer upon earth. Mr. Sowerby, too,
was unmarried--as indeed, also, was Lord Lufton, much to his mother’s
grief. Mr. Sowerby, it is true, was fifty, whereas the young lord was
as yet only twenty-six, but, nevertheless, her ladyship was becoming
anxious on the subject. In her mind, every man was bound to marry as
soon as he could maintain a wife; and she held an idea--a quite private
tenet, of which she was herself but imperfectly conscious--that men
in general were inclined to neglect this duty for their own selfish
gratifications, that the wicked ones encouraged the more innocent in
this neglect, and that many would not marry at all, were not an unseen
coercion exercised against them by the other sex. The Duke of Omnium
was the very head of all such sinners, and Lady Lufton greatly feared
that her son might be made subject to the baneful Omnium influence, by
means of Mr. Sowerby and Chaldicotes.

And then Mr. Sowerby was known to be a very poor man, with a very large
estate. He had wasted, men said, much on electioneering, and more in
gambling. A considerable portion of his property had already gone into
the hands of the Duke, who, as a rule, bought up everything around him
that was to be purchased. Indeed it was said of him by his enemies,
that so covetous was he of Barsetshire property, that he would lead a
young neighbour on to his ruin, in order that he might get his land.
What--oh! what if he should come to be possessed in this way of any of
the fair acres of Framley Court? What if he should become possessed of
them all? It can hardly be wondered at that Lady Lufton should not like
Chaldicotes.

The Chaldicotes set, as Lady Lufton called them, were in every way
opposed to what a set should be according to her ideas. She liked
cheerful, quiet, well-to-do people, who loved their Church, their
country, and their Queen, and who were not too anxious to make a noise
in the world. She desired that all the farmers round her should be able
to pay their rents without trouble, that all the old women should have
warm flannel petticoats, that the working men should be saved from
rheumatism by healthy food and dry houses, that they should all be
obedient to their pastors and masters--temporal as well as spiritual.
That was her idea of loving her country. She desired also that the
copses should be full of pheasants, the stubble-field of partridges,
and the gorse covers of foxes;--in that way, also, she loved her
country. She had ardently longed, during that Crimean war, that the
Russians might be beaten--but not by the French, to the exclusion of
the English, as had seemed to her to be too much the case; and hardly
by the English under the dictatorship of Lord Palmerston. Indeed,
she had had but little faith in that war after Lord Aberdeen had been
expelled. If, indeed, Lord Derby could have come in!

But now as to this Chaldicotes set. After all, there was nothing
so very dangerous about them; for it was in London, not in the
country, that Mr. Sowerby indulged, if he did indulge, his bachelor
mal-practices. Speaking of them as a set, the chief offender was Mr.
Harold Smith, or perhaps his wife. He also was a member of Parliament,
and, as many thought, a rising man. His father had been for many years
a debater in the House, and had held high office. Harold, in early
life, had intended himself for the cabinet; and if working hard at his
trade could ensure success, he ought to obtain it sooner or later.
He had already filled more than one subordinate station, had been at
the Treasury, and for a month or two at the Admiralty, astonishing
official mankind by his diligence. Those last-named few months had
been under Lord Aberdeen, with whom he had been forced to retire. He
was a younger son, and not possessed of any large fortune. Politics
as a profession was therefore of importance to him. He had in early
life married a sister of Mr. Sowerby; and as the lady was some six or
seven years older than himself, and had brought with her but a scanty
dowry, people thought that in this matter Mr. Harold Smith had not
been perspicacious. Mr. Harold Smith was not personally a popular man
with any party, though some judged him to be eminently useful. He
was laborious, well-informed, and, on the whole, honest; but he was
conceited, long-winded, and pompous.

Mrs. Harold Smith was the very opposite of her lord. She was a clever,
bright woman, good-looking for her time of life--and she was now over
forty--with a keen sense of the value of all worldly things, and a
keen relish for all the world’s pleasures. She was neither laborious,
nor well-informed, nor perhaps altogether honest--what woman ever
understood the necessity or recognized the advantage of political
honesty? but then she was neither dull nor pompous, and if she was
conceited, she did not show it. She was a disappointed woman, as
regards her husband; seeing that she had married him on the speculation
that he would at once become politically important; and as yet Mr.
Smith had not quite fulfilled the prophecies of his early life.

And Lady Lufton, when she spoke of the Chaldicotes set, distinctly
included, in her own mind, the Bishop of Barchester, and his wife
and daughter. Seeing that Bishop Proudie was, of course, a man much
addicted to religion and to religious thinking, and that Mr. Sowerby
himself had no peculiar religious sentiments whatever, there would not
at first sight appear to be ground for much intercourse, and perhaps
there was not much of such intercourse; but Mrs. Proudie and Mrs.
Harold Smith were firm friends of four or five years’ standing--ever
since the Proudies came into the diocese; and therefore the bishop
was usually taken to Chaldicotes whenever Mrs. Smith paid her brother
a visit. Now Bishop Proudie was by no means a High Church dignitary,
and Lady Lufton had never forgiven him for coming into that diocese.
She had, instinctively, a high respect for the episcopal office;
but of Bishop Proudie himself she hardly thought better than she did
of Mr. Sowerby, or of that fabricator of evil, the Duke of Omnium.
Whenever Mr. Robarts would plead that in going anywhere he would have
the benefit of meeting the bishop, Lady Lufton would slightly curl her
upper lip. She could not say in words, that Bishop Proudie--bishop as
he certainly must be called--was no better than he ought to be; but by
that curl of her lip she did explain to those who knew her that such
was the inner feeling of her heart.

And then it was understood--Mark Robarts, at least, had so heard,
and the information soon reached Framley Court--that Mr. Supplehouse
was to make one of the Chaldicotes party. Now Mr. Supplehouse was a
worse companion for a gentlemanlike, young, High Church, conservative
county parson than even Harold Smith. He also was in Parliament, and
had been extolled during the early days of that Russian war by some
portion of the metropolitan daily press, as the only man who could save
the country. Let him be in the ministry, the _Jupiter_ had said, and
there would be some hope of reform, some chance that England’s ancient
glory would not be allowed in these perilous times to go headlong to
oblivion. And upon this the ministry, not anticipating much salvation
from Mr. Supplehouse, but willing, as they usually are, to have the
_Jupiter_ at their back, did send for that gentleman, and gave him
some footing among them. But how can a man born to save a nation, and
to lead a people, be content to fill the chair of an under-secretary?
Supplehouse was not content, and soon gave it to be understood that
his place was much higher than any yet tendered to him. The seals of
high office, or war to the knife, was the alternative which he offered
to a much-belaboured Head of Affairs--nothing doubting that the Head
of Affairs would recognize the claimant’s value, and would have before
his eyes a wholesome fear of the _Jupiter_. But the Head of Affairs,
much belaboured as he was, knew that he might pay too high even for Mr.
Supplehouse and the _Jupiter_; and the saviour of the nation was told
that he might swing his tomahawk. Since that time he had been swinging
his tomahawk, but not with so much effect as had been anticipated. He
also was very intimate with Mr. Sowerby, and was decidedly one of the
Chaldicotes set.

And there were many others included in the stigma whose sins were
political or religious rather than moral. But they were gall and
wormwood to Lady Lufton, who regarded them as children of the Lost
One, and who grieved with a mother’s grief when she knew that her son
was among them, and felt all a patron’s anger when she heard that her
clerical _protégé_ was about to seek such society. Mrs. Robarts might
well say that Lady Lufton would be annoyed.

“You won’t call at the house before you go, will you?” the wife asked
on the following morning. He was to start after lunch on that day,
driving himself in his own gig, so as to reach Chaldicotes, some
twenty-four miles distant, before dinner.

“No, I think not. What good should I do?”

“Well, I can’t explain; but I think I should call: partly, perhaps, to
show her that as I had determined to go, I was not afraid of telling
her so.”

“Afraid! That’s nonsense, Fanny. I’m not afraid of her. But I don’t see
why I should bring down upon myself the disagreeable things she will
say. Besides, I have not time. I must walk up and see Jones about the
duties; and then, what with getting ready, I shall have enough to do to
get off in time.”

He paid his visit to Mr. Jones, the curate, feeling no qualms of
conscience there, as he rather boasted of all the members of Parliament
he was going to meet, and of the bishop who would be with them. Mr.
Evan Jones was only his curate, and in speaking to him on the matter he
could talk as though it were quite the proper thing for a vicar to meet
his bishop at the house of a county member. And one would be inclined
to say that it was proper: only why could he not talk of it in the same
tone to Lady Lufton? And then, having kissed his wife and children, he
drove off, well pleased with his prospect for the coming ten days, but
already anticipating some discomfort on his return.

On the three following days, Mrs. Robarts did not meet her ladyship.
She did not exactly take any steps to avoid such a meeting, but she did
not purposely go up to the big house. She went to her school as usual,
and made one or two calls among the farmers’ wives, but put no foot
within the Framley Court grounds. She was braver than her husband, but
even she did not wish to anticipate the evil day.

On the Saturday, just before it began to get dusk, when she was
thinking of preparing for the fatal plunge, her friend, Lady Meredith,
came to her.

“So, Fanny, we shall again be so unfortunate as to miss Mr. Robarts,”
said her ladyship.

“Yes. Did you ever know anything so unlucky? But he had promised Mr.
Sowerby before he heard that you were coming. Pray do not think that he
would have gone away had he known it.”

“We should have been sorry to keep him from so much more amusing a
party.”

“Now, Justinia, you are unfair. You intend to imply that he has gone to
Chaldicotes, because he likes it better than Framley Court; but that is
not the case. I hope Lady Lufton does not think that it is.”

Lady Meredith laughed as she put her arm round her friend’s waist.
“Don’t lose your eloquence in defending him to me,” she said. “You’ll
want all that for my mother.”

“But is your mother angry?” asked Mrs. Robarts, showing by her
countenance, how eager she was for true tidings on the subject.

“Well, Fanny, you know her ladyship as well as I do. She thinks so very
highly of the vicar of Framley, that she does begrudge him to those
politicians at Chaldicotes.”

“But, Justinia, the bishop is to be there, you know.”

“I don’t think that that consideration will at all reconcile my mother
to the gentleman’s absence. He ought to be very proud, I know, to find
that he is so much thought of. But come, Fanny, I want you to walk back
with me, and you can dress at the house. And now we’ll go and look at
the children.”

After that, as they walked together to Framley Court, Mrs. Robarts made
her friend promise that she would stand by her if any serious attack
were made on the absent clergyman.

“Are you going up to your room at once?” said the vicar’s wife, as soon
as they were inside the porch leading into the hall. Lady Meredith
immediately knew what her friend meant, and decided that the evil day
should not be postponed. “We had better go in, and have it over,”
she said, “and then we shall be comfortable for the evening.” So the
drawing-room door was opened, and there was Lady Lufton alone upon the
sofa.

“Now, mamma,” said the daughter, “you mustn’t scold Fanny much about
Mr. Robarts. He has gone to preach a charity sermon before the bishop,
and under those circumstances, perhaps, he could not refuse.” This was
a stretch on the part of Lady Meredith--put in with much good nature,
no doubt; but still a stretch; for no one had supposed that the bishop
would remain at Chaldicotes for the Sunday.

“How do you do, Fanny?” said Lady Lufton, getting up. “I am not
going to scold her; and I don’t know how you can talk such nonsense,
Justinia. Of course, we are very sorry not to have Mr. Robarts; more
especially as he was not here the last Sunday that Sir George was with
us. I do like to see Mr. Robarts in his own church, certainly; and I
don’t like any other clergyman there as well. If Fanny takes that for
scolding, why----”

“Oh! no, Lady Lufton; and it’s so kind of you to say so. But Mr.
Robarts was so sorry that he had accepted this invitation to
Chaldicotes, before he heard that Sir George was coming, and----”

“Oh, I know that Chaldicotes has great attractions which we cannot
offer,” said Lady Lufton.

“Indeed, it was not that. But he was asked to preach, you know; and Mr.
Harold Smith----” Poor Fanny was only making it worse. Had she been
worldly wise, she would have accepted the little compliment implied in
Lady Lufton’s first rebuke, and then have held her peace.

“Oh, yes; the Harold Smiths! They are irresistible, I know. How could
any man refuse to join a party, graced both by Mrs. Harold Smith and
Mrs. Proudie--even though his duty should require him to stay away?”

“Now, mamma--” said Justinia.

“Well, my dear, what am I to say? You would not wish me to tell a
fib. I don’t like Mrs. Harold Smith--at least, what I hear of her;
for it has not been my fortune to meet her since her marriage. It may
be conceited; but to own the truth, I think that Mr. Robarts would
be better off with us at Framley than with the Harold Smiths at
Chaldicotes,--even though Mrs. Proudie be thrown into the bargain.”

It was nearly dark, and therefore the rising colour in the face of Mrs.
Robarts could not be seen. She, however, was too good a wife to hear
these things said without some anger within her bosom. She could blame
her husband in her own mind; but it was intolerable to her that others
should blame him in her hearing.

“He would undoubtedly be better off,” she said; “but then, Lady Lufton,
people can’t always go exactly where they will be best off. Gentlemen
sometimes must----”

“Well--well, my dear, that will do. He has not taken you, at any
rate; and so we will forgive him.” And Lady Lufton kissed her. “As it
is,”--and she affected a low whisper between the two young wives--“as
it is, we must e’en put up with poor old Evan Jones. He is to be here
to-night, and we must go and dress to receive him.”

And so they went off. Lady Lufton was quite good enough at heart to
like Mrs. Robarts all the better for standing up for her absent lord.


                               CHAPTER III.

                               CHALDICOTES.

Chaldicotes is a house of much more pretension than Framley Court.
Indeed, if one looks at the ancient marks about it, rather than
at those of the present day, it is a place of very considerable
pretension. There is an old forest, not altogether belonging to the
property, but attached to it, called the Chase of Chaldicotes. A
portion of this forest comes up close behind the mansion, and of
itself gives a character and celebrity to the place. The Chase of
Chaldicotes--the greater part of it, at least--is, as all the world
knows, Crown property, and now, in these utilitarian days, is to be
disforested. In former times it was a great forest, stretching half
across the country, almost as far as Silverbridge; and there are bits
of it, here and there, still to be seen at intervals throughout the
whole distance; but the larger remaining portion, consisting of aged
hollow oaks, centuries old, and wide-spreading withered beeches, stands
in the two parishes of Chaldicotes and Uffley. People still come from
afar to see the oaks of Chaldicotes, and to hear their feet rustle
among the thick autumn leaves. But they will soon come no longer. The
giants of past ages are to give way to wheat and turnips; a ruthless
Chancellor of the Exchequer, disregarding old associations and rural
beauty, requires money returns from the lands; and the Chase of
Chaldicotes is to vanish from the earth’s surface.

Some part of it, however, is the private property of Mr. Sowerby,
who hitherto, through all his pecuniary distresses, has managed to
save from the axe and the auction-mart that portion of his paternal
heritage. The house of Chaldicotes is a large stone building, probably
of the time of Charles the Second. It is approached on both fronts
by a heavy double flight of stone steps. In the front of the house
a long, solemn, straight avenue through a double row of lime-trees,
leads away to lodge-gates, which stand in the centre of the village
of Chaldicotes; but to the rear the windows open upon four different
vistas, which run down through the forest: four open green rides,
which all converge together at a large iron gateway, the barrier which
divides the private grounds from the Chase. The Sowerbys, for many
generations, have been rangers of the Chase of Chaldicotes, thus having
almost as wide an authority over the Crown forest as over their own.
But now all this is to cease, for the forest will be disforested.

It was nearly dark as Mark Robarts drove up through the avenue of
lime-trees to the hall-door; but it was easy to see that the house,
which was dead and silent as the grave through nine months of the
year, was now alive in all its parts. There were lights in many of the
windows, and a noise of voices came from the stables, and servants were
moving about, and dogs barked, and the dark gravel before the front
steps was cut up with many a coach-wheel.

“Oh, be that you, sir, Mr. Robarts?” said a groom, taking the parson’s
horse by the head, and touching his own hat. “I hope I see your
reverence well.”

“Quite well, Bob, thank you. All well at Chaldicotes?”

“Pretty bobbish, Mr. Robarts. Deal of life going on here now, sir. The
bishop and his lady came this morning.”

“Oh--ah--yes! I understood they were to be here. Any of the young
ladies?”

“One young lady. Miss Olivia, I think they call her, your reverence.”

“And how’s Mr. Sowerby?”

“Very well, your reverence. He, and Mr. Harold Smith, and Mr.
Fothergill--that’s the duke’s man of business, you know--is getting off
their horses now in the stable-yard there.”

“Home from hunting--eh, Bob?”

“Yes, sir, just home, this minute.” And then Mr. Robarts walked into
the house, his portmanteau following on a footboy’s shoulder.

It will be seen that our young vicar was very intimate at Chaldicotes;
so much so that the groom knew him, and talked to him about the people
in the house. Yes; he was intimate there: much more than he had given,
the Framley people to understand. Not that he had wilfully and overtly
deceived any one; not that he had ever spoken a false word about
Chaldicotes. But he had never boasted at home that he and Sowerby were
near allies. Neither had he told them there how often Mr. Sowerby
and Lord Lufton were together in London. Why trouble women with such
matters? Why annoy so excellent a woman as Lady Lufton?

And then Mr. Sowerby was one whose intimacy few young men would wish
to reject. He was fifty, and had lived, perhaps, not the most salutary
life; but he dressed young, and usually looked well. He was bald, with
a good forehead, and sparkling moist eyes. He was a clever man, and a
pleasant companion, and always good-humoured when it so suited him. He
was a gentleman, too, of high breeding and good birth, whose ancestors
had been known in that county--longer, the farmers around would boast,
than those of any other landowner in it, unless it be the Thornes
of Ullathorne, or perhaps the Greshams of Greshamsbury--much longer
than the De Courcys at Courcy Castle. As for the Duke of Omnium, he,
comparatively speaking, was a new man.

And then he was a member of Parliament, a friend of some men in power,
and of others who might be there; a man who could talk about the world
as one knowing the matter of which he talked. And moreover, whatever
might be his ways of life at other times, when in the presence of a
clergyman he rarely made himself offensive to clerical tastes. He
neither swore, nor brought his vices on the carpet, nor sneered at the
faith of the church. If he was no churchman himself, he at least knew
how to live with those who were.

How was it possible that such a one as our vicar should not relish
the intimacy of Mr. Sowerby? It might be very well, he would say to
himself, for a woman like Lady Lufton to turn up her nose at him--for
Lady Lufton, who spent ten months of the year at Framley Court, and
who during those ten months, and for the matter of that, during the
two months also which she spent in London, saw no one out of her own
set. Women did not understand such things, the vicar said to himself;
even his own wife--good, and nice, and sensible, and intelligent as she
was--even she did not understand that a man in the world must meet all
sorts of men; and that in these days it did not do for a clergyman to
be a hermit.

’Twas thus that Mark Robarts argued when he found himself called upon
to defend himself before the bar of his own conscience for going to
Chaldicotes and increasing his intimacy with Mr. Sowerby. He did know
that Mr. Sowerby was a dangerous man; he was aware that he was over
head and ears in debt, and that he had already entangled young Lord
Lufton in some pecuniary embarrassment; his conscience did tell him
that it would be well for him, as one of Christ’s soldiers, to look
out for companions of a different stamp. But nevertheless he went
to Chaldicotes, not satisfied with himself indeed, but repeating to
himself a great many arguments why he should be so satisfied.

He was shown into the drawing-room at once, and there he found Mrs.
Harold Smith, with Mrs. and Miss Proudie, and a lady whom he had never
before seen, and whose name he did not at first hear mentioned.

“Is that Mr. Robarts?” said Mrs. Harold Smith, getting up to greet him,
and screening her pretended ignorance under the veil of the darkness.
“And have you really driven over four-and-twenty miles of Barsetshire
roads on such a day as this to assist us in our little difficulties?
Well, we can promise you gratitude at any rate.”

And then the vicar shook hands with Mrs. Proudie, in that deferential
manner which is due from a vicar to his bishop’s wife; and Mrs.
Proudie returned the greeting with all that smiling condescension
which a bishop’s wife should show to a vicar. Miss Proudie was not
quite so civil. Had Mr. Robarts been still unmarried, she also could
have smiled sweetly; but she had been exercising smiles on clergymen
too long to waste them now on a married parish parson.

“And what are the difficulties, Mrs. Smith, in which I am to assist
you?”

“We have six or seven gentlemen here, Mr. Robarts, and they always go
out hunting before breakfast, and they never come back--I was going to
say--till after dinner. I wish it were so, for then we should not have
to wait for them.”

“Excepting Mr. Supplehouse, you know,” said the unknown lady, in a loud
voice.

“And he is generally shut up in the library, writing articles.”

“He’d be better employed if he were trying to break his neck like the
others,” said the unknown lady.

“Only he would never succeed,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “But perhaps,
Mr. Robarts, you are as bad as the rest; perhaps you, too, will be
hunting to-morrow.”

“My dear Mrs. Smith!” said Mrs. Proudie, in a tone denoting slight
reproach, and modified horror.

“Oh! I forgot. No, of course, you won’t be hunting, Mr. Robarts; you’ll
only be wishing that you could.”

“Why can’t he?” said the lady with the loud voice.

“My dear Miss Dunstable! a clergyman hunt, while he is staying in the
same house with the bishop? Think of the proprieties!”

“Oh--ah! The bishop wouldn’t like it--wouldn’t he? Now, do tell me,
sir, what would the bishop do to you if you did hunt?”

“It would depend upon his mood at the time, madam,” said Mr. Robarts.
“If that were very stern, he might perhaps have me beheaded before the
palace gates.”

Mrs. Proudie drew herself up in her chair, showing that she did
not like the tone of the conversation; and Miss Proudie fixed her
eyes vehemently on her book, showing that Miss Dunstable and her
conversation were both beneath her notice.

“If these gentlemen do not mean to break their necks to-night,” said
Mrs. Harold Smith, “I wish they’d let us know it. It’s half-past six
already.”

And then Mr. Robarts gave them to understand that no such catastrophe
could be looked for that day, as Mr. Sowerby and the other sportsmen
were within the stable-yard when he entered the door.

“Then, ladies, we may as well dress,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. But as
she moved towards the door, it opened, and a short gentleman, with a
slow, quiet step, entered the room; but was not yet to be distinguished
through the dusk by the eyes of Mr. Robarts. “Oh! bishop, is that you?”
said Mrs. Smith. “Here is one of the luminaries of your diocese.” And
then the bishop, feeling through the dark, made his way up to the vicar
and shook him cordially by the hand. “He was delighted to meet Mr.
Robarts at Chaldicotes,” he said--“quite delighted. Was he not going
to preach on behalf of the Papuan Mission next Sunday? Ah! so he, the
bishop, had heard. It was a good work, an excellent work.” And then Dr.
Proudie expressed himself as much grieved that he could not remain at
Chaldicotes, and hear the sermon. It was plain that his bishop thought
no ill of him on account of his intimacy with Mr. Sowerby. But then he
felt in his own heart that he did not much regard his bishop’s opinion.

“Ah, Robarts, I’m delighted to see you,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they
met on the drawing-room rug before dinner. “You know Harold Smith?
Yes, of course you do. Well, who else is there? Oh! Supplehouse. Mr.
Supplehouse, allow me to introduce to you my friend Mr. Robarts. It is
he who will extract the five-pound note out of your pocket next Sunday
for these poor Papuans whom we are going to Christianize. That is,
if Harold Smith does not finish the work out of hand at his Saturday
lecture. And, Robarts, you have seen the bishop, of course:” this he
said in a whisper. “A fine thing to be a bishop, isn’t it? I wish I
had half your chance. But, my dear fellow, I’ve made such a mistake; I
haven’t got a bachelor parson for Miss Proudie. You must help me out,
and take her in to dinner.” And then the great gong sounded, and off
they went in pairs.

At dinner Mark found himself seated between Miss Proudie and the lady
whom he had heard named as Miss Dunstable. Of the former he was not
very fond, and, in spite of his host’s petition, was not inclined to
play bachelor parson for her benefit. With the other lady he would
willingly have chatted during the dinner, only that everybody else at
table seemed to be intent on doing the same thing. She was neither
young, nor beautiful, nor peculiarly ladylike; yet she seemed to enjoy
a popularity which must have excited the envy of Mr. Supplehouse, and
which certainly was not altogether to the taste of Mrs. Proudie--who,
however, fêted her as much as did the others. So that our clergyman
found himself unable to obtain more than an inconsiderable share of the
lady’s attention.

“Bishop,” said she, speaking across the table, “we have missed you so
all day! we have had no one on earth to say a word to us.”

“My dear Miss Dunstable, had I known that----But I really was engaged
on business of some importance.”

“I don’t believe in business of importance; do you, Mrs. Smith?”

“Do I not?” said Mrs. Smith. “If you were married to Mr. Harold Smith
for one week, you’d believe in it.”

“Should I, now? What a pity that I can’t have that chance of improving
my faith. But you are a man of business, also, Mr. Supplehouse; so they
tell me.” And she turned to her neighbour on her right hand.

“I cannot compare myself to Harold Smith,” said he. “But perhaps I may
equal the bishop.”

“What does a man do, now, when he sets himself down to business? How
does he set about it? What are his tools? A quire of blotting paper, I
suppose, to begin with?”

“That depends, I should say, on his trade. A shoemaker begins by waxing
his thread.”

“And Mr. Harold Smith----?”

“By counting up his yesterday’s figures, generally, I should say;
or else by unrolling a ball of red tape. Well-docketed papers and
statistical facts are his forte.”

“And what does a bishop do? Can you tell me that?”

“He sends forth to his clergy either blessings or blowings-up,
according to the state of his digestive organs. But Mrs. Proudie can
explain all that to you with the greatest accuracy.”

“Can she, now? I understand what you mean, but I don’t believe a word
of it. The bishop manages his own affairs himself, quite as much as you
do, or Mr. Harold Smith.”

“I, Miss Dunstable?”

“Yes, you.”

“But I, unluckily, have not a wife to manage them for me.”

“Then you should not laugh at those who have, for you don’t know what
you may come to yourself, when you’re married.”

Mr. Supplehouse began to make a pretty speech, saying that he would
be delighted to incur any danger in that respect to which he might
be subjected by the companionship of Miss Dunstable. But before he
was half through it, she had turned her back upon him, and began a
conversation with Mark Robarts.

“Have you much work in your parish, Mr. Robarts?” she asked. Now, Mark
was not aware that she knew his name, or the fact of his having a
parish, and was rather surprised by the question. And he had not quite
liked the tone in which she had seemed to speak of the bishop and his
work. His desire for her further acquaintance was therefore somewhat
moderated, and he was not prepared to answer her question with much
zeal.

“All parish clergymen have plenty of work, if they choose to do it.”

“Ah, that is it; is it not, Mr. Robarts? If they choose to do it? A
great many do--many that I know, do; and see what a result they have.
But many neglect it--and see what a result _they_ have. I think it
ought to be the happiest life that a man can lead, that of a parish
clergyman, with a wife and family, and a sufficient income.”

“I think it is,” said Mark Robarts, asking himself whether the
contentment accruing to him from such blessings had made him satisfied
at all points. He had all these things of which Miss Dunstable spoke,
and yet he had told his wife, the other day, that he could not afford
to neglect the acquaintance of a rising politician like Harold Smith.

“What I find fault with is this,” continued Miss Dunstable, “that we
expect clergymen to do their duty, and don’t give them a sufficient
income--give them hardly any income at all. Is it not a scandal, that
an educated gentleman with a family should be made to work half his
life, and perhaps the whole, for a pittance of seventy pounds a year?”

Mark said that it was a scandal, and thought of Mr. Evan Jones and his
daughter;--and thought also of his own worth, and his own house, and
his own nine hundred a year.

“And yet you clergymen are so proud--aristocratic would be the genteel
word, I know--that you won’t take the money of common, ordinary poor
people. You must be paid from land and endowments, from tithe and
church property. You can’t bring yourself to work for what you earn, as
lawyers and doctors do. It is better that curates should starve than
undergo such ignominy as that.”

“It is a long subject, Miss Dunstable.”

“A very long one; and that means that I am not to say any more about
it.”

“I did not mean that exactly.”

“Oh! but you did though, Mr. Robarts. And I can take a hint of that
kind when I get it. You clergymen like to keep those long subjects
for your sermons, when no one can answer you. Now if I have a longing
heart’s desire for anything at all in this world, it is to be able to
get up into a pulpit, and preach a sermon.”

“You can’t conceive how soon that appetite would pall upon you, after
its first indulgence.”

“That would depend upon whether I could get people to listen to me.
It does not pall upon Mr. Spurgeon, I suppose.” Then her attention
was called away by some question from Mr. Sowerby, and Mark Robarts
found himself bound to address his conversation to Miss Proudie.
Miss Proudie, however, was not thankful, and gave him little but
monosyllables for his pains.

“Of course you know Harold Smith is going to give us a lecture about
these islanders,” Mr. Sowerby said to him, as they sat round the fire
over their wine after dinner. Mark said that he had been so informed,
and should be delighted to be one of the listeners.

“You are bound to do that, as he is going to listen to you the day
afterwards--or, at any rate, to pretend to do so, which is as much as
you will do for him. It’ll be a terrible bore--the lecture I mean, not
the sermon.” And he spoke very low into his friend’s ear. “Fancy having
to drive ten miles after dusk, and ten miles back, to hear Harold Smith
talk for two hours about Borneo! One must do it, you know.”

“I daresay it will be very interesting.”

“My dear fellow, you haven’t undergone so many of these things as I
have. But he’s right to do it. It’s his line of life; and when a man
begins a thing he ought to go on with it. Where’s Lufton all this time?”

“In Scotland, when I last heard from him; but he’s probably at Melton
now.”

“It’s deuced shabby of him, not hunting here in his own county. He
escapes all the bore of going to lectures, and giving feeds to the
neighbours; that’s why he treats us so. He has no idea of his duty, has
he?”

“Lady Lufton does all that, you know.”

“I wish I’d a Mrs. Sowerby _mère_ to do it for me. But then Lufton has
no constituents to look after--lucky dog! By-the-by, has he spoken to
you about selling that outlying bit of land of his in Oxfordshire? It
belongs to the Lufton property, and yet it doesn’t. In my mind it gives
more trouble than it’s worth.”

Lord Lufton had spoken to Mark about this sale, and had explained to
him that such a sacrifice was absolutely necessary, in consequence
of certain pecuniary transactions between him, Lord Lufton, and Mr.
Sowerby. But it was found impracticable to complete the business
without Lady Lufton’s knowledge, and her son had commissioned Mr.
Robarts not only to inform her ladyship, but to talk her over, and to
appease her wrath. This commission he had not yet attempted to execute,
and it was probable that this visit to Chaldicotes would not do much to
facilitate the business.

“They are the most magnificent islands under the sun,” said Harold
Smith to the bishop.

“Are they, indeed?” said the bishop, opening his eyes wide, and
assuming a look of intense interest.

“And the most intelligent people.”

“Dear me!” said the bishop.

“All they want is guidance, encouragement, instruction----”

“And Christianity,” suggested the bishop.

“And Christianity, of course,” said Mr. Smith, remembering that he
was speaking to a dignitary of the Church. It was well to humour such
people, Mr. Smith thought. But the Christianity was to be done in the
Sunday sermon, and was not part of his work.

“And how do you intend to begin with them?” asked Mr. Supplehouse, the
business of whose life it had been to suggest difficulties.

“Begin with them--oh--why--it’s very easy to begin with them. The
difficulty is to go on with them, after the money is all spent. We’ll
begin by explaining to them the benefits of civilization.”

“Capital plan!” said Mr. Supplehouse. “But how do you set about it,
Smith?”

“How do we set about it? How did we set about it with Australia and
America? It is very easy to criticize; but in such matters the great
thing is to put one’s shoulder to the wheel.”

“We sent our felons to Australia,” said Supplehouse, “and they began
the work for us. And as to America, we exterminated the people instead
of civilizing them.”

“We did not exterminate the inhabitants of India,” said Harold Smith,
angrily.

“Nor have we attempted to Christianize them, as the bishop so properly
wishes to do with your islanders.”

“Supplehouse, you are not fair,” said Mr. Sowerby, “neither to Harold
Smith nor to us;--you are making him rehearse his lecture, which is bad
for him; and making us hear the rehearsal, which is bad for us.”

“Supplehouse belongs to a clique which monopolizes the wisdom of
England,” said Harold Smith; “or, at any rate, thinks that it does. But
the worst of them is that they are given to talk leading articles.”

“Better that, than talk articles which are not leading,” said Mr.
Supplehouse. “Some first-class official men do that.”

“Shall I meet you at the duke’s next week, Mr. Robarts,” said the
bishop to him, soon after they had gone into the drawing-room.

Meet him at the duke’s!--the established enemy of Barsetshire mankind,
as Lady Lufton regarded his grace! No idea of going to the duke’s had
ever entered our hero’s mind; nor had he been aware that the duke was
about to entertain any one.

“No, my lord; I think not. Indeed, I have no acquaintance with his
grace.”

“Oh--ah! I did not know. Because Mr. Sowerby is going; and so are the
Harold Smiths, and, I think, Mr. Supplehouse. An excellent man is the
duke;--that is, as regards all the county interests,” added the bishop,
remembering that the moral character of his bachelor grace was not the
very best in the world.

And then his lordship began to ask some questions about the church
affairs of Framley, in which a little interest as to Framley Court was
also mixed up, when he was interrupted by a rather sharp voice, to
which he instantly attended.

“Bishop,” said the rather sharp voice; and the bishop trotted across
the room to the back of the sofa, on which his wife was sitting.

“Miss Dunstable thinks that she will be able to come to us for a couple
of days, after we leave the duke’s.”

“I shall be delighted above all things,” said the bishop, bowing low
to the dominant lady of the day. For be it known to all men, that Miss
Dunstable was the great heiress of that name.

“Mrs. Proudie is so very kind as to say that she will take me in, with
my poodle, parrot, and pet old woman.”

“I tell Miss Dunstable, that we shall have quite room for any of her
suite,” said Mrs. Proudie. “And that it will give us no trouble.”

“‘The labour we delight in physics pain,’” said the gallant bishop,
bowing low, and putting his hand upon his heart.

In the meantime, Mr. Fothergill had got hold of Mark Robarts. Mr.
Fothergill was a gentleman, and a magistrate of the county, but he
occupied the position of managing man on the Duke of Omnium’s estates.
He was not exactly his agent; that is to say, he did not receive his
rents; but he “managed” for him, saw people, went about the county,
wrote letters, supported the electioneering interest, did popularity
when it was too much trouble for the duke to do it himself, and was, in
fact, invaluable. People in West Barsetshire would often say that they
did not know what _on earth_ the duke would do, if it were not for Mr.
Fothergill. Indeed, Mr. Fothergill was useful to the duke.

“Mr. Robarts,” he said, “I am very happy to have the pleasure of
meeting you--very happy, indeed. I have often heard of you from our
friend Sowerby.”

Mark bowed, and said that he was delighted to have the honour of making
Mr. Fothergill’s acquaintance.

“I am commissioned by the Duke of Omnium,” continued Mr. Fothergill,
“to say how glad he will be if you will join his grace’s party at
Gatherum Castle, next week. The bishop will be there, and indeed nearly
the whole set who are here now. The duke would have written when he
heard that you were to be at Chaldicotes; but things were hardly quite
arranged then, so his grace has left it for me to tell you how happy he
will be to make your acquaintance in his own house. I have spoken to
Sowerby,” continued Mr. Fothergill, “and he very much hopes that you
will be able to join us.”

Mark felt that his face became red when this proposition was made to
him. The party in the county to which he properly belonged--he and his
wife, and all that made him happy and respectable--looked upon the Duke
of Omnium with horror and amazement; and now he had absolutely received
an invitation to the duke’s house! A proposition was made to him that
he should be numbered among the duke’s friends!

And though in one sense he was sorry that the proposition was made to
him, yet in another he was proud of it. It is not every young man, let
his profession be what it may, who can receive overtures of friendship
from dukes without some elation. Mark, too, had risen in the world,
as far as he had yet risen, by knowing great people; and he certainly
had an ambition to rise higher. I will not degrade him by calling him
a tuft-hunter; but he undoubtedly had a feeling that the paths most
pleasant for a clergyman’s feet were those which were trodden by the
great ones of the earth.

Nevertheless, at the moment he declined the duke’s invitation. He
was very much flattered, he said, but the duties of his parish would
require him to return direct from Chaldicotes to Framley.

“You need not give me an answer to-night, you know,” said Mr.
Fothergill. “Before the week is past, we will talk it over with Sowerby
and the bishop. It will be a thousand pities, Mr. Robarts, if you will
allow me to say so, that you should neglect such an opportunity of
knowing his grace.”

When Mark went to bed, his mind was still set against going to the
duke’s; but, nevertheless, he did feel that it was a pity that he
should not do so. After all, was it necessary that he should obey Lady
Lufton in all things?




            The Chinese and the “Outer Barbarians.”


China, and questions of Chinese policy--which only two years ago
were the battle-field of fierce political contention, the subject of
debates which menaced a Ministry with downfall, dissolved a Parliament,
violently agitated the whole community at home, and engaged the
controversies of the whole civilized world--seemed again to have been
delivered over to that neglect and oblivion with which remote countries
and their concerns are ordinarily regarded; but after the lull and the
slumber, come again the rousing and the excitement, and China occupies
anew the columns of the periodical press, and awakens fresh interest in
the public mind.

