BLACKWOOD’S
                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

              NO. CCCCLXVII. SEPTEMBER, 1854. VOL. LXXVI.




                               CONTENTS.


       THE HOLY LAND,                                         243
       BELLEROPHON. A CLASSICAL BALLAD,                       256
       THE COMING FORTUNES OF OUR COLONIES IN THE PACIFIC,    268
       SPECULATORS AMONG THE STARS,                           288
       MRS STOWE’S SUNNY MEMORIES,                            301
       THE CRYSTAL PALACE,                                    317
       THE SECRET OF STOKE MANOR: A FAMILY HISTORY.—PART IV., 336
       THE SPANISH REVOLUTION,                                356


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

      _To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed_.

           SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

           PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.




                              BLACKWOOD’S

                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.


 NO. CCCCLXVII.          SEPTEMBER, 1854.                    VOL. LXXVI.




                           THE HOLY LAND.[1]


Strong and many are the claims made upon us by our mother Earth; the
love of locality—the charm and attraction which some one homely
landscape possesses to us, surpassing all stranger beauties, is a
remarkable feature in the human heart. We who are not ethereal
creatures, but of a mixed and diverse nature—we who, when we look our
clearest towards the skies, must still have our standing-ground of earth
secure—it is strange what relations of personal love we enter into with
the scenes of this lower sphere. How we delight to build our
recollections upon some basis of reality—a place, a country, a local
habitation—how the events of life, as we look back upon them, have grown
into the well-remembered background of the places where they fell upon
us;—here is some sunny garden or summer lane, beatified and canonised
for ever with the flood of a great joy; and here are dim and silent
places, rooms always shadowed and dark to us, whatever they may be to
others, where distress or death came once, and since then dwells for
evermore. As little as we can deprive ourselves of the human frame, can
we divest our individual history of its graceful garment of place and
scene. Such a thing happened, we say; but memory is no bare chronicler
of facts and events, and as we say the words, the time starts up before
us, with all its silent witnesses;—leaves that were shed years ago,
trees cut down and gone, yet they live in our thoughts with the joy or
the sorrow of which they were silent attendants. We have caught and
appropriated these bits of still life—they are a part of our history,
and belong to us for ever.

In some degree every mind must have its own private gallery of pictures,
impossible to be revealed to the vision of another,—from the homely
imagination which cherishes that one bit of sunshine on its walls, “the
house where I was born,” the old childish paradise and ideal, rich with
such flowers and verdure as can be found in no other place, to the
stately and well-furnished recollection which can roam at will through
all the brightest countries in the world; but wherever we go, we weave
ourselves into the landscape, and make every milestone a historical
monument in the chronicle of our life.

And so it comes that natives of a country never expatriated from their
home-soil, grow into a passionate veneration and love for their own
land. The hills which are radiant for ever with their dreams of
youth—the rivers whose familiar voices have chimed into every sound of
their lamentation and their joy—the roads that echo to their daily
footsteps, and all the silent accessories upon which, as on so many
props and pillars, their thoughts for years are hung—the very sight of
which recall a hundred fleeting fancies—the very name of which spreads
pictures lovelier than reality before closed eyes—the “kindly” country,
which seems to respond with a voice borrowed from our own past thoughts
to the thoughts of to-day, suggesting ancient comforts, ancient
blessings, silently speaking hope from experience, solace present from
solace past, lays claims upon us, the most intimate of our confidants,
the nearest to our bosom; and Nature lavish in her demands upon our
sympathy—perpetually calling upon us to weep with her and to rejoice
with her—makes liberal recompense, and softens around us with a visible
embrace our mother country, our sympathetic and consolatory home.

And scarcely less are we moved by localities sacred to the heroes of our
race—storied ground, peopled with names and persons historic in the
national annals, or consecrated to other lives than ours. It is natural
for us to seek those spots with eager interest, to believe ourselves
brought nearer to the great Spirit whose habitation made them famous,
and to linger with visionary satisfaction, looking at things which _he_
must have looked at, realising his life where he led it. Pilgrimages
many grow out of this natural sentiment. The cottage of Shakespeare—the
palace of Scott—the “warm study of deals,” where the Scottish Reformer
belaboured Satan—and the dark-browed rooms where hapless Mary
accomplished her fate. From these shrines we come no wiser—not a whit
better acquainted with the saint of each—notwithstanding we stand in the
same space, we look upon the same walls, we have over us the hallowed
roof, and the instinctive superstition is satisfied with this limited
result of our faith.

But places sacred to one nation are indifferent to another—one class of
men exult over a monument, which to their neighbours is but a block of
stone. Yet there is one holy place where all the nations of the earth
come together to worship—one country rich with a perpetual attraction.
The soil thrills to the consecrating touch of love and grief; the ages
of the past dwell in it as in a sanctuary. Making no account of the
wandering handful of wild Asiatics who surround him, the traveller there
seeks not scenes of to-day, but cities of the dead. The place has a
solemn array of lofty inhabitants, undying fathers of the soil;
generation after generation, conquerors, defenders, devotees, have come
and gone and departed. But we do not search this country for traces of
the Saracen or the Crusader; passing beyond them as modern visitors, a
more ancient race claims the universal awe. It is not the city of
Godfrey of Bouillon, but of David of Bethlehem, which shines on yonder
cluster of hills; and these are not the knightly names of romance which
sanctify the tombs. The brave Crusaders claim memories in other
countries, but they have no memory here where their blood watered the
sacred soil. Turk and Christian, creatures of to-day, stand on the same
platform as we do,—beyond the earliest of them are the true monuments
and memories of this country—

              “Over whose acres walked those blessed feet,
              Which eighteen hundred years ago were nailed
              For our redemption to the bitter cross.”

The story begins and ends in this great figure appearing visibly before
our eyes, and we bow our head to acknowledge Jerusalem, the universal
centre of pilgrimage—Judea, Galilee, the Holy Land.

A land which, if it could be possible to sweep it altogether out of
earthly knowledge, would still live in the pages of one wonderful Book,
and to the readers of that Book be of all countries the most familiar
and well known. Many an untutored peasant, who knows no more of the road
to our own capital than the half-mile of dusty highway under his own
eyes, knows of the way to Bethany, signalised by many wonders—knows of
the road to Gaza which is desert—knows of that road to Damascus where
the traveller was solemnly arrested on his way; and is better aware of
the wayside grave where her heart-stricken husband buried Rachel, “sweet
Syrian shepherdess,” and of Absalom’s tomb which he built to preserve
his name, than of where the royal ashes lie in our own land. Many a
humble scholar, untaught in other history, is learned in the ancient
wars of Israel, and apprehends Moab, and Edom, and Assyria with a
stronger sense of reality than he can apprehend the Russian hordes
embattled against ourselves; and sees Pi-ha-hiroth shut in with its
mountains, Egypt behind and the sea before, as no description, however
vivid, will ever make him see the marshes of the Danube, though he have
a son or a brother militant on that disastrous shore to-day. Strong
security has God taken for the universal remembrance of that beloved
country, blessed by His own Divine preference: while there is a Bible,
there must be a Judea; the landscape in all its glorious tints is
associated for ever with the wonderful artist’s name; and neither its
wretched population nor its heathen rulers, nor all its melancholy
meanness and desolation, existing now, can make Christendom forget that
this discrowned city is the city over which fell the tears of the Lord.

We have no Crusaders in these days; all that remains of our ancient
chivalry finds holier work at home than that impossible redemption of
the Holy Land, which God reserves for His own time, and His own hands;
nor do we need to depend on the vagabond saint of antique times, the
hero of scallop-shell and pilgrim-staff, for our knowledge of Palestine.
Neither travellers nor reports are wanting, and we are by no means
afflicted with monotony of tone or sameness of aspect in the revelations
of our modern pilgrimages. The weary man of fashion who loiters over
Palestine in search of a new sensation—the curt and business-like Divine
who goes thither professionally on a mission of verification and
proof—the wandering _litterateur_ who has a book to make—the
accomplished _savant_ and man of science, follow each other in rapid
succession. Dreamy speculation—decisions of bold rapidity, made at a
glance—accurate topography, slow and careful—each do their devoir in
making known to us this country of universal interest. Nor does even the
lighter portraiture of fiction shrink from the Holy Land, though here
our novelist is a statesman, as much beyond the range of ordinary
novelists, as the locality of that last brilliant romance which it has
pleased him “to leave half told,” differs from the English village or
Scottish glen of common story-telling. To follow Disraeli and Warburton
is no easy task, neither is it quite holiday work to go over the ground
after Robinson and De Saulcy. Lieut. C. W. N. Van de Velde, the latest
traveller of this storied soil, is neither a born poet, nor an
accomplished bookmaker, nor a great divine; but whosoever receives his
book into their household, receives a social visitor, distinct and
tangible—a real man. It is impossible not to clothe the historian with
an imagined person—not to see him sitting down to his extempore
writingtable compounding his letters—not to form a good guess of the
measures of his paces, of perhaps now and then a little puff of Dutch
impatience, curiously wrought into a large amount of phlegm. From his
first offset he comes clearly out from among the shadows—we are at no
loss to keep the thread of personal identity, and are never dubious, in
picture number two, about the hero of picture number one. A most
recognisable and characteristic personage, we yet stand in no dread of
our pilgrim. He makes nothing of his cockle-hat and staff, or his sandal
shoon. Instead of calling to his reverent disciples to follow, he offers
his arm to any good neighbour who will make the tour with him. You may
help to set up the Aneroid, or level the telescope, if you will, but you
cannot doubt for a moment that Lieut. Van de Velde takes the angle of
yonder nameless villages as a conscientious duty, and when he makes his
survey of a bare hillside or Arab desert, does it with the full-hearted
and devout conviction that this is his highest capability of serving
God; for you ascertain immediately that this is not an expedition of the
pleasure-seeker, or a pilgrimage of the devotee. Surveying Palestine is
the _work_ of the traveller—his special end and object—and he sets about
it simply as his vocation, an enterprise which gives consistence and
necessity to all his travel.

One disadvantage of this accurate survey, as indeed of all scientific
expeditions, is the bare chronicle of unknown villages, a confusion of
barren names, and brief descriptions which take the life out of many
pages of this narrative. Lieut. Van de Velde has a very pretty talent
for making pictures in words, but to make a map in words is one of the
driest and least profitable operations of literature. Toil after him as
we may, it is impossible to keep in mind this long course which finds no
track, and leaves none—a mere piece of elaborate geography, with only
the point, here and there, of a hospitable sheikh, or a hastily-sketched
interior, to reward us for the toilsome interval of road. This, however,
is not a fault peculiar to M. Van de Velde, but belongs alike to all the
more serious explorers of Palestine, to whom every fallen stone has, or
ought to have, its separate history.

And notwithstanding this, which, indeed, is a necessary feature of the
conscientious and painstaking mind visible in these pages, there is much
of the picturesque in the travels of Lieut. Van de Velde. If his
sketches are as graphic and clear as his descriptions, it is very much
to be regretted that they are not added to this work, for we have
nowhere seen more rapid and vivid landscapes with so little pretension
on the part of the artist. We speak much of the poetic merit of
transferring one’s own mind and individuality into the scenery
described, and it is a poetic necessity—nevertheless, once in a way,
remembering that the real poet who can do this is not a very common
tourist, it is a refreshment to have the landscape without the
traveller—the hills and the valleys as they lie, without Mr Brown in the
corner taking their likeness. In these volumes our honest traveller
offers to your view what he saw, sometimes in an honest fervour of
admiration; but you cannot fail to be aware that his eye is on the
landscape as he draws it, and not upon the central figure I which
overshadows the scene. From first to last, indeed, Lieut. Van de Velde
never sees his own shadow between himself and the sunshine, never is
oppressed by his own claims to be looked at—in fact, is not troubled
whether you look at him at all, but demands of you, most distinctly, to
look at his picture, and claims from you an interest in it equal to his
own. With strong religious feelings, and a mind deeply leavened with
Gospel truths, and the Gospel history of which this soil is redolent,
our pilgrim travels onward, not without perturbations, yet full of
confidence in the special protection of God, and everywhere, a
single-hearted Christian, seeks his own “edification,” and to promote
the edification of others. We have said that his is not the pilgrimage
of a devotee, yet it is undeniable that though too orthodox to expect
any miraculous influence from these holy places, he yet looks for
“impressions,” for a more vivid realisation of those great events to
which our faith looks back, and a brighter apprehension of the Divine
teachings which were first delivered in this favoured land. Here is an
instance of one profane interruption of his devout meditations;—he is
seated by Jacob’s well:—


  “I placed myself in the same position, and could well figure to myself
  the woman with her pitcher on her head coming down out of the valley.
  He who knows all things, and whose free sovereign love has chosen His
  own to eternal life from the foundation of the world—He beheld her,
  the poor sinner, for whose preservation He had come down from heaven.
  He saw her as she came along under the olive trees, long before she
  was aware of His being there. And when she saw Him, she hesitated,
  perhaps whether she should approach Him, perceiving that he was a Jew.
  But what should she be afraid of, she the lost, who had lost all, for
  whom there seemed to be nothing but despair? Therefore she came on,
  and——

  “Thus was I musing with myself, as I sat alone at the side of the
  well, and had just begun to read the fourth chapter of John, when I
  was suddenly roused by the blustering voice of a gigantic Arab, who
  had come up without my observing him, and addressed me thus, with all
  the characteristic repulsiveness and loathsomeness of the Arabs:

  “‘Marhhabah chawadja! baksheesh, baksheesh!’

  “This disturbance was most unwelcome. Think what a contrast: To be
  lost, as it were, in heavenly thoughts, and then all at once to be
  aroused by such a thief-like clamour for baksheesh. He was a fellow
  with a face enough to frighten one, filthy and disgusting—so filthy
  and disgusting as none but an Arab can be. I replied to his
  salutation, and begged him to leave me alone.

  “But no—he had no idea of doing that.

  “‘Baksheesh, baksheesh!’ he roared, and sat himself down at the
  well-side, opposite me, at the same time taking out his pipe and
  lighting it with such composure as to convince me that he had not the
  smallest intention to leave me for some time at least.

  “And before five minutes had elapsed, half-a-dozen of his fellows
  appeared, who forthwith placed themselves all round me in a very
  social circle, so that I had to abandon all thoughts of proceeding
  with my meditations on the favourite chapter.

  “A chorus of ‘baksheesh!’ with all sorts of variations on the same
  theme, was now raised about my ears. I asked them through Philip on
  what pretence they wanted a baksheesh, begging at the same time that
  they would withdraw. Their answer was to this effect: ‘The land and
  the well belong to us, and no foreigner has any right to come here
  without paying us a baksheesh. Would you like to go down into the
  well? Here is a rope that we have brought with that view. We will let
  you safely down; you can see the well from within, and on coming up
  again pay us a baksheesh.’

  “‘But what makes you suppose that I want to examine your well? I know
  quite the appearance of the well from within, and thus have no need to
  go down into it. Be, then, so good as to take your rope home again,
  and leave me alone.’

  “I had almost added, ‘then I will give you a baksheesh;’ but I thought
  if these rogues see that a baksheesh is earned by merely allowing a
  stranger to be left alone at the well, then there is every chance
  that, as soon as they are gone, another similar party will come down
  to me, and give me still more molestation than these.

  “‘If the Chawadja will not go down into the well, then will we go down
  instead of him, and tell him how it looks on our return; but anyhow,
  we must have a baksheesh.’”


A sore trial to the righteous soul of our traveller is at all times this
demand for “baksheesh;” and he complains feelingly of the extravagant
example of former travellers who have encouraged the Arab, only too
willing to be encouraged, in his shameless exactions. No small grievance
this for the pilgrim of duty or science who must economise; but, from
railway porters to Bedouin chiefs, human nature is the same. We suspect
the London cabman, compelled to take his legal fare, would turn out as
troublesome as Abu Dahuk, if it were not for the terror of the police
magistrate; and where there is no such heaven-appointed institution—no
guardian angel in blue coat and leaden buttons—no Mr Commissioner
Mayne—it is scarcely to be expected that your master of conveyances in
the desert—your grand representative of railway and public roads for the
district of the Dead Sea—should content himself with the polite
information of what “a real gentleman” would offer, as your cabman must
be content to do.

Reaching by Smyrna and Beyrout the land of his destination, and rising
with serious enthusiasm to hail the first glimpse of Lebanon, Lieutenant
Van de Velde wanders for some time along “the coasts of Tyre and Sidon,”
stepping aside now and then to a mission station on the skirts of
Lebanon, or to a native village, where, among discordant patches of
Roman Catholics, of Greek Catholics, and of Mahommedans, he finds
nothing but strife and bitter animosities, with not so much as a shadow
of the religion for whose name, a vain badge, they hold each other in
the direst hatred. Druse and Maronite and Moslem, Greek and Latin and
unbeliever, every village hates its neighbour heartily and with a will;
and though the Druse patronises the English Protestant, and the Maronite
takes the French Catholic under his protection, Christianity vainly
seeks a resting-place with either: but, where all cherish the natural
intolerance of another faith than their own, the Greek Church, ignorant
and bigoted, carries this evil principle farthest. Brutal violence and
legal injury are alike the fate of every unfortunate convertite who
ventures to embrace the somewhat different gospel preached by the
missionaries of the Evangelical churches in these coasts, so long the
habitation of the Gentiles. The first instance which strikes the
traveller is the state of the persecuted missionary churches at
Hâsbeiya, whose history he thus relates:—


  “Hâsbeiya has a population of 6000 souls, of whom about
  three-fourths belong to the Greek Church: of the remainder, 1500 are
  Druses, about 500 Maronites, about 100 Jews of the class called
  Sephardim, and as many Mahommedans belonging to the court of the
  Emir _Sad-Ed-Din-Shepebi_, with some few Anzairies. Mr Bird, one of
  the American missionaries, was the first who attempted, twenty-five
  years ago, to diffuse the gospel here. He established a school, and
  obtained a native teacher; but his effort met with no success, and
  the school dwindled away. In 1842 the brethren sent a colporteur
  from Beirût to Hâsbeiya with tracts; and it was from this man that
  the people first learned to attach to the name Protestant the
  meaning it bears among them—a true Christian. The books he left
  behind him would perhaps have had a good effect, if the Greek
  priests—like all priests who dispute with the only High Priest,
  Jesus Christ, his right to supremacy over the souls of men—had not
  found means, in their hatred of the gospel, to get possession of the
  books and burn them.

  “It was about this time that the Emir imposed certain new taxes, which
  caused great dissatisfaction. These taxes fell particularly hard upon
  the poor, who had no protector; and the thought occurred to them, ‘We
  may possibly find protection from the missionaries; they are merciful
  men.’ In this hope, forty-five of them went to the brethren at Beirût,
  to enrol themselves, as Protestants, under their protection.

  “The missionaries did not, of course, interfere with regard to the
  tax, but they ‘expounded to them the way of God more perfectly;’
  showing them, at the same time, how much true faith in the Son of God
  differs from such nominal Protestantism as has its origin in mere
  secular motives. The brethren then sent them back to Hâsbeiya with
  bibles and tracts, promising to give them spiritual help, if their
  future conduct should attest the sincerity of their wishes. Shortly
  after the missionaries found an opportunity of sending two native
  teachers to Hâsbeiya, who had, in a few days, a hundred and fifty
  people in attendance on them, desirous of receiving instruction. This
  was too much for the priests. The bishop threatened to excommunicate
  all who should adopt the Protestant heresies; but, seeing that this
  threat had no effect, he had recourse to that powerful weapon, by
  which, in the East, justice and right are so constantly assailed.

  “The head of the Greeks of Hâsbeiya is the Patriarch of Damascus, a
  certain Mathodios, who, as also the Emir of Hâsbeiya, is subject to
  the Pasha of Damascus. The Bishop of Hâsbeiya had no difficulty,
  through his superior in Damascus, in purchasing from the Pasha an
  order to the Emir, to the effect that the heretics should be brought
  back by force to the Greek Church. The Emir obeyed but too willingly.
  The new converts had to endure the bitterest persecutions. They were
  pelted with stones, and spit upon in the bazaars; they were beaten and
  insulted in their houses, as well as in the public places; they were
  no longer safe anywhere, and were debarred all social intercourse.
  Many attempts were made even upon their lives; and so severe was the
  persecution to which they were exposed, that, at one time, all but
  three, who remained faithful, drew back; but around those three, forty
  others soon gathered. After consultation, they agreed that it was best
  to disperse, and quitted Hâsbeiya to take up their residence at Abeyh,
  or elsewhere in Lebanon. In this attempt, however, they failed; the
  means of earning their bread were wanting, and, after a few months,
  they were compelled to return to Hâsbeiya. Then arose, in the silent
  night, from their closed dwellings, many a heartfelt and united prayer
  to the Lord of the Church; eagerly and trustfully His promises were
  sought out from His holy Word; and, like the phœnix rising from the
  flames, the youthful Christian congregation lifted its head anew.
  Persecution had no longer any terrors for them. At the request of the
  Patriarch, the Emir ordered his janissaries to drive them with
  scourges to the church; but his wrath was unable to compel them to
  kiss or worship the images. A certain Chalîl-Chouri, himself the son
  of a priest, but now converted to Christ, was sent by his family to
  Constantinople; here, by the help of the American consul, he obtained
  a firman from the Sultan, granting freedom to the Protestants of
  Hâsbeiya. Some amelioration in their lot was the happy result, but
  only to a certain degree; for the artful Mathodios managed, during
  five weary years, to bribe the Pasha of Damascus to assail them with
  all kinds of secret social persecutions.”


While this is the state of the Greek Church, and these the difficulties
which all the labours of a purer faith must encounter among our
so-called Christian brethren in the East, Lieutenant Van de Velde does
not share in the popular idea of the greater liberality of the dominant
religion. “Mahommedans,” he says, “have been hitherto, by the very laws
of the Koran, inaccessible to the gospel. The Sultan is the faithful
assertor of these laws, and punishes with decapitation every Mussulman
who abandons the doctrines of the Prophet. It is not three years since a
respectable young man was beheaded in the streets of Constantinople for
having abjured Islamism. Think, then, what is implied in a Mahommedan’s
even giving an attentive ear to the gospel.” If this statement is
correct, as we presume it to be, it throws rather a singular romance of
disinterestedness upon the present services of the most prominent
nations in Christendom to this empire of heathenesse.

Notwithstanding the discouragements, almost amounting to
impossibilities, which beset him on every hand, M. Van de Velde’s friend
and travelling companion, Dr Kalley, does not fail, with unceasing
devotion, to proclaim to the thronging hosts of invalids who surround
the Hakim at every resting-place, the unchanged faith which, eighteen
hundred years ago, proceeded from this very soil. The scene is
thoroughly Oriental, and strangely reminds us of many a sacred scene.
Crowds of the sick and helpless throng to the door where the wandering
physician sits with his medicine-chest. A high compliment to the
beneficent science of healing is in the eagerness of these mendicant
patients. They believe in a man who goes from village to village for no
other purpose than to alleviate their pains and heal their distresses,
but they find it extremely hard to believe in one who comes with no
medicine-chest, but only with outlandish instruments of science, and
have no faith in topography. It may be that the popular imagination has
a far-off traditionary remembrance of that sublime Traveller, under
whose touch and at whose voice the very dead arose; but it is certain,
that while they do not understand travelling for pleasure, nor
travelling for discovery, nor any other kind of expeditionary
enterprise, the wandering hakim has but to disclose his errand to secure
their perfect faith and most respectful welcome. Poor children of
Ishmael, materialism is too strong for spirituality with them. They may
gape at the antiquary with the scorn of ignorance, but the physician, to
those who have so much need of him, is half divine.

At Hâsbeiya an untoward accident arrests our traveller. During a short
excursion, the house which he had taken there is robbed, and all his
valuables lost. Appeal to the Emir proves fruitless, and M. Van de Velde
almost resigns himself to returning home. This, however, is fortunately
prevented by letters of encouragement and promises of help; and with a
less ambitious retinue he sets forth again undismayed, keeping his way
along the coast of the Mediterranean from the Lebanon towards Carmel,
from which place he strikes farther inland through the fallen remains of
royal Samaria to Jerusalem.

It is not possible to follow our author through his course—this unknown
country, sprinkled with names that are familiar to us as household
words—nor can we pause to point out how many pictures he makes by the
way, how fine an eye this unostentatious artist has for colour, and how
even these pale pen-and-ink sketches brighten and glow with the rich
tints of Oriental landscape; neither can we do justice to his interiors,
with their smoky haze, and wild Arab figures, and primitive hospitality.
These are by the way—but as he comes into a country which is distinctly
historical, and not only hazy, like one of these same desert castles,
with a mist of antiquity, the results of his careful examination become
more apparent. Your charlatan is your most universal cosmopolitan, and
with an indefatigable hand has he dotted over this sacred territory. Not
disposed, however, to receive with blind faith the spot pointed out by
the Carmelites (whose monastic order was instituted by Elijah!) as the
true scene of Elijah’s sacrifice, M. Van de Velde and Dr Kalley set
about examining for themselves, and the very interesting result of their
examination, guided by the traditions of the Arabs and not of the
Church, is as follows:—


  “Here, then, are the details of what we observed on ‘the burnt place.’

  “Having seated ourselves beneath the shade of a huge oak, we once more
  opened our Bibles at chap. xviii. of 1st Kings, and examined what was
  required in the place of sacrifice, in order to its agreement with the
  account given in the Bible. According to verses 18th and 19th, it must
  have been ample enough in size to contain a very numerous multitude.
  El-Mohhraka must at that time have been quite fitted for this,
  although now covered with a rough dense jungle. Indeed, one can
  scarcely imagine a spot better adapted for the thousands of Israel to
  have stood drawn up on than the gentle slopes. The rock shoots up in
  an almost perpendicular wall of more than two hundred feet in height
  on the side of the plain of Esdraelon. On this side, therefore, there
  was no room for the gazing multitude; but, on the other hand, this
  wall made it visible over the whole plain, and from all the
  surrounding heights, so that even those left behind, and who had not
  ascended Carmel, would still have been able to witness, at no great
  distance, the fire from heaven that descended upon the altar.
  According to verse 30th, there must have been an altar there before,
  for Elijah repaired ‘the altar of the Lord that was broken down.’ It
  is well known that such altars were uniformly built on very
  conspicuous eminences. Now, there is not a more conspicuous spot on
  all Carmel than the abrupt rocky height of Mohhraka, shooting up so
  suddenly on the east. Verses 31st and 32d point to a rocky soil, in
  which stones were to be found to serve for the construction of the
  altar, and yet where the stones must have been so loose or so covered
  with a thick bed of earth, that ‘a trench’ could have been made round
  the altar, whilst not of so loose a composition of sand and earth as
  that the water poured into it would have been absorbed. The place we
  were examining met these requisitions in every respect; it showed a
  rocky surface, with a sufficiency of large fragments of rock lying
  around, and, besides, well fitted for the rapid digging of a trench.
  But now comes the grand difficulty of both believers and unbelievers,
  who have not seen this place: Whence could Elijah have procured so
  much water as to have it to pour over the offering and the altar in
  barrelfuls, so that he filled the trench also with water, at a time
  when, after three years of drought, all the rivers and brooks were
  dried up, and the king in person, and the governor of his house,
  divided the land between them to pass through it, to see if,
  peradventure, any fountains of water might be found, and grass to save
  the horses and mules alive?—(Verses 1–6). To get rid of this
  difficulty, some pious travellers, with imaginations stronger than
  their judgments, have said, ‘O, as for that water, the thing speaks
  for itself; it must evidently have been got from the sea.’ But less
  religious persons, who were sharp enough to perceive that the place
  where Elijah made the offering could not have been at the seaside,
  have rightly remarked, that it must have been impossible, from every
  other point of Carmel lying more inland, on account of the great
  distance from the sea, to go thither and return on an afternoon, much
  more to do this three several times, as is expressly stated in the
  34th verse. Such persons, therefore, have rejected altogether this
  absurd explanation, without, however, themselves arriving at any
  better solution of the difficulty; and this has led unbelievers, in
  their prejudiced haste, to assert that the Bible narrative is a mere
  fiction, that being the view which, best suited their purpose. Dr
  Kalley and I felt our mouths shut in the presence of this difficulty.
  We saw no spring, yet here we were certain the place must have been;
  for it is the only point of all Carmel where Elijah could have been so
  close to the brook Kishon, then dried up, as to take down thither the
  priests of Baal and slay them, return again to the mountain and pray
  for rain, all in the short space of the same afternoon after the Lord
  had shown, by His fire from heaven, that He, and He alone, was God
  (see verses 40–44). El-Mohhraka is 1635 feet above the sea, and
  perhaps 1000 feet above the Kishon. This height can be gone up and
  down in the short time allowed by the Scripture. But the farther one
  goes towards the middle of the mountain, the higher he ascends above
  the Kishon, because Carmel rises higher then, and the plain through
  which the river flows runs lower down. Add to this that the Kishon
  takes a course more and more diverging from the mountain, and the
  ravine by which people descend to the river’s bed is exceedingly
  difficult to pass through, so that three full hours are thought
  necessary for traversing the distance from Esfiëh to the stream.
  Nowhere does the Kishon run so close to Mount Carmel as just beneath
  El-Mohhraka. Pious expositors, who would transfer the scene to the
  seaward side of the mountain, seem quite to have left out of sight the
  required condition—that it must be near the brook Kishon.

  “Well, then, we went down to the Kishon through a steep ravine, and,
  behold, right below the steep rocky walls of the height on which we
  stood—250 feet, it might be, beneath the altar plateau—a vaulted and
  very abundant fountain, built in the form of a tank, with a few steps
  leading down into it, just as one finds elsewhere in the old walls or
  springs of the Jewish times. Possibly the neighbourhood of this spring
  may have been the inducement that led to that altar which Elijah
  repaired, having been built to the Lord in former times. Possibly,
  too, the water of this spring may have been consecrated to the Lord,
  so as not to be generally accessible to the people, even in times of
  fearful drought. In such springs the water remains always cool, under
  the shade of a vaulted roof, and with no hot atmosphere to evaporate
  it. While all other fountains were dried up, I can well understand
  that there might have been found here that superabundance of water
  which Elijah poured so profusely over the altar. Yes, the more I
  consider the matter, the more am I convinced, that from _such_ a
  fountain alone could Elijah have procured so much water _at that
  time_. And as for the distance between this spring and the supposed
  site of the altar, it was every way possible for men to go thrice
  thither and back to obtain the necessary supply.

  “Further, the place of Elijah’s offering—the same, probably, where he
  cast himself down upon the earth, and put his face between his knees,
  in offering thanks to the Lord for the divine power He had hitherto
  displayed, to beseech Him for the further fulfilment of His promises,
  that of rain for the parched-up ground—the place of Elijah’s offering,
  I say, behoves to have been so screened by a rising ground on the west
  or north-west side as to intercept a view of the sea; for he said to
  his servant, ‘Go up now, and look toward the sea.’ Moreover, the
  distance to that height must not have been great; for the passage
  runs—‘Go again seven times,’ (verses 42–44). Now, such is the position
  of El-Mohhraka, that these circumstances might all quite well have
  been united there. On its west and north-west side the view of the sea
  is quite intercepted by an adjacent height. That height may be
  ascended, however, in a few minutes, and a full view of the sea
  obtained from the top.”


There is nothing we hear of more frequently than of the great additional
light thrown upon the Bible by modern researches; and with Scripture
geography and Scripture botany, with Eastern usages and ancient customs,
this modern time professes a much clearer apprehension of the Bible than
did the elder age, which was ignorant of all this minutiæ of
illustration. But the science is overdone. The illustration smothers the
text, and we become suspicious of every new attempt of that
over-explanatory teaching which toils to bring the material and
framework of the sacred record down to “the meanest capacity,” almost
wearying us into incredulity where, if left alone, we could not choose
but believe. Holy Writ, by far the truest and most life-like picture of
its own time, explains itself with small assistance—but we are glad
always to light on such an illustration as this, which brings before us,
in all its striking features, the locality of one of the most striking
scenes of the old dispensation.

Like every other traveller in this singular country, M. Van de Velde is
struck by the evident tokens everywhere of long-restrained and dormant
fertility. The land is still a land of milk and honey. Folded into the
unseen recesses of Carmel, where there is scarcely an eye to look on it,
the soil is lavish of the richest vegetation, matted with plants and
flowers; and everywhere the same teeming fruitfulness peers through the
uncultivated waste, which notwithstanding is a barren waste bound with
the visible restrictions of Providence, forbidden and interdicted to
spread forth its riches, and waiting solemnly, with the life pent up in
its great bosom, till the call of God shall wake it into the luxuriance
of old.

A grand romance is in the position of this desolate but unexhausted
land—ruled by strangers, inhabited by an alien race, and desecrated by
an idolatrous worship, yet with all its rich faculties hidden in its
heart, and its heirs, scattered yet indestructible, waiting for return
to it as it waits for them. M. Van de Velde cannot restrain his
impatience with Turkish rule in Palestine. Disgusted with the universal
corruption, universal mismanagement and oppression, he chafes at the
idea of the Christian Powers upholding the _effete_ and tyrannical
government of the Porte, under whose sway, he says, everything withers,
from commercial enterprise to family comfort, and in whose hands
everything becomes a failure. Setting political motives aside, it is
indisputably a singular position which England and France hold in this
contest. A few hundred years ago, Christendom resisted with desperation
on these very boundaries the invasion of the Turk, and it is strange to
see the leading powers of Christendom crossing the very same line in
these days to fight under the banner of the Crescent, and mingle the
knightly symbols, whose fame has been dearly won in the battles of the
faith, with the ensigns of the unbeliever. Well, letting alone the
balance of power and such imperial considerations, show us the
Englishman who will stand by and see the poor heathen Hindoo, whose
pathetic silence craves alms upon our streets, fall into the hands of
some big Saxon bully, without lifting hand or voice for the rescue of
the weak, and we will say that such a man, but no other, has a right to
stigmatise this crusade of right against might, and condemn the
Christian nation for defence of the Infidel. But for our ally, with his
magnificent indifference, his passive fatalism, his misgovernment, and
all his sins, let us be thankful that we do not need to adopt his faults
when we vindicate his right—rather that our vindication of his rights,
our association with himself, our help and brotherliness, are better
modes of vanquishing the Oriental, who has proved his mettle in these
days, than a new crusade, such as M. Van de Velde longs for, to restore
to the Hebrews their old inheritance. With God, and not with us, does it
remain to decide when the Jew is ready for his new existence—when the
time of prophecy shall be accomplished, and that revolution begun which
is to call out of all lands and places the wandering nation, the great
pilgrim of centuries, and bring Israel home. It is not easy to realise
the possibility of such an event, and there is no wonder in all past
history equal to what this will be—but the work is manifestly out of
man’s hands. At this moment, find him where you will, the qualities for
which the Jew is distinguished are not those which win the respect or
admiration of his neighbours—he is barren and desolate like his country,
and has no beauty in him. Harsh sounds and unmelodious—at the best, a
wail of blind inquiry, and long suspense—are all the harp of Judah is
capable of now; and till the hand of the Divine musician touch the
strings, it is a vain hope that any human finger can wake them to the
measure of David or of Solomon, the lofty strains of old.

One thing these modern times, with all their fairy works of science and
mighty rush of “progress,” ought to do for both Mahommedan and Jew—to
convince them that there is but one faith, which never becomes
obsolete—one religion, which, all independent of climate or temperature,
is from God, and embraces all mankind—which is abashed by no discovery,
and thrown into the shade by no improvement. The creed of Mahomet is
antiquated, and in its dotage. To live a Jew in these days is to live
among the tombs. Paganism is dead and gone long centuries ago. Only
Christianity, in its sublime unfailing youth, is never out of date, but
works as handily with the instruments of to-day as with those of a
thousand years ago, and, knowing neither culmination nor decadence, is
perpetually the same.

But to M. Van de Velde, the charm of attraction which binds the devout
mind to the children of Abraham, the chosen people, is very strong. He
cannot sufficiently execrate the Turkish occupancy, which gives this
historic country to the race of all others most indifferent to its
holiest memories, and when he sees the soil itself indicating, by many
evidences, its inherent riches, yet lying scorched and barren under the
eye of heaven—when he sees a government which discourages every
exertion, a people who have no heart to make any, conscious, as he says,
of the usurpation of these lands, which are not their own—our fervent
pilgrim burns with natural impatience to accelerate the slow course of
events, and can scarcely bring himself to tolerate the support given to
this “Empire of Turkey,” which he apostrophises, with all its tyranny at
home and impotence abroad. Far better service, as he thinks, these same
victorious European arms would render, if they expelled the Crescent
from Palestine, and established the Hebrew in his immemorial fatherland;
but it is a hard thing for a man to set about accomplishing prophecy—the
work is above his hand. M. Van de Velde mentions, however, almost with
enthusiasm, the enterprise of a small American colony which, established
at Bethlehem, professed an intention to prepare the soil, to “break up
the fallow-ground,” in preparation for the return of the banished
Israelites. The idea gratifies his eager mind; but the colonists, after
all, turn out but indifferently, and the enterprise is found to fail.

The present _questio vexata_ of these sacred localities occupies some
space in the journals of M. Van de Velde. This controversy, originating
in the real or alleged discoveries of M. de Saulcy, calls up one of the
most remote and mysterious events ever brought under human
discussion—the destruction of the cities of the plain, Sodom, Gomorrah,
Admah, and Zeboim. The original idea, touching these guilty objects of
the Divine wrath, wrapt in awe and mystery as their fate was, seems to
have been, that the Dead Sea, itself the gloomiest and most appalling
object in creation, had been called into existence by the same miracle
which annihilated the condemned cities, and that its deadly waters swept
every trace of them out of sight for ever. But modern travel has taken
from the Dead Sea much of its mysterious desolation; it is found that
sweet fountains spring, and luxuriant vegetation flourishes, within
sight of its waters, and that itself bears no evident trace of its
deadly qualities, but appears, as one and another of its visitors say,
only a “splendid lake,” an inland sea, mirroring clear skies and
picturesque mountains, sublime, but not terrible. Traces of the most
frightful convulsions of nature surround it on every side; extinct
volcanoes and tremendous chasms, mountains dislocated and shattered in
pieces, and tracts of unparalleled desolation; but still it is
impossible to regard the lake itself as the fatal object which former
ideas held it to be. As the subject clears from the superstitious
veneration of less informed times, a new theory is propounded. Near the
end of the present Dead Sea, a peninsula strikes into the water, almost
cutting off into a separate lake the southmost portion of the sea. This
portion, beyond the promontory El-Lisan, is found to be extremely
shallow, and in more than one spot fordable, presenting a striking
contrast, in this particular, to the main body of the water, which
reaches the depth of 1300 feet. This shallow end of the lake, guarded by
its broad peninsula, Dr Robinson, the eminent American traveller, takes
to be an inundated plain; in other words, the vale of Siddim, the
ancient site of the condemned cities. According to the Scripture
narrative, the soil of this fertile valley was “full of slime-pits,” a
bituminous underground to the surface of tropical luxuriance; and Dr
Robinson’s theory holds, that the fire which destroyed Sodom and
Gomorrah broke up the superficial soil, ignited the bitumen, and lowered
the surface of the plain below the level of the lake, which immediately
flooded over the sunken valley, and formed the shallow piece of water at
the south end of the Dead Sea. A glance at the map will show how the
form of the lake justifies this theory, in which many travellers, and
among them Lieutenant Van de Velde, fully concur.

On the other hand, M. de Saulcy affirms positively to finding extensive
ruins at a place called Kharbet Sdoum (ruins of Sodom), at the foot of
Djebel Sdoum, or Mountain of Sodom; and on the edge of this submerged
plain he finds also other ruins bearing the name of Sebaan, which he
concludes to be Zeboim, and still others called by the Arabs Zouera, or
Zuweirah, which he reckons Zoar. These consist of walls, of now and then
a distinct building, and of masses of fallen stones, to such extent as
to merit the term “stupendous ruins.” Here the reader, who can only
compare testimony, is put completely at fault; for, as confidently as M.
de Saulcy affirms his discovery of these ruins, does M. Van de Velde
deny the existence of any such. No former traveller has lighted upon
them; no after traveller has confirmed the story; but what shall we make
of the distinct assertion of M. de Saulcy, with his little band of
companions, who declared themselves to have twice visited and examined
these extraordinary remains, and to be perfectly convinced of their
authenticity? Limestone rocks, corrugated and channelled by winter
torrents, and worn into the resemblance of layers of building, explains
M. Van de Velde—stupendous ruins, veritable remains of the cities of the
Pentapolis, says his adversary: both produce battalions of
testimony—which is right?

In real locality, we apprehend, the controversy makes little difference,
since both sides of the question mutually agree in choosing this
southern end of the Asphaltic Lake for the position of the destroyed
cities. M. De Saulcy places Zoar on the western side; Dr Robinson and M.
Van de Velde, and all preceding travellers, settle its position on the
eastern coast, upon the peninsula. The Frenchman finds his tangible
memorials of Sodom, and the wonderful event which destroyed it, his
large burned stones, and destroyed buildings, recognised by Arab
tradition, on the still remaining soil; the American and the
Netherlander cover these awful remnants of Almighty vengeance with the
bitter waters wherein no life can be. The former proposition may admit
of proof palpable to the senses, since “stupendous ruins” are not things
to be ignored by an honest examination; but the waters of the lake, if
they contain it, will not open to disclose _their_ secret;—so all the
advantages of proof are on M. de Saulcy’s side. As it is, however, the
question does not seem to us a question for ordinary discussion, but
simply one of comparative credibility of testimony—are there ruins, or
are there not? Has there been glamour in M. de Saulcy’s eyes, or has
obstinate scepticism obscured the vision of M. Van de Velde? The
question is not one on which we are prepared to give a judgment. Our
impetuous Gallic champion stands alone, defying the civilised Bedouin
Criticism, as he defied the Ishmael of the desert; but an army of heavy
artillery fights on the side espoused by M. Van de Velde. What shall we
say?—in prospect of a magnificent duel pending between the head of the
one party and the sole and indivisible representative of the other, only
that our present author boldly throws himself into the discussion,
flings his glove manfully in the face of the Frenchman, denies his
premises, scouts his conclusions, and is thoroughly convinced in his own
mind that not a vestige remains above ground of the submerged cities of
the plain.

M. Van de Velde, who travels economically, without thinking it necessary
to secure the attendance of sheikhs of half a dozen tribes, seems to
meet with a very much less degree of annoyance and obstruction than is
common to travellers in Palestine. We cannot fail to observe, in the
midst of many complaints of the rapacity and perpetual exactions imposed
by the tribes of the desert upon wandering pilgrims, that every
traveller has at least one faithful Arab, who, if not entirely superior
to baksheesh, does yet deport himself with exemplary conscientiousness,
and gain the entire confidence and friendship of the party he conducts.
A good omen this, for a race so completely beyond the rules of ordinary
law. There are some cases, too, where, cast almost upon their charity,
sick, exhausted, and undefended, with no greater retinue than two
unwarlike servants and one Bedouin guide, M. Van de Velde meets with
unexpected kindness and hospitality from these children of Ishmael, and
in his experience the Bedouins seem to contrast rather favourably with
the resident villagers through whose domains his former course had been.
Notwithstanding, though the unobtrusive traveller, who trusts himself
without a guard among them, may meet with less annoyance than the
richly-equipped expedition, prodigal of piastres, one does not see how
controversies, historical or geographical, touching this mysterious
territory, can ever be rightly determined so long as the investigators
are compelled to hurry from point to point, and are kept in terror of
the least divergence from their projected course, lest an enemy pounce
upon them in the wilds where no help is. A railway to the shores of the
Dead Sea is scarcely to be feared or hoped for these few centuries, but
there surely might be an expeditionary band, strong enough to disregard
the wild inhabitants of this land, which piques and tantalises with
imperfect revelations the curiosity of science. An expedition which
should dare to take time, which should venture into deliberate and
careful examinations, and which was sufficiently strong to overawe the
lawless lords of the soil, might do much to settle the jars of opinion,
and reveal to the general knowledge this terrible country, scarred and
marked for ages by the chastising hand of God.

A minor difficulty in the way of reconciling one traveller’s experience
with another’s, is the perpetual variation of proper names. Taken down
as these must be from the guide of the moment, it is easy to account for
the orthographical vicissitudes through which they pass; but it were
surely well even to sacrifice a point and take our predecessor’s
spelling instead of our own, rather than throw this mist of perplexity
over the whole scene. Many a learned puzzle has come out of this
peculiarity in the sacred records themselves, the shifting of names, and
subtracting of syllables; and we are like, as it seems, to find the same
difficulty continuing with us. But it is not necessary, surely, that
every new traveller should set up an orthography of his own: with
submission, it appears to us that accuracy of place is of much more
importance than originality of name, and that he is to be the most
commended who enables you at once, and without perplexity, to recognise
the spot where, in his predecessor’s company, you have been before.

In taking leave of these pleasant volumes, we cannot help regretting
once more that the sketches to which such frequent reference is made are
not added to the text. Lieut. Van de Velde’s friend to whom his book is
addressed, seems to have rather an unfair advantage over the public in
this respect; and without detracting anything from the value of the
pen-and-ink sketches, which are admirable of their kind, it is
impossible not to feel a degree of injury, or to resist being provoked
and tantalised by such a sentence as this—“If my short description of
the vale of Shechem, with its mountains of Blessing and Curse, can in
any way elucidate to you the narratives of Scripture, I shall be very
glad. I hope my sketch will come in aid of my pen.”

And why, then, does not the sketch come in aid of the pen? The
worshipful public who read his book claims to be the dearest of dear
friends to an author, and suffers no such successful rivalry of its
pretensions. We trust to see M. Van de Velde rectify this mistake in his
second edition. A very animated book, full of life and motion,
atmosphere and reality, he has added to our store—a _good_ book, which
the best of us may read “of Sundays,” but which the gayest of us will
not find too dry for every day; and we will be glad to see Lieut. Van de
Velde complete, by the addition of his sketches, so worthy a
contribution to the little library of science, speculation, and
adventure, which treats of the Holy Land.




                              BELLEROPHON.


                       A CLASSICAL BALLAD.

           “Ὄς τᾶς ὀφίωδεος υιὸν ποτε Γόργονος
                   ἦ πολλ ἀμφὶ κρουνοῖς
           Πάγασον ζευξαι ποθέων ἔπαθεν
           Πρίν γέ οἱ χρυσάμπυκα κοῦρα χαλινὸν
           Παλλὰς ἤνεγκε.”—PINDAR.

           “Αλλ ὅτε δῆ καὶ κεῖνος ἀπήχθετο πᾶσι θεοῖσιν
           ἤτοι ὁ κὰπ πεδίον τὸ Αλήιον οἶος ἀλᾶτο
           ὅν θυμὸν κατέδων πἀτον ἀνθρώπων ἀλεείνων.”—HOMER.

[The beautiful Corinthian legend of Bellerophon is narrated by Homer in
the well-known episode of Glaucus and Diomede, in the sixth book of the
_Iliad_. In that episode the strong-lunged son of Tydeus meets in the
fight a face that was new to him, and before engaging in battle desires
to know the name of his noble adversary. The courteous request is
courteously complied with; and it appears that Glaucus—for such is the
champion’s name, though now serving in Priam’s army as a Lycian
auxiliary—was by descent a Grecian, the grandson of the famous
Bellerophon of Corinth, between whose family and that of Diomede a
sacred bond of hospitality had existed. This discovery leads to an
interchange of friendly tokens between the intending combatants; the
weapons of war are sheathed, and a bright gleam of human kindness is
thrown across the dark tempestuous cloud of international conflict.

The story of Bellerophon, as told in this passage of the most ancient
Greek poet, is a remarkable instance of how popular legend, proceeding
from the germ of some famous and striking fact, is gradually worked up
into a form where the actual is altogether subordinated to the
miraculous. In Homer there is not a single word said of the winged
horse, which is the constant companion of Bellerophon’s exploits, in the
current form of the legend afterwards revived, and which appears
regularly on the coins of Corinth. The reason, also, of the hero’s fall,
from the loftiest prosperity to the saddest humiliation, is only dimly
indicated by the poet, when he says that Bellerophon, towards the close
of his life, “was hated by all the gods,” and, “avoiding the path of
men, ate his own heart” (ὅν θυμὸν κατέδων); but whether it was that
Homer, knowing the sin of Bellerophon, with a delicate sense of
propriety, refused to set it forth distinctly in the mouth of his
grandson, or whether the simplicity of the oldest form of the legend
knew nothing more than what Homer tells, certain it is that the
ever-active Greek imagination could not content itself with the
obscurity of the Homeric indication, and the moral that “pride must have
a fall” was distinctly brought out in the later form of the myth. For
the rest, the writer has taken the topographical notices in the
following verses, not from his own conceit, but from the authority of
Pausanias in his Corinthian antiquities.

It needs scarcely be added that the legend of Bellerophon—in ancient
times equally the property of Corinth in Europe, and Lycia in Asia—has
now become in a peculiar manner the possession of Great Britain by the
labours of Sir Charles Fellowes, and the Xanthian Chamber of the British
Museum.]

                                I.

            The sun shines bright on Ephyré’s height,[2]
            And right and left with billowy might
                Poseidon rules the sea;
            But not the sun that rules above,
            Nor strong Poseidon, nor great Jove,
            Can look with looks of favouring love,
                Bellerophon, on thee.
            There’s blood upon thy hands; the hounds
                Of hell pursue thy path;
            Nor they within rich Corinth’s bounds
                Shall slack their vengeful wrath.
            Black broods the sky above thy head,
            The Earth breeds serpents at thy tread,
                The Furies’ foot hath found thee;
            A baleful pest their presence brings,
            A curse to peasants and to kings;
            The horrid shadow of their wings
                Turns day to darkness round thee.
            Flee o’er the Argive hills, and there,
            With suppliant branch and pious prayer,
                Thou shalt not crave in vain
            Some prince whose hands not worthless hold
            The sceptre of Phoroneus old,
            To wash thee clean, and make thee bold
                To look on men again.


                                II.