The startling events which have taken place on the _Tien-tsin_ river
in China--popularly, but erroneously, known by the name of the
Pei-Ho[1]--have re-kindled such an amount of attention and inquiry,
that we feel warranted in devoting some of our earliest pages to
the consideration of a topic involving our relations with a people
constituting more than one-third of the whole human family, and
commercial interests even now of vast extent, and likely to become in
their future development more important than those which connect us
with any other nation or region of the world. A brief recapitulation
of the events preceding this last manifestation of Chinese duplicity
will enable the reader to understand the character and objects of the
Chinese government in their dealings with other nations.

A series of successful military and naval operations led to the
treaties with China of 1842. The arts and appliances of modern
warfare--the civilization of a powerful western nation--were directed
against armies and defenses which represented the unimproved strategy
of the middle ages,[2] and against regions pacific in their social
organization, yet disordered, and even dislocated by internecine
dissensions, which the enfeebled imperial authority was wholly
incompetent to subdue or to control. The reigning dynasty was little
able to resist a shock so overwhelming to its stolid pride, and
so unexpected to its ignorant shortsightedness. Its hold upon the
people being rather that of traditional prestige than of physical
domination, the humiliation felt was all the more intolerable because
inflicted by those “barbarians,” who, according to Chinese estimate,
are beyond “heaven’s canopy.” It is currently believed in China
that our earlier intercourse with the “central land” had only been
allowed by the gracious and pitying condescension of the “son of
heaven” to supplications that China might be permitted, from her
abounding superfluities, to provide for the urgent necessities of the
“outer races,” which could not otherwise be supplied. “How,” said the
benevolent councillors of the Great Bright Dynasty, “how, without the
rhubarb of the Celestial dominions, can the diseases of the red-haired
races be cured? how can their existence be supported without our
fragrant tea? how can their persons be adorned, unless your sacred
Majesty will allow their traders to purchase and to convey to them our
beautiful silk? Think how far they come--how patiently they wait--how
humbly they supplicate for a single ray from the lustrous presence. Let
not their hearts be made disconsolate by being sent empty away.”

Even after the severe lessons which the Chinese received in the war,
and the sad exhibitions of their utter inability to offer any effectual
resistance to our forces, the reports made by Keying, the negotiator of
our first treaty, as to the proper manner of dealing with “barbarians,”
are equally amusing and characteristic. These reports were honoured
with the autograph approval of the emperor Taou-Kwang, written with
“the vermilion pencil,”[3] and were found at Canton among the papers
of Commissioner Yeh, to whom they had been sent for his guidance and
instruction. In the end they proved fatal to the venerable diplomatist;
for he having been sent down from the capital to Tien-tsin in order
to meet the foreign ambassadors, and there to give practical evidence
that he knew how to “manage and pacify” the Western barbarians, the
documents which proved his own earlier treacheries were produced; he
was put to open shame, and the poor old man, though a member of the
Imperial family, was condemned to be publicly executed: a sentence
which the emperor, in consideration for his high rank and extreme
age, commuted into a permission, or rather a mandate, that he should
commit suicide. Keying gratefully accepted this last favour from his
sovereign, and so terminated his long and most memorable career.

It is withal not the less true that these reports represent the
concentrated wisdom of the sages of China, and are fair and reasonable
commentaries upon the teachings of the ancient books in reference to
the proper mode of subduing or taming the “outside nations;” and as
they throw much light upon the course of the mandarins, and give us the
key by which their policy may be generally interpreted, some account of
them will be neither superfluous nor uninstructive.

After stating that the English “barbarians” had been “pacified” in
1842, and the American and French “barbarians” in 1844, Keying goes on
to report that it had been necessary to “shift ground,” and change the
measures by which they were to be “tethered.” “Of course,” he says,
they must be dealt with “justly,” and their “feelings consulted;” but
they cannot be restrained without “stratagems”--and thus he explains
his “stratagems.” Sometimes they must be “ordered” (to obey), and “no
reason given;” sometimes there must be “demonstrations” to disarm
their “restlessness” and “suspicions;” sometimes they must be placed
on a footing of “equality,” to make them “pleased” and “grateful;”
their “falsehoods must be blinked,” and their “facts” not too closely
examined. Being “born beyond” (heaven’s canopy), the barbarians “cannot
perfectly understand the administration of the Celestial dynasty,”
nor the promulgation of the “silken sounds” (imperial decrees) by
the “Great Council.” Keying excuses himself for having, in order “to
gain their good-will,” eaten and drunk with “the barbarians in their
residences and ships;” but he was most embarrassed by the consideration
shown by the barbarians towards “their women,”[4] whom they constantly
introduced; but he did not deem it becoming “to break out in rebuke,”
which would “not clear their barbarian dulness.” He urges, however, the
increasing necessity of “keeping them off, and shutting them out.” He
takes great credit for refusing the “barbarians’ gifts,” the receipt of
which might, he says, have exposed him to the penalties of the law. He
did accept some trifles; but, giving effect to the Confucian maxim of
“receiving little and returning much,” he gave the barbarians in return
“snuff-bottles, purses,” and a “copy of his insignificant portrait.”

He says the “barbarians” have “filched Chinese titles for their
rulers:” thus “assuming the airs of great authority,” which he
acknowledges to be “no concern of ours;” but they will not accept any
designation denoting dependency, nor adopt the lunar calendar, nor
acknowledge patents of royalty from the “son of heaven.” They are so
“uncivilized,” so “blindly ignorant” of propriety, that to require them
to recognize becoming “inferiority” and “superiority,” would “lead to
fierce altercation;” and after all, he recommends disregarding these
“minor details,” in order to carry out “an important policy.” He
presents to the “sacred intelligence” this hasty outline of the “rough
settlement of the barbarian business.”[5] On the general character of
the official papers seized in Yeh’s yamun, Mr. Wade reports:--

  “The foreigner is represented as inferior in civilization,
  unreasonable, crafty, violent, and in consequence dangerous. The
  instructions of the court are accordingly to lecture him fraternally
  or magisterially, and by this means it is hoped to keep in hand his
  perpetual tendency to encroach and intrude. A stern tone is to be
  adopted on occasion, but always with due regard to the avoidance of
  an open rupture.”

There were grave omissions in Sir Henry Pottinger’s treaty of 1842.
It left the shipping and commercial relations of the British colony
of Hong Kong in a very unsatisfactory state, encumbering them with
regulations to which it was found impossible to give effect; and the
trade emancipated itself by its own irresistible energies to the common
advantage of China and Great Britain. The treaty contained no clause
declaring the British text to be the true reading, and the consequence
was, various and embarrassing interpretations of the intentions of the
negotiators; the Chinese naturally enough contending for the accuracy
of their version, while, quite as naturally, our merchants would abide
only by the English reading.[6] There is no condition providing for the
revision of the treaty, and it is only under “the most favoured nation”
clause, which concedes to us everything conceded to other powers, that
we have a claim to a revision; but we cannot demand such revision,
unless and until it is granted to the French or the Americans.

But the most fatal mistake of all was that which fixed on Canton as the
seat of our diplomatic relations with China. It removed our influence
from the capital to the remotest part of the empire--to a province
always looked upon with apprehension and distrust by the supreme
authorities at Peking, and among a population remarkable alike for
their unruly disposition and their intense and openly proclaimed hatred
to foreigners. It had been Keying’s calculation (and his assurances
were most welcome to the court) that the emperor would thus get rid
of all annoyance from Western “barbarians,” who would be kept in
order by the indomitable spirit of the Cantonese. No provision was
made for personal access to the high commissioner charged with the
conduct of “barbarian affairs,” still less for communication, even by
correspondence, with the capital. This was the first great triumph of
Chinese policy, and has been fertile in producing fruits of mischief
and misery.

Sir Henry Pottinger never visited Canton; he never examined the ground
on which he placed the future representatives of Great Britain; he
listened to the declarations of Keying, that the difficulties in the
way of a becoming reception there were then insuperable; that they
would be removed by time, which might render the turbulent Cantonese
population more reasonable; he relied on the assurance that everything
would be done to prepare the way for a happier state of things. No
doubt there were difficulties; but they were not invincible: they
ought, then and there, to have been surmounted. Pottinger little knew
with what a faithless element he had to deal, and little dreamed that
delay would be taken advantage of, not to lessen, but increase the
resistance; that it would be employed not to facilitate, but to thwart
our object--not to soothe, but to exasperate the people. Pottinger
deemed his treaty a bridge to aid--Keying meant it to be a barrier
to resist--our entrance into China. But Sir Henry, before his death,
acknowledged his error, and deeply lamented that his confidence had
been misplaced. Abundant evidence has since been furnished that the
treaty was signed, not with the purpose of honestly giving effect to
its conditions, but to get rid of the “barbarian” pressure, and to bide
the time, when the treaty obligations could be got rid of altogether.

Proofs were not wanting of this dishonest purpose, and, in consequence,
after some hesitation, it was deemed necessary by the British
Government to remind the Chinese that their obligation to admit her
Majesty’s subjects into Canton had not been fulfilled; and they were
advised that the Island of Chusan, which we held as a guarantee, would
not be surrendered until security was given for the compliance with the
treaty stipulation. A short delay was asked by the Chinese, and the
assurance, under the authority of the “vermilion pencil,” was renewed,
that arrangements would be made for our having access to the city.
Chusan was in consequence given up to the Chinese authorities; but no
steps were taken to prepare the “public mind” to receive us as friends
and allies within the walls of Canton. On the contrary, incendiary
placards, breathing the utmost enmity to foreigners, continued to be
promulgated and pasted on the walls. In 1847, Sir John Davis, naturally
impatient at Keying’s procrastination and subterfuges, determined to
capture the Bogue forts, to move with military forces upon Canton,
and to threaten the city into compliance with obligations so long
trifled with and disregarded. Keying asked for time, and entered into
a formal written engagement that the city should be opened in April,
1849. When the time was at hand, Sir George Bonham, who had succeeded
to the governorship of Hong Kong, sought an interview with Seu, who
had replaced Keying as imperial commissioner. Seu did not hesitate
to say that the ministers had been engaged in a common purpose of
deception--that the Chinese and British were both aware the gates
were not to be opened--that each had avoided the responsibility of
bringing the matter to issue, and had left it to their successors.
Seu said he would refer the question to the emperor. The emperor’s
reply was the stereotyped instruction to all mandarins, who have any
relations with foreigners: “Keep the barbarians at a distance if you
can--but above all things keep the peace.” Now, though we had a large
fleet at Hong Kong, the imperial commissioner had undoubtedly obtained
information, from some quarter or other, that the fleet would not be
employed hostilely, and that he might “resist the barbarian” without
compromising the public tranquillity. So he negatived the demands of
the British.

That our forbearance was a grievous mistake there can be little
hesitation in affirming. But the importance of the concession then
made was little understood, except by the Chinese, and to it may
be attributed the embarrassments which have since entangled our
negotiations with China. As the British Government determined to
leave the Canton question in a state of abeyance, Sir George Bonham
prohibited the Queen’s subjects from attempting to enter the city--a
prohibition which was taken immediate advantage of by the mandarins,
who proclaimed that our right to enter the city had been finally and
for ever withdrawn. By the orders of the emperor, who wrote to the high
commissioner that he had read “with tears of joy” the report, which
showed with what sagacity and courage he had, without the employment
of force, thwarted “the seditious demands of the barbarians,” six
triumphal arches were erected at the various entrances of the city of
Canton, to celebrate the wisdom and valour of the authorities; and the
names of all the distinguished Cantonese who had contributed to so
glorious a consummation were ordered to be inscribed upon the monuments
for immortal commemoration, while dignities and honours were showered
down upon the principal actors. A grand religious ceremonial, in which
all the high authorities took part, was also ordered to be celebrated
in the Temple of Potoo, which is dedicated to a foreign deified idol,
who is supposed to control the affairs of “Western barbarians.” These
triumphal arches--magnificently built of granite--were blown up by the
Allies after the capture of the city.

It had indeed been long evident that it was the fixed purpose of the
Chinese authorities to escape from treaty obligations as soon as
they fancied that they were menaced by nothing more than a remote
and uncertain danger; the bow returned to its original bent as the
tightness of the string was relaxed. It was only while the pressure
of our presence was felt that any disposition was shown to respect
imperial engagements. The consuls of the United States and of France
had at first been received becomingly in Canton, by the viceroy; but,
in 1849, on the arrival of Consul Bowring, very subordinate mandarins
were appointed to visit him: the imperial commissioner altogether
refused any interview at any place. No official reception was therefore
given by the high mandarins to the British consular authorities,
who were utterly excluded from personal intercourse with them. The
stipulation of the treaty that the mandarins should, in conjunction
with the foreign authorities, assist in the arrangement of differences
between Chinese and British subjects, was absolutely a dead letter; and
the obligation on the part of the mandarins to aid officially in the
recovery of debts due to foreigners was utterly disregarded, when the
Chinese debtor was in a condition to bribe the native functionaries.

The alienation and repulsion which had become the system and the rule
of the Chinese authorities, had been productive of consequences most
detrimental to their amicable relations with foreigners. Personal
intercourse affords the greatest facilities for the arrangement of
difficulties; and, even had the correspondence with the mandarins
been of the most frank and friendly character, the settlement of all
questions would have been greatly aided by frequent interviews. But
these were always avoided, and often on pleas the most untenable:
sometimes it was said that the weight of administrative business
prevented the granting an audience--sometimes that the viceroy
was preparing to attack the rebels, and might be visiting the
interior--sometimes that an auspicious day must be waited for. Replies
were sometimes long delayed; sometimes never given; and it was seldom
that an answer was otherwise than evasive or unsatisfactory. There were
many occasions on which the cabinets of the treaty powers directed
their representatives to make communications, through the imperial
commissioner, to the court of Peking; but only one instance occurred of
any attention being paid to such communications: it was that connected
with our entrance into the city, and the imperial reply was such as
to encourage the viceroy in his perverse and perilous policy. The
impossibility of obtaining personal access to the imperial commissioner
was, in fact, not only a great grievance in itself, but it was the
cause of the non-redress of every other grievance. It is not in the
field of diplomatic controversy that European functionaries can have
any fair chance with those who, preserving all the forms of courtesy,
will deny facts, or invent falsehoods to suit the purposes of the
moment.

So great had been the disposition of the Chinese authorities to bring
back matters to their position anterior to the treaties of 1812,
that in Foochow Foo, the only other provincial city to which we
had a right of access, and in which a viceregal government exists,
the high authorities had refused all personal intercourse with the
representatives of Great Britain, though the consular offices are
established within the city walls. The superior officers of the great
provincial cities have the right of direct intercourse with the court
of Peking and with the emperor himself,--a right not possessed by any
of the functionaries in the ports of Shanghae, Ningpo, or Amoy, but
confined to those of Canton and Foochow, the one being the capital of
the province of Kwantung, the other of the province of Fookien. The
importance of our being in direct communication with those through
whom alone we can communicate with the ministers, or the sovereign,
at Peking, can hardly be over-estimated. Sir John Bowring visited
Foochow, in 1853, in a ship of war, and after much resistance from
the viceroy, was finally and officially received by him with every
mark of distinction; and the result of that friendly reception was the
amicable and satisfactory arrangement of every question--and there
were many--then pending between British and Chinese subjects in the
Fookien province. It is true that on more than one occasion the viceroy
of Canton offered to receive the British plenipotentiary, not in his
official yamun, but in a “packhouse” belonging to Howqua; and there
were those who held that Sir John Bowring should have been satisfied
with such condescension on the part of the Chinese commissioner.
It should be remembered that in all the treaties with foreigners,
the emperor has engaged that the same attentions shall be shown to
foreign functionaries which can be claimed and are invariably shown
to mandarins of similar rank. It was always a part of the policy of
the Chinese to maintain in the eyes of the people that superiority
of position which national pride and vanity had for ages rendered
habitual; and the recognition of the right of foreign authorities
to be elevated to the same height was one of the most important of
the treaty concessions. But it was a treaty concession, and ought
never to be allowed to become a dead letter. In our relations with
Oriental governments, the only security for the observance of treaty
engagements, is to be found in their rigid, but quiet and determined
enforcement. To be considerate as to what you exact, is the dictate
alike of prudence and of policy; but the attempt to disregard or
violate any formal treaty stipulation should be resisted at its very
earliest demonstration.

Whatever grounds of complaint the British authorities might have
against the Chinese, nothing was left undone to conciliate the good
opinion of the mandarins. In 1854 an application was made by Yeh to
this effect: he feared a rupture of the public peace, and feeling
himself too weak to protect Canton from the invasion of the rebels,
he asked for the assistance of the naval forces of the treaty powers.
Sir John Bowring accompanied the admiral and the British fleet to the
neighbourhood of that city, and in co-operation with the Americans,
took such effectual measures for its security, that the intended attack
was abandoned, and general tranquillity remained uninterrupted. This
intervention was gratefully acknowledged by the people of Canton; but
there is every reason to believe that the commissioner represented
our amicable intervention as an act of vassalage, and the assistance
rendered as having been in obedience to orders issued by imperial
authority. Notwithstanding this and many other evidences of friendly
sentiment and useful aid on our part, Yeh did not hesitate to represent
to the court that the rebels and Western “barbarians” were acting in
union, and he expressed his conviction that his policy would lead to
the extermination of both.

No one, in fact, who had attended to the progress of public events,
could be unaware of the insecure position of our relations with the
Chinese. Lord Palmerston said, in 1854:--

  “So far from our proceedings in China having had a tendency to
  disturb the peaceful relations between the British government and the
  Chinese empire, and to lead to encroachments upon their territory, we
  had, on the contrary, acted with the greatest forbearance. Ever since
  the conclusion of the treaty of Nanking the conduct of the Chinese
  authorities had been such as would have justified a rupture with
  that government. They had violated the engagements into which they
  had entered; and if any desire existed on the part of the British
  government to proceed against them, abundant cause had existed,
  almost since the termination of the last war. They had refused, on
  divers pretences, to admit us to parts of Canton to which we ought
  to have access, avoided their engagements with respect to the Hongs,
  and nullified their stipulations in regard to the Tariff. In point of
  fact, there was scarcely a single engagement they had not broken.”[7]

Wearied with so many evasions, difficulties and delays, the ministers
of the treaty powers, in 1854, determined to approach the capital, in
order to represent to the court the unsatisfactory state of foreign
relations with the imperial commissioner at Canton, and the necessity
of redressing the many grievances of which they had to complain, and
thus putting an end to a policy essentially unfriendly, which could not
but lead to a fatal crisis, and which imperilled alike the interests
of China and of all the nations who came into contact with her. It was
hoped that the strong and united representations of the three ministers
might alarm the emperor, or at all events obtain his serious attention
to the dangers with which he was menaced. The attempt failed.[8] It
could not but fail, through the incredible misrepresentations made
to the Chinese court by the commissioners who were sent down by the
emperor to meet the foreign envoys. As regards the outward forms of
courtesy, the latter had perhaps no special ground of complaint.
Tents were erected for their reception in the neighbourhood of the
Takoo forts; and they were invited to a repast, in which, it may be
worth notice, there was a display of ancient European steel knives
and forks, with handsome porcelain handles, apparently of the age
of Louis XIV. They were met on terms of equality, and the posts of
honour were graciously conceded to them. But the urbane manners of
the mandarins did not mislead the foreign ministers, who left them
with the declaration that they were insuring for their country days of
future sorrow. On the subject of their reports to the court of Peking,
Mr. Reed says: “They illustrate the habitual faithlessness of Chinese
officials.... They were certainly the most painful revelations of the
mendacity and treacherous habits of the high officials of this empire
ever given to the world. They cannot be read without contemptuous
resentment.”[9]

There was only one possible termination to a state of things so
obviously unsatisfactory, menacing, and untenable. Everything that
could be said or done, in the shape of friendly counsel, had been
exhausted. The American commissioner, Mr. M‘Lane, reports to his
government,[10] that on leaving China, he addressed to Keih,[11] the
governor of Kiangsoo, the following memorable warning:--

  “Now, as my parting words, I say to you, if something is not done,
  our relations will become bad, our amity be disturbed. I believe
  that but for the officers of both governments there now might have
  been a state of things that might have led to a war; but we have
  exerted ourselves to prevent it.” [Governor Keih--“Yes.”] “I have
  done well, and on the eve of my departure am most _disinterested_ in
  what I say. I do not think it is in the power of either officers of
  either government long to preserve the peace. If the emperor does not
  listen, and appoint a commissioner to adjust the foreign relations,
  so sure as there is a God in the heavens, amity cannot be preserved.
  I say it in sincerity, as my parting words.”

The personal character of Yeh tended greatly to complicate every
international question. He represented the pride, presumption, and
ignorance of a high mandarin, without the restraints which fear of
imperial displeasure generally places upon Chinese functionaries.
He was the instrument, and for some time the successful instrument,
for carrying out the imperial policy as regarded foreign nations.
He had a great reputation for learning, had won the most eminent
literary grades, was a distinguished member of the highest college
(the Hanlin), and the guardian of the heir apparent--indeed, on
one occasion he called himself the fourth personage of the empire.
Moreover, his despatches were much admired for their perspicuity and
purity of language. He was strangely unacquainted with the geography,
institutions, and policy of remote nations, and even made his ignorance
a ground for self-congratulation. When questions of commercial interest
were brought before him, he treated them as altogether below his
notice, and on one occasion abruptly terminated a conversation by
saying, “You speak to me as if I were a merchant, and not a mandarin.”
He devoted himself to the study of necromancy, and relied on his
“fortunate star;” believing that the city of Canton was impregnable, he
made no serious arrangements for its defence.

What Ke-ying preached, Yeh-ming practised; but Ke was a man of a
gentle, Yeh of a ferocious nature; and the cautious cunning which often
marked the course of the one was wholly wanting to the other. Yeh,
armed as he was with powers of life and death, exercised them with a
recklessness of which there is no equal example in history. He turned
the execution-ground at Canton into a huge lake of blood; hundreds of
rebels were beheaded daily. When he was asked whether he had really
caused seventy thousand men to be decapitated, he boastingly replied
that the number exceeded a hundred thousand; and to an inquiry whether
he had inflicted upon women the horrible punishment called the cutting
into ten thousand pieces, he answered, “Ay! they were worse than the
men.”[12]

It was the affair of the _Arrow_ which brought about the inevitable
crisis. The question of Sir John Bowring’s action on that occasion was
entangled with the party politics of the day, and little more need now
be said than that the verdict of the country reversed the condemnatory
decision of the House of Commons. Certain it is that the very build
of a _lorcha_, so altogether unlike any Chinese junk in its external
appearance, ought to have led the local authorities in Canton to be
very cautious in their interference with her crew; and that the fact
of her papers being in the hands of the British consul, and not of the
Chinese custom-house, was _primâ facie_ evidence of her nationality.
Since the brutal character of ex-Commissioner Yeh has been better
understood, even those most forward to censure Sir John Bowring, for
refusing to deliver over to that savage and sanguinary personage men
who at all events believed themselves to be entitled to the protection
of British authority,[13] cannot but have felt that they ought to
have been more indulgent to his hesitation. That he carried with
him the sympathy of the representatives of the treaty powers,--that
Yeh’s policy was condemned by his colleagues and by the people in
general,[14]--and that Yeh himself was finally degraded and disgraced
by his own sovereign for his proceedings, are matters of historical
record. Yeh, there is little doubt, would have been publicly executed,
had he returned to China, notwithstanding the efforts of his father,
who betook himself to Peking with a very large sum of money, hoping to
be able--but failing--to propitiate the court.[15]

The war was carried on by the Chinese according to their usual mode
of dealing with foreign nations.[16] They had no chance of success in
open combat, so they had recourse to the ordinary stratagems adopted by
uncivilized races. An “anti-barbarian committee” was formed among them,
under the auspices of the mandarins. They offered premiums from 100 up
to 100,000 ounces of silver for assassinations of “the barbarians,”
according to the gradation of rank, and similar graduated rewards for
the capture of vessels, for acts of incendiarism, for denouncing those
who sent provisions to Hong Kong. Intercourse was prohibited under pain
of death; and provision was promised to be made for the families of
those who might perish in any desperate enterprise against the “foreign
devils.” But so well was the government of Hong Kong served, that only
one of many attempts to injure the colony had any success. In this,
however, 360 persons of all nations were poisoned; but, happily, from
the excess of arsenic employed, which led to an immediate perception
of the danger, very few lost their lives. No less than 25,000 of the
inhabitants fled to the mainland in consequence of the menaces of
the mandarins; yet, though there were not 400 effective men in the
garrison, such was the efficiency of the naval department, so active
the police, and so well-disposed the mass of the Chinese population,
that scarcely any damage was inflicted on the colony.

Canton was taken on the 29th of December. The resistance was
ridiculous.[17] The walls were scaled by a handful of men, and Yeh,
who had concealed himself, was captured. Why British authority, which
would have been welcomed by the respectable part of the population,
was not established under military law, and the whole administration
of the public revenues taken into our hands, it is very difficult to
explain. But at the meeting in which the English and French ambassadors
informed the high Chinese authorities that the city had been captured
and was held by the allied forces, both the governor of Kwang-tung and
the Tartar general were allowed to be seated on the same elevation with
the foreign ambassadors, and above the positions occupied by the naval
and military commanders-in-chief who were left in charge of the city.
Subordinate to these, an hermaphrodite government was created, called
“the Allied Commissioners,” who were to be consulted on all occasions
by the mandarins charged to carry on the administration of public
affairs.

A grand opportunity was thus lost of exhibiting to the Cantonese the
benefits of a just and honest, however severe, administration: they
could not but have been struck with the difference between the humane
and equitable laws of foreigners, as contrasted with the corrupt and
cruel dealings of the mandarins. The _Elgin Papers_ throw little light
upon the atrocities which were perpetrated by the Chinese, long after
our possession of the city. The prisons continued to be scenes of
horrible tortures. It was thought necessary to destroy whole streets,
in order to convey terror into districts where assassinations of the
subjects of allied powers had taken place: all the eastern suburb of
the city was razed to the ground, and not a respectable inhabitant
was left amidst the desolation. There can be no doubt that Governor
Pehkwei considered himself invested with supreme authority over Chinese
subjects. He complains bitterly, in a despatch to Lord Elgin, of 31st
January, 1858, of Consul Parkes’ interference--of his “overbearing” and
unreasonably oppressive “conduct in disposing of Chinamen confined in
the gaols of Canton. I ask, whether Chinese officers would be tolerated
in their interference with British subjects confined in British gaols?”
Lord Elgin does not, in his reply, assert British jurisdiction over
the prisons in Canton; but says, Pehkwei will be required to release
all prisoners entitled to the benefits of the amnesty; and in another
despatch (p. 178), distinctly throws upon Pehkwei the responsibility of
preserving the public peace. This anomalous state of matters awakened
the attention of our Government at home: a despatch of Lord Malmesbury
(14th June, 1858), says: “It will be a disgrace to the allied powers
if they do not prevent such enormities as are practised in the prisons
of Canton.” ... The “British name must be relieved from the disgrace
and guilt of having connived at a state of things so monstrous and
revolting.” As to the mixed authority of native mandarins and allied
commissioners, Lord Malmesbury says: “It is wholly inefficient for
all objects of administration and policy, and should be replaced by
a military government acting under the rules of martial law.” He
recommended that the allies should take possession of the custom-house
revenues, and hold the balance after the payment of the local expenses.
It is much to be regretted that these measures were not adopted.
Undoubtedly, Lord Elgin exercised a sound discretion in not proceeding
to Peking until “a lesson” had been given to Yeh’s obstinacy. Had he
gone to the North it would have been deemed a confession that he had
been foiled in the South, and compelled to appeal to the emperor, in
order to relieve himself from the difficulties in which Yeh had placed
him; for Yeh--who had chosen to represent the English “barbarians” as
making common cause with the rebels, and in fact, being themselves in
a state of rebellion against imperial authority--gave the court the
assurance that, as he had been so successful in breaking up the native
insurrection, so he would not fail “to drive the foreign ‘barbarians’
into the sea.” In short, there could be little doubt, that had his
calculations proved correct, a hostile policy would have pursued us in
all the other parts of China, and our immense interests there have been
placed in jeopardy.

For some time the court ventured to dream that by Yeh’s indomitable
bravery China might be wholly rid of the presence of the intrusive
strangers.[18] It is known that the emperor was much displeased
with a mandarin, who, having lived in Canton, and being acquainted
with the power of the English, ventured to express doubts as to the
trustworthiness of Yeh’s representations that he could bridle and
extirpate the English barbarians;[19] and nothing less than the taking
the Takoo forts by the allied forces, and an advance upon the capital
(even after Yeh’s capture and humiliation) was likely to bring the
court of Peking to a sense of its own weakness, and the necessity of
listening to our representations and remonstrances.

Every effort had been made to obstruct the progress of the allied
ambassadors towards Peking; but they wisely determined not to delay
their voyage to the Gulf of Pecheli, and, on the 24th April, they
announced to the Chinese prime minister their arrival, at the mouth
of the Tien-tsin river. The usual evasions were brought into play;
and it was soon discovered that the commissioners sent down had no
sufficient powers. On the 18th May, therefore, after consultation with
the admirals, it was determined to “take the forts,” and to “proceed
pacifically up the river;” on the 19th, notice was given to the
Chinese, and on the 20th, the forts were in the hands of the Allies.
On the 29th, the ambassadors reached Tien-tsin. On the same day they
were advised that “the chief secretary of state,” and the president of
one of the imperial boards, were ordered to proceed without delay “to
investigate and despatch business.” After many discussions the Treaty
was signed on the 26th June.

The progress and the result of these negotiations only demonstrate
that where our policy has failed, and where it will always fail in
China, is in placing confidence in the Chinese. Our distrust must
be the groundwork: it is the only sound foundation of our security.
When the four ambassadors were at Tien-tsin, and had extorted from
the fears of the Chinese treaties more or less humiliating to Chinese
pride, according to the amount of pressure employed, it should have
been foreseen that on the removal of that pressure the Chinese mind
would resume its natural obstinacy. A treaty with China will always
be waste paper, unless some security is obtained for giving it due
effect. It is, therefore, greatly to be regretted that the ambassadors
should have left the most difficult of questions, one most wounding to
Chinese pride--the reception of foreign ministers at Peking, and the
initiation of their constant residence at court--to be settled by their
successors, who had neither the same high diplomatic position, nor the
same large naval and military forces at their disposal. It may, indeed,
be a question whether it was desirable to force upon the Chinese the
recognition of our right to have an ambassador permanently fixed at
the capital; but if we thought fit to insist on such recognition,
there should certainly have been no vacillation--no disposition shown
to surrender in any shape or on any terms the right which had been
conceded. We could not plead want of experience, for we had abundant
evidence of the determination of the Chinese to repudiate and deny
every concession, the enjoyment of which was either rediscussed or
deferred. We should have avoided, above all things, the transfer of the
Canton question to Peking. Our right to enter Canton was incontestable.
Shufflings and subterfuges on the part of the Chinese, hesitation and
an erroneous estimate of the importance of the question on the part of
the British Government and the British functionaries in China, led to
one delay after another, and ended by an absolute denial of our treaty
right, and an arming of the Chinese population to enforce that denial,
accompanied at the same time by a Chinese proclamation mendaciously
averring that we had withdrawn our claims. A similar course has been
pursued at Peking. The Chinese, who have no notion--what Oriental
has?--of privileges possessed and not exercised, saw in the willingness
to give way to their representations, not, as we might have supposed,
a consideration for their repugnancy, and a magnanimity in refraining
from the enjoyment of a privilege distasteful to them, but an
infirmity of purpose--a confession that we had asked for something
we did not want, and which they felt to be a degradation needlessly
and gratuitously imposed upon them. There is, in fact, neither safety
nor dignity in any course but the stern, steady persistence in the
assertion and enforcement of whatever conditions are the subject of
imperial engagements.

Lord Elgin returned to England, and Mr. Bruce was appointed his
successor. It was at first announced that he had been furnished with
ambassadorial powers, but as such powers would have entitled him to
demand a personal reception by the emperor, it was, on reconsideration,
very judiciously thought better to avoid a question which might lead to
great embarrassments, and he was accredited as Minister Plenipotentiary
to the Peking court. To our judgment it appears the instructions of
Lord Malmesbury were too peremptory as to the course Mr. Bruce was
to pursue; and if that course was to be insisted on, most inadequate
means were provided.[20] It is but another example of those in the
distance imagining they see more clearly than those who are near,
and assuming an acquaintance with local circumstances--subject every
hour to change--which, without the attributes of omnipresence and
omniscience, it is impossible they should possess. Whatever may have
been the views of the Cabinet at home, it is obvious that the forces
which accompanied Mr. Bruce were as superfluous for peace as they
were insufficient for war, and that he was placed in the embarrassing
dilemma either of disobeying his orders, or of incurring great risk
in the attempt to execute them. That the Admiral singularly overrated
his own force, and under-estimated that of the Chinese, admits now of
no controversy. But an indulgent judgment should be awarded to one so
personally brave and self-sacrificing, and who was entitled to confide
in the indomitable bravery of those he commanded; whose experience,
too, of the general character of Chinese warfare was not likely to
teach them prudence or caution.

The first and the most natural inquiry is, what is likely to be
the result of these disastrous events? If negotiations are wisely
conducted, the probability is that the emperor will throw the blame
on the local authorities, attribute to the misrepresentations which
have been made any approval he may have given to those who attacked
the Allies, and repudiate any intended complicity in the mismanagement
of foreign relations. For it has hitherto been the invariable policy
of the Chinese government to localize every quarrel, and to avoid any
general war. There is no scruple about sacrificing any mandarin whose
proceedings, though lauded and recompensed at first, have in the sequel
proved injudicious or injurious.

We cannot look forward, however, without apprehension--apprehension
not from the possible defeat of our arms--they will be too strong, too
efficient for defeat by any Chinese forces--but from their successful
advance and overthrow of all resistance. Nothing can arrest their
course to Peking, nor prevent the capture of that vast capital; but
its possession may prove our great embarrassment. If the emperor,
accompanied by his court, should retreat into Manchuria--if Peking be
deserted, as Canton was, by all that is respectable and opulent--the
Allies may find themselves amidst vacant streets, abandoned houses,
a wandering, a starving population, too poor to migrate with their
betters. Winter will come--the cruel, bitter winter of northern China;
the rivers will be frozen, communications cut off; and with no war-ship
in the Gulf of Pecheli, supplies must be inaccessible. Peking may even
prove another Moscow to its conquerors.

The condition of the French and Spanish expedition in Cochin China is
full of present instruction. They are acting against a miserable and
despised enemy. They have been for more than a year in possession of
Turon, the principal harbour of the country; but they have not ventured
to attack the adjacent capital. Disease has thinned their ranks;
victories have brought no results, but ever new disappointment: every
calculation of success having been thwarted by a patient but stubborn
“no surrender.” It is a resistance that cannot be reached by strength
of arms, nor dealt with by the cunning of diplomacy. May it serve as a
warning in that wider field upon which we are entering in China!

How is the social edifice to be constructed out of crumbling ruins? To
overthrow the existing dynasty of China may be easy enough; indeed,
the difficulty, as with that of Turkey, is its maintenance and
preservation: its very feebleness cries to us for pity and mercy.
It may yet totter on for generations, if not harshly shaken; but if
it--fall--fall amidst its wrecked institutions--China, inviting as
it is to foreign ambition and the lust of conquest, may become the
battle-field of contending interests. Russia, moving steadily and
stealthily forward in its march of territorial aggression; France,
charged with what she fancies herself specially called upon to
represent--the missionary propagand, with the Catholic world behind
her; England, with those vast concerns which involve about one-ninth
of the imperial and Indian revenues, and an invested capital exceeding
forty millions sterling; and the United States, whose commerce may
be deemed about one-third of that of Great Britain, to say nothing
of Holland and Spain, who are not a little concerned, through their
eastern colonies, in the well-being of China;--will then be engaged in
a struggle for power, if not territory, the result of which cannot be
anticipated; indeed we scarcely venture to contemplate such portentous
complications.

No thoughtful man will deny the necessity of teaching the Chinese
that treaties must be respected, and perfidy punished. Duty and
interest alike require this at our hands; but this is but one of many
duties--one of many interests; and we would most emphatically say,
_Respice finem_--look beyond--look to the end. The destruction of
hundreds of thousands of Chinese, the ravaging of their great cities,
may fail to accomplish the object we have in view. They have been but
too much accustomed to such calamities, and their influences soon pass
away from a nation so reckless of life. But it may be possible to exact
penalties in a shape which will be more sensible to them, and more
beneficial to us: for example, the administration of their custom-house
revenues in Shanghae and Canton, and the payment out of these of all
the expenses of the war.

But is there nothing to hope from the Taiping movement? Nothing. It has
become little better than dacoity: its progress has been everywhere
marked by wreck and ruin; it destroys cities, but builds none; consumes
wealth, and produces none; supersedes one despotism by another more
crushing and grievous; subverts a rude religion by the introduction
of another full of the vilest frauds and the boldest blasphemies. It
has cast off none of the proud, insolent, and ignorant formulas of
imperial rule; but, claiming to be a divine revelation, exacts the same
homage and demands the same tribute from Western nations, to which the
government of Peking pretended in the days of its highest and most
widely recognized authority.

We cannot afford to overthrow the government of China. Bad as it is,
anarchy will track its downfall, and the few elements of order which
yet remain will be whelmed in a convulsive desolation.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Peiho, in Chinese, means a north or northern river, but no river
in particular. No Chinaman applies the word to the locality which now
bears the name on our charts. In Bristol, the Mersey would be deemed
entitled to the name of the Peiho; in London, the Humber, the Tyne, or
the Tweed.

[2] The matchlock is still used in China, where even the flint has
not been introduced. The late emperor, Taou-Kwang, had heard of
“improvements in musketry,” and specimens of “percussion locks” were
sent to Peking, but they were rejected; and the military examinations
to this hour consist of feats of individual strength, the exercise of
the bow and arrow, the spear and the shield. In the use of artillery
there have been some improvements. The Chinese have purchased cannon
for their fortifications and war-junks, both in Hong Kong and Macao,
and of late from the Russians, for their forts of Takoo.

[3] The emperor’s words are: “This was the only proper arrangement to
be made (for the settlement of the treaties). We understand the whole
question.” In 1854, when the foreign Ministers visited Tien-tsin,
the imperial orders were conveyed to the mandarins in the following
words:--“At your interview, you must snap short their deceit and
arrogance, and foil their malicious sophistry.” Another imperial decree
says:--“The barbarians study nothing but gain. Their hurrying backwards
and forwards only means [more] trade and [lower] tariffs. When a trifle
is granted on this score they naturally acquiesce and hold their
tongues.”

[4] Nothing is less intelligible to a high-bred mandarin than the
desire of foreign females to be introduced to him. At Hong Kong, when
English ladies were brought to see the ex-commissioner Yeh, he turned
away, and refused to look at them, and on their departure, expressed
his annoyance and disgust. He was invited at Calcutta to a ball given
by the Governor of Bengal. Inquiring what was meant, he was told by
his Chinese secretary, that a ball was a sport in which “men turned
themselves round, holding the waists and turning round the wives of
other men;” on which, he asked whether the invitation was meant for
an insult? There was an amusing scene at Canton, when Chinese ladies
were for the first time introduced to some of our British fair. The
Chinese kept for some minutes tremblingly in the distance, afraid to
approach, when one was heard to say to another, “They do not look so
_very_ barbarous, after all;” and they moved a little forward to meet
their guests; another whisper was heard, “Surely they have learnt how
to behave themselves. Is it not wonderful?” and a third voice replied,
“Yes! but you know they have been for some time in Canton!”

[5] _Elgin Papers_, p. 175.

[6] In the French treaty the discrepancies between the French and
Chinese text are yet more striking. The Chinese text places Chinese
subjects claimed by the authorities under conditions far less
favourable than those provided by the French version.

[7] _Debate_, July.

[8] In the _Elgin Papers_ many pages are occupied with the details of
the correspondence between the commissioners who came to the mouth of
the Tien-tsin river and the court of Peking, and which were found in
Yeh’s archives at Canton.

[9] Speech at Philadelphia, quoted in _North American Review_, No.
CLXXXV. p. 503.

[10] _American Papers_, p. 417: _Despatch_ dated 27th November, 1857.

[11] Keih was one of the most intelligent and honest of the high
mandarins of China. He was killed in an action with the rebels soon
after his last interview with the foreign ministers. He openly blamed
the perversity of Yeh, whom he hoped to succeed in the office of high
commissioner. Had his life been spared, and his counsels prevailed, he
would have initiated a policy of conciliation and amity.

[12] We give one of Yeh’s characteristic proclamations, issued during
the siege of Canton:--

“Yeh, governor-general of the two Kwang provinces, member of the
cabinet, and baron of the empire, hereby proclaims for the general
information:--

“These are the contumacious English barbarians, who are akin to dogs
and hogs, and like wolves and jackals in disposition, who make no
distinction in the human relations, and are destitute of propriety
or manners * * * * * who act as they list, have the tempers of wild
beasts, and go here and there in wild recklessness, regardless of human
rights or order.

“These are they who have presumed, like flocks of ravens issuing
from out their coverts, to cast contemptuous looks on celestial
awe-inspiring dignity, and seeing that our troops were unprepared,
suddenly have taken possession of our forts, and following the bent of
their lawless wickedness have burned the shops and dwellings of our
people. Gods and men are indignant, heaven and earth can no longer
endure them, and well will it be for your people if you unite in
particular, and with vigorous arm exterminate them altogether. Let
soldiers and gentry exhibit their loyalty, and with the braves, known
to be in every place, swear, as they exhibit a force and union like the
driving tempest, that they will revenge the honour of their country.
Let full obedience be given to his majesty’s rescript, and with firm
purpose and stout arm sweep them off without remainder, burning their
lairs, and exterminating their whole kith and kin.

“Then the memorial of your merit will be seen in the palace, while the
state stands secure in the greatness of its people, as in the golden
days of Shun, and the elements genially combine to produce plenty,
through the good rule universal in the land, as was seen in the halcyon
days of Tsin.

“The other nations of the West must all reverently obey our heavenly
dynasty, according to their laws and their administrators, for they
will be amerced in the same crimes (as the English) if they venture to
copy their conduct.

“Those native traitors who are serving these several tribes, by aiding
their purposes, must be strictly watched after and judged, the worst
of them by the extermination of their kindred, the lesser by the
destruction of their own families.

“Those who are employed as servants to any of the foreigners are
allowed twenty days to return to their own patrimonies, there to pursue
their several occupations. If they linger along in the hope of gain,
they will be treated and punished as traitors.

“Each one must tremblingly obey these orders without opposition.”

[13] The words of the treaty are: “If it shall be ascertained or
suspected that lawless natives of China, having committed crimes or
offences against their own government, have fled, a communication shall
be made to the proper English officer, in order that the said criminals
and offenders may be rigidly searched for, seized, and, on proof or
admission of their guilt, delivered up” to the Chinese authorities.

[14] A thoroughly well-informed American gentleman, then on the spot,
declares that the Cantonese prayed that some English ball might “make
hit the Viceroy; he all same devil,” they said. “Yeh had no supporters
among his own countrymen, except his immediate followers, natives of
other provinces, and having no local interest. He ruled simply by
terror, and all would have been glad to have seen him destroyed.”--_A
Foreigner’s Evidence on the China Question_, p. 14.

[15] Yeh died in Calcutta. So great was the quantity of gas emitted
by his body after death, that the leaden coffin burst twice. On its
arrival at Canton the Chinese would not allow the body to be brought
into the city.

[16] The following is the protest of the United States Commissioner,
addressed to High Commissioner Yeh:--

                      “_Legation of the U.S., Macao, Jan. 16, 1857._

“The undersigned Commissioner and Minister Plenipotentiary of the
United States of America in China is again compelled to address your
Excellency, demonstrating and protesting against the violation of
our treaty of amity, the laws of civilized nations, and the rules of
justifiable war.

“The United States Consul, who arrived from Hong Kong last evening,
has appeared before the undersigned in person, and represented that
a most diabolical deed has been perpetrated by Chinese subjects, who
had administered poison in the bread supplied to the public in that
colony and on board vessels in the harbour, to multitudes of men,
women, and children, without distinction of nation; that he himself
had partaken of the poison, from which he is still suffering, and that
other citizens of the United States are rendered dangerously ill by the
poisoned bread.

“The undersigned, as in duty bound, solemnly protests against this
unjustifiable mode of warfare. ‘The use of poison as a means of war
is prohibited by the unanimous concurrence of all the public jurists
of the present age. The custom of civilized nations has exempted the
persons of the sovereign and his family, the members of the civil
government, women and children, cultivators of the earth, artisans,
labourers, merchants, men of science and letters, and generally all
other public or private individuals engaged in the ordinary civil
pursuits of life, from the effects of military operations, unless
actually taken in arms, or guilty of some misconduct in violation of
the usages of war, by which they forfeit this immunity.’ Now, by the
manner in which the poison has been administered in Hong Kong, not
only the innocent women and children, and all artisans, labourers,
merchants, and men of science, belonging to the English nation, had
their lives exposed, but the citizens and subjects of other nations
who are on friendly relations with China. Americans, French, Russians,
Portuguese, and Spaniards have all received the deadly poison; and that
some may yet die, remains to be known.

“The undersigned, therefore, on behalf of the Government of the United
States, on the part of humanity, and (reverently) in the name of God,
protests against this most barbarous deed; and as on former occasions
when protesting against the offering of pecuniary rewards to perfidy
and assassination of foreigners, must hold the imperial government of
China responsible for all the consequences, both to individual and
national interests.

  “His Excellency Yeh.”                             “PETER PARKER.”

[17] One man appeared during the Canton conflict who is entitled to
be mentioned with respect and honour--Wang, the Chinese admiral. He
was well acquainted with the power of the British; and on one occasion
had given evidence of great coolness and courage when accompanying
H.M.S. _Columbine_ on an expedition against the pirates. He did his
best to persuade Yeh from engaging in a quarrel which could not but be
disastrous to the Chinese, but he failed, as everybody failed. “You
may as well reason with a stone,” was the language of a deputation
that sought the British officials. Wang received peremptory orders
from Yeh to attack and destroy the British fleet in the Canton river.
He answered that it was impossible: that an encounter must be fatal to
the imperial war junks. The orders were renewed; and he said he would
do his best--as he did in the affair at Fashan, when considerable
damage was done to our boats, and many of our men lost their lives.
Wang’s junk was captured; and the imperial warrant, on yellow silk,
was found, recording a series of adventurous and valorous deeds; but
Wang was ordered to be decapitated by Yeh, because he had not beaten
the British. He fled, and was concealed for some time in a village
on the banks of the river. He applied to the Governor of Hong Kong,
asking to be allowed an asylum there, which was cordially offered; but
severe illness prevented his removal. Yeh afterwards repented of his
precipitation; recalled Wang to the public service; who stipulated that
he should not be employed against Western nations.

[18] The influence of Yeh at Peking was considerably strengthened
by the support he received from Iliang, who obtained the credit of
persuading the United States Commissioner, Mr. Marshall, not to proceed
to the capital. Iliang, in one of his despatches to the emperor, says:
“Whatever the barbarian chief may insinuate against Yeh-ming-chen, it
is he whom they fear.”--_Elgin Papers_, p. 280.

[19] When in the former war Commissioner Keshen humbly represented to
the emperor Taou-Kwang, that it was impossible to resist the English,
he was ordered to be executed for his mendacity. His life was saved by
powerful friends at court.

[20] “Her Majesty’s Government are prepared to expect that all the
arts at which the Chinese are such adepts will be put in practice to
dissuade you from repairing to the capital, even for the purpose of
exchanging the ratifications of the treaty, but it will be your duty
firmly, but temperately, to resist any propositions to that effect, and
_to admit of no excuses_.

“The Admiral in command of H.M.’s naval forces in China, has been
directed to send up with you to the mouth of the Peiho a sufficient
naval force.

“_You will insist_ on your being received at Peking, and will refuse
to exchange ratifications at any other place.”--_Despatch of Lord
Malmesbury, 1st March, 1859._




                             Lovel the Widower.


                                 CHAPTER I.

                         THE BACHELOR OF BEAK STREET.

[Illustration]

Who shall be the hero of this tale? Not I who write it. I am but the
Chorus of the Play. I make remarks on the conduct of the characters: I
narrate their simple story. There is love and marriage in it: there is
grief and disappointment: the scene is in the parlour, and the region
beneath the parlour. No: it may be the parlour and kitchen, in this
instance, are on the same level. There is no high life, unless, to be
sure, you call a baronet’s widow a lady in high life; and some ladies
may be, while some certainly are not. I don’t think there’s a villain
in the whole performance. There is an abominable selfish old woman,
certainly: an old highway robber; an old sponger on other people’s
kindness; an old haunter of Bath and Cheltenham boarding-houses (about
which how can I know anything, never having been in a boarding-house at
Bath or Cheltenham in my life?); an old swindler of tradesmen, tyrant
of servants, bully of the poor--who, to be sure, might do duty for a
villain, but she considers herself as virtuous a woman as ever was
born. The heroine is not faultless (ah! that will be a great relief
to some folks, for many writers’ good women are, you know, so _very_
insipid). The principal personage you may very likely think to be no
better than a muff. But is many a respectable man of our acquaintance
much better? and do muffs know that they are what they are, or, knowing
it, are they unhappy? Do girls decline to marry one if he is rich? Do
we refuse to dine with one? I listened to one at Church last Sunday,
with all the women crying and sobbing; and, oh, dear me! how finely
he preached! Don’t we give him great credit for wisdom and eloquence
in the House of Commons? Don’t we give him important commands in the
army? Can you, or can you not, point out one who has been made a
peer? Doesn’t your wife call one in the moment any of the children
are ill? Don’t we read his dear poems, or even novels? Yes; perhaps
even this one is read and written by--Well? _Quid rides?_ Do you mean
that I am painting a portrait which hangs before me every morning in
the looking-glass when I am shaving? _Après?_ Do you suppose that I
suppose that I have not infirmities like my neighbours? Am I weak? It
is notorious to all my friends there is a certain dish I can’t resist;
no, not if I have already eaten twice too much at dinner. So, dear
sir, or madam, have _you_ your weakness--_your_ irresistible dish
of temptation? (or if you don’t know it, your friends do). No, dear
friend, the chances are that you and I are not people of the highest
intellect, of the largest fortune, of the most ancient family, of
the most consummate virtue, of the most faultless beauty in face and
figure. We are no heroes nor angels; neither are we fiends from abodes
unmentionable, black assassins, treacherous Iagos, familiar with
stabbing and poison--murder our amusement, daggers our playthings,
arsenic our daily bread, lies our conversation, and forgery our common
handwriting. No, we are not monsters of crime, or angels walking the
earth--at least I know _one_ of us who isn’t, as can be shown any day
at home if the knife won’t cut or the mutton comes up raw. But we are
not altogether brutal and unkind, and a few folks like us. Our poetry
is not as good as Alfred Tennyson’s, but we can turn a couplet for
Miss Fanny’s album: our jokes are not always first-rate, but Mary
and her mother smile very kindly when papa tells his story or makes
his pun. We have many weaknesses, but we are not ruffians of crime.
No more was my friend Lovel. On the contrary, he was as harmless and
kindly a fellow as ever lived when I first knew him. At present, with
his changed position, he is, perhaps, rather _fine_ (and certainly I
am not asked to his _best_ dinner-parties as I used to be, where you
hardly see a commoner--but stay! I am advancing matters). At the time
when this story begins, I say, Lovel had his faults--which of us has
not? He had buried his wife, having notoriously been henpecked by her.
How many men and brethren are like him! He had a good fortune--I wish
I had as much--though I daresay many people are ten times as rich. He
was a good-looking fellow enough; though that depends, ladies, upon
whether you like a fair man or a dark one. He had a country house, but
it was only at Putney. In fact, he was in business in the city, and
being a hospitable man, and having three or four spare bed-rooms, some
of his friends were always welcome at Shrublands, especially after Mrs.
Lovel’s death, who liked me pretty well at the period of her early
marriage with my friend, but got to dislike me at last and to show me
the cold shoulder. That is a joint I never could like (though I have
known fellows who persist in dining off it year after year, who cling
hold of it, and refuse to be separated from it). I say, when Lovel’s
wife began to show me that she was tired of my company, I made myself
scarce: used to pretend to be engaged when Fred faintly asked me to
Shrublands; to accept his meek apologies, proposals to dine _en garçon_
at Greenwich, the club, and so forth; and never visit upon him my
wrath at his wife’s indifference--for after all, he had been my friend
at many a pinch: he never stinted at Hart’s or Lovegrove’s, and always
made a point of having the wine I liked, never mind what the price
was. As for his wife, there was, assuredly, no love lost between us--I
thought her a lean, scraggy, lackadaisical, egotistical, consequential,
insipid creature: and as for his mother-in-law, who stayed at Fred’s
as long and as often as her daughter would endure her, has anyone who
ever knew that notorious old Lady Baker at Bath, at Cheltenham, at
Brighton,--wherever trumps and frumps were found together; wherever
scandal was cackled; wherever fly-blown reputations were assembled, and
dowagers with damaged titles trod over each other for the pas;--who, I
say, ever had a good word for that old woman? What party was not bored
where she appeared? What tradesman was not done with whom she dealt?
I wish with all my heart I was about to narrate a story with a good
mother-in-law for a character; but then you know, my dear madam, all
good women in novels are insipid. This woman certainly was not. She was
not only not insipid, but exceedingly bad tasted. She had a foul, loud
tongue, a stupid head, a bad temper, an immense pride and arrogance,
an extravagant son, and very little money. Can I say much more of a
woman than this? Aha! my good Lady Baker! I was a _mauvais sujèt_,
was I?--I was leading Fred into smoking, drinking, and low bachelor
habits, was I? I, his old friend, who have borrowed money from him any
time these twenty years, was not fit company for you and your precious
daughter? Indeed! _I_ paid the money I borrowed from him like a man;
but did _you_ ever pay him, I should like to know? When Mrs. Lovel was
in the first column of _The Times_, _then_ Fred and I used to go off to
Greenwich and Blackwall, as I said; then his kind old heart was allowed
to feel for his friend; _then_ we could have the other bottle of
claret without the appearance of Bedford and the coffee, which in Mrs.
L.’s time used to be sent in to us before we could ring for a second
bottle, although she and Lady Baker had had three glasses each out of
the first. Three full glasses each, I give you my word! No, madam, it
was your turn to bully me once--now it is mine, and I use it. No, you
old Catamaran, though you pretend you never read novels, some of your
confounded good-natured friends will let you know of _this_ one. Here
you are, do you hear? Here you shall be shown up. And so I intend to
show up _other_ women and _other_ men who have offended me. Is one to
be subject to slights and scorn, and not have revenge? Kindnesses are
easily forgotten; but injuries!--what worthy man does not keep _those_
in mind?

[Illustration: I AM REFERRED TO CECILIA.]

Before entering upon the present narrative, may I take leave to
inform a candid public, that though it is all true, there is not a
word of truth in it; that though Lovel is alive and prosperous, and
you very likely have met him, yet I defy you to point him out; that
his wife (for he is Lovel the Widower no more) is not the lady you
imagine her to be, when you say (as you will persist in doing), “Oh,
that character is intended for Mrs. Thingamy, or was notoriously
drawn from Lady So-and-so.” No. You are utterly mistaken. Why, even
the advertising-puffers have almost given up that stale stratagem of
announcing “REVELATIONS FROM HIGH LIFE.--The _beau monde_ will be
startled at recognizing the portraits of some of its brilliant leaders
in Miss Wiggins’s forthcoming _Roman de Société_.” Or, “We suspect a
certain ducal house will be puzzled to guess how the pitiless author
of _May Fair Mysteries_ has become acquainted with (and exposed with
a fearless hand) _certain family secrets_ which were thought only to
be known to a few of the very highest members of the aristocracy.” No,
I say; these silly baits to catch an unsuspecting public shall not be
our arts. If you choose to occupy yourself with trying to ascertain if
a certain cap fits one amongst ever so many thousand heads, you _may_
possibly pop it on the right one: but the cap-maker will perish before
he tells you; unless, of course, he has some private pique to avenge,
or malice to wreak, upon some individual who can’t by any possibility
hit again;--_then_, indeed, he will come boldly forward and seize upon
his victim--(a bishop, say, or a woman without coarse, quarrelsome
male relatives, will be best)--and clap on him, or her, such a cap,
with such ears, that all the world shall laugh at the poor wretch,
shuddering, and blushing beet-root red, and whimpering deserved tears
of rage and vexation at being made the common butt of society. Besides,
I dine at Lovel’s still; his company and cuisine are amongst the best
in London. If they suspected I was taking them off, he and his wife
would leave off inviting me. Would any man of a generous disposition
lose such a valued friend for a joke, or be so foolish as to show him
up in a story? All persons with a decent knowledge of the world will at
once banish the thought, as not merely base, but absurd. I am invited
to his house one day next week: _vous concevez_ I can’t mention the
very day, for then he would find me out--and of course there would
be no more cards for his old friend. He would not like appearing, as
it must be owned he does in this memoir, as a man of not very strong
mind. He believes himself to be a most determined, resolute person.
He is quick in speech, wears a fierce beard, speaks with asperity to
his servants (who liken him to a--to that before-named sable or ermine
contrivance, in which ladies insert their hands in winter), and takes
his wife to task so smartly, that I believe she believes he believes
he is the master of the house. “Elizabeth, my love, he must mean A,
or B, or D,” I fancy I hear Lovel say; and she says, “Yes; oh! it is
certainly D--his very image!” “D to a T,” says Lovel (who is a neat
wit). _She_ may know that I mean to depict her husband in the above
unpretending lines: but she will never let me know of her knowledge
except by a little extra courtesy; except (may I make this pleasing
exception?) by a few more invitations; except by a look of those
unfathomable eyes (gracious goodness! to think she wore spectacles ever
so long, and put a lid over them as it were!), into which, when you
gaze sometimes, you may gaze so deep, and deep, and deep, that I defy
you to plumb half-way down into their mystery.

When I was a young man, I had lodgings in Beak Street, Regent Street
(I no more have lived in Beak Street than in Belgrave Square: but I
choose to say so, and no gentleman will be so rude as to contradict
another)--I had lodgings, I say, in Beak Street, Regent Street. Mrs.
Prior was the landlady’s name. She had seen better days--landladies
frequently have. Her husband--he could not be called the landlord,
for Mrs. P. was manager of the place,--had been, in happier times,
captain or lieutenant in the militia; then of Diss, in Norfolk, of
no profession; then of Norwich Castle, a prisoner for debt; then of
Southampton Buildings, London, law-writer; then of the Bom-Retiro
Cacadores, in the service of H. M. the Queen of Portugal, lieutenant
and paymaster; then of Melina Place, St. George’s Fields, &c.--I
forbear to give the particulars of an existence which a legal
biographer has traced step by step, and which has more than once been
the subject of judicial investigation by certain commissioners in
Lincoln’s-inn Fields. Well, Prior, at this time, swimming out of a
hundred shipwrecks, had clambered on to a lighter, as it were, and was
clerk to a coal-merchant, by the river-side. “You conceive, sir,” he
would say, “my employment is only temporary--the fortune of war, the
fortune of war!” He smattered words in not a few foreign languages.
His person was profusely scented with tobacco. Bearded individuals,
padding the muddy hoof in the neighbouring Regent Street, would call
sometimes of an evening, and ask for “the captain.” He was known at
many neighbouring billiard-tables, and, I imagine, not respected. You
will not see enough of Captain Prior to be very weary of him and his
coarse swagger, to be disgusted by his repeated requests for small
money-loans, or to deplore his loss, which you will please to suppose
has happened before the curtain of our present drama draws up. I think
two people in the world were sorry for him: his wife, who still loved
the memory of the handsome young man who had wooed and won her; his
daughter Elizabeth, whom for the last few months of his life, and up
to his fatal illness, he every evening conducted to what he called her
“academy.” You are right. Elizabeth is the principal character in this
story. When I knew her, a thin, freckled girl of fifteen, with a lean
frock, and hair of a reddish hue, she used to borrow my books, and play
on the First Floor’s piano, when he was from home--Slumley his name
was. He was editor of the _Swell_, a newspaper then published; author
of a great number of popular songs, a friend of several music-selling
houses; and it was by Mr. Slumley’s interest that Elizabeth was
received as a pupil at what the family called “the academy.”

Captain Prior then used to conduct his girl to the Academy, but she
often had to conduct him home again. Having to wait about the premises
for two, or three, or five hours sometimes, whilst Elizabeth was doing
her lessons, he would naturally desire to shelter himself from the cold
at some neighbouring house of entertainment. Every Friday, a prize of
a golden medal, nay, I believe sometimes of twenty-five silver medals,
was awarded to Miss Bellenden and other young ladies for their good
conduct and assiduity at this academy. Miss Bellenden gave her gold
medal to her mother, only keeping five shillings for herself, with
which the poor child bought gloves, shoes, and her humble articles of
millinery.

Once or twice the captain succeeded in intercepting that piece of gold,
and I daresay treated some of his whiskered friends, the clinking
trampers of the Quadrant pavement. He was a free-handed fellow when
he had anybody’s money in his pocket. It was owing to differences
regarding the settlement of accounts that he quarrelled with the
coal-merchant, his very last employer. Bessy, after yielding once or
twice to his importunity, and trying to believe his solemn promises
of repayment, had strength of mind to refuse her father the pound
which he would have taken. Her five shillings--her poor little slender
pocket-money, the representative of her charities and kindnesses to
the little brothers and sisters, of her little toilette ornaments,
nay necessities; of those well-mended gloves, of those oft-darned
stockings, of those poor boots, which had to walk many a weary mile
after midnight; of those little knicknacks, in the shape of brooch
or bracelet, with which the poor child adorned her homely robe or
sleeve--her poor five shillings, out of which Mary sometimes found a
pair of shoes, or Tommy a flannel jacket, and little Bill a coach and
horse--this wretched sum, this mite, which Bessy administered among
so many poor--I very much fear her father sometimes confiscated. I
charged the child with the fact, and she could not deny me. I vowed a
tremendous vow, that if ever I heard of her giving Prior money again,
I would quit the lodgings, and never give those children lolly-pop,
nor peg-top, nor sixpence; nor the pungent marmalade, nor the biting
gingerbread-nut, nor the theatre-characters, nor the paint-box to
illuminate the same; nor the discarded clothes, which became smaller
clothes upon the persons of little Tommy and little Bill, for whom Mrs.
Prior, and Bessy, and the little maid, cut, clipped, altered, ironed,
darned, mangled, with the greatest ingenuity. I say, considering
what had passed between me and the Priors--considering those money
transactions, and those clothes, and my kindness to the children--it
was rather hard that my jam-pots were poached, and my brandy-bottles
leaked. And then to frighten her brother with the story of the
inexorable creditor--oh, Mrs. Prior!--oh, fie, Mrs. P.!

So Bessy went to her school in a shabby shawl, a faded bonnet, and a
poor little lean dress flounced with the mud and dust of all weathers,
whereas there were some other young ladies, fellow-pupils of hers, who
laid out their gold medals to much greater advantage. Miss Delamere,
with her eighteen shillings a week (calling them “_silver medals_,”
was only my wit, you see), had twenty new bonnets, silk and satin
dresses for all seasons, feathers in abundance, swansdown muffs and
tippets, lovely pocket handkerchiefs and trinkets, and many and many
a half-crown mould of jelly, bottle of sherry, blanket, or what not,
for a poor fellow-pupil in distress; and as for Miss Montanville,
who had exactly the same sal--well, who had a scholarship of exactly
the same value, viz. about fifty pounds yearly--she kept an elegant
little cottage in the Regent’s Park, a brougham with a horse all over
brass harness, and a groom with a prodigious gold lace hat-band, who
was treated with frightful contumely at the neighbouring cab-stand:
an aunt or a mother, I don’t know which (I hope it was only an aunt),
always comfortably dressed, and who looked after Montanville: and
she herself had bracelets, brooches, and velvet pelisses of the very
richest description. But then Miss Montanville was a good economist.
_She_ was never known to help a poor friend in distress, or give a
fainting brother and sister a crust or a glass of wine. She allowed
ten shillings a week to her father, whose name was Boskinson, said to
be clerk to a chapel in Paddington; but she would never see him--no,
not when he was in hospital, where he was so ill; and though she
certainly lent Miss Wilder thirteen pounds, she had Wilder arrested
upon her promissory note for twenty-four, and sold up every stick of
Wilder’s furniture, so that the whole academy cried shame! Well, an
accident occurred to Miss Montanville, for which those may be sorry
who choose. On the evening of the 26th of December, Eighteen hundred
and something, when the conductors of the academy were giving their
grand annual Christmas Pant--I should say examination of the Academy
pupils before their numerous friends--Montanville, who happened to
be present, not in her brougham this time, but in an aërial chariot
of splendour drawn by doves, fell off a rainbow, and through the
roof of the Revolving Shrine of the Amaranthine Queen, thereby very
nearly damaging Bellenden, who was occupying the shrine, attired in a
light-blue spangled dress, waving a wand, and uttering some idiotic
verses composed for her by the Professor of Literature attached to the
academy. As for Montanville, let her go shrieking down that trap-door,
break her leg, be taken home, and never more be character of ours. She
never could speak. Her voice was as hoarse as a fishwoman’s. Can that
immense stout old box-keeper at the ---- theatre, who limps up to
ladies on the first tier, and offers that horrible footstool, which
everybody stumbles over, and makes a clumsy curtsey, and looks so
knowing and hard, as if she recognized an acquaintance in the splendid
lady who enters the box--can that old female be the once brilliant
Emily Montanville? I am told there are _no_ lady box-keepers in the
English theatres. This, I submit, is a proof of my consummate care
and artifice in rescuing from a prurient curiosity the individual
personages from whom the characters of the present story are taken.
Montanville is _not_ a box-opener. She _may_, under another name,
keep a trinket-shop in the Burlington Arcade, for what you know: but
this secret no torture shall induce me to divulge. Life has its rises
and its downfalls, and you have had yours, you hobbling old creature.
Montanville, indeed! Go thy ways! Here is a shilling for thee. (Thank
you, sir.) Take away that confounded footstool, and never let us see
thee more!

Now the fairy Amarantha was like a certain dear young lady of whom we
have read in early youth. Up to twelve o’clock, attired in sparkling
raiment, she leads the dance with the prince (Gradini, known as Grady
in his days of banishment at the T. R. Dublin). At supper, she takes
her place by the prince’s royal father (who is alive now, and still
reigns occasionally, so that we will not mention his revered name). She
makes believe to drink from the gilded pasteboard, and to eat of the
mighty pudding. She smiles as the good old irascible monarch knocks
the prime minister and the cooks about: she blazes in splendour: she
beams with a thousand jewels, in comparison with which the Koh-i-noor
is a wretched lustreless little pebble: she disappears in a chariot,
such as a Lord Mayor never rode in:--and at midnight, who is that young
woman tripping homeward through the wet streets in a battered bonnet, a
cotton shawl, and a lean frock fringed with the dreary winter flounces?

Our Cinderella is up early in the morning: she does no little portion
of the house-work: she dresses her sisters and brothers: she prepares
papa’s breakfast. On days when she has not to go to morning lessons
at her academy, she helps with the dinner. Heaven help us! She has
often brought mine when I have dined at home, and owns to having made
that famous mutton-broth when I had a cold. Foreigners come to the
house--professional gentlemen--to see Slumley on the first floor;
exiled captains of Spain and Portugal, companions of the warrior her
father. It is surprising how she has learned their accents, and has
picked up French and Italian, too. And she played the piano in Mr.
Slumley’s room sometimes, as I have said; but refrained from that
presently, and from visiting him altogether. I suspect he was not a man
of principle. His Paper used to make direful attacks upon individual
reputations; and you would find theatre and opera people most curiously
praised and assaulted in the _Swell_. I recollect meeting him, several
years after, in the lobby of the opera, in a very noisy frame of mind,
when he heard a certain lady’s carriage called, and cried out with
exceeding strong language, which need not be accurately reported, “Look
at that woman! Confound her! I made her, sir! Got her an engagement
when the family was starving, sir! Did you see her, sir! She wouldn’t
even look at me!” Nor indeed was Mr. S. at that moment a very agreeable
object to behold.

Then I remembered that there had been some quarrel with this man, when
we lodged in Beak Street together. If difficulty there was, it was
solved _ambulando_. He quitted the lodgings, leaving an excellent and
costly piano as security for a heavy bill which he owed to Mrs. Prior,
and the instrument was presently fetched away by the music-sellers, its
owners. But regarding Mr. S.’s valuable biography, let us speak very
gently. You see it is “an insult to literature” to say that there are
disreputable and dishonest persons who write in newspapers.

Nothing, dear friend, escapes your penetration: if a joke is made in
your company, you are down upon it instanter, and your smile rewards
the wag who amuses you: so you knew at once, whilst I was talking of
Elizabeth and her academy, that a theatre was meant, where the poor
child danced for a guinea, or five-and-twenty shillings per week.
Nay, she must have had not a little skill and merit to advance to the
quarter of a hundred; for she was not pretty at this time, only a
rough, tawny-haired filly of a girl, with great eyes. Dolphin, the
manager, did not think much of her, and she passed before him in his
regiment of Sea-nymphs, or Bayadères, or Fairies, or Mazurka maidens
(with their fluttering lances and little scarlet slyboots!) scarcely
more noticed than private Jones standing under arms in his company when
his Royal Highness the Field-marshal gallops by. There were no dramatic
triumphs for Miss Bellenden: no bouquets were flung at her feet: no
cunning Mephistopheles--the emissary of some philandering Faustus
outside--corrupted her duenna, or brought her caskets of diamonds. Had
there been any such admirer for Bellenden, Dolphin would not only not
have been shocked, but he would very likely have raised her salary. As
it was, though himself, I fear, a person of loose morals, he respected
better things. “That Bellenden’s a good hhonest gurl,” he said to the
present writer: “works hard: gives her money to her family: father a
shy old cove. Very good family, I hear they are!” and he passes on to
some other of the innumerable subjects which engage a manager.

Now, why should a poor lodging-house keeper make such a mighty secret
of having a daughter earning an honest guinea by dancing at a theatre?
Why persist in calling the theatre an academy? Why did Mrs. Prior speak
of it as such, to me who knew what the truth was, and to whom Elizabeth
herself made no mystery of her calling?

There are actions and events in its life over which decent Poverty
often chooses to cast a veil that is not unbecoming wear. We can all,
if we are minded, peer through this poor flimsy screen: often there
is no shame behind it:--only empty platters, poor scraps, and other
threadbare evidence of want and cold. And who is called on to show
his rags to the public, and cry out his hunger in the street? At this
time (her character has developed itself not so amiably since), Mrs.
Prior was outwardly respectable; and yet, as I have said, my groceries
were consumed with remarkable rapidity; my wine and brandy bottles
were all leaky, until they were excluded from air under a patent
lock;--my Morel’s raspberry jam, of which I was passionately fond, if
exposed on the table for a few hours, was always eaten by the cat, or
that wonderful little wretch of a maid-of-all-work, so active, yet so
patient, so kind, so dirty, so obliging. Was it _the maid_ who took
those groceries? I have seen the _Gazza Ladra_, and know that poor
little maids are sometimes wrongfully accused; and besides, in my
particular case, I own I don’t care who the culprit was. At the year’s
end, a single man is not much poorer for this house-tax which he pays.
One Sunday evening, being confined with a cold, and partaking of that
mutton broth which Elizabeth made so well, and which she brought me, I
entreated her to bring from the cupboard, of which I gave her the key,
a certain brandy-bottle. She saw my face when I looked at her: there
was no mistaking its agony. There was scarce any brandy left: it had
all leaked away: and it was Sunday, and no good brandy was to be bought
that evening.

Elizabeth, I say, saw my grief. She put down the bottle, and she
cried: she tried to prevent herself from doing so at first, but she
fairly burst into tears.

“My dear--dear child,” says I, seizing her hand, “you don’t suppose I
fancy you----”

“No--no!” she says, drawing the large hand over her eyes. “No--no!
but I saw it when you and Mr. Warrington last ’ad some. Oh! do have a
patting lock!”

“A patent lock, my dear?” I remarked. “How odd that you, who have
learned to pronounce Italian and French words so well, should make such
strange slips in English? Your mother speaks well enough.”

“She was born a lady. She was not sent to be a milliner’s girl, as I
was, and then among those noisy girls at that--oh! that _place_!” cries
Bessy, in a sort of desperation clenching her hand.

Here the bells of St. Beak’s began to ring quite cheerily for evening
service. I heard “Elizabeth!” cried out from lower regions by Mrs.
Prior’s cracked voice. And the maiden went her way to Church, which she
and her mother never missed of a Sunday; and I daresay I slept just as
well without the brandy-and-water.

Slumley being gone, Mrs. Prior came to me rather wistfully one day,
and wanted to know whether I would object to Madame Bentivoglio, the
opera-singer, having the first floor? This was too much, indeed! How
was my work to go on with that woman practising all day and roaring
underneath me? But after sending away so good a customer, I could not
refuse to lend the Priors a little more money; and Prior insisted
upon treating me to a new stamp, and making out a new and handsome
bill for an amount nearly twice as great as the last: which he had no
doubt under heaven, and which he pledged his honour as an officer and
a gentleman that he would meet. Let me see: That was how many years
ago?--Thirteen, fourteen, twenty? Never mind. My fair Elizabeth, I
think if you saw your poor old father’s signature now, you would pay
it. I came upon it lately in an old box I haven’t opened these fifteen
years, along with some letters written--never mind by whom--and an old
glove that I used to set an absurd value by; and that emerald-green
tabinet waistcoat which kind old Mrs. Macmanus gave me, and which I
wore at the L--d L--t--nt’s ball, Ph-n-x Park, Dublin, once, when I
danced with _her_ there! Lord!--Lord! It would no more meet round my
waist now than round Daniel Lambert’s. How we outgrow things!