            Darkly the Nemean forests frown,
                Where Apesantian Jove
            From his broad altar-seat looks down
                On the Ogygian grove.[3]
            Fierce roars the lion from his den
            In Tretus’ long and narrow glen;
                And many a lawless man
            Here by the stony water-bed
            Lists the lone traveller’s errant tread,
                And wakes the plundering clan.
            Here be thy flight, Bellerophon,
                But danger fear thou none;
            For she, the warlike and the wise,
            Jove’s blue-eyed daughter from surprise
                Secure shall lead thee on.
            He flees: and where the priestess bears
                To Hera on the hill[4]
            The sacred keys, he pours his prayers,
                And drinks the scanty rill.
            He flees: and now before his eye,
            With wall and gate and bulwark high,
            And many a tower that fronts the sky,
                And many a covered way,
            Strong Tiryns stands, whose massy blocks
            Were torn by Cyclops from the rocks,
                And piled in vast array.[5]
            Here Prœtus reigns; and here at length
            The suppliant throws his jaded strength
                Before a friendly door;
            And now from hot pursuit secure,
            And from blood-guiltiness made pure,
                His heart shall fear no more.


                                III.

            The princely Prœtus opes his gate,
            And on the fugitive’s dark fate
                Smiles gracious; him from fear,
            And terror of the scourge divine,
            He purifies with blood of swine
                And sprinkled water clear.
            O blessed was the calm that now
            Lulled his racked brain, and smoothed his brow!
                Nor wildly now did roll
            His sleepless eyes; from gracious Jove
            Came down the gentle dew of love
                That soothed his wounded soul.
            And grateful was blithe face of man
            To heart now free from Furies’ ban,
                And sweet the festive lyre.
            Fair was each sight that gorgeous day,
            Spread forth in beautiful array
                To move the heart’s desire.
            Each manly sport and social game
            Thrilled with new joy his re-strung frame,
                And waked the living fire.
            Antéa saw him poise the dart,
            In the fleet race the foremost start,
            And lawless Venus smote her heart—
                She loved her lord no more:
            As no chaste woman sues she sued,
            Her guest the partial hostess wooed,
                And lavished beauty’s store
            Of looks and smiles, and pleading tears,
            And silvery words; but he reveres
            The rights of hospitable Jove,
            Chastely repels her perilous love,
                Nor hears her parley more.


                                IV.

            Who slights a woman’s love cuts deep,
            And wakes a brood of snakes that sleep
                Beneath a bed of roses.
            The lustful wife of Prœtus now
            To earthly Venus vows a vow,
                And in her heart proposes
            A fiendish thing. She, with the pin
            That bound her peplos, pierced the skin
                Of her smooth-rounded arm;
            And when the crimson stream began
            To trickle down, she instant ran,
                And with a feigned alarm
            Roused all her maids, and in the ear
            Of the fond Prœtus, quick to hear,
                She poured the piteous lie,
            That the false guest had sought to move
            Her loyal-mated heart with love,
            And with rude hands had dared assail
            Her virtue, cased in surer mail
                Than Dian’s panoply:
            Then, more to stir his wrathful mood,
            She bared her arm that streamed with blood,
                And scared his jealous eye.
            Hot boiled his Argive heart; his eyes
            Flash vengeance; but himself denies
                The reins to his own spleen.
            His public face in smiles is dressed,
            He joins the banquet with the rest,
            And tells the tale, and plies the jest
                With easy social mien;
            And to his high Corinthian guest
                Lets not a thought be seen.
            “Take here,” quoth he, “thou high-souled knight,
            To Iobates the Lycian wight,
                The brother of my queen,
            These tablets; he will honour thee
            Even more than I; and thou shalt see
            A famous and a fruitful land,
            With all Apollo’s beauty bland,
                And various verdure green.”
            Uprose the knight with willing feet,
            His heart was light, his pace was fleet;
            Girt for the road and venture bold
            He left the strong Tirynhian hold,
                And gaily wends his way
            O’er steep Arachne’s ridge, till he
            Passed Æsculapius’ sacred fane,
            That sendeth health, and healeth pain,
            And reached, with foot untired, the sea
            That beats with billows bounding free
                The Epidaurian bay.


                                V.

            Thoughtful a moment here he stood
            And watched the never-sleeping flood,
                The ever-changing wave;
            He knew no danger, feared no foes,
            But from his heart a prayer uprose
                To her that guards the brave.
            Wise prayer; for scarce the words are gone
            From thy free mouth, Bellerophon,
                When, struck with holy awe,
            Even at thy side in light arrayed,
            Serene with placid power displayed,
            The chaste Athenian Jove-born maid
                Thy wondering vision saw;
            And in her hand—O strangest sight!—
                A wingèd steed she led,
            That bent the knee before the knight
                And bowed its lofty head.
            “Fear not, thou son of Æolus’ race,
                Dear to the gods art thou;
            This steed, by strong Poseidon’s mace
            That leapt to life, through airy space
                Shall safely waft thee now.”
            Thus spake the goddess, wise as fair;
            And with the word, dissolved in air,
                Was seen no more. The knight
            Brushed from his eyes the dazzling glare,
                And scarce believed his sight.
            But when he saw the steed was there,
            He winged to Heaven a rapid prayer,
                And for the airy flight
            Buckled his purpose. Mounted now
                With rapid wheel he soars,
            O’er creek and crag, and rocky brow,
                And swift-receding shores.
            A lovely sight was there, I trow,
                Where high on wingèd oars
            He clove the pathless air. The sea,
            With various-twinkling brilliancy,
                Immense before him lay,
            With many a coast far-stretching seen,
            And many a high-cliffed isle between,
                And many a winding bay.
            High o’er Œnone’s isle he sails,[6]
            Where Æacus’ justest law prevails,
                And masted armies ride;
            O’er famous Sunium’s rocky steep,
            Where Pallas guards the Attic deep,
                He swept with airy pride.
            Ceos and Syros wondering saw
            His meteor-steed with humble awe;
                And sacred Delos deemed
            Apollo’s self, the fervid god
            His own ethereal regions trod,
                And with such brightness gleamed.
            Swift o’er the Bacchic isle he glides,[7]
            Where music mingles with the tides
                From many a Mænad throat.
            And nigh to Caria’s craggy shore,
            Cos with her blushing winy store
                His sweeping view can note.
            Anon, sublime he soars above
            Thy temple, Atabyrian Jove,
                The lord of cloudless Rhodes,[8]
            Where Telchins wise, with busy clamour,
            Who shape the steel beneath the hammer,
                Possess their famed abodes:
            And swiftly then he swoops, I ween,
            Down on the steeps of Cragus green
                Into the pleasant plain,
            Where Xanthus rolls his yellow stream,
            And Phœbus lights with glorious gleam
                The Patarean plain.
            Here he alights. His heavenly steed,
            With instant eye out-stripping speed
                Scorning the earthly loam,
            Wheels eastward far with vans sonorous,
            And o’er the rosy peaks of Taurus
                Sails to his starry home.


                                VI.

            The Xanthian gate is wide and free;[9]
                The Xanthian towers are high;
            The Xanthian streets are fair to see;
                The knight, with wondering eye,
            Beholds and enters. To the king
            A ready troop the stranger bring,
                And scan him o’er and o’er;
            Carious that one so spruce and trim,
            And with such light unwearied limb,
                Had reached the Lycian shore.
            With kindly heart the Xanthian lord
            Opes his high hall and spreads his board,
                And pours the Coan wine;
            Nor question asked (for Jove gives free
            To all a questless courtesy)
                Till days were numbered nine.
            His tablets then the knight presents;
            The monarch scans their dire contents,
                For here ’twas written plainly,
            “If thou dost hate who works amiss
            Let not his hand that beareth this
                Have sinned against me vainly;
            Thy Prœtus.” Sore vexed was the king
            That he must do a bloody thing
                Against so brave a guest;
            But vows were strong, and family bonds;
            Therefore, composed, he thus responds—
                “Brave knight, a fearful pest
            Afflicts this land: a monster dire,
            With, terror armed, and breathing fire,
                In Cragus holds her den,
            Chimera named: with savage jaw
            She bites, and with voracious maw
                Consumes both beasts and men.
            This hideous form its birth did take
            From hoar Echidna, virgin-snake;
                She to that fiery blaster,
            Typhon, Cilicia’s curse of yore
            A triform goatish portent bore,
            With serpent’s sting and lion’s roar,
                This Lycian land’s disaster.
            Harmless at first, for sport ’twas bred
                By Caria’s thoughtless king,
            And by his innocent children led
                Obedient to a string.
            Anon its hellish blood grew hot;
                It breathed a breath of fire,
            And tainted every household spot
                With gouts of poison dire.
            Full grown at length, and fierce and bold,
            She ranges freely through each fold,
                And licks the fleecy slaughter;
            And, when her humour waxes wild,
            No flesh she spares of man or child,
                Echidna’s gory daughter.
            Now hear me, noble Glaucus’ son,
            Most valiant knight, Bellerophon;
            Thou hast a face that seems to court
            A dangerous business as a sport—
                This thing I ask thee then;
            Wilt thou go forth, and dare to tame
            This murtherous monster breathing flame,
            And win thyself a deathless name
                Among the Xanthian men?”


                                VII.

            Thus he—(for in his heart he thought
            Such venture must with life be bought).
                But brave Bellerophon
            Guileless received the guileful plan,
            And, as an eager-purposed man,
                Buckled his armour on.
            Alone he went: of such emprise
                With this bold-breasted stranger
            No one shall share, a herald cries,
                The glory or the danger.
            By Xanthus’ stream he wends him then,
            And leftward up the hollow glen
            Where Pandarus’ city, like a tower,
            Rises begirt with rocky power;
                Then upward, still he goes,
            Where black-browed mountains round him lower,
            And ‘neath chill winter’s grisly bower
                The sunless water flows.
            Upon a steep rock hoar with eld
            A yawning cave his eye beheld,
            High-perched; and to that cave no trace
            Of road upon the mountain’s face,
                But, like an eagle’s nest,
            Sublime it hung. He looked again,
            And from the cave a tawny mane
                Shook o’er the rocky crest;
            And now a lion’s head forth came,
            And now, O Heaven! long tongues of flame
                Ran wreathing round the hill.
            No fear the son of Glaucus knew,
                But pricked his forward will
            The rock-perched monster to pursue:
            On right, on left, he sought a clue
                To thread that steep-faced hill;
            But though the day had much ado,
            When night came down with sable hue
                It found him searching still.
            Hid in the tangled brakes around
            Next morn a rugged chasm he found,
            That oped into an archway wide
            Right through the hollow mountain-side;
                Here plunged the knight; and then
            With eager foot emerging speeds
            Along a rocky ledge that leads
                To dire Chimera’s den.
            The monster hears his coming tread,
                And with a hideous roar
            Trails forth its length, and shows its head
                And mouth all daubed with gore.
            The brave knight drew his sword, and flew
                Like lightning on the foe,
            And on its hide of horny pride
                Dealt ringing blow on blow.
            In vain; that hide, Bellerophon,
            Dipt in the flood of Acheron,
                Is proof at every pore;
            And where thy steel doth vainly hack,
            A goat’s head rising on its back
                With living fire streams o’er;
            And from behind, a serpent’s tail,
                With many mouths that hisses,
            Rears round about thee like a flail,
                To give thee poisoned kisses.
            The flame, the smoke, the sulphurous breath
                Doth choke thy mortal life;
            Spare that dear life, for only death
                Can grow from such a strife.
            Backward the flame-scorched hero sped,
            And as he went, upon his tread
                The roaring Terror came.
            Along the ridge, so sharp and jaggy,
            Huge-limb’d it strode, horrid and shaggy,
                And swathed with sevenfold flame.
            Down through the archway opening wide,
            Far through the hollow mountain-side,
                It drove him wrathful on;
            Then through the black jaws of the rock
            It hurled him with a furious shock,
                And with a huge-heaved stone
            Blocked up the rift. There in the vale,
            Scarcely with life, all scorched and pale,
                Was left Bellerophon.


                                VIII.

            The evening dew was clear and cold:
            Upon the harsh ungrateful mould
            All stiffly lay the hero bold
                Thorough the dreamless night;
            But when the face of peering day
            Shot o’er the cliff its crimson ray,
            All stiff and aching as he lay,
                Sleep seized the weary knight—
            A blissful sleep; for when the sense
            Was bound with blindness most intense,
                With sharp-eyed soul he saw,
            Ev’n at his side, in light arrayed,
            Serene with placid power displayed,
            The chaste Athenian Jove-born maid,
                And worshipped her with awe;
            And in her hand—a well-known sight—
                The wingèd steed she led,
            That bent the knee before the knight,
                And bowed its lofty head.
            Raptured he woke; with sense now clear
                He saw the heavenly maid,
            And in her hand a massive spear,
                Firm-planted, she displayed;
            And thus she spake: “Ephyrian knight,
                Dear to the gods art thou,
            Not vainly did thy prayer invite
            My aid to wing thy airy flight
                To Cragus’ rocky brow.
            A friendly god is thy provider;
                If thou hast wisely planned,
            Fear not; the steed doth wait the rider,
                The spear doth claim the hand.
            That snake-born monster’s horny hide,
                That was not made to feel,
            May never yield life’s crimson tide
                To sharpest Rhodian steel;
            But with this spear from Vulcan’s forge,
            Right through the mouth in the deep gorge
                If thou shalt pierce it, then
            This dire Chimera, breathing flame,
                Thou with a hero’s hand shalt tame,
            And win thyself a glorious name
                Among the Xanthian men.”
            Upstood the knight, with hope elate,
            And felt the aching pain abate
                From all his sore-bruised limbs;
            The wingèd steed he straight bestrode,
            And to Chimera’s black abode
                Through liquid air he swims.
            The deep-mouthed Terror ’gan to bray,
            The forky fire-tongues ’gan to play,
            The fretful serpents hissed dismay
                Round all the rocky wall;
            But with direct and eager speed
            The rider and the heavenly steed
            Rushed to achieve the fearless deed
                At glorious danger’s call.
            The knight, with curious eye, did note
            The centre of the roaring throat,
            And while it gaped with gory jaws
                To thunder fear around,
            Forward he rode—nor any pause,
            But right into Chimera’s gorge
            He drove the spear from Vulcan’s forge,
                And fixed it in the ground.
            Up from the back the fell goat’s head
                Rose rough with swelling ire,
            And right and left long tongues were spread
                Of forky-flaming fire;
            But with immortal strength the steed
                Flaps his huge vans around,
            And straight the eager spires recede,
                And harmless lick the ground.
            Cowed lie the snakes, and with quick eye
            A tender place the knight did spy
                Where the neck joined the back;
            There with a fatal swoop he came,
            And through the fount of living flame
                He cuts with fierce attack.
            Down dropt the goat’s head in its gore,
            And with a sharp and brazen roar
                The writhing lion dies.
            The palsied snakes, with stiffened fang,
            Like lifeless leaves unconscious hang,
                And lose all strength to rise;
            And belching rivers of black gore
            Upon the clotted rocky floor
                The smoking carcass lies.


                                IX.

            A famous man was Glaucus’ son
                Then when Chimera died;
            In Lycian land like him was none
                In glory and in pride.
            At public feast beside the king
            He sate; him did the minstrel sing
                With various-woven lays;
            And old men in the halls were gay,
            And maidens smiled, and mothers grey,
            And eager boys would cease their play
                To sound the hero’s praise.
            The Xanthian burghers, wealthy men,
            Chose the best acres in the glen
                Beside the fattening river—
            Acres where best or corn would grow,
            Or vines with clustered purple glow,
            These, free from burden, they bestow
                On Glaucus’ son for ever.
            The Xanthian king, to Prœtus bound,
            For other dangers looks around,
                And finds, but finds in vain.
            ’Gainst the stout Solymi to fight[10]
            He set the brave Ephyrian knight,
                And hoped he might be slain;
            But from the stiff embrace of Mars
            He soon returned, and showed his scars,
                To glad the Xanthian plain.
            A Lycian army then he led
            Against the maids unhusbanded,
                Where surly Pontus roars.
            Before his spear the Amazon yields;
            The breastless host, with moonèd shields,
            Far o’er Thermodon’s famous fields
                He drove to Colchian shores.
            The Xanthian king despairs the strife—
            “Let Prœtus fight for Prœtus’ wife;
            I will not tempt the charmèd life
                Of valiant Glaucus’ son!”
            Nor more against the gods he strives,
            But with his hand his daughter gives
                To brave Bellerophon.


                                X.

            A prosperous man was Glaucus’ son
            Then when the queenly maid he won,
                The pride of Lycian land:
            The Lycian lords obey his nod,
            The people hail him as a god,
                And own his high command.
            Fearless he lived without annoy,
            Plucking the bloom of every joy;
                For still, to help his need,
            Jove’s blue-eyed daughter, when he prayed,
            Was present with her heavenly aid,
                And lent the wingèd steed.
            His heart with pride was lifted high;
            Beyond the bounds of earth to fly
            Impious he weened, and scale the sky,
                And sit with Jove sublime.
            Upward and northward far he sails,
            O’er Carian crags and Phrygian vales,
                And blest Mæonia’s clime.
            The orient breezes round him blowing
            He feels; with light the ether glowing;
            And from the planets in their going
                He lists the sphery chime.
            Bursts far Olympus on his view
            Snowy, with gleams of rosy hue;
                And round the heavenly halls,
            All radiant with immortal blue,
            The golden battlements he knew,
                And adamantine walls.
            And on the walls, with dizzy awe,
            Full many a shapely form he saw
                Of stately grace divine:
            The furious Mars with terror crested,
            Poseidon’s power the mighty-breasted,
                That rules the billowy brine;
            And, linked with golden Aphrodite,
            The heavenly smith, in labour mighty,
                Grace matched with skill he sees;
            And one that in his airy hand
            Displayed a serpent-twisted wand,
                And floated on the breeze,
            Both capped and shod with wings; and one
                That lay in sumptuous ease
            On pillowed clouds, fair Semele’s son,
                And quaffed the nectar’d bowl;
            And one from whom the locks unshorn
            Flowed like ripe fields of April corn,
            And beaming brightness, like the morn,
                Shower’d radiance on the pole;
            And matron Juno’s awful face;
            And Dian, mistress of the chase;
            And Pallas, that with eye of blue
            Now sternly meets the hero’s view,
                Whom erst she met with love;
            And, like a star of purer ray,
            Apart, whom all the gods obey,
                The thunder-launching Jove.
            The ravishment of such fair sight
            Thrilled sense and soul with quick delight
                To bold Bellerophon;
            Entranced he looked; his wingèd steed,
            Struck with the brightness, checked its speed,
                Nor more would venture on.
            Deaf to the eager rider’s call,
            Who spurred to mount the Olympian wall,
                It stood like lifeless stone
            A moment—then, with sudden wheel,
            Earthward its flight it ’gan to reel;
            For awful now were heard to peal
                Sharp thunders from the pole,
            And lightnings flashed, and darkly spread
            O’er that rash rider’s impious head
                The sulphurous clouds did roll.
            With eager gust the fiery storm
            Resistless whirled his quaking form
                Down through the choking air.
            Loud and more loud the thunders swell—
            Him with blind speed the winds impel;
            Three times three days and nights he fell
                Down through the choking air.
            At length, in mazy terror lost,
            Him the celestial courser tossed
                With fiercely-fretted mane;
            And, by the close-involving blast
            Impetuous hurried, he was cast
                On the Aleian[11] plain.


                                XI.

            Senseless, but lifeless not, he lay.
                The gods had mercy shown
            If they had slain, on that black day,
                The blasted Glaucus’ son;
            But all the gods conspired to hate
            The man, with impious pride elate,
                Who dared to scale the sky.
            Year after year, from that black day,
            He pined his meagre life away,
            Weak as a cloud or vapour grey,
                And vainly wished to die.
            On a wide waste, without a tree,
            The unfrequent traveller there might see
                The once great Glaucus’ son.
            Far from the haunts and from the tread
            Of men, a joyless life he led;
            On folly’s fruitage there he fed,
                Dejected and alone;
            Even as a witless boy at school,
            Would sit and gaze into a pool
                The blank Bellerophon;
            Or to bring forth the blindworm red
            That, creeping, loves a lightless bed,
                Would turn the old grey stone.
            And thus he lived, and thus he died,
            And ended to the brute allied,
                Who like a god began;
            And he hath gained a painful fame,
            And marred immortal praise with blame,
            And taught to whoso names his name,
                PRIDE WAS NOT MADE FOR MAN!      J. S. B.




          THE COMING FORTUNES OF OUR COLONIES IN THE PACIFIC.


From the earliest records of what has been termed profane history, down
to the present day, we have been accustomed to regard Europe as the
centre of civilisation and of wealth. From Asia, Greece and Rome in
early times, and the commerce of European nations more recently, exacted
tribute and rich products. Two centuries ago the precious metals and
tropical yield of South America and the West Indies excited the rapacity
of adventurers from this and other countries; and towards the close of
last century we had to recognise the germs of a great Anglo-Saxon power
occupying the Atlantic shores and territory of North America, which we
now see competing actively with us for a share in influencing the
affairs of the world. Still both Asia and the American continent were
regarded as merely the feeders of the commercial and political greatness
of Europe. Africa was and remains comparatively an unknown continent,
whilst the inhospitable regions of the north are shunned by all, save
the hardy mariners engaged in the pursuit of the whale and the seal, the
former for its industrial usefulness, and the latter as affording us
articles of comfort and luxury. The extreme southern hemisphere had,
indeed, been explored by Cook, Vancouver, Fourneaux, and others; and its
clusters of islands were laid down in our charts, and some of them
claimed as calling-stations for the shipping employed in our commerce
with India, whilst others were appropriated for their valuable tropical
productions. But beyond this the Southern Pacific and Antarctic Oceans
were comparatively unknown and unvalued. Below the latitude of Cape
Horn, the Cape of Good Hope, and the Indian Ocean, their waters were an
unbroken solitude, save that occasionally a ship bearing the British
flag might be seen steering for our penal settlement of Australia, there
to deposit its living freight of criminal outcasts beyond reach of
contact with the populations of the civilised world; and more recently
with a few adventurous colonisers going out to cultivate its untrodden
wilds, and, amidst privations and arduous toil, to wring from its soil
the means of living, which they had been jostled out of on that of their
own densely peopled fatherland.

A mighty change, however, has come over us—unlooked for and undreamt
of—the issue of which the wisest can scarcely imagine for himself; for
it is plainly not the unaided work of man which has brought about that
change, but an overruling Providence, carrying out a preordained decree
that one of the fairest portions of the globe shall be a solitude no
longer. In most of the ordinary revolutions which have taken place in
the world, human agency is directly traceable. We have witnessed in
Europe the hardy tribes of the north over-running the fertile soils, and
subjecting to their rule the degenerate populations, of the south. We
have seen similar changes in Asia; and one of these is now progressing
in Africa, the northern provinces of which are being subjected to the
Gaul. Colonisation and emigration are rapidly peopling the western
states of the northern continent of America. But to produce such a
change in the condition of those far-distant countries, whose shores are
washed by the Pacific Ocean, and which are comparatively inaccessible to
the ordinary movements of migratory populations, whilst they held out
little to invite conquest, an extraordinary stimulus was required. That
stimulus has been lately afforded in abundant and overpowering measure.
A popular outburst, excited by the love of territorial aggrandisement,
which is inherent in the nature of the people of the United States, and
which, indeed, is inseparable from the very character of their
institutions, led to the seizure by them of a portion of the territory
of Mexico on the shores of the North Pacific Ocean. Under ordinary
circumstances the acquisition was almost valueless. By land it was
well-nigh unapproachable. A wild and mountainous territory, occupied by
various Indian tribes, intervened between California and the settled
States of the Union. Commercially it was unimportant, and likely to
remain so for years, if not for centuries, whilst, as an agricultural
territory, it was inferior in fertility to those States. It had
certainly the advantage of nearer proximity to India and China; but
there was scarcely along any portion of the west coast of either the
United States or South America sufficient population to render that
advantage of value. But in 1848, only a few months after its acquisition
by the model Republic, the world was startled with the news that gold
had been discovered upon the Sacramento River, within a short distance
from the port and bay of San Francisco; and further advices informed us
that the deposits of that mineral extended over a territory five hundred
miles in length by forty to fifty miles in width; and that, in fact, it
promised to be inexhaustible in amount, as it was unrivalled in
fineness. A population immediately began to flock to San Francisco by
every possible route from the United States, from the west coast of
South America, and from the islands of the Pacific. Even China was
attracted by the flattering accounts promulgated of the richness of the
mines, and began to pour forth its population towards the scene. The
emigrating population of Great Britain swelled the tide; and, within
twelve months of the first discovery of gold, we heard of nearly three
hundred sail of shipping being assembled in San Francisco bay, deserted
by their officers and crews, who had joined their cargoes of passengers,
and run off to partake of the rich harvest provided for them. The
sufferings and privations endured by some of the early adventurers—the
crime, the outrage, and utter lawlessness, which spread over the entire
territory—were recorded in vain. No warning was heeded. The passion for
gain is one of the strongest in our nature. Men heard of fortunes being
earned in a day; of the poorest becoming suddenly rich; of revelry and
wild enjoyment ensuing after severe toil and privation; and the tide of
adventurers flowed on with increased volume as every day added to the
assurance that the attracting cause was a permanent one. It cannot be
forgotten by the commercial people of this country how vast was the
impulse given to the industry, and the agricultural, manufacturing, and
maritime interests of the American Republic, by this state of things.
Her people almost ceased to care about supplying Europe with farm
products. The wealthy settlers in her golden territory could now afford
to consume what had formerly been exported as a disposable surplus.
Their monetary circulation was being largely expanded; and to a
corresponding extent they were enabled to extend their commercial
operations to every country. Their shipping, having earned large
freights by the transport of passengers from the Atlantic ports round
Cape Horn to California, could afford to make the run across the Pacific
in ballast to India and China, whence they competed with us in homeward
freights on terms almost ruinous to the British shipowner. And although
they became, and have since continued to be, larger consumers than
formerly of our products of every kind, it is very questionable whether,
in the long run, this increased consumption would have compensated us as
a nation for the advantages which America had obtained over us, through
the possession of this new territory, with its mineral riches, in
carrying on the traffic between our eastern possessions and China and
the various markets of Europe.

The route westward, by the North Pacific to the Indian Ocean, was thus
for the first time established as a great maritime highway by the
enterprising mercantile community of the United States. We had ourselves
long previously used the route _via_ Cape Horn and the South Pacific in
our trade with Chili, Peru, and other countries on the west coast of
South America. It was reserved for us for the first time to open out for
the commerce of the world an eastern route from the Atlantic and from
Europe across the South Pacific Ocean; in fact, to bring into practical
use the voyages of Cook, Vancouver, and other circumnavigators of the
globe, whose achievements during the past century had hitherto been
regarded as interesting only in a geographical point of view. Here,
again, it was an all-wise Providence which directed our path. On the 6th
May 1851, it was first announced that gold had been discovered in our
convict settlement of New South Wales. The news spread like wildfire
throughout the colony; and in a very short space of time there were
upwards of four thousand “diggers” at Ophir, near Bathurst, where the
discovery was first made, whose success fully equalled that of the early
adventurers at the Californian mines. Additional gold-fields were found
shortly afterwards both in New South Wales and the province of Victoria;
and before the end of July the arrivals of gold at Sydney, Geelong, and
Melbourne were sufficiently abundant to create a perfect revolution in
the labour market, not only in those towns, but in the agricultural
districts of the entire colony of Australia. The ordinary pursuits of
the population were everywhere abandoned. Men of all classes, capable of
wielding a pick or a spade, and many to whom such instruments had been
previously unknown, were seen abandoning their farms, their shops, or
their counting-houses, to swell the throng which rushed forth from every
quarter to “prospect” for gold in the gullies and creeks whose
appearance or geological formation promised a yield of the precious
metal. At the first announcement of so startling a discovery, a large
portion of the public in this country were indisposed to credit it.
Would-be-wise people shook their heads, and hinted that a mania had
seized upon the Australian colonists, which in its issue must be
productive of their utter ruin. We had black pictures painted of the
effect of a neglected agriculture; and some wiser people than their
fellows—journalists and statisticians—indulged in laboured arguments to
show that picking up “nuggets” or dust must in a very short period
become an unprofitable avocation, and absorb more labour than would
yield a paying return, in comparison with the ordinary pursuits of
industry. But each fresh arrival from the colony showed the fallacy of
these anticipations and prophecies. Gold continued to be picked up in
abundance, sufficient to remunerate every person engaged in its search,
although the number of the searchers had been multiplied twenty-fold;
and a vast emigration began to flow from this and other countries
towards the new El Dorado. In 1851—the year when the discovery was first
made—there were despatched from the United Kingdom alone 272 ships, with
an aggregate tonnage of 145,164 tons, having on board 21,532 passengers.
In 1852, the number of ships despatched was 568, with an aggregate
tonnage of 335,717 tons, having on board 87,881 passengers. When using
this term, by the by, it ought to be borne in mind that _adult_
passengers are meant, children of tender years being counted as nothing,
whilst of young persons under fourteen years of age, two are counted as
a passenger. The emigration of 1852 would thus be at least a hundred
thousand souls. During the past year the number of ships despatched was
1201, with an aggregate tonnage of 553,088 tons, being an increase on
the year of 633 vessels and 217,371 tons over the amount of 1852. We
have not before us accurate data for determining the precise number of
passengers taken out by them; but it would certainly be equal to that of
the corresponding period of the previous year. Great Britain, however,
was not the only country which was adding to the population of
Australia. The United States of America were sending us practised
gold-diggers from California, which shortly began to be regarded as
affording a less profitable field for their labour. Germany had begun to
pour forth her emigrant classes to the colony; and even China was
joining in the movement. In the summary of the _Melbourne Argus_,
written for the mail of the 25th March, we find the following statement:
“In the course of the last month several separate ship-loads of Chinese
have landed on our shores.... Numbers of these people, strangers as they
are to our customs and religion, have been sought for and engaged at
good wages by employers, with whom they can only communicate by signs.
They have shown themselves, on the whole, one of the most inoffensive
races of the motley group who seek our golden land; and a colony of
them, that have been for some time established at the diggings, are
remarkable for the quietness of their demeanour, and the propriety of
their behaviour.” The growth of the colony is, however, best shown by
comparing the aggregate number of the population now, with what it was
at the period when gold was first discovered. In the commencement of
1851, it was ascertained that the province of Victoria, which contains
the most productive mines, was 77,360. The same journal from which we
have quoted estimates it to be now 250,000; and adds, that it is being
increased by the arrival of about 1000 immigrants per week. It is
doubtful whether the other provinces—New South Wales and South and West
Australia—are progressing at the same rate. The “diggers” are a
migratory race. The report of a new “find” attracts them from all
directions. In February last, the Tarrengower gold-field was opened out,
and discovered to be most productive; and the following is a description
of the state of things which followed, from one who had visited the
locality: “In leaving Bendigo, the comparatively deserted state of the
diggings along Kangaroo Flat, in Adelaide Gully, and the Robinson
Crusoe, is very apparent. The vast extent of the yellow mounds, where so
much bustle and activity formerly prevailed, is now in many cases
unenlivened by the presence even of a solitary digger. The want of
water, in the first instance, but chiefly the attractions of
Tarrengower, have almost depopulated this portion of the Bendigo. Many
stores have been removed, and a large number are closed up for the
present; yet there is a vitality about the place which shows that the
glory has not altogether departed. Some business is being done, and
those who still remain have infinite faith in the recuperative energies
of Bendigo. ‘When the winter sets in,’ they say, ‘we shall have the
diggers back.’” Similar migrations are continually occurring; and hence
it is most difficult to arrive at the actual population of any
particular province or district. It is most probable, indeed, that the
numbers of souls in the entire colony are considerably understated.
This, we think, will be apparent when we come to examine the consuming
powers of Australia, as tested by its imports. From a return, moved for
in the House of Commons by Mr Archibald Hastie, and ordered to be
printed on the 1st of May last, the following were the exports from the
United Kingdom to the colony in each of the three years ending the 5th
January 1854:—

                           Declared value exported.
                     1851,               £2,807,356
                     1852,                4,222,205
                     1853,              14,506,532.

There is certainly evidence here, either of a most wasteful consumption,
or of the existence of a population greater than it is generally
supposed to be. But this return does not convey the full extent of that
consumption. From what appears to be a carefully compiled statement in
the _Melbourne Argus_ of the 25th of March last, the imports into the
province of Victoria alone, in 1853, amounted to the enormous sum of
£15,842,637, received from the following countries:—

                 Great Britain,             £8,288,226
                 West Indies (British),         14,973
                 North America (British),       13,560
                 Other British colonies,     5,036,311
                 United States of America,   1,668,606
                 Foreign States,               820,961
                                           ———————————
                      Total Imports,       £15,842,637

If the same proportionate amount has been taken by the other provinces
from colonial and foreign markets, the total imports for the year would
reach the vast amount of _twenty-three millions sterling_!

It is certainly true that, with respect to many articles, these imports
have been in excess of the requirements of the colony. Its markets have
been drugged with Manchester goods, with hardware, and slops, or
“haberdashery,” as our parliamentary returns rather absurdly call hats,
shoes, boots, ready-made clothing, &c. Serious losses will have to be
encountered by those parties who are unable to hold over their
consignments, and in part from the want of storage-room. But this state
of things is merely temporary, and applies to articles which are not
strictly necessaries. The arrival of the overland mail, with dates to
the end of May, brings us the assurance that business is improving, as
indeed might have been expected in a country whose population increases
at the rate of a thousand persons a week, each of whom is, on landing
upon its shores, placed at once in possession of an income never
previously enjoyed. We have the material fact, too, before us,
establishing the capability of the Australian colonist to consume
largely the products of foreign industry, that during the past year the
province of Victoria exported to the amount of £11,061,543, of which
£8,644,529 was gold, and £1,651,543 was wool. The difference between the
amount of imports and exports may be accounted for without concluding
that the population has been running itself into debt beyond their means
of paying it with tolerable promptitude. We may reasonably hope, too,
that one of the causes of such excessive importations as those of last
year will shortly be removed. We have had thus far no efficient and
regular mail communication with the colony. Up to the 20th of July, our
latest advices from Melbourne were dated the 25th of March; and it was
to American enterprise that we were indebted for intelligence up to May
11, brought by the steamer “Golden Age” to Panama, and thence by the
West India Company’s boats to Southampton. Close upon four months had
thus elapsed, during which our merchants had been operating in the dark,
making shipments to a colony the consuming powers of which had not been
fairly tested, and which might, for anything we knew, have supplied its
wants from the nearer markets of India and China, or taken a portion of
the surplus shipments to California. It is clear that such has been the
case. We have shown above, that of the total imports into Victoria in
1853, £5,036,311 were derived from “other British colonies,” and
£1,668,606 from the United States of America. Our East Indian markets,
no doubt, supplied the former amount, and the bulk of the latter crossed
the Pacific from California. On the 27th July we had a regular mail by
the overland route, _via_ India and the Mediterranean, bringing advices
up to the 29th May, which confirmed those brought by the “Golden Age.”
It is clear that a country, which takes from the United Kingdom upwards
of fourteen millions sterling per annum, ought to have permanently
established for it a postal communication as rapid as possible. It is
unreasonable and suicidal to torture a great mercantile nation with a
system, or arrangements, which leave us for four months consecutively
without advices of the wants of one of our most valuable customers, and
exchange of sentiments with nearly half a million of our own
fellow-countrymen. Before concluding our remarks, we shall endeavour to
point out how such improved postal communication can be best
established.

Returning to the immediate question of the increase of population in
Australia, and its probable future rate, we may state, unhesitatingly,
that it must be vastly beyond what is generally anticipated. In fact,
the increase is self-creative—“_vires acquirit eundo_.” Every
newly-arrived immigrant, who purchases land from the colonial
government, and every digger who pays for a gold license, becomes, in so
doing, an importer of labour. Writing on the 25th of March last, _The
Melbourne Argus_ says:—


  “The following is a statement of the arrivals and departures of
  passengers by sea since our last summary:—

                       1854.               Arrived. Departed.
                Week ending       Jan. 28,    2,619       739
                     „            Feb.  4,    1,561       632
                     „             „   11,      970       512
                     „             „   18,    1,475       557
                     „             „   25,    1,438       607
                     „            Mar.  4,    1,576       434
                     „             „   11,    1,336       670
                     „             „   18,    1,494       332
                                             ——————     —————
                                             12,469     4,483
                                              4,483
                                             ——————
              Increase to population,         7,986


“In the same number of weeks previously, as stated in our last summary,
the increase was 6281. The immigration is, therefore, again on the
increase. It is now proceeding at the rate of about 1000 per week; but
we ought not to omit mentioning, that a very large increase over this
may be speedily expected. We lately stated, on the authority of public
documents, that our land-fund available for promoting emigration from
the United Kingdom amounted in the last quarter to upwards of £250,000,
and if that rate is maintained during the present year, at the cost of
£6000 per ship, as estimated by the Land and Emigration Commissioners,
and an average of little more than 400 persons to each ship, there will
be a fund sufficient to convey free to these shores no less than 70,000
souls in one year. This, of course, is altogether independent of the
emigration of persons paying their own passages, which, we have noticed,
always increases with an increased Government emigration. Within the
last few weeks we have been invaded by what seems likely to be the
advanced guard of a large army of Chinese. Several ships have arrived
crowded with Chinese passengers, and many more are reported to be on
their way. The same spirit of enterprise is doubtless gradually
extending itself amongst the people of other countries; and the natural
effects will be exhibited in the inflow of a vast wave of population, to
a colony which affords such a field to the labouring man as is presented
in no other country upon earth.”

It may appear singular that there should be so large a number of
departures as 4483 to set against 12,469 arrivals. We have already
remarked, however, that the gold-diggers are migratory in their habits.
Many of them, who have amassed a few thousand pounds, return to their
own countries to settle. The state of society in Australia is not such
at present as to attach parties to the colony. There is unfortunately
there a want of home comforts. The wealth in the colony, suddenly
acquired, is in the hands of people unprepared, by education or early
pursuits, for spending it in a sensible manner, or investing it
profitably. Many are coming thence only for a season, as visitors to
their native land, or to return with relatives and friends; and some are
going away in quest of gold, reported to exist, in more than Australian
abundance, elsewhere. For example, there has been recently a rumour of
the Peruvian mines reassuming their original fertility; and we observe,
in recent Australian papers, announcements of numerous ships about to
sail with passengers for Callao, on the west coast of South America, in
the neighbourhood of which port it is said that gold has been recently
discovered in large quantities. The real gold, however, will most
assuredly be Peruvian guano, with which such ships will load for this
country and the United States. Such re-emigration is natural amongst a
population like that of Australia, and will continue for a while. But
the arrivals in the colony are becoming more and more composed of the
class likely to be settlers. The Germans have been lately extensive
purchasers of land, and are _habitués_ in the colony. A report of a
Hamburg society gives the following as the German population in 1852:—

                     New South Wales,       13,500
                     South Australia,        8,000
                     Victoria,               1,320
                                      ____________
                                            24,820

The German emigration to Australia last year will have greatly swelled
these numbers; and the description of emigrants from that country may be
estimated from the fact that, of nearly 6000 persons who applied to the
Berlin Emigration Society in 1852 for advice and assistance, 4444
possessed property amounting in the whole to 977,635 dollars, or, upon
an average, 218 dollars (£32, 14s.) per head.[12] We have also yet to
experience the effect which will be produced by remittances home by
emigrants for the purpose of enabling their friends to join them in the
colony. The impetus given to the efflux of population from Ireland by
such remittances was strikingly shown by the Colonial Land and
Emigration Commissioners in their Report of last year. The remittances
from the United States, as ascertained through leading mercantile and
banking firms, were as follows in the years mentioned:—

                             1848  £460,000
                             1849   540,000
                             1850   957,000
                             1851   990,000
                             1852 1,404,000

We observe at present that several of the leading emigration firms in
London and Liverpool are making arrangements in Australia for the
purpose of enabling settlers to pay the passage of their friends out to
the colony.

Independently of the attractions offered by the gold-fields, of
remittances from friends in Australia, or of Government aid, there is
abundant certainty that emigration to that colony must increase very
rapidly. In fact, scarcity of shipping is the only bar to it which is
likely to be felt. There is a positive want of labour in Australia,
which mocks at the childish efforts of such parliamentary committees as
that of which Mr John O’Connell was recently the chairman, to prevent
its supply. Notwithstanding its vast agricultural resources, the demand
for their development created by a rapidly augmenting population, and
the ample, and, in fact, extravagant remuneration afforded in the colony
for every description of industry, the entire world, whose attention has
been for the last two years attracted by its display of wealth, and
which is assured of the genuine and permanent character of its claims to
notice, appears unable to supply labour in sufficient abundance. Whether
we turn to its imports or its exports, furnished us in the valuable
report moved for by Mr Hastie, the great want of labour forces itself
upon us. We shall take at random a few of the articles exported from
Great Britain to the colony during the past three years:—

                                          1851.    1852.      1853.
     Apparel, Slops, and Haberdashery, £591,516 £959,687 £3,633,908
     Beer and Ale,                      135,674  245,657    635,870
     Butter and Cheese,                   4,142   50,583    207,094
     Soap and Candles,                   14,812   45,924    121,774

The last two items certainly would not occupy a place in the list of our
exports to Australia if that fine agricultural country had even a
moderate supply of labour. The anomaly is monstrous that butter and
cheese, soap and candles, should be wanting in a country whose live
stock are so abundant that they have actually to be boiled down for
their tallow and hides! Our imports from Australia, however, exhibit
most strongly its deficient supply of labour. We select a few items:—

                                         1851.   1852.   1853.
         Regulus of Copper, tons,        1,115     660      41
         Unwrought Copper,    „            773     632     473
         Flax, undressed, cwt.           1,259     904     664
         Hides, tanned or dressed, lb. 931,600 642,198   9,842
         Oil, Spermaceti, tuns,          1,911   1,609     940
         Tallow, cwt.                  174,471 159,333 125,206

The above articles the colony can supply to almost any extent; yet it
will be observed that their export is falling off every year. Its mines
of copper, especially, are amongst the richest in the world; yet they
are comparatively unworked for the want of hands, whilst the world holds
so many human beings who would gladly toil for one-fourth of the
remuneration which Australia could so well afford them. To the people of
Great Britain it is a very material object that the agricultural and
mineral resources of the colony should be more largely developed than at
present; for if, almost exclusively by the produce of her gold-fields,
her population of little, if at all, over half a million souls can
afford to import our productions to the amount of above fourteen
millions sterling per annum, what may be expected when it becomes
enabled to export freely the raw material, the agricultural products,
and the valuable minerals—copper, tin, &c.—which its soil will yield to
an extent almost beyond the power of calculation?

We have already stated that the increase of the population of Australia
is self-creative; and we can very briefly show how that principle is
likely to operate. We have a large amount of tonnage at present employed
in the passenger trade from Great Britain to that colony; but we have
not as yet sufficient homeward freight to employ one-fourth of that
tonnage. Since the discovery of the gold-fields the ordinary
agricultural and other pursuits of the colonists have been neglected;
and, as we might have expected, the exports of bulky raw materials and
produce, which constitute freight, have diminished in quantity. Hence
our emigrant ships, except in the case of those of the established lines
from Liverpool and London, which now return direct from that colony,
have had to go in ballast to the Eastern Seas, or to the guano islands
of Peru, to seek cargoes. Where such a course has to be pursued, the
passage-money outwards must range high—far above the means of the most
valuable emigrants, who are agricultural labourers, practical miners,
and artisans. But this state of things cannot continue to exist long.
The gold-fields are sufficiently tempting, no doubt; yet there are
blanks there as well as prizes. The disappointed must resort to
agricultural and other walks of industry. The flocks and herds of the
squatters in the bush are increasing at a most rapid rate—far beyond the
consumptive demand of the colony—and the supplies for export of hides,
tallow, oil, and wool must very largely increase. Of the latter most
important raw material the following were the shipments to this country
during the past three years:—

               Wool—Sheep and Lambs’ 1851, 41,810,117 lb.
                                     1852,  43,197,301  „
                                     1853,  47,075,963  „

In bales the total exports of last year were 153,000, of an average of
about 300 lb. weight each. This article alone would afford return
cargoes for from thirty to forty thousand tons of shipping. The yield
both of wool and tallow must increase enormously in a few years; and
when an ample supply of homeward freight is afforded, our emigration
houses will be enabled to reduce considerably the outward passage-money
for emigrants to the colony, and thus add to the numbers of its
population.

But we cannot regard the discoveries which have been made in the
countries of the Pacific as merely tending to give an impulse to our
commerce, and to afford increased employment to our shipping and to
industry at home. We must regard them in a much more extended light. The
important change which is taking place may fairly be termed the opening
out of a new quarter of the globe, rich beyond measure in all the
products which are valuable and useful to man, and the establishment, in
its centre, of an Anglo-Saxon empire, whose future destiny and greatness
it is almost impossible to predict rightly. A glance at the position of
Australia will be sufficient to show its great commercial importance. To
the north-westward it has the fertile islands of Java, Sumatra, Borneo,
the Philippines, Ceylon, with the vast continent containing China and
Hindostan. The extreme portions of these are at less than half the
distance which lies between them and Great Britain. From Melbourne to
Madras is little more than 5700 miles, whilst the nearer islands in the
Indian Ocean are only distant from 3000 to 3500 miles. From Melbourne to
any portion of the west coast of North and South America the distance,
by the eastward Pacific route, is 8000 miles, or little over that from
Great Britain to Cape Horn. It is thus in closer proximity than the
mother country to San Francisco, New Granada, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia,
Chili, and La Plata. There can no want occur of any of the products of
the tropics, at all events, to a country occupying a central position as
regards such markets as we have named, rich in all that conduces to the
comfort and the luxuries of life; whilst of those products which are
raised in the temperate zone, Australia has soils of her own capable of
providing her with food in abundance, and raw materials amply sufficient
to pay for all that she will require to import, without drawing upon her
vast stores of the precious metals. These must rapidly become available
to create for her population a capital for the purposes of commerce, a
mercantile marine, railways, and other improved communications,
well-built towns, substantial public works, and the usual accompaniments
enjoyed by settled and prosperous communities. There can be no doubt
that the absence of these are amongst the main causes which retard
emigration to the colony of families belonging to the middle and
superior classes, and the absence there so generally regretted of what
may be called a “home circle.” Such a want keeps back the influx of a
female population, especially of the class required to make a home
comfortable; but it will be supplied in time, and, in fact, is being
rapidly supplied now. Not much more than six months ago, Melbourne, the
capital of Victoria, and the seat of the government of the colony, was
in a most deplorable state, and without anything like the accommodation
required for its population or its commerce. Stores and warehouses there
were almost none; and we heard, by every arrival, of merchandise being
sacrificed on this account. But more recent advices report that—


  “Melbourne is branching out upon every side. Townships spring up in
  localities where a short time ago there was not a single dwelling of
  any description; houses seem, in fact, to swarm like mushrooms from
  the ground in a single night. A little more than twelve months since,
  and North Melbourne was merely the site of a few scattered tents; it
  now contains a population of several thousands, with comfortable
  homes, shops, hotels, and schools to meet the wants of its
  inhabitants. The suburbs, that are being formed in the opposite
  direction, offer a still stronger proof of the growth of a taste that
  has always been peculiarly English, and one that will do more than
  anything else to place the prosperity of this colony upon a secure
  foundation—namely, a desire for home comfort. In former times the
  pursuit of money was the whole, the engrossing passion of the
  community; so long as this object was attained, the feverish seeker
  cast not a thought upon the manner in which he lived; he appeared to
  have an utter disregard of the comforts of home. If he happened to
  have a run of luck, and was successful, what benefit did he reap from
  his success! He would run riot for a time, and spend the hard earnings
  of a month in the dearly-bought pleasure of a few hours’ debauchery.
  The principal reason for this, next to our abominable land-system,
  was, that the colony could not offer the swarming mass of new-comers
  any domestic comforts. Now, however, the case is becoming far
  different: at Richmond, Prahran, St Kilda, and Brighton, the passer-by
  can gaze everywhere with pleasure upon pretty cottages enclosed in
  their own little gardens, cheerful, trim-built English-looking villas,
  and some dwelling-houses that may fairly lay claim to the
  high-sounding appellation of mansions. Each of these suburbs, hemming
  Melbourne in on every side, constitutes a town of some size; and we
  have no doubt that, in a very short space of time, they will form part
  of Melbourne itself, much in the same manner that Chelsea and Putney
  do of London; indeed, St Kilda, Windsor, and Prahran are already
  connected by a line of houses almost the whole of the way with the
  town.”


A similar state of progressive improvement exists at Sydney, Geelong,
Adelaide, and other towns. The population in them is becoming a more
settled one; business goes on in more regular channels, and domestic
comforts are more studied. Substantial stores for merchandise are also
rising up on every side; and importers are now enabled to hold back
their goods for a more profitable market than the previous system of
selling them on landing, whatever might be the state of the demand,
would admit of.

The colony, too, is assuming more and more the character, which it is
destined to possess, of an important mercantile community; and its
commercial firms are actively preparing for extensive transactions with
the rich countries with which they have communication in every
direction. The first step towards forwarding such object has naturally
been to connect with each other the various ports along the coast, and
the towns on the principal rivers; and accordingly we find established
lines of steamers running from Sydney to the leading ports in the other
provinces, and to the interior at every point where river navigation is
practicable, and a working community and trade exist. The same
accommodation is provided from Melbourne, Geelong, and Adelaide, to
other ports and towns. Several lines of sailing packets also offer
themselves to the public between the principal ports. In fact, a large
coasting-trade is carried on, both in passengers and merchandise, the
route by sea being preferred to travelling by land over badly-formed,
and frequently unsafe, roads. In the first instance, some difficulty
existed in procuring vessels, especially for the navigation of the
rivers, where a light draught of water was necessary, as such vessels
could not be trusted to make the voyage out from Europe or America. They
are now, however, being gradually supplied by builders in the colony. A
somewhat larger class of vessels is regularly employed in the trade
between New South Wales, Victoria, and South Australia, and New Zealand,
Van Diemen’s Land, and the government settlement in West Australia, with
a few for San Francisco, Callao, Manilla, and the near East Indian
ports. The enterprise of the mercantile community in the colony is being
gradually drawn towards this trade; and shipping of the class suitable
for it is in active demand, both for purchase and charter. Attention is
also being re-directed to the staple business of the colony—the export
of its wool, tallow, hides, &c., which will be more cultivated as the
fever for dealing in gold abates. At present, indeed, gold, as an
article of merchandise, scarcely yields a profit, so numerous are the
buyers of it, competing with each other, belonging to the Jewish
persuasion. Employment for capital must be sought for in another
direction, and it is to be hoped a legitimate one, otherwise the large
sums now lying idle in the colony may be squandered in rash
speculations. At the close of the last quarter, the Bank of Australia
held deposits, not bearing interest, to the amount of £1,998,730
sterling; the Bank of Australasia held at the same period £2,358,390;
the Victoria Branch of the Bank of New South Wales held £760,731; the
Bank of Victoria, £988,244; and the London Chartered Bank of Australia
£133,200, making an aggregate of deposits, not bearing interest, of
£6,239,297 sterling. As might have been expected, these establishments
are dividing amongst their shareholders, forty, fifteen, and twenty per
cent respectively. The last mentioned has only been established nine
months, and as yet has made no dividend. A large portion of this money
must be employed either in commerce or in improvements, as the colonists
begin to see their way more clearly. It can never be allowed to lie thus
unproductively; yet from the habits of the diggers, and their want of
opportunities for investment, there must always be a large amount at
their credit in the banks.