But as I never presented this united bill of 43_l._ odd (the first
portion of 23_l._, &c. was advanced by me in order to pay an execution
out of the house),--as I never expected to have it paid any more than I
did to be Lord Mayor of London,--I say it was a little hard that Mrs.
Prior should write off to her brother (she writes a capital letter),
blessing Providence that had given him a noble income, promising him
the benefit of her prayers, in order that he should long live to enjoy
his large salary, and informing him that an obdurate creditor, who
shall be nameless (meaning me), who had Captain Prior _in his power_
(as if being in possession of that dingy scrawl, I should have known
what to do with it), who held Mr. Prior’s acceptance for 43_l._ 14_s._
4_d._ due on the 3rd July (my bill), would infallibly bring their
family to RUIN, unless a part of the money was paid up. When I went up
to my old college, and called on Sargent, at Boniface Lodge, he treated
me as civilly as if I had been an undergraduate; scarcely spoke to me
in hall, where, of course, I dined at the Fellows’ table; and only
asked me to one of Mrs. Sargent’s confounded tea-parties during the
whole time of my stay. Now it was by this man’s entreaty that I went to
lodge at Prior’s; he talked to me after dinner one day, he hummed, he
ha’d, he blushed, he prated in his pompous way, about an unfortunate
sister in London--fatal early marriage--husband, Captain Prior, Knight
of the Swan with two Necks of Portugal, most distinguished officer, but
imprudent speculator--advantageous lodgings in the centre of London,
quiet, though near the Clubs--if I was ill (I am a confirmed invalid),
Mrs. Prior, his sister, would nurse me like a mother. So, in a word, I
went to Prior’s: I took the rooms: I was attracted by some children:
Amelia Jane (that little dirty maid before mentioned) dragging a
go-cart, containing a little dirty pair; another marching by them,
carrying a fourth well nigh as big as himself. These little folks,
having threaded the mighty flood of Regent Street, debouched into the
quiet creek of Beak Street, just as I happened to follow them. And the
door at which the small caravan halted,--the very door I was in search
of,--was opened by Elizabeth, then only just emerging from childhood,
with tawny hair falling into her solemn eyes.

The aspect of these little people, which would have deterred many,
happened to attract me. I am a lonely man. I may have been ill-treated
by some one once, but that is neither here nor there. If I had had
children of my own, I think I should have been good to them. I thought
Prior a dreadful vulgar wretch, and his wife a scheming, greedy little
woman. But the children amused me: and I took the rooms, liking to hear
overhead in the morning the patter of their little feet. The person I
mean has several;--husband, judge in the West Indies. _Allons_! now you
know how I came to live at Mrs. Prior’s.

Though I am now a steady, a _confirmed_ old bachelor (I shall call
myself Mr. Batchelor, if you please, in this story; and there is some
one far--far away who knows why I will NEVER take another title), I
was a gay young fellow enough once. I was not above the pleasures of
youth: in fact, I learned quadrilles on purpose to dance with her
that long vacation when I went to read with my young friend Lord
Viscount Poldoody at Dub--psha! Be still, thou foolish heart! Perhaps I
mis-spent my time as an undergraduate. Perhaps I read too many novels,
occupied myself too much with “elegant literature” (that used to be our
phrase), and spoke too often at the Union, where I had a considerable
reputation. But those fine words got me no college prizes: I missed my
fellowship: was rather in disgrace with my relations afterwards, but
had a small independence of my own, which I eked out by taking a few
pupils for little goes and the common degree. At length, a relation
dying, and leaving me a farther small income, I left the university,
and came to reside in London.

Now, in my third year at college, there came to St. Boniface a young
gentleman, who was one of the few gentlemen-pensioners of our society.
His popularity speedily was great. A kindly and simple youth, he
would have been liked, I daresay, even though he had been no richer
than the rest of us; but this is certain, that flattery, worldliness,
mammon-worship, are vices as well known to young as to old boys; and
a rich lad at school or college has his followers, tuft-hunters,
led-captains, little courts, just as much as any elderly millionary of
Pall-Mall, who gazes round his club to see whom he shall take home to
dinner, while humble trencher-men wait anxiously, thinking--Ah! will
he take me this time? or will he ask that abominable sneak and toady
Henchman again? Well--well! this is an old story about parasites and
flatterers. My dear good sir, I am not for a moment going to say that
_you_ ever were one; and I daresay it was very base and mean of us to
like a man chiefly on account of his money. “I know”--Tom Lovel used to
say--“I know fellows come to my rooms because I have a large allowance,
and plenty of my poor old governor’s wine, and give good dinners: I
am not deceived; but, at least, it is pleasanter to come to me and
have good dinners, and good wine, than to go to Jack Highson’s dreary
tea and turnout, or to Ned Roper’s abominable Oxbridge port.” And so
I admit at once that Lovel’s parties _were_ more agreeable than most
men’s in the college. Perhaps the goodness of the fare, by pleasing the
guests, made them more pleasant. A dinner in hall, and a pewter-plate
is all very well, and I can say grace before it with all my heart; but
a dinner with fish from London, game, and two or three nice little
_entrées_, is better--and there was no better cook in the university
than ours at St. Boniface, and ah, me! there were appetites then, and
digestions which rendered the good dinner doubly good.

Between me and young Lovel a friendship sprang up, which, I trust, even
the publication of this story will not diminish. There is a period,
immediately after the taking of his bachelor’s degree, when many a
university-man finds himself embarrassed. The tradesmen rather rudely
press for a settlement of their accounts. Those prints we ordered
_calidi juventâ_; those shirt-studs and pins which the jewellers would
persist in thrusting into our artless bosoms; those fine coats we would
insist on having for our books, as well as ourselves; all these have
to be paid for by the graduate. And my father, who was then alive,
refusing to meet these demands, under the--I own--just plea, that my
allowance had been ample, and that my half-sisters ought not to be
mulcted of their slender portions, in consequence of my extravagance, I
should have been subject to very serious inconvenience--nay, possibly,
to personal incarceration, had not Lovel, at the risk of rustication,
rushed up to London to his mother (who then had _especial reasons_ for
being very gracious with her son), obtained a supply of money from her,
and brought it to me at Mr. Shackell’s horrible hotel, where I was
lodged. He had tears in his kind eyes; he grasped my hand a hundred
and hundred times as he flung the notes into my lap; and the recording
tutor (Sargent was only tutor then) who was going to bring him up
before the Master for breach of discipline, dashed away a drop from
his own lid, when, with a moving eloquence, I told what had happened,
and blotted out the transaction with some particular old 1811 Port, of
which we freely partook in his private rooms that evening. By laborious
instalments, I had the happiness to pay Lovel back. I took pupils,
as I said; I engaged in literary pursuits: I became connected with a
literary periodical, and I am ashamed to say, I imposed myself upon the
public as a good classical scholar. I was not thought the less learned,
when my relative dying, I found myself in possession of a small
independency; and my _Translations from the Greek_, my _Poems by Beta_,
and my articles in the paper of which I was part proprietor for several
years, have had their little success in their day.

Indeed at Oxbridge, if I did not obtain university honours, at least I
showed literary tastes. I got the prize essay one year at Boniface, and
plead guilty to having written essays, poems, and a tragedy. My college
friends had a joke at my expense (a very small joke serves to amuse
those port-wine-bibbing fogies, and keeps them laughing for ever so
long a time)--they are welcome, I say, to make merry at my charges--in
respect of a certain bargain which I made on coming to London, and in
which, had I been Moses Primrose purchasing green spectacles, I could
scarcely have been more taken in. _My_ Jenkinson was an old college
acquaintance, whom I was idiot enough to imagine a respectable man:
the fellow had a very smooth tongue, and sleek, sanctified exterior.
He was rather a popular preacher, and used to cry a good deal in the
pulpit. He, and a queer wine-merchant and bill-discounter, Sherrick by
name, had somehow got possession of that neat little literary paper,
the _Museum_, which, perhaps, you remember; and this eligible literary
property my friend Honeyman, with his wheedling tongue, induced me
to purchase. I bear no malice: the fellow is in India now, where I
trust he pays his butcher and baker. He was in dreadful straits for
money when he sold me the _Museum_. He began crying when I told him
some short time afterwards that he was a swindler, and from behind
his pocket-handkerchief sobbed a prayer that I should one day think
better of him; whereas my remarks to the same effect produced an
exactly contrary impression upon his accomplice, Sherrick, who burst
out laughing in my face, and said, “The more fool you.” Mr. Sherrick
was right. He was a fool, without mistake, who had any money-dealing
with him; and poor Honeyman was right, too; I don’t think so badly of
him as I did. A fellow so hardly pinched for money could not resist
the temptation of extracting it from such a greenhorn. I daresay I
gave myself airs as editor of that confounded _Museum_, and proposed
to educate the public taste, to diffuse morality and sound literature
throughout the nation, and to pocket a liberal salary in return for
my services. I daresay I printed my own sonnets, my own tragedy, my
own verses (to a Being who shall be nameless, but whose conduct has
caused a faithful heart to bleed not a little). I daresay I wrote
satirical articles, in which I piqued myself upon the fineness of my
wit, and criticisms, got up for the nonce, out of encyclopædias and
biographical dictionaries; so that I would be actually astounded at my
own knowledge. I daresay I made a gaby of myself to the world: pray, my
good friend, hast thou never done likewise? If thou hast never been a
fool, be sure thou wilt never be a wise man.

I think it was my brilliant _confrère_ on the first floor (he had
pecuniary transactions with Sherrick, and visited two or three of her
Majesty’s metropolitan prisons at that gentleman’s suit) who first
showed me how grievously I had been cheated in the newspaper matter.
Slumley wrote for a paper printed at our office. The same boy often
brought proofs to both of us--a little bit of a puny bright-eyed chap,
who looked scarce twelve years old, when he was sixteen; who in wit was
a man, when in stature he was a child,--like many other children of the
poor.

This little Dick Bedford used to sit many hours asleep on my
landing-place or Slumley’s, whilst we were preparing our invaluable
compositions within our respective apartments. S. was a good-natured
reprobate, and gave the child of his meat and his drink. I used to
like to help the little man from my breakfast, and see him enjoy the
meal. As he sate, with his bag on his knees, his head sunk in sleep,
his little high-lows scarce reaching the floor, Dick made a touching
little picture. The whole house was fond of him. The tipsy captain
nodded him a welcome as he swaggered down stairs, stock, and coat, and
waistcoat in hand, to his worship’s toilette in the back kitchen. The
children and Dick were good friends; and Elizabeth patronized him,
and talked with him now and again, in her grave way. You know Clancy,
the composer?--know him better, perhaps, under his name of Friedrich
Donner? Donner used to write music to Slumley’s words, or _vice versâ_;
and would come now and again to Beak Street, where he and his poet
would try their joint work at the piano. At the sound of that music,
little Dick’s eyes used to kindle. “Oh, it’s prime!” said the young
enthusiast. And I will say, that good-natured miscreant of a Slumley
not only gave the child pence, but tickets for the play, concerts, and
so forth. Dick had a neat little suit of clothes at home; his mother
made him a very nice little waistcoat out of my undergraduate’s gown;
and he and she, a decent woman, when in their best raiment, looked
respectable enough for any theatre-pit in England.

Amongst other places of public amusement which he attended, Mr. Dick
frequented the academy where Miss Bellenden danced, and whence poor
Elizabeth Prior issued forth after midnight in her shabby frock. And
once, the captain, Elizabeth’s father and protector, being unable
to walk very accurately, and noisy and incoherent in his speech, so
that the attention of Messieurs of the police was directed towards
him, Dick came up, placed Elizabeth and her father in a cab, paid the
fare with his own money, and brought the whole party home in triumph,
himself sitting on the box of the vehicle. I chanced to be coming
home myself (from one of Mrs. Wateringham’s elegant tea _soirées_, in
Dorset Square), and reached my door just at the arrival of Dick and his
caravan. “Here, cabby!” says Dick, handing out the fare, and looking
with his brightest eyes. It is pleasanter to look at that beaming
little face, than at the captain yonder, reeling into his house,
supported by his daughter. Dick cried, Elizabeth told me, when, a week
afterwards, she wanted to pay him back his shilling; and she said he
was a strange child, that he was.

I revert to my friend Lovel. I was coaching Lovel for his degree
(which, between ourselves, I think he never would have attained), when
he suddenly announced to me, from Weymouth, where he was passing the
vacation, his intention to quit the university, and to travel abroad.
“Events have happened, dear friend,” he wrote, “which will make my
mother’s home miserable to me (I little knew when I went to town about
your business, what caused her _wonderful complaisance_ to me). She
would have broken my heart, Charles (my Christian name is Charles), but
its wounds have found a _consoler_!”

Now, in this little chapter, there are some little mysteries
propounded, upon which, were I not above any such artifice, I might
easily leave the reader to ponder for a month.

1. Why did Mrs. Prior, at the lodgings, persist in calling the theatre
at which her daughter danced the Academy?

2. What were the special reasons why Mrs. Lovel should be very gracious
with her son, and give him 150_l._ as soon as he asked for the money?

3. Why was Fred Lovel’s heart nearly broken? and 4. Who was his
consoler?

I answer these at once, and without the slightest attempt at delay
or circumlocution. 1. Mrs. Prior, who had repeatedly received money
from her brother, John Erasmus Sargent, D.D., Master of St. Boniface
College, knew perfectly well that if the Master (whom she already
pestered out of his life) heard that she had sent a niece of his on the
stage, he would never give her another shilling.

2. The reason why Emma, widow of the late Adolphus Loeffel, of
Whitechapel Road, sugar-baker, was so particularly gracious to her son,
Adolphus Frederic Lovel, Esq., of St. Boniface College, Oxbridge, and
principal partner in the house of Loeffel aforesaid, an infant, was
that she, Emma, was about to contract a second marriage with the Rev.
Samuel Bonnington.

3. Fred Lovel’s heart was so very much broken by this intelligence,
that he gave himself airs of Hamlet, dressed in black, wore his long
fair hair over his eyes, and exhibited a hundred signs of grief and
desperation: until--

4. Louisa (widow of the late Sir Popham Baker, of Bakerstown, Co.
Kilkenny, Baronet,) induced Mr. Lovel to take a trip on the Rhine with
her and Cecilia, fourth and only unmarried daughter of the aforesaid
Sir Popham Baker, deceased.

My opinion of Cecilia I have candidly given in a previous page.
I adhere to that opinion. I shall not repeat it. The subject is
disagreeable to me, as the woman herself was in life. What Fred found
in her to admire, I cannot tell: lucky for us all that tastes, men,
women, vary. You will never see her alive in this history. That is
her picture, painted by the late Mr. Gandish. She stands fingering
that harp with which she has often driven me half mad with her _Tara’s
Halls_ and her _Poor Marianne_. She used to bully Fred so, and be so
rude to his guests, that in order to pacify her, he would meanly say,
“Do, my love, let us have a little music!” and thrumpty--thrumpty, off
would go her gloves, and _Tara’s Halls_ would begin. “The harp that
_once_” indeed! the accursed catgut scarce knew any other music, and
“once” was a hundred times at least in _my_ hearing. Then came the
period when I was treated to the cold joint which I have mentioned;
and, not liking it, I gave up going to Shrublands.

So, too, did my Lady Baker, but not of _her own free will_, mind
you. _She_ did not quit the premises because her reception was too
cold, but because the house was made a great deal too hot for her.
I remember Fred coming to me in high spirits, and describing to me,
with no little humour, a great battle between Cecilia and Lady Baker,
and her ladyship’s defeat and flight. She fled, however, only as far
as Putney village, where she formed again, as it were, and fortified
herself in a lodging. Next day she made a desperate and feeble attack,
presenting herself at Shrublands lodge-gate, and threatening that she
and sorrow would sit down before it; and that all the world should know
how a daughter treated her mother. But the gate was locked, and Barnet,
the gardener, appeared behind it, saying, “Since you _are_ come, my
lady, perhaps you will pay my missis the four-and-twenty shillings you
borrowed of her.” And he grinned at her through the bars, until she
fled before him, cowering. Lovel paid the little forgotten account; the
best four-and-twenty shillings he had ever laid out, he said.

Eight years passed away; during the last four of which I scarce saw
my old friend, except at clubs and taverns, where we met privily, and
renewed, not old warmth and hilarity, but old kindness. One winter
he took his family abroad; Cecilia’s health was delicate, Lovel told
me, and the doctor had advised that she should spend a winter in the
south. He did not stay with them: he had pressing affairs at home; he
had embarked in many businesses besides the paternal sugar-bakery; was
concerned in companies, a director of a joint-stock bank, a man in
whose fire were many irons. A faithful governess was with the children;
a faithful man and maid were in attendance on the invalid; and Lovel,
adoring his wife, as he certainly did, yet supported her absence with
great equanimity.

In the spring I was not a little scared to read amongst the deaths
in the newspaper:--“At Naples, of scarlet fever, on the 25th ult.,
Cecilia, wife of Frederick Lovel Esq., and daughter of the late Sir
Popham Baker, Bart.” I knew what my friend’s grief would be. He had
hurried abroad at the news of her illness; he did not reach Naples in
time to receive the last words of his poor Cecilia.

Some months after the catastrophe, I had a note from Shrublands. Lovel
wrote quite in the old affectionate tone. He begged his dear old friend
to go to him, and console him in his solitude. Would I come to dinner
that evening?

Of course I went off to him straightway. I found him in deep sables in
the drawing-room with his children, and I confess I was not astonished
to see my Lady Baker once more in that room.

“You seem surprised to see me here, Mr. Batchelor!” says her ladyship,
with that grace and good breeding which she generally exhibited; for
if she accepted benefits, she took care to insult those from whom she
received them.

“Indeed, no,” said I, looking at Lovel, who piteously hung down his
head. He had his little Cecy at his knee: he was sitting under the
portrait of the defunct musician, whose harp, now muffled in leather,
stood dimly in the corner of the room.

“I am here not at my own wish, but from a feeling of duty towards
that--departed--angel!” says Lady Baker, pointing to the picture.

“I am sure when mamma was here, you were always quarrelling,” says
little Popham, with a scowl.

“This is the way those innocent children have been taught to regard
me,” cries grandmamma.

“Silence Pop!” says papa, “and don’t be a rude boy.”

“Isn’t Pop a rude boy?” echoes Cecy.

“Silence, Pop,” continues papa, “or you must go up to Miss Prior.”




                        Studies in Animal Life.

                “Authentic tidings of invisible things;
                Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power,
                And central peace subsisting at the heart
                Of endless agitation.”--THE EXCURSION.


                              CHAPTER I.

  Omnipresence of Life--The Microscope--An Opalina and its
    wonders--The uses of Cilia--How our lungs are protected from
    dust and filings--Feeding without a mouth or stomach--What is
    an organ?--How a complex organism arises--Early stages of a
    frog and a philosopher--How the plants feed--Parasites of the
    frog--Metamorphoses and migrations of Parasites--Life within
    life--The budding of animals--A steady bore--Philosophy of the
    infinitely little.

Come with me, and lovingly study Nature, as she breathes, palpitates,
and works under myriad forms of Life--forms unseen, unsuspected, or
unheeded by the mass of ordinary men. Our course may be through park
and meadow, garden and lane, over the swelling hills and spacious
heaths, beside the running and sequestered streams, along the tawny
coast, out on the dark and dangerous reefs, or under dripping caves
and slippery ledges. It matters little where we go: everywhere--in
the air above, the earth beneath, and waters under the earth--we are
surrounded with Life. Avert your eyes awhile from our human world, with
its ceaseless anxieties, its noble sorrow, poignant, yet sublime, of
conscious imperfection aspiring to higher states, and contemplate the
calmer activities of that other world with which we are so mysteriously
related. I hear you exclaim,--

    “The proper study of mankind is man;”

nor will I pretend, as some enthusiastic students seem to think, that

    “The proper study of mankind is _cells_;”

but agreeing with you, that man is the noblest study, I would suggest
that under the noblest there are other problems which we must not
neglect. Man himself is imperfectly known, because the laws of
universal Life are imperfectly known. His Life forms but one grand
illustration of Biology--the science of Life,[21] as he forms but the
apex of the animal world.

Our studies here will be of Life, and chiefly of those minuter, or
obscurer forms, which seldom attract attention. In the air we breathe,
in the water we drink, in the earth we tread on, Life is everywhere.
Nature _lives_: every pore is bursting with Life; every death is only
a new birth, every grave a cradle. And of this we know so little,
think so little! Around us, above us, beneath us, that great mystic
drama of creation is being enacted, and we will not even consent to be
spectators! Unless animals are obviously useful, or obviously hurtful
to us, we disregard them. Yet they are not alien, but akin. The Life
that stirs within us, stirs within them. We are all “parts of one
transcendent whole.” The scales fall from our eyes when we think of
this; it is as if a new sense had been vouchsafed to us; and we learn
to look at Nature with a more intimate and personal love.

Life everywhere! The air is crowded with birds--beautiful, tender,
intelligent birds, to whom life is a song and a thrilling anxiety,
the anxiety of love. The air is swarming with insects--those little
animated miracles. The waters are peopled with innumerable forms, from
the animalcule, so small that one hundred and fifty millions of them
would not weigh a grain, to the whale, so large that it seems an island
as it sleeps upon the waves. The bed of the seas is alive with polypes,
crabs, star-fishes, and with sand-numerous shell-animalcules. The
rugged face of rocks is scarred by the silent boring of soft creatures;
and blackened with countless mussels, barnacles, and limpets.

Life everywhere! on the earth, in the earth, crawling, creeping,
burrowing, boring, leaping, running. If the sequestered coolness of
the wood tempt us to saunter into its chequered shade, we are saluted
by the murmurous din of insects, the twitter of birds, the scrambling
of squirrels, the startled rush of unseen beasts, all telling how
populous is this seeming solitude. If we pause before a tree, or
shrub, or plant, our cursory and half-abstracted glance detects a
colony of various inhabitants. We pluck a flower, and in its bosom
we see many a charming insect busy at its appointed labour. We pick
up a fallen leaf, and if nothing is visible on it, there is probably
the trace of an insect larva hidden in its tissue, and awaiting there
development. The drop of dew upon this leaf will probably contain its
animals, visible under the microscope. This same microscope reveals
that the _blood-rain_ suddenly appearing on bread, and awakening
superstitious terrors, is nothing but a collection of minute animals
(_Monas prodigiosa_); and that the vast tracts of snow which are
reddened in a single night, owe their colour to the marvellous rapidity
in reproduction of a minute plant (_Protococcus nivalis_). The very
mould which covers our cheese, our bread, our jam, or our ink, and
disfigures our damp walls; is nothing but a collection of plants. The
many-coloured fire which sparkles on the surface of a summer sea at
night, as the vessel ploughs her way, or which drips from the oars in
lines of jewelled light, is produced by millions of minute animals.

Nor does the vast procession end here. Our very mother-earth is formed
of the débris of life. Plants and animals which have been, build up
its solid fabric.[22] We dig downwards, thousands of feet below the
surface, and discover with surprise the skeletons of strange, uncouth
animals, which roamed the fens and struggled through the woods before
man was. Our surprise is heightened when we learn that the very quarry
itself is mainly composed of the skeletons of microscopic animals; the
flints which grate beneath our carriage wheels are but the remains of
countless skeletons. The Apennines and Cordilleras, the chalk cliffs
so dear to homeward-nearing eyes--these are the pyramids of bygone
generations of atomies. Ages ago, these tiny architects secreted
the tiny shells, which were their palaces; from the ruins of these
palaces we build our Parthenons, our St. Peters, and our Louvres. So
revolves the luminous orb of Life! Generations follow generations; and
the Present becomes the matrix of the Future, as the Past was of the
Present: the Life of one epoch forming the prelude to a higher Life.

When we have thus ranged air, earth, and water, finding everywhere a
prodigality of living forms, visible and invisible, it might seem as
if the survey were complete. And yet it is not so. Life cradles within
Life. The bodies of animals are little worlds, having their own animals
and plants. A celebrated Frenchman has published a thick octavo volume
devoted to the classification and description of “The Plants which grow
on Men and Animals;”[23] and many Germans have described the immense
variety of animals which grow on and in men and animals; so that
science can now boast of a parasitic Flora and Fauna. In the fluids and
tissues, in the eye, in the liver, in the stomach, in the brain, in the
muscles, parasites are found; and these parasites have often _their_
parasites living in them!

We have thus taken a bird’s-eye view of the field in which we may
labour. It is truly inexhaustible. We may begin where we please, we
shall never come to an end; our curiosity will never slacken.

                    “And whosoe’er in youth
    Has thro’ ambition of his soul given way
    To such desires, and grasp’d at such delights,
    Shall feel congenial stirrings, late and long.”

As a beginning, get a microscope. If you cannot borrow, boldly buy one.
Few purchases will yield you so much pleasure; and while you are about
it, do, if possible, get a good one. Spend as little money as you can
on accessory apparatus and expensive fittings, but get a good stand
and good glasses. Having got your instrument, bear in mind these two
important trifles--work by daylight, seldom or never by lamplight; and
keep the unoccupied eye _open_. With these precautions you may work
daily for hours without serious fatigue to the eye.

Now where shall we begin? Anywhere will do. This dead frog, for
example, that has already been made the subject of experiments, and is
now awaiting the removal of its spinal cord, will serve us as a text
from which profitable lessons may be drawn. We snip out a portion of
its digestive tube, which from its emptiness seems to promise little;
but a drop of the liquid we find in it is placed on a glass slide,
covered with a small piece of very thin glass, and brought under the
microscope. Now look. There are several things which might occupy your
attention; but disregard them now to watch that animalcule which you
observe swimming about. What is it? It is one of the largest of the
Infusoria, and is named _Opalina_. When I call this an Infusorium I
am using the language of text-books; but there seems to be a growing
belief among zoologists that the Opalina is not an Infusorium, but the
infantile condition of some worm (_Distoma_?). However, it will not
grow into a mature worm as long as it inhabits the frog; it waits till
some pike, or bird, has devoured the frog, and then, in the stomach of
its new captor, it will develop into its mature form: then, and not
till then. This surprises you? And well it may; but thereby hangs a
tale, which to unfold--for the present, however, it must be postponed,
because the Opalina itself needs all our notice.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.

  A                 B

    OPALINA RANARUM.

  A Front view }
               } Magnified.
  B Side view  }
]

Observe how transparent it is, and with what easy, undulating grace
it swims about; yet this swimmer has no arms, no legs, no tail, no
backbone to serve as a fulcrum to moving muscles: nay, it has no
muscles to move with. ’Tis a creature of the most absolute abnegations:
sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything;--no, not sans everything, for
as we look attentively we see certain currents produced in the liquid,
and on applying a higher magnifying power we detect how these currents
are produced. All over the surface of the Opalina there are delicate
hairs, in incessant vibration: these are the _cilia_.[24] They lash the
water, and the animal is propelled by their strokes, as a galley by its
hundred oars. This is your first sight of that ciliary action of which
you have so often read, and which you will henceforth find performing
some important service in almost every animal you examine. Sometimes
the cilia act as instruments of locomotion; sometimes as instruments of
respiration, by continually renewing the current of water; sometimes
as the means of drawing in food--for which purpose they surround the
mouth, and by their incessant action produce a small whirlpool into
which the food is sucked. An example of this is seen in the Vorticella
(Fig. 2).

[Illustration: Fig. 2.

GROUP OF VORTICELLA NEBULIFERA, on a Stem of Weed, Magnified.

  A One undergoing spontaneous division.

  B Another spirally retracted on its stalk.

  C One with cilia retracted.

  D A bud detached and swimming free.]

Having studied the action of these cilia in microscopic animals, you
will be prepared to understand their office in your own organism. The
lining membrane of your air-passages is covered with cilia; which may
be observed by following the directions of Professor Sharpey, to whom
science is indebted for a very exhaustive description of these organs.
“To see them in motion, a portion of the ciliated mucous membrane may
be taken from a recently-killed quadruped. The piece of membrane is
to be folded with its free, or ciliated, surface outwards, placed on
a slip of glass, with a little water or serum of blood, and covered
with thin glass or mica. When it is now viewed with a power of 200
diameters, or upwards, a very obvious agitation will be perceived on
the edge of the fold, and this appearance is caused by the moving
cilia with which the surface of the membrane is covered. Being set
close together, and moving simultaneously or in quick succession, the
cilia, when in brisk action, give rise to the appearance of a bright
transparent fringe along the fold of the membrane, agitated by such
a rapid and incessant motion that the single threads which compose
it cannot be perceived. The motion here meant is that of the cilia
themselves; but they also set in motion the adjoining fluid, driving
it along the ciliated surface, as is indicated by the agitation of any
little particles that may accidentally float in it. The fact of the
conveyance of fluids and other matters along the ciliated surface, as
well as the direction in which they are impelled, may also be made
manifest by immersing the membrane in fluid, and dropping on it some
finely-pulverized substance (such as charcoal in fine powder), which
will be slowly but steadily carried along in a constant and determinate
direction.”[25]

It is an interesting fact, that while the direction in which the
cilia propel fluids and particles is generally towards the interior
of the organism, it is sometimes _reversed_; and, instead of beating
the particles inwards, the cilia energetically beat them back, if
they attempt to enter. Fatal results would ensue if this were not so.
Our air-passages would no longer protect the lungs from particles of
sand, coal-dust, and filings, flying about the atmosphere; on the
contrary, the lashing hairs which cover the surface of these passages
would catch up every particle, and drive it onwards into the lungs.
Fortunately for us, the direction of the cilia is reversed, and they
act as vigilant janitors, driving back all vagrant particles with a
stern “No admittance--_even_ on business!” In vain does the whirlwind
dash a column of dust in our faces--in vain does the air, darkened with
coal-dust, impetuously rush up the nostrils: the air is allowed to pass
on, but the dust is inexorably driven back. Were it not so, how could
miners, millers, iron-workers, and all the modern Tubal Cains contrive
to live in their loaded atmospheres? In a week, their lungs would be
choked up.

Perhaps, you will tell me that this _is_ the case: that manufacturers
of iron and steel are very subject to consumption; and that there is a
peculiar discoloration of the lungs which has often been observed in
coal miners, examined after death.

Not being a physician, and not intending to trouble you with medical
questions, I must still place before you three considerations, which
will show how untenable this notion is. First, although consumption
may be frequent among the Sheffield workmen, the cause is not to be
sought in their breathing filings, but in the sedentary and unwholesome
confinement incidental to their occupation. Miners and coal-heavers
are not troubled with consumption. Moreover, if the filings were
the cause, all the artisans would suffer, when all breathe the same
atmosphere. Secondly, while it is true that discoloured lungs have been
observed in some miners, it has not been observed in all, or in many;
whereas, it has been observed in men not miners, not exposed to any
unusual amount of coal-dust. Thirdly, and most conclusively, experiment
has shown that the coal-dust _cannot_ penetrate to the lungs. Claude
Bernard, the brilliant experimenter, tied a bladder, containing a
quantity of powdered charcoal, to the muzzle of a rabbit. Whenever the
animal breathed, the powder within the bladder was seen to be agitated.
Except during feeding time, the bladder was kept constantly on, so that
the animal breathed only this dusty air. If the powder _could_ have
escaped the vigilance of the cilia, and got into the lungs, this was
a good occasion. But when the rabbit was killed and opened, many days
afterwards, no powder whatever was found in the lungs, or bronchial
tubes; several patches were collected about the nostrils and throat;
but the cilia had acted as a strainer, keeping all particles from the
air-tubes.

The swimming apparatus of the Opalina has led us far away from the
little animal, who has been feeding while we have been lecturing.
At the mention of feeding, you naturally look for the food that is
eaten, the mouth and stomach that eat. But I hinted just now that
this ethereal creature dispenses with a stomach, as too gross for
its nature; and of course, by a similar refinement, dispenses with
a mouth. Indeed, it has no organs whatever, except the cilia just
spoken of. The same is true of several of the Infusoria; for you must
know that naturalists no longer recognize the complex organization
which Ehrenberg fancied he had detected in these microscopic beings.
If it pains you to relinquish the piquant notion of a microscopic
animalcule having a structure equal in complexity to that of the
elephant, there will be ample compensation in the notion which replaces
it, the notion of an ascending series of animal organisms, rising
from the structureless _amœba_ to the complex frame of a mammal. On
a future occasion we shall see that, great as Ehrenberg’s services
have been, his _interpretations_ of what he saw have one by one been
replaced by truer notions. His immense class of Infusoria has been,
and is constantly being, diminished; many of his animals turn out to
be plants; many of them embryos of worms; and some of them belong
to the same divisions of the animal kingdom as the oyster and the
shrimp: that is to say, they range with the Molluscs and Crustaceans.
In these, of course, there is a complex organization; but in the
Infusoria, as now understood, the organization is extremely simple.
No one now believes the clear spaces visible in their substance to be
stomachs, as Ehrenberg believed; and the idea of the _Polygastrica_, or
many-stomached Infusoria, is abandoned. No one believes the coloured
specs to be eyes; because, not to mention the difficulty of conceiving
eyes where there is no nervous system, it has been found that even the
spores of some plants have these coloured specs; and they are assuredly
not eyes. If, then, we exclude the highly-organized _Rotifera_, or
“Wheel Animalcules,” which are genuine Crustacea, we may say that all
Infusoria, whether they be the young of worms or not, are of very
simple organization.

And this leads us to consider what biologists mean by an _organ_: it
is a particular portion of the body set apart for the performance of
some particular function. The whole process of development is this
setting apart for special purposes. The starting-point of Life is a
single cell--that is to say, a microscopic sac, filled with liquid and
granules, and having within it a nucleus, or smaller sac. Paley has
somewhere remarked, that in the early stages, there is no difference
discernible between a frog and a philosopher. It is very true; truer
than he conceived. In the earliest stage of all, both the Batrachian
and the Philosopher are nothing but single cells; although the one cell
will develop into an Aristotle or a Newton, and the other will get
no higher than the cold, damp, croaking animal which boys will pelt,
anatomists dissect, and Frenchmen eat. From the starting-point of a
single cell, this is the course taken: the cell divides itself into
two, the two become four, the four eight, and so on, till a mass of
cells is formed, not unlike the shape of a mulberry. This mulberry-mass
then becomes a sac, with double envelopes, or walls: the inner wall,
turned towards the yelk, or food, becomes the _assimilating_ surface
for the whole; the outer wall, turned towards the surrounding medium,
becomes the surface which is to bring frog and philosopher into contact
and relation with the external world--the Non-Ego, as the philosopher,
in after life, will call it. Here we perceive the first grand “setting
apart,” or _differentiation_, has taken place: the embryo having an
assimilating surface, which has little to do with the external world;
and a sensitive, contractile surface, which has little to do with the
preparation and transport of food. The embryo is no longer a mass
of similar cells; it is already become dissimilar, _different_, as
respects its inner and outer envelope. But these envelopes are at
present uniform; one part of each is exactly like the rest. Let us,
therefore, follow the history of Development, and we shall find that
the inner wall gradually becomes unlike itself in various parts;
and that certain organs, constituting a very complex apparatus of
Digestion, Secretion, and Excretion, are all one by one wrought out of
it, by a series of metamorphoses, or _differentiations_. The inner wall
thus passes from a simple assimilating surface to a complex apparatus
serving the functions of vegetative life.

Now glance at the outer wall: from it also various organs have
gradually been wrought: it has developed into muscles, nerves, bones,
organs of sense, and brain: all these from a simple homogeneous
membrane!

With this bird’s-eye view of the course of Development, you will be
able to appreciate the grand law first clearly enunciated by Goethe
and Von Baer, as the law of animal life, namely, that Development is
always from the general to the special, from the simple to the complex,
from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous; and this by a gradual series
of _differentiations_.[26] Or to put it into the music of our deeply
meditative Tennyson:--

    “All nature widens upward. Evermore
      The simpler essence lower lies:
    More complex is more perfect--owning more
      Discourse, more widely wise.”

You are now familiarized with the words “differentiation” and
“development,” so often met with in modern writers; and have gained a
distinct idea of what an “organ” is; so that on hearing of an animal
without organs, you will at once conclude that in such an animal there
has been no setting apart of any portion of the body for special
purposes, but that all parts serve all purposes indiscriminately. Here
is our Opalina, for example, without mouth, or stomach, or any other
organ. It is an assimilating surface in every part; in every part a
breathing, sensitive surface. Living on liquid food, it does not need
a mouth to seize, or a stomach to digest, such food. The liquid, or
gas, passes through the Opalina’s delicate skin, by a process which is
called _endosmosis_; it there serves as food; and the refuse passes
out again by a similar process, called _exosmosis_. This is the way in
which many animals and all plants are nourished. The cell at the end
of a rootlet, which the plant sends burrowing through the earth, has
no mouth to seize, no open pores to admit the liquid that it needs;
nevertheless the liquid passes into the cell, through its delicate
cell-wall, and passes from this cell to _other_ cells, upwards from the
rootlet to the bud. It is in this way, also, that the Opalina feeds: it
is all-mouth, no-mouth; all-stomach, no-stomach. Every part of its body
performs the functions which in more complex animals are performed by
organs specially set apart. It feeds without mouth, breathes without
lungs, and moves without muscles.