The increased employment given by Australia to the shipping of all
nations is not, perhaps, sufficiently estimated by the public, and
certainly goes far to account for the prosperity of the British
shipowner, and for the high rates of freight prevailing throughout the
world. From the 20th of January last to the 23d of March, the number of
vessels cleared out from the port of Melbourne, exclusive of coasters
and colonial traders, were 198, and the number of entries inwards 163,
making 261 ships arriving and departing in the short period of sixty
days. The bulk of these were large ships, of from 500 to 1000 tons, with
some even of more than that tonnage. The arrivals and departures from
Sydney, Geelong, and Adelaide would no doubt be greater in number,
although of a less size than those of Melbourne. It is probably not
unfair to estimate the entire number of arrivals and departures in the
colony at 400 ships; and taking the tonnage at the low average of 400
tons each ship, we have the quantity employed in the two months, 160,000
tons, or 960,000 tons per annum, by this noble colony.

We must not, however, confine ourselves to Australia, although we might
be excused for dwelling upon it as our own possession. It is a portion,
indeed, and the most important one, as being the centre, and probably
the seat, of the great Pacific empire which is to be; but still it is
only a portion. We have a young and enterprising competitor for sway in
the southern hemisphere, and one who is even now making vast efforts to
assert that sway; a competitor who regards lightly the geographical
formation of the globe itself, if it offers a barrier to his ambition.
The acquisition, by the United States, of the territory of California,
with its great mineral resources, has given their people a footing in
the Pacific, and opened out for them a trade not only with the fertile
countries of South America, but also with Australia itself. They
outstrip us in their knowledge of the wants of those countries, and in
the ample provision which they have been making for their profitable
supply. Nay, they have even been enabled to bring their own gold-fields,
notwithstanding geographical impediments, actually nearer to Great
Britain than its own gold-yielding colony. On the first discovery of the
mineral riches of California, it became an object with the United States
people to bring to their Atlantic ports, as expeditiously as possible,
return remittances in gold for the large shipments of provisions,
merchandise, and necessaries, sent by them round Cape Horn for the
increasing population of California engaged in mining operations, and by
whom agricultural and other pursuits were almost entirely neglected. In
the first instance this was endeavoured to be effected by the employment
of a line of steamers to make the passage round Cape Horn to New
Orleans, whence mails and specie were conveyed by another line of
steamers to New York. But our quick-sighted and energetic brethren soon
discovered that this natural route was too long for their purposes. The
time occupied by the voyage round the South American continent could be
saved, if the means could be found of crossing the Isthmus of Panama,
which, from Panama on the Pacific side, to Chagres, or Navy Bay, on the
Atlantic, was only fifty miles in width; and notwithstanding the passage
over the isthmus was at first a difficult and even an unhealthy one, it
was adopted; and the mails and specie, having been transported across
from Panama to Chagres, were taken on to New York _via_ Jamaica, by the
United States Mail Steam-ship Company. By the adoption of this route,
the distance from San Francisco to New York was reduced to 5450 miles,
of which 2100 miles was accomplished by steaming on the Atlantic, 3300
miles on the Pacific, and 50 miles by overland conveyance across the
isthmus, and the time reduced to about three weeks. In September last,
we find from an article in the _New York Merchant’s Magazine_,
republished in the _Sydney Herald_ of February 23d, that the following
was the provision made by the United States for their traffic with
California and the countries of the west coast of South America:—


  “Of the American steamers sailing between New York and the West
  Indies, one of the most important communications between the former
  port and Havanna is established by the United States Steam-ship
  Company. By virtue of the law of Congress, contracting for carrying
  the mails, the steamers of this company are commanded by officers of
  the United States navy. Of the steamers of this line plying between
  New York and New Orleans, embracing the alternate voyages of those
  ships, the aggregate tonnage is 4800. The steam-ship ‘United States,’
  in her trips from New York to Aspinwall, touches at Kingston, Jamaica.
  The Pacific Mail Steam-ship Company, which, in connection with the
  United States Mail Steam-ship Company, carries the American mails to
  California and Oregon, was established in 1848. It numbers at present
  fourteen steamers, built at New York, with an aggregate of 15,536
  tons.

   “In the transportation of the mails, the United States Mail
  Steam-ship Company on the Atlantic side connects with the Pacific
  Company. This line, established in 1848 by Mr Law of New York,
  comprises nine ships now on the service, with one recently launched,
  and not yet placed on the line. They register in the aggregate 19,600
  tons. The steamers of this line are despatched from New York and New
  Orleans for Aspinwall twice a month.

  “The Nicaragua Accessory Transit Company was established in 1850, by
  Mr Vanderbilt, of New York, and he receives twenty per cent of the
  profits of the company. This line, forming a communication between New
  York and San Juan del Norte on the Atlantic, and between San Juan del
  Sud and San Francisco on the Pacific, is composed of ten steamers,
  with an aggregate of 18,000 tons. Of these, two sail from New York
  twice a month for San Juan del Norte, and five are plying on the
  Pacific side.

  “The New York and San Francisco Steam-ship Company comprises four
  steamers, with an aggregate of 7400 tons; the ‘United States,’ 1500
  tons; and another, the ‘Winfield Scott,’ 2100 tons; and the ‘Cortes,’
  1500 tons, plying between Panama and San Francisco. They are equally
  divided upon the Pacific and the Atlantic sides. All of these vessels
  were built in New York.

  “The Empire City Line was established in 1848, and is composed of
  three steamers, of an aggregate of 6800 tons. The ‘Empire City’ and
  the ‘Crescent City’ were the pioneers of this line, and were two of
  the first steamers engaged in the California trade.

  “From the foregoing estimate of the California steam-ships in
  connection with the port of New York, it will be seen that the number
  of steamers engaged in that trade is forty-one, including four ships
  of Law’s Line, which were formerly engaged in the California trade,
  but which now run between New York, New Orleans, and Havanna—viz., the
  ‘Empire City,’ ‘Crescent City,’ ‘Cherokee,’ and ‘Falcon.’ The
  aggregate tonnage of these forty-one ships is 67,336. But this is not
  all. There are ten American steamers plying between San Francisco and
  Stockton; there are ten also plying between San Francisco and
  Sacramento. The latter are for the most part of a larger size than
  those on the San Joaquin river, and make the trip of a hundred and
  twenty miles in from seven to eight hours. In the elegance of their
  accommodations, and the luxuries of their larders, they might compare
  favourably with any passenger vessels in the world. There are ten
  other steamers plying from Sacramento to different places above that
  city. One year ago, there was but one steamboat in Oregon, the
  ‘Columbia;’ now there are eleven steamboats of different kinds running
  in the Columbia and Willamette rivers, not including the Pacific
  steamers,’Sea Gull’ and ‘Columbia,’ running between Oregon and
  California. At this rate of progress the United States will soon be
  mistress of the Pacific. American steam-ship lines will, in a few
  years, be running from San Francisco to Australia, China, and the East
  Indies.”


There can be little doubt of the truth of one of the prophecies with
which our extract concludes, that American steam-ship lines “will, in a
few years, be running from San Francisco to Australia, China, and the
East Indies;” but what a great future for Australia does this suggest!
There must spring up a vast trade between her population and the entire
Pacific seaboard of South America. When her agriculture is more fully
developed, it is not at all doubtful that, whilst supplying even
California with breadstuffs, &c., she may also supply the west coast of
South America with the products of the temperate zone, and with the
copper and other minerals abounding in her soil. We doubt, however, the
truth of the prophecy that the United States is likely to be soon “the
mistress of the Pacific;” to prevent, in fact, the trade between
Australia, China, the East Indies, &c., and San Francisco, being carried
on by Australian enterprise, aided by British capital. Fortunately the
same enterprise, aided by the capital of this country, might be so
directed as to confer a vast boon upon Great Britain herself. One of the
leading sources of her present influence in the Pacific is evidently
considered by the writer, from whom we have quoted above, to be the
adoption by America of the short route to the Pacific _via_ Panama. That
route, however, is equally as available to the commerce of Great Britain
and Australia as it is to that of the United States; and the fact leads
us to the consideration of one of the greatest wants of Australia, which
has very materially retarded its progress, whilst it has also been
severely felt by the mercantile community of this country—viz., the want
of a regular, frequent, and expeditious mail communication between Great
Britain and her southern colonial empire. We have already stated that
during the past spring serious commercial losses have been occasioned by
the want in question, no Government mail having been received in this
country from Australia during a period of four months, up to the 27th
July last, whilst we have been exporting actually at random. The colony
and this country have been mocked by postal arrangements, proposed, but
never efficiently carried out. The “Peninsular and Oriental Company”
have been subsidised for the purpose of conveying mails once a month;
but their efforts have been a failure. Not once in three times have we
had a mail without a mistake occurring at some point of the route.
Sometimes the steamers employed from Australia have arrived at Singapore
or Point de Galle a day or two after the steamers for England have
started. Occasionally a few letters have come, whilst the newspapers,
containing the most important news for the public—shipping and market
intelligence—have been left behind. A while ago, we heard of the
“Chusan” steamer arriving at Sydney a day or two earlier than her
previous performances led her to be expected; and it was with difficulty
that the colonists were enabled to induce her commander to stay above
twelve hours to enable a mail for Great Britain to be made up. Any one
who has read the excellent digests of Australian news contained in the
_Melbourne Argus_ and the _Sydney Morning Herald_, sent by every
Government mail, may imagine that some time is required for writing
them, irrespective of printing. The General Screw Steam Company also
attempted the carrying of the mails, and subsequently the Australian
Royal Mail Steam Company, both subsidised by Government, made the same
attempt. They failed in the performance of their engagements. The latter
had contracted to perform the voyage from England to Sydney in 64 days,
and homewards in 68 days. The “Chusan” was 79 days on the passage from
England to Sydney; the “Formosa” 76 days; the “Cleopatra” 120 days. In
fact, the Company’s ships were laughed at by ordinary sailing vessels.
Then sailing vessels were tried; and we were told that mails were to be
forwarded by this or that “clipper,” the Post-Office guaranteeing its
sailing on a particular day. But first-rate ships would not accept the
terms offered; and accordingly, we had continual instances of those who
had undertaken the work failing in its performance. There has hitherto
been no certainty as to the mail communication between this country and
the colony. We never could tell, within two or three months, at what
date we might expect to receive the reply to a letter to Australia, or
when one from Great Britain would arrive out in the colony. The merchant
who had shipped, or made advances upon goods, had no certainty as to the
time when he must make arrangements to meet the demands upon him out of
his own resources. The want of certainty imparted an additional amount
of hazard to the trade between the two countries. But this is not all
the evil resulting from inadequate postal communication. It has tended
very greatly, combined with bad post-office management in the colony, to
prevent emigration. People accustomed to daily intercourse with their
friends are unwilling to embark for a country from which they can rarely
assure them of their safe arrival, or inform them as to how the world
goes with them, in less than eight or nine months. A brother, a sister,
or a friend, with whom we can correspond, is not as one lost to us. We
do not regard them as quite beyond our social circle. But an emigrant to
Australia has thus far been practically rendered an outcast. We may hear
of him, or her, if fortune smiles, or dire adversity occurs; but the
ordinary kindliness of brotherhood, or sisterhood, becomes neglected
when the means of epistolary intercourse are denied. The rudest amongst
us feel this as a bar to adventuring into a new country. The emigrant
would be glad to communicate the tidings of his good or evil lot to
sympathising friends at home; and there are few who do not know with
what delight even the merest scrap of home news is received by those who
are separated by far less than half the circumference of the globe from
that home. What would not any Australian digger give at the present
moment if he could hear his parent’s clock tick in its old familiar
place? What would any parent at home not give for a glimpse of the
present features of a child now located at the antipodes?

It is humiliating to us as Britons, to contrast the niggardly conduct of
our own Post-Office authorities, and of the Colonial Office, with that
which we have already shown was adopted by the Government of the United
States towards the population of its new territory of California.
Unfortunately, we are governed in this country upon “economical”
principles. The spirit of the trader is carried into every department of
the public service. When we ask for any comprehensive and perfect scheme
of improvement, we are mocked by some petty expedient, because every
successive administration, and every public official, are ambitious of
doing their work more _cheaply_ than their predecessors. This is
especially the case with respect to the postal arrangements of the
country. When an extension or an improvement of the system is suggested,
the first question asked is not, “Is it wanted?” but, “Will it pay?” Our
American brethren have always dealt with the business of their
post-office in a different spirit. They felt that those who are
maintaining the commercial greatness of the country by their toil in
California are worthy of being enabled to communicate cheaply with their
friends at home. Our own postal authorities, however, appear disposed to
treat that colony, which is similarly promoting the commerce of Great
Britain, rather as an unreasonably intruding suppliant than an important
community asking for what is fairly due to them. Our colonists feel
deeply the injustice of their position, that, whilst a portion of the
colonial revenue is contributed to the Home Government, to be expended
in securing steam facilities for their mails, the object for which they
are paying is not accomplished.

We feel perfectly assured that we never shall have an effective postal
communication with Australia, until we cease to regard that important
colony as a mere calling-station for our East Indian mails. Its
increasing commerce with the mother country demands that it should have
a mail service distinctly its own, conducted with no other view than to
promote the convenience of that commerce, and of the people of the
colony. How then is this to be provided most economically, and, at the
same time, most effectively? The latter is the main question. We ought
scarcely to think about cost in the effort to improve the postal
facilities of a possession which, we have seen, took from us last year
upwards of fourteen millions sterling of British produce and
manufactures. Past experience has, we think, shown sufficiently that the
object in view can never be obtained by steaming round the Cape of Good
Hope. The shortest passages as yet attained by that route were performed
by the “Golden Age” in 61 days, and by the “Argo” in 64 days. The noble
steam-ship “Great Britain,” in the last trip made the distance to
Melbourne in 65 days. The Australian Steam Navigation Company, which
promised so largely, failed most unequivocally. The first of their
ships, the “Australian,” took 44 days to reach the Cape; the “Sydney”
took 54 days; the “Melbourne” took 75 days; and the “Adelaide” took 77
days. Of the two last vessels’ voyages the _Melbourne Argus_ remarked at
the time:—


  “The preposterous length of the voyage is a minor evil in comparison
  with the anxiety which haunted this community for weeks in the case of
  the last two steamers. We were almost on the point of giving up the
  ‘Adelaide’ for lost, when the lumbering old hulk was reported at last
  to have rolled into Adelaide.... The mischiefs inflicted upon the
  mercantile community here, by the detention of the ‘Adelaide,’ and the
  fears for her safety, have been intolerable. Mails have been
  postponed—goods have arrived before the advices or bills of lading had
  come to hand—correspondence has been confused, and business
  transactions have been utterly deranged. It is most provoking to think
  that a steamer holding the Government mail contract, and for which the
  mails have been kept back for several weeks, should leave London on
  the 11th of December, and arrive in Port Philip on the 11th of May
  following—a period of five months precisely!”


Undoubtedly the Company must have mismanaged its business, and its
vessels been unfit for the service. But it is the opinion of all
nautical men, that mails, conveyed in even the most superior steamers by
way of the Cape of Good Hope, can never be depended upon either for
speed or regularity. The most efficient mode which we have seen proposed
for performing the service, is that of the Australian Direct Steam
Navigation Company _via_ Panama. It is intended that this Company’s
vessels, which are to be powerful paddle-wheel steamers of 3000 tons,
shall proceed at stated periods from Milford Haven to Aspinwall (Navy
Bay), on the Atlantic side of the Isthmus; from whence passengers and
cargo will be conveyed by railway to Panama, on the Pacific side, and
there re-embarked for Australia, accomplishing the whole distance, to or
from, _in about fifty-five days_. That the power of fulfilling this
promise is within the reach of an energetic Company, has recently been
proved by the experiment made by the United States steamer, “Golden
Age.” America, by the by, is still our pioneer in steam enterprise.


  “The ‘Golden Age’—(we quote from an ably-conducted Liverpool paper,
  the _Journal_)—steaming only slowly, and under unfavourable
  circumstances, made the run from Sydney to Tahiti in 13½ days, and
  from Tahiti to Panama in 18 days 12 hours. A more powerful vessel
  would have performed the distances in about 11 and 15 days
  respectively, and surmounted effectually the only difficulty to be
  experienced in crossing the Pacific, namely, carrying coals sufficient
  for the voyage from station to station. The detention, which in this
  case was nearly 15 days between Sydney and Southampton, might be
  shortened to about 4 days, by proper arrangements being made for
  prompt despatch; and the voyage would thus be performed in from 50 to
  53 days.”


A portion of the journey across the Isthmus, we may remark, was
performed on mules, only thirty-one miles of the railway being as yet
completed. The whole line, however, is expected to be opened in the
course of the present year.

Many circumstances concur to render the Panama route infinitely
preferable to any other. In the first place, the shortest distance has
to be traversed. From Milford Haven to Sydney by this route is only
12,440 miles, the whole of which, with the exception of 45 miles, is by
sea. By the present Peninsular and Oriental Company’s route, _via_ Swan
River and Cape Leeuwin, from Southampton the distance is 12,855 miles,
of which 238 have to be performed between Alexandria and Suez by canal,
by the Nile, and across the desert. By the same Company’s route _via_
Torres Straits, the distance is 13,095 miles, with the same overland
journey to make from Alexandria to Suez. We can only get our mails from
Australia by either of these routes in sixty days, by the very costly
express from Marseilles. The General Screw Company’s route, by way of
the Cape of Good Hope, Madras, and Point de Galle, is enormously
circuitous; and the same Company’s new route, without touching at the
Cape, is 12,837 miles. There is another serious disadvantage connected
with the eastward voyage. From the Cape to Australia the weather is
generally boisterous, with variable winds; and in passing the
equinoctial line, ships have to encounter calms, and can derive no aid
from carrying canvass. The loss of that aid is a serious matter to screw
steamers, in a voyage where economy in the article of fuel is so
desirable. From Great Britain to Navy Bay, on the other hand, is usually
a run in which canvass can be advantageously used, whilst the run from
Panama to Australia is through pleasant weather for the entire distance,
the Pacific fully justifying the propriety of its appellation.

Of course, a company working the Panama route effectively, with superior
vessels, and carrying regular mails, must be subsidised by the British
Government. Our colonists themselves would gladly lend their aid by
grants out of their own public revenue. In fact, the province of New
South Wales has recently advertised its willingness to give a bonus of
£6000 sterling to any company which will bring the postal distance
between England and Melbourne to sixty days each way. The Australian
Direct Company, however, anticipate a good profit on their undertaking,
irrespective of remuneration in the form of a subsidy for carrying the
mails, as will be perceived from the following extract from their
prospectus, published last year:—


  “It is thought unnecessary to dwell on the great extension of general
  traffic wherever proper facilities of intercourse by steam have been
  afforded: it may, however, be briefly stated, that the produce of gold
  during the year 1852, in the colony of Victoria alone, amounted to
  over £18,000,000, with every prospect of a continuous increase,
  exclusive of the produce of New South Wales, which forms a large
  addition to this vast amount; that, during the months January,
  February, March, and April last, the specie transmitted across the
  Isthmus—from Peru and Chili, from the western coast of Mexico, and
  from California—amounted to 20,410,796 dollars, exceeding £4,000,000
  sterling,—and that the passenger traffic, by the same route and for
  the same period, amounted to 10,568 persons, irrespective of those
  conveyed by the San Juan de Nicaragua line. It may be, moreover,
  observed that this extent of traffic, however great, affords no
  adequate idea of the vast trade which will arise to feed this line,
  when in full operation,—with all the important advantages of a
  completed railway, and of a systematic conduct of business.

  “Large additions to this vast traffic must necessarily flow from the
  increasing intercourse between North America and the Australian
  colonies, facilitated as such intercourse is by the powerful lines of
  steamers already established between the United States and the Isthmus
  of Panama in the North Atlantic, and between California and Panama in
  the North Pacific. The augmented line of steamers, also, employed by
  the Pacific Steam Navigation Company between Valparaiso and Panama,
  must considerably swell the stream. These great results stand in
  perfect independence of a line projected, which will in all
  probability, at no distant period, connect California and China; and
  likewise of traffic, the natural result of conveyance of passengers
  and valuable merchandise diverted from old and circuitous routes.

  “The Directors derive great encouragement from the knowledge that the
  objects of this Company are favoured with the high approval of British
  merchants in general. Many of the most eminent _London_ houses have
  strongly expressed their approbation; and the following document fully
  attests the spirit in which the enterprise is regarded by several
  influential and distinguished _Manchester_ firms:

  “‘We, the undersigned, being desirous of encouraging the establishment
  of a line of first-class steam-packets, offering increased facilities
  and advantages for the transit of passengers and goods to and from
  Australia and the different important States in the Pacific Ocean, and
  being deeply impressed with the advantages of the route by the way of
  the Isthmus of Panama, since the establishment of the railroad at that
  place connecting the two oceans,—hereby signify our approval of the
  projected British and Australian Direct Screw Steam Packet Company,
  for the purpose of carrying out the line of communication to those
  parts in the most efficient manner. (Signed)—R. GLADSTONE & CO.,
  HORROCKS, JACKSON & CO., ROBERT SMITH & CO., ROBERT GARDNER, SAMUEL
  MENDEL, ROBT. BARBOUR & BROTHERS, JOHN PENDER & CO., GEORGE FRASER,
  SON, & CO., HENRY B. JACKSON, R. I. FARBRIDGE & CO., B. LIEBERT,
  PRESCOTT, BROTHERS, & CO., THOS. CARDWELL & CO., OSWALD STEVENSON &
  CO., J. A. TURNER & CO.’”


It is most desirable that whatever line is selected for conveying the
mails should be as far as possible remunerative, in order to enable
Government to fix the rates of postage as low as possible. The present
charges are preposterously high. A letter by a sailing ship, which may
be from ninety to one hundred days on the passage, costs eightpence, if
under half an ounce. By steam and overland mail, it is from a shilling
to twentypence, if under a quarter of an ounce in weight, for what to a
man, whose caligraphy is not of a diminutive order, or who cannot
command “bank” or “foreign post” paper, must be only half a letter.
_Cheap_ postage for the newly settled population of Australia, and for
their friends in this country, is as essential as regular and
expeditious mails are to the mercantile communities in both countries.
We must remark, too, that newspapers and trade circulars are as much
required to be conveyed expeditiously as mercantile letters. By the last
overland mail a fortunate few received despatches _via_ Marseilles in
sixty days. The bulk of the mail, consisting of newspapers and letters
from emigrants, &c., was not delivered until the arrival of the steamer
at Southampton, nearly seventy days from her leaving the colony.

We have certainly little hope of our Government doing much to
develop the resources of Australia. The Post-Office authorities may,
indeed, be induced to concede to the colony, and to the mercantile
community of this country, a direct mail communication _via_ Panama,
by the prospect—indeed, almost certainty—that if they fail in the
performance of their duty, the United States Government will do it
for them. The experiment made by the American steam-ship “Golden
Age” is said to have been, commercially, an unprofitable one. But
the application of steam power to the performance of long voyages is
even as yet in its infancy. The chief difficulty hitherto
experienced in making short and regular passages to a distant port
has been the large quantity of coals required to be carried, which
diminishes the power of carrying cargo in our mail steamers. It is
estimated that our Cunard Company’s and the Collins’ boats would
have to diminish their speed, and to forfeit some of their character
for regularity in the transmission of mails to and from America,
were the two countries a thousand miles farther apart. But at the
present time an improvement is making in the machinery of one of the
boats of the latter Company by her owners in the United States,
which, it is stated, is likely to economise very materially her
consumption of fuel, the saving by which may either be applied to
increasing her speed or her carrying capabilities. The same
improvement can be adopted in our Australian steamers. But from the
Colonial Office we expect literally nothing. The treatment of
Australia by that Office has been, from first to last, most
neglectful; and even since the gold discoveries, and the recognition
by all thinking men of the vast importance which the colony has
assumed as a feeder of the commerce of England, our statesmen have
appeared incapable of appreciating its claims to their
consideration. A glaring instance of this perverse or ignorant
blindness has recently occurred in the filling up of the office of
Lieutenant-Governor of South Australia. The first party appointed
was Mr Stonor, an Irish member, of no great mark in Parliament or
elsewhere. This gentleman duly sailed for the colony, but was
shortly after his departure unseated for bribery. Such was the
grossness of the charges against him, brought to light by a
parliamentary inquiry, that the Colonial Office were compelled to
despatch his recall. Another Lieutenant-Governor was to be
appointed; and the choice fell upon the Hon. F. Lawley, M.P. for
Beverley. Mr Lawley’s claims to hold an appointment, so important at
the present crisis in a country which eminently requires the
supervising of a practical statesman, experienced in the management
of colonial affairs, are not easy to discover. He was a young
man—young at least in public life—twenty-eight years of age; had
passed rather a distinguished course at the university, and had held
for a few months the situation of private secretary to the
Chancellor of the Exchequer; but he was chiefly known to the public
as a runner of race-horses, and a rather unsuccessful speculator on
the Turf. The noble Lord at the head of the Administration, it
appears, had some interest in the borough—Beverley—which Mr Lawley
represented, and had also a son, who was ambitious of parliamentary
honours. Mr Lawley was appointed Lieutenant-Governor of South
Australia; vacated his seat for Beverley; and Lord Aberdeen’s son
was elected to fill his place. We only mention this as a curious
coincidence. But Mr Lawley had some sense of honour in his breast,
as became a young man of his rank and birth, or he may have had
merely a correct appreciation of “the fitness of things.”
Subsequently to his ill-success upon the Turf—it is not said whether
or not during his tenure of his confidential office under the
Chancellor of the Exchequer—he had speculated on the Stock
Exchange—and lost. His resolution—taken, no doubt, after a due
examination of the state of his affairs—was promptly notified to the
Government. He resigned the office to which he had been appointed;
and the colony was spared the infliction of a Lieutenant-Governor in
whom the propensity for gambling was so strongly developed, and
whose favourite sphere of action would probably have been upon the
race-course of Adelaide. What may be the effect upon the minds of
the population of this treatment of South Australia by the Colonial
Office we are not to foretell. It cannot, however, advance that
Office in their estimation.

Failing the hope of efficient Government aid to the growth of the
Australian colonies—as we think it will fail—those colonies have within
their reach the means of aiding themselves in one vitally important
matter—the securing of a larger supply of labour. The funds accruing
from the sale of lands in the colony have, for some years past, been
devoted to the purpose of assisting the emigration of useful classes of
labourers—principally agricultural—to the various colonies; the business
being managed in this country by the Colonial Land and Emigration
Commissioners. Of course, a crotchety management was to be anticipated
from such a body, composed of parties utterly unversed in the business.
We believe it will be found by the colonists that the management has not
only been crotchety, but extravagantly expensive, and even destructive
of the lives of the intending emigrants. A few extracts from the Report
of the Committee (1853) to the Colonial Secretary will be sufficiently
intelligible as to the inefficient working of the present system. In the
first place, it will be made clear that a great public office, with
already a multiplicity of business to conduct, is incompetent, from its
very composition, of carrying on a trade in which they have to compete
with experienced private firms. After mentioning the utter failure of an
experiment made by them of sending out a large number of Highland
emigrants on board H.M.S. the “Hercules,” which was proceeding to
Hong-Kong as an hospital-ship, and was offered them by the Admiralty for
the purpose, the Commissioners report:—


  “Meanwhile applications for assistance were made on behalf of Germans
  and Swiss, and, by a very respectable committee at Madras, of the
  half-caste population of India. But the growing eagerness to reach
  Australia soon rendered it unnecessarily pressing for us either to
  close with applications of this kind, or to relax our ordinary rules
  in regard to British emigrants. This eagerness soon became
  excessive—so much so, that, at one time, our office contained no less
  than 18,000 applications for passages to Australia. The number of
  letters received in the month of June, which, in 1850, was 1564, and,
  in 1851, 2884, amounted in 1852 to 18,910, being at an average rate,
  excluding Sundays, of 727 a day. And when it is remembered that a
  large number of these transmitted small sums of money, requiring
  considerable accuracy of treatment, and that a far greater number
  respected the time and manner in which poor emigrants were to leave
  their country for ever—a matter in which any inaccuracy, though
  trifling in respect to the magnitude of the whole service, was of the
  greatest importance to the individuals—that a great number of our
  correspondents were persons who could not be counted upon for
  expressing their own meaning with clearness, or understanding
  correctly what was written to them—and, finally, that all this mass of
  details, by no means capable of a cursory or careless treatment, was
  to be disposed of by persons _partly overtaxed and partly new to those
  details_, it will be seen, we hope, that _we laboured under no
  ordinary difficulty in meeting the unusual pressure_.”


Of course, such a business, attempted to be carried on by an
inexperienced public board, sitting in a central office in London,
although dealing with emigration from various ports in the United
Kingdom, was likely to run into arrear and confusion. Individual local
firms, however, feel no difficulty in carrying it on, upon a scale fully
equal to that of the Board, when measured by the extent of their
establishments. Those individual firms would have forwarded promptly all
the Government emigrants which the Colonial Land and Emigration
Commissioners might have thought proper to hand over to their care, and
managed all the details and correspondence dwelt upon as being so
onerous upon them. But the Commissioners must needs charter ships of
their own, throwing away all the advantages which private merchants
possess, of procuring profitable freight for a portion of each ship sent
out. And they had to “pay dear for their whistle.” At page 18 of the
Report, they say: “The freights, which in June 1851 had fallen as low as
£10, and in one instance to £9, 9s. 5d. per adult, rose in June 1852 to
upwards of £17; and since that time they have actually reached the
enormous amount of £23 per adult.” Undoubtedly, they might have reached
this “enormous amount” at the time named. But private and most
respectable and experienced firms, at the dearest time mentioned, taking
advantage of their ability of paying merchandise freight, would have
sent out emigrants, supplied to them by the Commissioners, at an average
price of two-thirds the amount, and furnished them with the ample
stores, the ventilation, and the other conducives to health insisted
upon by the local Government Commissioners, in the case of voluntary as
well as Government emigration. Taking from one hundred to one hundred
and fifty passengers, paid for by the Commissioners, in each ship, they
might have afforded to charge even lower.

But the Commissioners had a model system of their own to exhibit to the
world, and peculiar views as to the fitting up of emigrant ships, more
calculated, they maintained, to secure the health and comfort and safety
of poor persons going out at the expense of the colony, a knowledge of
the nature of which was denied to the experienced Government officers
stationed at the various ports, whose duty it is to superintend the
accommodation and quality of provisions afforded to persons going out at
their own expense. Let us see what was the working of this model system!
They state that, in consequence of the high rates for shipping, they
were compelled to adopt large ships, and they add, page 18:—


  “We lament to say that in those despatched from Liverpool the result
  was unfortunate. Among the adults, indeed, no bad consequence
  followed, but amongst the infants and young children, whose numbers
  had been increased by the then recent relaxation of our rules, a great
  mortality occurred. On the ‘Bourneuf,’ ‘Marco Polo,’ and ‘Wanata,’ in
  which the aggregate number of passengers was 2581, the number of
  deaths was 181, of which no less than 152 were below four years of
  age. On the ‘Ticonderago,’ 165 persons died on the voyage, or in
  quarantine after arrival, of whom 65 were below fourteen, and 18 were
  less than one year old.”


It is a somewhat singular fact, that in not one of these vessels, since
their being sailed under private management, has more than the ordinary
rate of mortality prevailed. After this disastrous loss of human life,
the Commissioners came to the resolution of diminishing the number of
children allowed to each passenger, and limited the size of their ships.
Private firms allowed the same number, and _increased_ the size of their
ships. Yet the latter have had no increase in the rate of mortality,
whilst, only a few weeks ago, a ship chartered by the Commissioners lost
at sea—having only reached Cork—in putting back to their depot at
Birkenhead, and after placing the sick in hospital, upwards of sixty
lives! The absurdity, on the part of the Commissioners, in employing
exclusively small ships, is thus apparent, even in a sanitary point of
view. The large clippers, built expressly for the trade, have at the
same time had the advantage over their competitors in quick sailing. In
proof of this fact, we quote a table, extracted from a file of the
London _Times_ of this year, showing the average number of days occupied
in the passage by the vessels of different tonnage, ranging from 200
tons upwards, despatched from Liverpool to Australia in the years 1852
and 1853.

                                  1852.                  1853.
                            Average number of      Average number of
                                  days.                  days.

 Under  200     tons,                        137                    133

 From   200 to   300 tons                    122                    122

   „    300 „    400  „                      123                    113

   „    400 „    500  „                      118                    112

   „    500 „    600  „                      113                    112

   „    600 „    700  „                      107                    103

   „    700 „    800  „                      108                    101

   „    800 „    900  „                      103                    100

   „    900 „   1000  „                      102                     95

   „   1000 „   1200  „                       96                     91

   „   1200 &  upwards,                       91                     90

We entertain little doubt that, in a short while, the provincial
legislatures and people of the various provinces of Australia will
protest loudly against this mismanagement of their contributions for the
purpose of encouraging emigration, and assert the right of exercising a
greater control than they have at present over their own funds.

But it is, after all, to the honest press, and to the enterprise of
private individuals, that these important colonies must look chiefly for
a relief from their present temporary difficulties. A large amount of
misconception has been spread abroad as to the prospects which they hold
out for settlers and their social condition. We have had too much
information from the Colonies themselves about the state of trade in
Melbourne and the other large towns, and the yield of the various gold
mines, and much too little of the progress making in agricultural
pursuits. With respect to the latter, too, the sort of information
conveyed, and the picture which it presents, have not been of a
character likely to attract the most useful classes of settlers—our
small farmers and farm-labourers. Sheep-farming and stock-farming in
“the bush,” as it is still absurdly termed, is naturally associated in
their minds with ideas of solitary and half-savage life, to adventure
upon which most men, and especially those who have been accustomed to
quiet domestic life, and have no pressing necessity for taking such a
step, will hardly be induced to leave their native land. In the large
towns society is gradually assuming a settled character, and their
population, the old and the newly arrived as well, are directing their
attention to the ordinary avocations of industry. Dwellings, as we have
shown, are being erected almost with sufficient rapidity to meet the
demand for them, and proper sanitary and other arrangements will follow.
The most congratulatory movement which has recently, and is now more
rapidly than ever taking place, is the conversion of the soil, hitherto
in a wild state, or forming portions of sheep-runs, into farms of
various sizes, cultivated in the best manner by British and other
farmers. Little communities, the germs of future towns and villages, are
springing up on every side; and before many seasons are over, the
population, however largely augmented, will have no occasion to depend
upon extraneous supply for any of the leading necessaries of life.
Whether as a merchant, a tradesman, or to engage in other legitimate and
useful occupations, the emigrant may now safely leave his home to settle
for life in Australia in the entire confidence that his industry will
meet its full reward. To bring about the future greatness which we have
predicted for the colony, as the centre of a wealthy and powerful
Anglo-Saxon empire in the Pacific, whose population are governed by
British laws, and are in the enjoyment of British institutions, it is
most important that the British element should be as largely as possible
infused amongst them. Society in Australia calls especially for the
presence of an educated middle class, capable of ameliorating, by its
example, the rudeness of character and manners which may be expected
from amongst her successful gold-diggers, bush-farmers, and traders. The
spread of truthful information respecting the climate, capabilities,
&c., of the country, will effect much in supplying that want, and
inducing such a class to emigrate thither as to a permanent home. The
time may come—be it far distant!—when the colonists may demand to be an
independent people. Such an infusion amongst them of right-hearted and
loyal British men and women—the fathers and mothers of another
generation—may do much to postpone such an event. And when it does
arrive—when a people grown great and wealthy under the protecting arm of
British sway refuses to be governed from the antipodes—the breaking of
the link may be rendered a kindly one; and it may to no slight extent
operate upon our future relations with the grown-up child, who has cast
us off, and decided to walk by himself, that his heart still clings to
the home of his parents, and feels an interest in maintaining the
prosperity of the land which gave them birth.




                      SPECULATORS AMONG THE STARS.


                              PART I.[13]

Let us imagine one of our species, at an early period of its history,
destitute of any artificial aid to the sense of sight, contemplating the
aspect of things around him. He perceives that, somehow or other, he
lives upon a Something—apparently a flat surface, of indefinite extent
in all directions from the spot where he stands—consisting of land and
water, alternately visited with light and darkness, heat and cold; with
a regular succession of seasons, somehow or other connected with the
growth of vegetables of various kinds, suitable and unsuitable for his
purposes, with beautiful flowers and magnificent forests: while the air,
water, and earth, teem with insects, birds, fishes, and animals, which
seem almost altogether at his command. There are also winds, dews,
showers, mists, frost, snow, hail, thunderstorms, volcanoes, and
earthquakes. He himself, equally with the vegetables and animals, passes
through divers gradations, from birth to decay—from life to death: but
during life, alike alternately sleeping and waking, subject to
vicissitudes of pain and pleasure, of health and disease.

If he look beyond the locality on which all this takes place, he beholds
a blazing body alternately visible and invisible, at regular intervals,
and to which he attributes both light and heat; another luminous body
visible only at night, which it gently illuminates; and both these
objects are occasionally subject to brief but portentous obscurations.
During the night there also appear a great number of glittering white
specks in the blue distance, which he calls stars; all he knows of them
being, that they are beautiful objects in the dark; even contributing a
little light, in the absence of the moon. Why all these things came to
be as they are, he knows no more than the bird that is blithely singing
on the branch above him, but for a certain Book, which tells him that
God made him, and everything he sees about him; the sun, the moon, the
stars, the earth, with all the arrangements securing night and day,
light and darkness, seasons, days, and years; forming _him_, in HIS
IMAGE; giving him the earth for a dwelling, and dominion over everything
that lives and breathes in it; and commanding him to be obedient to the
will of his Maker. That the first man and woman placed on the earth
became, nevertheless, almost immediately disobedient; whereby they
incurred the anger of God, and their position on earth became woefully
changed for the worse. That God, nevertheless, loved man, formed in His
own image, after His likeness, with such tenderness, that He devised
means for his restoration, if he chose, to the favour which he had
forfeited; and Himself visited the earth, in the form of man; submitted
to mockery, suffering, and death, on his behalf; rose again, and
returned to Heaven with the body which He had assumed on earth. That
though man’s body must die and decay, equally with that of every animal,
his shall rise again, and be rejoined by its spirit, to stand before the
judgment-seat of God, to be judged in respect of the deeds done in the
body, and be eternally miserable or happy, according to the righteous
judgment then pronounced. Moreover, this Book tells him, with reference
to the locality in which he exists, that all things shall not always
remain as they are; but that the earth, and all that is in it, shall be
burned up; that it, and the Heaven, shall pass away with a great noise;
that the elements shall melt with fervent heat; and for those on whom a
favourable doom shall have been pronounced in the day of judgment, there
shall be a new heaven, and a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness.
Believing all this, and his inner nature telling him that the law of
action laid down in the Book is righteous, and conformable to that
nature, he endeavours to regulate his conduct by it, and dies, as dies
generation after generation, in calm and happy reliance on the Truth of
that Book.

Ages pass away, and great discoveries appear to be made, by the exercise
of man’s own thought and ingenuity, and quite independently of any
revelations contained in his Great Book. Whereas he had thought the
earth stationary, he finds it, the sun, and the moon, to be round
bodies, each turning round on its own axis, the earth once in
twenty-four hours; that the earth also goes round the sun once in every
year, the moon accompanying it, and at the same time turning round it
once in every month; and that these are the means by which are caused
light and darkness, night and day, heat and cold, and the various
changes of the seasons. The stars remain twinkling, the mere bright
specks they ever appeared.

Let us now, however, suppose our thoughtful observer’s sight assisted by
the aid of glass, in two ways—so as to place him on the one hand, nearer
to distant objects, and on the other, reveal objects close to him, which
he had never suspected. In the latter case, his microscope exhibits an
astounding spectacle—almost every atom turned, as it were, into a world,
peopled with exquisitely-organised animal forms, adapted perfectly to
the elements in which they are seen disporting themselves. In the former
case, his telescope makes equally astounding revelations in an opposite
direction. The Heavens are swarming with splendid structures unseen to
the naked eye: new planets are visible, with rings, belts, and moons,
and the stars prove to be resplendent suns; the centres of so many
systems peopling infinitude; and these, moreover, obeying laws of motion
the same as those which exist in the system of which the earth forms
part!

“Well,” says our overwhelmed observer, “it is certainly late in the day
to make these sublime and awful discoveries; but here they are, unless
my instruments play me false, so that I am the victim of mere optical
delusion; the boundless, numberless realms of insect life being only
imaginary; and the stars really no suns or worlds at all, but simply the
glittering spots which alone mankind has hitherto believed them. But if
my telescope tell me truly, the little speck on which I live is in fact
but a grain of dark dust in the heavens, circling obscurely round a sun,
itself a mere star, perhaps eclipsed in splendour by every other star in
existence; each probably containing many more and greater planets
circling about it than has our sun! And about these matters THE BOOK is
silent.”

Pondering these discoveries, and assuming them to be real, our observer
echoes the inquiry of our greatest living astronomer—“Now, _for what
purpose_ are we to suppose such magnificent bodies scattered through the
abyss of space?”[14] And at length the grander one occurs—Are there
human beings, or beings similar to myself, anywhere else than on this
earth? On the sun, moon, planets, and their satellites? Nay, on all the
other inconceivably numerous suns, planets, and satellites in existence?
He pauses, as though in a spasm of awe. But he may next, and very
rationally, ask, If it be so, _how does all this affect me_? Has it any
practical bearing on the condition of a denizen of this earth?

If our bewildered inquirer unfortunately had at his elbow Thomas Paine,
he would hear this blasphemous whisper: “The system of a plurality of
worlds renders THE CHRISTIAN FAITH at once little and ridiculous, and
scatters it in the mind, like feathers in the air. The two beliefs
cannot be held together in the same mind; and he who thinks he believes
both has thought but little of either.”[15] By this impious drivel is
meant, that if this infinitude of systems be made by one God, who has
peopled every orb as our own is peopled, with rational and moral beings,
it is absurd to suppose that He has such a special regard for us, as the
Scriptures assure us He has—that _He was made flesh, and dwelt among
us_—lived with us, died for us, rose again for us; us, the insignificant
occupants of this insignificant speck amidst the resplendent
magnificence of the infinite universe. Now, that such a notion is
equally irreligious and unphilosophical we trust no intelligent reader
of ours requires to be persuaded; but that there are both friends and
enemies of the Christian Faith, who fear or believe otherwise, may be
assumed; and hence the unspeakable importance of viewing the matter
soberly, by such light as we have,—as God has been pleased to vouchsafe
to us. If we have little, we cannot help it, but must gratefully and
reverently make the best use we can of it; assuring ourselves that there
must be wise reasons for our omniscient Creator’s having given us just
as much as we have, and no more. He might have endowed us with faculties
nearly akin to His own; but He has thought proper to act otherwise.

The attention of scientific persons, and those of a speculative
character in religion, physics, and morals, has recently been recalled
to the question,—whether there are grounds for believing the heavenly
bodies to be inhabited by rational beings,—by the publication, eleven
months ago, of a thin octavo volume of 279 pages, bearing no author’s
name, and entitled, _Of the Plurality of Worlds, an Essay_. Internal
evidence seemed to point to a distinguished person at Cambridge as the
author—a gentleman of great eminence as a mathematician, a logician, a
divine, and a moralist—in short, to the Reverend Dr Whewell, the Master
of Trinity College. The work was divided into numbered paragraphs, as is
usual with that gentleman; peculiarities of spelling—_e. g._, “offense,”
instead of “offence”—and of style and expression, are common to the
_Essay_ and the other works of the suspected author. We are not aware
that up to the present time he has repudiated the work thus attributed
to him. On the contrary, he has just published a _Dialogue_, by way of
supplement to it, in which he and various classes of objectors are
speakers; and on one of them telling him that one of his critics
“repeatedly tries to connect his speculations with those of the author
of _Vestiges of Creation_,” a wild work of an infidel character, he
answers, “If he were to try to connect me with an _answer_ to that work,
which went through two editions, under the title of _Indications of the
Creator_, he would be nearer the mark; at least, I adopt the sentiments
of this latter book.” Now, this latter book was published, certainly not
with Dr Whewell’s name on the title-page, but by the publisher of all
his other works, and entitled _Indications of the Creator; Theological
Extracts from Dr Whewell’s History and Philosophy of Inductive Science_.
But whereas the _Essay_ in question is written by the present
highly-gifted Master of Trinity, with the design of showing that “the
belief of the planets and stars being inhabited is ill-founded—a notion
taken up on insufficient grounds, and that the most recent astronomical
discoveries point the other way”—the author declaring that these “views
have long been in his mind, the convictions which they involve growing
gradually deeper, through the effect of various trains of speculation;”
it will be found, on referring to Dr Whewell’s _Bridgewater Treatise_,
published in 1833, that these views seem not then to have been
entertained by him. In book iii. chap. 2, we find him speaking thus:
“The earth, the globular body thus covered with life, is not the only
globe in the universe. There are circling about our own sun six others,
so far as we can judge, perfectly analogous in their nature, besides our
moon, and other bodies analogous to it. No one can resist the temptation
to conjecture that these globes, some of them much larger than our own,
are not dead and barren; that they are, like ours, occupied with life,
organisation, intelligence. To conjecture is all that we can do; yet
even by the perception of such a possibility, our view of the domain of
nature is enlarged and elevated.” Speaking again of the stars, and
supposing them suns, with planets revolving round them, he adds, “And
these may, like our planet, be the seats of vegetable, animal, and
rational life. We may thus have in the universe, worlds, no one knows
how many, no one can guess how varied.” And, finally, in the ensuing
chapter, “On man’s place in the Universe,” he says: “We thus find that a
few of the shining spots which we see scattered on the face of the sky
in such profusion, appear to be of the same nature as the earth; and
may, perhaps, as analogy would suggest, be, like the earth, the
habitations of organised beings.” Undoubtedly these remarks are penned
in a cautious and philosophic spirit; and upwards of twenty years’
subsequent reflection, by the light of various splendid astronomical
discoveries during that interval, is now announced to have so far shaken
Dr Whewell’s faith in such “conjectures,” as to induce him, “in all
sincerity and simplicity,” to submit “to the public the arguments,
strong or weak,” which had occurred to him on the subject; “and which,
when he proceeded to write the _Essay_, assumed, by being fully
unfolded, greater strength than he had expected.” He is now disposed to
regard a belief in the plurality of worlds “to have been really produced
by a guess, lightly made at first, quite unsupported by subsequent
discoveries, and discountenanced by the most recent observations, though
too remote from knowledge to be either proved or disproved.” And
further, he thus indicates the grand scope of the entire inquiry: “I do
not attempt to disprove the plurality of worlds, by taking for granted
the truths of Revealed Religion; but I say that the teaching of Religion
may, to a candid inquirer, suggest the wisdom of not taking for granted
the Plurality of Worlds. Religion seems, at first sight at least, to
represent Man’s history and position as unique. Astronomy, some think,
suggests the contrary. I examine the force of this latter suggestion,
and it seems to me to amount to little or nothing.” In the tenth and
eleventh chapters of the _Essay_, Dr Whewell thus speaks, in two
passages (§§ 12, 20), which appear to us to indicate at once the spirit
in which he offers his speculations, and his apprehension as to the
reception with which they might meet. In the former, he owns that his
“views are so different from those hitherto generally entertained, and
considered as having a sort of religious dignity belonging to them, that
we may fear, at first at least, they will appear to many rash and
fanciful, and almost, as we have said, irreverent.” In the latter he
speaks thus:—


  “It is not to be denied that there may be a regret and disturbance
  naturally felt at having to give up our belief that the planets and
  the stars probably contain servants and worshippers of God. It must
  always be a matter of pain and trouble, to be urged with tenderness,
  and to be performed in time, to untwine our reverential religious
  sentiments from erroneous views of the constitution of the Universe
  with which they have been involved. But the change once made, it is
  found that religion is uninjured, and reverence undiminished. And
  therefore we trust that the reader will receive with candour and
  patience the argument which we have to offer with reference to this
  view, or, rather, this sentiment.”


In this tone of manly modesty is expressed the whole of this really
remarkable work; but all competent readers will also be struck by the
dignified consciousness of power associated with that modesty. These two
characteristics have invested this book with a certain charm, in our
eyes, which we cannot but thus avow, after having given his _Essay_, and
the _Dialogue_, in which he deals with various objectors to his _Essay_,
due consideration. A calm perusal of that _Dialogue_ may suggest to
shrewd opponents the necessity of approaching the writer of it with
caution.

Here, then, we have a man of first-rate intellectual power, a practised
and skilful dialectician, formidably familiar with almost every
department of physical science, in its latest and highest development;
an eminent moral writer and academical teacher, and an orthodox
clergyman in the Church of England, coming forward deliberately to
commit himself to opinions which he acknowledges he does not publish
“without some fear of giving offense:”—opinions at variance with those
not only popularly held, but maintained by perhaps three-fourths of even
scientific persons who have bestowed attention on the subject. Who can
doubt his _right_ to do so, especially in a calm and temperate spirit,
as contradistinguished to one of arrogance and dogmatism? None but a
fool would rush angrily forward, to encounter such an author with harsh
and heated language, or derogatory and uncharitable insinuations and
imputations. A philosophical and duly qualified opponent would act
differently. He would say, In this age of free inquiry, no matter how
bold and serious the attack on preconceptions and long-established
opinion and belief, if it be made in a grave and manly spirit of inquiry
and argument, and especially by one whose eminent character,
qualifications, and position, entitle his suggestions and speculations
to deliberate consideration, that deliberate consideration they must
have. “I have presented,” says the writer of the _Essay_, in the
_Dialogue_, “gravely and calmly, the views and arguments which occurred
to my mind, on a question which many persons think an interesting one;
and if any one will introduce any other temper into the discussion of
this question, with him I will hold no argument; if he write in a
vehement and angry strain, I will have nothing to say to him.” The
author is here alluding to Sir David Brewster, the author of the second
of the three works placed at the head of this article. If, on the other
hand, a man of great authority and reputation be unwise enough to run
counter to opinions universally received, and that by persons of high
scientific and literary reputation, merely as a sort of gladiatorial
exercise, disturbing views rightly associated with religion and science,
and with levity shaking the confidence of mankind in conclusions arrived
at by the profoundest masters of science, he must take the consequences
of being deemed presumptuous and trifling, and encounter the stern
rebuke of those whom he is not entitled to treat with disrespect.

Now, a careful and unprejudiced perusal of this _Essay_ has satisfied us
concerning several things. It is written with uncommon ability. The
author has an easy mastery of the English language, and these pages
abound in vigorous and beautifully-exact expressions. From beginning to
end, also, may be seen indications of a subtle and guarded logic; a
felicitous and masterly disposition of his subject; a thorough
familiarity with the heights and depths of physics, divinity, and
morals; and, above and infinitely beyond all, a reverent regard for the
truths of revealed religion, and an earnest desire to advance its
interests, by removing what, in his opinion, many deem a serious
stumblingblock in the way of the devout Christian. That stumblingblock
may be seen indicated in the audacious language which we have quoted
from Thomas Paine. If this be the object which Dr Whewell has had in
view—and who will doubt it?—his title to respectful consideration is
greatly enhanced. He must be given credit for having deliberately
counted the cost of what he was about to do—the amount of censure,
ridicule, and contempt which he might provoke. It seems that he has felt
himself strong enough to make the experiment; and here he sees a
distinguished contemporary, Sir David Brewster, quickly ascribing “his
theories and speculations to no better feeling than a love of
notoriety;”[16] who again stigmatises an argument of the Essayist as
“the most ingenious though shallow piece of sophistry which we have ever
encountered in modern dialectics.”[17]

That Dr Whewell offers us, in his _Essay_ and _Dialogue_, his real views
and opinions, and that they have been long and deeply considered, we
implicitly believe, on his own statement that such is the case. It may
nevertheless be, that he is the unconscious victim of an invincible love
of paradox; and indeed Sir David Brewster unceremoniously characterises
the Essayist’s conjectures concerning the fixed stars as “insulting to
Astronomy,” and “ascribable only to some morbid condition of the mental
powers, which feeds upon paradox, and delights in doing violence to
sentiments deeply cherished, and to opinions universally believed;”[18]
that having once conceived what he regards as a happy idea on a great
question, he dwells upon it with such an eager fondness as warps his
judgment; that having committed himself to what he has seen to be a
false position, he defends it desperately, with consummate logical
skill. Or he may believe himself entitled to the credit of having
demolished bold and vast theories, and plucked up by the roots an
enormous fallacy. It may be so, or it may not; but Dr Whewell’s is
certainly a very bold attempt to swim against the splendid stream of
modern astronomical speculation. He would say, however, Is it not as
bold _to people_, as to _depopulate_ the starry structures? It is on you
that the burthen of proof rests: you cannot see, or hear, inhabitants in
other spheres; the Bible tells us nothing about them; and where,
therefore, is the EVIDENCE on which you found your assertion, and would
coerce me into a concurrence in your conclusions? I long for the
production of sufficient evidence of so awful a fact as that God has
created all the starry bodies for the purpose of placing upon them
beings in any degree like man—moral, intellectual, accountable beings,
of equal, higher, or lower degree of intelligence—consisting of that
wondrous combination of matter and mind, body and soul, which
constitutes _man_, existing in similar relations to the external world.
The mere suggestion startles me, both as a man of science and a
Christian believer, on account of certain difficulties which appear to
me greater than perhaps even you may have taken into account. But,
however this may be, I call upon you for proofs of so vast a fact as you
allege to exist, or the best kind and greatest degree of evidence which
may justify me in assenting to the existence of such a fact. We are
dealing with facts, probabilities, improbabilities; and I repudiate any
intrusion of sentiment or fancy. If God has told me that the fact
exists, I receive it with reverence; and wonder at finding myself a
member of so immense a family, from all communication with which He has
been pleased to cut me off in my present stage of existence. But if God
has not told me the fact directly—and I feel no religious obligation to
hold the fact to exist or not to exist—I will regard the question as one
both curious and interesting, and weigh carefully the reasons which you
offer me in support of your assertion. But will you, in return, weigh
carefully the reasons I offer for asserting a fact which appears to me,
however you may think erroneously, of incalculably greater personal
moment to me as a member of the human family—namely, that “man’s history
and position are unique;—that the earth is really the largest planetary
body in the solar system—its domestic hearth, and the only WORLD in the
universe?” I am quite as much startled at having to receive your notion,
as you may be to receive mine. My great engine of proof, says his
opponent, is analogy: well, replies the other, there I will meet you;
and the first grand point to settle is, whether there is an analogy;[19]
when that shall have been settled in the affirmative, we will, as
carefully as possible, weigh the _amount_ of it.

This is the point at issue between Dr Whewell and Sir David Brewster;
who resolutely undertakes to demonstrate “_More Worlds than One_” to be
“the _creed_ of the philosopher, and the _hope_ of the Christian.” It is
to be seen whether this eminent member of the scientific world, also a
firm believer in the Christian religion, has undertaken a task to which
he is equal. He must present such an amount of proof as will require the
plurality of worlds to be accepted as his CREED, by a PHILOSOPHER; that
is, by a Baconian—one accustomed to exact and patient investigation of
facts, and inferences deducible from them; who rigorously rejects, as
disturbing forces, all appeals to our hopes or wishes, our feelings or
fancy.

There are two questions before us; to which we shall add, on our own
account, a third. The first is that asked in 1686 by the gifted and
sprightly Fontenelle (whom Voltaire pronounced the most universal genius
which the age of Louis XIV. produced), and echoed in 1854 by Sir David
Brewster: _Pourquoi non?_ Why should there _not_ be a plurality of
worlds? The second is that asked by Dr Whewell: Why _should_ there be?
“I do not pretend to disprove a plurality of worlds; but I ask in vain
for any argument that makes the doctrine probable.”[20] The third, is
our own. _And what if there be?_—a question of a directly practical
tendency. We shall take the second question first, because it will bring
Dr Whewell first on the field, as it was he who has so suddenly mooted
this singular question. But we would at the outset entreat our readers,
at all events our younger ones, to remember that we are dealing with a
purely speculative subject, respecting which zealous partisans are apt
to draw on their imaginations—to assert or deny the existence of
analogy, on insufficient grounds; to overstrain or underrate its force;
and lend to bare probabilities, or even pure possibilities, somewhat of
the air of facts, where _facts_ there are absolutely none.

I. _Why should there be_ more worlds than one? “Astronomy,” says Dr
Whewell, “no more reveals to us extra-terrestrial moral agents, than
religion reveals to us extra-terrestrial plans of Divine government;”
and to remedy the assumption of moral agents in other worlds, by the
assumption of some operation of the Divine plan in other worlds, is
unauthorised and fanciful, and a violation of the humility, submission
of mind, and spirit of reverence, which religion requires.[21] He
considers Dr Chalmers’s allowance of astronomy’s offering strong
analogies in favour of such opinions as “more than rash:” he regards
such “analogies” as, “to say the least, greatly exaggerated; and by
taking into account what astronomy really teaches us, and what we learn
also from other sciences, I shall attempt to reduce such analogies to
their true value.” We have seen Dr Whewell, in 1833, expressing an
opinion very doubtfully, with a “_perhaps_, that, as analogy would
suggest, a few of the heavenly bodies appearing to be of the same nature
as the earth, _may_ be, like it, the seats of organised beings.” He is
now disposed to annihilate those analogies, so far as they are deemed
sufficient to warrant such an immense conclusion. But that to which he
is now disposed to come is equally immense. He says, “That the earth is
inhabited, is not a reason for believing that the other planets are so,
but for believing that they are _not_ so.”[22] Her orbit “is the
temperate zone of the solar system, where only is the play of hot and
cold, moist and dry, possible.... The earth is really the largest
planetary body in the solar system; its domestic hearth; adjusted
between the hot and fiery haze on one side, the cold and watery vapour
on the other. This region only is fit to be a domestic hearth, a seat of
habitation; in this region is placed the largest _solid_ globe of our
system; and on this globe, by a series of _creative_ operations,
entirely different from any of those which separated the solid from the
vaporous, the cold from the hot, the moist from the dry, have been
established, in succession, plants, and animals, and MAN. So that the
habitations have been occupied; the domestic hearth has been surrounded
by its family; the fitnesses so wonderfully combined have been employed;
and the earth alone, of all the parts of the frame which revolve round
the sun, has become a _WORLD_.”[23] Now, let us here cite two or three
passages of Scripture, one of them very remarkable. “The heaven, even
the heavens, are the Lord’s; _but the earth hath he given to the
children of men_.”[24] “Thus saith God the Lord, he that created the
heavens, and stretched them out; he that spread forth the earth, and
that which cometh out of it; he that giveth breath unto the people _upon
it_, and spirit to them that walk _therein_:[25] ... I have made the
earth, and created man _upon it_; I, even my hands, have stretched out
the heavens, and all their host have I commanded.... Thus saith the
Lord, that created the heavens; God himself, that formed the earth, and
made it; he hath established it, he created it not in vain, he formed IT
_to be inhabited_: I am the Lord; and there is none else.”[26] Here the
Psalmist speaks of both the heaven and the earth, saying of the latter
that he has _given it_ to the children of men; while the inspired
prophet repeatedly speaks of the heavens and the earth, saying that God
had given breath to the people upon _it_, and spirit to them that walk
_therein_; that he had created man upon _it_; that he had created the
earth not _in vain_, but formed “_it_,” to be inhabited. It is not said
that he formed the heavens to be inhabited, but the earth. This passage
Sir David Brewster has quoted as “a distinct declaration from the
inspired prophet, that the earth would have been created IN VAIN, if it
had not been formed to be inhabited; and hence we draw the conclusion,
that as the Creator cannot be supposed to have made the worlds of our
system, and those in the sidereal universe, in vain, _they_ must have
been formed _to be inhabited_.”[27] Is not this a huge “conclusion” to
draw from these premises? And do not the words tend rather the other
way—to show that _the earth_, with its wondrous adaptations, would have
been created in vain, if not to be inhabited; but that the heavens may
be created for other purposes, of which man, in the present stage of
existence, has not, nor can have, any conception?

We have spoken of Sir David Brewster’s drawing a huge conclusion from a
passage of Scripture in support of his views of the question before us;
but we have to present a still huger conclusion, drawn by him from
another glorious passage: “When I consider the heavens, the work of thy
fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man,
that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest
him?” “This,” says Sir David, “is a positive argument for a plurality of
worlds! We cannot doubt that inspiration revealed to the Hebrew poet the
magnitude, the distances, and the final cause of the glorious spheres
which fixed his admiration.... He doubtless viewed these worlds as
_teeming with life, physical and intellectual_; as globes which may have
required millions of years for their preparation, exhibiting new forms
of beings, _new powers of mind_, new conditions in the past, and new
glories in the future!” In his _Dialogue_ Dr Whewell thus drily
dismisses this extraordinary flight of his opponent: “That the Hebrew
poet knew, or thought about, the plurality of worlds, is a fact hitherto
unnoticed by the historians of astronomy; to their consideration I leave
it.”

Let us now, however, follow Dr Whewell in the development of his idea,
bearing in mind his own impressive statement, in his preface, that,
“while some of his philosophical conclusions appear to him to fall in
very remarkably with certain points of religious doctrine, he is well
aware that philosophy alone can do little in providing man with the
consolations, hopes, supports, and convictions which religion offers;
and he acknowledges it as a ground of deep gratitude to the Author of
All Good, that man is not left to philosophy for those blessings, but
has a fuller assurance of them by a more direct communication from Him.”

“The two doctrines which we have here to weigh against each other,” says
Dr Whewell, “are the _plurality_ of worlds, and the _unity_ of the
world;” and he “includes, as a necessary part of the conception of a
‘WORLD,’ a collection of intelligent creatures, where reside
intelligence, perception of truth, recognition of moral law, and
reverence for a Divine Creator and Governor.”[28] His _Essay_ branches
into three great divisions, in disposing of the conjectural plurality of
worlds, and suggesting the reality of the unity of the world. First, he
considers the constitution of man: secondly, that of the earth which he
inhabits, its adaptation, structure, and position: lastly, its
neighbours in the heavens—the solar system to which it belongs, the
fixed stars, and the nebulæ; and as to these, he declares that “a closer
inquiry, _with increased means of observation_, gives no confirmation to
the conjecture which certain aspects of the universe at first sight
suggested to man, that there may be other bodies, like the earth,
tenanted by other creatures like man,—some characters of whose nature
seem to remove or lessen the difficulties we may at first feel in
regarding the earth as, in a _unique and special manner_, the field of
God’s providence and government.”[29] This is not the order in which Dr
Whewell proceeds, but it is that which we shall observe, in giving our
readers such a brief and intelligible account as we can of this
singularly bold _Essay_. He himself commences with a beautiful sketch of
the state of “Astronomical Discoveries,” with which Dr Chalmers dealt in
his celebrated Discourses; by no means understating the amount of them,
with reference principally to the number of the heavenly bodies—“a
countless host of worlds, arranged in planetary systems, having years
and seasons, days and nights, as we have;” as to which, “it is at least
a likely suggestion that they have also inhabitants—intelligent beings,
who can reckon those days and years—who subsist on the fruits which the
seasons bring forth, and have their daily and yearly occupations,
according to their faculties.”[30] “IF this world be merely one of
innumerable other worlds, all, like it, the workmanship of God,—all the
seats of life—like it, occupied by intelligent creatures, capable of
will, law, obedience, disobedience, as man is,—to hold that it alone
should have been the scene of God’s care and kindness, and still more,
of His special interposition, communication, and personal dealings with
its individual inhabitants, in the way which religion teaches, is, the
objector is conceived to maintain, in the highest degree extravagant,
incredible, and absurd.”[31] Such is, as we have seen, the assertion of
Thomas Paine; and Dr Whewell proposes to discuss this vast _speculative_
question, “not as an objection urged by an opponent, but rather as a
difficulty felt by a friend of religion;”—“to examine rather how we can
quiet the troubled and perplexed believer, than how we can triumph over
the dogmatical and self-satisfied infidel.”[32] But let _our_ reader
note well, at starting, the above mighty “IF:” which he may regard as
the comet’s nucleus, drawing after it an enormous and dismaying train of
consequences, sweeping into annihilation man’s hopes equally with his
fears.

Dr Whewell gives a lucid and terse account of the scope of Dr Chalmers’s
eloquent declamation, his ingenious suggestions, and his _astronomical_
or _philosophical_ arguments, which he deems “of great weight; and, upon
the whole, such as we may both assent to, as scientifically true, and
accept as rationally persuasive. I think, however, that there are other
arguments, also drawn from scientific discoveries, which bear in a very
important and striking manner upon the opinions in question, and which
Chalmers has not referred to; and I conceive that there are
philosophical views of another kind, which, for those who desire and
will venture to regard the universe and its Creator in the wider and
deeper relations which appear to be open to human speculation, may be a
source of satisfaction.”[33]

But “WHAT IS MAN?” is the pregnant question of the royal Psalmist; and
Dr Whewell gives an account of man, at once ennobling and solemnising;
in strict accordance, moreover, with revelation, and with those views of
his moral and intellectual nature universally entertained by the
believers in revealed religion. We know of no man living entitled to
speak with more authority on such subjects than Dr Whewell; and we think
it impossible for any thoughtful person to read the portions of his
_Essay_ relating to this subject, without feelings of awe and reverence
towards our Maker. Not that any new conditions of human nature are
suggested, or any peculiarly original views of it presented; but our
knowledge on the subject is, as it were, condensed into a focus, and
then brought to bear upon the question, What is man, that his Maker
should be mindful of him, and visit him? and thereby render the earth,
in a unique and special manner, the field of God’s providence and
government. Lord Bolingbroke objected to the Mosaic account of the
creation, and “that man is made by Moses as the final end, if not of the
whole creation, yet at least of our system:” but let us remember, that
Moses also tells us that God determined to “make _man in Our image,
after Our likeness_;” that God did, accordingly, create man in His own
image—with special significance twice asserting the fact that _in the
image of God created He him_; and he tells us that, after the flood, God
assigned this as a reason for visiting the crime of murder with
death—Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed; for in
the image of God made He man. The full import of that awful and
mysterious expression, the image and likeness of God, man, in his fallen
state, may never know. Adam possibly knew originally; and his
descendants believe that it consists in their Intellectual and Moral
nature. The former is, in some measure, of the same nature as the Divine
mind of the Creator:[34] the laws which man discovers in the creation
must be laws known to God; those which man sees to be true—those of
geometry, for instance—God also must see to be true. That there were,
from the beginning, in the Creator’s mind creative thoughts, is a
doctrine involved in every intelligent view of creation—a doctrine which
has recently received splendid illustration by a living “great
discoverer in the field of natural knowledge.”[35] Law implies a
lawgiver, even when we do not see the object of the law; even as design
implies a designer, when we do not see the object of the design. The
laws of nature are the indications of the operation of the Divine mind,
and are revealed to us, as such, by the operations of our mind, by which
we come to discover them. They are the utterances of the Creator,
delivered in language which we can understand; and being thus
_Language_, they are the utterances of an Intelligent Spirit.[36]

“If man, when he attains to a knowledge of such laws, is really
admitted, in some degree, to the view with which the Creator himself
beholds his creation; if we can gather, from the conditions of such
knowledge, that his intellect partakes of the nature of the Divine
intellect; if his mind, in its clearest and largest contemplation,
harmonises with the Divine mind,—we have in this a reason which may well
seem to us very powerful, why, even if the earth alone be the habitation
of intelligent beings, still the great work of creation is not wasted.
If God have placed on the earth a creature who can so far sympathise
with Him (if we may venture upon the expression), who can raise his
intellect into some accordance with the creative intellect; and that not
once only, nor by few steps, but through an indefinite gradation of
discoveries more and more comprehensive, more and more profound, each an
advance, however slight, towards a Divine Insight; then, so far as
intellect alone, of which alone we are here speaking, can make man a
worthy object of all the vast magnificence of creative power, we can
hardly shrink from believing that he is so.”[37]

Again: The earth is a scene of MORAL TRIAL. Man is subject to a moral
law; and this moral law is a law of which God is the legislator—a law
which man has the power of discovering, by the use of the faculties
which God has given him. Now, the existence of a body of creatures,
capable of such a law, of such a trial, and of such an elevation, as man
is the subject and has the power of—that is, of rising from one stage of
virtue to another, by a gradual and successive purification and
elevation of the desires, affections, and habits, in a degree, so far as
we know, without limit—is, according to all we can conceive, infinitely
more worthy of the Divine Power and Wisdom, in the creation of the
universe, than any number of planets occupied by creatures having no
such lot, no such law, no such capacities, and no such responsibilities.
However imperfectly the moral law may be obeyed; however ill the greater
part of mankind may respond to the appointment which places them here in
a state of moral probation; however few there may be who use the
capacities and means of their moral purification and elevation; still
_that there is_ such a plan in the creation, and that _any_ respond to
its appointments, is really a view of the universe which we can conceive
to be suitable to the nature of God, because we can approve it, in
virtue of the moral nature which He has given us. One school of moral
discipline, one theatre of moral action, one arena of moral contests for
the highest prizes, is a sufficient centre for innumerable hosts of
stars and planets, globes of fire and earth, water and air, whether or
not tenanted by corals and madrepores, fishes and creeping things. So
great and majestic are those names of RIGHT and GOOD, DUTY and VIRTUE,
that all mere material or animal existence is worthless in the
comparison.... Man’s moral progress is a progress towards a likeness
with God; and such a progress, even more than a progress towards an
intellectual likeness with God, may be conceived as making the soul of
man fit to endure for ever with God, and therefore, as making this earth
a preparatory stage of human souls, to fit them for eternity—a nursery
of plants which are to be fully unfolded in a celestial garden. And if
this moral life be really only the commencement of an infinite Divine
plan beginning upon earth, and destined to endure for endless ages after
our earthly life, we need no array of other worlds in the universe, to
give sufficient dignity and majesty to the scheme of the Creator.

The author of the _Essay_ then ascends to an infinitely greater and
grander altitude:—


  “If by any act of the Divine government the number of those men should
  be much increased, who raise themselves towards the moral standard
  which God has appointed, and thus towards a likeness to God, and a
  prospect of a future eternal union with him; such an act of Divine
  government would do far more towards making the universe a scene in
  which God’s goodness and greatness were largely displayed, than could
  be done by any amount of peopling of planets with creatures who were
  incapable of moral agency, or with creatures whose capacity for the
  development of their moral faculties was small, and would continue to
  be small, till such an act of Divine government was performed. The
  interposition of God, in the history of man, to remedy man’s
  feebleness in moral and spiritual tasks, and to enable those who
  profit by the interposition to ascend towards a union with God, is an
  event entirely out of the range of those natural courses of events
  which belong to our subject: and to such an interposition, therefore,
  we must refer with great reserve; _using great caution that we do not
  mix up speculations and conjectures of our own with what has been
  revealed to man concerning such an interposition_. But this, it would
  seem, we may say, that such a Divine interposition for the moral and
  spiritual elevation of the human race, and for the encouragement and
  aid of those who seek the purification and elevation of their nature,
  and an eternal union with God, is far more suitable to the idea of a
  God of infinite goodness, purity, and greatness, than any supposed
  multiplication of a population, on our own planet, or on any other,
  not provided with _such_ means of moral and spiritual progress. And if
  we were, instead of such a supposition, to imagine to ourselves, in
  other regions of the universe, a moral population purified and
  elevated without the aid, or need, of any such Divine interposition,
  the supposed possibility of such a moral race would make the sin and
  misery, which deform and sadden the aspect of our earth, appear more
  dark and dismal still. We should, therefore, it would seem, find no
  theological congruity, and no religious consolation, in the assumption
  of a plurality of worlds of moral beings; while, to place the seats of
  those worlds in the stars and the planets would be, as we have already
  shown, a step discountenanced by physical reasons; and discountenanced
  the more, the more the light of science is thrown upon it.”[38]


Should it be urged, that if the creation of _one_ world of such
creatures as man exalts so highly our views of the dignity and
importance of the plan of creation, the belief in many such worlds must
elevate still more our sentiments of admiration and reverence of the
greatness and goodness of the Creator; and must be a belief, on that
account, to be accepted and cherished by pious minds, Dr Whewell replies
in the following weighty passage:—


  “We cannot think ourselves authorised to assert cosmological
  doctrines, _selected arbitrarily by ourselves_, on the ground of their
  exalting our sentiments of admiration and reverence for the Deity,
  _when the weight of all the evidence which we can obtain respecting
  the constitution of the universe, is against them_. It appears to me,
  that to discover one great scheme of moral and religious government,
  which is the spiritual centre of the universe, may well suffice for
  the religious sentiments of men in the present age; as in former ages,
  such a view of creation was sufficient to overwhelm men with feelings
  of awe, and gratitude, and love, and to make them confess, in the most
  emphatic language, that all such feelings were an inadequate response
  to the view of the scheme of Divine Providence which was revealed to
  them. The thousands of millions of inhabitants of the earth, to whom
  the effects of the Divine love extend, will not seem, to the greater
  part of religious persons, to need the addition of more, in order to
  fill our minds with vast and affecting contemplations, so far as we
  are capable of pursuing such contemplations. The possible extension of
  God’s spiritual kingdom upon the earth will probably appear to them a
  far more interesting field of devout meditation than the possible
  addition to it of the inhabitants of distant stars, connected, in some
  inscrutable manner, with the Divine Plan.”[39]

  “In this state of our knowledge,” Dr Whewell subsequently adds, after
  recapitulating the whole course of the argument indicated by the lines
  above placed in italics, “and with such grounds of belief, to dwell
  upon the plurality of worlds of intellectual and moral creatures as a
  highly probable doctrine, must, we think, be held to be eminently rash
  and unphilosophical. On such a subject, where the evidences are so
  imperfect, and our power of estimating analogies so small, far be it
  from us to speak positively and dogmatically. And if any one holds the
  opinion, on _whatever_ evidence, that there are other spheres of the
  Divine government than this earth, other spheres in which God has
  subjects and servants, other beings who do his will, and who, it may
  be, are connected with the moral and religious interests of man, we do
  not breathe a syllable against such a belief, but, on the contrary,
  regard it with a ready and respectful sympathy: it is a belief which
  finds an echo in pious and benevolent hearts, and is of itself an
  evidence of that religious and spiritual character in man, which is
  one of the points of our argument.... But it would be very rash, and
  unadvised—a proceeding unwarranted, we think, by religion, and
  certainly at variance with all that science teaches—to place those
  other extra-human spheres of Divine government in the planets and in
  the stars. With regard to these bodies, if we reason at all, we must
  reason on _physical_ grounds; we must suppose, as to a great extent we
  can prove, that the law and properties of terrestrial matter and
  motion apply to them also. On such grounds it is as improbable that
  visitants from Jupiter, or from Sirius, can come to the earth, as that
  men can pass to those stars—as unlikely that inhabitants of those
  stars know and take an interest in human affairs, as that we can learn
  what they are doing. A belief in the Divine government of other races
  of spiritual creatures, besides the human race, and in Divine
  ministrations committed to such beings, cannot be connected with our
  physical and astronomical views of the nature of the stars and
  planets, without making a mixture altogether incongruous and
  incoherent—a mixture of what is material, and what is spiritual,
  adverse alike to sound religion and to sound philosophy.”[40]


Those possessing a competent acquaintance with the doctrines of
theology, and ethical and metaphysical discussions, cannot, we think,
read this necessarily faint and imperfect outline of what Dr Whewell has
thus far advanced on the subject, without appreciating the caution and
discretion with which he handles the subject which he here discusses—one
of a critical character—in all its aspects and bearings. It is deeply
suggestive to reflecting minds, who may be disposed to note with
satisfaction how closely his doctrine, as thus far developed, quadrates
with those of the Christian system. He has well reminded us, in the
_Dialogue_, of a saying of Kant—that two things impressed him with awe:
the starry heaven without him, and _the Moral Principle within_; and the
current of his reflections tends towards that awful passage in the New
Testament,—words which fell from the lips of the Saviour of mankind:
“For what is a man profited, if he shall gain _the whole world_, and
lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”
“FOR the Son of Man shall come in the glory of his Father, with his
angels, and then he shall reward every man according to his works.”[41]
These two questions (to say nothing of the significance of the
expression with reference to the subject now under discussion, “the
whole world”), and the reason which is proposed to those who would
answer the question, as that which should govern the choice between
their own soul and the whole world, justify our attaching the highest
conceivable value and importance to man, as a rational, a moral, an
accountable being.

In the _Dialogue_, an objector suggests, “But in your inclination to
make man the centre of creation, and the object of all the rest of the
universe, are you not forgetting the admonitions of those who warn us
against this tendency of self-glorification? You will recollect how much
of this warning there is in the _Essay on Man_:—

          ‘Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine?
          Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ’Tis for mine.’

To imagine ourselves of so much consequence in the eyes of the Creator
is natural to us, self-occupied as we are, till philosophy rebukes such
conceit.” To which it is justly answered—“It is quite right to attend to
such warnings. But warnings may also be useful on the other side:
warnings against self-disparagement; against the belief that man is
_not_ an important object in the eyes of the Creator. I do not know what
philosophy represents man as insignificant in the eyes of the Deity; and
still less does religious philosophy favour the belief of man’s
insignificance in the eyes of God. What great things, according to the
views which religion teaches, has He done for mankind, and for each
man!”[42]

But man’s intellectual and moral nature being of such dignity and value
in the estimation of God, other circumstances connected with him tend in
the same direction, says Dr Whewell, and point him out as a special and
unique existence, in every way worthy of his transcendent position. He
is created by a direct and special act of the Deity, and placed and
continued, under circumstances of a most remarkable character, upon the
locality prepared for him. We need hardly say that Dr Whewell repudiates
the irreligious, idle, and unphilosophical notion that man is merely the
result of material development out of a long series of animal
existences. This figment Dr Whewell easily demolishes, on philosophical
grounds, in common with all the great scientific men of the age; and
having vindicated for man the dignity of his origin, as the result of a
direct act of creation, and differing not only in his kind, but in his
order, from all other creations, proceeds to consider his relations to
his earthly abode. This brings us to the second stage of his Argument,
to which we now proceed; premising that it necessarily involves
considerations relating to the constitution of man, physically,
intellectually, and morally; and especially as a being of _progressive_
development. This stage is to be found in two chapters of the _Essay_,
the fifth and sixth, respectively entitled, “Geology;” and “the Argument
from Geology,”—both written with uncommon ability, and exhibiting proofs
of the great importance attached to them by the author. Even those who
may altogether dissent from his main conclusions, will appreciate the
interesting and instructive, the masterly and suggestive outline which
he gives of this noble twin sister of Astronomy, Geology. We are
disposed to hazard a conjecture, that the governing idea developed in
these chapters, was the origin of the whole speculation to which the
_Essay_ is devoted.




                    MRS STOWE’S SUNNY MEMORIES.[43]


It is, we think, to be regretted that those who intend to lay before the
public their impressions of foreign travel, should so often have
recourse to the form of letters purporting to be addressed to friends or
relatives at home. We admit that, for purposes of fiction, the
epistolary style is convenient. Testy Mathew Bramble, his tyrannical
sister Tabitha, and the lovelorn Winifred Jenkins, may, by their several
lucubrations, unite to form the most amusing of family chronicles; but
Smollett, when he compiled _Humphrey Clinker_, took care that the
expression of each character should be perfectly natural. So with
Lever’s _Dodd Family_, and the immortal letters of Mrs Ramsbottom. But
the case of a party deliberately penning letters, in his or her own
name, not for the private gratification of a select circle, or the
information of those to whom they are addressed, but directly for the
press and the public, is very different. In the first place, every one
knows and feels that the letters are not genuine. The most gifted of our
race, in addressing a mother, a sister, or a child, do not think it
necessary to indulge in fine writing, or in long elaborate descriptions,
or in statistical details. They write simply—generally shortly; and a
good deal of their matter would, if submitted to the eye of a stranger,
appear to be unmeaning gossip, not improbably approaching to twaddle. We
doubt not that, in the real letters which Mrs Stowe despatched across
the Atlantic, there were many household inquiries, suggestions, and
remembrances—domestic precepts and home-thoughts—kind, motherly, or
friendly words, such as render letters doubly delightful to the
recipients. But these formal epistles which she has now given to the
world under the collective title of _Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands_,
bear falsity in their very face, and, in all human probability, the
printer’s devil was the first person that perused them. They are all
pitched in one key. Her despatches to the home nursery are as elaborate
efforts of composition, as those which are nominally addressed to her
father, or to “Dear Aunt E.”;—and, as a necessary consequence, they are
frigid in the extreme. This is an artistic blunder, which cannot fail to
detract very much from the interest of what Mrs Stowe had written. It
was not perhaps to be expected, nor indeed desired, that she should have
printed her genuine letters; but surely there was no occasion for
recasting her diary or memoranda in a purely fictitious form.

We have, however, no reason to doubt that these volumes contain a
faithful record of Mrs Beecher Stowe’s impressions of such parts of
Europe as she has visited; and we so receive them. In her preface she
requests “the English reader to bear in mind that the book has not been
prepared in reference to an English, but an American public, and to make
due allowance for that fact.”—We do not think that any explanation of
the kind was required. Mrs Stowe says plainly enough, that “the object
of publishing these letters is to give to those who are true-hearted and
honest the same agreeable picture of life and manners which met the
writer’s own eyes.”—In short, she was delighted with her tour and
reception, and generally pleased with the people whom she met; and she
wishes to communicate her own agreeable impressions to her countrymen.
No one, on this side of the water at least, is likely to object to so
kindly and benevolent a design. And we are bound to say, that had she
prepared this book with the sole object of gratifying the people of
Great Britain by indiscriminate praise of everything which met her eye,
she could hardly have been more eulogistic than she is. Nor is this at
all surprising, when we remember under what circumstances her journey to
this country was made.

No work published within our memory made so rapid an impression on the
public mind as Mrs Stowe’s novel, _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_. It became famous
among us almost as soon as it was imported from America. The theme was
of surpassing interest, the characters were powerfully drawn; there was
enthusiasm and pathos enough to thrill the heart, to call up tears, and
to awaken the general sympathies of the free for the wrongs of the
persecuted negro. It brought home to the minds of all of us the horrors
of slavery in its worst and most unendurable form. The separation of
husband and wife—the sale of children—the exposure in the public market
of men and women, whose education was often superior to that of the
brutes who bought and sold them: all these things, so revolting to
humanity, were described with an energy and power greater, perhaps, than
have been exhibited by any recent writer. Add to this that the tone of
the novel was eminently religious, and calculated to make it find its
way into circles from which other works of fiction were studiously
banished; and it is easy to account for its immense and sudden
popularity. Thousands of persons who would have thought it a positive
sin to indulge in the perusal of a romance by Scott or Lytton, devoured
the pages of Mrs Stowe with an avidity the more intense from their
habits of previous abstinence. It was a book much patronised by the
Quakers, and greatly in favour among the Methodists. It was multiplied
by countless editions; it was to be seen in the drawing-room of the
noble, and in the humble home of the mechanic; and from men of all
classes throughout Great Britain it met with a cordial acceptance.

Unfortunately, however, it entered into the heads of certain wiseacres,
that they might produce a great moral sensation, and promote other
causes besides that of emancipation, by inducing Mrs Beecher Stowe to
visit this country, and by parading her as an object of interest. Far be
it from us to attempt to dictate to the gentlemen and ladies who are the
principal promoters of the Peace Society, and the most active in the
distribution of Olive-leaves, or to those who make total abstinence a
leading article of their faith. But we may be allowed, with all
deference, to hint our opinion that, in inviting Mrs Stowe to undergo
the ordeal of a public ovation, they were not acting altogether fairly
by the lady whom they professed to honour. We trust that we have said
enough, both now and previously, to testify the sincere admiration in
which we regard her talents as exhibited in her famous novel, and our
sympathy for the cause in which that genius was displayed. Our tribute
of praise, however humble in its kind, has not been niggardly bestowed;
but we demur altogether to the propriety of making a public show and
spectacle of the authoress of the most popular work, upon even the best
or the holiest subject. We should demur to the propriety of such an
exhibition, were it even demanded by the general voice—we condemn it
when it is notoriously got up for sectarian glorification. Yet such
undoubtedly was the case with Mrs Stowe. At Liverpool, at Glasgow, and
at Edinburgh, her self-constituted friends determined that she should be
received with demonstrations which were, in the eyes of the unexcited,
purely ridiculous. There were to be anti-slavery meetings, working-men’s
soirées, presentation of addresses and offerings, and an immense deal of
the same kind of thing which was utterly unsuited to the occasion; and
the result was, that Mrs Stowe, in so far as the north of Britain was
concerned, saw little of that society which gives the intellectual stamp
to the country, and derived her impressions almost entirely from the
conversation of a limited coterie. How could it be otherwise? Mrs Stowe
was undoubtedly a very clever woman—she had written an admirable novel
upon a most interesting subject—and every one was delighted both with
its matter and its success. But was that any reason why town-councils
should receive her at railways—why people should be urged to present
addresses to her as though she had been a Boadicea, or a Joan d’Arc—or
why her presence should be made an excuse for indulging in unmeasured
speeches, or in violent objurgations against the legislature of America,
for continuing a system which we have nationally decreed to be vile in
our own dominions, and have taken every means in our power to
discountenance elsewhere? Opinion in this country, in so far as it can
be expressed—and it has been expressed in thousands of ways—is unanimous
for the emancipation of the negro. One and all of us consider the
continuance of slavery, as it exists in America, a foul blot upon the
nation, which proclaims itself as peculiarly free; and we have said so
in anything but undecisive terms. Still, what we have said, is the
expression of an opinion only. We may object to slavery in America, as
we may object to the same institution in Turkey, or to serfage in
Russia, or to anything else beyond our cognisance and jurisdiction; but
we are not entitled to usurp the right, which every separate nation
possesses, of regulating its own laws according to its peculiar
position. We say this, because, of late years, the tendency towards
popular demonstrations and sympathising meetings in England, has
increased to such a degree as even to embarrass our relations with
foreign powers. Well-meaning, but supremely ignorant vestry-men,
bustling civic magistrates, and conceited members of town-councils,
consider themselves entitled to sit in judgment and give sentence upon
all questions of European politics. The moment a political exile of any
note arrives in this country, he is fêted, and cheered, and made a hero
of by municipal dignitaries, who seize the occasion as a capital
opportunity for making ungrammatical professions of their ardent
adoration of liberty. Their sympathy in favour of insurgents is
perfectly unbounded. They have sympathised with the Hungarians—they have
sympathised with the Italians—and, until very lately, they showed great
sympathy for those gentlemen who were compelled to leave France for
their conspiracies against the existing government. It is not a little
amusing to contrast the tone which is now assumed by the liberal press
and by the municipalities of England towards Louis Napoleon, with that
which was prevalent some eighteen months ago! We should like to see an
ovation attempted now in honour of the French republicans. And yet what
change has taken place? Ledru Rollin is as good a patriot now as ever;
the title of the Emperor to the throne of France is not one whit better
than it was before. We are now engaged in war; and the utmost efforts of
our statesmen have been used to induce Austria to join with the Western
Powers. And yet, in the face of these negotiations, we find that, in the
large towns of England, Kossuth is declaring to immense and sympathising
audiences that the accession of Austria to our side would be the means
of riveting the chains on the oppressed nationality of Hungary! This
conduct on the part of the English public, or rather that portion of it
which has an inveterate itch for meddling with what it does not and
cannot understand, is not only silly, but positively dangerous. If the
people of every State were to act in this way, war would not be the
exception, but a perpetually existing calamity; and nation would rise
against nation, not on account of acts of positive aggression, but
because each objected to the mode in which the other administered its
own affairs. We have no scruple in expressing our conviction that, since
this sympathising mania commenced, Great Britain has lost much of her
influence as a first-rate European power. It has the effect of placing,
apparently at least, the Government and the people in antagonism—of
detracting from the power of the one, and unduly adding to that of the
other. And—what we regret most deeply to see—it has raised and fostered
the impression that we are collectively a nation of braggarts. It is
most natural that it should be so, for we are perpetually vaunting about
the force of public opinion in this country, and declaring that nothing
can stand against it. On the Continent the voice of the towns is
considered as the sure index of public opinion; and if that voice had
been taken, not very long ago, we should ere now have been engaged in
liberating crusades in behalf of Hungary and Italy. The Government, of
course, and the vast bulk of the educated and thinking classes
throughout Great Britain, estimate these ridiculous exhibitions at their
proper value, and treat them with silent contempt;—not so foreigners;
who, being assured that in the principal towns of England immense
meetings have been held and resolutions passed in favour of insurgency,
conclude, naturally enough, that these are demonstrations of that public
opinion of which they have heard so much, and that the British
Government cannot do otherwise than yield to the pressure from without.
Perhaps the most absurd commentary upon this exceedingly reprehensible
system of sympathising may be found in the fact, that while our mayors,
provosts, aldermen, bailies, and other civic small-deer, are
sympathising with the oppressed nationalities of Europe, various of
their Transatlantic brethren are doing the same in behalf of Ireland and
the Irish, and holding up the people of England to the scorn and
detestation of the universe, as the cold-blooded, fiendish, and
systematic torturers of the oppressed Celtic nationality!

But we must not diverge too much from our immediate subject. It seems to
us that there really was no occasion for holding public meetings to show
that the sympathy of this country was decidedly in favour of the cause
of emancipation, or to irritate the Americans by a vain-glorious
comparison of our own conduct contrasted with theirs. We ought, in
common decency, to remember that no very great tract of time has elapsed
since slavery was abolished in the British colonies; and as, in matters
of this kind, interest is always a ruling motive, we should also bear in
mind that the prosperity of those colonies has not been increased by the
substitution of free for forced labour. Very few of us, on this side of
the Atlantic, are able to give a competent opinion as to what effect
immediate and unconditional emancipation might produce upon the
slave-holding States of America; and therefore we are hardly entitled to
do more than to assert the general principle, which condemns the
absolute property of man in man. How entire emancipation, which we
trust, before long, every State in America will adopt, can be carried
out, must be left to the wisdom and discretion of the local
legislatures. No change so great as this can be wrought suddenly.
Christianity itself must be inculcated, not coerced, for violence never
yet made converts; nor was the blood-red baptism of Valverde, who held
the cross in the one hand and the sword in the other, equal in efficacy
to the calm expositions of Xavier. Now, it is very plain to us that, in
her own way, Mrs Beecher Stowe is a zealot. She has been writing and
working at this subject of emancipation, until she has ceased to see any
practical difficulty between her vision and its realisation, and wants
to persuade all others that no practical difficulty exists. We agree
with her so far, that we contemplate not only as desirable, but as
necessary for the political existence of the United States of America, a
measure for the ultimate and entire emancipation of the negro; but we
cannot take upon ourselves the responsibility of urging an immediate
change, which might have the effect, in many important respects, of
deteriorating instead of bettering the condition of the black
population. What more, by any possible effort, can the people of Great
Britain do than they have done? Every man in America knows that we
detest the system of slavery. We have shown that by a long series of
legislative measures, and by national grants to purchase the freedom of
our slaves in the colonies; and very few names, indeed, are held in
greater honour in this country than those of Clarkson and Wilberforce.
But most assuredly we have no right to dictate to other nations, or to
insist that they shall adopt our views in the regulation of their
internal policy. We might just as well attempt to coerce them in matters
of religion, and, founding upon our belief in the purity of
Protestantism, insist that the Catholic states shall renounce the
authority of Rome. Certainly we shall not improve the cause of the
American negro by indulging in bitter terms and unlimited objurgation
against the States which do not, as yet, see their way to immediate
emancipation. All the great reforms of the world have been progressive.
To hasten them unduly, and until men are fit to receive them, is the
mere work of anarchy; and the world-history of the last sixty years,
whilst it conveys a terrible warning against the neglect of a despised
population, shows us that, in order to be permanent, all social
ameliorations must be carefully and cautiously introduced.

But we feel that we owe an apology to Mrs Stowe for this digression. It
was no fault of hers that she had to run the gauntlet through so many
soirées, or to appear perpetually in the disagreeable character of a
_lionne_. The whole programme was arranged before she set foot in this
country; and she had nothing else for it than to go through her allotted
part with patience and equanimity. We must admit that she was sorely
tried during her sojourn in the north. She seems to have been under the
custody of a special dissenting body-guard, with about as little liberty
of action as the unfortunate Lady Grange. No wonder that Scotland
appeared to her a very different country from the land of her
imagination. Not one of those by whom she was surrounded possessed a
spark of romantic enthusiasm, or cared about the associations which have
shed the light of poetry over the land. “One thing,” says Mrs Stowe,
“has surprised, and rather disappointed us. Our enthusiasm for Walter
Scott does not apparently meet a response in the popular breast.” Very
little indeed does the lady know of the beating of the national heart of
Scotland, or the veneration in which the memory of our greatest poet is
held by his countrymen. But it is not at soirées, or meetings such as
she witnessed or attended, that the national feeling finds a voice; nor
have the writings of Sir Walter Scott been ever favourably regarded by
the rigid sectarians among whom she moved. His thoughts were not as
their thoughts are, nor would it be possible that any sympathy should
exist between minds so differently constituted. We cannot expect Mr
Sturge to take much delight in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” or a
sleek member of the Peace Society to feel his spirit moved by the chaunt
of the “Field of Flodden.” What has amused us most in the perusal of
this book is, the evident influence which the dislike of her friends to
the martial strains of Scott produced at length upon herself. She seems
to have entered Scotland in a sort of fever of enthusiasm, as is
testified by the perpetual quotations from Sir Walter’s poetry—rather
common, by the way, for they are to be found in all the guide-books—in
which she indulges. By-and-by she begins to find that her raptures are
coldly listened to by the society in which she moves; and ultimately she
seems to have adopted the view that in some respects her friends were
right. The following is a very pretty _morçeau_ of criticism: “The most
objectionable thing, perhaps, about his influence is its sympathy with
the war spirit. A person Christianly educated can hardly read some of
his descriptions in the _Lady of the Lake_ and _Marmion_ without an
emotion of disgust, like what is excited by the same things in Homer:
and as the world comes more and more under the influence of Christ, it
will recede more and more from this kind of literature.” We marvel that
Mrs Stowe, who is a clever woman, does not perceive that the people of a
country in which the spirit which she pleases to reprehend becomes
extinct, must necessarily be in time succeeded by a race of unresisting
slaves. The remark, too, comes with a peculiarly bad grace from a lady
who is not only proud of the independence of her country, but affects
intense enthusiasm for the struggles of the Puritans and Covenanters in
Great Britain. However, we suppose she thought it polite to the members
of the Peace Society, among whom she was moving, to give this little jog
to their principles; and it may be that, after all, her intimacy with
the writings of Scott is considerably less than one would conclude from
the quantity of quotation. Certainly we were surprised to find it stated
by a lady of so much literary pretension and apparent acquaintance with
the personal history of Sir Walter, that Abbotsford “is at present the
property of Scott’s only surviving daughter;” and we must also confess
that some of her quotations unsettle our ancient ideas as to the limits
of the Border. For example, she says with reference to a visit paid at
the Earl of Carlisle’s—“I was also interested in a portrait of an
ancestor of the family, the identical “Belted Will” who figures in
Scott’s “Lay.””

             “‘_Belted Will Howard_ shall come with speed,
             And _William of Deloraine_, good at need.’”

Possibly Lord Carlisle was not previously aware that his ancestor was a
Scotsman, and a retainer of the house of Buccleuch. With equal propriety
might Omer Pasha be described as a hetman of the Cossacks, rushing to
the rescue of Gortschakoff.

On the whole, we are inclined to think that the American public will not
derive much enlightenment on the subject of Scotland and the Scots from
the revelations of Mrs Stowe. We can assure them that the general
aspect, tone, and sentiments of society here do not at all correspond
with what is represented in her pages. It is not the fact that the
greater part of our time is occupied by delivering or listening to
wish-washy platform speeches, or even to such as have “the promising
fault of too much elaboration or ornament,” on the subjects of
tee-totalism, olive-leavery, or any of the other mild absurdities of the
day. It is not the fact that we have lost all grateful memory for the
warlike deeds of our ancestors, or for the poets who have worthily
recorded them. And, above all, it is not the fact that Mrs Stowe had a
fair opportunity of forming a judgment, on almost any point, of the
views entertained by the bulk of the more educated classes of society.
We do not say this at all in disparagement of the parties among whom she
moved, and by whom she was so hospitably entertained. We have every
respect for their worth, position, and acquirements; and we are well
aware that among the ministers of various denominations to whom she was
introduced, and of whom she speaks affectionately, there are many whose
talent, learning, and devotion have made their names known beyond the
waters of the Atlantic. It must have been peculiarly gratifying to her
to receive the congratulations of the late venerable Dr Wardlaw of
Glasgow, of Dr John Brown of Edinburgh, whom she rightly calls “one of
the best exegetical scholars in Europe,” and other lights of the United
Presbyterian and Congregationalist Churches. In Edinburgh, Glasgow, and
Aberdeen she received much civic kindness and attention; but we are at a
loss, after reading her book, to discover much trace of her intercourse
with general society beyond a very limited coterie. True, she refers to
some persons “from ancient families, distinguished in Scottish history
both for rank and piety,”—and especially to a “Lady Carstairs,” of whose
corporeal existence we can find no trace in any Book of Dignity within
our reach. All that, however, is of little moment; and we never should
have thought of alluding to such circumstances, were it not that, so
very much having been said in America on the subject of Mrs Stowe’s
reception in Scotland, her account of what she saw may naturally be
received as an accurate picture of the country. We have no doubt
whatever of her general accuracy in describing what she saw. We are very
proud to think that she was received with much enthusiasm and
cordiality; and nothing could be more genuine than the expression of
feeling on the part of the working-classes. Her book undoubtedly struck
most deeply in the popular mind; producing a sensation which we have
never seen equalled, inasmuch as it extended through every grade of
society. And we can very well understand the intensity of the feeling
which must have thrilled Mrs Stowe, when she found that even in
sequestered villages in Scotland her work had been moistened with tears,
and that the people, on the announcement of her approach, thronged to
welcome the woman who had exercised so mighty a spell over their
intellect and their passions. There was, really, no delusion in the
matter, in so far as admiration of her talent and respect for her
intrepidity were concerned; but we may, at the same time, be allowed to
regret that she was made part of a premeditated pageant. The utter want
of delicacy which marked the whole arrangements was most extraordinary.
We are sure that Mrs Stowe must have been surprised, if not disgusted,
at finding herself announced as ready to receive deputations and
addresses at certain stated hours, and at the invitation of crowds to
attend in order to cheer her at railway stations. There is something
elevating in spontaneous enthusiasm, even when it is carried beyond the
limits of strict propriety; but demonstrations such as those to which we
have alluded, are not only unfair to the party paraded, but border
closely on the ludicrous. No quackery of the kind was required to insure
Mrs Stowe a cordial reception in Scotland; and we fear that in some
respects it operated rather to her disadvantage than otherwise.