The Opalina, as I said, is a parasite. It may be found in various
animals, and almost always in the frog. You will, perhaps, ask why it
should be considered a parasite; why may it not have been swallowed by
the frog in a gulp of water? Certainly, nothing would have been easier.
But to remove your doubts, I open the skull of this frog, and carefully
remove a drop of the liquid found inside, which, on being brought
under the microscope, we shall most probably find containing some
animalcules, especially those named _Monads_. These were not swallowed.
They live in the cerebro-spinal fluid, as the Opalina lives in the
digestive tube. Nay, if we extend our researches, we shall find that
various organs have their various parasites. Here, for instance, is a
parasitic worm from the frog’s bladder. Place it under the microscope,
with a high power, and behold! It is called _Polystomum_--many-mouthed,
or, more properly, many-suckered. You are looking at the under side,
and will observe six large suckers with their starlike clasps (_e_),
and the horny instrument (_f_), with which the animal bores its way. At
_a_ there is another sucker, which serves also as a mouth; at _b_ you
perceive the rudiment of a gullet, and at _d_ the reproductive organs.
But pay attention to the pretty branchings of the digestive tube (_c_)
which ramifies through the body like a blood-vessel.

[Illustration: Fig. 3.

POLYSTOMUM INTEGERRIMUM, Magnified.]

This arrangement of the digestive tube is found in many animals, and
is often mistaken for a system of blood-vessels. In one sense this
is correct; for these branching tubes are carriers of nutriment, and
the only circulating vessels such animals possess; but the nutriment
is _chyme_, not blood: these simple animals have not arrived at the
dignity of blood, which is a higher elaboration of the food, fitted for
higher organisms.

Thus may our frog, besides its own marvels, afford us many “authentic
tidings of invisible things,” and is itself a little colony of Life.
Nature is economic as well as prodigal of space. She fills the
illimitable heavens with planetary and starry grandeurs, and the
tiny atoms moving over the crust of earth she makes the homes of the
infinitely little. Far as the mightiest telescope can reach, it
detects worlds in clusters, like pebbles on the shore of Infinitude;
deep as the microscope can penetrate, it detects Life within Life,
generation within generation; as if the very Universe itself were not
vast enough for the energies of Life!

That phrase, generation within generation, was not a careless phrase;
it is exact. Take the tiny insect (_Aphis_) which, with its companions,
crowds your rose-tree; open it, in a solution of sugar-water, under
your microscope, and you will find in it a young insect nearly formed;
open that young insect with care, and you will find in it, also,
another young one, less advanced in its development, but perfectly
recognizable to the experienced eye; and beside this embryo you will
find many eggs, which would in time become insects!

Or take that lazy water-snail (_Paludina vivipara_), first made known
to science by the great Swammerdamm, the incarnation of patience and
exactness, and you will find, as he found, forty or fifty young snails,
in various stages of development; and you will also find, as he found,
some tiny worms, which, if you cut them open, will suffer three or four
infusoria to escape from the opening.[27] In your astonishment you will
ask, Where is this to end?

The observation recorded by Swammerdamm, like so many others of this
noble worker, fell into neglect; but modern investigators have made
it the starting-point of a very curious inquiry. The worms he found
within the snail are now called _Cercaria-sacs_, because they contain
the _Cercariæ_, once classed as Infusoria, and which are now known to
be the early forms of parasitic worms inhabiting the digestive tube,
and other cavities, of higher animals. These _Cercariæ_ have vigorous
tails, with which they swim through the water like tadpoles, and
like tadpoles, they lose their tails in after life. But how, think
you, did these sacs containing _Cercariæ_ get into the water-snails?
“By spontaneous generation,” formerly said the upholders of that
hypothesis; and those who condemned the hypothesis were forced to admit
they had no better explanation. It was a mystery, which they preferred
leaving unexplained, rather than fly to spontaneous generation. And
they were right. The mystery has at length been cleared up.[28] I will
endeavour to bring together the scattered details, and narrate the
curious story.

Under the eyelids of geese and ducks may be constantly found a
parasitic worm (of the _Trematode_ order), which naturalists have
christened _Monostomum mutabile_--Single-mouth, Changeable. This worm
brings forth living young, in the likeness of active Infusoria, which,
being covered with cilia, swim about in the water, as we saw the
Opalina swim. Here is a portrait of one. (Fig. 4.)

Each of these animalcules develops a sac in its interior. The sac
you may notice in the engraving. Having managed to get into the body
of the water-snail, the animalcule’s part in the drama is at an end.
It dies, and in dying liberates the sac, which is very comfortably
housed and fed by the snail. If you examine this sac (Fig. 5), you will
observe that it has a mouth and digestive tube, and is, therefore, very
far from being, what its name imports, a mere receptacle; it is an
independent animal, and lives an independent life. It feeds generously
on the juices of the snail, and having fed, thinks generously of the
coming generations. It was born inside the animalcule; why should it
not in turn give birth to children of its own? To found a dynasty, to
scatter progeny over the bounteous earth, is a worthy ambition. The
mysterious agency of Reproduction begins in this sac-animal; and in
a short while a brood of _Cercariæ_ move within it. The sac bursts,
and the brood escapes. But how is this? The children are by no means
the “very image” of their parent. They are not sacs, nor in the least
resembling sacs, as you see. (Fig. 6.)

[Illustration: Fig. 4.

  A  EMBRYO OF MONOSTOMUM MUTABILE.
  B  Cercaria sac, just set free.

  _a_ Mouth; _b_ Pigment spots; _c_ Sac.--Magnified.]

They have tails, and suckers, and sharp boring instruments, with
other organs which their parent was without. To look at them you
would as soon suspect a shrimp to be the progeny of an oyster, as
these to be the progeny of the sac-animal. And what makes the paradox
more paradoxical is, that not only are the _Cercariæ_ unlike their
parent, but their parent was equally unlike its parent the embryo
of _Monostomum_ (compare fig. 4). However, if we pursue this family
history, we shall find the genealogy rights itself at last, and that
this Cercaria will develop in the body of some bird into a _Monostomum
mutabile_ like its ancestor. Thus the worm produces an animalcule,
which produces a sac-animal, which produces a Cercaria, which becomes a
worm exactly resembling its great-grandfather.

[Illustration: Fig. 5.

CERCARIA SAC.

  A Mouth;

  B Digestive tube;

  C A Cercaria newly formed. Four others are seen in different
    stages.--Magnified.]

[Illustration: Fig. 6.

CERCARIA DEVELOPED.

  A Mouth; B, B, B Excretory organ; C Pigment spots; D Tail.
]

One peculiarity in this history is that while the _Monostomum_ produces
its young in the usual way, the two _intermediate_ forms are produced
by a process of budding, analogous to that observed in plants. Plants,
as you know, are reproduced in two ways, from the seed, and from
the bud. For seed-reproduction, peculiar organs are necessary; for
bud-reproduction, there is no such differentiation needed: it is simply
an out-growth. The same is true of many animals: they also bud like
plants, and produce seeds (eggs) like plants. I have elsewhere argued
that the two processes are essentially identical; and that both are
but special forms of growth.[29] Not, however, to discuss so abstruse
a question here, let us merely note that the Monostomum, into which
the Cercaria will develop, produces eggs, from which young will issue;
the second generation is not produced from eggs, but by internal
budding; the third generation is likewise budded internally; but it,
on acquiring maturity, will produce eggs. For this maturity, it is
indispensable that the Cercaria should be swallowed by some bird or
animal; only in the digestive tube can it acquire its egg-producing
condition. How is it to get there? The ways are many; let us witness
one:--

In this watchglass of water we have several _Cercariæ_ swimming about.
To them we add three or four of those darting, twittering insects
which you have seen in every vase of pond-water, and have learned to
be the larvæ, or early forms, of the _Ephemeron_. The _Cercariæ_ cease
flapping the water with their impatient tails, and commence a severe
scrutiny of the strangers. When Odry, in the riotous farce, _Les
Saltimbanques_, finds a portmanteau, he exclaims, “_Une malle! ce doit
être à moi!_” (“Surely this _must_ belong to me!”) This seems to be the
theory of property adopted by the Cercaria: “An insect! surely this
belongs to me!” Accordingly every one begins creeping over the bodies
of the Ephemera, giving an interrogatory poke with the spine, which
will pierce the first soft place it can detect. Between the segments of
the insect’s armour a soft and pierceable spot is found; and now, lads,
to work! Onwards they bore, never relaxing in their efforts till a hole
is made large enough for them to slip in by elongating their bodies.
Once in, they dismiss their tails as useless appendages; and begin what
is called the process of _encysting_--that is, of rolling themselves up
into a ball, and secreting a mucus from their surface, which hardens
round them like a shell. Thus they remain snugly ensconced in the body
of the insect, which in time develops into a fly, hovers over the pond,
and is swallowed by some bird. The fly is digested, and the liberated
Cercaria finds itself in comfortable quarters, its shell is broken, and
its progress to maturity is rapid.

Von Siebold’s description of another form of emigration he has
observed in parasites will be read with interest. “For a long time,”
he says, “the origin of the threadworm, known as _Filaria insectorum_,
that lives in the cavity of the bodies of adult and larval insects,
could not be accounted for. Shut up within the abdominal cavity
of caterpillars, grasshoppers, beetles, and other insects, these
parasites were supposed to originate by spontaneous generation, under
the influence of wet weather or from decayed food. Helminthologists
(students of parasitic worms) were obliged to content themselves with
this explanation, since they were unable to find a better. Those who
dissected these threadworms and submitted them to a careful inspection,
could not deny the probability, since it was clear that they contained
no trace of sexual organs. But on directing my attention to these
entozoa, I became aware of the fact that they were not true _Filariæ_
at all, but belonged to a peculiar family of threadworms, embracing
the genera of _Gordius_ and _Mermis_. Furthermore, I convinced myself
that these parasites wander away when full-grown, boring their way from
within through any soft place in the body of their host, and creeping
out through the opening. These parasites do not emigrate because they
are uneasy, or because the caterpillar is sickly; but from that same
internal necessity which constrains the horsefly to leave the stomach
of the horse where he has been reared, or which moves the gadfly to
work its way out through the skin of the oxen. The larvæ of both these
insects creep forth in order to become chrysalises, and thence to
proceed to their higher and perfect condition. I have demonstrated
that the perfect, full-grown, but _sexless_ threadworms of insects are
in like manner moved by their desire to wander out of their previous
homes, in order to enter upon a new period of their lives, which ends
in the development of their sex. As they leave the bodies of their
hosts they fall to the ground, and crawl away into the deeper and
moister parts of the soil. Threadworms found in the damp earth, in
digging up gardens and cutting ditches, have often been brought to
me, which presented no external distinctions from the threadworms of
insects. This suggested to me that the wandering threadworms of insects
might instinctively bury themselves in damp ground, and I therefore
instituted a series of experiments by placing the newly-emigrated worms
in flower-pots filled with damp earth. To my delight I soon perceived
that they began to bore with their heads into the earth, and by degrees
drew themselves entirely in. For many months I kept the earth in the
flower-pots moderately moist, and on examining the worms from time to
time I found they had gradually attained their sex-development, and
eggs were deposited in hundreds. Towards the conclusion of winter I
could succeed in detecting the commencing development of the embryos in
these eggs. By the end of spring they were fully formed, and many of
them having left their shells were to be seen creeping about the earth.
I now conjectured that these young worms would be impelled by their
instincts to pursue a parasitic existence, and to seek out an animal
to inhabit and to grow to maturity in; and it seemed not improbable
that the brood I had reared would, like their parents, thrive best
in the caterpillar. In order, therefore, to induce my young brood to
immigrate, I procured a number of very small caterpillars which the
first spring sunshine had just called into life. For the purpose of
my experiment I filled a watch-glass with damp earth, taking it from
amongst the flower-pots where the threadworms had wintered. Upon
this I placed several of the young caterpillars.” The result was as
he expected; the caterpillars were soon bored into by the worms, and
served them at once as food and home.[30]

Frogs and parasites, worms and infusoria--are these worth the attention
of a serious man? They have a less imposing appearance than planets
and asteroids, I admit, but they are nearer to us, and admit of being
more intimately known; and because they are thus accessible, they
become more important to us. The life that stirs within us is also
the life within them. It is for this reason, as I said at the outset,
that although man’s noblest study must always be man, there are other
studies less noble, yet not therefore ignoble, which must be pursued,
even if only with a view to the perfection of the noblest. Many men,
and those not always the ignorant, whose scorn of what they do not
understand is always ready, despise the labours which do not obviously
and directly tend to moral or political advancement. Others there are,
who, fascinated by the grandeur of Astronomy and Geology, or by the
immediate practical results of Physics and Chemistry, disregard all
microscopic research as little better than dilettante curiosity. But
I cannot think any serious study is without its serious value to the
human race; and I know that the great problem of Life can never be
solved while we are in ignorance of its simpler forms. Nor can anything
be more unwise than the attempt to limit the sphere of human inquiry,
especially by applying the test of immediate utility. All truths are
related; and however remote from our daily needs some particular truth
may seem, the time will surely come when its value will be felt. To
the majority of our countrymen during the Revolution, when the conduct
of James seemed of incalculable importance, there would have seemed
something ludicrously absurd in the assertion that the newly-discovered
differential calculus was infinitely more important to England and
to Europe than the fate of all the dynasties; and few things could
have seemed more remote from any useful end than this product of
mathematical genius; yet it is now clear to every one that the conduct
of James was supremely insignificant in comparison with this discovery.
I do not say that men were unwise to throw themselves body and soul
into the Revolution; I only say they would have been unwise to condemn
the researches of mathematicians.

Let all who have a longing to study Nature in any of her manifold
aspects, do so without regard to the sneers or objections of men whose
tastes and faculties are directed elsewhere. From the illumination
of many minds on many points, Truth must finally emerge. Man is, in
Bacon’s noble phrase, the minister and interpreter of Nature; let him
be careful lest he suffer this ministry to sink into a priesthood,
and this interpretation to degenerate into an immovable dogma. The
suggestions of apathy, and the prejudices of ignorance, have at all
times inspired the wish to close the temple against new comers. Let us
be vigilant against such suggestions, and keep the door of the temple
ever open.


FOOTNOTES:

[21] The needful term Biology (from _Bios_, life, and _logos_,
discourse) is now becoming generally adopted in England, as in Germany.
It embraces all the separate sciences of Botany, Zoology, Comparative
Anatomy, and Physiology.

[22] See EHRENBERG: _Microgeologie: das Erden und Felsen schaffende
Wirken des unsichtbar kleinen selbstständigen Lebens auf der Erde_.
1854.

[23] CHARLES ROBIN: _Histoire Naturelle des Végétaux Parasites qui
croissent sur l’Homme et sur les Animaux Vivants_. 1853.

[24] From _cilium_, a hair.

[25] _Quain’s Anatomy._ By SHARPEY AND ELLIS. Sixth edition. I., p.
lxxiii. See also SHARPEY’S article, _Cilia_, in the _Cyclopædia of
Anatomy and Physiology_.

[26] GOETHE: _Zur Morphologie_, 1807. VON BAER: _Zur
Entwickelungsgeschichte_, 1828. Part I., p. 158.

[27] SWAMMERDAMM. _Bibel der Natur_, pp. 75-77.

[28] By VON SIEBOLD. See his interesting work, _Ueber die
Band-und-Blasenwürmer_. It has been translated by HUXLEY, and appended
to the translation of KUECHENMEISTER _on Parasites_, published by the
Sydenham Society.

[29] _Seaside Studies_, pp. 308, _sq._

[30] VON SIEBOLD: _Ueber Band-und-Blasenwürmer_. Translated by HUXLEY.




                 Father Prout’s Inaugurative Ode

                 TO THE AUTHOR OF “VANITY FAIR.”


                                I.

        Ours is a faster, quicker age:
    Yet erst at GOLDSMITH’S homely Wakefield Vicarage,
    While Lady BLARNEY from the West End glozes
            Mid the PRIMROSES,
            Fudge! cries Squire THORNHILL,
        Much to the wonder of young greenhorn MOSES.
            Such word of scorn ill
        Matches the “Wisdom Fair” thy whim proposes
            To hold on CORNHILL.


                                II.

        With Fudge, or Blarney, or the “Thames on Fire!”
            Treat not thy buyer;
            But proffer good material--
            A genuine Cereal,
          Value for twelvepence, and not dear at twenty.
        Such wit replenishes thy Horn of Plenty!


                               III.

          Nor wit alone dispense,
              But sense:
          And with thy sparkling Xerez
              Let us have Ceres.
              Of loaf thou hast no lack,
          Nor set, like SHAKESPEARE’S zany, forth,
              With lots of sack,
              Of bread one pennyworth.


                                IV.

            Sprightly, and yet sagacious,
            Funny, yet farinaceous,
            Dashing, and yet methodical--
            So may thy periodical,
            On this auspicious morn,
              Exalt its horn,
          Thron’d on the HILL OF CORN!


                                V.

        Of aught that smacks of sect, surplice, or synod,
            Be thy grain winnow’d!
          Nor deign to win our laugh
            With empty chaff.
        Shun aught o’er which dullard or bigot gloats;
            Nor seek our siller
          With meal from TITUS OATES
            Or flour of JOSEPH MILLER.


                                VI.

        There’s corn in Egypt still
        (Pilgrim from Cairo to Cornhill!)
              Give each his fill.
            But all comers among
              Treat best the young;
        Fill the big brothers’ knapsacks from thy bins,
        But slip the Cup of Love in BENJAMIN’S.


                               VII.

            Next as to those
        Who bring their lumbering verse or ponderous prose
            To where good SMITH AND ELDER
            Have so long held their
            Well-garnish’d Cornhill storehouse--
                Bid them not bore us.
                Tell them instead
          To take their load next street, the HALL OF LEAD!


                               VIII.

          Only one word besides--
          As he who tanneth hides
        Stocketh with proper implements his tannery:
            So thou, Friend! do not fail
            To store a stout corn flail,
        Ready for use, within thy Cornhill granary.
              Of old there walked abroad,
        Prompt to right wrongs, Caliph HAROUN AL RASHID:
              Deal thus with Fraud,
        Or Job or Humbug--thrash it!


                                IX.

        Courage, old Friend! long found
        Firm at thy task, nor in fixt purpose fickle:
            Up! choose thy ground,
          Put forth thy shining sickle;--
            Shun the dense underwood
            Of Dunce or Dunderhood:
        But reap North, South, East, Far West,
              The world-wide Harvest!




                        Our Volunteers.


The French nation has indisputably the most warlike propensities
of any in the world. Other countries make warlike preparations in
self-defence, for the maintenance of their own rights and possessions,
and to prevent any other power, or combination of powers, obtaining a
position menacing to their safety, or injurious to their liberties.
Their governments, when there are valid grounds for alarm, instil these
apprehensions into the minds of the people, who are soon roused to meet
the threatened danger. But the unremitting pursuit of the French nation
is military glory: no government of that country can exist without
ministering to it. France is now armed to the teeth, and ready to do
battle for any cause--even “for an idea.”

England is the nation which, perhaps sooner than any other, may be
called upon to check her in the indulgence of this propensity; and this
country also offers more points against which aggressive operations can
be carried out. Hence it is natural that the preparations of France
should be made chiefly with reference to a contest with Great Britain;
and these preparations have now arrived at such formidable proportions
that it would be infatuation in us to neglect the means of resistance.

The strongest evidence in support of this hypothesis is to be found
in the fact that the most extraordinary preparations which have
been gradually but rapidly made by the French Government, at a vast
expense--namely, its naval and coast armaments--can be directed against
no other power but England. It does not necessarily follow that any
aggressive measures are positively contemplated; but it is not the less
essential for us to maintain a corresponding force, available not only
against invasion, should it be attempted, but strong enough to protect
our commerce by securing the freedom of the seas, and thus preventing
this country from being reduced to a subordinate power.

British statesmen know and declare, and the nation feels, that it is
essential to the maintenance of our possessions, our commerce, and our
influence, that we should have a preponderating naval force. Other
governments may demur to this, and may even be disposed to dispute the
point, as France appears to be now preparing to do. It then becomes
a question of national power and resources. This is an unfortunate
alternative, but it is one which will not admit of compromise or
arbitration: _we_ consider an absolute superiority on the seas
essential to the safety of our shores, the prosperity of our commerce,
and the security of our colonies; _they_ manifest a determination to
contest our maritime supremacy, and to create a force which shall give
them even a preponderating influence.

Let us put the case in what may be deemed the legitimate view,
repudiating altogether any feeling of national animosity or prejudice.
Whatever may be the result of the impending struggle for naval
superiority--which does not altogether depend upon numerical force,
but may be greatly influenced by the proficiency of either side in
employing the newly-invented implements and modes of warfare--it
must be conceded that we cannot expect our superiority will be so
absolute as to enable us to trust entirely to our “wooden walls,” or to
defensive armaments afloat: we must have an ample array of land forces
to protect our homes, if menaced by the vast armies of France, which
are constantly maintained in a state of full equipment and readiness.

Large armaments maintained during times of peace are repugnant to
the feelings and good sense of the English nation; and yet if other
nations, less strongly animated by industrial impulses and the
principles of political economy, will accumulate immense powers of
aggression, we must, in self-defence, maintain efficient means of
resisting them. Patriotic feeling and high spirit in the population,
even though aided by abundance of arms and ammunition, will not now, as
in olden times, suffice. Soldiership is become a scientific profession;
and an apprenticeship to the art of war, with skill and experience in
every branch of it, are absolutely necessary to oppose with success a
well-trained and disciplined force.

Our difficulties in the way of self-preservation are materially
increased by the nature of our institutions and our feelings of
personal independence. All other great nations in Europe have a
power of compulsory enlistment; we have not: if we had, our standing
forces for army and navy might be more moderate,--if we only retained
efficacious means of rapid organization and equipment. According to
our system, however, it is so long before we can procure the necessary
number of men for the war establishment, that our only safety must
consist in a much greater amount of permanent forces. In short, our
purse must pay for our pride.

The volunteer system, however, tends, in some degree, to remedy this
disadvantage, and will become more and more valuable in proportion as
it shall conform itself gradually to such arrangements as will make our
volunteers efficient for acting with our regular forces.

The first and prevalent idea from which the volunteer system sprang was
of a _levée en masse_; that every man animated by British pluck and
spirit (and they would number hundreds of thousands) should be well
practised in the use of the rifle, and, in case of invasion, should
turn out to oppose the enemy, to line the hedges, hang upon the flank
and rear of the invading force, and cut it to pieces.

That our volunteers, who have nobly come forward spontaneously, without
any prompting from government, would be ready to devote their lives,
as they are devoting their time and energies, to the defence of their
country against invasion, no one who appreciates the English character
will doubt; but that such a heterogeneous body of men, if opposed to
a highly-trained and disciplined force of veteran soldiers, would be
able to repel the attack of an army, is now generally admitted to be a
fallacy; and it would be doing injustice to the intelligence and good
sense of Englishmen to blink the truth, which must be obvious to every
soldier who has had experience of actual warfare.

Bodies of civilians, however courageous and well drilled, would be ill
calculated to bear the hardships and fatigues of a soldier’s life; nor
could they be relied upon, even as a matter of numbers: a rainy night
or two in the open fields, and occasional short supplies of food, would
thin their ranks prodigiously. It cannot be supposed that men of any
class or nation, however brave, suddenly leaving comfortable homes and
in-door pursuits, could endure that exposure and privation which is
required of soldiers--men selected for their hardy constitutions and
well-knit frames, and trained to implicit obedience, and habituated to
act together. Composed of men of different descriptions and habits,
without military discipline and organization, they would be wanting
in cohesion and unity of action; or if each man or small party acted
on individual impulse, their efforts would be unavailing to arrest
the progress of an army advancing in solid masses, like some vast and
complex machine animated by life and motion. Panics would be rife
amongst them, and but few of the bravest even would stand when they
heard the action gaining on their flanks and rear. Moreover, no general
would know how to deal with numbers of them under his command, for fear
of his dispositions being deranged by their proceedings; nor could
any commissariat or other department be prepared to provide for so
uncertain and fluctuating a body.

A confidence in the efficiency of an armed population to resist
the invasion of their country by regular armies has been created
by reference to history; and the examples of the United States, of
the Tyrol, of Spain, and others, have been triumphantly quoted; but
an investigation into the circumstances of each case will show how
greatly they all differ from such circumstances as would attend an
attack upon England. In the cases cited, either the country was wild
and mountainous, without communications and resources, the invading
army small, or the contest greatly prolonged: rarely, if ever, has
the invader been thoroughly checked _in his first progress_; but when
forced to break into detachments and to act in small bodies, he has, by
a spirited and energetic population, been harassed beyond his strength,
and thus _eventually_ forced to abandon the attempt.

It being evident, then, that a mere rising in mass of the population
would be unavailing, and even mischievous, leading to a lamentable
waste of life, and encouraging the invaders in proportion as the
defenders were discomfited, we have now to consider the best means of
utilizing the present volunteer movement, which assumes for its basis
some degree of organization and training.

Government prudently abstained from any interference with the movement,
or from involving itself in any undertaking to organize the volunteers;
for that would have led, not only to great and indefinite expenses, but
to the abstracting of available resources from the established forces
of the country, and also to other inconveniences, without, as yet, any
reliable and adequate advantages in prospect. The movement being thus
left to its own impulses, a large number of gentlemen, and others in
sufficiently easy circumstances, determined to enrol themselves, in
different localities, into self-supporting corps of riflemen. Their
determination was most spirited and praiseworthy, and government,
without pledging itself to any fixed or great amount of support, now
affords, in many ways, aid and direction to the movement, without too
minute an interference in its essentially voluntary arrangements.

Thus we have already many thousands of stout hearts, constituting
an _impromptu_ armed force, at little cost to government, advancing
in organization and exercises, having arms and accoutrements, and
above all, making preparation for thoroughly practising with the
rifle--their strongest desire being to become first-rate shots. Here
is a mass of most superb material; but we would earnestly impress
upon the volunteers, and upon the country, not to rely too much upon
stout hearts and good shots: much else is needful. It is quite a
mistake to suppose that mere perfection in firing at a mark will make
a good rifleman for the field. Volunteers, to be efficient in action,
must form a component part of an army. Every part of an army in the
field must be well in hand of the generals in command--light infantry
and riflemen must be equal to all movements, in compact as well as
dispersed order, and in the several combinations of the two. By this
alone will they be really formidable, and by this alone will they
acquire a confidence and steadiness which mere innate courage can never
give.

In order to act as riflemen and light infantry conjointly with
regular troops, volunteers will require the highest possible training
as soldiers. Ordinary infantry are put together and kept together,
and--unlike those who must act more independently and with greater
skill--are always under the eye and hand of the officer who directs
the movement. In the confusion of action, and amidst inequalities of
ground and varying circumstances, light troops are very much at a loss,
until, by practice, they acquire a steadiness which is the result of a
thorough knowledge of the business and of active exercise in it. By the
term “acting as light infantry and riflemen” is not meant a system of
irregular or guerilla warfare, for which it may be readily conceived
that a volunteer force of citizens is entirely unfit.

It is to be hoped that our volunteers will not listen to their
flatterers who would persuade them that they will make efficient
irregulars. No one who considers the composition of these bodies, and
the habits and pursuits of the classes from which they spring, can
seriously suppose that they would make anything of the kind. Neither
the nature of this country, nor the occupations of its inhabitants,
are favourable for an irregular system of warfare; nor would the rapid
field operations consequent upon an invasion afford much opportunity
for bringing irregular forces into play, even if we possessed the best
in the world.

In opposition to these views, it will be said that the universal
employment of the rifle has effected a revolution in warfare, and that
our riflemen, sheltered at a distance behind hedges and trees, would
annihilate the enemy’s artillery and paralyze his operations. To this
it may be answered that the enemy will employ riflemen for the same
purpose, who will cover his artillery and produce an equal effect
upon our own; that new systems of warfare are met with new systems of
tactics, and that the advantage is always left with the highest-trained
troops. In whatever order numbers of men may be brought into action,
success will always attend that party which, _cæteris paribus_, brings
the greatest number to bear upon a given point; and this can be
effected only by the organization and discipline of regular troops.

Let us hope, then, that the volunteers will earnestly practise
those more complicated exercises which render light infantry the
highest-trained body in an army. For this purpose they should, after
being pretty well grounded in their business, give themselves up for a
few weeks’ consecutive service at one of the great camps; this would
give them a much better insight into the nature of the service, by
which men of their intelligence would greatly profit. It is probable
that many individuals in each corps would not be able to attend for
such a long period; still, if there were a large party present, a tone
of information on the real duties of a campaign would be instilled into
the body as a whole, which would be most serviceable.

Another advantage which would attend this occasional service of the
volunteers at the camps would consist in their gradually habituating
themselves to long marches, and to carrying a knapsack; both of which
are matters of deep importance for rendering efficient service in the
field: for, as Marshal Saxe truly remarks, the success of an army
depends more upon the judicious use made of the legs than of the arms
of the soldiers.

Apprehensions have been entertained that our volunteers, composed,
as they will be, of men accustomed to the comforts and conveniences
of life, would, however animated by daring for fight, be disgusted
not merely with the hardships, but (as compared with their usual
habits) the indignities of a common soldier’s life, such as the hard
fare, the necessary but menial occupations of cooking, the care and
cleaning of their clothes and arms, and the discomfort of being
huddled together in masses in tents, or houses, if they have the good
fortune to obtain either. But they will, it is to be hoped, have well
considered that such disagreeables are inevitable, and have made up
their minds to bear with what will be, probably, the hardest task for
them; considering, also, that it would hardly be for any long duration.
They will recollect that on many parts of the Continent, young men
of the easiest circumstances, and of rank and station in society,
serve an apprenticeship in the regular army as privates, and submit
to many of the discomforts of a private soldier’s life, even without
the excitement of a state of warfare. There is more danger of the
volunteers failing through want of physical hardihood to endure the
fatigue of long marches, exposure to the weather, and the casualties
of service in the field; and, therefore, preparatory service in a camp
would be needful, not only to make them good soldiers, but to test
their powers of endurance: for it should be borne in mind that a
robust frame and strong constitution are essential to the efficiency
of the soldier; and wanting these physical requisites, the best shot
would soon become incapacitated, and consequently an incumbrance to the
service.

In some districts, the subscriptions raised for the general expenses
of the volunteer corps are allowed to extend to aid the equipment of
men of insufficient means to provide for themselves. This will have a
most beneficial effect; for such men will mostly be of a hardy class
and accustomed to muscular activity or out-door occupations; they will
be selected because they possess the proper qualifications; and many of
them subsequently, with all their military acquirements, may join the
established army. In proportion as this system shall be extended, will
the advantages resulting from the volunteer system be increased.

Another very beneficial effect might be produced--and will probably
arise out of the spirit of the rifle corps--in the establishment of
rifle clubs for the practice of rifle-shooting as a recreation, with
other out-door sports and games; more especially if these can be
encouraged, so as to become general among that class of young men from
which recruits are obtained for the army. Whatever may have been said
against too much faith being placed in good marksmen, as the _only_
essential attribute for our defenders, most indisputably that army
which, equally well regulated in other points, shall be much superior
generally in the art of rifle-shooting, will have an enormous advantage
over its opponent; and even in a greater degree than is usually
supposed.

There is one class of volunteers, the formation of which will be
attended with unexceptionable advantages; and that is localized bodies
on the coast for service near their own homes. These may be either
artillery or infantry, or better still, both combined: that is,
infantry accustomed to exercise in the service of guns in battery. They
will be always at their homes, and at their habitual occupations, till
the period of action shall arrive; and a very few hours of occasional
evening exercise will be sufficient, particularly during peace time,
to afford a basis of organization for bodies which may be then rapidly
made very efficient during war. As their service will be chiefly
in batteries, or in fortified posts--or if in the open field, only
in greatly superior numbers, and within confined limits, to oppose
desultory landings--they will not need the field equipment, nor that
refined knowledge and practice so necessary in every part of an army
in a campaign. Their dress may be of a plain description, such as an
artisan’s or gamekeeper’s jacket, and a foraging cap, which, though of
some uniform pattern, may be suitable for ordinary wear. By such means,
our coasts may be powerfully protected from any but very formidable
efforts against them, at the smallest expense and waste of resources;
and at the same time, these bodies will supply the place of regular
troops, for which they will form an efficient substitute.

In advocating the expediency of rendering the volunteer system
attractive among the labouring classes, as, generally speaking, the
most robust and hardy portion of the population, we must not be
considered as implying any doubt of their thorough good feeling in the
cause; it is absolutely necessary to stimulate, by some substantial
recompence or boon, the exertions of those who are living, as it were,
from hand to mouth, and on the smallest means. The inducement may be
very moderate; still it should be such as to make the service in some
degree popular and advantageous, and cause men who may be rejected or
discharged to feel it as a punishment or misfortune.

Whatever may be said in the way of general considerations affecting
the volunteer system, will admit of exceptions. Thus many of the
difficulties in the way of the efficiency of volunteer corps for
service in the field will be greatly lessened in the case of those
which may be chiefly composed of young men of active habits, and not
yet settled in life: such as university corps, who would, without
doubt, display a degree of hardihood, spirit, and intelligence not
to be surpassed by any troops. And so with regard to the local
bodies. Such corps as the dockyard volunteers, at all those great
establishments, public and private, should be replaced on an improved
system;--a system which should avoid expense and encroachment on a
valuable part of their time, which were the failings of their original
organization, and occasioned their being broken up.

The noble spirit which originated the volunteer movement is one of
which the nation may justly feel proud; it exhibits and fosters a
patriotic and military spirit in the country, which will render us more
fit than any other people to cope with a powerful enemy. The moral
effect of this national movement will influence other countries; it
will dissipate the erroneous idea that the English are only a trading,
and not a warlike people, and make them more cautious of attacking us.

In actual service, the volunteers will be valuable behind works; thus
releasing a corresponding number of the regular troops from garrison
service: but it cannot be too strongly impressed upon them, that
unless they will submit to the necessary training as soldiers, and are
complete in organization as infantry, no general in the world will have
any confidence in them as a field force. The occasional embodiment
of our volunteers at some of the great camps, as before recommended,
would appear the most available means of training them for general
service. It would also have another good effect, by demonstrating
to many who are now carried away by their enthusiasm, how far they
may be really calculated or prepared for the necessary trials and
sacrifices incidental upon taking the field in the emergency. It will
then be perceived by many that their age, want of physical stamina, or
inability to dispense with habitual comforts which may be absolutely
necessary to them, would render them totally unequal to the task they
would willingly undertake. It would be far better that these should be
weeded from the field corps of volunteers, and not remain to give a
false appearance of their strength for actual service.

Lastly, there may be some who, on reflection, must be aware that
certain family ties, or private concerns, may imperatively forbid their
joining the service at the last moment, and it would be far better
that they should withdraw betimes from the engagement. For it should
be borne in mind that these bodies are _volunteers_, in the strictest
sense of the term; their presence or continuance in the field cannot
be constrained. The effort to bear all the trials and hardships of a
campaign requires a patience and endurance which will yield, even where
there is thorough ardour in the cause, and great personal courage,
unless supported by physical strength. The Volunteer Corps is a
service in which the country must trust entirely to the honour of the
individuals composing it; and certainly, those who shall stand the test
will be peculiarly entitled to the gratitude of the nation.

But while deprecating the employment in the field of any volunteers who
are not hardy and trained soldiers, or who have households to protect
and business to attend to, we must not be supposed to recommend the
withdrawal from the ranks of all who are not available for actual
service with regular troops: far from it. There is not a man who has
been drilled as a volunteer but may be serviceable to the community in
a variety of ways at home, by supplying the place of regular soldiers
in mounting guard as sentries, acting as “orderlies” for transmitting
orders between the government officers and head-quarters, as assistants
in the hospital service, as extra clerks in the commissariat and other
departments, and in serving as a military police. Indeed good service
might be rendered to the country by gentlemen of character, ability,
and intelligence, sufficiently _au fait_ to the business of a soldier
to execute with military precision and promptitude such duties as would
not involve any greater amount of fatigue and exposure than a man of
average health and strength could sustain without injury: they would
form a bodyguard, composed of fathers of families and the younger
and less robust of the volunteers, for the protection of their homes
and maintaining the peace of cities and towns; and competent to fill
offices of trust in connection with the military and civil authorities.
The country would thus derive the full benefit of the services of every
volunteer in the kingdom; and no man who had entered the ranks but
would have the satisfaction of knowing that he was serving his Queen
and Country in the most effective way.




            A Man of Letters of the Last Generation.


There are fashions in books, as there are in the cut of clothes, or
the building of houses; and if from the great library of our race we
take down the representative volumes, we shall find that successive
ages differ almost as much as the several countries of the world. The
one half of the century scarcely knows what the other half has done,
save through its lasting works, among which books alone possess the
gift of speech. Yet the guild of literature properly knows no bounds
of space or time. If the tricks of craft like those of society belong
to the passing day, literature has been, beyond all other human
influences, enduring and continuous in the main current of its spirit;
and each period has been the stronger if it has recognized so much
of its possessions as was inherited from its predecessor, including
the power to conquer more. A powerful sense of brotherhood clings to
all the veritable members of the fraternity, whose highest diploma is
posthumous; and we cannot see the lingering representatives of a past
day depart, without feeling that one of the great family has gone. A
writer whom we have lost in the year just closed peculiarly associated
past and present, by his own hopeful work for “progress” towards the
future, and his affectionate lingering with the past, and above all by
the strong personal feeling which he brought to his work. LEIGH HUNT
belonged essentially to the earlier portion of the nineteenth century;
but, born in the year when Samuel Johnson died, living among the old
poets, and labouring to draw forth the spirit which the first half has
breathed into the latter half of the century, he may be said to have
been one of those true servitors of the library who unite all ages with
the one we live in. The representative man of a school gone by, in his
history we read the introduction to our own.