We confess to have been greatly disappointed in the perusal of her
northern tour. We had expected to derive some amusement, if not
edification, from the remarks of a lady whose previous publications had
manifested considerable power in the depiction of character, not unmixed
with occasional glimpses of humour; the more especially as there is much
in the northern idiosyncrasy which must appear peculiar in the eyes of a
stranger. Nothing of the sort, however, is to be found in the pages of
Mrs Stowe. Read her work, omitting the familiar names of places, and one
would be utterly at a loss to suppose that she is describing Scotland
and its inhabitants either outwardly or inwardly. Saunders, as she
depicts him, is a sort of sentimental Treddles, minding every body’s
business more than his own, intoning peace speeches on a platform with a
strong nasal twang, and refreshing himself, after his labours, with
oceans of the weakest and the worst of tea. It is ten thousand pities
that Mrs Stowe should not have witnessed either a Lowland kirn or a
regular Highland meeting. Possibly the sounds either of fiddle or of
bagpipe might have grated harshly on her ear; and the “twasome” reel or
that of Houlakin been regarded as forbidden vanities; still she would
have been infinitely the better of some more diversified experience,
which might at least have caused her to avoid the error of depicting us
as a nation of Mucklewraths, Hammeryaws, and Kettledrummles. As for her
outward sketches, we must say that we greatly prefer the ordinary
guide-books. They have at least the merit of being concise, and do not
usually confound localities and historical events, as Mrs Stowe
certainly does when she indicates Glammis Castle as the scene of the
tragedy in _Macbeth_.

Moving southwards, Mrs Stowe seems to have been surrendered, in the
Midland Counties, almost entirely into the hands of the Quakers. They
appear to have acted towards her with considerable indulgence; for her
host, albeit one of the most eminent of his sect, consented to join a
party to Stratford-on-Avon. Mrs Stowe’s Shakespearian remarks do not
appear to us either so novel or profound as to justify any lengthy
extract—indeed, they are chiefly confined to speculations as to what
Shakespeare might have done or said had he been born under different
circumstances and in a different age. Disquisitions of this sort appear
to us very nearly as sensible and profitable as the question, once
gravely argued in the German schools, whether Adam, if born in the
fifteenth century, would instinctively have betaken himself to the
occupation of a gardener. Mrs Stowe, upon the whole, inclines to the
opinion that Shakespeare would have ranked with the Tories. She
says—“That he did have thoughts whose roots ran far beyond the depth of
the age in which he lived, is plain enough from numberless indications
in his plays; but whether he would have taken any practical interest in
the world’s movements, is a fair question. The poetic mind is not always
the progressive one; it has, like moss and ivy, a need for something old
to cling to and germinate upon. The artistic temperament, too, is soft
and sensitive; so there are all these reasons for thinking that perhaps
he would have been for keeping out of the way of the heat and dust of
modern progress.” Certainly, understanding progress in the sense which
Mrs Stowe attaches to it, we cordially agree with her that Shakespeare
would have kept out of its way; but it does seem to us a most monstrous
assumption that he would have taken no practical interest in the world’s
movements. Of all the poets that ever lived, Shakespeare was decidedly
the most practical and comprehensive in his views. So far from being
addicted to clinging to old things, from mere want of moral stamina, he
has created a new world of his own; and no man ever possessed so keen a
power of analysis of human character, and perception of the springs of
action. But possibly we do her wrong. The word “practical” nowadays has
divers significations; and if Mrs Stowe simply means to express her
belief that Shakespeare, had he existed in our time, would neither have
been a habitual spouter upon platforms, a vegetarian, a tee-totaller, a
member of the Peace Congress, nor a unit of the Manchester phalanx, we
beg leave to record our entire acquiescence in her estimate. Also we
think that, as an eminent vice-president of the Fogie Club lately
phrased it, she has hit the nail on the point, when she adds—“One thing
is quite certain, that he would have said very shrewd things about all
the matters that move the world now, as he certainly did about all
matters that he was cognisant of in his own day.” We have not the least
doubt of it.

The Stratford pilgrimage, however, seems to have given little
gratification to any of the party except Mrs Stowe, who considered it in
the light of a duty. Her brother, the Rev. C. Beecher, who was of the
party, doing a little independent platform business whenever he could
with propriety, and whose journal materially swells the bulk of the
second volume, seems to be quite the sort of man whom Prynne would have
delighted to have honoured. Relic-hunting after professors of the lewd
art of play-making, was by no means to his taste; and accordingly we
find the following commentary delivered over the tea and crumpets on the
questionable amusements of the day:—“As we sat, in the drizzly evening,
over our comfortable tea-table, C—— ventured to intimate pretty
decidedly that he considered the whole thing a bore; whereat I thought I
saw a sly twinkle round the eyes and mouth of our most Christian and
patient friend, Joseph Sturge. Mr S. laughingly told him that he thought
it the greatest exercise of Christian tolerance, that he should have
trailed round in the mud with us all day in our sight-seeing, bearing
with our unreasonable raptures. He smiled, and said quietly—‘I must
confess that I was a little pleased that our friend Harriet was so
zealous to see Shakespeare’s house, when it wasn’t his house, and so
earnest to get sprigs from his mulberry, when it wasn’t his mulberry.’
We were quite ready to allow the foolishness of the thing, and join the
laugh at our own expense.”

Warwick Castle, where Mrs Stowe grows critical upon art, after a very
peculiar fashion—and Kenilworth, at which she indulges in the somewhat
singular remark that “it was a beautiful conception, this making of
birds”!—need not detain us. The pleasure trip was succeeded by a
penance, in the shape of a lecture “against the temptations of too much
flattery and applause, and against the worldliness which might beset me
in London,” delivered by a celebrated female preacher, belonging to the
Society of Quakers, of the name of Sibyl Jones, who had “a concern upon
her mind for me.” That Sibyl possessed somewhat of the prophetic spirit,
appears plain from the commentary of Mrs Stowe, who was sensibly touched
by the hints which she received, and very likely began to feel that she
had been somewhat over-elevated by the inflation of the northern
Puffendorffs. In all seriousness, we believe that the lesson was both
well meant and well timed; but the commentary appended is but one of the
many proofs contained in these volumes, that Mrs Stowe is something more
than a passive spectator of the Transatlantic movement for establishing
what are called the “Rights of Woman”—in more vulgar language, the
superiority of the grey mare, and the supremacy of the petticoat over
the breeches. Now, as to the supremacy of women, we never had any doubt
about it—few men, who have been married for a year, can be sceptical
upon that point—and the utmost that men can demand from their wives as
to the respective ranking of the garments, is, in the ancient and
significant language of the Highlanders, to be allowed “to cast their
clothes together.” Moreover, to the wife is invariably committed that
highest symbol of authority known as “the power of the keys;” so that
she has it in her power at all times to coerce her husband by the
simplest and the readiest means. In fact, she has him at a dead lock,
and possesses the entire command of the press. Young Hampden may talk as
much as he pleases, at his Club, about the liberty of the press, and its
being as essential as the air he breathes; but, when he returns home,
about one in the morning, he is very fain to take his candle, and move
up-stairs as quietly as possible, without attempting to enfranchise any
incarcerated spirits. We do not hesitate to declare ourselves in favour
of the supremacy of the wife in her own household, believing that it is,
in almost every case, an unavoidable consummation, and, upon the whole,
the very best arrangement that human ingenuity could devise. But the
American notion goes far beyond this. The advocates of the “Rights of
Woman” admit of no such paltry compromise as the surrender of domestic
authority. What you as a man can do, of that your wife is equally
capable, and may lawfully exert herself accordingly. Are you a
barrister—why should not your wife, who has studied as a juris-consult,
and been admitted to the honours of the forensic gown more legitimately
than Portia, take a fee from the opposite party, and, by an influence
only known to herself, cause you to quail before you have proceeded
half-way in the exposition of the cause of your client? Or are you a
doctor—Harriet Hunt, M.D., forgive us for this supposition; for your
image, albeit we never saw you and never may, often haunts us in our
dreams, and from your imaginary hand have we received multitudes of
indescribable but seemingly celestial pills—how would you like your wife
to be called in as an adviser on the homœopathic principle, after you
had staked your existence on the superiority of the drastic method, and
see her recover a patient in less than a week, whereas you had
calculated upon a month’s legitimate fees under the ordinary curatory
process? Or let us suppose that one of the fairest dreams of the
strong-minded women of our generation should be realised, and that all
political disabilities were removed from the fair sex, so that they
might be admitted to sit and vote in Parliament. We scorn to take up the
objection which might occur to a common mind of the impossibility of the
Speaker maintaining order—we shall suppose a far worse case; and that is
the possible disagreement between man and wife in political principle
and conduct. How could you possibly endure the spectacle of your spouse
accompanying the smiling Mr Gladstone to a division in one lobby, whilst
your stern sense of duty compelled you to retire into another? How could
you possibly remain at bed and board with a woman who was in the habit
of attending those meetings at Chesham Place, which Lord John Russell is
so fond of calling whenever he requires a friendly castigation, as Henry
II. bared his brawny shoulders to the monks? And how, as a gentleman and
a man of honour, could you reconcile it with your conscience to lay your
head on the same pillow with a woman who can support the Coalition
Ministry, and even go the length of declaring that she has confidence in
the Earl of Aberdeen? Or we shall come to preaching, which is perhaps
the more germain to the matter. The Rev. Asahel Groanings, of some
undefined shadow of dissent, marries Miss Naomi Starcher of
corresponding principles, with a fortune of some few hundred pounds,
which are speedily sunk, beyond hope of extrication, in the erection of
an Ebenezer. Both are licensed to the ministry, Asahel officiating in
the morning and his helpmate in the afternoon. But somehow or other,
Asahel is not popular with his congregation. His style of oratory
reminds one unpleasantly of the exercitations of a seasick passenger in
a steamboat, and his visage is ghastly to look upon, being distorted as
if he laboured under a permanent attack of colic. Whereas, the voice of
Naomi is soft as that of a dove cooing in a thicket of pomegranates, her
countenance is fair and comely, and the thoughts of the elders, as they
gaze upon her, revert to the apocryphal history of Susannah. The result
is, that Asahel utters his ululations to empty benches, whilst Naomi
attracts hundreds of the rising youth of dissenting Christendom. How can
their union possibly be a happy one; or how can they continue to
fructify in the same theatre of usefulness? Yet Mrs Beecher Stowe
absolutely goes the length of recommending, or at least sanctioning, the
view that ladies should be allowed to preach. She says, “The calling of
women to distinct religious vocations, it appears to me, was a part of
primitive Christianity; has been one of the most efficient elements of
power in the Romish church; obtained among the Methodists in England;
and has in all these cases been productive of great good. The
deaconesses whom the apostle mentions with honour in his epistle, Madame
Guyon in the Romish church, Mrs Fletcher, Elizabeth Fry, are instances
which show how much may be done for mankind by women who feel themselves
impelled to a special religious vocation.” Then she goes on to cite the
case of the prophetesses, and tells us that “the example of the Quakers
is a sufficient proof, that acting upon this idea does not produce
discord and domestic disorder.” We are afraid that Mrs Stowe’s platform
experiences have tended somewhat to warp her better judgment upon this
point; and we beg to submit that, according to her own showing, the
ladies of America have quite as much to do, in the interior of their
households, as they can possibly manage to accomplish, without entering
into any of the learned professions, or attempting to eclipse their
husbands. The following extract is certainly a curious one. We, of
course, are not answerable for the correctness or colouring of the
picture, these being matters for which Mrs Stowe is amenable to the
consciences of her countrywomen.


  “There is one thing more which goes a long way towards the continued
  health of these English ladies, and therefore towards their beauty;
  and that is, _the quietude and perpetuity of their domestic
  institutions_. They do not, like us, fade their cheeks lying awake
  nights ruminating the awful question who shall do the washing next
  week, or who shall take the chamber-maid’s place, who is going to be
  married, or that of the cook who has signified her intention of
  parting with her mistress. Their hospitality is never embarrassed by
  the consideration that their whole kitchen cabinet may desert at the
  moment that their guests arrive. They are not obliged to choose
  between washing their own dishes, or having their cutglass, silver,
  and china, left at the mercy of a foreigner, who has never done
  anything but field-work. And last, not least, they are not possessed
  of that ambition to do the impossible in all branches, which, I
  believe, is the death of a third of the women in America. What is
  there ever read of in books or described in foreign travel, as
  attained by people in possession of every means and appliance, which
  our women will not undertake, single-handed, in spite of every
  providential indication to the contrary? Who is not cognisant of
  dinner-parties invited, in which the lady of the house has figured
  successively as confectioner, cook, dining-room girl, and, lastly,
  rushed up-stairs to bathe her glowing cheeks, smooth her hair, draw on
  satin dress and kid gloves, and appear in the drawing-room as if
  nothing were the matter? Certainly the undaunted bravery of our
  American females can never enough be admired. Other women can play
  gracefully the head of the establishment; but who, like them, could be
  head, hand, and foot, all at once?”


This passage is very suggestive in two ways. In the first place, we
humbly venture to think that it contains many excellent reasons why the
ladies of America should mitigate their inordinate desire for sharing in
what hitherto have been considered the appropriate employments of men.
It appears, by Mrs Stowe’s evidence, that they have already so much
domestic work to perform, that they are compelled to sacrifice both
their health and beauty, which certainly are the two last things that a
woman would be inclined to part with. Therefore it seems to us unwise,
and even preposterous, that any portion of them should be clamorous in
demanding a further increase of duty, unless, like the gude-wife of
Auchtermuchty in the old Scots ballad, they are prepared to make an
entire interchange of occupation with their husbands, and can persuade
the latter to whip cream, concoct soup, wash the dishes, and arrange the
table, whilst they are pleading at the bar, prescribing for half the
young fellows in the neighbourhood, gesticulating at public meetings, or
receiving the incense of deputations. In the second place, these
particulars of American society may, in reality, have more to do with
the evident dislike to emancipation of the slaves which evidently
prevails in many parts of the United States, than Mrs Stowe was aware of
when she penned the passage. If it is true that the ladies of
America—using the term in the same sense as Mrs Stowe does, for she is
comparing the personal appearance of women of the richer and more
independent class in the two countries—if it is the fact that the
American ladies in the free States have to undergo the drudgery which
she describes, and that not from choice, but from absolute inability to
obtain proper assistance; then we have a distinct and intelligible
motive assigned to us why many excellent and humane people in the slave
States hesitate to join the movement in behalf of emancipation. We have
often suspected that some strong social reasons, unknown to us and to
the British public, must exist, to account for the continuance of the
slave system; and we think that Mrs Stowe has, albeit unwittingly,
disclosed one of them. For what does her sentiment amount to, but an
acknowledgment that, in the great enlightened republic of America, it is
impossible to procure decent or permanent service—that, as there is no
acknowledgment of anything like rank or gradation, the servants consider
themselves in all respects as good as their master or mistress, will not
obey them unless it suits their humour, and are always ready to decamp?
That must be the case, unless we are to suppose that the American
ladies, answering to the aristocracy here, have a diseased appetite for
performing the offices of scullion, cook, and table-maid. Now, it may be
thought a very strong statement on our part, but we venture to say, that
were slavery existing at the present time in Great Britain, and were the
kind of free service procurable on any terms, no better than that which
Mrs Stowe and all other writers have described as existing in America,
emancipation would be a decidedly unpopular proposal in these Islands.
Is it possible to doubt that? Look at the history of the Factories Bill,
opposed, defeated, and evaded in every possible way, by the very same
men who proclaim themselves as the warmest friends of the negro. They
thought it as nothing that the bodies and souls of the young children
within their factories should be distorted and uncared for, whilst at
the same time they were ready to expend their gratuitous sympathy on the
American slave. But we shall not refer solely to them. Our remark
applies to every class; and we put the question to the ladies of this
country, from the Duchess of Sutherland downwards, whether, if they had
been born slave-owners, they would at once have relinquished their
control over those whom they could treat kindly, and whose affections
they could secure, to pass to a system which would have sent them down
from the drawing-room to slave themselves in the pantry or the kitchen?
Is that an argument for slavery? Heaven forbid! We intend nothing of the
kind, and should be very sorry to see our meaning so twisted and
distorted. But it is an argument of the very strongest description
against republicanism and republican institutions, and against those
absurd notions of equality which, under philosophical cover, are making
such rapid progress in this country. Slavery, we are convinced, has in
all times existed rather as a social necessity, than from any abstract
wish in man to own property in man. The idea is of itself repugnant. Not
much more than a hundred years ago, the Earls of Sutherland were, in
effect, considerable serf-owners. The patriarchal rule of the chief was
more despotic than is the sway of the proprietor of slaves in America;
for if the Mhor-ar-chat, which we apprehend to be the most ancient
designation of the family, had desired Dugald or Donald to pitch his
recusant brother into the loch, with some hundred-weight of granite
attached to his neck by a plaid, “nae doubt the laird’s pleasure suld be
obeyed.” Fortunately we are past that phase of existence. The feudal
system has decayed and died, which we are not by any means sorry for;
but, on the other hand, we have not yet arrived at the point when the
descendants of Dugald and Donald consider themselves as ranking in the
same degree of the social scale with the great Lady of Dunrobin. Feudal
service has given way to a better-ordered, more convenient, and more
profitable system. But still, among us, the gradations of rank are
recognised and acted on; and it is because the feelings and institutions
of the country are essentially aristocratic, that our domestic
arrangements and social intercourse are so decidedly superior to those
of America, or indeed of any other country in the world. We have equal
laws, to which noble and yeoman are alike amenable; but we do not insist
upon the recognition of what has absurdly and mischievously been termed,
the law of universal equality. Admirably has Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton,
in one of his earlier writings, exposed the fallacy of those who
confound equal rights with absolute parity in society. “If the whole
world conspired to enforce the falsehood, they could not make it _law_.
Level all conditions to-day, and you only smoothe away all obstacles to
tyranny to-morrow. A nation that aspires to _equality_ is unfit for
_freedom_.” How is an army led? By subordination only. Remove that
principle, and the army resolves itself into a mob. So is it with all
society. Let men talk of the absurdities of chivalry as they please, it
is the influence of the chivalrous institutions still remaining among us
which leavens the whole mass of British society. Pothouse philosophers
may sneer at this assertion, and, in their usual elegant style of
language, talk of “flunkeyism,” a phrase which, of late, has been very
frequently in their mouths. Let us see what they understand by it. Do
they mean to object to service altogether? Do they consider the waiter
at the Thistlewood Arms, who supplies them with their nocturnal
allowances of gin, degraded by the act of fetching? Doubtless they would
infinitely prefer to help themselves, and to be the sole supervisors of
the score; but as that is a degree of liberty which no law could
possibly allow, or landlord tolerate, they are very fain to avail
themselves of the spirituous ministry of Trinculo. But do they consider
him on a level with themselves? Not at all. They bully him for his
blunders in the transmission of half-and-half and kidneys, with a
ferocity truly unfraternal; and if he were to propose to take a place at
the table of their democratic worships, he would be taught a due
reverence to the rules of society and breeding by the application of a
pint-pot to his cranium. We have very little doubt that the wretched
kind of domestic economy which prevails in the free States of America
has had a strong influence in preventing the spread of emancipation
principles; and we believe that to the very same cause may be traced the
continuance of slavery in ancient Rome as part of their social system.
The Roman plebeian was quite as surly a republican as the descendant of
the Pilgrim Fathers. He would not stoop to act in the capacity of a
servant—hardly in that of a help, which we believe to be the recognised
American term; and consequently the Cornelias, Livias, and Tullias of
Rome, had either to avail themselves of the ministry of slaves who
formed part of the household, or to submit to the personal drudgery of
cleaning the lampreys and opening the oysters for the suppers of their
luxurious lords Titius or Mœvius, or any other of the fellows of the
common sort who had a tribune of their own, would not have consented to
brush the toga or clean the sandals even of a senator. At the bare
mention of such a thing they would have been ready to rush to the Mons
Sacer, for it is a curious fact that in all ages the disaffected have
manifested a propensity for taking to the hills. Chivalry put an end to
this; and by establishing gradation of orders and of rank, laid the
foundation for the freedom which now prevails throughout the states of
Europe. It was no disgrace for the squire to obey the orders of the
knight, or for the yeoman to serve the squire. The lady in her bower had
the attendance of damsel and of page; and the great model of a
well-regulated household was then framed and introduced. But not one
atom of chivalrous feeling was conveyed by the Mayflower to New England.
The spirit of the sourest republicanism pervaded that whole cargo of
human verjuice; and instead of bearing with them to the west the seeds
of civilisation, they carried those of intolerance and slavery. Very
wise, in more senses than one, is the old proverb, which, in all matters
of reformation, desires us to look primarily to home, and to set our
houses in order. There are many social reforms, besides emancipation,
required in America; and some which we almost venture to think must
necessarily precede it. For at present, according to Mrs Stowe’s own
showing and testimony, there is a vast gap in society occasioned by the
republican abhorrence of anything like menial service, and the jealous
and almost defiant spirit with which the semblance of authority is
resisted. In a word, we believe that until civilisation in America has
proceeded so far as to assimilate its social condition to that of the
older states of Europe, very material obstacles will impede the triumph
of that cause which Mrs Stowe has so enthusiastically advocated.

Mrs Stowe, like many others of her ardent countrywomen, has a decided
turn for crotchets. She next falls in with Elihu Burritt, and begins an
eulogistic commentary on the “movement which many, in our
half-Christianised times, regard with as much incredulity as the grim,
old, warlike barons did the suspicious imbecilities of reading and
writing. The sword now, as then, seems so much more direct a way to
terminate controversies, that many Christian men, even, cannot conceive
how the world is to get along without it.” We suspect that, by this
time, exceeding grave doubts as to the practicability of his views, and
the termination of all disputes by arbitration, must have penetrated
even the jolter-pate of the pragmatic Elihu, and that he must be
mourning over the enormous waste of olive-leaves for so little good
purpose. We sincerely hope, for his sake, that he has been allowed a
liberal commission or per-centage on the circulation. As Mrs Stowe seems
to have been admitted to his secrets, we may as well insert her account
of the operations of the Peace Society.


  “Burritt’s mode of operation has been by the silent organisation of
  circles of ladies in all the different towns of the United Kingdom,
  who raise a certain sum for the diffusion of the principles of peace
  on earth and good-will to men. Articles, setting forth the evils of
  war, moral, political, and social, being prepared, these circles pay
  for their insertion in all the principal newspapers of the Continent.
  They have secured to themselves in this way a continual utterance in
  France, Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, and Germany; so that from
  week to week, and month to month, they can insert articles upon these
  subjects. Many times the editors insert the articles as editorial,
  which still further favours their design. In addition to this, the
  ladies of these circles in England correspond with the ladies of
  similar circles existing in other countries; and in this way there is
  a mutual kindliness of feeling established through these countries.”


We have already recorded in the Magazine our opinion of the character of
these olive-leaves, as well as of the articles avowedly emanating from
the pen of the inspired Elihu; and therefore we need not trouble
ourselves by again disturbing the rubbish. If there are any sincere but
weak people who were inclined to view favourably the movements of the
Peace Society, the transactions in Europe during the last twelve months
must have convinced them of the utter impossibility of creating any
general court of arbitration, by means of which international disputes
may be adjusted. At the present moment, Russia stands condemned for her
aggression by every state in Europe. Even Prussia does not venture to
defend the forcible occupation of the Danubian principalities; and every
species of persuasion and representation was employed to induce the Czar
to abandon his purpose, or at all events to retrace his steps. So
unwilling were the western powers to draw the sword, that they allowed a
great deal of valuable time to be expended in negotiation, before they
took any decided step; and the general opinion in England is, that the
British Government was rather too tardy in its movements. And yet,
without a single declared ally, and with the unanimous voice of Europe
against him, Nicholas has thrown down the gauntlet, and the fleets of
Britain and France are in the Black and the Baltic Seas. After this, it
is inconceivable that there should be found any people besotted enough
to talk about arbitration. We should not, however, omit to notice the
last dying speech and final confession of the Peace Society, as
delivered by a leash of Quakers before his Majesty the Emperor of all
the Russias, and reported on their return with so much unction by the
highly-gifted and exulting Pease. There is no tragedy so deep and solemn
as to be entirely without a farcical element; and we can remember
nothing, in the shape of burlesque, to compete with the apparition of
those diffident Quakers at St Petersburg. But the fact is, that the
leading members of the Peace Society, amongst whom rank conspicuously
the chiefs of the Manchester school, were perfectly well aware that the
notion of arbitration was a mere chimera. Their real object was to
promote the spread of democratic principles; and, if possible, to weaken
the power of every existing government by strewing dissatisfaction among
their subjects. This is not our allegation only—it is in perfect
consonance with what Mrs Stowe records in repeating her conversations
with the leading apostles of peace; and we really think that the
following revelation as to ultimate views, is by no means the least
valuable or interesting part of her work. She says—


  “When we ask these reformers how people are to be freed from the yoke
  of despotism without war, they answer, ‘By the diffusion of ideas
  among the masses—_by teaching the bayonets to think_.’ They say, ‘If
  we convince every individual soldier of a despot’s army that war is
  ruinous, immoral, and unchristian, we take the instrument out of the
  tyrant’s hand. If each individual man would refuse to rob and murder
  for the Emperor of Austria and the Emperor of Russia, where would be
  their power to hold Hungary? What gave power to the masses in the
  French Revolution, but that the army, pervaded by new ideas, refused
  any longer to keep the people down?’

  “These views are daily gaining strength in England. They are supported
  by the whole body of the Quakers, who maintain them with that degree
  of inflexible perseverance and never-dying activity which have
  rendered the benevolent actions of that body so efficient.”


Very good, Mrs Stowe! But are no soldiers to be allowed to think, except
those belonging to a despot’s army? And is every individual soldier to
be permitted to act exclusively upon his own impressions of the abstract
propriety or justice of the service in which he is engaged? Passages
such as these—and they are not unfrequent in her work—go far indeed to
unsettle our faith in the sense, judgment, and discretion of Mrs
Stowe—qualities without which even the highest talent fails in attaining
at its aims.

But we must now follow Mrs Stowe to London, where her reception was of a
most marked and gratifying kind. Our readers cannot have forgotten the
remonstrance or expostulation which was addressed by the ladies of Great
Britain, under the generalship of the Duchess of Sutherland, to the
ladies of America, on the subject of the emancipation of the slaves.
That document was freely commented upon at the time; and, if we
recollect aright, some rather pungent strictures were made upon it, even
by writers in this country, as if, by taking this step, the fair
remonstrants had somewhat transgressed the reserve which is expected
from their sex. In that view we cannot join. We have intimated, perhaps
broadly enough, our objections to the American notion of the “Rights of
Woman;” but we trust to stand acquitted of entertaining any such
discourteous view as might preclude the ladies from a fair expression of
their opinion. In a question such as this, embracing all the domestic
considerations and feelings to which women are more alive than men, it
was not only well and commendable, but noble and Christian, that women
should take a decided part, and attempt, at least, by an appeal to the
common sympathies of the sex, to awaken commiseration for the degraded
condition of thousands of their human sisters, and to urge an effort in
their behalf. We really think that one such representation, addressed by
women to women, is more likely to have a lasting and salutary effect,
than five hundred public meetings, such as Mrs Stowe witnessed at
Glasgow and elsewhere, where bull-throated ministers and blethering
bailies assemble to make trial of their powers of oratory.
Notwithstanding the reply of Juliana Tyler, who came forward as the
champion on the other side, we believe that the appeal, on the part of
the ladies of Great Britain, must have made a deep impression on the
minds of many in America. We do not feel ourselves called upon to
discuss the arguments which Mrs Tyler employed; for in a ladies’
controversy, no male has a right to interfere. Mrs Stowe tells us that
the origin of the address was this: “Fearful of the jealousy of
political interference, Lord Shaftesbury published an address to the
ladies of England, in which he told them that he felt himself moved by
an irresistible impulse to entreat them to raise their voice, in the
name of their common Christianity and womanhood, to their American
sisters.” We shall add, what Mrs Stowe is too modest to say, or perhaps
what she does not know, that, but for the publication of _Uncle Tom’s
Cabin_, and the interest excited thereby, Lord Shaftesbury might have
worn his pen to the stump before he could have succeeded in eliciting
any such remonstrance.

Most graceful indeed, and becoming, was the attention which was
lavished, on the part of the Duchess of Sutherland and her kindred, upon
Mrs Stowe; and to us by far the most pleasing portion of the book is
that in which she records her impressions of London society. In the very
highest circles of the metropolis, and while moving for a time in a
sphere which might very well dazzle and perplex one to whom such scenes
must have appeared like a fairy dream, she really appears to have kept
her equilibrium, and preserved her coolness of judgment much better than
when she was greeted by civic demonstrations in the North, or by
gatherings of the peaceful but somewhat prosy and dogmatic brotherhood
of the Quakers in the Midland Counties. To our great astonishment we
have observed that poor Mrs Stowe has been accused by various liberal
journals in England, of “flunkeyism,” for conveying to her friends an
accurate account of what she saw at Stafford House, and one or two other
mansions to which she was invited. Anything more unfair and even
monstrous than this style of criticism it is impossible to conceive. Mrs
Stowe is writing her impressions of British society for the information
of her friends in America. In London it was her good fortune to be
received cordially and hospitably by several of the most distinguished
and estimable of the nobility and public characters; and because she
gives a fair, and by no means too minute relation of what she saw and
heard, she is scoffed at, by a certain section of the liberal gentry of
the London press, as a kind of parasite. This is really very shabby and
disgusting; for we do think that her modest, unaffected, and sometimes
naïve observations upon what she saw passing around her, might have
saved her from any such reflection. She enjoyed in England particular
advantages such as very few Americans could boast of. Had N. P. Willis
ever been able to compass an admission to Stafford House, his literary
fortune would have been made. We should have heard no more of Count
Spiridion Ballardos, or any such small-deer; but the intrepid Penciller
would have fixed at once upon the Duke of Argyll as his victim, and have
magnified himself in some inconceivable way, by introducing Philip
Slingsby as the triumphant rival and competitor of the MacCallum-Mhor.
Mrs Stowe does not try by any means to exalt herself—indeed her figure
does not appear at all prominently in the picture. She has endeavoured
to give as accurate a sketch as she could of London society, and in some
respects has succeeded pretty well. Blunders there are of course, but
that was unavoidable, and a good deal of what appears to us to be
gossip, but which possibly may have a higher value in the eyes of her
Transatlantic readers. She very fairly admits in her preface, that her
narrative may be tinged _couleur de rose_; and we are only surprised,
considering the temptations in her way, that she has used the Claude
Lorraine glass with so much discretion. Society is quite as intoxicating
as champagne; and it is impossible to write a book of this kind, without
recalling, to a considerable extent, the feeling of the bygone
excitement. We have no doubt that the printed narrative would seem
peculiarly sober, could we be favoured with a perusal of the actual
letters which Mrs Stowe despatched to America from the bewildering whirl
of London.

One thing, however, we have remarked with pain; and that is the
introduction by Mrs Stowe of an elaborate defence or explanation of what
were called the “Sutherland Clearings.” Her motive for doing so is quite
apparent; but we cannot help thinking that she has placed both herself,
and the noble family for whom she appears as an advocate, in a false and
disagreeable position, by putting forth statements of the accuracy of
which she had no means of judging. The transactions to which she refers
are of an old date; and they occurred in a district of which she has
absolutely no personal knowledge. She never was in Sutherland, or indeed
any other part of the Highlands, and therefore she was not entitled in
any way to deal with such a subject. That she was furnished with
materials for the purposes of publication seems more than probable: if
so, we cannot commend the prudence of those who took so singular a
method of refuting what may very possibly be calumny or
misrepresentation. With the merits of the case we have nothing to do,
nor shall we express any opinion upon them; but it does seem to us a
most extraordinary circumstance that Mrs Stowe should have been induced
to put forth a long, elaborate, and statistical argument upon a subject
of which she is wholly ignorant. A defence of this kind—supposing that
any defence was required—is positively hurtful to the parties whose
conduct has been called in question; and anything but creditable to
their discretion if they consented to its issue.

Interspersed with the actual narrative, are commentaries, or rather
criticisms, upon art and literature, which, for the sake of the
authoress, we could wish omitted. Her taste, upon all subjects of the
kind, is either wholly uncultivated or radically bad—indeed it would be
absolutely cruel to quote her observations on the works of the old
masters. In literature she prefers Dr Watts, as a poet, to Dryden, and
has the calm temerity to proceed to quotation. She says, “For instance,
take these lines:—

                “‘Wide as his vast dominion lies
                  Let the Creator’s name be known;
                Loud as his thunder shout his praise,
                  _And sound it lofty as his throne_.
                Speak of the wonders of that love
                  _Which Gabriel plays on every chord_,
                From all below and all above
                  Loud hallelujahs to the Lord.’

“Simply as a specimen of harmonious versification, _I would place this
paraphrase by Dr Watts above everything in the English language_, not
even excepting Pope’s Messiah”!!! Whereas, to any one possessing a
common ear, the lines must rank as absolute doggrel, and the ideas which
they convey are commonplace and wretchedly expressed. Elsewhere she
says:—“I certainly do not worship the old English poets. With the
exception of Milton and Shakespeare, there is more poetry in the works
of the writers of the last fifty years than in all the rest together.”
We wonder if she ever read a line of Chaucer or of Spenser, not to speak
of Pope and Dryden. But she objects even to Milton. Here is a piece of
criticism which we defy the world to match: “There is a coldness _about
all the luscious exuberance of Milton_, like the wind that blows from
the glaciers across these flowery valleys. How serene his angels in
their adamantine virtue! yet what sinning, suffering soul could find
sympathy in them? The utter want of sympathy for the fallen angels, in
the whole celestial circle, _is shocking_. Satan is the only one who
weeps

           “‘For millions of spirits for his faults amerced,
           And from eternal splendours flung—’

“God does not care, nor his angels.” Our readers, we hope, will
understand why we leave this passage without comment. But it may be
worth while to show them the sort of poetry (beyond Watts) which Mrs
Stowe does admire, and she favours us with the following as a “beautiful
aspiration” from an American poet of the name of Lowell:—

          “Surely the wiser time shall come
            When this fine overplus of might,
          No longer sullen, slow or dumb,
            Shall leap to music and to light.

          In that new childhood of the world,
            Life of itself shall dance and play,
          _Fresh blood through Time’s shrunk veins be hurled_,
            And labour meet delight half way.”

Beautiful aspirations—lovely lines! Why—they are absolute nonsense; and
the mere silent reading of them has set our teeth on edge. Try to recite
them, and you are inevitably booked for a catarrh! In like manner she
refers to some rubbish of Mr Whittier, an American rhymer, as a
“beautiful ballad, called ‘Barclay of Ury.’” We have a distinct
recollection of having read that ballad some years ago, and of our
impression that it was incomparably the worst which we ever encountered;
though, if a naked sword were at this moment to be presented to our
throat, we could depone nothing further, than that “rising in a fury,”
rhymed to “Barclay of Ury;” and also, that “frowning very darkly,”
chimed in to the name of “Barclay.” But it was woeful stuff; and it
lingers in our memory solely by reason of its absurdity. However, as Mrs
Stowe prefers this sort of thing to Spenser, we have nothing for it
except to make our bow, regretting that our æsthetical notions are so
far apart, that, under no circumstances whatever, can we foresee the
possibility of a coalition.

Beyond the Channel we shall not follow her; the more especially as the
greater part of the Continental tour is described in the journal of the
Rev. Charles Beecher, an individual with whose proceedings, thoughts,
and raptures, we have not been able to conjure up the slightest
sympathy. In fact, taking Mr Beecher at his own estimate and valuation,
and making every allowance for playfulness of manner, we should by no
means covet his company in any part of Europe; and we are only surprised
that, in one or two places (as for instance Cologne), he did not receive
an emphatic check to his outrageous hilarity. But as he seems to have
been impressed with the idea that he exhibited himself rather in a
humorous and attractive light, we have no intention of dispelling the
dream—we are only sorry that Mrs Stowe should have thought it worth
while to increase the bulk of her book by admitting her relative’s
inflated, ill-written, and singularly silly lucubrations, as part of a
work which, considering her literary celebrity, and the interest of the
theme, will in all probability have an extensive circulation.

After making every allowance for the difficulty attendant upon the task
of portraying with fidelity and spirit the customs of a foreign country,
we cannot, with truth, express an opinion that Mrs Stowe has been
successful in her effort. Far more interesting and agreeable volumes
have been written by women of less natural ability; and we are
constrained to dismiss, with a feeling of decided disappointment, a book
which we opened with the anticipation of a very different result.




                        THE CRYSTAL PALACE.[44]


It is the common practice of innovators to set up a loud cry against
long-received opinions which favour them not, and the word prejudice is
the denunciation of “mad-dog.” But prejudices, like human beings who
hold them, are not always “_so bad as they seem_.” They are often the
action of good, natural instincts, and often the results of
ratiocinations whose processes are forgotten. Let us have no “Apology”
for a long-established prejudice; ten to one but it can stand upon its
own legs, and needs no officious supporter, who simply apologises for
it.

We have had philosophers who have told us there is really no such thing
as beauty, consequently there can be no such thing as taste; that it is
a mere idea, an unaccountable prejudice somehow or other engendered in
the brain. And though there exists not a head in the universe without a
portion of this disorder-breeding brain, the philosopher persists that
the product is a worthless nonentity, and altogether out of the nature
of things. We maintain, however, in favour of prejudices and tastes—that
there are real grounds for both; and, presuming not to be so wise as to
deny the evidences of our senses, and conclusions of our minds, think it
scarcely worth while to unravel the threads of our convictions. In
matters of science we marvel and can believe almost anything; but in our
tastes and feelings we naturally, and by an undoubting instinct, shrink
from the touch of an innovator, as we would shun the heel of a donkey.

Whenever an innovator of this kind sets up “An Apology” for his intended
folly, we invariably feel that he means a very audacious insult upon our
best perceptions. The worst of it is, he is not one easily put aside—he
will labour to get a commission into your house, ransack it to its
sewers, and turn it out of windows. He is the man that must ever be
doing. He will think himself entitled to perambulate the world with his
pot of polychrome in his hand, and bedaub every man’s door-post; and if
multitudes—the whole offended neighbourhood—rush out to upset his pot
and brush, he will laugh in their faces, defend his plastering
instruments, and throw to them with an air his circular, “An Apology;”
and perhaps afterwards knock the doors down for an authorised payment.
Such a one shall get no “Apology”-pence out of us.

We are prejudiced—we delight in being prejudiced—will continue
prejudiced as long as we live, and will entertain none but prejudiced
friends. There are things we will believe, and give no reasons for,
ever; and things we never will believe, whatever reasons are to be given
in their favour. We think the man who said, “Of course, I believe it, if
you say you saw it; but I would not believe it if I saw it myself,” used
an irresistible argument of good sound prejudice, mixed with discretion.
It is better, safer, and honester, to bristle up like a hedgehog, and
let him touch who dares, than to sit and be smoothed and smoothed over
with oily handling of sophisticated arguments, till every decent
palpable roughness of reason is taken from you.

Reader, do you like white marble? What a question! you will ask,—do you
suppose me to have no eyes? Do not all people covet it—import it from
Carrara? Do not sculptors, as sculptors have done in all ages, make
statues from it—monuments, ornaments, and costly floors? Of course,
everybody loves white marble. Then, reader, if such is your taste, you
are a prejudiced ignoramus; you belong to that age “devoid of the
capacity to appreciate and the power to execute works of art”—that age
which certain persons profess to _illuminate_. You are now, under the
new dictators of taste, to know that you had no business to admire white
marble,[45]—that you are so steeped in this old prejudice that it will
require a long time before you can eradicate this stain of a vile
admiration, although your teachers have acquired a true knowledge in an
incredible time. You must put yourself under the great colourman of the
great Crystal Palace, Mr Owen Jones, who, if he does not put out your
eyes in the experiments he will set before you, will at least endeavour
to convince you that you are a fool of the first water. But beware how
you don his livery of motley. Hear him: “Under this influence (the
admiration of white marble), however, we have been born and bred, and it
requires time to shake off the trammels which such early education
leaves.” You have sillily believed that the Athenians built with marble
because of its beauty,—that the Egyptians thought there was beauty in
granite. You thought in your historical dream that he who found the city
of brick, and left it of marble, had done something whereof he might
reasonably boast. You have been egregiously mistaken. If you ever read
that the Greeks and Romans, and other people since their times
civilised, sent great distances for marble for their palaces and
statues, you must put it down in your note-book of new “historic
doubts.” You learn a fact you never dreamed of, from Mr Owen Jones. They
merely used it (marble) because it lay accidentally at their feet. He
puts the richest colouring of his contempt on “the artificial value
which white marble has in our eyes.” Learn the real cause of its use:
“The Athenians built with marble, because they found it almost beneath
their feet, and also from the same cause which led the Egyptians to
employ granite, which was afterwards painted—viz. because it was the
most enduring, and capable of receiving a higher finish of workmanship.”
He maintains that so utterly regardless were these Greeks of any
supposed beauty in marble—especially white marble—that they took pains
to hide every appearance of its texture; that they not only painted it
all over, but covered it with a coating of stucco. Listen to an oracle
that, we will answer for it, never came from Delphi, that no Pythia in
her madness ever conceived, and that, if uttered in the recesses, would
have made Apollo shake his temple to pieces.

“To what extent were white marble temples painted and ornamented? I
would maintain that they were _entirely_ so; that neither the colour of
the marble, nor even its surface, was preserved; and that preparatory to
the ornamenting and colouring of the surface, the whole was covered with
a thin coating of stucco, something in the nature of a gilder’s ground,
to stop the absorption of the colours by the marble.”

“A thin coat of stucco!” and no exception with respect to statues—to be
applied wherever the offensive white marble showed its unblushing
nakedness and beauty!! Let us imagine it tested on a new statue—thus
stucco over, however thin, Mr Bayley’s Eve, or Mr Power’s Greek
Slave—the thought is enough to make the sculptor go mad, and commit a
murder on himself or the plasterer—to see all his fine, his delicate
chisellings obliterated! all the nice markings, the scarcely perceptible
dimplings gone!—for let the coat of stucco be thin as a wafer, it must,
according to that thickness, enlarge every rising and diminish the
spaces between them: thus, all true proportion must be lost; between two
risings the space must be less. “What fine chisel,” says our immortal
Shakespeare, “could ever yet cut breath?” How did he imagine, in these
few words, the living motion of the “breath of life” in the statue! and
who doubts either the attempt or the success so to represent perfect
humanity, when he looks at the finest antique statues? Let an audacious
innovator dare to daub one of them with his coat of stucco, and all the
chiselling of the life, breath, and motion is annihilated. It must be
so, whatever be the thickness of the coat; though it be but a
nail-paring it must diminish risings and hollows, and all nicer touches
must disappear. We should heartily desire to see the innovator
suffocated in his plaster and paint-pot, that in his suffering he may
know it is a serious thing to knock the life-breath out of the body even
of a statue.

                           “Nec lex est justior ulla
                 Quam necis artifices arte perire suâ.”

There is one slight objection to our getting rid of this prejudice in
favour of white marble which we suggest to Mr Owen Jones, and all the
“Stainers’” Company—the unseemly blots we shall have to make in the
fairest pages of poetry, old and new. Albums will of course be ruined,
and a general smear, bad as a “coat of stucco,” be passed over the whole
books of beauties who have “dreamed they dwelt in marble halls.” The new
professors, polychromatists, must bring out, if they are able, new
editions of all our classics. How must this passage from Horace provoke
their bile:

                   “Urit me Glycone nitor
                   Splendentis Pario marmore puriùs.”

And when, after being enchanted by the “grata protervitas,” he adds the
untranslateable line,

                  “Et Vultus nimium lubricus aspici,”

we can almost believe, with that bad taste which Mr Owen Jones will
condemn, that he had in the full eye of his admiration the polished,
delicately defined charm of the Parian marble.

It was a clown’s taste to daub the purity; and first he daubed his own
face, and the faces of his drunken rabble. He would have his gods made
as vulgar as himself; and then, doubtless, there was many a wooden,
worthless, and obscene idol, the half joke and veneration of the
senseless clowns, painted as fine as vermilion could make them.

             “Agricola et minio suffusus, Bacche, rubente,
             Primus inexpertâ duxit ab arte choros.”
                                             TIB.

But to suppose that Praxiteles and Phidias could endure to submit their
loveliest works to be stuccoed and _solidly_ painted over with
vermilion, seems to us to suppose a perfect impossibility. That they
could not have willingly allowed the defilement we have shown by the
nature of their work, all the nicety of touch and real proportion of
parts lying under the necessity of alteration, and consequently damage
thereby. Whatever apparent proof might be adduced that such statues were
painted—and we doubt the proof, as we will endeavour to show—we do not
hesitate to say that the daubings and plasterings must have been the
doing of a subsequent less cultivated people, and possibly at the demand
of a vulgarised mobocracy. The clown at our pantomimes is the successor
to the clown who smeared his face with wine-lees, and passed his jokes
while he gave orders to have his idol painted with vermilion. Yet though
it must be impossible that Phidias or Praxiteles would have allowed
solid coats of paint or stucco, or both, to have ruined the works of
their love and genius, under the presuming title “historical evidence”
an anecdote is culled from the amusing gossip Pliny, to show what
Praxiteles thought of it. “There is a passage in Pliny which is
decisive, as soon as we understand the allusion.” Speaking of Nicias
(lib. xxxv. cap. 11), he says that Praxiteles, when asked which of his
marble works best satisfied him, replied, “Those which Nicias has had
under his hands.” “So much,” adds Pliny, “did he prize the finishing of
Nicias”—(_tantum circumlitioni ejus tribuebat_). This “finishing of
Nicias,” by its location, professes to be a translation from Pliny,
which it is not. Had the writer adopted the exact wording of the old
English translation, from which he seems to have taken the former
portion of the sentence, it would not have suited his purpose, but it
would have been more fair: it is thus, “So much did he attribute unto
his vernish and polishing”—which contradicts the solid painting. Pliny
is rather ambiguous with regard to this Nicias—whether he was the
celebrated one or no. But it should be noticed that the anecdote, as
told in Mr Owen Jones’ “Apology,” is intended to show that the painter’s
skill, as a painter, was added—substantially added—to the work of
Praxiteles, whereas this Nicias may have been one who was nice in the
making and careful in the use of his varnish; and we readily grant that
some kind of varnishing or polishing may have been used over the
statues, both for lustre and protection. Certainly at one time, though
we would not say there is proof as to the time of Phidias, such
varnishes, or rather waxings, were in use. But even if it were the
celebrated Nicias to whom the anecdote refers, we cannot for a moment
believe he would have touched substantially, as a painter, any work of
Praxiteles. But as genius is ever attached to genius, he may have
supplied to Praxiteles the means of giving that polish which he gave to
his own works, and probably aided him in the operation, not “had under
his hands,” as translated—“quibus manum _admovisset_.” Pliny had in his
eye the very _modus operandi_ of the encaustic process, the holding
heated iron within a certain distance of the object. But what was the
operation? Does the text authorise anything like the painting the
statue? Certainly not. And however triumphantly it is brought forward,
there is a hitch in the argument which must be confessed.

In making this confession, it would have been as well to have referred
to Pliny himself for the meaning. Pliny uses the verb _illinebat_, in
grammatical relation to _circumlitio_, in the sense of varnishing, in
that well-known passage in which he speaks of the varnish used by
Apelles—“Unum imitari nemo potuit, quod absoluta opera _illinebat_
atramento ita tenui,” &c.