Isaac, the father of Leigh Hunt, was the descendant of one of the
oldest settlers in luxurious Barbadoes. He was sent to develop better
fortunes by studying at college in Philadelphia, where he _un_settled
in life; for, having obtained some repute as an advocate, and married
the daughter of the stern merchant, Stephen Shewell, against her
father’s pleasure, Isaac contumaciously opposed the sovereign people
by espousing the side of royalty, and fled with broken fortunes to
England. Here he found not much royal gratitude, much popularity
as a preacher in holy orders--taken as a refuge from want,--but no
preferment. With tutorships, and help from relatives, he managed to
rub on; he sent Leigh, the first of his sons born in England, to the
school of Christ Hospital, and he lived long enough to see him an
established writer. Isaac was a man rather under than above the middle
stature, fair in complexion, smoothly handsome, so engaging in address
as to be readily and undeservedly suspected of insincerity, and in most
things utterly unlike his son. His wife, Mary Shewell, a tall, slender
woman, with Quaker breeding, a dark thoughtful complexion, a heart
tender beyond the wont of the world, and a conscience tenderer still,
contributed more than the father to mould the habits and feelings of
the son. School and books did the rest. His earlier days, save during
the long semi-monastic confinement of the Blue-coat School, were passed
in uncertain alternations between the care-stricken home and the more
luxurious houses of wealthier relatives and friends. In his time
Christ Hospital was the very nursery for a scholarly scholar. It was
divided into the commercial, the nautical, and the grammar schools;
in all, the scholars had hard fare, and much church service; and in
the grammar school plenty of Greek and Latin. Leigh’s antecedents and
school training destined him for the church; a habit of stammering,
which disappeared as he grew up, was among the adverse accidents
which reserved him for the vocation to which he was born--Literature.
But before he left the unsettled roof of his parents, the youth had
been to other schools besides Christ Hospital. His father had been
a royalist flying from infuriated republicans, and doomed to learn
in the metropolitan country the common mistrust of kings. He left
America a lawyer, to become a clergyman here; and entered the pulpit a
Church of England-man, to become, after the mild example of his wife,
a Universalist. Born after his mother had suffered from the terrors
of the revolution, and a severe attack of jaundice, Leigh inherited
an anxious, speculative temperament; to be the sport of unimaginative
brothers, who terrified him by personating the hideous “Mantichora,”
about which he had tremblingly read and talked, and of schoolfellows,
with their ghostly traditions and rough, summary, practical satire. He
had been made acquainted with poverty, yet familiarized to the sight
of ease and refined luxury. His father, if “socially” inclined, yet
read eloquently and critically; his mother read earnestly, piously,
and charitably; reading was the business of his school, reading was
his recreation; and at the age of fifteen, he threw off his blue coat,
a tall stripling, with West Indian blood, a Quaker conscience, and a
fancy excited rather than disciplined by his scholastic studies, to put
on the lax costume of the day, and be tried in the dubious ordeal of
its laxer customs.

His severest trial arose from the vanities, rather than the vices to
which such a youth would be exposed. He had already been sufficiently
“in love,”--now with the anonymous sister of a schoolfellow, next
with his fair cousin Fanny, then with the enchanting Almeria,--to be
shielded from the worst seductions that can beset a youth; and he was
early engaged to the lady whom he married in 1809. But the vanities
beset him in a shape of unwonted power. The stripling, whose essays
the terrible Boyer, of the Blue-coat School, had crumpled up, became
the popular young author of published poems, and not much later the
stern critic of the _News_, whose castigations made actors wince and
playwrights launch prologues at him. Thenceforward the vicissitudes
of his life, save in the inevitable vicissitudes of mortality,
were professional rather than personal; though he always threw his
personality into his profession. He tried a clerkship under his brother
Stephen, an attorney; and a clerkship in the War Office, under the
patronage of the dignified Mr. Addington; but finally he left the
desk, legal or official, for the desk literary, to devote himself
to the _Examiner_, set up in 1808 with his brother John. He went to
prison for two years in 1813, rather than forfeit his consistency as
a political writer. It was as a vindicator of liberal principles in
politics, sociology (word then unused), and art, that he attracted the
friendship of Byron and Shelley; it was to accomplish the literary
speculation of the _Liberal_ that he set out for Italy in 1821; it was
to study Italy and the Italians, with a view to “improve” that and
other “subjects,” that he stopped in Italy till the autumn of 1825.
He returned to England to try his fortune with books in prose and
verse, in periodicals of his own or others’; and it was in the midst
of unrelinquished work that he placidly laid himself down to sleep
in August, 1859,--his last words of anxiety being for Italy and her
enlarging hopes, his latest breath uttering inquiries and messages
of affection. This is essentially a literary life; but it is given
to a literature in which there _is_ life,--for Leigh Hunt, although
he dwelled and passed his days in the library, was no “book-worm,”
divorced from human existence, its natural instincts and affections.
On the contrary, he carried into his study a large heart and a strong
pulse; to him the books spoke in the voice of his fellow-men, audible
from the earliest ages, and he loved to be followed into his retreat by
friends from the outer world.

Leigh Hunt certainly was not driven to this little-broken retirement
by the want of qualities which are attractive in society, or by
the tastes that render society attractive; but under the force of
remarkable contradictions in his character, he was often fain to
waive what he desired and could easily have--“letting _I would not_
wait upon _I may_,” with an apparent caprice most exasperating to the
bystander. He professed readiness for “whatever is going forward,”
seemed eager to meet any approaching pleasure; and then hung back with
a coy, reluctant, anxious delay, that forbore its own satisfaction
altogether. Probably this apparent contradiction may be traced to his
origin and nurture. According to all evidence respecting his immediate
progenitors, he was little of a Hunt, save in his gaiety and avowed
love of “the pleasurable.” His natural energy, which showed itself in
a robust frame, a powerful voice, a great capacity for endurance, and
a strong will, seems to have been inherited from Stephen Shewell, the
stern, headstrong, and implacable. From the Bickleys, possibly--the
gallant Knight Banneret of King William’s Irish wars will pardon
the doubt--his mother transmitted her own material tendency to an
over-conscientious, reflective, hesitating temperament, which drew
back from any action not manifestly and imperatively dictated by duty.
The son showed all these contradictory traits even in his aspect and
bearing.

He was tall rather than otherwise,--five feet ten inches and a half
when measured for the St. James’s Volunteers; though, in common with
men whose length is in the body rather than the legs, his height
diminished as he advanced in life. He was remarkably straight and
upright in his carriage, with a short, firm step, and a cheerful,
almost dashing approach,--smiling, breathing, and making his voice
heard in little inarticulate ejaculations as he met a friend, in an
irrepressible satisfaction at the encounter that not unfrequently
conveyed high gratification to the arriver who was thus greeted. He
had straight black hair, which he wore parted in the centre; a dark
but not pale complexion; features compounded between length and a
certain irregularity of outline, characteristic of the American mould;
black eyebrows, firmly marking the edge of a brow, over which was a
singularly upright, flat, white forehead, and under which beamed a pair
of eyes dark, brilliant, reflecting, gay, and kind, with a certain
look of observant humour, that suggested an idea of what is called
slyness when it is applied to children or girls; for he had _not_ the
aspect given to him in one of his portraits, of which he said that “the
fellow looked as if he had stolen a tankard.” He had a head massive
and tall, and larger than most men’s,--Byron, Shelley, and Keats wore
hats which he could not put on; but it was not out of proportion to the
figure, its outlines being peculiarly smooth and devoid of “bumps.” His
upper lip was long, his mouth large and hard in the flesh; his chin
retreating and gentle like a woman’s. His sloping shoulders, not very
wide, almost concealed the ample proportions of his chest; though that
was of a compass which not every pair of arms could span. He looked
like a man cut out for action,--a soldier; but he shrank from physical
contest, telling you that his sight was short, and that he was “timid.”
We shall understand that mistaken candour better when we have examined
his character a little further. Yet he did shrink from using his
vigorous faculties, even in many ways. Nature had gifted him with an
intense dramatic perception, an exquisite ear for music, and a voice of
extraordinary compass, power, flexibility, and beauty. It extended from
the C below the line to the F sharp above: there were no “passages”
that he could not execute; the quality was sweet, clear, and ringing:
he would equally have sung the music of _Don Giovanni_ or _Sarastro_,
of _Oroveso_ or _Maometto Secondo_. Yet nature had not endowed him with
some of the qualities needed for the practical musician,--he had no
aptitude for mechanical contrivance, but faint enjoyment of power for
its own sake. He dabbled on the pianoforte; delighted to repeat airs
pleasing or plaintive; and if he would occasionally fling himself into
the audacious revels of _Don Giovanni_, he preferred to be _Lindoro_ or
_Don Ottavio_; and still more, by the help of his falsetto, to dally
with the tender treble of the _Countess_ in _Figaro_, or _Polly_ in
_Beggars’ Opera_. This waiving of the potential, this preference for
the lightsome and tender, ran through all his character,--save when
duty bade him draw upon his sterner resources; and then out came the
inflexibility of the Shewell and the unyielding determination of the
Hunts. But as soon as the occasion passed, the manner passed with it;
and the man whose solemn, clear-voiced indignation had made the very
floor and walls vibrate was seen tenderly and blandly extenuating the
error of his persecutor and gaily confessing to a community of mistake.

While he was yet at school, Hunt was pronounced by one of his
schoolfellows a “fool for refining”--that is, one who was a fool
in his judgment through a hair-splitting anxiety to be precise. A
boy all his life, this leading foible of his boyhood attended him
throughout. He has been likened to Hamlet,--only it was a Hamlet who
was not a prince, but a hard-working man. The defect was increased
in Leigh Hunt, as it evidently was in the prince, by a certain
imperfection in understanding, appreciating, or thoroughly mastering
the material, tangible, physical part of nature. This, again, is
inconsistent with his own account of himself, but it will be confirmed
by a close critical scrutiny of his writings. Over-sensitive, he was
exquisitely conscious of such physical perceptions as he had. He was
passionately fond of music, which he took to as we have seen. He was
keenly impressed by painting and by colours,--which he defined with
uncertainty, unless they were, what he liked them to be, very intense.
He revelled in the aspect of the country,--but needed literary, poetic,
or personal association, or habit, to help the appreciation of the
landscape. His animation, his striking appearance, his manly voice,
its sweetness and flexibility, the exhaustless fancy to which it gave
utterance, his almost breathlessly tender manner in saying tender
things, his eyes deep, bright, and genial, with a dash of cunning, his
delicate yet emphatic homage,--all made him a “dangerous” man among
women;--and he shrank back from the danger, the quickest to take alarm;
confessing that “to err is human,” as if he _had_ erred in any but the
most theoretical or imaginative sense! Remind him of his practical
virtue, and, to disprove your too favourable construction, he would
give you a sermon on the sins of the fancy, hallowed by quotations
from the Bible--of which he was as much master as any clergyman--and
illustrated by endless quotations from the poets in all languages, with
innumerable biographical anecdotes of the said poets, to prove the
fearful peril of the first step; and _also_ to prove that, though men,
they were not bad men;--that it is not for us to cast the first stone,
and that, probably, if they had been different, their poetry would have
suffered, to the grievous loss of the library and mankind.

He inculcated the study of minor pleasures with so much industry,
that his writings have caused him to be taken for a minor voluptuary.
His special apparatus for the luxury consisted in some old cloak to
put about his shoulders when cold--which he allowed to slip off while
reading or writing; in a fire--“to toast his feet”--which he let out
many times in the day, with as many apologies to the servant for the
trouble; and in a bill of fare, which he preposterously restricted
for a fancied delicacy of stomach, and a fancied poison in everything
agreeable, and which he could scarcely taste for a natural dulness of
palate. Unable to perceive the smell of flowers, he habitually strove
to imagine it. The Epicurean in theory was something like a Stoic in
practice; and he would break off an “article” on the pleasures of
feasting to ease his hunger, literally, with a supper of bread; turning
round to enjoy by proxy, on report, the daintier food which he had
provided for others. Eyeing the meat in another’s plate, he would quote
Peter Pindar--

    “On my life, I could turn glutton,
    On such pretty-looking mutton;”

but would still, with the relish of Lazarillo de Tormes, stick to his
own “staff of life,” and quaff his water, jovially repeating after
Armstrong, “Nought like the simple element dilutes.”

Now, most excellent reader, are you in something of a condition to
understand the man’s account of his own failings--his “improvidence”
and his “timidity.” He had no grasp of things material; but
exaggerating his own defects, he so hesitated at any arithmetical
effort, that he could scarcely count. He has been seen unable to find
3_s._ 6_d._ in a drawer full of half-crowns and shillings, since he
could not see the “sixpence.” Hence his stewardship was all performed
by others. He laboured enormously,--making fresh work out of everything
he did; for he would not mention anything, however parenthetically,
without “verifying” it. Hence it is true that he had scarcely time
for stewardship, unless he had neglected his work and wages as a
master-workman. He saw nothing until it had presented itself to him in
a sort of literary, theoretical aspect, and hence endowed his friends,
all round, with fictitious characters founded on fact. One was the
thrifty housewife, another the steady man of business, a third the
poetic enthusiast--and so on. And he _acted_ on these estimates, until
sometimes he found out his mistake, and confessed that he “had been
deceived.” The discovery was sometimes as imaginary as the original
estimate, and friends, whose sterling qualities he could not overrate,
have seen him, for the discovery of his mistake in regard to some
fancied grace, avert his eye in cold “disappointment.” He made the
same supposititious discoveries and estimates with himself. His mother
had the jaundice before he was born; he had unquestionably a tendency
to bilious affections; in the Greek poet’s account of Hercules and
the Serpents, the more timid, because mortal, child, who is aghast at
the horrid visitors sent by the relentless Juno, is called, as Leigh
Hunt translated the oft-repeated quotation, “the extremely bilious
Iphiclus;” and being bilious, Leigh Hunt set himself down as “timid.”
He had probably felt his heart beat at the approach of danger, been
startled by a sudden noise, or hesitated “to snuff a candle with his
fingers,” which Charles the Fifth said would make any man know fear.
Yet he had braved persecution in the refusal to fag at school; was an
undaunted though not skilful rider; a swimmer not unacquainted with
drowning risks; undismayed, except for others, when passing the roaring
torrent at the broad ford,--when braving shipwreck in the British
Channel, or the thunder-hurricane in the Mediterranean; he instantly
confronted the rustic boors who challenged him on the Thames, or in the
Apennines, and stood unmoved to face the sentence of a criminal court,
though the sentence was to be the punishment he most dreaded--the
prison.

Such was the character of the man who came from school to be the
critic, first of the drama, then of literature and politics; and then
to be a workman in the schools where he had criticized. He brought to
his labours great powers, often left latent, and used only in their
superficial action; a defective perception of the tangible part of
the subject; an imagination active, but overrating its own share
in the business; an impulsive will, checked by an over-scrupulous,
over-conscientious habit of “refining;” a nice taste, and an
overwhelming sympathy with every form and aspect of human enjoyment,
suffering, or aspiration. His public conduct, his devotion to “truth,”
whether in politics or art, won him admiration and illustrious
friendships. In a society of many severed circles he formed one centre,
around which were gathered Lamb, Ollier, Barnes, Mitchell, Shelley,
Keats, Byron, Hazlitt, Blanchard, Forster, Carlyle, and many more,
departed or still living; some of them centres of circles in which
Leigh Hunt was a wanderer, but all of them, in one degree or other,
attesting their substantial value for his character. They influenced
him, he influenced them, and through them the literature and politics
of the century, more largely, perhaps, than any one of them alone. Let
us see, then, what it was that he did.

Even in the _News_ of 1805, when he was barely of age, and when he
wrote with the dashing confidence of a youth wielding the combined
ideas of Sam Johnson and Voltaire, the “damned boy,” as Kemble called
him, established a repute for cultivation, consistency, taste, and
independence; and he originated a style of contemporary criticism
unknown to the newspaper press. In other words, he brought the
standards of criticism which had before been confined to the lecture
of academies or the library, into the daily literature which aids in
shaping men’s judgments as they rise.

We have seen how, under a name borrowed from the Tory party, the
_Examiner_ was established, with little premeditation, a literary
ambition, and the hope of realizing a modest wage for the work done. It
found literature, poetry especially, sunk to the feeblest, tamest, and
most artificial of graces,--the reaction upon the long-felt influence
left by the debauchery of the Stuarts and the vulgarer coarseness
of the early Georges. It found English monarchs and statesmen again
forgetting the great lessons of the British constitution, with the
press slavishly acquiescing. In 1808, an Irish Major had a “case”
against the Horse Guards, of most corrupt and illicit favouritism:
the _Examiner_ published the case, and sustained it. In 1809, a
change of ministry was announced: the _Examiner_ hailed “the crowd of
blessings that might be involved in such a change;” adding, “Of all
monarchs, indeed, since the Revolution, the successor of George the
Third will have the finest opportunity of becoming nobly popular.”
In 1812, on St. Patrick’s day, a loyal band of guests significantly
abstained from paying the usual courtesy to the toast of the Prince
Regent, and coughed down Mr. Sheridan, who tried to speak up for his
royal and forgetful friend. A writer in a morning paper supplied the
omitted homage in a poem more ludicrous for its wretched verse than
for the fulsome strain in which it called the Prince the “Protector
of the Arts,” the “Mæcenas of the Age,” the “Glory of the People,” a
“Great Prince,” attended by Pleasure, Honour, Virtue, Truth, and other
illustrious vassals. The _Examiner_ showed up this folly by simply
turning it into English, and in plain language describing the position
and popular estimate of the Prince. For all these various acts the
_Examiner_ was prosecuted, with various fortunes; but in the last case
it was fined 1,000_l._, and its editor and publisher, the brothers
Leigh and John Hunt, were sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. The
_Examiner_ was no extravagant or violent paper; its writing was pretty
nearly of the standard that would be required now for style, tone,
and sentiment; but what would now be a matter of course in cultivated
style, elevated tone, and independent sentiment, was then supposed to
be not open to writers unprotected by privilege of Parliament. Not that
the paper stood alone. Other writers, both in town and country, vied
with it in independence; it excelled chiefly, perhaps, in the literary
finish which Leigh Hunt imparted to journalism; but it was the more
conspicuous for that finish. Its boldness won it high esteem. Offers
came from “distinguished” quarters, on the one side, to bribe its
silence for the Royal Horse Guards and its peccadilloes; on the other,
to supply the proprietors with subscription, support, and retaliatory
evidence. The _Examiner_ equally declined all encroachments on its
complete independence, which was carried to a pitch of exclusiveness.
This conduct told. The journal was thought dangerous to the régime--it
was prosecuted, and its success was only the greater. The Court ceased
to be what it had been, and the political system changed: the press of
England became generally what the _Examiner_ was.

The _Reflector_ was a quarterly journal, based on the _Examiner_ and
its corps. Its more literary portion in its turn laid the basis for
the _Indicator_, in which Leigh Hunt designed, with due deference,
to revive the essays of the old _Spectator_ and _Tatler_. The grand
distinction was, that in lieu of mere literary recreation, like the
illustrious work of Addison, Steele, and Swift, it more directly
proposed to _indicate_ the sources of pleasurable association and
æsthetical improvement. In the _Reflector_, the _Indicator_, _Tatler_,
and subsequent works of the same class, Leigh Hunt was assisted by
Lamb, Barnes [afterwards editor of the _Times_], Aikin, Mitchell
[Aristophanes], Keats, Shelley, Hazlitt, and Egerton Webbe,--the
last cut short in a career rendered certain by his accomplishments,
his music, his wit, and his extraordinary command of language as an
instrument of thought. As in Robin Hood’s band, each man could beat
his master at some one art, or perhaps more; but none excelled him
in telling short stories, with a simplicity, a pathos, and a force
that had their prototype less in the tales of Steele and Addison,
than in the romantic poets of Italy. Few essayists have equalled,
or approached, Leigh Hunt in the combined versatility, invention,
and finish of his miscellaneous prose writings; and few, indeed,
have brought such varied sympathies to call forth the sympathies
of the reader--and always to good purpose,--in favour of kindness,
of reflection, of natural pleasures, of culture, and of using the
available resources of life. He used to boast that the _Indicator_ laid
the foundation for the “two-penny trash” which assumed a more practical
and widely popular form under Charles Knight’s enterprise. It has had
a host of imitators, but is still special, and keeps its place in the
library.

Of his one novel, _Sir Ralph Esher_, suffice it to say, that he had
desired to make it a sort of historical literary essay,--a species of
unconcealed forgery, after the manner of a more cultivated and critical
Pepys; and that the bookseller persuaded him to make it a novel:--of
his dramatic works,--although he had an ambition to be counted among
British dramatists, and had a discriminating dramatic taste,--that
he combined, with the imperfect grasp of the tangible, a positive
indifference to dramatic literature. The dramatic work which is reputed
to be the most interesting of his compositions in this style, the
_Prince’s Marriage_, is still unacted and unpublished.

But in regard to the veritable British Parnassus, he had solid work
to do, and he did it. Poetry amongst us had sunk to the lowest grade.
Leigh Hunt found the mild Hayley, and the mechanical Darwin, occupying
the field, Pope the accredited model, and he revolted against the
copybook versification, the complacent subserviency and mean moralities
of the muse in possession. He had read earnestly and extensively in
the classics, ancient and English; he carried with him to prison the
_Parnaso Italiano_, a fine collection of Italian poetical writers, in
fifty-two volumes; and he was deeply imbued with the spirit which he
found common to the poetical republic of all ages. He selected the
episode of Paolo and Francesca, whom Dante places in the _Inferno_,
and whose history was diligently hunted up to tell in the _Story of
Rimini_. In it Leigh Hunt insisted on breaking the set cadence for
which Pope was the professed authority, as he broke through the set
morals which had followed in reaction upon the licence of many reigns.
He shocked the world with colloquialisms in the heroic measure, and
with extenuations of the fault committed by the two lovers against
the law matrimonial. The offence, too, was perpetrated by a writer
condemned to prison for bearding the constituted authorities. The
poem and its fate were characteristic of the man and his position in
poetical literature. The work was designed as a picture of Italy, and a
tale of the natural affections rebelling against a tyranny more corrupt
than the licence which it claimed to check. But when he wrote it, the
poet had not been in Italy; and afterwards, with habitual anxiety to be
“right,” he corrected many mistakes in the scenery--such as “the smoke
goes dancing from the cottage trees,” where there are no such cottages
as he imagined, and smoke is no feature in the landscape. He also
restored the true historical conclusion, and instead of a gentlemanly
duel, _comme il faut_, made the tale end in the fierce double murder by
the husband. In its original shape, the _Story of Rimini_ touched many
a heart, and created more sensation for its bolder verse and nature
than others which followed it; in its amended form it gained in truth
to art and fact, and in force of verse and colouring. Leigh Hunt had
not the sustained melody and pulpit morals of the Lake School; but he
gave the example and encouragement to writers of still greater force
and beauty. He vindicated human right against official wrong, and
suffered imprisonment, and denunciation more bitter than that poured on
Shelley, whose political vindications burst forth with such a torrent
of eloquence and imagination in the _Revolt of Islam_. Leigh Hunt
asserted the beauty of natural passion,--but he did it tenderly and
obliquely, himself returning from the slightest taste of passion to
“the domesticities,” half begging pardon for his hardihood, and thus by
implication confessing his naughtiness; and all the while hinting at
the delicate subject of his tale by circumstance, rather than following
it to its full inspirations. The greater part of the _Story of Rimini_
is scene-painting, as if it were told by some bystander in the street,
or some topographical visitor of the place. In the scene where the
lovers so dangerously and fatally fall to reading “Launcelot of the
Lake,”--“_quel giorno non legemmo più avanti_”--the larger portion of
the canto is devoted to a description of the garden. Leigh Hunt does
not, as Keats did, describe the sickening passion that gave the _Lamia_
so ghastly a sense of her own hated form,--nor does he, as in the
_Lamia_, pursue the couple to the place where Love

    “Hover’d and buzz’d his wings with fearful roar
    Above the lintel of their chamber door.”

If pharisaical critics discovered objectionable “tendencies” in
passages--almost in the _omitted_ passages of his writings--they
could find no such impetuous and sublime argument as that to which
the _Revolt of Islam_ rises in the canto where “the meteor to its far
morass returned;” nor such lines as show that a fair authoress, whose
book has been “the rage” at Mudie’s, had been among the myriads of
Shelley’s readers. But although hesitating himself to plunge into the
impetuous torrent of passion, like the fowl mistrustful of its own
fitness for so stormy waters, Leigh Hunt was the friend, instigator,
and encourager of that rebellion of letters which in the earlier half
of our age produced Keats and Shelley, and the poetical literature of
the latter half of the nineteenth century.

Others improved upon the example, no doubt, and bore away the
“_honores_.” At a late day, Lord John Russell obtained for Leigh
Hunt a royal pension of £200 a year--a most welcome and gratefully
acknowledged compensation of time and money torn from him in early
years.

Leigh Hunt’s miscellaneous poems extend over a great variety of
subjects, from the classic legend of _Hero and Leander_, to the
mediæval fabliau of the _Gentle Armour_, and the satirical critique of
the _Feast of the Poets_. This last was published early in the author’s
maturer career; it is “in his second manner,” and he afterwards revised
many of the dicta on contemporary writers which he placed in the mouth
of the chairman on that festive occasion, Apollo. But it helped to
loosen the trammels of conventionalism in verse. The _Gentle Armour_,
although true to a modern refinement, is also true to the spirit of the
days of chivalry; it relates, in straightforward language, how a knight
who had refused the bidding of his mistress to defend a falsehood--not
her own--is punished by receiving the most feminine of garments as his
cognizance at a tournament; and how, wearing that _alone_, he takes in
his own person a bloody and reproving vengeance for the slight, in the
end winning both fight and lady. The subject was thought “indelicate”
by some who were less refined than the author--some descendants,
perchance, of the proverbial Peeping Tom. The _Hero and Leander_ is
a flowing and vivid recital of the ancient tale. The three works form
good specimens of the spirit as well as execution of Leigh Hunt’s
poetical writings. Of some of his smaller pieces it may be said that
they had become classic in his lifetime--such as the reverential sonnet
“On the Lock of Milton’s Hair” which he possessed; the exquisite
parental tenderness of the lines “To T. L. H., in Sickness;” and the
grandly Christian exaltation of charity in his _Abou-ben-Adhem_.

As few men brought their personality more thoroughly into their
writings, so few men, out of the bookworm pale aforesaid, were more
thoroughly saturated with literature. He saw everything through books,
or saw it dimly. Speaking of his return from Italy, he writes:--“I
seemed more at home in England, even with Arcadian idealisms, than I
had been in the land nearer their birthplace; for it was in England
I first found them in books, and with England even my Italian books
were more associated than with Italy itself.” And speaking of the
_Parnaso Italiano_, he goes on:--“This book aided Spenser himself
in filling my English walks with visions of gods and nymphs,--of
enchantresses and magicians; for the reader might be surprised to
know to what a literal extent such was the case.” He used to “envy”
the “household waggon that one meets with in sequestered lanes” for
its wanderings, but was daunted at the bare imagination of “parish
objections” and raffish society; and so he ever recurred to “the
stationary domesticities.” He failed in practical life, because he was
not guided in it by literature. He could only apprehend so much of
it as he found in the cyclopædia. On the other hand, he could render
all that literature could give. His memory was marvellous; and to try
him in history, biography, bibliography, or topography, was to draw
forth an oral “article” on the topic in question. Ask him where was
the Ouse, and he would tell you of all the rivers so called; what were
the books on a given subject, and you had the list; “who was Colonel
O’Kelly?” and you had a sketch of the colonel, of the horse “Eclipse,”
of Epsom, and of horse-racing in general, as distinguished from the
racing of the ancients or the modern riderless races of Italy--where,
as in Florence, may still be seen a specimen of the biga sweeping
round the meta “_fervidis evitata rotis_.” His conversation was an
exhaustless _Curiosities of Literature_. The delighted visitor _read_
his host,--but it was from a talking book, with cordial voice naturally
pitched to every change of subject, animated gesture, sparkling
eyes, and overflowing sympathy. In society Leigh Hunt was ever the
perfect gentleman, not in the fashion, but always the scholar and
the noble-minded man. But his diffidence was disguised, rather than
removed, by his desire to agree with those around him, and to fall in
with the humour of the hour. He was better known to his reader, either
in his books, or, best of all, in his home, where familiarity tested
his unfailing courtesy, daily intercourse brought forth the persevering
goodness of his heart and conscience, and poverty did but fetch out the
thorough-going generosity that not only “_would_ share,” but did share
the last crust.




                The Search for Sir John Franklin.

        (FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF AN OFFICER OF THE “FOX”)


The last of the Government expeditions in search of Franklin returned
in 1854, without bringing further intelligence than had been previously
ascertained, namely, that the missing ships had spent their first
winter, 1845-46, at Beechey Island, and had departed thence without
leaving a single record to say whence they came or in what direction
they intended to explore in the following season.

The war with Russia engrossed the public attention, and the Admiralty
determined that nothing more could be done for our missing sailors.

Franklin and his companions were pronounced to be dead, and the search
to be closed. But many Arctic officers and private persons thought
otherwise. By the extraordinary exertions of the previous expeditions
the country to be searched had been reduced to a limited area in which
the ships must be, if above water, and through which the crews must
have travelled when they left their ships. Every other retreat from the
Arctic Seas had been explored, and the Great Fish River alone remained
unexamined.

Later in the same year (1854), Dr. Rae, the celebrated traveller for
the Hudson Bay Company, who was endeavouring to ascertain the northern
extreme of America, brought home intelligence, which he had obtained
from the Esquimaux of Boothia, of forty white people having been seen
upon the west coast of King William Land in the spring of 1850: that
they were travelling southward, and that later in the same year it was
supposed they had all died in the estuary of a large river, which Dr.
Rae conjectured to be the Great Fish River.

In 1855, the Hudson Bay Company, at the request of the Admiralty, sent
an expedition, conducted by Mr. Anderson, to explore the Fish River.
Mr. Anderson returned, having ascertained that a portion of the missing
crews had been on Montreal Island, in the mouth of that river; but Mr.
Anderson, without an interpreter, or the means of going beyond the
island, could only gather the most meagre information by signs from the
Esquimaux, and by a few relics found upon the land. Where the ships had
been left, or what had become of the people, seemed as great a mystery
as ever.

It was then that Lady Franklin (who had already sent out three
expeditions) urged again that the search should be continued, and that
our countrymen should not thus be left to their fate; but although her
appeal was backed by the most competent officers, the season of 1856
passed away without endeavours to clear up the mystery; and determining
that another year should not be lost in vain entreaties, Lady Franklin
once more undertook the responsibilities and the expenses of a final
effort to rescue our long-lost sailors from their perhaps living death
among the Esquimaux, or to follow up their footsteps in their last
journey upon earth, and to give to the world the scientific results of
the expedition for which those gallant men had given up their lives.

[Illustration: DEPARTURE OF EXPLORING PARTIES FROM PORT KENNEDY.]

In the spring of 1857 Lady Franklin commenced preparations for the
contemplated expedition. She was supported by some of the most
distinguished Arctic officers and scientific men, and the friends of
Sir John Franklin, among whom were Sir Roderick Murchison, General
Sabine, Captain Collinson, and many others.

To Captain M‘Clintock was offered the command; and he who had served in
three previous expeditions, and to whom are principally due the results
of the extraordinary journeys over the ice that have been made during
the search for Franklin, cheerfully accepted the appointment, as, in
his own words, being the post of honour.

The next thing was to seek a suitable vessel, and fortunately the _Fox_
was in the market. Built for a yacht of some 180 tons register, with
auxiliary steam-power applied to a lifting screw, the _Fox_ appeared
in every way adapted for the service. She was at once purchased, and
the necessary alterations and fortifying commenced; and such was the
feeling of confidence in Captain M‘Clintock’s sincerity of purpose,
his daring and determination, combined with eminent talent, and every
qualification for command, that numbers sought the honour of serving
with him. The few who were so fortunate as to be selected were soon
appointed in their different capacities, and by the exertions of Lady
Franklin and Captain M‘Clintock everything that could possibly conduce
to the comfort or recreation of the ship’s company was supplied, and
the _Fox_ was ready for sea by the end of June.

We intended first to touch at some of the Danish settlements in
Greenland, to purchase sledge-dogs; then to proceed to Beechey Island,
and there to fill up stores from the depôt left by Sir E. Belcher.
We were next to endeavour to sail down Peel Sound (supposed to be a
strait), but failing by that channel, to try down Regent’s Inlet, and
by the supposed Bellot Straits to reach the neighbourhood of the Great
Fish River; and having in the summer of 1857 and following spring
searched the adjacent country, we should return home either westward by
Behring’s Straits, or by our outward route, according to circumstances.
If we failed to reach King William Land or the Fish River, it was our
intention to winter as near the desired position as possible, and by
means of sledge journeys over the ice, to complete the search in the
following spring. We hoped to finish the work in one year; but in this
we were to be disappointed, as the narrative will show.

We left Aberdeen on July 1, 1857; and after a favourable run across
the Atlantic, we made our first acquaintance with the Arctic Seas when
near the meridian of Cape Farewell, by falling in with the drift-wood
annually brought from Arctic Asia by the great current known as the
Spitzbergen current--the shattered and mangled state of these pine
logs bearing evidence of their long water-and-ice-borne drift. This
great Arctic current brings masses of ice from the Spitzbergen seas,
at seasons completely filling up the fiords, harbours, and indentations
on the south coast of Greenland, and often in a pack extending for 100
miles southward of Cape Farewell. A whole fleet of whale ships were,
in June, 1777, beset in lat. 76° north, and nearly in the meridian of
Spitzbergen, and were drifted southward by the current, until one by
one they were crushed. The last and only surviving ship arrived in
October, in latitude 61°, in Davis’ Straits, and the crew escaped to
the land near Cape Farewell, 116 in number, out of 450 men, who only a
few short months before were looking forward to a happy return to their
homes.

Late in the summer, the weather mild and the nights short, and with
steam-power at command, we had no occasion for much anxiety about this
ice, but determined to push direct for Frederickshaab, and with a fair
wind we steered to pass within sight of Cape Farewell. On the night of
the 13th July, we were becalmed, and on the following day we steamed
slowly to the north-westward, amidst countless numbers of sea-birds.
At daylight the coast of Greenland showed out in all its wild
magnificence. Cape Farewell bore north 45° east, distant twenty-five
miles; but from the peculiar formation of the adjacent land the
actual cape is difficult to distinguish. Hitherto we had not seen the
Spitzbergen ice; and we hoped that we might follow the coast round to
Frederickshaab without obstruction; but in the course of the forenoon
a sudden fall in the temperature of the sea, with a haziness in the
atmosphere to the northward, indicated our approach to ice. Straggling
and water-washed pieces were soon met with, and in the evening the
distant murmur of the sea, as it broke upon the edge of ice-floes,
warned us of our being near to a pack.

We made but little progress during the two following days, the winds
being from the northward, and a dense ice-fog rolling down from the
pack. On the 17th, Frederickshaab bearing N. 28° E., distant fifty
miles, we determined upon endeavouring to push through the pack; and
after being at times completely beset, and with a constant thick fog,
we escaped into the inshore water, with a few slight rubs, having been
carried by the drifting body of ice nearly thirty miles northward of
our port. We sounded upon the Tallert bank; and on the fog lifting,
the great glacier of Frederickshaab was revealed to us, and we bore
away for the harbour, which we reached on the 19th. We had a little
difficulty at first in making out the entrance to Frederickshaab; but a
native kyack coming out to meet us, we were soon escorted in by a fleet
of these small canoes.

We found the natives busily breaking up the wreck of an abandoned
timber ship, which had drifted to their harbour, with a few of the
lower tiers of cargo still in her; and another wreck was said to be
lying upon the Tallert bank--the same wreck, it is said, which Prince
Napoleon had boarded on his homeward passage in the _Atlantic_ the
previous year, and had left a record on her to prove the currents round
Cape Farewell.

The Danish authorities, ever ready to assist vessels entering the
Greenland ports, supplied us with everything in their power, and after
purchasing some cod-fish from the natives, we proceeded on our voyage.
On leaving Frederickshaab, we experienced strong north winds, and had
to beat up between the pack and the land, until off the settlement of
Fiskernaas, on July 23rd. The temperature of the sea then rose from 35°
to 46° Fahrenheit; and seeing no ice, we considered that we were past
the limits of the Spitzbergen stream. Finding that our foretop masthead
was sprung, we ran into Fiskernaas, to repair it. We purchased more
cod-fish at Fiskernaas, at an almost nominal price. These fish are very
plentiful, and the Danish authorities annually collect about 30,000
from the Esquimaux, to be dried, and again served out to them in the
winter, the habits of the natives being so improvident, that they will
not make this provision for themselves. Having made a few magnetic and
other observations, we sailed for Godhaab to procure a passage home for
one of our seamen, who, it was feared, was too ill in health to stand
the rigours of an Arctic winter. We met the Danish schooner coming
out, and the captain kindly received our invalid on board, and took
our letters for home. Outside Godhaab lie the Koku Islands, upon which
Egede first landed in 1721, and commenced recolonizing Greenland. The
mainland here is divided into four fiords, the largest being Godhaab
Fiord (or Baal’s River on old charts), which extends up to the inland
ice, and upon the shores of which are still to be seen many ruins of
the ancient Scandinavians. Upon the Koku Islands we were near leaving
the _Fox_, for in coming out, the wind fell suddenly calm, and the
steam being down, we were drifting with a strong tide fast upon the
rocks, and we only just towed the ship clear with all our boats. We now
steered for Diskoe, and after passing some magnificent icebergs, one
of which we found by measurement to be 270 feet above the sea, we saw
the precipitous cliffs of the island, entered the harbour of Godhavn
at night, and sailed on the following day for the beautiful fiord of
Diskoe, where a smart young Esquimaux, Christian, by name, was received
on board, as dog-driver to the expedition. We had not time to examine
this fine fiord, which has never been explored, and which is thought to
be of great extent; nor had we time to visit the Salmon River; but our
guide brought us a few fish, and with salmon-trout and ptarmigan for
breakfast, and a bouquet of flowers from the ladies of Godhavn upon the
gun-room table, we had no cause to complain of the Arctic regions so
far.

We next steered for the Waigat Straits, intending to take in coals
from the mines there. As we passed Godhavn, the Esquimaux guide seated
himself in his kyack on the deck, and, notwithstanding a rough sea, he
was launched out of the gangway at his own request; a feat wonderful
to us, but evidently not strange to him, as he paddled away to the
shore without further notice. The native kyack is so small and crank,
that the natives cannot get in or out of it alongside a ship; but are
generally pulled up or lowered with it in the bight of two ropes’ ends.

As we approached the Waigat, thousands of eider ducks covered the
water, and we shot many of the younger ones, but the old birds were
too crafty for us, and kept out of range. We now never lost an
opportunity of adding to our stock of fresh provisions, which already
began to make a show in the rigging, where we could feast our eyes
upon salmon, eider ducks, looms, cod-fish, ptarmigan, and seal beef,
besides two old goats, that we had purchased at Frederickshaab. We
entered the Waigat on August 3rd, on a beautiful day; and for wild
and desolate grandeur, I suppose these straits have no equal--lofty,
rugged mountains here abruptly facing the sea, or there presenting
a sloping moss-covered declivity--mountain torrents, and the small
streams, which, leaping over the very summits, at an elevation of 3,000
to 4,000 feet, appear from beneath like threads of spun glass. In some
places may be seen the foot of a glacier high up a ravine, as if there
arrested in its course, or not yet grown sufficiently to fill up the
valley, and bring its blight down to the sea; in other places beautiful
valleys, green and grass-clothed, where the hare and ptarmigan love
to pass their short summer with their young broods. The sea itself is
scarcely less picturesque than the land; for thousands of icebergs, of
every size and fantastic form, cast off from the ice-streams of the
mainland, sail continually in these beautiful straits.

We found the coal mine without difficulty, the seams of coal cropping
out of the cliffs under which we anchored. It was a very exposed
position, and the ground hard; the only safe way to lie would be by
making fast to a piece of grounded ice, if one can be found, as anchors
will not hold.

In the early spring the ice-foot forms a natural wharf, and the coals
may be collected, and at high water the boats can go alongside to
receive the sacks. Now that steam has been introduced into the whale
fishery, these coal mines must sooner or later become much frequented,
and it is to be hoped that so valuable a resource will be taken
advantage of. If moorings could be laid down, and natives from the
opposite settlement of Atenadluk employed to collect coals in readiness
for embarkation, a ship might readily fill up in a few hours.

We had scarcely completed our coaling, when the weather began to
threaten, the barometer fell, and shortly after noon it blew almost
a gale from the southward. Our anchors soon began to jump over the
ground, and the drift ice to set in. Steam was immediately got ready,
and we ran through the straits to the north-westward. Passing the
magnificent headland of Swarten Huk, we touched at the settlement
of Proven to purchase dogs and seal-beef, and then bore away for
Upernavik, steering close along the coast, and intending to attack the
breeding-place of looms, at Saunderson’s Hope; but a strong south-west
wind and high sea prevented our sending in the boats. Arrived off
Upernavik, we obtained more dogs, and having left our last letters
for home, we bore away, on the afternoon of August 6, to try to cross
Baffin’s Bay.

We were now fairly away from the civilized world, and all that we could
look forward to, or hope for, was a speedy passage through the middle
pack of Baffin’s Bay, a satisfactory finish of the work before us on
the other side, and a return the following year to England. We had
a fine ship and a fine crew, all eager to commence the more active
duties of sledge travelling; and, indeed, on looking at our thirty
large and ravenous dogs that crowded our decks, we could not but think
that our sledge parties would solve, in the following spring, the
extraordinary mystery of Franklin’s fate. How these hopes were to be
disappointed that year the sequel will show. It is well for us that we
cannot know what the morrow may bring forth. During August 7 and 8, we
steered out due west from Upernavik to try to cross in that parallel
of latitude; but on the evening of the latter day, the keenness of the
air, the ice-blink ahead, and the fast increasing number of bergs,
prepared us for seeing the Middle Pack. In the evening and during that
night we passed streams of loose sailing ice, and on the morning of the
8th further progress was stopped by impenetrable floes. This was in
lat. 72° 40′ north, long. 59° 50′ west.

Getting clear of the loose ice in the pack edge, we steered to the
northward, to look for an opening in any place where we could attempt a
passage. The ice, however, presented an impenetrable line, and having
reached, on August 12, latitude 75° 10′ north, longitude 58° west, we
made fast to an iceberg aground under the glacier. It was a lovely
evening; the sky bright and clear, and the thermometer standing at 36°
in the shade. Seals were playing about the ship, and we added to our
stock of beef. But a dreary prospect rather damped our pleasure. The
ice extended in one unbroken mass right into the land, and pressed
hard upon the very coast; not a drop of water could be seen from the
masthead, in the direction in which we desired to go. The southerly
winds, before which we had been running, appeared to have driven the
whole pack into the head of Melville Bay. The season was passing away,
and without an early change to wind and a continuance of it from the
northward, we were almost without a hope.

In the evening we visited the glacier, but the _débris_ of shattered
ice, and the innumerable bergs and floe pieces, prevented our getting
close to its base. It was a beautifully calm night; not a sound to be
heard, save the crashing of some enormous mass rent from the face of
the glacier, or distant rumbling of the vast inland ice, as it moved
slowly down towards the sea. Far away over the continent, nothing
but the surface of glacier could be seen, excepting here or there a
mountain peak, showing up through the ice; and the bright glare of the
ice-blink shot up into the sky, giving a yellow tinge to the otherwise
deep blue vault of heaven. Flights of ducks winged their way to the
southward, reminding us that it was the season when those desolate
regions were deserted, and that we should be left alone. Our distant
ship was lying so surrounded with huge and lofty bergs, that only her
masthead could be seen through an opening; and a low melancholy howling
(such as an Esquimaux dog alone knows how to make) occasionally broke
upon the ear--for our dogs had all gone up to the very top of a lofty
berg, and were thus expressing their home-sick longings, and, perhaps,
a foreboding of the unhappy fate that awaited many of them.

We lay secured to the iceberg until the 16th August, when the wind
changed to the north-eastward, and the floes began to move off the
land and to separate. Now or never were we to get through; for to
lose this opportunity would have shut us out from crossing that year,
and have left us no other resource than to return to Greenland for the
winter. M‘Clintock was not the man to turn back from his work, but
would rather risk everything than leave a chance of our thus passing
an inactive winter. The _Fox_ was therefore steered into a promising
lead or lane of water, and all sail made to the breeze. We were in high
spirits, and talked of getting into the west water on the morrow. But
at night a dense fog came on, the wind shifted to the southward, and
the floes again began to close upon and around us. There was no help
for us--we were beset, and it appeared hopelessly so; for the season
was fast passing away, and the new ice beginning to form. On the 17th
the wind increased, and the weather was dark and dreary. We struggled
on for a few ship’s lengths by the power of steam and canvas, and at
night we unshipped the rudder, and lifted the screw, in anticipation of
a squeeze.

During the three weeks following we lay in this position, endeavouring,
by every means, to move the ship towards any visible pool or lane of
water. Once only did our hopes revive. On September 7, the wind had
again been from the north-westward; the ice had slackened, and we made
a final and desperate attempt to reach some water seen to the northward
of us. We were blasting with gunpowder, heaving, and warping during the
whole day, but at night the floes again closed. We had not now even a
retreat; the tinker had come round, as the seamen say, and soldered
us in; and from that time until the 17th of April, 1858, we never
moved, excepting at the mercy of the ice, and drifted by the winds and
currents. We had lost all command over the ship, and were freezing in
the moving pack.

Preparations for the winter were now made in earnest. We had thirty
large dogs to feed besides ourselves, and we lost no opportunity of
shooting seals. The sea-birds had all left for the southward; and the
bears, which occasionally came to look at the ship, we could not chase,
from the yet broken state of the ice. Provisions were got up upon deck,
sledges and travelling equipages prepared, boats’ crews told off, and
every arrangement made by the Captain in the event of our being turned
out of the ship. As the winter advanced, the ship was housed over with
canvas, and covered with snow; and we had made up our minds for a
winter in the pack and a drift--whither? This we could not tell, but we
argued from the known constant set to the southward, out of Baffin’s
Sea and Davis’ Straits, that if our little ship survived through the
winter, we should be released in the southern part of Davis’ Straits
during the following summer.

We were then in latitude 75° 24′ north, longitude 64° 31′ west, and
westward of us could be seen a formidable line of grounded bergs,
towards which, by our observations, we were driving. Our next eight
months were passed in a manner that would be neither interesting to
read nor to relate; but a few extracts from a private journal will show
our mode of life.

_Sept. 16._--We passed the grounded bergs last night, after
considerable anxiety, for we feared we might be driven against them.
We saw the floes opening and tearing up as sod before the plough; and
had we come in contact with them, the ship must have been instantly
destroyed. We are out all day long, by the sides of the water-pools,
with our rifles, and shoot the seals in the head when they come up to
breathe; they are now getting fat, and do not sink so readily as in the
summer.

_Oct. 17._--We obtained good observations, and found that we have
drifted north-west 65 miles, since the 15th inst. It has been blowing
hard from the south-eastward, and we consider that we have thus been
carried helplessly along by the effect of a single gale.

_Nov. 2._--A bear came to look at the ship at night, and our dogs soon
chased him on to some thin ice, through which he broke. All hands
turned out to see the sport, and notwithstanding the intense cold many
of the people did not wait to put on their extra clothes. The bear was
dispatched with our rifles, after making some resistance, and maiming
several of the dogs. We have not seen the sun to-day; he has now taken
his final departure from these latitudes. It is getting almost too
dark to shoot seals, and we employ ourselves with such astronomical
observations as are necessary to fix our position, and to calculate
our drift, with observations upon the thermometer, barometer, and
meteorology generally.

_Nov. 28._--After a zigzag drift out to the westward, until the 24th
inst., into latitude 75° 1′ N., longitude 70° W., we have commenced
a southern drift, and we trust now to progress gradually out of the
straits, until released in the spring. We have had considerable
commotion and ruptures in the ice-floes lately, but fortunately the
nips have not come too close to us. We ascend the masthead, to the
crow’s-nest, every morning, to look out for water, for our dogs are
getting ravenous, and we want food for them.

_December 4._--Poor Scott died last night, and was buried through the
floe this evening, all hands drawing his earthly remains upon a sledge,
and the officers walking by the side. It was a bitterly cold night,
the temperature 35° below zero, with a fresh wind, and the beautiful
paraselene (ominous of a coming gale) lighting us on our way. The ice
has been more quiet lately, and we are becoming more reconciled to our
imprisonment.

A reading, writing, and navigation school has commenced, and our
Captain loses no opportunity of attending to the amusement and
recreation of the men, so necessary in this dreary life. Besides the
ordinary duties of cleaning the ship, the men are exercised in building
snow houses, and preparing travelling equipage.

_December 21._--The winter solstice. We have about half an hour’s
partial daylight, by which the type of _The Times_ newspaper may be
just distinguished on a board facing the south, where, near noon, a
slight glimmer of light is refracted above the horizon, while in the
zenith and northward the stars are shining brilliantly. In the absence
of _light and shade_ we cannot see to walk over the ice, for the
hummocks can scarcely be distinguished from the floe; all presents a
uniform level surface, and, in walking, one constantly falls into the
fissures, or runs full butt against the blocks of ice. We must now,
therefore, be content with an hour or two’s tramp alongside, or on
our snow-covered deck under housing; and, during the remainder of the
day, we sit below in our little cabin, which has now crystallized by
the breath condensing and freezing on the bulkheads, and we endeavour
to read and talk away the time. But our subjects of conversation
are miserably worn out; our stories are old and oft-repeated; we
start impossible theories, and we bet upon the results of our new
observations as to our progress, as we unconsciously drift and drift
before the gale. At night we retire to our beds, thankful that another
day has passed; a deathlike stillness reigns around, broken only by
the ravings of some sleep-talker, the tramp of the watch upon deck, a
passing bear causing a general rousing of our dogs, or a simultaneous
rush of these poor ravenous creatures at our cherished stores of
seal-beef in the shrouds; and, as we listen to the distant groaning and
sighing of the ice, we thank God that we have still a home in these
terrible wastes.

_December 28._--During Divine service yesterday, the wind increased,
and towards the afternoon we had a gale from the north-westward,
attended with an unusual rise of temperature; to-day the gale
continues, with a warm wind from the N.N.W.

“The Danish settlers at Upernavik, in North Greenland, are at times
startled by a similar sudden rise of temperature. During the depth of
winter, when all nature has been long frozen, and the sound of falling
water almost forgotten, rain will fall in torrents; and as rain in
such a climate is attended with every discomfort, this is looked upon
as a most unwelcome phenomenon. It is called the _Warm South-east
Wind_. Now, if the Greenlanders at Upernavik are astonished at a warm
_South-east Wind_, how much rather must the seamen, frozen up in the
pack, be astonished at a warm _North-west Wind_. Various theories
have been started to account for this phenomenon; but it appears most
probable that a rotatory gale passes over the place, and that the rise
in temperature is due to the direction from which the whole _mass of
air_ may come, viz. from the southward, and not to the direction of
_wind_ at the time.”

Let us now return to the narrative, for our days were now becoming
mere repetitions of each other. We saw no change, nor did we hope for
any until the spring. Gale followed gale; and an occasional alarm of a
disruption in the ice, a bear or seal hunt, formed our only excitement;
indeed, we sometimes hoped for some crisis, were it only to break
the dreadful monotony of our lives. Our walks abroad afforded us no
recreation; on the contrary, it was really a trying task to spin out
the time necessary for exercise. Talk of a dull turnpike-road at home!
Are not the larks singing and the farm boys whistling? But with us
what a contrast! Our walks were without an object; one had literally
nothing to see or hear; turn north, south, east, or west, still snow
and hummocks. You see a little black mark waving in the air: walk to
it--it is a crack in a hummock. You think a berg is close to you; go to
it--still a hummock, refracted through the gloom. The only thing to do
is to walk to windward, so as to be certain of returning safe and not
frostbitten, to pick out a smooth place, and form imaginary patterns
with your footprints. Philosophers would bid us think and reflect; but
if philosophers were shut up with us amid the silence and darkness of
an Arctic winter, they would probably do as we did--endeavour to get
away from their thoughts.

By the 29th of January, we had drifted into latitude 72° 46′ north,
longitude 62° west, and by the aid of refraction we saw the sun for the
first time since November 2. We ought indeed to have greeted him on a
meridian far westward of our present position, but it had been out of
power to do more this year, and we could only hope for more success in
the next. The weather had now become intensely cold, the mercury was
frozen, and the spirit thermometer registered 46° below zero. We had
great difficulty in clearing our bed-places of ice, and our blankets
froze nightly to the ship’s side; but we had the sun to shine upon us,
and that made amends for all. What a different world was now before our
eyes! Even in those dreary regions where nothing moves, and no sounds
are heard save the rustling of the snowdrift, the effects of the bright
sun are so exhilarating that a walk was now quite enjoyable. If any
one doubt how necessary light is for our existence, just let him shut
himself up for three months in the coal-cellar, with an underground
passage into the ice-house, where he may go for a change of air, and
see if he will be in as good health and spirits at the end of the
experiment as before. At all events, he will have obtained the best
idea one can form at home of an Arctic winter in a small vessel, save
that the temperature of the Arctic ice-house is -40°, instead of +32°,
as at home; only 72° difference!

On the 14th of February some of us walked out to where the ice was
opening to the northward, and saw a solitary dovekie in winter plumage.
These beautiful little birds appear to winter on the ice. The water,
appearing deep black from the long absence of any relief from the
eternal snow, was rippled by a strong wind, and the little waves, so
small as to be compared to those of the Serpentine at home, sending
forth to us a new, and, consequently, joyous sound, induced us to
linger long by the side of the small lake--so long, that we were only
reminded, by our faces beginning to freeze, that we were at least three
miles from the ship, a gale blowing with thick snow-drift--besides no
chance of getting anything for the pot.

A memorable day was the 26th of February, when we opened the skylight
and let in daylight below, where we had been living for four months by
the light of our solitary dips. The change was indeed wonderful, and
at first uncomfortable, for it exposed the manner in which we had been
content to live. With proper clothing you may laugh at the climate,
if not exposed too long without food. It is not the cold outside that
is to be feared, but the damp, and plague-engendering state of things
below. This can only be guarded against by having good fires and plenty
of light.

Towards the latter end of March, the ice was getting very unquiet,
and we had frequent disruptions close to the ship. On the night of
the 25th of March, a wide fissure, which had been opening and closing
during the previous fortnight, closed with such force as to pile up
tons and tons of ice within forty yards of the ship, and shattered our
old floe in a line with our deck. The nipping continued, and on the
following night a huge block was hurled within thirty yards from us.
Another such a night and the little _Fox_ would have been knocked into
lucifer matches, and we should have been turned out upon the floe.

April was ushered in with a continuance of heavy northerly gales; we
were constantly struggling with the ice. We were three times adrift,
and expecting to see our ship destroyed; and on the night of the
5th, the floes opened, and as their edges again came together, they
threatened to tear everything up. We were on deck throughout the night;
our boats and dogs were cut off from us, but with great exertion we
managed to save the dogs, although we nearly lost some of our men who
went in search of them. We that night secured the ship by the bower
chains, and we afterwards had a few days’ quiet. On the 10th we saw the
mountain peaks about Cape Dyer, on the west side of Davis’ Straits, the
first land seen since the previous October. We had drifted into lat.
66° 5′ N., and long. 58° 41′ W.; and we hoped that after passing Cape
Walsingham, the pack would open out.

On April 17, in a heavy storm, a general breaking-up of the ice took
place, and we were turned completely out of our winter dock, and into
an apparently open sea. A scene of wild confusion ensued; the floes
were driving against each other in all directions, and the whole ocean
of ice appeared in commotion, while a blinding snow-drift distorted
and magnified every surrounding object. Our first care was to save our
dogs; but as an Esquimaux dog always expects either a thrashing or to
be put in harness when approached by a man, and the poor creatures were
terror-stricken with the storm, they ran wildly about over the ice, and
many of them were obliged to be abandoned to their fate, after sharing
the perils of the winter with us. On board the ship, preparations were
made to get her under command; for we were driving down upon the lee,
and into loose ice, where our men could not have rejoined us with the
boats. We shipped the rudder, and soon got some canvas upon the vessel,
and having got the men and boats safely on board, we steered to the
eastward, and really thought that we were released. A dark water-sky
hung over the eastern horizon, and we thought that we were not far
from the open ocean. But we had not proceeded more than some seventeen
miles, when at midnight we came to a stoppage. It was fearfully dark
and cold, and with the greatest difficulty we cleared the masses of
ice. The water space in which we worked the ship became gradually less
and less; we flew from side to side of this fast decreasing lake, until
at last we had not room to stay the vessel. By 4 A.M. we were again
beset.

We now commenced a second drift with the pack, which took us down
to latitude 64° north, and longitude 57° west, on the 25th April,
when, towards midnight, a swell entered into the pack, and gradually
increased, until the ice commenced churning up around the vessel, and
dashing against her sides. These violent shocks continued throughout
the morning, and really seemed as if they would soon destroy the ship.
However, by the power of steam, we got the vessel’s head towards
the swell, and with a strong fair wind, we commenced pushing out.
After many narrow escapes from contact with the icebergs, we were
by night in comparatively open water. We were free! and steered a
course for the settlement of Holsteinborg, in Greenland, to recruit,
and to prepare for another attempt. What a change on the following
morning! Not a piece of ice could be seen, save a few distant bergs.
We once more had our little vessel dancing under us upon the waters,
innumerable sea-birds flew around us, and the very sea, in contrast
to its late frozen surface, appeared alive with seals and whales. All
nature seemed alive, and we felt as if we had risen from the dead! In
the evening, the snow-covered peaks of Sukkertoppen were seen, and
on the 28th of April, we moored in Holsteinborg harbour. Our anchors
had not been down, nor had our feet touched the land since the 3rd
of August. Ice-bound and imprisoned, we had drifted upwards of 1,200
miles. Need it be added how thankful we were to that kind Providence
who had watched over us, and under Him to our gallant Captain, to whose
unremitting attentions to our comforts and safety we owed our health
and deliverance!

The winter in Greenland had been very severe, and the country was still
snow-covered, and without an indication of spring. The natives were
scarcely aroused from their winter’s sleep, and all our expectations of
venison and ptarmigan feasts soon vanished. Very few reindeer had yet
been taken, the season not commencing before July, when the hunters go
up the fiords and kill them by thousands for the sake of their skins
alone, leaving their carcasses to be devoured by the wolves.

Our men, however, were bent upon enjoying themselves, and as Jack’s
wants are few, with the aid of a couple of fiddlers and some bottles
of grog, they kept up one continuous ball--patronized by all the fair
Esquimaux damsels--in the dance-house on shore. The whole population
had turned out to meet us. We were entertained by the kind-hearted
dames upon stockfish and seal-beef, and such luxuries as they could
afford, with a hearty welcome to their neat and cleanly houses; and we
in our turn endeavoured to do the hospitalities on board the _Fox_ with
pickled pork and preserved cabbage. It was new life to us, who had been
confined so long in our little den, thus to mingle with these friendly
people. Never was sympathy more needed. We arrived hungry and unshaven,
our faces begrimed with oil-smoke, our clothes in tatters; the good
women of Holsteinborg worked and washed for us, repaired our sadly
disreputable wardrobes, danced for us, sang to us, and parted from us
with tears and a few little presents by way of _souvenirs_, as if we
could ever forget them. We wrote a few hasty letters, hoping that they
would reach home in the autumn, and sailed once more upon our voyage.

We wished to call at Godhavn for another Esquimaux and some more
dogs, besides a few stores, of which we stood in need; so, sailing up
the coast, we arrived off the harbour on the night of May 10, but an
impenetrable stream of loose ice blockaded the entrance. It was a wild
night, and snowing heavily; sea, air, ice islands and icebergs seemed
all mingled in one common haze. We endeavoured to haul off the land,
and near midnight we narrowly escaped destruction upon an island,
which, seen suddenly on the lee-beam, was at first taken for a berg. We
all thought our ship must be dashed upon the rocks, and we were only
saved by the presence of mind and seamanship of our Captain, who never
left the deck, and wore the ship within a few yards of the shore. We
anchored next day at the Whale-fish Islands, and fell in there with
the _Jane_ and _Heroine_ whalers, whose captains gave us a true Scotch
welcome, and ransacked their ships to find some little comforts for
us. We again tasted the roast beef of old England. From the islands,
we crossed to Godhavn, where finding the harbour still full of ice, we
hauled into a rocky creek outside, a perfect little dock just capable
of holding the ship, but exposed to southerly winds.

By the 25th of May we were prepared for another and final attempt to
accomplish our mission, and to try our fortunes in the ice. We were
certainly sobered down considerably by our late severe lesson; but
although less confident in our own powers, a steady determination
to do our best prevailed throughout the ship. Passing again through
the Waigat, we stopped at the coal-deposits to fill up with fuel,
and we shot a few ptarmigan while thus detained. We next stopped at
Saunderson’s Hope, “the Cape where the fowls do breed,” but it was yet
too early for eggs, and as the looms had no young to protect, they
flew away in thousands at every discharge of a gun; we got but few of
these, in our opinion, delicious birds. On the 31st, we made fast to an
iceberg off Upernavik, to await the breaking up of the ice in Melville
Bay. When we were in these latitudes the previous year, all things
living were migrating southward, but now constant flights of sea-birds
streamed northward, night and day, towards their breeding-places and
feeding-grounds, and by sitting on the rocky points, and shooting them
as they passed, we could generally make a fair bag. We were now almost
subsisting on eider ducks and looms.

On June the 6th, we commenced our ice-struggles in Melville Bay,
endeavouring, according to the usual mode of navigation, to push up,
between the main pack and the ice still attached to the land, on all
occasions when the winds moved the pack out, and left a space or lane
of water. While thus following up the coast, on the 7th, we ran upon a
reef of sunken and unknown rocks, and, on the tide falling, we lay over
in such a manner as to threaten to fill upon the water again rising. We
succeeded, however, in heaving off without damage.

After many escapes from being squeezed by the ice closing upon the
land, and after three weeks of intense labour, we reached Cape York
on June 26th. We there communicated with the natives who had so much
assisted Dr. Kane, when he wintered in Smith Sound. These poor
creatures live upon the flesh of the bear, seal, and walrus, which they
kill upon the ice with bone spears. They are, perhaps, the only people
in the world living upon a sea-coast without boats of any kind, and are
so completely isolated, that, previous to their being first visited in
1818, they considered themselves to be the only people in the world.
Dr. Kane left among them a Greenland Esquimaux, “Hans,” with his canoe.
They told us that Hans was married, and was well, but that they had
eaten the boat, besides many of their dogs, when hungry, during the
last winter. We invited them on board, and they saw all our treasures
of wood and iron; but they appeared to covet more than all, our dogs,
and a few light pieces of wood, fit for spear-handles. We sent them
away rejoicing over a few presents of long knives and needles, and they
continued to dance and brandish the knives over their heads until we
were out of sight.

Passing Cape Dudley Diggs, we landed at a breeding-place of rotges
(little auks); the birds were sitting in myriads upon the ledges of the
cliffs, and we shot a great many; but our time was too precious to wait
long, even for fresh food, and so we bore away. We were considerably
baffled with ice-floes in crossing over towards Lancaster Sound, and we
did not reach that side until July 12.

Near Cape Horsburgh we found a small and enterprising family of
natives, who had crossed over to this barren land from Pond’s Bay,
two years previously, in search of better hunting ground. These poor
people could give us no information of the missing ships; so we merely
stopped to give them a few presents; we then steered for Pond’s Bay,
from whence we had heard rumours of wrecks and wreck-wood being in
the possession of the natives. In crossing Lancaster Sound, we were
completely beset in the pack, and were even threatened with another
drift out to sea like that of last year; we fortunately escaped,
however, from the grip of the ice, after being carried for seven days
in a helpless state, and as far as Cape Bathurst, before we could
regain command over our ship.

At the entrance to Pond’s Bay, we found an old woman and a boy living
in a skin tent, their tribe being some twenty-five miles up the inlet,
at a village on the north side. This village, called Kapawroktolik,
could not be reached by land, on account of the precipitous cliffs
facing the sea. The inlet was, however, yet full of ice, and Captain
M‘Clintock endeavoured to reach the natives by sledge. In the meantime,
we on board were employed in collecting sea-birds from the neighbouring
breeding cliffs of Cape Grahame Moore. We also frequently visited the
land to collect cochlearia, or scurvy-grass, which grew luxuriantly
about the old Esquimaux encampments. A trade was commenced with the
old lady on shore; for we found that, concealed among the stones, she
had a number of narwhales’ horns, teeth, and blades of whalebone, of
which she would only produce one at a time, by way of enhancing the
value by its apparent scarcity. Around her tent were snares set in all
directions for catching birds, and she had a large quantity of putrid
blubber lying _en cache_, which was her principal food and fuel. The
boy brought us a hare, which he had shot with his bow and arrow.
Captain M‘Clintock having failed to reach the village, owing to the ice
being all adrift in the inlet, he determined to take the ship there if
possible, and to take the old woman as pilot.

We ran alongside her tent, which she soon packed up with all her
worldly riches, and came on board thoroughly drenched with the rain,
which had poured in torrents all day. Our people managed to rig her out
in some dry clothes; the poor boy was made snug in the engine room,
and the old lady voluntarily took her station as pilot upon the deck
throughout the night, and was very anxious to point out the beauties of
her country, and the “pleasant sleeping places.”

We could only get within eight miles of the village, owing to there
being fast ice in the inlet; so, securing the ship to it, the Captain
and Hobson started over the ice. On board the ship we hoped to have a
quiet Sunday, but a number of right-whales playing round the vessel,
and pushing their backs under the ice, constantly broke away the rotten
edge to which we lay. We were thus kept constantly beating up again to
it; and in the evening, about six or seven miles of the ice coming away
in one floe, and turning round upon us, we were forced upon the south
shore of the inlet, and momentarily expected being driven upon the
rocks; but after blasting the ice with gunpowder for nearly two hours,
in order to gain every inch, we got clear just as we were touching the
ground.

The next morning (August 2) the Captain and party returned. They had
a most interesting trip, and described the village as situated in a
most romantic spot, close upon the shore, at the foot of a deep valley
filled with a glacier, which completely overhung the settlement, and
threw jets of water almost to the tents. The natives were delighted
to see them, and, in answer to the inquiries through the interpreter
(Mr. Petersen), they said that two old wrecks were lying four days’
journey southward of Cape Bowen--probably in Scot’s Inlet. These two
ships came on shore together many years ago. They also confirmed an
account from our lady pilot of an old wreck lying to the northward in
Lancaster Sound, one day’s journey from Cape Hay, or, as they call it,
Appak (breeding-place of birds). The wood in their possession was now
accounted for, as also their great anxiety to procure saws, which they
always asked for in barter. These wrecks were not those we sought, and
we had no occasion to delay our voyage by looking at them. The natives
drew a rough chart of the interior of this unknown country. They
especially pointed out the salmon rivers, and the hunting and sleeping
places, and gave a few general ideas of the profile of the land, and
the main directions of the different channels which intersect it;
describing North Devon as an island, and showing a water communication
with Igloolik, where Parry wintered. We had now set at rest all rumours
of Franklin’s ships being in the neighbourhood of Pond’s Bay; and
having made a few observations for the survey of the place, we departed
for Beechey Island, regretting that the whaleships had not been with us
to profit by the number of fish we had seen. As we entered Lancaster
Sound, five huge bears sat watching a dead whale; they sat upon
different pieces of ice, apparently taking turns to feed, and evidently
afraid of each other. We shot a couple of them, but one escaped over
the ice after a long chase, although desperately wounded.

The next morning (August 7) the wind increased to a perfect storm from
the eastward; the fog was, as seamen say, as thick as pease-soup; we
could see nothing; and compasses being here useless, we had to trust to
our luck rather than good guidance for keeping in the fairway. We saw
very little ice, but the sea ran so high upon the 8th, that we thought
it prudent to lie-to for some hours. On the 10th, a herd of walrus
was seen off Cape Felfoot, upon a piece of sailing ice, and lying so
close as to completely cover it. The ship was run close alongside, and
several were shot, but we did not succeed in getting one; for, unless
instantaneously killed, they always wriggle off the ice and sink.
The only practical method of getting a walrus is with a gun-harpoon
from a boat; as yet we had shot only one during our voyage. Steering
round Cape Hurd in a thick fog, we struck on an unknown shoal, but
soon backed off again, and let go the anchor, as we could not see our
position. About midnight the fog lifted, and we proceeded. A large
bear was seen swimming round a point, and was shot; and shortly after,
one of the men fell overboard: he was picked up rather exhausted with
his cold bath, and perhaps a little alarmed at bathing in company
with polar bears. We anchored next day off Cape Riley, where the
_Bredalbane_ was lost, after Captain Inglefield had landed some of her
stores and coals. We found that the bears had been amusing themselves
with the provisions, and had eaten out the bilges between the hoops of
many of the casks. They evidently had a particular relish for chocolate
and salt pork (we hoped they liked it), and had taken the greatest
trouble to throw everything about. We visited the stores at Beechey;
they had been stored and housed with extreme care. A violent gale had
passed over the place, for the door of the house was blown in and the
entrance full of snow, but nothing was damaged excepting some biscuit.
We also visited the graves, so often described, yet ever interesting,
of the poor fellows who died in Franklin’s first winter quarters, and
whose comrades we were now seeking.

Our coaling from Cape Riley was completed by the 15th, and we were glad
to leave that exposed and dangerous place. We had been considerably
troubled with drift ice, and on the 13th we drove half across the bay,
with both anchors down, and had to moor to a piece of ice grounded
close to the ship. We crossed to the house at Beechey, and there landed
a handsome tombstone (sent out by Lady Franklin), in memorial of Sir
John Franklin and his companions. It was placed close to the monument
erected by their shipmates to the memory of poor Bellot and those who
had died in the previous searching expeditions. Taking in such stores
as were actually necessary, and having repaired the house, we crossed
over to Cape Hotham for a boat (left there by Penny), to replace one of
ours which had been crushed by the ice. Wellington Channel appeared to
be clear of ice, and a jumping sea, from the southward, gave us promise
of clear water in that direction. On the 17th, we were sailing down
Peel Sound with a fresh wind, and carrying every rag of canvas. Passing
Limestone Island and Cape Granite, we began to think that we should go
right through, for as yet no ice could be seen ahead; but the southern
sky looked bright and icy, while, in contrast, a dark gloom hung over
the waters we had left in the northward. Still we sailed on merrily,
and were already talking of passing the winter near the Fish River, and
returning the following year by Behring’s Straits, when “Ice ahead!”
was reported from the crow’s-nest; and there it certainly was, a long
low white barrier, of that peculiar concave form always indicating
fast-ice. The Straits had not broken up this season, and we could not
pass that way. We were bitterly disappointed, but not disheartened,
for we had yet another chance of getting to our longed-for destination
by way of Bellot Straits. Not an hour was to be lost; the season was
passing away; and thither our captain determined to go at once. We
reluctantly ran out of this promising channel, and sailed close along
the north shores of Somerset, without seeing any ice of consequence.
The night of the 18th set in dark and squally, but in the absence of
ice we were quite at our ease. We steamed close under the magnificent
castellated cliffs of Cape Clarence, and entered Leopold Harbour to
land a boat, in the event of our having to abandon our ship and fall
back this way.

We found Regent’s Inlet clear, excepting a few streams of loose ice,
through which we easily sailed. We passed Elwin and Batty Bays, and
everything, as an old quartermaster expressed it, looked “werry
prosperious.” Poor fellow! he knew that every mile sailed in the right
direction would save him a hard pull at the sledge ropes.

On the 20th, we passed close to Fury Beach, where the _Fury_ was lost
in 1825; but the pace was too good to stop to visit even this most
interesting spot. We came on with a fair wind and clear water to the
latitude of Bellot Straits. Our excitement now became intense. The
existence of the strait had been disputed, and upon it depended all
our hopes. Running into Brentford Bay, we thought we saw ice streaming
out, as if through some channel from the westward, but as yet we could
see no opening; and being unable to get farther that night, we anchored
in a little nook discovered on the north side of the bay. A look-out
was set upon the highest hill, to watch the movements of the ice, and
on the next day we made our first attempt to sail through. We started
with a strong western tide, and under both steam and canvas, and,
after proceeding about three miles, we were delighted to find that
a passage really existed; but we had not got half way through when,
the tide changing, a furious current came from the westward, bringing
down upon us such masses of ice that we were carried helplessly away,
and were nearly dashed upon huge pieces of grounded ice and reefs of
rocks, over which the floes were running, and would have immediately
capsized the little _Fox_ had she touched. This current ran at least
seven knots an hour, and was more like a bore in the Hooghly than any
ordinary tide. Struggling clear, after some considerable anxiety, and
carried out of the straits, we reluctantly went back to the anchorage
we had left. Night and day we now earnestly watched Bellot Straits, but
they remained choked with the ice, which apparently drove backwards and
forwards with the stream. We made another desperate attempt on the 25th
August, and hung on, at imminent risk, in a small indentation about
two-thirds through, and close under the precipitous cliffs. We were
soon driven out of this again by the ice; yet so determined was our
Captain to get through, that he then thought of pushing the ship into
the pack, and driving with it into the western sea. We found, however,
that the western entrance must be blocked, for the ice did not move
fast in that direction. We could now do nothing but wait a change; and
to employ the time, we sailed down the east coast of Boothia for some
forty miles, to land a depôt of provisions, in case we should require,
in the following winter, to communicate with the natives about Port
Elizabeth. Navigation was now very cold and dreary work: we struggled
back to Bellot Straits against strong north winds, sleet, and snow, and
without compass, chart, or celestial objects to guide us. The Captain
next went away in a boat, determining, when stopped, to travel over
land to the western sea to examine the actual state of things there;
and Young was sent to the southward for five days with boat and sledge,
to ascertain if another passage existed where a promising break in the
land had been seen.