The meaning of this passage hangs on the word _circumlitio_. Winckelmann
follows the mass of commentators in understanding this as referring to
some mode of _polishing_ the statues. But Quatremère de Quincey, in his
magnificent work _Le Jupiter Olympien_, satisfactorily shows this to be
untenable, not only “because no sculptor could think of preferring such
of his statues as had been better polished, but also because Nicias
being a _painter_, not a sculptor, his services must have been those of
a painter.” If these are the only “becauses” of Quatremère de Quincey,
they are anything but satisfactory; for a sculptor may esteem all his
works as equal, and then prefer such as had the advantage of Nicias’s
_circumlitio_. Nor does the _because_ of Nicias being a painter at all
define the _circumlitio_ to be a plastering with stucco, or a thick
daubing with vermilion; for, be it borne in mind, this vermilion
painting is always spoken of as a solid coating. As to Nicias’s
services, “What were they?” asks the author of the _Historical Evidence
in Mr Jones’s Apology_. “Nicias was an _encaustic painter_, and hence it
is clear that his _circumlitio_, his mode of finishing the statues, so
highly prized by Praxiteles, must have been the application of encaustic
painting to those parts which the sculptor wished to have ornamented.
For it is quite idle to suppose a sculptor like Praxiteles would allow
another sculptor to _finish_ his works. The rough work may be done by
other hands, but the finishing is always left to the artist. The statue
completed, there still remained the painter’s art to be employed, and
for that Nicias is renowned.”—Indeed! This is exceedingly childish:
first the truism that one sculptor would not have another to _finish_
his work—of course, not; and then that the work was not finished until
the painter had regularly, according to his best skill and art—which art
and skill were required—been employed in the painting it as he would
paint a picture, “_for which he was renowned_;”—that is, variously
colour all the parts—till he had variously coloured hair and eyes, and
put in varieties of flesh tones, show the blue veins beneath, and all
that a painter _renowned_ for these things was in the habit of doing in
his pictures. If this be not the meaning of this author, and the object
of Mr Owen Jones in making such a parade of it, he or the writer writes
without any fixed ideas, and all this assumption, all this absurd
theory, is after all built upon a word which these people are determined
to misunderstand, and yet upon which they cannot help but express the
doubt. But why should there be any doubt at all? As far as we can see,
the word is a plain word, and explains itself very well, and even
expresses its _modus operandi_. A writer acquainted with such a
schoolboy book as Ainsworth’s Dictionary might have relieved his mind as
to any doubts or forced construction of _circumlitio_; he might have
found there, that the word comes from _Lino_, to smear, from _Leo_, the
same—and that _Circum_ in the composition shows the action, the mode of
smearing. Nay, he is referred to two passages in Pliny, the very one
from which the quotation in the _Historical Evidence_ is taken, and to
another in the same author, Pliny—and authors generally explain
themselves—where the word is used in reference to the application of
medicinal unguents. We can readily grant that the ancient sculptors did
employ recipes of the most skilful persons in making unctuous varnishes,
which they rubbed into the marble as a preservative, and also to bring
out more perfectly the beauty of the marble texture—not altogether to
hide it. It may be, without the least concession towards Mr Owen Jones’s
painting theory, as readily granted that they gave this unctuous
composition a warm tone, with a little vermilion, as many still do to
their varnishes. Pliny himself, in his 33d book, chap. vii., gives such
a recipe: White Punic wax, melted with oil, and laid on hot; the work
afterwards to be well rubbed over with cere-cloths. To return to the
“Circumlitio,” we have the word, only with _super_ instead of _circum_,
used in the application of a varnish by the Monk Theophilus, of the
tenth century, who, if he did not take the word from Pliny, and
therefore in Pliny’s sense, may be taken for quite as good _Latin_
authority. After describing the method of making a varnish of oil and a
gum—“gummi quod vocatur fornis”—he adds, “Hoc glutine omnis pictura
superlinita, fit et decora ac omnino durabilis.” The two words
Superlitio and Circumlitio,[46]—the first applicable to such a surface
as a picture; the last to statues, which present quite another surface.
But if it could be proved—and it cannot—that the works of Praxiteles
were in Mr Owen Jones’s sense painted over, would that justify the
colouring the frieze of the Parthenon, the work of Phidias, who preceded
Praxiteles more than a century, during which many abominations in taste
may have been introduced? We are quite aware that, at a barbarous
period, images of gods, probably mostly those of wood, were painted over
with vermilion, as a sacred colour and one of triumph. We extract from
the old translation of Pliny this passage:—“There is found also in
silver mines a mineral called minium, _i. e._ vermilion, which is a
colour at this day of great price and estimation, like as it was in old
time; for the ancient Romans made exceeding great account of it, not
only for pictures, but also for divers sacred and holy uses. And verily
Verrius allegeth and rehearseth many authors whose credit ought not to
be disproved, who affirm that the manner was in times past to paint the
very face of Jupiter’s image on high and festival daies with vermilion:
as also that the valiant captains who rode in triumphant manner into
Rome had in former times their bodies covered all over therewith; after
which manner, they say, noble Camillus entered the city in triumph. And
even to this day, according to that ancient and religious custom,
ordinary it is to colour all the unguents that are used in a festival
supper, at a solemne triumph, with vermilion. And no one thing do the
Censors give charge and order for to be done, at their entrance into
office, before the painting of Jupiter’s image with minium.” Yet Pliny
does not say much in favour of the practice; for he adds—“The cause and
motive that induced our ancestors to this ceremony I marvel much at, and
cannot imagine what it should be.” The Censors did but follow a vulgar
taste to please the vulgar, for whom no finery can be too fine, no
colours too gaudy. However refined the Athenian taste, we know from
their comedies they had their vulgar ingredient: there could be no
security among them even for the continuance in purity of the genius
which gave them the works of Phidias and Praxiteles; nor were even these
great artists perhaps allowed the exercise of their own noble minds. The
Greeks had no permanent virtues—no continuance of high perceptions: as
these deteriorated, their great simplicity would naturally yield to
petty ornament. They of Elis, who appointed the descendants of Phidias
to the office of preserving from injury his statue of Jupiter Olympius,
did little if they neglected to secure their education also in the
principles of the taste of Phidias. The conservators would in time be
the destroyers; and simply because they must do, and know not what to
do. When images—their innumerable idols—were carried in processions,
they were of course dressed up, not for veneration, but show. We know
that in very early times their gods were carried about in shrines, and,
without doubt, tricked up with dress and daubings, pretty much as are,
at this day, the Greek Madonnas. Venus and Cupid have descended down to
our times in the painted Madonna and Bambino. Whatever people under the
sun have ever had paint and finery, temples, gods, and idols have had
their share of them. We need no proofs, and it is surprising we have so
few with respect to the great works of the ancients, that these
corruptions would take place. It is in human nature: barbarism never
actually dies; it is an ill weed, hard entirely to eradicate, and is
ready to spring up in the most cultivated soils. The vulgar mind will
make its own Loretto: imagination and credulity want no angels but
themselves to convey anywhere a “_santa casa_;” nor will there be
wanting brocade and jewels, the crown and the _peplos_, for the
admiration of the ignorant. Are a few examples, if found and proved, and
of the best times—which is not clear—to establish the theory as good in
taste, or in any way part of the intention of the great sculptors? If
authorities adduced, and to be adduced, are worth anything, they must go
a great deal farther. Take, for instance, a passage from Pausanias, lib.
ii. c. 11: Καὶ Ὑγείας δ’ ἐσι κατα ταυτον αγαλμα οὺκ αν οὐδὲ τοῦτο ἴδοις
ῤᾳδίως, οὕτω, περιεχουσιν ἀυτὸ κόμαι τε γυναικὼν άὓ κειρονται τῇ θεῶ,
καὶ ἐσθῆτός Βαβυλωνίας τελαμῶνες.—“And after the same manner is a statue
of Hygeia, which you may not easily see, it is so completely covered
with hair of the women who have shorn themselves in honour of the
goddess, and also with the fringes of the Babylonish vest.” Here,
surely, is quite sufficient authority for Mr Jones to procure ample and
variously coloured wigs for the Venus de Medicis, and other statues, and
to order a committee of milliners to devise suitable vesture. Images of
this kind were mostly made of wood, easy to be carried about; and were
often, doubtless, made likest life, for the deception as of the real
presence of a deity. The view of art was lost when imposture commenced.
Mr Jones admits that the Greek sculptors did not intend exact imitation,
but his theory goes so close to it, it would be difficult to say where
it stops short. Indeed, he had better at once go the whole way, or we
may better say, “the whole hog,” with bristle brushes, for when he has
got rid of the “_prejudice_” in favour of white marble, his spectators
will be satisfied with nothing less than wax-work.

We remember hearing, in a remote village, the consolation one poor woman
gave another—“Look up to them pretty angels, with their lovely black
eyes, and take comfort from ’em.” These were angels’ heads in plaster,
round the cornice, which the church-wardens, year after year, with the
official taste and importance of the Roman Censors, had caused to be so
painted when, as they announced on a tablet, they “beautified” the
church. Of late years we have been removing the whitewash from our
cathedrals, thicker, by repetition, than Mr Owen Jones’s prescribed
coats of stucco. Should his theory prevail, we shall be again ashamed of
stone; white-lime will be restored until funds shall be found for
stucco, inside and out, as preparation for Mr Jones’s bright blue and
unmitigated vermilion and gold. It is frightful to imagine Mr Owen Jones
and his paint-pot over every inch of Westminster Abbey, inside and out.

Let us take a nearer view of the historical evidence. We are told,
“Ancient literature abounds with references and allusions to the
practice of painting and dressing statues. Space prevents their being
copiously cited here.” We venture to affirm, that the lack of existence
is greater than the lack of space, if by ancient literature is meant the
best literature—the literature contemporary with the works of the great
sculptors. There were poets and historians—can any quotation be given at
all admissible as evidence? It is extraordinary that the advocates for
the theory, if it were true, can find no passages in the poets. Is there
nothing nearer than what Plato puts into the mouth of Socrates? “Let it
be remembered that Socrates was the son of a sculptor, and that Plato
lived in Athens, acquainted with the great sculptors and their works;
then read this passage, wherein Socrates employs by way of simile the
practice of painting statues—‘Just as if, when painting statues, a
person should blame us for not placing the most beautiful colours on the
most beautiful parts of the figure—inasmuch as the eyes, the most
beautiful parts, were not painted purple but black,—we should answer him
by saying, Clever fellow, do not suppose we are to paint eyes so
beautifully that they should not appear to be eye.’—PLATO, _De Repub._,
lib. iv. This passage would long ago have settled the question, had not
the moderns been preoccupied with the belief that the Greeks did not
paint their statues; they therefore read the passage in another sense.
Many translators read ‘pictures’ for ‘statues.’ But the Greek word
Ανδριας signifies ‘statue,’ and is never used to signify ‘picture.’ It
means statue, and a statuary is called the maker of such
statues—Ανδριαντοποιος. (Mr Davis, in Bohn’s English edition of Plato,
avoids the difficulty by translating it ‘human figures’).”—Mr Lloyd, in
his remarks upon this passage, confesses that it does not touch the
question concerning the painting the flesh, but refers to the eyes,
lips, and ornaments. We object not to admit more than this, and, as we
have before observed, that certain images, mostly of wood, were painted
entirely, excepting where clothed; and, for argument’s sake, admitting
that Socrates alluded to these common images, if we may so speak, the
ancestors of our common dolls, should we be justified in building a
theory subversive of all good taste upon such an ambiguity? For nothing
is here said of marble statues; and there is nothing to show that marble
statues are meant. The writer in the “Apology” says, with an air of
triumph, that Ανδριας always means statue, and never picture; but these
were figures, that he would call statues, of wood and of clay, and of
little value—a kind of marketable goods for the vulgar, as we have
already shown. But if the writer is determined to make them marble
statues, and of the best, he might certainly have made his case the
stronger; for when he says, and truly, that Socrates was the son of a
sculptor, he forgets that Socrates was himself a sculptor,—and some have
supposed him to have been a painter also, but Pliny is of another
opinion. The three Graces in the court before the Acropolis of Athens
were his work; and it is probably to the demands these Graces made upon
his thoughts the philosopher alluded in his dialogue with Theodote the
courtesan. She had invited him to her home; he excused himself that he
had no leisure from his private and public affairs,—“and besides,” he
adds playfully, “I have φἴλαι—female friends—at home who will not suffer
me to absent myself from them day or night, learning, as they do from
me, charms and powers of enticement.”[47] So that we may suppose him to
have been no mean statuary. Yet, considering that his mother followed
the humble occupation of a midwife, and that consequently his father was
not very rich, it may not be an out-of-the-way conjecture to suppose
that the family trade may have had its humbler employments, of which the
painting images may have borne a part. Ships had their images as well as
temples, and we know that the ship’s head was “Μιλτοπάρἤος.” The custom
has descended to our times. But we are not to take the word put by Plato
into the mouth of Socrates—ανδριαντας—necessarily in the highest sense,
and imagine he speaks of such works as those of Phidias or Praxiteles.
Although the Greeks did distinguish the several words by which statues
were understood, they were not very nice in the observance of the
several uses. Ανδριαντας may have been applied to any representation of
the human figure.[48] Ανδριαντοποιος, says the Apologist, was a
statuary—so may have been said to be Ανδριαντοπλάσης the modellist in
clay or wax; but neither word is used by Socrates—simply Ανδριαντας,
(images). There is not a hint as to how, or with what materials, they
were made. The scholiast on the passage in Aristophanes respecting the
work of Socrates (the Graces), makes a distinction between ανδριαντας
and αγαλματα—noticing that Socrates was the son of Sophroniscus,
λιθοξόou, with whom he took his share in the polishing art, adding that
he polished ανδριαντας λιθινouς ἐλαξεύε, and that he made the “αγαλματα”
of the three Graces. Now, let ανδριας be a statue, or human figure, of
whatever material, and grant that some such figures had painted eyes,
and probably partially coloured drapery, possibly the whole body
painted—what then? they might have been low and inferior works. Who
would think, from such data, of inferring a habit in the Greek sculptors
of painting and plastering all their marble statues—asserting too, so
audaciously, that we the moderns have, and not they, a prejudice in
favour of white marble? But Mr Lloyd, in his note on this passage, with
respect to Socrates (_vide_ “Apology”), admits that it is no evidence of
the colouring the flesh. “The passage is decisive, as far as it goes,
but it does not touch the question of colouring the flesh. It proves
that as late as Plato’s time it was usual to apply colour to the eyes of
statues; and assuming, what is not stated, that marble statues are in
question, we are brought to the same point as by the Æginetan marbles,
of which the eyes, lips, portions of the armour and draperies, were
found coloured. I forget whether the hair was found to be coloured, but
the absence of traces of colour on the flesh, while they were abundant
elsewhere, indicates that, if coloured at all, it must have been by a
different and more perishable process—by a tint, or stain, or varnish.
The Æginetan statues, being archaic, do not give an absolute rule for
those of Phidias. The archaic Athenian bas-relief of a warrior, in
excellent preservation, shows vivid colours on drapery and ornaments of
armour, and the eyeballs were also coloured: here again there is no
trace of colour on the flesh.” But notwithstanding that no statue has
been found with any trace of colour in the flesh, and not satisfied with
Mr Lloyd’s commentary, Mr Owen Jones seeks proof and confirmation of the
sense of the quotation from Plato, in a caution given by Plutarch, thus
mistranslated: “It is necessary to be very careful of statues, otherwise
_the vermilion with which the ancient statues were coloured will quickly
disappear_.” What kind of care is necessary? Plutarch uses the word
γάνωσις, which means more than care—that a polishing or varnishing is
necessary (if, as we may presume, they would preserve the old colouring
of an archaic statue), because, not perhaps of the quick fading of the
vermilion, as translated by Mr Lloyd, but the vermilion
εξανθεῖ—effloresces; or, as we should say, comes up dry to the surface,
leaving the vehicle with which it was put on. However, let the passage
have all the meaning Mr Owen Jones can desire, it relates only to
certain sacred figures at Rome, not in Greece, and which may have been,
for anything that is known to the contrary, figures of sacred geese. How
do these quotations show the practice of Phidias? In the first place,
Plato, who narrates what Socrates said, was nearly a century after
Phidias, and Plutarch nearly six hundred years after Phidias. On every
account the authority of Plato would be preferable to that of Plutarch,
who kept his school at Rome, and was far more fond of raising questions
than of affording accurate information.[49] Mr Owen Jones, however, in
the impetuosity of his imaginary triumph, outruns all his given
authorities to authorities not given. He says: “There are abundant
notices extant which illustrate it (the painting of statues). One will
suffice. The celebrated marble statue of a Bacchante by Scopas is
described as holding, in lieu of the Thyrsus, a dead roebuck, which is
cut open, and the marble represents living flesh.” We willingly excuse
the blunder of the _living_ flesh of a _dead_ roebuck, ascribing it
solely to the impetuosity of the genius of Mr Owen Jones, which,
plunging into colouring matter, would vermilionise the palest face of
Death. If paint could “create a soul under the ribs of death,” he would
do it. He must greatly admire the old lady’s dying request to—

                     “Put on this cheek a little _red_,
             One surely would not look a fright when dead.”

We know not where to lay our hand upon the original account of this
statue of the Bacchante of Scopas; but if it says no more than the
Apologist says for it—that the marble represented “living flesh”—it does
not necessarily imply colour. Here is a contradiction: if it be meant
that by “living flesh” the colour of living flesh was represented—for
that must be the argument—there must have been an attempt towards the
exact imitation of nature. “In the first place,” says Mr Owen Jones,
arguing against the suggestion of coloured and veined marble having been
used, “veins do not so run in marble as to represent flesh. In the
second, unless statues were usually coloured, such veins, if they
existed, would be regarded as terrible blemishes, and the very things
the Greeks are supposed to have avoided—viz., colour as representing
reality—would be shown.” Does Mr Owen Jones here admit that this exact
imitation by colour was not usual? If so, as the words imply, what
becomes of his quotation of the words of Socrates with regard to
colouring the eyes? And further, upon what new plea will he justify his
colouring the Parthenon frieze—not only the men and their cloaks, but
the horses—so that the latter exactly resemble those on the roundabouts
on which children ride at fairs? We suppose he meant the men to have a
natural colour, and the horses also—a taste so vile, that we are quite
sure such a perpetration would have shocked Phidias out of all patience.
And if not meant for the exact colour, what can he suppose they were
painted for?—as, to avoid this semblance of reality, the Greeks,
according to him, should have painted men and horses vermilion or blue,
or any colour the farthest from reality, the contrary to the practice of
Mr Owen Jones—and that he should have painted them vermilion he
immediately shows, by quoting Pausanias, where he describes a statue of
Bacchus “as having all those portions not hidden by draperies painted
vermilion, the body being of gilded wood.” What has this to do with
marble statues? But he seems not to understand the hint given by his
commentator, Mr Lloyd, “that the statue was apparently ithyphallic, and
probably archaic”—a well-known peculiarity in statues of Bacchus. Not
having, however, such a specimen in marble, he is particularly glad to
find one of gypsum, “ornamented with paint:” nothing more probable, and
for the same reason that the wooden one was painted vermilion.

“But colour was used, as we know,” says Mr Owen Jones; “and Pausanias
(_Arcad._, lib. viii. cap. 39) describes a statue of Bacchus as having
all those portions not hidden by draperies painted vermilion, the body
being of gilded wood. He also distinctly says that statues made of
gypsum were painted, describing a statue of Bacchus γυψου πεποιημενον,
which was—the language is explicit—ornamented with paint,
(επικεκοσμημενον γραφῃ.)” These are statues of Bacchus, and, as the
Apologist is reminded by his commentator, Mr Lloyd, “apparently
ithyphallic,” and therefore painted red. The draperies are the
assumption of the writer; he should have said ivy and laurel. Mr Owen
Jones, to render his examples “abundant,” writes _statues_ in the latter
part of the quotation, whereas the word in his authority, Pausanias, is
singular. We stay not to inquire if γραφη here means paint, though,
speaking of another statue, Pausanias uses the verb and its congenial
noun in another sense—“ἐπίγραμμα ἐπἄυτῆ γραφῆναι.” We the more readily
grant it was painted vermilion, because it was a Bacchic statue; and
grant that it was seen by Pausanias. We daresay it was ancient enough;
but for any proof we must not look to Pausanias, who lived at Rome 170th
year of the Christian era;—and here it must be borne in mind, that of
the innumerable statues spoken of by that writer, of marble and other
materials, the supposed painted are a very few exceptions. Not only does
he speak of marble, without any mention of colouring, but of its
whiteness. In this matter, indeed, the exceptions prove the rule of the
contrary. Before we proceed to the examples taken from Virgil—weak
enough—let us see if there may not be found something nearer the time of
Phidias than any authorities given. Well, then, we have an eyewitness,
one who must not only have seen the statues of Phidias, but probably
conversed with Phidias himself—Æschylus. If such statues as he speaks of
were painted generally, and as a necessary part of their completion,
could he have brought into poetic use and sentiment their vacancy of
eyes? It is a remarkable passage. He is describing Menelaus in his
gallery full of the large statues of Helen. It is in the “Agamemnon:”

                          Εὐμόρφων γὰρ κολοσσῶν
                        Ἔχθεται χάρις ἀνδρί.
                        Ὀμμάτων δ’ ἐν ἀχηνίαις
                           Ἔῤῥει πᾶσ’ Ἀφροδίτα.

There was “no speculation in those eyes.” The eyes were not painted
certainly; as the poet saw the statues in his mind’s eye, so had he seen
them with his visible organs. The charm of love was not in them, because
the outward form of the eye was only represented in the marble. The
love-charm was not in those “vacancies of eyes.” Schütz has this note
upon the passage: “Quamvis nimirum eleganter fabricatæ sint statuæ,
carent tamen oculis, adeoque admirationem quidem excitare possunt amorem
non item.”

These lines of the poet Æschylus, repeated before an acute and critical
Athenian audience, would have been unintelligible, and marked as an
egregious blunder, if the practice of painting statues, or even their
eyes alone, had been so universal as it is represented in this
“Apology.” Can there be a more decisive authority, than this of the
contemporary Æschylus? It is certainly a descent from Æschylus to
Virgil; but we follow the apologist.

             “Marmoreusque tibi, Dea, _versicoloribus alis_
             _In morem_ pictâ stabit Amor pharetrâ.”

The writer, by his italics, is, we think, a little out in grammar,
connecting “in morem” (because it was customary) with “versicoloribus
alis,”—and in his translated sense of the passage, with “pictâ pharetrâ”
also. This is certainly making nothing of it, by endeavouring to make
the most of it. “In morem” may more properly attach itself to “stabit;”
if not, to the wings or painted quiver,—not, in construction, to both;
at any rate, Virgil, though Heyne reproves him for his bad taste, had
here a prejudice in favour of marble, for “Amor” shall be marble—that is
the first word, and first consideration. In the next quotation Virgil,
as provokingly, sets his heart upon marble—nay, smooth polished
marble—and the whole figure is to be entirely of this smooth marble; but
he gratifies Mr Jones by “scarlet”—the colour of colours, vermilion—and
thus so reconciles the Polychromatist to the marble, as to induce him to
quote the really worthless passage:—

             “Si proprium hoc fuerit, levi de marmore tota
             Puniceo stabis suras evincta cothurno.”

It is not of much moment to the main question what statue one clown
should offer to Diana, in return for a day’s hunting, or the other to a
very different and far less respectable deity, whom he has already made
in vulgar marble, _pro temp._ only, and whom he promises to set up in
gold, though simply the “custos pauperis horti.”

             “Nunc te marmoreum pro tempore fecimus; at tu
             Si fœtura gregem suppleverit, aureus esto.”

The poetical promises exceeded the clown’s means; neither Diana, nor the
deity, odious to her, saw the promises fulfilled. The Apologist is
merely taking advantage of a poetical license, a plenary indulgence in
nonperformance. It is quite ridiculous to attempt to prove what Phidias
and Praxiteles must have done, by what Virgil imagined. But as Mr Owen
Jones delights in such _quasi_ modern authorities, we venture to remind
him of the bad taste of Horace, who loved the Parian marble; and to
recommend him to consider in what manner white marble is spoken of by as
good authority, Juvenal, who introduces it as most valued in his
time—white statues.

            “Et jam accurrit, qui marmora donet
            Conferat impersas. Hic nuda et candida signa,
            Hic aliquid præclarum Euphranoris et Polycleti.”

It may be as well to quote also what he says in reference to waxing
statues:—

             “Propter quæ fas est genua _incerare_ Deorum.”

Upon which we find in a note—“Consueverant Deorum simulacra cera
_illinire_ (the old word of dispute) ibidemque affert illud Prudentii,
lib. i., contra Symonachum,—

                          ——‘Saxa illita ceris
             Viderat, unguentoque Lares humescere nigros.’”

And in Sat. XII., “Simulacra intentia cerâ.”

We have already treated of this custom of waxing the statues, and given
the recipe of Pliny, to which we revert for a moment, because the
advocates for the colouring theory insist that _illitia_, _linita_,
_illinere_, _linire_, all of one origin, are words applicable to
painting. Pliny says,—we quote from Smith’s _Dictionary of Greek and
Roman Antiquities_,—after showing how the wax should be melted and laid
on, “It was then rubbed with a clean linen cloth, _in the way that naked
marble statues were done_.” The Latin is—“_Sicut et marmora nitescunt._”
The writer in the Dictionary speaks as to the various application of the
encaustic process, to paint and to polish: “Wax thus purified was mixed
with all species of colours, and prepared for painting; but it was
applied also to many other uses, as polishing statues, walls, &c.”

Lucian, who died ninety years of age, 180th of the Christian era,
although he relinquished the employment of a statuary, and followed that
of literature, had certainly an excellent taste in art. His descriptions
of statues and pictures prove his fondness and his knowledge. What he
says of the famous Cnidian Venus of Praxiteles is very remarkable. After
admiring the whiteness of the marble and its polish, he praises the
ingenuity of the artificer, in so contriving the statue as to bring
least in sight a blemish in the marble, (a very common thing, he adds).
It would not have required this ingenuity in the design, if Praxiteles
had intended his statue to be painted, for the paint would have covered
the stain in the marble wherever placed. We may learn something more
from Lucian. In his “Images,” wishing to describe a perfect woman, he
will first represent her by the finest statues in the world, selecting
the beauties of each. It is in a dialogue with Lycinus and Polystratus.
“Is there anything wanting?” asks Polystratus, after mention of these
perfect statues. Lycinus replies that the colouring is wanting. He
therefore brings to his description the most beautiful works of the best
painters. Enough is not done yet; there is the mind to be added. He
therefore calls in the poets. Here, then, we have statuary, painter, and
poet, each by their separate art to portray this perfect woman. He does
not describe by painted statues, but by pictures. Had painting statues
been universal, as pretended, Lucian must have seen examples, and his
reference to pictures would have been unnecessary. If it be argued that
the paint had worn off, that argument will tell against the
Polychromatists, for it at least will show that, in an age when statues
were esteemed, the barbarity of colouring was not renewed.

In his “Description of a House,” he says, “Over against the door, upon
the wall, there is the Temple of Minerva in relief, where you may see
the goddess in white marble, without her accoutrements of war.” The
painter, it may be fairly conjectured, painted inside on the wall of the
house, the common aspect, and the white marble statue.

In his “Baths of Hippias,” he mentions “two noble pieces of antiquity in
marble of Health and Æsculapius.” Nor does he omit noticing paint, and
that vermilion—but where is it? “Then you come to a hot passage of
Numidian stone, that brings you to the last apartment, glittering with a
bright vermilion, bordering on purple.”

According to Mr Owen Jones’s theory, all these exquisite works in white
marble are to be considered as unfinished; if they have not been handed
over to the painter, they should be now. Why did Phidias and Praxiteles
so elaborate to the mark of truth their performances? The reader will be
astonished to learn the reason from Mr Owen Jones. It was from the
necessity of the subsequent finish by paints!

“People are apt to argue that Phidias never could have taken such pains
to study the light and shade of this bas-relief, if the fineness of his
workmanship had had to be stopped up when bedaubed with paint.” It is
astonishing that not a glimmering of common sense was here let in upon
the work of Phidias, while the whole light of his understanding showed
the effect of his own handiwork on the plaster; for he, in that case,
says, “But when the plaster has further to be painted with four coats of
oil-paint to stop the suction, it may readily be imagined how much the
more delicate modulations of the surface will suffer.” Does he suppose
that the eyes of Phidias, and of people in that age, were blind to the
suffering of these nice modulations from the stucco, or over-coats of
paint? But why did Phidias so finish his works?—hear the polychromatic
oracle “Now, people who argue thus have never understood what colour
does when applied to form. The very fact that colour has to be applied,
demands the highest finish in the form beneath. By more visibly bringing
out the form, it makes all defects more prominent. Let any one compare
the muscles of the figures in white with the muscles of those coloured,
and he will not hesitate an instant to admit this truth. The labours of
Phidias, had they never received colour, would have been thrown away; it
was because he designed them to receive colour, that such an elaboration
of the surface was required.” This is the most considerable
inconsiderate nonsense imaginable. Common sense says, that one even
colour, or absence of colour, gives equal shadows, according to the
sculptor’s design; but if you colour portions of the same work
differently, the unity of shadows will be destroyed, for shadows will
assimilate themselves to the various colourings, be they light or dark.
This necessity of colouring would impose such a task upon the sculptor,
so complicate his work and design, and so bring his whole mind into
subservience to, or certainly co-operation and consultation with, the
painter, that no man of genius could submit to it; for it is the
characteristic of genius to have its exercise in its own independent
art. The assertion of this effect of colour, by Mr Jones, is untrue in
fact, and if he could make it true, would so complicate, and at the same
time degrade, the statuary’s art, that in the disgust of its operation
it would be both out of the power, and out of the inclination, of men to
pursue it. Will the people of England take Mr Owen Jones’s reproof? To
them the labours of Phidias have hitherto been thrown away, for they
have only as yet seen his works in white marble—in fact, unfinished. In
this state Mr Jones thinks they have been very silly to admire them at
all—and how they came to admire them who can comprehend? they have no
colourable pretext for their admiration. Not only have the labours of
Phidias been “_thrown away_,”—but, what is more galling to this age of
economists, some forty thousand pounds of our good people’s money have
been thrown away too. What is left to be done? Simply what we have often
done before—throw some “good money after the bad,” and constitute Mr
Owen Jones Grand Polychromatist-plenipotentiary, with competence of
salary and paint-pots, and establish him for life, and his school for
ever, in the British Museum. It is well for him and for them the
innocent marbles have no motion, or the very stones would cry out
against him, and uplift their quiescent arms to smash more than his
paint-pots.

And here let us be allowed to remark of Mr Owen Jones’s colouring,
having been thoroughly disgusted at the Crystal Palace, that he is as
yet but in the very elements of the grammar of colour. He has gone but a
very little way in its alphabet. He has practised little more than the A
B C—that is, the bright blue, the bright red, the bright yellow. But the
alphabet is much beyond this. What of their combinations? These are so
innumerable that, as if in despair of their acquirement, he puts his
whole trust in the blue, red, and yellow, so that the very object of
colour, variety, is missed, and the eye is wearied and irritated in this
Crystal Palace with what may be called, in defiance of the contradiction
of the word, a polychromatic monotony. His theory of colour stops short
at the beginning—it is without its learning. The sentiments of colours
are in their mixtures, their relative combinations, and appropriate
applications, and we venture to suggest to other Polychromatists,
besides Mr Owen Jones, that the grammar of colouring, if learned
properly, will lead to a mystery which the blue, red, and yellow, of
themselves the A, B, C of the art, are quite insufficient to teach. The
study is by none more required than our painters in glass; nor are some
of our picture-makers, as our Academy exhibitions show, without the need
of a little learning. We scarcely ever see a modern window that does not
exhibit a total ignorance of colour. The first thing that strikes the
eye is a quantity of blue, for it is the most active colour, and it is
given in large portions, not dissipated as it should be—then reds, and
as vivid as may be—and yellows. Attempt at proper effect, such as the
_genius loci_ requires, there is none. With the unsparing use of these
three unmitigated colours only, we do not see why decorators should be
called Polychromatists at all; they should style themselves
Trichromatists. But of Mr Owen Jones’s polychromatic theory and
practice, do not let him so slander the tasks of the ancients as to
pretend that he has it from them, if by the ancients he means those
artists of good time. They delighted in white marble, “nuda et candida
signa,”—the naked and the white. The pretence that he had it from them,
is as the

              “Painted vest Prince Vortigern had on,
              Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won.”

The grandsire never took it; the _naked_ Pict never had it. And yet the
directors of this Crystal Palace have taken Mr Owen Jones’s word for it.
They have inconsiderately, and with the worst taste, delivered up the
Palace into Mr Jones’s hands. We dread his being put into any other
palace, for he evidently longs to be stuccoing and daubing the real
marbles. “The experiment cannot be fairly tried, till tried on
marble”—and he looks to a wide area, ample verge, and room enough, “and
in conditions of space, atmosphere, &c., similar to those under which
the originals were placed.” We however owe it to Mr Owen Jones’s candour
in admitting a note by Mr Penrose, which vindicates the character of
this odious marble. Thus speaks Mr Penrose: “An extensive and careful
examination of the Pentelic Quarries, by the orders of King Otho, has
shown that large blocks, such as were used at Athens, are very rare
indeed. The distance, also, from the city is considerable: whereas there
are quarries on Mount Hymettus at little more than one-third the
distance (and most convenient for carriage), which furnish immense
masses of dove-coloured marble, much prized, it would seem, by the
Romans (Hor., ii. 18), and inferior in no respect but that of colour to
the Pentelic. It could, therefore, only have been the intrinsic beauty
of the latter material that led to its employment by so practical a
people as the Athenians.” It will occur to the reader to ask if there is
not here something like a proof that they did not intend this Pentelic
marble to be painted; for it is manifest, under the stucco-and-painting
theory, the dove-coloured of Hymettus would have answered all purposes.
But Mr Owen Jones triumphs over his own candour. He sees nothing in the
admission of this note of Mr Penrose; he takes it up, he exhibits it,
merely for the purpose of throwing it down and trampling upon it. He
gives it a scornful reply.—_Reply_ in large letters. It is a curious
one, for, like the boomerang, it flies back upon himself, and gives his
own arguments a palpable hit. The reader may remember how he had
asserted that “the Athenians built with marble because they found it
almost beneath their feet.” In his oblivious reply, he discovers that
the Athenians used it because it was a great way off from their feet;
nay, that the worst part of the matter was, that it was no farther off
from their feet. He uprises in reverential dignity, to reprove “our
present ideas of economy.” “I do not think that, with our present ideas
of economy, we are able to appreciate the motives of the Athenians in
choosing their marble from the Pentelic quarries, in preference to those
of Mount Hymettus. We must remember that the Greeks built for their
gods; and the Pentelic marble, by presenting greater difficulties in its
acquisition, may have been a more precious offering.” Mr Jones thus
offers two contradictory motives on behalf of the Athenians—_one_ must
be given up. It would be strange in so few pages that a writer should so
contradict himself, if we did not bear in mind with what ingenuity a
theory will invest its own pertinacity. Surely no man on earth will
believe that the Athenians, either by any extraordinary devotion[50]
they showed towards their gods in the time of Pericles, or by an unheard
of folly (for they were a practical people), chose the one quarry in
preference to the other, for no other reason than its greater cost and
difficulty.

We are referred to the evidence of Mr Bracebridge, produced before the
committee of the Institute, which Mr Jones says settles the point “as
far as regards monumental sculpture.” The evidence is, that in the
winter 1835–6, an excavation, to the depth of twenty-five feet, was
made at the south-east angle of the Parthenon. “Here were found many
pieces of marble, and among these fragments parts of triglyphs, of
fluted columns, and of statues, particularly a female head, which was
painted (the hair is nearly the costume of the present day).” It is
quite an assumption that the spot of this excavation was the place
where “the workmen of the Parthenon had thrown their refuse marble.”
There is no proof whatever that these fragments were even of the age
of the Parthenon; even if they may be supposed so to be, we presume
that, as works of art, they are worthless, for they are called refuse,
and most likely had nothing to do with the work of the Parthenon. We
believe at the same time was found the very beautiful fragment in
relief, the Winged Victory, of which but very few casts were taken.
One of these we have just now seen, and doubt not its being of the age
of Phidias. This is white marble, and we have never heard that it has
any indication of having been painted. If Mr Owen Jones could prove to
us that the whole Parthenon, with all its statues, showed certain
indications of paint, we still have not advanced to any ground of fair
conclusion; for, in the want of contemporary evidence—(we cannot call
anything yet adduced evidence)—we are left to conjecture that the
daubing and plastering were the work of a subsequent age, or ages,
when ornament encroached upon and deteriorated every art in Greece,
whether dramatic, painting, or sculpture. “Pliny and Vitruvius both
repeatedly deplore the corrupt taste of their own times. Vitruvius
(vii. 5), observes, that the decorations of the ancients were
tastelessly laid aside, and that strong and gaudy colouring and
prodigal expense were substituted for the beautiful effects produced
by the skill of the ancient artists.”—(Smith’s _Antiquities_.)

We pay little attention to what has been said by the writers quoted
regarding Acrolithic or Chryselephantine statues, whether of the best or
lowest character. Whatever they were, they have perished, and there is
nothing left for modern barbarism to restore. We have looked chiefly to
undoubtedly good genuine marble—white marble statues, and reliefs of the
best times, of such as are to be seen and admired, unadorned, in our
British Museum. “It is the custom of all barbarous nations to colour
their idols,” says the writer of the historical evidence. We perfectly
assent to this, and believe we shall ourselves be a very barbarous
nation whenever the statues in that Museum shall be plastered with
stucco, or painted over with four coats of vermilion or any other
colour. Barbarous nations have painted, and do so still, not only their
idols but themselves. Our Picts, with their woad colouring, may have
emulated the peculiar beauty of blue-faced baboons. We dispute not the
point that Greece, as well as every other country, at some period of its
history was addicted to the common barbarous taste of colouring to the
utmost of their means. The question is not whether they did it, but when
they left it off. It is said in the “Apology,” that if they had ever
left off the practice, it would have been so remarkable an event that it
would have been noted in history. We know not where any one will be able
to put his hand upon any passage in history, showing the exact or
probable period at which our neighbours the Picts left off the fashion,
which we learn prevailed. We think Mr Owen Jones himself would be very
much astonished if, even though in pursuit and pursuance of his own
argument, he should turn the corner of Pall Mall, and come face to face
with half-a-dozen naked Picts in the ancient blue and vermilion costume.
Quite satisfied that the fashion has been superseded, we care not about
the when. Nor do we care to know, in our practical age, what finery they
put upon their idols; and although a commission under Polychromatic
direction may bring back, from no very distant travel, accounts of
multitudes of idols still draped and painted, we are sure this English
nation will not resume the practice. We have something else to do, which
the “Wisdom of Solomon” tells us they had not, who fabricated such
monstrosities. “The carpenter carved it diligently, _when he had nothing
else to do_, and formed it by the skill of his understanding, and
fashioned it to the image of a man, or made it like some vile beast,
laying it over with vermilion, and with paint colouring it red, and
covering every spot therein.”

Much is made of the notices of Pausanias, who, in the 177th year of the
Christian era, travelled over Greece. Mr (afterwards Sir Uvedale) Price,
in 1780 published “an accurate bill of fare of so sumptuous an
entertainment,” in relation to the temples, statues, and paintings
remaining in Greece in the time of Pausanias. We have thought it worth
while to look over this bill of fare, and to extract all that is said
about painted statues. Page 45: “In the great square, where there are
several temples, there are the statues of the Ephesian Diana, and of
Bacchus in wood—all the parts of which are gilt with gold, except the
faces, which are coloured with vermilion.” Immediately follows—“There is
a Temple of Fortune with her statue, which is an upright figure of
Parian marble”—Nothing about painting this! Page 177–78: “In Ægina there
is a Temple of Jupiter, in which there is his statue of Pentelican
marble, in a sitting posture, and one of Minerva in wood, which is gilt
with gold, and adorned with various colours; but the head, hands, and
feet are of ivory.” “At Philoe there are the temples of Bacchus and
Diana: the statue of the goddess is in brass, and she is taking an arrow
out of her quiver; but that of Bacchus is of wood, and is painted of a
ruddy colour.” It is only the wooden are painted! Page 199: “In Phigalia
there is a Temple of Diana Sospita, with her statue in marble; and in
Gymnasium there is a statue of Mercury, and likewise a Temple of Bacchus
Acratophorus with his statue—the upper part of which is painted with
vermilion, but the lower part is covered by the ivy and laurel that
grows over it.” This is the statue mentioned in the historical evidence,
where it says “_the body being of gilded wood_.” There is no doubt it
was so—but in fairness we must say, that, having examined the original
passage in Pausanias (_Arcad._, lib. viii. cap. 89), we find no mention
of the material of which it was made. Here it will be observed that in
no instance does Pausanias speak of a marble statue painted.

We have been reading an account of the discoveries at Herculaneum and
Pompeii—without doubt, both these places contained Greek sculpture of a
good period. There have been a vast number of marble statues and
fragments of statues found. The marble of which they are made is
mentioned. They are mostly white marble, and there is no notice of any
having been painted. If one should be, or should have been found
coloured, it would be an exception, the not unlikely experiment of
individual bad taste. We should bear in mind, also, that the discovered
works must have been found with regard to substance and colour in the
state in which they were overwhelmed in the sudden destruction of the
towns. Yet do we read of a single painted marble statue? The paintings
are, however, minutely described, and their coloured wall decorations.
We have yet to learn that there has been any paint discovered upon those
exquisitely beautiful statues belonging to the Lycian Temple Tomb, in
the British Museum, discovered and brought to this country by Sir
Charles Fellowes. Could we be brought to believe that marble statues
were stuccoed or painted—and we utterly repudiate any such attempts as
Mr Jones’s to make it credible—we should bless the memories, had they
left us any notices of their names, of those worthies of a better taste
who had the good sense to obliterate, to the utmost of their power, the
bedaubers’ doings. With them we venerate white marble; and while we
think of the Polychromatists, we entertain greater respect for the taste
and sense of the so-called simpletons of the fable who endeavoured to
wash the blackamoor _white_, than for the fatuous who would make the
_white_ black, or even vermilion.

It is surprising that in the history of the arts the Homeric period is
made of so little account. We are inclined to believe that the arts had
reached a high state, at least of workmanship; that they were
subsequently lost, and revived. If Homer and Hesiod, the eldest of
heathen authors, introduced into their poems elaborate descriptions of
the shields of Hercules and Achilles, and in some degree spoke of the
actual workmanship, can we believe that either of them treated of things
totally unknown at the times they wrote? If so, they were inventors—or
at least one of them—of the arts they describe. It is all very well to
ascribe all that we read of as mere poetry; but poetry, however it
invents, or partakes of invention, builds invention on fact. It would
not invent an art, and offer it to the world as a thing already known.
The shields exhibit extraordinary workmanship, which is thought worthy
to be attributed to the skill of a deity. That of Hercules in Hesiod
implies the use of hidden springs, for Perseus is described as hovering
over and not touching the shield, and the Gorgons pursuing him as making
a noise with the shield’s motion. The gold and silver dogs keeping watch
at the gates of Alcinous could scarcely be the unauthorised invention of
the poet. Much might be said upon the Nineveh discoveries; references
might be made to the time of Moses—and instances more than that of the
brazen serpent; the subsequent building of the Temple might supply most
curious detail—all these proving the existence of sculptural arts, more
or less refined, long antecedent to what we would fain call the revival
of art in Greece. But we cannot be allowed space for a discussion not
immediately bearing upon the subject of this paper.

It may be fairly conceded, that we are not to look to the earliest
periods of art for its greatest simplicity. In all countries
monstrosities and ornament were more eagerly sought, soon after the
first attempts at representation, than accuracy and beauty. The time of
the

               “Fictilis et nullo violatus Jupiter auro,”

if not the poets’ fiction, was of short duration.

In this paper we treat not of the barbarities of art. Barbarous ages may
be of all or of any times. Art having once reached perfection, and
having mastered, over the falsities of bad taste, its own independence
and emancipation from every other art, we deprecate the return of a
barbarism which shall unite it with a gaudy presumption of another and a
lower art, subjugating the genius of mind to the meaningless handling of
the decorator.

Indeed, we should be content very much to narrow the question—to care
little whether the ancient statues and relievi were painted or not. We
are quite sure, from the very nature of things, the materials and the
objects in the use of them, that they never ought to have been painted;
and if there ever was such a practice, and it were a common one as
pretended, the world has shown its good sense in obliterating the marks
of the degradation of art so widely, as that any satisfactory discovery
of such a practice is not to be met with. Ages have passed in a contrary
belief, and much more than the meagre evidence adduced must be required,
in any degree to damage the long-established opinion that statues should
not be painted, and that white marble has undeniable, and, for the
purpose of the statuary, perfect beauty. The audacious attempt in the
Crystal Palace, and the assumptions of the “Apology,” might lead to the
worst taste, to retard and not to advance art. And while we see
simultaneously set up a foolish and dangerous principle to govern our
national collections in painting, and probably sculpture, assumed with
too much apparent authority, we fear the introduction of monstrosity in
preference to beauty, and the consequence in oblivion of what is good in
art, and the encouragement of a practice of all that is bad.

If the reader, unsatisfied with the damage inflicted in these pages upon
the facts assumed by Mr Owen Jones in his “Apology,” and his conclusions
upon them, would desire to see further arguments adduced from the
necessities which originated the various styles of basso, alto, and
mezzo relievo,—showing that they all presupposed one even colourless, or
at least unvariegated plane, as the surface upon which they were to be
executed, and how and why these three—the basso, alto, and mezzo—have
each their own proper principles, in which they differ from each
other—how they were invented for the very purpose of doing that which,
if painting the marble had been contemplated, would have been
unnecessary—how, in fact, they are in their own nature independent of
colour, regulated by principles of light and shade, with which colour
would detrimentally interfere—we would recommend to his attentive
reading the short yet complete treatise on the subject, by Sir Charles
Eastlake, being No. 7, in his admirable volume, _The Literature of the
Fine Arts_. He proves by the characters of the three styles, and by the
wants they were invented to supply, and the diversity of design which
they require, that “the Greeks, as a general principle, considered the
ground of figures in relief to be the real wall, or whatever the solid
plane might be, and not to represent air as if it was a picture.” As Mr
Jones’s experiments are made on relievi, a little study of their nature
and distinctions is at this moment very desirable.

If Mr Jones colours the horses brown and grey, the faces of the riders
flesh colour, and marks their eyes, and reddens their lips, and
draperies their bodies after patterns out of a tailor’s book—it is quite
absurd to say that the Greeks never intended exact imitation. In what he
has done every one will recognise the attempt to portray exact nature in
colour. Upon this principle, and establishing a contempt of white
marble, there is but one more step to take, to set up offensive wax-work
above the art of the statuary in marble. Sculpture is an appeal to the
imagination, not to the senses. That which attempts to deceive disgusts
by the early discovery of the fraud. Indeed, it is a maxim in sculpture
that a certain unnaturalness in subordinate accompanying objects is to
be adopted, to show that a comparison with real nature is not intended.
“If imitation is to be preferred,” says Aristotle, “which is least
adapted to the vulgar and most calculated to please the politest
spectators, that which imitates everything is clearly most adapted to
the vulgar, as not being intelligible without the addition of much
movement and action, as bad players on the flute turn round, if they
would imitate the motion of a discus.” Paint to the statuary is what all
this motion is to the flute-player. Whoever mutilates what is great and
good in art, and would persist in so doing, after reproof, ought to pay
the penalty of his folly. We would not be too severe in the punishment
of offenders in taste, but should rejoice to see one of a congenial kind
put in practice, one very mild for such an offence as this of statue
painting—the tarring and feathering the perpetrators, plasterers and
bedaubers, principals and coadjutors. Upon Mr Owen Jones’s principle,
the “ex uno omnes,” and his making a confirmed summer of one swallow,
though we entirely deny the existence of this one _rara avis_, a white
marble statue painted, he and his company ought not to object to the
punishing process, for more culprits have been known to have been tarred
and feathered than are even the pretended specimens of painted marbles
on record. We would, out of consideration for the peculiar taste of the
decorators, mitigate the punishment, by allowing the received proportion
of Mr Jones’s blue and vermilion to be mixed with the tar.

Besides, as fine feathers make fine birds, and choice may be made of the
brightest colours, it would be a fine sight, and one that would very
much take the fancy of the public, to see the Polychromatists stand
materially and bodily plastered, stuccoed, coloured, tarred and
feathered, in the Crystal Palace, in their own glory or shame, as they
may be pleased to take it, as living specimens of colouring
interferences, to the infinite amusement of all beholders, and a caution
to modern decorators. They would be pleased in one respect, for, beyond
a question, the white statues would be quite neglected, the “prejudice”
in favour of white marble would quite give way, and even the city
wonders, Gog and Magog, would be no longer visited.

The reader will think it time to draw to a conclusion; it will be most
satisfactory if he deems the case too clear to have required so much
discussion, and that

                   “Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle.”

But before we lay down the pen, we would not have it supposed that we
are not sensible both of the merits and advantages of the Crystal
Palace. It ought to be, and doubtless will be, the means of improving
the people, and affording them rational amusement. There has been a
little too much bombast about it, as a great college for the education
of the mind of the people—too much eulogistic verbiage, which sickens
the true source of rational admiration. It will improve, because it will
amuse; for good amusement is education both for head and heart. The best
praise it can receive is, that it is a place of permanent amusement,
than which nothing could be devised more beautiful and appropriate for
those who mainly want such relief from the toils and cares which eat
into life. We could wish the Archbishop of Canterbury had not consented
to let the Church of England be dragged in triumph behind the car of a
commercial speculation. It was in bad taste at its opening—and Mr Owen
Jones’s colouring is another specimen of bad taste—but “non paucis
maculis.” We sincerely hope it will succeed in all respects, though we
ventured not to join the Archbishop in his prayer. In fact, it is too
great in itself for unnecessary display at the ushering in, which was
worse than ridiculous—it made that which should be most serious in that
place an offence and a falsity. The reader may be amused by an
inauguration of quite another kind—one of poetry by anticipation. We
summon, then, our oldest poet, to celebrate as afar off, for coming
time, our newest Crystal Palace and its wonders, in


                            CHAUCER’S DREAM
                         OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

                 “As I slept, I dreamt I was
                 Within a temple made of glass,
                 In which there were more images
                 Of gold standing in sundry stages,
                 In more rich tabernacles,
                 And with jewels more pinnacles;
                 And more curious portraitures
                 And quaint maniere of figures
                 Of gold work than I saw ever.
                 There saw I on either side,
                 Straight down to the door wide,
                 From the dais many a pillar
                 Of metal that shone out full clear.

                        ·       ·       ·       ·       ·

                 Then gan I look about I see
                 That there came entering in the hall,
                 A right great company withal,
                 And that of sundry regions,
                 Of all kinds of conditions,
                 That dwell on earth beneath the moon,
                   Poor and rich.
                 Such a great congregation
                 Of folks as I saw roam about,
                 Some within, and some without,
                 Was never seen, nor shall be no more.”




              THE SECRET OF STOKE MANOR: A FAMILY HISTORY.


                                PART IV.


                        CHAPTER VI.—CHARLEMONT.

      “La vertu, dans le monde, est toujours poursuivie.”—MOLIERE.

The people swayed and hummed in the road, with strange burnished
chequers cast over their very visages as they pressed against the
gorgeous gates, thrown open towards each other, so as to form a double
impromptu palisade across the highway, and locked as well as steadied by
inward props; through the bars of each side-wicket could be seen a
scarlet-clothed Swiss sentinel, his musket shouldered, as he paced to
and fro, grimly though carelessly contemplating all. But scarce was
there time to take in the scene ere a louder trumpet-note sounded from
among the trees, and two mounted trumpeters in orange liveries were seen
to rise at speed on the brow of the avenue; till, amidst sudden silence,
the whole array of a brilliant _cortège_ rose up beyond them from a
slope, glittering, indeed, yet pale and almost tarnished amidst the rich
evening light, as it emerged through the cool forest chase. It was
indeed the royal stag-hunt returning to Marly from the woods. Swiftly
they came onward—the troop of chivalrous-looking gardes-du-corps, in
sky-blue and gold, scarlet velvet breeches and white-plumed black hats,
with ringing scabbards and glossy foam-necked horses,—the carriages and
riders, the sledge with the slain stag, and the chasseurs and
stag-hounds. But the procession appeared to go across in visionary
swiftness between the reversed gates: there was but one glimpse of that
single face, with its unfixed and solitary glance, its inscrutable air
of calm, ere it had gone past, to a doubtful murmur of _Vive le Roi_,
that was succeeded by a hubbub of sounds, with all the disagreeable
pressure of a miscellaneous crowd, sometimes standing on the wheels, or
leaning against the carriage-hood. Young Willoughby had torn off his hat
with a ‘hurrah!’ which stultified all his previous British
protestations.

A face was turned up from the confusion beneath, which, owing to the now
neater attire of the possessor, Charles had not before observed: the
village teacher had assumed coat and hat, bearing an umbrella of
somewhat faded texture beneath his arm, and some workmen evidently
assisted him to gain a more convenient position.

“Yes, I say, Father Pierre,” gloomily observed one of the workmen,
addressing the teacher, as if in reference to some previous remark,
“there are plots!”

“Ah, it is no doubt undeniable,” agreed that person, with reluctance,
while he still turned an eye to the carriage, as if to apologise for
being thrust up against it: “there are possibly plots. In that case it
is only necessary to disconcert them, Monsieur Jacques.”

“But it is exactly to do so, Monsieur Morin,” said a quieter mechanic,
“that, after earlier than usual dismissing the school, you were on the
point to set off for Paris.”

“Yes, half an hour ago, on foot, to the Club Breton, at the Palais
Royal,” continued a peasant beyond.

“Père Pierre had a plot also, you know,” added some one else.

“Pardon me, Monsieur Robert—a _plan_,” replied the teacher with his
peculiar blandness, though his eye continued wandering sideways to the
carriage: “to plot, my friend—it does not belong to the virtuous.”

“But from a philosopher,” rejoined the villager, “Monsieur Père Morin is
about to become a man of action—he has a plan.”

“Delayed by this beast of a barricade, which deranges everything,” said
his rougher neighbour, angrily.

“Monsieur Morin will, then, however, relate to us this plot which he
counteracts,” added the keen-eyed mechanic, with emphasis—“and the plan
also. We shall perhaps be able to assist him! It seems to me that M.
Morin should have avoided being thrust on this side the barrier.”

“Good!” responded Jacques, “we shall assist him! It is no doubt
fortunate after all.” The last riders had passed through, and the
porters were coming with their keys to unlock the gates. The
neighbouring chateau clock struck six with a cracked tone; and the great
gates were slowly yielding, to allow time for the Swiss sentries to
cross through. They came together to their usual place with a clash; the
crowd poured each way between again, among the various country vehicles
and market-carts, the passengers and riders, from or to the city, or the
town of Versailles—for a few minutes in such sudden disorder as almost
to hurl the bystanders from the carriage when it drove forward; save the
young man, the teacher, who had held by it for security, and in the
attempt to balance himself was urged so close as to seize the hood of
the barouche, already in motion. An unaccountable repugnance shot from
the young lady’s look and attitude as she started back, extricating her
shawl from the accidental clutch—till her heart reproached her next
moment at his thorough expression of apology mixed with alarm, for
Jackson drove furiously down-hill. She was in vain calling him to stop,
when she saw her brother spring up quick as thought, look round, and
hurl their unintentional fellow-passenger backward on the road.

“Drive on, Jackson,” shouted Charles, triumphantly. “Serves him
right—the very fellow’s face that I detested!”

Panniered market-asses, hastening pedestrians and boys, alone mingled
with their speed across the bridge, past the _chemin des affronteux_,
into Charlemont; the sudden howl of indignation from the groups behind
them had died away.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Jackson?” called out the lad,
starting up again, as they reached about the middle of the village
street; “why don’t you drive on? Never mind watering your horses!”

“They’ve got a couple of farm-waggons and some hampers right across the
way, sir,” replied Jackson, turning about from his box, with an
undertone as much from misgiving as respect.

A shadowy mass blocked up the passage before them, looking vague in the
dusk. It was opposite the door of a shabby _auberge_ or village inn,
with the sign of the Fleur-de-lis. Charles stood up to call out in
French, and a gendarme in coarse blue uniform advanced to the side of
the carriage, civilly enough, as if to answer his inquiries.

“You have injured a respectable person, it is said, monsieur,” was the
reply of the functionary, in a lowered voice—“a man of influence in the
place here.”

“Wilfully, too, it seems!” added a villager, sharply, and turning to the
crowd, which in a few seconds gathered about the speakers.

“Yes, yes—our schoolmaster—a philosopher—an estimable man—M. Morin!” was
the general response, rising to a climax: “see him there, assisted by
every one to reach the spot!”

The figure of Morin by that time became obvious, in fact, near the door
of the tavern, supported by workmen and peasants, while the blood
trickled down his cheek, and he limped on one foot, seeming more
confused than hurt. The concern of the ladies was extreme; young
Willoughby alone remained obstinately cool as the excitement increased;
he assumed the chief part with great self-possession, and distinctly
imputed the fault to the aggrieved individual, expressing quite as
plainly, though in rather indifferent French, his doubts as to the
seriousness of the injury.

The landlord of the auberge, a beetle-browed man in a striped cowl and
white apron, with an air between a cook and a butcher, had hovered
behind, looking on with apparent attempts at moderation among the
bystanders. “Yet monsieur will scarcely refuse to apologise to M.
Morin?” inquired he, thrusting his sinister visage nearer.

“If you only hand me your purse, mother,” was Charles’s answer, to Lady
Willoughby’s anxiety, “you’ll soon see what’s wanted!”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed he, drawing back from the boy’s offer with an
offended look, “you insult me!”

In the indignant noise which ensued, apologies would have been
unavailing; but at the appearance of another gendarme pushing up,
Charles Willoughby seated himself, turned his shoulder on the rabble,
and contented himself with explaining matters to the official beside
him, into whose palm he had easily enough slipped the rejected coin. It
produced no apparent increase of deference in the man’s stiff civility;
but he exchanged a few prompt words with his comrade, who took out a
stump of pencil and a scrap of paper, put the end of the first into his
mouth, and rested the latter on the carriage-wheel, looking up
imperturbably for further particulars. An authoritative word or two from
the other, as he raised his voice, and glanced from the throng to the
obstacles in the street, on the other side of which market-drivers from
Paris were grumbling, served to restore a degree of order. “Yes, Martin,
it will be sufficient,” he loudly observed to his companion, “to take
notice of the passports. Attention, then, Martin!”

“Monsieur will exhibit the passports,” said the sergeant in the same
tone, as he turned again to the carriage. Charles Willoughby looked
blank, though he mechanically felt for them in his pocket, and inquired
at Jackson, at Mrs Mason, at all the party, looking below the cushions
and beneath the seats. It was to no purpose; he had to admit that they
were not forthcoming; a gentleman of the party, who would no doubt
directly appear, had happened to have them in his pocket. The gendarmes
stood up, and looked to each other significantly; the one put up his
paper and pencil, with a shrug of his shoulders; the other addressed
himself with a rigid air of regret to the carriage.

“It will be necessary to descend, mesdames et monsieur,” he said firmly,
“until the affair can be adjusted. No, monsieur,” he rejoined in a lower
voice to Charles, who was hinting at a further douceur, “impossible—a
bribe!—and in the circumstances. But the thing is doubtless a mere
bagatelle, which M. le Maire will very soon arrange at his chateau.”

“Yes! yes! Live justice!” screamed the gathered village, male and
female, boys, girls, and children, down to the very crowing of the
infant in arms, the excitement of poodles on the thresholds, the rousing
up of fowls going early to roost above the doorways inside the dingy
cottages.

“But, M. le Gendarme,” interposed the injured Morin himself, calmly, “I
entertain no resentment against monsieur.”

“Only a complaint, M. Morin,” said the sergeant, with dignity. “It must
be attended to. Besides that, the passports, which concern the State,
are wanting. It is far more important.” The mob shrieked applause; even
showing symptoms of disapprobation against their outraged teacher, who
was silenced.

“Well, then, gendarme,” said young Willoughby, still contemptuous except
to the lawful authorities beside him, “what do you mean by our getting
down? Can you not take us at once to your mayor? This is not his
chateau, I suppose?”

“Impossible, monsieur,” was the unruffled answer, “as M. le Comte has
this afternoon gone to his hotel in Paris, and the commissary of the
commune resides at some distance. It is by favour, I assure you,
monsieur, that you are not conducted there, or to the guard-house of the
district—which, of course, was impossible in the case of mesdames your
companions.” The affable sergeant of police bowed towards the ladies.
“At the auberge here, however, of the Fleur-de-lis, they will enjoy very
superior accommodation with M. Grostète, who is the landlord. He is even
an artist; the _ménage_, too, of madame the hostess is admirable.”

With regard to the prolongation of the dilemma, the village mob found an
evident luxury in it, appearing to balance oddly enough between the
wildest rage and looks of murmured interest; as if, the more struck they
were with the youth’s blunt, spirited manner, the mother’s obvious
distress, and the young lady’s pale, startled air, through her veil and
out of her simple straw-hat, with her governess’s ill-maintained
fastidiousness, the more unwilling the whole audience grew to lose hold
of these, but would fain have been wrought up to extract something more
tragic by way of sequel. The young man who had been the occasion of all,
first relieved the party from their difficulty: Morin had fixed his
light-blue eyes on the ground, and raised them thoughtfully as he moved
forward to the chief gendarme.

“But fortunately, M. le Sergent,” said he, in a thin, distinct voice,
“it seems to me that I am capable of readjusting this affair here.”

“And how?” inquired the police-officer, over his shoulder, as he drew
himself up with an air of additional authority.

“M. le Maire has this evening gone to Paris?” continued the teacher,
with composure.

“Yes, I witnessed his departure, since I had the honour to receive M. le
Comte’s instructions,” answered the functionary, in more immovable
certainty than before.

“I was aware of it,” said Morin, mildly, “because this morning, through
the intendant of his estate, M. le Comte condescended to inform me of
it.”

“Ah, you were informed of it, M. Morin!” said the gendarme, with a
slight air of surprise, putting his thumb to his chin, and looking
somewhat cautious. “Well?”

“And M. le Comte will not only be in Paris to-night,” said the
schoolmaster, “but to-morrow also, since he has affairs of more
importance to transact. Therefore it would be necessary to convey
Monsieur the young Englishman to the commissary at Marly.”

“Peste! I did not know that though!” ejaculated the gendarme, letting
fall his hand. “But you are right. It is only to the commissary at
Marly, then, that we can resort.” And grim indifference returned to the
faces of the gendarmes, as they shrugged their shoulders.

“But it was exactly to see M. le Comte that I was about to proceed, when
disabled,” continued Pierre Morin, modestly, while he indicated his
misfortune by a slight movement of the leg. The gendarmes stared at each
other half incredulously.

“Eh? Père Pierre?” interrupted two or three voices; and the rough
workman shouldered in, turning a dully suspicious glance from his
begrimed visage to Morin’s, and adding, “It was to the Cloobbe
Breton—the Palais Royal, I thought?”

“To disconcert a plot?” exclaimed several others.

“By a plan?” was the vivacious chorus of many together.

The young schoolmaster bowed. “Certainly, M. Jacques,” he said, with an
unruffled smile, to the workmen, “since, thanks to the designs of some
relatives, it is to the club that M. le Comte would have gone to-night
as an auditor. He is still young—his ideas, though philosophical, are
timid—it happens that he would have heard our boldest and least elegant
orators, who watch with such a noble jealousy the division which is
prolonged in the States-General by the privileged orders. I have studied
the character of M. le Comte—he would have been deterred—his eloquence
as our deputy to the Third Estate would not only have disgraced us at
Charlemont here, but have given force to the opinions of others who
would ruin all. There was, in short, a diabolical snare spread for him.”

An indignant murmur ran through the crowd, as they glanced to each other
in alarm. The gendarmes rather appeared puzzled.

“_Ah dâme!_” broke out the superior of the two; “but how is it that
_you_ are acquainted with all this, M. le Maitre-d’école?”

“It is simple, M. le Sergent,” replied Morin, calmly. “The message I
received to-day, through M. le Comte’s intendant, informed me, that as a
correspondent of the Club, as an advocate for the right-to-absorb of the
Third Estate, I was about to be dismissed from my school—unless, indeed,
on the assurance, before M. le Comte’s departure, of confining my views
to the elementary instruction for which I was placed there.” It was with
difficulty he could proceed, for the violent uproar of surprise and
resentment. “I was silent,” he at length continued: “at your usual wish
I read aloud the journal of yesterday. I received the fresh message left
for me, that till nine, M. le Comte would be at his hotel in Paris, for
the convenience of his intendant’s communications from the chateau here,
before visiting, for the first time, this club. It was the proof of a
determination still postponed by M. le Comte. I remained unmoved, while
mingling with the concourse to the gates yonder—without taking advantage
of the last messenger to Paris—but resolved the more, as I perceived the
nature, the causes of this proceeding. Had I publicly explained my
intention, M. le Comte might have been unjustly accused by you—my
motives in personally reaching Paris might have been misinterpreted. I
was even aware that to intelligence—to integrity—to virtue—the whole
world is about to become a school!”

At the modest attitude, the unconscious air, touched only by a slight
twinge of suffering from his foot, with which their teacher announced
his private sacrifice to principles, the whole audience were struck
mute; their admiration seemed to struggle silently with dismay. “For me,
on the contrary,” he pursued, recovering himself by the help of his
faded pocket-handkerchief, “had I gained Paris by eight, resorting
straight to the Palais Royal before the admission of strangers to the
club, I should have obtained the right of the tribune,—permitted after
nine to speak, I would have publicly expressed the sentiments most
congenial to me, which resemble his own,—without seeming to address
myself to him, without his expecting it, I astonish him by my boldness,
my disregard of private considerations. I expose, next, the motives of
those who entangle him,—I paint the future which dawns on us so
slowly,—I should at once have convinced him, my friends—and have
retained my school, my position—the relation to my fellow-villagers,
which I value—the power to consult their wishes, their necessities!”

“It is the _plan_! Excellent! Yes, _the_ plan of Père Morin!” ejaculated
a dozen hearers in delight.

Monsieur Morin’s countenance had worked with animation, his gestures had
grown quicker in accompaniment; and the hushed crowd burst into a scream
of approbation, broken only into separate yells as the nearest
bystanders looked from his face to his disabled foot, from his foot to
the deepened blue of the sky, and thence to the offending carriage.

“Yes, it is too late, my friends,” admitted he, composing himself. “As
it is, however, by myself accompanying Monsieur the young Englishman,
before nine, to the hotel of M. le Maire, I should equally gain the
object, without having presumed to request an interview, which would
have been denied me. I relieve Monsieur and his friends from a
_contretemps_, while observing the law. I detain M. le Comte, at a
critical moment, from a danger to his views—in the act of myself
confirming them! It is not yet eight—we have still an hour, useless on
foot, when lame—that is, if perhaps Monsieur would not object to one’s
occupying a seat beside his coachman?”

“It is reasonable!” exclaimed fifty voices. “M. Morin is right—yes! yes!
Sa-cr-r-ré! do they object?”

The young Frenchman looked quietly and calmly, though with an air of
dignity, to Charles Willoughby, who for a moment scarcely comprehended
his meaning, or the drift of the whole discussion. Brightening up next
instant, however, his eye gave a quick response. “Ah, of course!” he
said, springing to assist the teacher up; “certainly, Monsieur
Morin—with all my heart; here, let me give you a hand!” The perplexed
gendarmes looked to each other inactively, the innkeeper and his wife
alone gloomed on their door-steps; while, as the injured schoolmaster
was helped by the very offender himself to mount the dickey beside
Jackson, the villagers grew absolutely ecstatic in their applause; the
foremost agitators in the crowd were the first to begin dragging the
obstacles aside. “Monsieur Jacksong, my friend,” called out young
Willoughby, in his most scrupulous French, somewhat to the surprise,
doubtless, of that grim worthy, while a sudden gleam of enjoyment
twinkled once more in the youth’s eye, “you will favour me by using the
utmost exertions to arrive in time for Monsieur Morin!” He deliberately
opened the carriage-door again, took down the steps, and leisurely
stepped in, two or three officious pairs of hands contending which
should set all to rights behind him. He took off his cap as he stood,
and bowed with profound gravity to the crowd. “That’s to say, Jackson,”
added he in English, “all right—drive on like mad!”

And as Jackson whipped his tedious beasts like a man devoid of all
mercy, the creaking barouche rattled off; accompanied by half the crowd,
by noisy curs, frightened poultry, and confused shadows from the trees
and houses, till they jolted across the other bridge, and rolled out
clear into the broad light of evening. All at once, after some silent
meditation, Charles tapped the shoulder near him, and the Frenchman
turned his face with a slight start.

“I say, Mossure Moreng,” observed Charles, with more than his customary
force of pronunciation, “I am sorry you got hurt, though.”

“The apology of Monsieur is accepted,” was the cold answer, as the young
man quietly turned away again towards the smoke of Paris before them.

“Oh, it is not an apology,” said Charles, leaning over, “but I own we
are much obliged to you. Such a set of rascally canaille, to be sure!
’Twas ingenious enough, that story of yours—so far as I understood it!
But where are we to take you to keep it up? Into town? Or perhaps you
would prefer being dropped at the first comfortable inn!”

“I do not comprehend you, Monsieur,” replied the teacher of Charlemont,
in evident surprise; “it is to the hotel of M. le Count de Charlemont
that we shall go—in Paris.”

“And where is that?” asked the youth, drumming with his small cane on
his toe.

“In the Faubourg St Germain, Monsieur—near the Quai Voltaire,” said
Morin.

“Why, I should say it was two or three miles out of our way, then,”
rejoined Charles, discontentedly. “Well—what after that? Do we finish
there—eh?”

“I am unaware of the result, naturally, Monsieur,” answered the
schoolmaster. “In the case of Monsieur, it will probably be an
inconsiderable fine, which the clerk of M. le Maire will no doubt
regulate according to law. But for the coincidence, it would have been
impossible to extricate Monsieur from that affair there—it was important
that I should reach Paris: there is no favour to one or the other—only a
compromise.”

“By George!” uttered the boy, staring, “you do not mean to say that long
rigmarole account of yours was _true_?”

The Frenchman betrayed equal amazement. “Is it, then, possible,
Monsieur,” said he, “that you doubt it—that you imagine these things not
to exist precisely—not to bear themselves as I have stated!” Charles
surveyed him coolly. “Think you, Monsieur,” continued the other, with
some vehemence, “that one could at all events deceive one’s neighbours,
who are aware of every circumstance—who will to-morrow demand of me the
result! The police—who confide in my position, my character! No,
Monsieur—it is _truth_ that has happened to involve, as to extricate
you—truth, by which France is at this moment so animated—by which we
here are at the instant surrounded, controlled!”

Young Willoughby whistled slightly as he eyed him. “Oh?” was the
careless rejoinder. “But for my part, I feel no inclination to trouble
your worthy mayor. The whole thing is a humbug. What if I merely refuse
to go, Mister Morran—indeed, if I have you set down beside the first
fiacre, with your fare paid to the driver?”

“You do not comprehend this France here, Monsieur,” said the village
teacher, blandly, as he let a voluntary gaze of his colourless eye rest
on Charles. “She burns to support the law—to assist it. At a moment they
are summoned to its aid—they are roused to complete it the more
perfectly—they exaggerate. Besides, even in your house, by to-morrow,
you would be traced. The offence would have become enhanced. It is owing
to the sublime passion for the philosophical—the consistent, Monsieur!”

The boy eyed Morin with a useless frown; he had turned away. Looking
about, and thinking, with a singular sense of antipathy, for which he
could scarce find sufficient grounds, Charles sat mute; he began to feel
as if, much though he despised this Morin, he would never be got rid of
till some serious issue came of it in the end. But they reached the
barrier, not yet closed—passed through, recognised and unquestioned; for
to enter Paris seemed always easier than to get out of it; and rattled
along the chaussée through close streets of a dingy faubourg. Much as it
was out of their way, yet, to be finally rid of Monsieur Morin and his
case, no course seemed secure but to drive straight to the authority he
indicated. At the Rue de St Roche, accordingly, in the aristocratic
suburb they at length drew up before a high old house in the row of
stately mansions, where lacqueys lounged about the balustraded
door-steps and huge _portes-cochère_, and the upper casements began to
glow with light. “It is the Hotel St Mirel,” said the village teacher,
as he began with difficulty to get down. He waited quietly for the young
gentleman to follow him, and they went up the steps together.

The carriage had not stood waiting many minutes before Charles
Willoughby reappeared alone. His face was bright with satisfaction.

“What an absurd affair, after all,” said he, contemptuously: “it cost
about ten minutes and as many shillings. An old clerk at a table in an
antechamber took down the statements on each side. Of course I allowed
the facts; and it seems there’s an exact understood price tacked to
every sort of assault in France, from a push to a kick, according to the
quality of the parties; and if the fellow had pushed me, it would have
cost _him_ about double. There were two or three gentlemen talking in an
inner room, who all came out together in riding-boots and coats—though
which was which, one could hardly see against the large windows this
time of night. I only fancy it was the Count that bowed to me, rather a
young man, I should say—and looked at Morin rather sharply, giving a
slight sort of nod; then he said something to the clerk, who told me I
was fined half a louis-d’or, besides the five francs for his own fee,
which he pocketed very graciously, getting up and putting off his
spectacles. I only waited another minute to see if I could catch out
that Morin somewhere, as soon as the Count called him aside in a hurry
to the inner room; but I must say everything seemed to agree well enough
with the fellow’s harangue at the village—his schoolmastership was
evidently in danger—till all at once the Count came out again to tell
the other gentlemen he could not go somewhere with them that evening. I
believe the one was some celebrated actor at the theatre—which was he
the footman couldn’t tell—and the other a _dook_, as John of course
expressed it!”

“Why, that footman was _English_, then!” said Rose, gravely.

“Of course. As lazy a selfish dog, with his plump looks and his languid
impertinence, as you’d see in all May Fair—old Jackson there’s a Roman
by comparison—but somehow it refreshed one. I couldn’t help giving him
my last half-crown, he fawned so about my hat and cane, as if to do
something—and as for the coin, he examined it like a portrait. After
that Morin, you know, anything’s pleasant that one’s accustomed to!
We’re well quit of him. Happily, by the by, they forgot about the
passports, and don’t even know my name. Being lame—if it’s not a
sham—why, I fancy the fellow could scarce do otherwise than stay at the
Count’s, down stairs with John!”

Charles’s mother gently reproved him for the violence he had used, and
his sister said he was very hardhearted. But the carriage turned the
corner near the Rue Debilly; and as they drew up at their own gate, Mr
Thorpe, bareheaded, followed by Sir Godfrey, came eagerly out. They had
been getting very anxious indeed. The tutor had missed the Baronet, whom
business had detained a little later than his expectation, so that he
had left the city by a different barrier, then had turned, fancying the
carriage already past; while Mr Thorpe had ridden nearly all the way
home alone, then back, till he met Sir Godfrey.


                CHAP. VII.—THE DILIGENCE OF SIR GODFREY.

        “_Norfolk._ ‘——We may outrun,
        By violent swiftness, that which we run at,
        And lose by over-running——’

        _Buckingham._ ‘——by intelligence,
        And proofs as clear as founts in July, when
        We see each grain of gravel, I do know——’”
                                                    SHAKESPEARE.

The Baronet had no sooner written his necessary correspondence that
forenoon, and conveyed it, almost as necessarily, with his own hands to
the post-office at the British Embassy, than he had turned bridle again
toward the Quais, to ride in the direction of the Cité, where it seemed
that, after all, the intended legatee of his brother had only exchanged
one obscure place of abode for another—48 Rue Chrétienne, au cinquième,
in fact, for au septième, num^o. 80, Rue de la Vierge. He found himself
ere long plunged into the centre of that strange heart of a no less
strange quarter. He had no sooner found the number he was in search of,
than a couple of little sharp-eyed, old-faced _gamins_, engaged in some
game of chance in a doorway, were ready to hold his horse, with a
jealousy of each other which was a guarantee for their joint fidelity.

It was an insecure-looking old pile, which might yet have seemed a sort
of city in itself; compressed back, as it appeared, and almost held up
between others less elevated, though of greater prominence and somewhat
more respectable appearance, to the vast height of at least seven
storeys: the general outer door stood fixedly open, and the cord which
held it so, conducting by staple and pulley along the low
entrance-passage, as through the arch of a cellar, turned in on one side
to a dark little den, half lighted by a cooking-lamp and partly from a
back-yard covered with rank grass and all sorts of rubbish, with an old
wooden pump in the midst, to which the passage itself led through. Here
an old woman, the portress, sat in a crazy leathern arm-chair that had
been gilded once; she was busy trying to boil something by the lamp, and
talking in a cross voice to herself, her cat, or some one else not
visible to Sir Godfrey; her old features were sour enough, probably from
the rheumatism which controlled her motions; but at his appearance and
inquiries she became sufficiently alert and communicative, curtseying at
every sentence, and trying to nod her head obsequiously, with the utmost
eagerness to do anything in the matter of Suzanne Deroux, whom she knew
so well, and who was so deserving—who, indeed, was never from home,
except to go to mass on saints’ days at Notre Dame. There was the low
fawning cunning and curiosity of old age, joined to the practised manner
of some quondam servant, in the portress’s desire that he should be
saved the flight of stairs, down which, where it wound up from opposite
her lodge, came but the dull glimmer of daylight in some high window:
her little girl, however, whom she had screamed for over and over again,
between fits of coughing and fresh suggestions to the visitor, at last
appeared with her pitcher from the pump, to be angrily despatched
up-stairs as a guide to Madame Peltier. _That_ was the appellation
expected by the daughter and the son-in-law—the portress informed
him—for they were proud, and respected their mother to an
extreme—though, properly, it seemed Madame had no right to that title,
not having been married—and, doubtless, the marriage even of her
daughter must at best have been _à la Jacques_, since nowadays it was so
with all workmen—who had nothing, of course, to inherit or to leave. As
for this worthy Suzanne, though she seemed to affect to be religious,
her frugality, so unavoidable—her simplicity, which was almost hopeless,
did not entitle her—nothing but her misfortunes could entitle her—to
such respect.

The portress’s little niece had already preceded him to the floor in
view, ere Sir Godfrey reached it, almost breathless, counting the
storeys. The whole structure, from base to summit, appeared not merely
to teem with apartments, but, as it ascended, to rise and open skyward
into visible life: one pleasant buzz of French vivacity, indeed, had
seemed to circulate above till the girl appeared; and her voice could
now be heard in eager dialogue behind an adjoining door with the young
woman who a minute before had been speaking over the balusters. He
knocked, half open although it stood, and was at once answered by the
latter. Suzanne Deroux was the name of her mother, she said—who was
within. There was something hard and cold, almost sullen, about the
young woman’s face, though it was well-formed: her cheek seemed worn,
her eyes dry and lustreless; nor did she make any inviting or inquiring
remark, merely making way for and following the stranger as he slowly
entered.

It was a bare garret, with the red-tiled floor of such ordinary Parisian
abodes, a low yellow-washed ceiling, much narrower than the floor, as on
one side the wall slanted with the roof; yet everything was neat, clean,
and decently arranged. But the glance took it in at once, without
leaving so much as a shadow; neither hearth nor semblance of a closet
broke its completeness, to the recess of the upright dormer-window,
which seemed a redeeming feature in so bald an apartment, where it rose
large and shining out of the slope, beyond the older woman’s seat. That
was an arm-chair, indeed, high-backed and easy: her feet were on a patch
of carpet; a pot of mignonette was in flower on the window-sill; a small
coarsely-coloured print of some portrait was stuck with a pin to the
opposite wall of the recess; as if the household bloomed a little only
in that direction, toward the sunlight, which came flooding with the air
through the wide-open window-place. Seated on the floor, beside a deal
box in a corner, under the slant of the wall, was a stout young workman
with a boot-last, engaged on the second of an elegant pair of
riding-boots; while a half-naked infant had been laid on the floor,
among the parings of the vegetables which seemed meant for some
afternoon meal—and was taken up by the portress’s little niece, to be
hushed and shaken, with an air of matronly attention.

At sight of the English baronet’s conspicuous figure, stooping to enter,
and scarce venturing to stand erect within, the bootmaker had looked up
with an absolute scowl of astonishment; showing a strongly-marked
haggard visage, rendered the more singularly unprepossessing, despite
something of the vivid southern tint and classic decisiveness, by a head
close-cropped, in all its native soot-blackness, and a chin left roughly
tufted below, although the lean tanned cheek had not yet lost altogether
its air of youth. Sir Godfrey’s first feeling had been one of pity,
mingled with sudden pleasure in the commission he had to perform; their
perfect want of manners, their very poverty, the absence of any other
apartment to withdraw into, joined to the motionless silence of the
elderly woman in her arm-chair, who neither seemed to hear nor see him,
all increased it to a kind of embarrassment. In the highest
drawing-rooms in Europe, nay, in any peasant’s cottage of his own
country, Sir Godfrey would have felt immeasurably more at ease than he
then stood, hat in hand, in the attic of these Parisian work-people. He
had hardly begun to address the person before him, too, as Madame, ere
the child’s fretfulness in the arms of its little nurse became a
vociferous squall, to which the elder woman turned her head slowly, with
an air of distress, her features working, her body moving and rocking in
her chair, as she made a humming, hushing sound to the infant. Its
mother snatched it next moment from the girl’s arms, with an angry
exclamation. “Why do you remain here under such pretences?” said she,
sharply; and the look of early cunning had betrayed itself on the girl’s
face by her attempt to seem absorbed in the child, with the hanging of
the head that succeeded. “Favour me, little Pochon, by leaving us
alone,” continued the young woman, following her as she slunk out:
“Widow Pochon is too good, inform her!” And she slammed to the fragile
door, then returned near the visitor, with her infant quietly held to
the breast: she was not much more than twenty, and had well-shaped
features, that, with a happier expression, might have been attractive;
but in this slatternly attire and attitude, her careless presence was
doubly disagreeable to Sir Godfrey.

He stepped nearer the sitting woman, who, like a recent invalid, seemed
still not so much to attend as to be enjoying the open air, the scent
from the flower-pot, and the streak of warm sunshine that gleamed on the
window-frame and glowed across her clean dress, on the old bright
kerchief that was pinned across her breast, and the high white coif of
some country fashion which she wore close to her face; yet in her face
there was a healthy tint, a little shrivelled, as on a well-kept apple:
so that it appeared to be more from ignorance, or the awkwardness of
surprise, perhaps as much from his own foreign accent, or some _patois_
to which she might have been accustomed, that, when Sir Godfrey went on
distinctly to explain his errand, the woman Deroux looked sometimes
vacantly at him, sometimes away out altogether to the open sky, again
irresolutely towards her daughter and son-in-law, spreading her hands in
the feeble way of still more aged persons, and smoothing her knees with
them by turns, more and more restlessly as his voice grew distincter in
its emphasis. To the statement of her former patron’s recent death, of
the omission or oversight which had interrupted her allowance from him,
and of the nature and amount of the present bequest, increased as it
would justly be by the addition of some recompense for the intervening
years—Suzanne Deroux returned vague murmurs, which might be taken for
assent, till her large mild face was at length fixed towards Sir
Godfrey’s, with a light of greater comprehension than before in her dim
eyes; and he noticed, for the first time, that one side of her cheek and
forehead was marked by the white smooth seam of an old scar—how large it
was impossible to see, for her cap; but frightful it must have been
once—taking, as it did, the eyebrow away, and seeming to have blanched
the eye itself, where its shining mark still crept out and curled round,
amidst the furrows and wrinkles of otherwise healthy old age. She said
something in reply, but confusedly, and with evident agitation, while
her shaking face seemed fascinated to his—and with such a mixture of
_patois_, as it seemed, whether of idiom, pronunciation, or
language—that Sir Godfrey could merely infer it to denote recollection
of his brother, with sorrow for his death, and gratitude at the
remembrance he had shown. The young man had at length put by his work,
risen up, and approached to listen, as he leant his elbows on the broken
deal-table.

“She is weak in mind, the poor woman—my mother,” said the daughter,
abruptly, though still engaged in administering nourishment to her
infant; “it is useless to transact anything with her, Monsieur.”

“No, it is merely her memory that is bad, Jeannette,” interposed the
son-in-law, who seemed scarcely his wife’s age; and there was something
deferential in his look towards the elder woman, with a comparative
kindliness of tone, as he turned to address herself, putting his hand on
her arm-chair and his head near hers, and using the respectful
_vous_—“and she does not hear strangers very well—do you, _belle-mère_?”

The elder woman smiled faintly in return, her head still slightly
trembling, though the familiar voice seemed to call up a degree of
intelligence and composure on her face, somewhat like a child’s when it
is commended: “no—no—not very well, my son!” she said; then drawing
herself up and spreading her gown with her hands, sat full of silent
importance.

“She has always been weak in mind,” coldly repeated her daughter, paying
no attention to them, “since the accident by which she was so injured. I
am acquainted with the circumstances, Monsieur, although at that time
but a child, and fortunately not present with my mother in the house
where it occurred.”

“You allude to the fire, above nineteen years ago, in the house where
the family of her employer, my late brother, had their apartments?” Sir
Godfrey asked, turning to her. She made a simple assent. “Then your
mother, Suzanne Deroux, was a servant living within the establishment?”
he continued.

“Yes, she was the nurse—the wetnurse (_nourrice-à-lait_)” was the
unembarrassed answer—“for the infant which perished along with its
mother and the other persons. She had remained a considerable time,
since it was sickly. My mother had been a peasant, you see, Monsieur.”

She proceeded further of her own accord, with an evident view to the
point of business.

“My mother was certainly entitled to this pension, notwithstanding her
indifference to it—her refusal, I believe,” said the young woman,
looking for a moment at the elder, who had listlessly turned again to
the sunlight. “Her wound, which was shocking, confined her for weeks to
the hospital—her lover, my father, who up to that time had still admired
her, and who was in the family of a nobleman, returned, indifferent to
her fate, with his master to the provinces, where his friendship for her
had arisen. As for her own infant, my brother, whom at the risk of her
own life she had remained to save—its arm was indelibly scorched, almost
destroyed by the flames which pursued her. She ultimately relinquished
it with apparent unconcern, to the man who had rescued them by a ladder
at the window—an Englishman, a servant who had arrived with Monsieur
Vilby, and whose eccentricity made him desire to adopt it. She has
neither heard of, nor seen her son, my brother, since. She has never
seemed even to wish it, Monsieur. Certainly my mother is weak in mind.”

In most of this account the thread was easily traceable; the baronet
recalled to mind some vague connection of his brother’s late huntsman,
Griffiths, or “Welsh Will,” as he was called, with the fatal
incidents—he had heard his son Francis talk years before of a boy about
Stoke, whom the huntsman’s vixen wife persecuted and kept out of doors.
He had been sent to some business, so far as Sir Godfrey remembered,
through Mr Hesketh. The baronet stated as much to the people before him.

“Thou’rt wrong, though, Jeannette,” said the son-in-law again, with the
same side-tone, irrespective of their visitor’s presence, rather through
a dull incapability to acknowledge it than from intention; “she grieves
for him. When thou’dst say, remember, during the sharp winter, thou wert
glad thy brother’s mouth was not here, did she not groan—and when the
fine time came again, while thou wert so apt to taunt us about her son
being grown English, she swung herself and wept! You feel it, you wish
your son back here, _Marraine_ (godmother), do you not?”

The elder woman turned from the light to him with a start and a stare;
perhaps it was the bright sunshine that made her face seem faded beside
it, especially where the scar-mark ran; she looked, to the stranger’s
eye, almost ghastly, as she replied, in a less cracked and tremulous
voice than before—“Holy Virgin, yes! You will send—you will take care
of—ah!” And as she stopped, perplexed and troubled, the moisture sprang
from her dull-blue eyes into tears; she passed one hand about the
disfigured place; she seemed nearer clearness of speech on the subject
than hitherto, as if that had been a master-spring to her scattered
memories.

“My good woman,” said the baronet soothingly, as he stepped nearer, into
the recess where her easy-chair stood—“My good Madame Deroux—if you wish
your son to return to you, it shall be managed, of course! You will see
him, I hope, grown up and prosperous, as well as able to assist you! It
would, no doubt, have been a burden before!—She or you could scarcely
recognise him now, however,” he added aside to the daughter, in an
undertone.

“It is easy enough, Monsieur,” was the careless answer, without any
responsive depression of voice, “since the arm would not lose such a
mark, more than my mother’s visage—added to the loss of the little
finger. I was too young to remember it, you see—but the washerwoman who
kept us both, and who used privately to bring the child at intervals to
my mother, leaving it for the night—she had again seen it after its
recovery, and lodged along with us afterwards till her death.”

Suzanne Deroux had felt hastily for something beneath the bosom of her
dress, and at length drew it forth; a thin gold cross with black beads,
which she kissed with fervour, then began eagerly to whisper and mutter
some scraps of prayer, that might have been Latin or _patois_, or both;
at each bead that fell from her fingers her face seemed growing calmer.

“She is quite well in other respects, Monsieur,” continued the daughter,
turning impatiently from her; “she still eats like a peasant, she sleeps
soundly, she prefers bright colours for her dress to go to mass and
confession. As for that, she is so superstitious, that when we were
about to starve, she would not permit her little cross there to be
pledged, nor the dress in which she must frequent Notre Dame—it was not
she who suffered, you see, but we—who endeavoured to conceal it from her
that we endured so much!”

A look of mild reproach was cast by Suzanne towards her daughter, while
her lips still moved.

“Well, well, Jeannette, going to these affairs pleases her,” said the
young boot-closer, with the cub-like leaning to his mother-in-law which
appeared through his uncouth exterior.

“It is the priests who frighten her,” went on his partner, her back
towards him, in perfect indifference to his remarks; “her confessor, who
makes her tremble at the supposition of crimes”—

“Of which she is innocent!” observed the son-in-law behind, in the same
disregarded way—“_sacré nom!_ Jeannette is wrong about my
mother-in-law,” he added, looking awkwardly for a moment at Sir Godfrey.
“If you would not call her Madame Deroux—it confuses her ideas—it is
Madame Peltier she likes strangers to call her—do you not, Marraine?”

An air of childish pleasure spread over the old woman’s features, and
she nodded graciously, and smiled.

“See how she loves the child, too, Jeannette!” said he, as the infant
stretched its shapeless arms and legs from the maternal bosom, where it
had at length ceased to feed, towards the grandmother’s bright kerchief
and white coif, that basked in outer sunshine. She put out her hands to
receive it, and, with an aspect of complete satisfaction, began dandling
the child towards the window, chirping to it like a bird, or buzzing
like a bee; while the slatternly Jeannette applied a careless touch to
the disorder of her dress.

“Peltier is the name of Jeannette’s father, it seems,” resumed the
bootmaker more confidentially than before, coming nearer the visitor;
“though for that—I and Jeannette do not mind such ceremony—do we,
Jeannette? We are fond of each other, you see.” The disdainful glance
which he received from his female companion was sufficiently
sharp-tempered to make the fondness on her side doubtful.

“Do you not see that you infest Monsieur with your absurd remarks!” said
she, angrily, when the pin had been taken from her mouth, on which her
attire greatly depended; “and he must naturally wish to escape from a
habitation so unworthy of him—favour me by being silent, or going out.”
The bootmaker retreated towards his original place again, while his
abler partner, with an intelligence and quickness of apprehension, as
well as a collectedness, which might have done credit to a higher
station, proceeded to take up the thread of their visitor’s business
with them.

There was one precaution which she requested him to afford them—a signed
paper in his handwriting, to account for their possession of the money,
and state the ground of its being given, in case of any accident
meanwhile from the police. And while the bootmaker was absent in search
of ink-bottle and pen from some neighbour, Sir Godfrey turned, for the
first time, from beside the elder woman’s chair in its recess, toward
the attic casement which appeared as fascinating to her as to her
charge.

“My mother is still a peasant, Monsieur,” remarked the younger woman,
apologetically; “she is never weary of admiring Paris!—Paris, with which
she has so little to do—of which she knows nothing—which has kept us so
long miserable!”

A strange thrill of very novel feeling ran through Sir Godfrey as he
pressed nearer, and looked. He almost shrank back with an emotion of
awe, the sight was so unexpected, in such extreme contrast to that mean
abode, from beside the unmeaning vacancy of the elder woman’s pleasure,
the infant’s crowing sounds and motions, the repugnance he felt for the
others, and his own engrossing thoughts: otherwise, on Willoughby’s
single-minded, straightforward, unimpassioned character, with a very
dormant fancy and but tardy movement of association, it might have
struck with slight impress. Immense and startling from that height,
indeed, was the prospect; nor the less so, that here and there some huge
pile of neighbouring chimneys, some tower-top, or a wreath of lazy
smoke, broke it up close at hand with a vividness of light and shade, or
a distinctness of detail, that was thrust on the eye. Here a sunny
perspective of roof, garretwindow, and chimney, ruddy at the top against
blue air, with basking cats, and blooming pots, and garments hung to
dry, that fluttered cheerfully, where the population of the upper world
of Paris, the boulevards of its canaille and its unknown, showed their
faces in the sun,—there a vast surging sea of slates, tossed hither and
thither into tower, steeple, and shadowy dome, pierced by dusky gulfs
and glooms—while midway ran out a dull thread of the Seine into a
bridge, and broke forth beyond in dazzling splendour, where the
reflection of the houses blended with the substance, so that all there
seemed shattered and dripping in silver and gem-like radiance—with
visionary structures lifted farther off among unsubstantial bowers, up
to the sun’s viewless glory where he stood high in a blaze of light, as
if clothed with a great mantle of indistinctness, and contemplated the
vast city. Far beneath him floated the Hospital’s golden dome: the
softened roar and clamour of Paris rose clear to the open attic
casement, with sharper noises from close below it; one saw straight
through an uninterrupted space, down upon streets and openings, quays,
square, and garden-terrace, in a distinct bird’s-eye view, alive with
the motion of minute citizens; scarce could it have been thought that
the regal whiteness of the rich Louvre was so near, and the tilted
pavilion-roofs of the great, gaunt, high-chimneyed Tuileries. The
various stages and storeys of inhabitants descended beyond sight, as to
abysses that were bottomless. The air felt clearer than elsewhere, and
the sky seemed nearer in its blue purity. It was all such a spectacle as
might have absorbed the faculties of a prophet; indeed the thought could
not but have struck a mind used to interpret its own consciousness, of
how slightly human distinctions might weigh, and in what trivial account
they would result, could magnificence so beyond the furniture of palaces
be familiar, or often accessible. With the English baronet, it was
rather the sudden perception of what vast concerns were going on the
while, under necessity to be sustained, round about the particular
affairs of his own business or experience: added to which came
emphatically enough that strange sense, sometimes resembling the
superstitious, of time gigantically pressing on to destiny—when with a
hurtling, heaving sound before it, and a crash that made all the
chimneys vibrate, the hard walls clang, the roofs rattle, and the
windows tingle and ring, the clock of Notre Dame, hard by, sent out its
first stroke of the hour. The elder woman let the child sink in her lap,
gravely crossing herself at every stroke; here and there, outside, a
face could be seen turned to it involuntarily. The bootmaker, setting
down the writing-materials he had procured after a somewhat long
absence, appeared to hear with a savage grin and gleam of satisfaction,
whether still caused by the money or by later news; he nodded his head
to each long, artillery-like stroke, rolling and reverberating away
among the piles of the Cité and St Louis, and made a whistling noise of
pleasure as he looked, till it was done.

“And now, my good woman,” said Sir Godfrey, when he had written the
required paper, with an order for the money, “let me bid you farewell.”
He took Suzanne’s shrivelled hand, and she made a motion to rise up,
with decorous gravity. There was a confused murmur of gratitude, as if
appealing to her daughter for fuller explanation; but he saw her eyes
moisten again, silently, when he said he would cause the means to be
taken for at least enabling her son to communicate with and assist her.
Suzanne Deroux shook her head, she seemed almost to groan; while the
same wavering feebleness of mind again turned her to the window and the
child. It appeared doubtful whether she really had a distinct notion who
Sir Godfrey was, or what relation he bore to her former master.

“Are you aware,” he added apart, to the daughter, ere turning to the
staircase, “whether your mother ever expressed any idea as to the cause
of the fire in the house—if it was accidental or otherwise?” The answer
was in the negative.

“Or on what floor—her master’s apartments, or some other?” No. Her
mother was talkative enough, sometimes, and she believed she knew little
of it, and remembered yet less.

“There was no other circumstance, then, of any importance, in the
matter, which they were acquainted with?” None, she reluctantly said,
after a minute’s reflection; and it was evident that, if it had been
otherwise, she would have been eager enough to make the most of it: even
the touch of English gold might have no power to make such a woman as
Jeannette Deroux feel any sort of genial emotion, but it had at all
events given the light of unsatisfied cupidity to her hard grey Normandy
eye. Sir Godfrey descended alone, to find the urchins beginning rather
to dread the impatience of their charge.

The recent interview, making known little of any additional importance,
at least convinced Sir Godfrey of the judiciousness of a step he had
hitherto disliked, so long as it seemed possible that unexpected facts
might appear from it—an examination for himself, namely, of the original
record by the police, whose reputation for exactitude and acuteness was
so proverbial. It now, indeed, assumed the air of a somewhat superfluous
measure, when through all he had heard from these people, with no motive
or means for deception, there did not show the slightest trace of
anything unlike other disasters of the kind—of anything equivocal,
anything suspicious. It was chiefly, therefore, with the wish for
complete reassurance, and final dismissal of the unwelcome subject, that
he turned again, on his way homeward, to the chief bureau of police
which he had previously passed. He found prompt attendance there, on
producing his passport, and the required volume, from under the head of
“Conflagrations Domestiques,” soon lay open on a high desk before him at
the point he was in search of, while the inspector turned the leaves
slowly, reading aloud the passages he indicated, and which the peculiar
style of French calligraphy did not tend to render lucid.

The record of nineteen years ago had been made under a different
monarch, according to the laboriously prolix system of M. de Sartines,
especially when any foreign subject was concerned; and it extended over
many of the large pages, betraying by its faint-brown ink how
considerable an interval had elapsed. It set out with the alarm being
brought past midnight to the residence of the commissary in the Quartier
faubourg St Germain, that a house on the Quai d’Orcay was in flames, and
the endeavours made to arrest them, as well as to succour the
inhabitants, who had been driven to the garret windows, and were
attempting to pass to the contiguous roofs; it stated the narrow escape
of a maidservant from a front window of the first floor, where the whole
of the apartments were full of smoke, by the aid of a gendarme with a
ladder too short to allow him to enter—and of a woman in her
night-dress, whose shrieks had first given the alarm, but who had
disappeared; till she returned to a corner window with a child in her
arms, actually pursued by a bursting flame, but rescued by a man on the
top of a wall which abutted there on a manufactory canal flowing at a
right angle into the Seine—also of the English gentleman, the tenant of
the first floor, who had at first made his way from the street into the
basement, out of a fiacre which had brought him from the theatre, but
who reappeared half drenched, and panting for breath, amidst the play of
the fire-engines. The state of the February night was described as being
very dark before the occurrence, with a high wind blowing up the river,
where, from the tide, and a period of unusual rain, the water of the
Seine made the canal overflow, rising almost to a level with its
bridges, yet affording the greater facilities for the jets from the
fire-engines, which succeeded ultimately in saving the adjoining
structures, and the sheds of the tobacco-manufactory adjacent, with the
lower part of the house itself. The situation of the house was also
minutely given, to the very contiguity of the two poplar trees growing
outside the wall, up from the canal, but by which the _pompeurs_ had
found it impossible to climb in their heavy accoutrements—the height of
the wall on that side, and the manner in which the end of the house rose
like a continuation of it towards the quay, rendering it apparently
impossible, even when one had gained the top of the wall, to reach at
all near the solitary first-floor window, in the middle, and higher up.
Then followed a detail of the various occupants of the three floors and
garrets—on the basement, the proprietor, a widower, elderly and of
avaricious habits, whose warehouse of furniture filled three apartments,
his sleeping chamber being a closet attached—his clerk, an old man who
lived in a fourth apartment with his wife, both acting as porters:
above, the family of Monsieur Vilby, the Englishman, consisting at that
time of himself, his wife, and infant son, a young female attendant, a
child’s nurse, and the man-servant or butler of M. Vilby: on the third
storey and in the attics, a banker’s head-clerk, with his wife, her
maid, and three young children—a journalist, a painter, and an actor,
living together—a single young man, of no profession, (though calling
himself a poet), supposed subject to harmless fits of lunacy, inhabiting
an attic where he was known frequently to lock himself in. Of these
there had perished—the old proprietor himself, M. Canrobert, in whose
apartment the fire was supposed to have originated, since he warmed
himself only in bed, while supping alone, by candle-light—and the
portress, whose husband, luckily for him, had chanced to be absent on
business of his master’s,—the remains of both being still
distinguishable if only from the place of their discovery: the English
lady, Madame Vilby—her infant, at first supposed to have been the one
saved by the nurse, but found afterwards to have perished in her
embrace, although the charred and mingled debris of the whole upper
storeys fallen from above rendered it difficult to distinguish one mass
of human substance from another: the man-servant of the English
gentleman, at one time imagined identical with the person so active on
the wall;—also others, above, who were enumerated. Then succeeded the
depositions of the various individuals in evidence.

“‘_Victorine Tronchet_, fille-de-chambre to the late Madame Vilby,
declared, that before ten o’clock her mistress signified an intention to
sit up for monsieur, who had gone to a theatre at some distance, and
that she might retire. Retired to bed, accordingly, in a closet
adjoining the nurse’s room—saw the nurse, as she thought, carry out the
child as usual to her mistress—imagined, while half asleep, or dreamt,
that her mistress herself afterwards passed through the room, stooped
over the bed with the child in her arms, and disappeared. But knew
nothing further until awoke by the suffocating vapours. Could read—but
did not sit up in bed with a candle, perusing romances. There was a lamp
always burning on the floor of the nurse’s room. Was not aware, that
night, of the nurse having her own child in the house. Believed her
mistress to be ignorant of it. Could not tell why her mistress did not
herself suckle the child—knew nothing of such affairs. Did not know that
Madame’s voice had been brilliant—had heard her mistress sing to a
musical instrument, when M. Vilby was at home. M. Vilby had returned
home that day, unexpectedly, from England. He went to the theatre,
accompanied only by M. Adolphe, his servant—perhaps because Madame had a
headache. They used frequently to go to the theatre. Had heard that a
new actress of celebrity would perform. The man-servant, M. Adolphe,
returned early with some message to Madame, and retired up the outside
stairs to his attic at the top of the house.’”