The Captain returned to the ship on the 31st, bringing with him a fine
fat buck; he had reached Cape Bird by water and land, and brought us
a favourable report of Victoria Straits. Our hopes of getting through
were again raised. Young returned unsuccessful from the south; no other
strait existed, but only an inlet, extending some six miles in, and a
chain of lakes thence into the interior to the south-westward. Young
saw only one deer, but many bears were roaming about the coast.

On the 6th September we made another dash at the straits, and this time
succeeded in reaching a rocky islet, two miles outside the western
entrance; but a barrier of fast ice, over which we could see a dark
_water-sky_, here stopped us. Moored to the ice, we employed ourselves
in killing seals, hunting for bears, and making preparations for
travelling. Young was sent to an island eight miles to the south-west,
to look around; and on ascending the land, he was astonished to see
water as far as the visible horizon to the southward in Victoria
Straits. While sitting down, taking some angles with the sextant, he
luckily turned round just in time to see a large bear crawling up the
rocks to give him a pat on the head. He seized his rifle and shot him
through the body, but the beast struggled down and died out of reach,
in the water, and thus a good depôt of beef was lost. Hobson, who, for
some days, had been employed carrying provisions on to this island,
started on the 25th with a party of seven men and two dog-sledges to
carry depôts as far as possible to the southward, and the Captain
placed a boat on the islet close to the ship, in case we should have to
leave for winter quarters before Hobson’s return.

The winter now set in rapidly, new ice was fast increasing, and the
weather very severe; all navigation was at an end, and the barrier
outside of us had never moved. We had now no hopes of getting further,
and as no harbour existed where we were, we had nothing for it but to
seek our winter home in Bellot Straits, and finish our work in the
following winter and spring. So leaving Hobson to find his way to
us, we ran back through Bellot Straits towards a harbour that we had
discovered and named Port Kennedy. The straits were already covered
with scum, and almost unnavigable, but we reached the harbour at
midnight on the 27th, and ran the ship as far as possible into the
new ice which now filled it. The _Fox_ had done her work until the
following summer. No opportunity was now lost of procuring fresh food.
The deer were migrating southward and a few were shot as they passed.
But the hunting was very precarious; the deer were travelling, and did
not stop much to feed; there was no cover whatever, and stalking over
the rugged hills and snow-filled valleys was most laborious. A few
ptarmigan and hares were also shot, but we were altogether disappointed
in the resources of the country. We had, however, a fair stock of bear
and seal flesh for our dogs and ourselves to begin upon.

On the 6th October Hobson returned, having reached some fifty miles
down the west coast of Boothia, but was there stopped by the yet
broken-up state of the ice. Finding that we had left Cape Bird, and
that Bellot Straits were impassable for the boat, he travelled back to
the ship over the mountains. The people were now clearing out the ship,
landing all superfluous stores, and building magnetic observatories of
snow and ice, besides hunting for the pot. We once more buried the ship
with snow.

On the 24th, Hobson again started for the south-westward, to follow
up his last track, and to endeavour to push his depôts further on. He
returned to the ship on November 6, having experienced most severe
weather, and great dangers from the unquiet state of the ice. When
encamped near the shore, in latitude 70° 21′, the ice broke suddenly
away from the land and drifted out to sea before the gale, carrying
them off with it. They were perched upon a small floe piece, and a wide
crack separated the two tents. Dense snow-drift heightened the darkness
of the night, and they could not possibly tell in which direction they
were driving. The next morning they found themselves fifteen miles from
where they had pitched the previous evening. By the mercy of Providence
a calm succeeded, and they escaped to the land over the ice which
immediately formed. So thin was this new ice, that they momentarily
expected to break through. By great exertion Hobson saved the depôt;
and finding it impossible to do any more, he landed the provisions
and returned to the ship. Our autumn travelling was now brought to a
close. A depôt of provisions was to have been carried by Young across
Victoria Straits, but this was given up as evidently impracticable.
We sat down for the winter, praying that we might be spared to finish
our work in the spring. The whole ship’s company marched in funeral
procession to the shore on the 10th November, bearing upon a sledge
the mortal remains of poor Mr. Bland (our chief engineer), who was
found dead in his bed on the 7th. The burial service having been read,
he was deposited in his frozen tomb, on which the wild flowers will
never grow, and over which his relations can never mourn. We were all
on board almost as one family, and any one taken from us was missed
as one from the fireside at home. It was long before this sorrowful
feeling throughout the ship could be shaken off. On the 14th the sun
disappeared, and we were left in darkness; our skylights had long
been covered over with snow, and by the light of our solitary dip we
tried to pass the weary hours by reading, sleeping, and smoking. We
were frozen in, in a fine harbour, surrounded by lofty granite hills,
and on these were occasionally found a few ptarmigan, hares, and wild
foxes; whenever the weather permitted, or we could at all see our
way, we wandered over these dreary hills in search of a fresh mess.
We varied our exercise with excursions on the ice in search of bears.
But although exercise was so necessary for our existence, yet from the
winds drawing through the straits and down our harbour as through a
funnel, there were many days, and even weeks, when we could scarcely
leave the ship. The men set fox-traps in all directions, and Mr.
Petersen set seal-nets under the ice. The nets were not successful, but
the traps gave an object for a walk. Magnetic observations were carried
on throughout the winter;--the reading of one instrument, placed in a
snow-house some 200 yards from the ship, being registered every hour
night and day. On some of the wild winter nights, there was some risk
in going even that distance from the ship. Christmas and New Year’s
days were spent with such rejoicing as in our situation we could make,
and we entered upon the year 1859 with good health and spirits. Our
dogs, upon which so much depended, were also in first-rate condition,
and not one of them had died.

The sun returned to us on January 26th; the daylight soon began to
increase; and by February 10th, we were all ready to start upon our
first winter journey. Bad weather detained us until the 17th, when
Captain M‘Clintock and Young both left the ship; the Captain, with only
two companions, Mr. Petersen (interpreter) and Thompson as dog-driver,
to travel down the west coast of Boothia, to endeavour to obtain
information, preparatory to the long spring journeys, from some natives
supposed to live near the magnetic pole. Young was to cross Victoria
Straits with a depôt of provisions, to enable him in the spring to
search the coast of Prince of Wales Land, wherever it might trend. He
returned on March 5.

The Captain’s party hove in sight on the 14th, and we all ran out to
meet him. He had found a tribe of natives at Cape Victoria, near the
magnetic pole, and from them he learnt that some years ago a large ship
was crushed by the ice, off the north-west coast of King William Land;
that the people had come to the land, and had travelled down that coast
to the estuary of the Great Fish River where they had died upon an
island (Montreal Island); the natives had spears, bows and arrows, and
other implements made of wood, besides a quantity of silver spoons and
forks, which they said they had procured on the island (more probably
by barter from other tribes). It was now evident that we were on the
right track, and with this important information Captain M‘Clintock
returned to the ship.

Our winter travelling was thus ended, fortunately without any mishap.

Those only who know what it is to be exposed to a temperature of frozen
mercury accompanied with wind, can form any idea of the discomforts of
dragging a sledge over the ice, upon an unknown track, day after day,
and for eight or ten consecutive hours, without a meal or drink, the
hands and face constantly frostbitten, and your very boots full of ice;
to be attacked with snow blindness; to encamp and start in the dark,
and spend sixteen hours upon the snow, in a brown-holland tent, or the
hastily erected snow-house, listening to the wind, the snow-drift, and
the howling of the dogs outside, and trying to wrap the frozen blanket
closer round the shivering frame. The exhaustion to the system is so
great, and the thirst so intense, that the evening pannikin of tea and
the allowanced pound of pemmican would not be given up were it possible
to receive the whole world in exchange; and woe to the unlucky cook if
he capsized the kettle!

On the 18th March, Young again started for Fury Beach, distant
seventy-five miles, to get some of the sugar left there by Parry in
1825, and now considered necessary for the health of our men by the
surgeon. This journey occupied until the 28th, one sledge having broken
down, and the whole weight--about 1200 lbs.--having to be worked back
piecemeal with one sledge, by a sort of fox-and-goose calculation. Dr.
Walker, who had also volunteered to go down for the provisions left
on the east coast in the autumn, and now not required there, returned
about the same time. With the information already obtained, and which
only accounted for one ship, Captain M‘Clintock saw no reason for
changing the original plan of search, viz., that he should trace the
Montreal Island and round King William Land; that Hobson should cross
from the magnetic pole to Collinson’s farthest on Victoria Land, and
follow up that coast; and that Young should cross Victoria Straits
and connect the coast of Prince of Wales Land with either Collinson’s
farthest on Victoria Island or Osborne’s farthest on the west coast of
Prince of Wales Land, according as he might discover the land to trend.
Young was also to connect the coast with Browne’s farthest in Peel
Sound, and explore the coast of North Somerset from Sir James Ross’s
farthest (Four River Bay) to Bellot Straits. This would complete the
examination of the whole unexplored country.

The travelling parties were each to consist of four men drawing one
sledge, and six dogs with a second sledge, besides the officer in
charge, and the dog-driver. By the aid of depôts, already carried out,
and from the extreme care with which Captain M‘Clintock had prepared
the travelling equipment, and had reduced every ounce of unnecessary
weight, we expected to be able to be absent from the ship, and without
any other resource, for periods of from seventy to eighty days, and if
necessary even longer. The Captain and Hobson both started on the 2nd
April, and Young got away upon the 7th. The _Fox_ was left in charge
of Dr. Walker (surgeon), and three or four invalids, who were unfit for
the fatigues of travelling.

Although we all felt much excited at the real commencement of our
active work, and interested in these departures, this was perhaps the
most painful period of our voyage. We had hitherto acted in concert,
and all the dangers of our voyage had been shared together. We were now
to be separated, and for three months to travel in detached parties
over the ice, without an opportunity of hearing of each other until
our return. It was like the breaking up of a happy family, and our
only consolation lay in the hope that when we again met it would be
to rejoice over the discovery of the lost ships. Nothing of interest
occurred on board during our absence; but one of the invalids, poor
Blackwell, had been getting gradually worse, and died of scurvy on June
14, the very day on which Hobson returned.

The Captain and Hobson travelled together as far as Cape Victoria.
There they learnt the additional news that another ship had drifted
on shore on the west coast of King William Land in the autumn of the
same year in which the first ship was crushed. Captain M‘Clintock, now
knowing that both ships had been seen off that coast, and that on it
the traces must be found, most generously resigned to Hobson the first
opportunity of searching there, instead of crossing to Victoria Land,
as originally intended. Captain M‘Clintock then went down the east side
towards the Fish River. Near Cape Norton, he found a tribe of some
thirty or forty natives, who appeared much pleased to meet the strange
white people. They answered readily any inquiries, and concealed
nothing. They produced silver spoons and forks, and other relics from
the lost ships, and readily bartered them for knives or needles. They
were acquainted with the wreck, which they said was over the land
(on the south-west coast), and for years they had collected wood and
valuables from it, but they had not visited it for a long time. They
had seen Franklin’s people on their march southward, but had not
molested them. They said that they had seen one human skeleton in the
ship. Proceeding on his route, Captain M‘Clintock next found a native
family at Point Booth, near the south-east extreme of King William
Land; these natives gave him the additional information that the
remains of some of the lost people would be found on Montreal Island.
Having searched Montreal Island and main land in the neighbourhood
without finding other traces than a few pieces of copper and iron, and
now having connected the search from the north with Anderson’s from the
south, Captain M‘Clintock proceeded to examine the shores of Dease and
Simpson Straits, and the southern shore of King William Land.

Near Cape Herschel, the Captain’s party found a human skeleton upon the
beach as the man had fallen down and died, with his face to the ground;
and a pocket-book, containing letters in German which have not yet been
deciphered, was found close by.

The large cairn, originally built by Simpson, at Cape Herschel, had
been pulled down, probably by the natives, and if any record or
document had ever been placed therein by Franklin’s people, they were
now lost, for none could be found within or around the cairn. Passing
Cape Herschel, Captain M‘Clintock travelled along the hitherto unknown
shore, and discovered it to extend out as far as the meridian of 100°
West. There all traces of the natives ceased,[31] and it appeared as
if they had not for many years lived or hunted beyond that point which
was named Cape Crozier (after Captain Crozier, Franklin’s second in
command).

The land then trended to the north-eastward, and about twenty miles
from Cape Crozier, M‘Clintock found a boat, which had only a few
days previously been examined by Hobson from the north, and in it a
note left by Hobson to say that he had discovered the records of the
_Erebus_ and _Terror_, and after travelling nearly to Cape Herschel
without finding further traces, had returned towards the _Fox_. Captain
M‘Clintock, from the south, had now connected his discoveries with
those of Lieutenant Hobson, to whose very successful journey we will
now turn.

Parting from the Captain at Cape Victoria, Hobson crossed to Cape
Felix, and near that point he found a cairn, around which were
quantities of clothing, blankets, and other indications of Franklin’s
people having visited that spot, and probably formed a depôt there, in
the event of their abandoning their ships. Anxiously searching among
these interesting relics without finding any record, Hobson continued
along the shore to Cape Victoria, where, on May 6, he discovered a
large cairn, and in it the first authentic account ever obtained of the
history of the lost expedition. It was to the following effect:--That
the _Erebus_ and _Terror_ had ascended Wellington Channel to latitude
77° north, and had returned west of Cornwallis Island to Beechey
Island, where they spent their first winter, 1845-46. Sailing thence
in the following season, they were beset, on September 12, 1846, in
latitude 70° 5′ north, longitude 98° 23′ west. _Sir John Franklin died
on June 11, 1847_; and on the 22nd of April, 1848, having, up to that
date, lost by death nine officers and fifteen men, both ships were
abandoned in the ice, five leagues north north-west of Point Victory.
The survivors, 106 in number, had landed, under the command of Captain
Crozier, on the 25th April, at Point Victory, and would start on the
morrow (April 26) for the Great Fish River. Another record was also
found, stating that previously, on the 24th May, 1847, Lieutenant
Grahame Gore and Mr. Charles DesVœux, mate, had landed from the ship,
with a party of six men. The record did not state for what reason they
had landed; but from the number who finally abandoned the ships, this
party must have returned on board, and it is probable that they merely
landed to examine the coast.

Quantities of clothing, cooking, and working implements were scattered
about near Point Victory, and a sextant, on which was engraved the
name of Frederick Hornby, was found among the _débris_. Collecting a
few of the most interesting of these relics to take with him upon his
return, Hobson then pushed on to the southward, and when near Cape
Crozier he discovered the boat above mentioned, by a small stanchion
just showing up above the snow. Clearing away the snow, he found in
the bottom of the boat two human skeletons, one of which was under a
heap of clothing. There were also watches, chronometers, silver spoons,
money, &c., besides a number of Bibles, prayer and other religious
books; and although one of the Bibles was underlined in almost every
verse, yet not a single writing was found to throw further light upon
the history of the retreating parties. There were two guns, one barrel
of each being loaded and cocked, as if these poor fellows had been
anxiously longing for a passing bear or fox to save them from starving;
for nothing edible was found, save some chocolate and tea, neither of
which could support life in such a climate. Lieutenant Hobson, having
searched the coast beyond Cape Crozier, returned to the ship on June
14, in a very exhausted state. He had been suffering severely from
scurvy, and was so reduced in strength that he could not stand. He had
been for more than forty days upon his sledge, carried in and out of
the tent by his brave companions, and his sufferings must have been
beyond description. Throughout his journey he had only killed one bear
and a few ptarmigan.

Captain M‘Clintock returned on board the _Fox_ on June 19, having been
absent eighty days. He brought with him a number of relics, and had
minutely examined every cairn and the whole coast of King William.
He supposes that the wreck of the ship, unless upon some off-lying
island, has been run over by the ice, and has disappeared; as he saw
nothing of it. He made most valuable discoveries in geography, and
surveyed the coast from Bellot Straits to the magnetic pole, besides
having travelled completely round King William Island, and filled up
its unknown coasts. Besides his other instruments, he carried with him
a dip circle, weighing 40 lbs., with which he also made most valuable
observations.

Young had crossed Victoria Straits (now Franklin Straits), discovered
M‘Clintock Channel, and proved Prince of Wales Land to be an island;
having reached the point which Captain Sherard Osborn came to from the
north. Owing to the very heavy character of the ice, he had failed
in crossing M‘Clintock Channel, and returned to the ship on June 8,
for a day or two’s rest. He had again started, on June 10, to recross
Victoria Straits, and to complete the search to the northward upon
Prince of Wales Land, and the unknown land of North Somerset, and was
now absent; and although the ice was fast breaking up, and the floes
already knee-deep with water, Captain M‘Clintock, notwithstanding
his late severe journey, fearing that something might be wrong, most
kindly started immediately, with only one man and a dog-sledge, to
look for him. He found Young perched up out of the water upon the
top of the islet, off Cape Bird, and they returned together to the
ship on June 28. We were now all on board, and once more together. We
were in fair health, although some of us were a little touched with
scurvy. We passed our time in shooting, eating, and sleeping, and then
eating again: our craving for fresh food, or, as the sailors call it,
blood-meat, was excessive; seal and bear flesh, foxes, gulls, or
ducks, went indiscriminately into the pot. We rejoiced whenever we got
a fresh mess of any sort.

The summer burst upon us; water was pouring down all the ravines,
and flooding the ice in the harbour, and with extreme satisfaction
we saw the snow houses and ice hummocks fast melting away in the now
never-setting sun. A joyous feeling existed throughout the ship, for
our work was done, and we had only to look forward to an early release,
and a return to our families and homes.

Over and over again we told our adventures, and we never tired of
listening to the one all-absorbing, though melancholy subject, of the
discovery of the fate of Sir John Franklin and his companions.

We had been prepared by the report brought from the Esquimaux in
February to find that all hopes of survivors were at an end, and that
the expedition had met with some fatal and overwhelming casualty; but
we were scarcely prepared to know, nor could we even have realized the
manner, in which they spent their last days upon earth, so fearful a
sojourn must it have been. Beset and surrounded with wastes of snow
and ice, they passed two more terrible winters drifting slowly to the
southward at the rate of one mile in the month, hoping each summer
that the ice would open, and determined not to abandon their ships
until every hope was gone. In nineteen months they had only moved some
eighteen miles, their provisions daily lessening, and their strength
fast failing. They had at last left their ships for the Fish River at
least two months before the river could break up and allow them to
proceed, and in the then imperfect knowledge of ice travelling they
could not have carried with them more than forty days’ provisions.
Exhausted by scurvy and starvation, “they dropped as they walked
along,”[32] and those few who reached Montreal Island must all have
perished there; and but for their having travelled over the frozen sea
we should have found the remains of these gallant men as they fell by
the way, and but for the land being covered deeply with snow, more
relics of those who had struggled to the beach to die would have been
seen. They all perished, and, in dying in the cause of their country,
their dearest consolation must have been to feel that Englishmen would
not rest until they had followed up their footsteps, and had given to
the world what they could not then give--the grand result of their
dreadful voyage--_their Discovery of the North-West Passage_. They had
sailed down Peel and Victoria Straits, now appropriately named Franklin
Straits, and the poor human skeletons lying upon the shores of the
waters in which Dease and Simpson had sailed from the westward bore
melancholy evidence of their success.

       *       *       *       *       *

By the middle of July the dark blue stream rolled again through Bellot
Straits, but yet not a drop of water could be seen in Regent Inlet. Our
ship was refitted, the stores all on board, and we were quite prepared
for sea. Our engineers were both lost to us, but the Captain soon got
the engines into working order, and determined to drive them himself,
for without steam we could reckon upon nothing.

[Illustration:
                  A CHART
                showing the
          TRACKS OF THE YACHT FOX
        despatched by Lady Franklin
            under the command of
          CAPT’N. M‘CLINTOCK, R.N.
               in search of
         H.M. SHIPS EREBUS & TERROR
                1857 to 1859.
]

July passed away, and during the first week in August we could still
see one unbroken surface of ice in Regent Inlet; from the highest
hill not a spoonful of water could be made out. We were getting
rather anxious, for had we been detained another winter, we must have
abandoned the ship in the following spring and trusted to our fortunes
over the ice. However, a gale of wind on the 7th and 8th of August
caused some disruption in the inlet, for on the morning of the 9th a
report came down from the hills that a lead of water was seen under the
land to the northward. Steam was immediately made, and pushing close
past the islands, we were enabled to work up the coast in a narrow lane
of water between it and the pack.

We reached the north side of Creswell Bay on the following day, but,
the wind changing, we saw the pack setting rapidly in upon the land,
and it had already closed upon Fury Beach. Our only chance was now
to seek a grounded mass of ice, and to hang on to it. We were indeed
glad to get a little rest, and especially for our captain, who had not
left the engines for twenty-four hours. But we lay in a most exposed
position on an open coast without an indentation, the pack closing in
rapidly before the wind and threatening us with the same fate as befell
the _Fury_ when she was driven on the shore about seven miles from our
present position. Hanging on to this piece of ice with every hawser,
we saw it gradually melting and breaking away, and at spring tides it
began to float. On the 15th the gale shifted to the westward, and blew
off the land; we watched the ice gradually easing off, and directly
that we had room, we cast off under storm-sails, and succeeded in
getting out of Regent Inlet and into Lancaster Sound on the following
day. We entered Godhavn, in Greenland, on the night of August 26, and
not having heard from our friends for more than two years, we did
not even wait for daylight for our expected letters. The authorities
on shore kindly sent all they had for us at once to the ship, and I
suppose that letters from home were never opened with more anxiety.

Having a few repairs to do, especially to our rudder, which, with
the spare one, had been smashed by the ice, we remained a day or two
to patch it up for the passage home. Then leaving Godhavn on the 1st
September, although the nights were extremely dark, and the weather
stormy, with many bergs drifting about, we passed down Davis Strait
without incident, and, rounding Cape Farewell on the 13th, we ran
across the Atlantic with strong, fair winds. Captain M‘Clintock landed
at the Isle of Wight on the 20th, and on the 23rd the _Fox_ entered the
docks at Blackwall.

Our happy cruise was at an end, and by the mercy of Providence we were
permitted to land again in England.


FOOTNOTES:

[31] The wanderings of the Esquimaux may be traced by the circles of
stones by which they keep down their skin summer tents.

[32] Esquimaux report.




                   The First Morning of 1860.


    One evening mid the summer flown
        Has stamp’d my memory more than any;
        It pass’d us by among the many,
    And yet it stands there, all alone.

    We sate without our open’d room,
        While fell the eve’s transparent shade;
    The out-door world, all warmth and bloom,
        To us a summer parlour made.

    The garden’s cultivated grace,
        The luxury of neatness round,
    The careless amplitude of space,
        The silence, and the casual sound,

    Told of a state thro’ many years
        Serenely safe in doing well;
    And while we sate, there struck our ears
        The summons of the evening bell.

    It call’d to food, it call’d to rest,
        The many whom the rich man’s dome
    Had gathered in its ample breast,
        To them and him alike a home.

    That very hour, was thund’ring o’er
        A neighbouring land, the tramp of War,
    Which stalked along the lovely shore,
        Its shapes to blast, its sounds to mar.

    And ’gainst our own, the reflux wave
        Had pushed its harsh in-flooding swell:
    The clouds which there a tempest gave,
        In shadow on our own land fell.

    The pang my bosom rudely beat--
        What if that fate our own had been?
    What if or victory or defeat
        Had wrapp’d us in its woe, and sin?

    What if it still our fate should be?
        And the safe hours, enjoy’d like this,
    Amid our home-scenes safe and free,
        Should be the passing year of bliss?

    The new one on the lecturn lies,
        Its leaves the turning hand await;
    Those fresh unopen’d leaves comprise
        Th’ unread, but written words of Fate.

    O God! what are they? if they be
        The bloody words of ruffian war,
        Grant us success!--but rather far
    Avert the scourge of victory!

    Too dear the price! Ah! human forms
        Of guardian husbands, cherish’d sons
    Once children, hid from smallest harms
        Of mind and body, cherish’d ones!

    Shall ye stand up, the gallant mark
        Of the brute shot, and iron rod,
    And man’s frame, exquisite in work,
        Be treated like earth’s common clod?

    Shall England’s polish’d glory, pure
        In freedom, wisdom, high estate,
    Her open Bible, and her poor
        Becoming one with rich and great,--

    Shall these high things be but the aim
        Of envious men, in rough affray,
    To try against the noble frame
        Their brutal skill to rob and slay?

    Forbid it Thou, who to the strong,
        And wise, hast might and counsel lent;
    And lead’st them danger’s path along,
        Audacious, firm, and confident.

    Forbid it, Thou, who to the weak
        Permittest to be strong in pray’r;
    From Whom we wives and mothers seek
        Peace to endow the new-born year.

                                        V.




                   Roundabout Papers.--No. I.


                       ON A LAZY IDLE BOY.

[Illustration]

I had occasion to pass a week in the autumn in the little old town of
Coire or Chur, in the Grisons, where lies buried that very ancient
British king, saint, and martyr, Lucius,[33] who founded the Church of
St. Peter, which stands opposite the house No. 65, Cornhill. Few people
note the church now-a-days, and fewer ever heard of the saint. In the
cathedral at Chur, his statue appears surrounded by other sainted
persons of his family. With tight red breeches, a Roman habit, a curly
brown beard, and a neat little gilt crown and sceptre, he stands, a
very comely and cheerful image: and, from what I may call his peculiar
position with regard to No. 65, Cornhill, I beheld this figure of St.
Lucius with more interest than I should have bestowed upon personages
who, hierarchically, are, I daresay, his superiors.

The pretty little city stands, so to speak, at the end of the world--of
the world of to-day, the world of rapid motion, and rushing railways,
and the commerce and intercourse of men. From the northern gate, the
iron road stretches away to Zürich, to Basel, to Paris, to home. From
the old southern barriers, before which a little river rushes, and
around which stretch the crumbling battlements of the ancient town,
the road bears the slow diligence or lagging vetturino by the shallow
Rhine, through the awful gorges of the Via Mala, and presently over the
Splügen to the shores of Como.

I have seldom seen a place more quaint, pretty, calm, and pastoral,
than this remote little Chur. What need have the inhabitants for walls
and ramparts, except to build summer-houses, to trail vines, and hang
clothes to dry? No enemies approach the great mouldering gates: only
at morn and even, the cows come lowing past them, the village maidens
chatter merrily round the fountains, and babble like the ever-voluble
stream that flows under the old walls. The schoolboys, with book and
satchel, in smart uniforms, march up to the gymnasium, and return
thence at their stated time. There is one coffee-house in the town, and
I see one old gentleman goes to it. There are shops with no customers
seemingly, and the lazy tradesmen look out of their little windows at
the single stranger sauntering by. There is a stall with baskets of
queer little black grapes and apples, and a pretty brisk trade with
half a dozen urchins standing round. But, beyond this, there is scarce
any talk or movement in the street. There’s nobody at the book-shop.
“If you will have the goodness to come again in an hour,” says the
banker, with his mouthful of dinner at one o’clock, “you can have the
money.” There is nobody at the hotel, save the good landlady, the kind
waiters, the brisk young cook who ministers to you. Nobody is in the
Protestant church--(oh! strange sight, the two confessions are here
at peace!)--nobody in the Catholic church: until the sacristan, from
his snug abode in the cathedral close, espies the traveller eyeing
the monsters and pillars before the old shark-toothed arch of his
cathedral, and comes out (with a view to remuneration possibly) and
opens the gate, and shows you the venerable church, and the queer old
relics in the sacristy, and the ancient vestments (a black velvet cope,
amongst other robes, as fresh as yesterday, and presented by that
notorious “pervert,” Henry of Navarre and France), and the statue of
St. Lucius, who built St. Peter’s Church, opposite No. 65, Cornhill.

What a quiet, kind, quaint, pleasant, pretty old town! Has it been
asleep these hundreds and hundreds of years, and is the brisk young
Prince of the Sidereal Realms in his screaming car drawn by his
snorting steel elephant coming to waken it? Time was when there must
have been life and bustle and commerce here. Those vast, venerable
walls were not made to keep out cows, but men-at-arms led by fierce
captains, who prowled about the gates, and robbed the traders us they
passed in and out with their bales, their goods, their pack-horses, and
their wains. Is the place so dead that even the clergy of the different
denominations can’t quarrel? Why, seven or eight, or a dozen, or
fifteen hundred years ago (they haven’t the register, over the way, up
to that remote period. I daresay it was burnt in the fire of London)--a
dozen hundred years ago, when there was some life in the town, St.
Lucius was stoned here on account of theological differences, after
founding our church in Cornhill.

There was a sweet pretty river walk we used to take in the evening,
and mark the mountains round glooming with a deeper purple; the shades
creeping up the golden walls; the river brawling, the cattle calling,
the maids and chatterboxes round the fountains babbling and bawling;
and several times in the course of our sober walks, we overtook a lazy
slouching boy, or hobbledehoy, with a rusty coat, and trousers not
too long, and big feet trailing lazily one after the other, and large
lazy hands dawdling from out the tight sleeves, and in the lazy hands
a little book, which my lad held up to his face, and which I daresay
so charmed and ravished him, that he was blind to the beautiful sights
around him; unmindful, I would venture to lay any wager, of the lessons
he had to learn for to-morrow; forgetful of mother waiting supper, and
father preparing a scolding;--absorbed utterly and entirely in his book.

What was it that so fascinated the young student, as he stood by the
river shore? Not the _Pons Asinorum_. What book so delighted him, and
blinded him to all the rest of the world, so that he did not care to
see the apple-woman with her fruit, or (more tempting still to sons of
Eve) the pretty girls with their apple cheeks, who laughed and prattled
round the fountain? What was the book? Do you suppose it was Livy, or
the Greek grammar? No; it was a NOVEL that you were reading, you lazy,
not very clean, good-for-nothing, sensible boy! It was D’Artagnan
locking up General Monk in a box, or almost succeeding in keeping
Charles the First’s head on. It was the prisoner of the Château d’If
cutting himself out of the sack fifty feet under water (I mention the
novels I like best myself--novels without love or talking, or any of
that sort of nonsense, but containing plenty of fighting, escaping,
robbery, and rescuing)--cutting himself out of the sack, and swimming
to the Island of Montecristo. O Dumas! O thou brave, kind, gallant
old Alexandre! I hereby offer thee homage, and give thee thanks for
many pleasant hours. I have read thee (being sick in bed) for thirteen
hours of a happy day, and had the ladies of the house fighting for the
volumes. Be assured that lazy boy was reading Dumas (or I will go so
far as to let the reader here pronounce the eulogium, or insert the
name of his favourite author); and as for the anger, or it may be, the
reverberations of his schoolmaster, or the remonstrances of his father,
or the tender pleadings of his mother that he should not let the supper
grow cold--I don’t believe the scapegrace cared one fig. No! Figs are
sweet, but fictions are sweeter.

Have you ever seen a score of white-bearded, white-robed warriors, or
grave seniors of the city, seated at the gate of Jaffa or Beyrout,
and listening to the story-teller reciting his marvels out of _Antar_
or the _Arabian Nights_? I was once present when a young gentleman at
table put a tart away from him, and said to his neighbour, the Younger
Son (with rather a fatuous air), “I never eat sweets.”

“Not eat sweets! and do you know why?” says T.

“Because I am past that kind of thing,” says the young gentleman.

“Because you are a glutton and a sot!” cries the elder (and Juvenis
winces a little). “All people who have natural, healthy appetites,
love sweets; all children, all women, all Eastern people, whose tastes
are not corrupted by gluttony and strong drink.” And a plateful of
raspberries and cream disappeared before the philosopher.

You take the allegory? Novels are sweets. All people with healthy
literary appetites love them--almost all women;--a vast number of
clever, hard-headed men. Why, one of the most learned physicians in
England said to me only yesterday, “I have just read _So-and-So_ for
the second time” (naming one of Jones’s exquisite fictions). Judges,
bishops, chancellors, mathematicians are notorious novel readers; as
well as young boys and sweet girls, and their kind, tender mothers. Who
has not read about Eldon, and how he cried over novels every night when
he was not at whist?

As for that lazy naughty boy at Chur, I doubt whether _he_ will like
novels when he is thirty years of age. He is taking too great a glut
of them now. He is eating jelly until he will be sick. He will know
most plots by the time he is twenty, so that _he_ will never be
surprised when the Stranger turns out to be the rightful earl,--when
the old waterman, throwing off his beggarly gabardine, shows his
stars and the collars of his various orders, and clasping Antonia to
his bosom, proves himself to be the prince, her long-lost father. He
will recognize the novelists’ same characters, though they appear in
red-heeled pumps and _ailes-de-pigeon_, or the garb of the nineteenth
century. He will get weary of sweets, as boys of private schools grow
(or used to grow, for I have done growing some little time myself, and
the practice may have ended too)--as private schoolboys used to grow
tired of the pudding before their mutton at dinner.

And pray what is the moral of this apologue? The moral I take to be
this: the appetite for novels extending to the end of the world;--far
away in the frozen deep, the sailors reading them to one another during
the endless night;--far away under the Syrian stars, the solemn sheikhs
and elders hearkening to the poet as he recites his tales;--far away
in the Indian camps, where the soldiers listen to ----’s tales, or
----’s, after the hot day’s march;--far away in little Chur yonder,
where the lazy boy pores over the fond volume, and drinks it in with
all his eyes;--the demand being what we know it is, the merchant
must supply it, as he will supply saddles and pale ale for Bombay or
Calcutta.

But as surely as the cadet drinks too much pale ale, it will disagree
with him; and so surely, dear youth, will too much novels cloy on
thee. I wonder, do novel writers themselves read many novels? If you
go into Gunter’s, you don’t see those charming young ladies (to whom
I present my most respectful compliments) eating tarts and ices, but
at the proper evening-tide they have good plain wholesome tea and
bread-and-butter. Can anybody tell me does the author of the _Tale
of two Cities_ read novels? does the author of the _Tower of London_
devour romances? does the dashing _Harry Lorrequer_ delight in _Plain
or Ringlets_ or _Sponge’s Sporting Tour_? Does the veteran, from
whose flowing pen we had the books which delighted our young days,
_Darnley_, and _Richelieu_, and _Delorme_[34] relish the works of
Alexandre the Great, and thrill over the _Three Musqueteers_? Does
the accomplished author of the _Caxtons_ read the other tales in
_Blackwood_? (For example, that ghost-story printed last August, and
which for my part, though I read it in the public reading-room at the
Pavilion Hotel at Folkestone, I protest frightened me so that I scarce
dared look over my shoulder.) Does _Uncle Tom_ admire _Adam Bede_; and
does the author of the _Vicar of Wrexhill_ laugh over the _Warden_ and
the _Three Clerks_? Dear youth of ingenuous countenance and ingenuous
pudor! I make no doubt that the eminent parties above named all partake
of novels in moderation--eat jellies--but mainly nourish themselves
upon wholesome roast and boiled.

Here, dear youth aforesaid! our CORNHILL MAGAZINE owners strive to
provide thee with facts as well as fiction; and though it does not
become them to brag of their Ordinary, at least they invite thee to a
table where thou shall sit in good company. That story of the _Fox_ was
written by one of the gallant seamen who sought for poor Franklin under
the awful Arctic Night: that account of China is told by the man of all
the empire most likely to know of what he speaks: those pages regarding
Volunteers come from an honoured hand that has borne the sword in a
hundred famous fields, and pointed the British guns in the greatest
siege in the world.

Shall we point out others? We are fellow-travellers, and shall make
acquaintance as the voyage proceeds. In the Atlantic steamers, on the
first day out (and on high and holidays subsequently), the jellies
set down on table are richly ornamented; _medioque in fonte leporum_
rise the American and British flags nobly emblazoned in tin. As the
passengers remark this pleasing phenomenon, the Captain no doubt
improves the occasion by expressing a hope, to his right and left,
that the flag of Mr. Bull and his younger Brother may always float
side by side in friendly emulation. Novels having been previously
compared to jellies--here are two (one perhaps not entirely saccharine,
and flavoured with an _amari aliquid_ very distasteful to some
palates)--two novels under two flags, the one that ancient ensign
which has hung before the well-known booth of _Vanity Fair_; the other
that fresh and handsome standard which has lately been hoisted on
_Barchester Towers_. Pray, sir, or madam, to which dish will you be
helped?

So have I seen my friends Captain Lang and Captain Comstock press their
guests to partake of the fare on that memorable “First day out,” when
there is no man, I think, who sits down but asks a blessing on his
voyage, and the good ship dips over the bar, and bounds away into the
blue water.


FOOTNOTES:

[33] Stow quotes the inscription, still extant, “from the table fast
chained in St. Peter’s Church, Cornhill;” and says “he was after
some chronicle buried at London, and after some chronicle buried at
Glowcester”--but oh! these incorrect chroniclers! when Alban Butler, in
the _Lives of the Saints_, v. xii., and Murray’s _Handbook_, and the
Sacristan at Chur, all say Lucius was killed there, and I saw his tomb
with my own eyes!

[34] By the way, what a strange fate is that which has befallen the
veteran novelist! He is her Majesty’s Consul-General in Venice, the
only city in Europe where the famous “Two Cavaliers” cannot by any
possibility be seen riding together.




Transcriber’s Notes

The following changes have been made:

  A table of contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.

  Some illustrations have been moved outside the enclosing paragraphs.

  Changed +dorekie+ to +dovekie+ in “saw a solitary dovekie in winter
    plumage” on page 105.