“‘The examination of the stranger who had been so active was made
through an interpreter. Stated his name to be Guillaume Greefeeze. Was
not a native of England, but of Wales. Knew nothing of the fire, except
that having followed M. Vilby’s hackney-coach from the theatre, he smelt
smoke, and saw immediately the fire lick out (_se lécher_) through the
front-windows, when the doors below were burst open—heard shrieks at the
further end—leapt down by the canal, to climb the wall,—saw suddenly, by
the light of the fire, a woman in white at the window a little
above—thought she had fallen down inside, till she came back, holding
out a child and calling to him. Succeeded in getting to the window by
help of the barred outside shutter on that side, which swung with him,
however—found it impossible to get either of them down to the wall,
which did not come near enough towards being under the window—without
firmly fastening the outer edge of the shutter to a staple already
there. Refused to leave the woman as she seemed to wish—signed to her to
hold the child fast—tore down one end of the window-curtain, which held
firm—made her slip herself down after him in the fold of the curtain,
while he held the end firm with one hand, catching the shutter by the
other. On the top of the wall, which was luckily broad enough to hold
them, the woman seemed to faint away, so as nearly to drag them off,
when they would have fallen into the canal—shouted for assistance
then—before that, all the firemen and the crowd were in front, making a
noise—with the pumping, the sound of the fire and wind, and the falling
of the roof, it was useless. They were seen by chance, when the woman
and child were carried to the hospital. Afterwards assisted at the pumps
till the end.’

“The evidence of this witness was extracted with difficulty, by
fragments, in spite of a somewhat sullen and cynical air, almost
cunning. He frequently used the eccentric phrase ‘for reasons of his
own.’ It was thought proper, from these and other suspicious
circumstances, to detain him in the meanwhile.

“The statement of the nurse, Suzanne Deroux, was taken formally by her
bed-side, in a ward of the Hotel Dieu, where the fever from her injuries
continued, while it was doubtful whether her sight would again become
perfect. As for her child, whose arm had suffered, hopes had only begun
to be entertained of its recovery. ‘Was a native of Normandy, unmarried.
Had two children—a girl of four, and the young child which she had left
with a neighbour, to obtain support by nursing that of Madame Vilby. Had
obtained the assistance of the portress in having her own child brought
to her privately, at intervals, that she might still contribute to its
health. Had thought it pining, as her neighbour was a Parisian—was very
healthy herself, being originally a peasant—but was not allowed to go
out, except with the child of Madame Vilby in the daytime, accompanied
by her or a servant. On the night of the fire, had had both the children
with her—and as usual, conveyed that of Madame Vilby to her bed-chamber,
to be seen by her while awake. Did not see Madame Vilby after that, but
fell asleep holding her own child in her arms to lull an uneasiness it
showed—while that of Madame Vilby, which was younger, slept soundly at
the other side of the large bed. The suffocating smoke, and the shrieks
of Victorine, the fille-de-chambre, made her rise bewildered, seizing
the child which she felt clasping her and again uttering complaints. She
rushed to the nearest window, which would not open—that of the opposite
room, however, yielded, admitting a gust of wind by which the smoke
appeared to explode beyond into flame, and showing a man attracted by
her cries to the adjoining wall. Confessed that her recollection of the
other infant had not till then returned—that her instinct urged her to
return only for her own, which she had let fall when attempting to open
the first window—that she ran to search the bed, however, in
vain—concluded that Victorine or some one else had snatched the child
immediately from the side of the bed. Caught up her own infant from the
floor where she had dropped it, and after both had been for a moment on
fire from the partition of the room, was rescued by the window. Did not
yet know whether any one had perished. Was certain the fire had not
begun in the nursery, from the lamp on the floor—having distinctly
recollected awaking in complete darkness—the lamp must have been
overturned, extinguished, or taken away. Acknowledged, of her own
accord, that in secretly obtaining her own infant she had committed a
crime. Always slept soundly at night, having been a peasant. Did not
know anything more, and had no expectation of her child living, it was
so sickly from the manner of nourishment.’

“In reference to some of the remains discovered, surgical testimonies
were opposed. Amongst several unclaimed bodies deposited at La Morgue,
during the progress of this examination, was that, evidently, of an
Englishman, whose blue coat and top-boots betrayed his origin. Although
swollen and disfigured, while found naturally at a distance down the
Seine, yet no other Englishman than the man-servant of M. Vilby had
disappeared. The inference became certainty from the subsequent
declarations of many pompeurs, gendarmes, and bystanders, that after the
rescue of the nurse with her child, a figure had been seen to leap from
the pursuit of the flames out of this window into the canal.

“The declaration of M. Vilby, after several days, was taken. ‘Believed
the fire to be accidental. Had left Madame slightly indisposed, to see
an after-piece at the theatre, which he particularly wished to see with
her. Had been somewhat annoyed at her inability to accompany him. Had
met friends, and instead of remaining, had sent home a message by his
servant, to say he might return late. Had left them, however, earlier
than he at first intended—and’——the emotion of the witness was at that
point more expressive than words. The commissary-in-chief intimated that
no further evidence on the part of M. Vilby would be necessary, unless
on inferior points. ‘He was aware of the employment of Suzanne Deroux.
Did not know of her introduction of her own infant on any occasion into
the house. During his absence on business, his wife had gone out of
Paris for some days to visit a married friend, leaving their child, with
his full approval. He had approved her not nursing the child
herself—nay, had suggested it. He had considered Suzanne a faithful
servant, if not very intelligent. Certainly, had she been so, she might
have saved his child, without risking her own. He was now about to visit
the married friend of his wife in the neighbourhood of Paris.’

“Additional statement of M. Vilby, ‘Knew the young man _Greefeeze_. Had
seen him several times in England—was unaware of any reason why
Greefeeze should follow him from the theatre, or from the hotel of his
friends. There was no enmity between himself and this man—on the
contrary, he had always found Greefeeze apparently desirous to serve
him—had at one time intended to employ him, and once recommended him as
gamekeeper to his brother in England. With regard to the body found, had
gone to see it at La Morgue, and could trace no resemblance to his
servant, John Adolphe. Adolphe never had worn top-boots, that he was
aware of. Adolphe was not an Englishman; but, he believed, a Swiss.
Having been a trooper in the regiment of his own brother, a British
officer, and been for a time his brother’s servant, particularly
recommended by him when leaving the regiment for private service, this
young man had had his perfect confidence. Was convinced that Adolphe
must have lost his life in endeavouring to save what was most precious
to his master. Had had him some time before his own marriage, and knew
him well. Had _himself_ leapt out of the open window at the end of the
house, hardly knowing the canal was below—after the utmost hazard of his
life. Had found the whole interior a mass of smoke, bursting into flame
from near the staircase—the wind from the open casement alone saved him
from suffocation. Had heard no one—felt no one—all whirling, crackling,
burning—a hell out of which he still wished he could have thrown himself
into annihilation. It was, therefore, probably himself the other
witnesses had taken for his servant—or for the dead body at the Morgue.
Had been carried into the river, no doubt—but swam to the quay—there was
light enough, God knew—came up the stairs without even being noticed—was
only sorry that men were so mad as to cling to life, when it was misery.
Thought it proper to comply with the forms of law in a country, but
considered them often a mockery.’”

Here ended the main portion of the police record. A subsequent note in
red ink, however, directed farther on to a later entry in the volume,
with the date of nearly six months after. “The Englishman Greefeeze
reappeared at the bureau, with passports to be viséd for England.
‘Stated that he was in the service of M. Vilby, who had suddenly become,
by the death of an elder brother, the possessor of a title and estates.
Desired, in the indifferent manner of the English, to know the state of
the woman Suzanne Deroux. Inquired for her residence, on the ground that
his master would confer a pension on her for her injuries.’ An inspector
was sent with him to the woman’s house, where she had at length returned
from the hospital with her child. The emotion of her gratitude on
perceiving Greefeeze was the more conspicuous from his impassibility.
Yet on the following day, accompanied by the woman and her child, now
recovered, Greefeeze presented himself at the bureau, to declare his
adoption of the latter, under his own name. He was required to procure a
notarial and ecclesiastical testification, as well as to engage against
the future return of the child for subsistence from the police—also the
approval of his master, Sir Vilby.—Sir Vilby indeed appeared at the
bureau, when about to leave Paris in haste. His voice and features were
scarcely recognisable from the effects of suffering. He disavowed
consent to the act of Greefeeze, who followed him, and whom he
contemptuously called a fool. Sir Vilby, however, intimated the right of
Greefeeze to pursue his eccentric idea, if persevered in. The stubborn
Greefeeze alluded to a wife whom he had left in his own country of
Wales, and who was unhappy from the absence of children. His sentiments
had apparently been touched in the act of rescuing this infant, which he
was about to intrust, on the journey, to the female fellow-travellers
who might accompany them. The act of adoption is consequently recorded
as follows—— * * * Sir Vilby requested to correct his statement on the
previous occasion, six months before, with regard to the body at La
Morgue, since, on reflection, he was decidedly of opinion that it was
that of the Swiss, John Adolphe, his servant. This had already, indeed,
been perceived by the commissary—but the retractation appeared more
eccentric than the denial. The pension, too, which Sir Vilby now
conferred on the nurse, ought to have been given before, as the very
material injuries were received at all events in his employment.”

It was with no ordinary feelings that Sir Godfrey Willoughby perused or
listened to this formal memorial of an event that had been so long
obscure to him: it seemed, however, to leave little now indefinite or
concealed; numerous though the details were, which it presented for the
first time, they implied nothing really evil, or extraordinary, save as
most human calamities might; and the result was rather satisfactory than
otherwise. But the afternoon was now far advanced, and he rode homeward,
to dine alone, to finish an uncompleted packet to his Exeter lawyer,
with information and inquiries about the so-called young Griffiths, as
well as in regard to his adoptive father—then to set off, a little later
than he had expected, to meet his returning party on the Versailles
road.

The circumstances of their late dilemma were soon related—rather tending
to Charles’s disadvantage in the eyes of his father, who, amidst all his
general mildness, was inclined to look upon the youth’s disposition with
occasional severity; seeming, as it did to him, at that half-formed
stage, when lads are least agreeable in the paternal view, to indicate
some traits, both erratic and froward, though at times brilliant, of his
second uncle, John. He scarce listened to the boy’s explanation, and
checked his self-justifying arguments somewhat abruptly; to the silent
chafing of his son’s spirit, and the mother’s still more silent concern.
But at their late coffee-table, all being apparently forgotten with Sir
Godfrey’s expressed resolution never to trust the carriage in future
apart from his own guidance, they sat pleasantly talking by
candle-light. “So soon as Frank arrives, my dear Kate,” said Sir
Godfrey, from his arm-chair to the sofa where his wife leant near,
recovering from her fatigues, “we shall leave forthwith for the country.
I have scarcely any further business in Paris. And you have seen here, I
daresay, all that is to see?” She assented perfectly. Mr Thorpe had
launched out almost in a dissertation to the governess and Miss
Willoughby, the fruit of his late rural notices, on agriculture and
ecclesiastical arrangements; led on by Mrs Mason’s attentive air, and
the apparently intelligent interest of Rose. It was with a mild
confusion that he heard the young lady’s abrupt doubt as to the
sufficiency of sugar in his cup, followed straight by the addition of
another lump from the silver tongs in her hand; and while Mr Thorpe
stirred, and tasted, she had quietly escaped from the room, perhaps to
re-read her dearest friend’s epistle. So Sir Godfrey, who not merely
treated the tutor with the utmost deference as a graduate and a deacon
of the Church of England, but entertained great respect for him as a
learned and good man—at once joined himself to the topic—differing
slightly from the view that English plans, even English Protestantism,
would improve Frenchmen.

“I, of course, have happened to come a good deal in contact with them
abroad, my dear sir,” added he, “particularly in North America, during
the late war, and I assure you they have many generous, noble, and
honourable qualities, peculiarly their own, which would perhaps be lost
in any forced imitation of us. When I was taken prisoner by our own
rebels there, I really believe, Thorpe, that but for the clear and
gentlemanly conviction of some French naval officers, who came up at the
time, I should have been summarily hanged on the spot as a spy. I had
sought to escape in the uniform of a dead Frenchman, from a band of
savages, and colonials more brutal by far—though, among my captors,
there were some who ought to have known better. Nothing saved me, in
fact, but the ready quickness of these officers, whom I had never in my
life seen before. They immediately claimed me as a prisoner who had
broken parole from their frigate, by swimming to the river bank—a charge
which I, of course, indignantly disowned. I was, however, taken on board
in their boat, when the assertion was persisted in by the captain, a
French nobleman, on the suggestion of his officers, so that the ship set
sail with me beyond colonial reach. In the fleet of Count de Grasse I
was indebted for the utmost kindness to the captain of the frigate; and
when, not long after, at the defeat by Lord Rodney, he himself, with his
ship, was captured, I was enabled, in some degree, to repay the
obligation. We contracted the warmest friendship. Indeed, I regret not
having heard from the Count for many years, and his estates, I believe,
are not near Paris.”

“Observe, however,” persisted Mr Thorpe, stubbornly, “the extreme want
of principle which, in the bulk of the population, must be a thousand
times more egregious. A Protestant, Sir Godfrey, would rather have”—

“My dear Thorpe,” eagerly interrupted the baronet, “the Count deplored
the necessity, or rather the action, so deeply, as never, I do believe,
to have succeeded in reasoning the painful recollection away. It clung
to him like a superstition, in fact—for you must notice, he had
sacrificed, as it were, his hereditary honour to save me—a thing perhaps
more fanciful, less dependent on personal character, and more on
externals and reputation, than with us. Yet so delicate was his feeling,
and his wish to conceal it from me—that it was only by further
acquaintance with his character I could observe it—or understand the
restless tread on that poop at midnight—the frequent abstraction and
sudden fitfulness of his conduct towards the officers who had first
suggested his conduct—mixed with a singular regard towards
myself—notwithstanding, nay, as if _because_ of all. Nothing, as he
afterwards confessed to me, almost with tears, could have induced it,
except his recognition in me of an officer and a gentleman, an
unfortunate stranger, whose country had been gratuitously opposed and
defeated by French aid—when those of his own race were about to murder
him ignominiously. His sword, however, he said, should have been trusted
to alone, at all hazards; or, as he afterwards recollected, the
frigate’s guns might have been turned toward the neighbouring town;
indeed, next morning he had even sent to acknowledge the deception, with
a refusal to give me up, and an offer of personal satisfaction to the
American in command. Still, not only to have destroyed for ever the
prestige of French honour, with all its securities, but to have falsely
pledged the escutcheon of his own family, never before soiled, was a
thought which enraged him against himself, against others, almost beyond
control. It was useless to reason with my friend; it was perfectly
hopeless to attempt consoling him; in truth, during the quiet of our
voyage, a kind of insanity seemed to possess him, the only lucid
intervals in which were our conversations on subjects as remote as
possible from that. I think he secretly abhorred the manners of the
colonials, like the American alliance, and saw a degree of retribution
in the terrible defeat by Lord Rodney. I myself have reason to recollect
America with mingled feelings of horror and satisfaction”—he glanced for
a moment towards his wife, whose placid features betrayed no
consciousness of the allusion to her first conjugal letters—“so that, my
dear Thorpe, you may easily believe I could not help sympathising with
him!”

“But surely, Sir Godfrey,” continued the graduate, with very logical
insensibility, “you must be of opinion that this country, inclined, as
it now seems, to copy England, will be”—

“Like the Count de Charlemont and his friends, I should think, with
their English riding-coats and bulldogs!” involuntarily broke in Charles
Willoughby, with a laugh: he had been listening very intently; but the
laugh ceased at his father’s sudden look.

“Do not interrupt Mr Thorpe, boy!” said the latter, rather sternly; then
relaxing next minute at the abashed and flushed look, which made him
feel as if his tone had been too harsh—“what do you mean—what Count—what
did you say?”

“The mayor I had to visit this evening, you know, sir,” replied Charles,
“the Comte de Charlemont, I mean—Charlemont is the village we got mobbed
in.”

“De Charlemont?” repeated his father slowly, looking at him, “de
Charlemont? You mistake, my boy—or is this some silly presumption of
yours? That name I thought I had not allowed to slip from me. I never
have permitted myself to mention it. Pronounce the name again.”

Charles did so distinctly and firmly. “That is curious,” said his
father, rising from his seat. “Were you listening to what I told Mr
Thorpe just now, Charles?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, frankly.

“And I think I uttered no such name?” added the baronet.

“No,” said his son with gravity, “there was no name mentioned, except
the Count de Grasse and Lord Rodney—I particularly noticed.”

“Ah—well,” was the only additional remark, as his father turned to the
old stove-filled hearth-place, and leaning his arms above, stood plunged
in thought; Mr Thorpe calmly reasoning on, till it was past time for
prayers to be read, and for retirement. “I shall call on the Comte de
Charlemont,” said Sir Godfrey, the last thing, to Lady Willoughby.




                        THE SPANISH REVOLUTION.


                                             _Madrid, 14th August 1854._

Dear Ebony,—My last letter was dated immediately after the first
circulation in Madrid of a document, which had a most important effect
on the fate of the military insurrection, that soon grew into a popular
revolution. You will remember that after the action of Vicálvaro, on the
30th June, the insurgent generals drew their forces southwards, still
lingering, however, within a few leagues of Madrid, as if in hopes that
the capital would make a demonstration in their favour. But Madrid
remained tranquil—almost indifferent; and every post brought accounts of
similar apathy in large provincial towns, on whose rising in arms
O’Donnell and his friends had doubtless reckoned. A few small bodies of
troops and some armed civilians repaired to the insurgent banner; there
were trifling disturbances in the Huerta of Valencia; a daring partisan,
one Buceta, surprised the slenderly garrisoned but strongly situated
town of Cuenca. But these incidents were unimportant; without
co-operation on a far larger scale, it was evident the insurrection was
a failure, and that O’Donnell and his little army, isolated in the midst
of a population which seemed to have lost all spirit (even that of
revolt), must soon either make for the frontier, or risk an action with
the greatly superior forces concentrating to oppose them. But O’Donnell
had a card in reserve, which he was perhaps unwilling to play, but yet
was resolved to risk before abandoning the game as lost. In a
proclamation, dated from Manzanares, a town nearly half-way on the road
from Madrid to Granada, and whither a division under General Blaser was
proceeding, although slowly, to operate against him, he issued a
declaration in favour of the National Guard, of provincial juntas, and
of the assemblage of the Cortes, in which the nation, through its
representatives, should fix the basis of its future government. The
effect of this profession of faith was soon seen. So long as the
generals had limited themselves to invectives against Sartorius and his
colleagues, and against the system of corruption and immorality they had
fostered into a monstrous development, the nation had remained inactive,
because it saw no assurance of gain in a mere change of men, and because
no prospect was held out to it of a complete change of system. But when
O’Donnell spoke out, and threw himself frankly into the arms of the
popular cause, he had not long to wait for backers. On the 15th, 16th,
and 17th July, Valencia, Valladolid, Barcelona, Zamora, and, most
important of all, Saragossa, declared against the government, and the
fall of the ministry was inevitable. On the morning of the 17th, Madrid
received the double intelligence of some of these _pronunciamientos_,
and that the Sartorius cabinet was out. It was understood that General
Cordova, a statesman without talent, and a general without resolution,
was to head the new ministry, to which end he had long been intriguing,
currying favour with the King-consort, and with a less legitimate
influence at court. There was to be a bullfight on the afternoon of
Monday the 17th July—the first fight that had been permitted since
O’Donnell’s insurrection; and it became known in the morning that
Cordova and his friends intended getting up a small _emeute_ or
demonstration, when, between seven and eight o’clock, the streets should
be thronged with the ten or twelve thousand spectators issuing forth
from the bull-ring. The intention of this was doubtless twofold—to let
off a little of the popular steam, and to give an air of popularity to
the incoming ministry. But Cordova and his advisers had not sufficiently
felt the pulse of the people, or duly estimated the possible results of
so imprudent a manifestation. It was like exploding fireworks in a
powder-magazine; and the moment selected made the trick still more
hazardous. On the sultry evening of a burning July day, when several
thousand men of the middle and lower classes should just have quitted
the spectacle which excites them to the utmost, and habituates them to
bloodshed, to raise, in the streets of Madrid, even the simulacre of a
riotous banner, and that at a time when the people were galled by a long
period of oppression and misrule, and when an insurrectionary army was
in the field, was surely an act of as self-destructive madness as ever a
doomed and blinded man was afflicted with. Early in the day, one or two
leaders of the liberal party in Madrid had spoken to me of the proposed
demonstration, and had intimated their intention of being on the watch
to improve it, should circumstances turn favourably for their views.
Evening came, and the bullfight took place; after it, as usual, the
streets were crowded, especially the Puerta del Sol and adjacent
thoroughfares. It was about eight o’clock when the first symptoms of
disturbance were apparent. Numerous groups were formed in the streets,
and parties of men marched through them at a rapid pace, shouting
_vivas_ for liberty, and down with the ministry. The resignation of the
ministry, I must observe, had not yet been officially published, but it
was well known to have been accepted, and that, as far as the cabinet
went, Spain was in an interregnum. This was the moment chosen by General
Cordova for the farce which was to prove a tragedy. I was reminded, as I
watched the proceedings of the night, of the Italian robber story, in
which a party of practical jokers, and very _mauvais plaisants_, having
gone out with corked faces and leadless pistols to frighten some friends
abroad on a pic-nic, suddenly find amongst them the chocolate visages,
fierce whiskers, and blunderbusses charged to the muzzle of the genuine
brigand and his band, and heartily deplore the sorry plight in which
their folly has put them. So it was in Madrid on the 17th July.

The armed police, up to that evening so numerous that nowhere could you
walk ten yards without encountering them, were withdrawn from the
streets; the soldiers were all in their quarters—the very sentries had
disappeared: the main guard, which mounts at a large solid building on
the Puerta del Sol, used by the ministry of the interior, but best known
as the _Principal_ (chief guard-house), had closed the strong gates of
the edifice, and gazed listlessly through the windows at the movements
of the mob. Every precaution was taken to avoid collisions between the
authorities and the harmless rioters who were to carry out Cordova’s
plan. But its execution had scarcely begun when the mockery was turned
into earnest—so much so, that I am still at a loss to explain, except by
the confusion consequent on a change, and the real absence for some
hours of all government in Madrid, the want of any opposition to the
insurgents. At first, however, the disturbance was a mere riot, although
it soon grew into a political revolt. The bands of men that roamed the
streets, with shouts, sticks, and a few with arms, presently began to
seek modes of actively employing themselves. Long before the hour
(between ten and eleven o’clock) at which, as I afterwards ascertained,
the Progresista chiefs in Madrid had decided on an outbreak, the people
were busily at work. Before nine o’clock they repaired to two public
offices where they knew there were arms—the house of the political
governor and the town-hall—and, without opposition from the municipal
guards they found there, got possession of between seven hundred and
eight hundred muskets. These were regularly served out to the people by
the leaders of the movement; and soon, on the Puerta del Sol, an immense
crowd, in great part armed, besieged the doors of the Principal. The
soldiers within had their orders not to oppose the people, but they did
not think proper to admit them into their guard-house. Hard by was an
enclosure of planks, placed round some of the demolitions going on in
the Puerta del Sol (a flagrant job of Señor Sartorius), and there were
also beams from the falling houses. Planks and beams were seized by the
mob, piled against the doors of the Principal, and set on fire. The dry
wood, parched by the summer sun of Madrid, burned like straw. There was
danger of the whole building being consumed. The military evacuated it,
and the mob took possession. It would have saved a great deal of
fighting, and not a few lives, if they had kept it when they once held
it; but, as I have already shown, there was a want of organisation at
this early period of the night, and no definite intention, on the part
of the masses, of accomplishing a revolution. Even up to eleven or
twelve o’clock that night, many persons not inexperienced in such
movements thought that the disturbance was a mere popular
effervescence—the expression of the joy and relief felt by the people at
being rid of their tyrants—and by no means anticipated the serious
events that were to grow out of it. The Principal was abandoned by the
people, and again occupied by troops. Meanwhile, at other points, the
mob was actively mischievous, or, I should perhaps rather say, it
actively employed itself in revenging its wrongs on the authors of much
of its misery. Below a window, in one of the most frequented and central
thoroughfares of Madrid, which I occupied at intervals during the great
part of that evening, the passage of strong bodies of the people
continued. A great many weapons were now to be seen amongst
them—muskets, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, antiquated firearms of all
kinds. At the same time the great majority were unarmed; but their blood
was up, their will was strong, and their hands were ready for anything.
That night was so full of events that few thought of looking at watches,
and I cannot therefore give you the hour at which incidents occurred, or
set them down in the exact order of their occurrence, especially as I
often changed my place between the hours of eight and two, making
excursions into different parts of the town, but frequently returning to
the window before mentioned, which, as headquarters and central post of
observation, was an excellent position. One of the first acts of
violence committed was an attack on the house of Don Luis Sartorius,
Conde de San Luis, a man whose name will ever be pre-eminently infamous
in the annals of political crime. On their way to his house the people
got a ladder, set it against the front of the Principe theatre, which
had been endowed when he was in office, and broke to pieces a stone over
the entrance on which his name was carved. On reaching his residence
they turned his furniture, pictures, and valuable library into the
street, and made a bonfire of them. I know of literary amateurs who, on
hearing of this, hurried to the spot, hoping to rescue some of the rare
and curious books he was known to possess: but their efforts were in
vain; the people would allow nothing to be taken away, everything was
for the flames. At first the second floor of the house was respected,
but presently it was known that it had lately become the residence of
Esteban Collantes, the minister of public works, who had sent in, it is
said, only a few days before, twelve thousand dollars’ worth of
furniture. After Sartorius, Collantes, Domenech minister of finance, and
Quinto the civil governor, were the three men in Madrid most detested by
the people. Collantes was the _gamin_, the mischievous scapegrace, of
the San Luis cabinet, devoid alike of dignity, morality, and common
decency. The discovery that he abode above his chief colleague was a
godsend to the enraged mob, and his chattels quickly shared the fate of
those of Sartorius. Similar destruction proceeded at the houses of the
renegade liberal Domenech, of the Marquis de Molins, minister of marine
of Count Vista-hermosa, who had commanded under General Blaser at the
action of Vicálvaro, and who was then following up with a division
O’Donnell’s retiring forces; and at those of the well-known capitalist,
Salamanca, and of Count Quinto, the alcalde-corregidor, and governor of
Madrid. At these two last houses, especially, great destruction of
property took place. Rich furniture, pictures of high value, plate,
costly ornaments, jewels (especially at Salamanca’s), to the amount of
many thousands of pounds, valuable papers, government securities, and
even, it is said, bank notes and coin, were destroyed by fire. There is
reason to believe, however, that some of the more portable of these
things, particularly the jewels, were stolen—not, as I believe, by the
people, who, throughout the whole revolution, set an example of honesty
and disinterestedness—but by the professional thieves, who are always on
the look-out upon such occasions, and by servants in some of the houses
attacked, who, knowing where their masters kept their most precious
effects, had great facilities for purloining them. A friend of
Salamanca’s went to his house to rescue some valuable papers, and also,
if possible, some jewels of great price, which were in an iron chest
under a bed. Amongst these jewels was a diamond of remarkable beauty,
whose history is rather curious. It had been given, set in a ring, by
Count Montemolin, to an attached and faithful follower of his and his
father’s fortunes. This gentleman afterwards desired to dispose of the
stone, retaining the ring as a memorial, and addressed himself, with
this object, to a well-known London jeweller. The jeweller advised him
to retain the gem, for that, being of a most unusual size, he should
have difficulty, if he bought it, in selling it again—should, perhaps,
have to cut it down, &c. &c., and ending by naming a sum, which he
acknowledged to be less than its value, as the most he could afford to
give for it. The offer was accepted. Señor Salamanca afterwards paid
£3000 for it. This ring, with other valuable jewellery and a number of
unset stones—worth altogether many thousand pounds—were in the iron
chest. Salamanca’s friend reached the house, secured the papers, and
went to the chest. It was open and empty.

Meanwhile the people continued in motion in almost every part of the
town. It was by no means the rabble that were abroad and stirring; many
persons of the better classes were active in promoting the tumult. In
the streets the leaders could be heard consulting together, and planning
whither they should proceed. One party went to the Saladero prison to
release the political captives detained there; another strong band,
including general officers and persons of note and rank, repaired to the
town-hall, appointed a committee, and drew up a representation to the
Queen, which was delivered to her by a deputation. She promised to give
it favourable consideration. Before this time there had been movements
of troops in the town, but no hostilities. Towards two in the morning,
however, a decided change took place in the aspect of affairs, and
firing commenced at two points. After the deputation had returned from
the palace, and reported the result of its mission (amongst other
things, the Queen had expressed her earnest desire that there should be
no effusion of blood), the committee, which was soon to be a junta,
exhorted the crowd assembled in the square of the town-hall to return
home and await the result of what had been done. They were disposed to
do this, when in the Calle Mayor several companies of infantry opened
fire upon them. This roused their indignation and anger, and
thenceforward a struggle was inevitable. About the same time as those
volleys were fired there was an affray around the princely mansion, or
as it is usually called the palace, of Queen Christina. There, too, the
people had assembled (throughout the night, “Death to Christina!” had
been one of the most frequently repeated cries), had stoned and smashed
the windows, forced their way into the house, thrown out furniture and
valuables, and lit an immense bonfire with them—finally setting fire to
the house itself. The scene presented by the triangular _plaza_ in front
of the dowager-queen’s residence was striking enough. The wild figures
and furious activity of the insurgents—amongst whom were not a few women
inciting the men to mischief—contrasted with the passive attitude of a
small body of infantry, which tranquilly looked on at the proceedings of
the mob. At last, when a considerable portion of the furniture of the
right wing was blazing in the plaza, making it as light as day, and
illuminating the half-curious, half-frightened physiognomies that peered
from the windows of the neighbouring houses, the handful of troops were
reinforced by two companies, which at once fired on the people. Two or
three volleys cleared the plaza; a tolerable number of persons were
killed and wounded. There was firing at about the same time in other
parts of the town—in the Calle Mayor, as already mentioned—and
skirmishing between the troops and people, the latter of whom had begun
to assume the offensive; and from that moment it was pretty evident that
a sharp conflict was at hand. But it was not yet fairly engaged in,
owing to the absence of orders for the military, and of leaders and
organisation for the mob. A new and most unsatisfactory ministry, with
General Cordova and the Duke of Rivas at its head, had been appointed,
but could not be said to have as yet assumed command. And there was also
mistrust as to the extent to which the troops might be depended upon to
act against the people. On the other hand, the movement had commenced so
suddenly, and so many incidents had filled the few hours that had since
elapsed, that nothing like method had as yet been introduced into the
proceedings of the insurgents. On the 18th there was a good deal of
desultory fighting, and in several places severe conflicts took place;
but few barricades were thrown up, and the skirmishing was chiefly from
street corners, and from the doors of houses. It was easy to see that
the inhabitants of Madrid sympathised with the revolution, and wished
well to the insurgents. In many places, when these were hard pressed,
and compelled to run, doors were seen suddenly to open to receive them,
and again were quickly closed. The insurgents were as yet but
imperfectly armed. You might see groups of half a dozen standing at the
corner of a cross street, with perhaps two muskets or fowling-pieces
amongst them, the others having sticks and swords—the latter often
strange old-fashioned weapons, that looked as if they had belonged to
the middle ages, and picked out of a curiosity-shop. These gentry would
protrude their heads into the main thoroughfare, and watch the
favourable moment for a shot at some military post or passing picket. If
the shot drew pursuit upon them, they were off into the doors of
neighbouring houses, like rabbits into their burrows, or else away
through a labyrinth of lanes to harass some other point. A glance at a
map of Madrid, if you chance to have one at hand, will show you how well
adapted this most irregularly built capital is to the operations of a
body of insurgents perfectly acquainted with its intricacies. The uneven
surface—the town being built on a collection of small hills—the narrow
crooked streets, jumbled together without any sort of order or
system—the numerous small squares or open places, in passing over which
troops are liable to find themselves under a cross fire from half a
dozen different corners—the whole configuration of Madrid, in short,
greatly favours its inhabitants when they choose to rise in arms against
the garrison. Amongst the most remarkable events of the 18th was the
desperate fight maintained by the people against a body of gendarmes,
who, all old soldiers, defended themselves with signal valour, but were
finally overcome, some of them killed, and the rest disarmed. These
gendarmes, or civil guards, as they are here called, were in some sort
the Swiss guards of the Madrid July revolution—equally firm in duty and
discipline, and almost equally odious to the people, whom they punished
pretty severely, and who did not always give them quarter, when vast
superiority of numbers at last gave them the advantage which they
certainly would not have had in more equal conditions of force. One of
the most dashing things done by the insurgents on the 18th was clearing
the Plaza del Progreso (one of the larger squares in the heart of the
town) with the bayonet, after firing had for some time gone on. The
soldiers were fairly driven out by the civilians, and the square and
adjoining streets were quickly converted into a fortress, into which
there was little probability of the military again penetrating. On the
afternoon of the same day a number of lives were uselessly sacrificed,
owing to the recklessness and vindictive spirit of a retired officer, a
friend of Cordova’s. This person, although no longer in the army,
obtained command of a couple of guns, some infantry, and a few dragoons,
and, proceeding to the Calle Atocha, one of the principal streets of
Madrid, opened a heavy fire of artillery and musketry, firing round shot
into the houses, and grape down the street. He did a great deal of
damage—some of it to private houses in which no insurgents were or had
ever been—killed a few persons, most of them persons who had nothing in
the world to do with the insurrection, but who were sitting, inoffensive
and terrified, in their houses—lost thirty or forty of his own men, and
finally cleared a few hundred yards of street. But this was small gain
to the cause he defended, for the insurgents he drove away merely
changed their place, and when he departed they returned to contemplate
the ravages he had committed in the dwellings of peaceable citizens, and
to go forth upon the morrow more embittered than ever to the fight.

It was the 19th, however, that was by far the most important and
interesting day of the revolution. The aspect of the night that preceded
it was very singular. The day had been hot and bright, as usual in
Madrid at this season, and from early in the morning until half-past
eight at night the firing had been incessant and frequently very sharp
in one or other part of the town. When night fell, the noise and glare
were suddenly succeeded by profound silence and darkness. There was no
moon; except in a very few streets not a lamp was lit, and the
inhabitants received hints to show no lights in their windows. The
streets, which during the latter part of the afternoon had been little
frequented, owing to the numerous shots that were flying (the soldiers,
in some places, firing on every civilian they got sight of), were now
almost deserted. There was something very strange and alarming in the
complete stillness and gloom prevailing in this densely peopled capital,
which in ordinary times is all bustle and blaze until midnight or later.
Looking from a first-floor window, nothing was to be seen, except now
and then a dark figure gliding stealthily along or darting across the
street; but, on venturing out, you soon saw that the people were neither
idle nor off their guard. They were in groups behind their
barricades—which began to be numerous, although few of them were as yet
of a formidable aspect. Meanwhile the revolutionary junta was sitting at
the house of Sevillano the banker, a wealthy man, of liberal politics,
who had been an object of suspicion and persecution to the Sartorius
government. A depot of arms was ordered to be formed there, a
well-organised system of defence was decided upon, the barricades were
ordered to be strengthened and new ones to be made. Within two or three
hours after daybreak on the 19th, there were hundreds of barricades in
Madrid, many of them of great height and strength. The town presented a
most singular spectacle. The whole of its central portion, with the
exception of the Principal, which was garrisoned and stoutly defended by
a few companies of grenadiers, was soon in the hands of the insurgents.
These displayed astonishing activity and readiness of resource.
Everything was converted into means of offence or defence. Those of the
inhabitants who took no part in the fray, yet did all they could to
assist those who did. The enthusiasm was general. In the street in which
I that morning found myself, there were several barricades. Most of
these were commenced after five o’clock. As soon as the neighbours saw
two or three men at work, raising the pavement with picks and crowbars,
they hastened to supply them with materials, running out of their houses
with empty boxes, dilapidated furniture, and old matting. When
mattresses were asked they were freely given, and many hundreds of them
were used in the barricades. A patriotic carpenter, nearly opposite to
where I was stationed, who usually occupies his time in making coffins
for the dead and trunks for the living, brought out of his yard some
heavy boards, of great length, which extended completely across the
street, and formed an excellent skeleton for a barricade. Before eight
in the morning, the firing had begun on all points, and the bullets were
singing through the streets in every direction. Besides defending their
positions and attacking those of the military and civil guards—who had
taken possession of houses here and there in the districts occupied by
the people, and held them with great tenacity—the insurgents busied
themselves in various other ways, completing and strengthening the
barricades, collecting arms, making cartridges, preparing the houses for
defence in case the soldiers forced their foremost defences. Quantities
of paving-stones were taken up to the roofs and higher floors of the
houses, to throw down upon the enemy. Women and children assisted in
this labour. It was curious to observe the women. Notwithstanding danger
from bullets, they were all at their doors and windows. Some of
them—these were the younger ones—seemed to think it great fun; some of
the older ones looked ghastly and terrified enough; whilst others,
chiefly of quite the lower orders, were fierce partisans—as much so as
their husbands and brothers, who in perfect silence, but with deadly
resolution, were loading and firing from barricade, window, and
house-top. I heard one sturdy dame, crimson with exertion and
excitement, who bore in her brawny arms a basket of supplies to a
barricade then under fire, express her determination, should the troops
get into the street, to shower upon their devoted heads the whole of her
kettles and crockery. When a thrifty housewife comes to such extremes as
this, it is evident her blood is up. But the forced loan imposed by
Sartorius had come home to the pockets of the lower classes of
tax-payers, and had greatly exasperated the women.

I profess to send you mere sketches of the revolution—not its history,
which the newspapers have already in great measure supplied—and
therefore I do not consider myself bound to trace all its events, but
limit myself chiefly to what I saw. An artist who should have
perambulated Madrid during the 19th and 20th July would have found
abundant and striking subjects for his pencil. Feverish activity was the
characteristic of the first day, armed and vigilant repose of the
second. Repose from fighting, but not from toil, for, although there was
a cessation of hostilities—the Principal having surrendered (not,
however, until the afternoon of the 20th, when its garrison was
literally starved out), the whole town, with the exception of a few
barracks and buildings at its extremities, being in the possession of
the insurgents, and the Queen having sent for Espartero, which was all
that Madrid asked—the insurgents were still mistrustful, and in no way
relaxed their watchfulness. The medley of arms amongst them—particularly
on the 19th, for on the 20th they were better supplied with muskets—was
curious to observe. Many had scabbardless swords, which they used as
walking-sticks, thereby greatly improving the point; others had pistols,
some of tremendous length and most antiquated construction. There were
not a few _trabucos_ to be seen. These are tremendous blunderbusses,
wide at the mouth, which scatter a handful of _postas_ (large slugs), or
carry a ball full four times the size of a musket-ball. Here is a man
with a curved scimitar, which must have been handed down to him from
some Moorish ancestor, bound to his waist by a bit of old sash; yonder,
on a door-step, out of the exact range of fire, but the bullets striking
from time to time the balcony above her head, sits a woman playing with
a dagger, which she looks quite capable of using. I write only what I
myself observed. On the morning of the 20th I walked round many of the
barricades when their defenders were breakfasting. One group had got a
guitar for a table. It rested on the knees of a circle, and supported
their bread and sausage. There was great sobriety; during the whole of
the revolution I saw no case of drunkenness.

I leave you to imagine the alarm and confusion at the palace during all
this time. The poor, feeble, helpless Queen was distracted by many
counsellors. Her evil genius, the Duchess of Rianzares, was at her
elbow, urging her to resist to the utmost; for Maria Christina well knew
that, if her daughter yielded to the revolution, she herself would have
to quit Spain or do penance. She neglected to do the first until it was
too late, and must now submit to the second. Then, however, aided by
such bad advisers as Roncali, Cordova, Gandara, she excited the Queen to
resist and fight, or, if necessary, to fly from Madrid and plant the
royal standard elsewhere. There were about 3000 soldiers in and near the
palace, in the Retiro gardens, and in two or three barracks—every day
the palace cooks provided dinner for 3500 mouths;—these troops, which
included a powerful artillery, were to form the nucleus of a force
speedily to be assembled, and which was to crush the revolution. A civil
war might in this way have been brought about, but the universal spirit
of opposition to the Queen, and of indifference—if not dislike—to the
dynasty, that the Spaniards have since shown, sufficiently proves that
it would not have been of long duration; and its end would inevitably
have been the ejection of Isabella II. from her dominions. It was
written, however, that the misguided Sovereign should have another
chance of retaining the crown to which she has done so little honour. If
there were some persons at court who desired to see her leave Madrid for
a fortified place—or for any place where she would not be exposed to the
pressure of that revolution which they dreaded—there were others who
dissuaded her from departure, and even resolutely opposed and forbade
it. The ladies of honour, the officers of the halberdiers—that corps
which in 1841, under the command of General (then Colonel) Dulce, so
stoutly and successfully resisted an attack upon the palace—protested
that the Queen should not leave; and one of the former went so far as to
seek an interview with a well-known liberal and promoter of the
revolution, and to inform him of what was planning. The Marquis of
Turgot, the French ambassador, being consulted, advised the Queen by all
means to remain where she was. Even the Queen’s husband, poor, feeble,
ill-treated Don Francisco de Assis, showed spirit in the cause of
prudence, and vehemently protested against her removal from Madrid. Then
came—from Saragossa, the eastern stronghold of Spanish liberalism—not
Espartero, as was expected, but a messenger, bearing the conditions on
which the man of the day, whom all demanded and desired, would come to
Madrid. The exact contents of these conditions have not transpired, but,
from what has since passed, we may presume that they were tantamount to
giving Espartero almost unlimited power, and that, by accepting them,
the Queen bound herself to be guided in every respect by him and the
cabinet he should form. Few hours were passed in deliberating whether or
no they should be accepted, but those were hours of storm and strife
within the palace. The wicked, finding their projects ruined and their
power gone, fell out amongst themselves. There are strange stories of
what then occurred, especially between the Queen, her husband, and her
mother; of high words and bitter recrimination, and even of blows struck
and swords drawn. The exact truth is difficult to ascertain, for
scandal, very rife in Madrid, has distorted it into various forms; but I
believe there is no doubt that Christina, furious at seeing her daughter
about to accept conditions most unpalatable to herself, suffered her
Italian blood to move her to unbecoming violence. On the other hand the
King, reflecting how much of the unpopularity and difficulty that now
overwhelmed his wife was due to the boundless cupidity and unscrupulous
manœuvres of the Duchess of Rianzares and her husband, is said to have
vented his indignation on the latter, and even to have drawn a sword
upon him.

The ten days that elapsed between the summons sent to Espartero and his
arrival at Madrid, were days of much anxiety, and even of serious
apprehension. The junta governed, but its authority was not strong, and
there was danger of excesses by the democratic and turbulent population
of the low quarters of Madrid. The greatest danger was of an attack on
Queen Christina’s house. For two or three days this was seriously talked
of. The people were bent upon burning it. To do this would have been to
entail the destruction of a street that runs at the back of the
dowager’s palace, and one side of which forms part of the same block;
probably, also, the destruction of the British Embassy, which is
separated from it but by an interval of a few feet. Fortunately, things
occurred to distract the attention of the people, and no attempt was
made to carry out the imprudent design. The only acts of violence that
had to be deplored were the shooting of three or four obnoxious persons
belonging to the secret police. One of these was the infamous Francisco
Chico, the chief of that institution, who certainly richly deserved the
fate he met, for he had committed many and heinous crimes. A strict
watch was kept for the ex-ministers, and had they been caught, in those
first moments of excitement and fury, when the people were still hot
from the fight, they assuredly would have been killed.

To keep the people employed, the temporary authorities rather encouraged
the building and strengthening of barricades. The Spanish nation has
been so often cheated out of the results of its insurrections, and has
so repeatedly beheld a half-effected revolution converted into a
reaction, that it was determined this time to guard against such
delusions and disappointments. Such, at least, was the case in Madrid.
Under a broiling sun, they toiled as if life and death depended on their
exertions. Most of the barricades, at first constructed of very
heterogeneous materials, and without much regard to symmetry, were taken
down, and rebuilt of paving-stones and earth. The operation was a great
nuisance. The town was continually in a cloud of dust; passage through
the streets, obstructed by these temporary fortifications, was extremely
slow; at night one risked breaking his legs by tumbling into holes, or
his shins by stumbling over huge blocks of stone and other building
materials. The result of all this labour and inconvenience was, that, by
the 25th of July, Madrid contained upwards of two hundred and eighty
barricades of the first magnitude, each one of which was the centre of
(on an average) eight or ten smaller redoubts and defences. Besides
stones, of which the principal parapets were chiefly composed, the
materials used were bricks, tiles, bags of sand, beams, mortar,
diligences, private carriages, carts, and furniture. On the first days
of the revolution, it was curious to observe how, in the haste and
enthusiasm of the moment, good and even handsome furniture was taken out
into the street by its owners to be knocked to pieces in the barricades.
Flags and streamers adorned them all, and at nearly every one, raised
upon altars covered with coloured cloths, were portraits of
Espartero—horrible caricatures, many of them, but nevertheless the
objects almost of adoration on the part of the people. After nightfall
there were lights placed round these portraits, which in some instances
were accompanied by others of O’Donnell, Dulce, and latterly (but only
in a few cases) of the Queen, and music of every kind, from excellent
bands down to a single cracked guitar, played behind the barricades, in
front of which the people assembled in crowds. The revolution, serious
enough at first, had now become a sort of festival. The people were too
unsettled to return to their customary occupations; business of all
kinds was suspended; the streets were continually crowded with men of
the lower orders, armed, idle, but very well-conducted; whilst the
better classes, to whom, now that the preliminary object of the
revolution (the placing of Espartero at the head of affairs) was gained,
the whole thing was an intolerable nuisance, longed for the arrival of
the man whose presence alone would content the multitude, and restore
Madrid to its normal condition.

At last he came, and certainly his reception was a triumph. The road was
lined with people for miles without the town. The military and civil
authorities went out to meet him as far as the _Venta_ of the Holy
Ghost, half a league from Madrid. The garrison was formed up on the
right hand outside the Alcala gate, and the National Guard on the left.
His approach was announced by a general peal of all the church bells of
Madrid. There were triumphal arches, and every balcony in the town was
draped with coloured hangings. But the glorious part of the ovation was
the unmistakable and irrepressible joy of the people, and their
demonstrations of affection. The whole population of Madrid was either
outside the town or in the streets. Women of all classes abounded in the
crowd, and were vehement in the welcome they gave to the popular hero.
His carriage could hardly proceed for the people that thronged around
it, eager to touch his hand or even the skirt of his garment. This
continued the whole of the way to the palace, which is at the opposite
extremity of the town to that at which he entered, and all the way back
to Espartero’s temporary residence near the Puerta del Sol. The Duke de
la Victoria is far too warm-hearted a man not to be deeply moved by such
a reception, and I saw him more than once wipe the tears from his eyes.

The good effects of Espartero’s presence in Madrid were soon apparent.
Confidence returned, and in a short time we got rid of the barricades.
There was more difficulty in disarming that portion of the population
unfit to be trusted with arms, but this too was effected by advertising
for their purchase. Thereupon musket and carbine, rifle and blunderbuss,
came quickly into store. The ministry which Espartero formed did not at
first give general satisfaction to the liberal party, for the political
views of some of its members were at least doubtful; but soon its prompt
and judicious measures won it good opinions. Its first and greatest
difficulty was the Queen-mother. On this point the people would not give
way, or listen to reason. A few words from Espartero had sufficed to
make them remove their beloved barricades, but with respect to Maria
Christina they were inexorable. Armed men beset the gates of the town
and the avenues to the palace, and swore she should not depart till she
had rendered an account of her stewardship, and refunded at least a part
of her plunder. Night after night, and till past daybreak, Espartero and
the ministers, and the veteran patriot San Miguel—who, after rendering
immense services to the cause of order during the revolution, had been
appointed captain-general of the province—remained at the palace,
anxious to effect the departure of the Dowager Queen. But when she could
have gone she would not; and when she would, it was no longer possible.
At first her escape might have been managed, had she consented to go off
quietly in a post-chaise, without state or many attendants. But this did
not suit her. She had two enormous diligences at her daughter’s palace,
to convey herself and her family, her suite and her baggage. And on the
night that she might have gone, she made various difficulties, like a
person who was being forced to go, instead of one whose safety depended
on speedy flight. She seems to have been completely infatuated, and she
dallied and lingered until it was too late. It became impossible to
remove her from Madrid without a serious collision with the people. The
systematic, persevering, and determined manner in which they kept watch
was attributed to higher instigations than that of their ordinary
chiefs. It was said, with what degree of truth it is impossible to
ascertain, that they were prompted and directed by persons in authority,
who thought it unfair that the cause of so much evil to Spain should be
allowed to escape with her spoil to live luxuriously in a foreign land.
O’Donnell was mentioned as one of those who would gladly see justice
done on the unscrupulous and heartless Duchess of Rianzares. The
character of that general renders this not unlikely; but there is no
proof of it, and it is a mere report. What is certain is, that
Espartero, whose fault it is to be too easy and forgiving, rather than
severe and vindictive, was very desirous to get the Queen-mother
away,—possibly not only out of pity and consideration for her daughter,
but because he felt that her detention in Spain would be an additional
embarrassment to his government. He did not conceal his opinion of her;
he would not even have seen her, had she not, one night, after he had
repeatedly refused her an interview, abruptly entered a room where he
and the other ministers were assembled with the Queen. But he would have
facilitated her departure. Amidst her delays, pretensions, and
indecision, the moment passed, and even his power and influence were
insufficient to secure her exit from Spain without a combat and a
sacrifice of life; or, at the least, without deeply offending the
people, and imperilling the tranquillity of Madrid—if not of the whole
country. When things came to this, persons at the palace proposed
various plans for escape in disguise. Such escape was not easy, for the
people rigidly scrutinised all who left the palace, and armed parties
outside the town examined every vehicle that passed. It is said that
some one proposed to Christina to disguise herself as a black woman
(there are a great many negresses in Madrid), and answered for her
escape if she would do so, but that she refused, on account of two
remarkable dimples in her cheeks, which she made sure would betray her.
The poor lady begins to have more wrinkles than dimples; but she was
doubtless right not to risk detection in such ignoble disguise. Her
features are of course extremely well known here, and had the people
caught her making off in masquerade, she certainly would not have
escaped rough usage, and perhaps her life would have been sacrificed.
What could her daughter then have done? Hardly have retained her throne,
already slipping from under her—and her crown, whose brightness is so
grievously dimmed by the humiliation her errors have brought upon her.
It seems incredible that a sovereign should be found sufficiently
wanting in pride to put pen to such a manifesto—I should rather say to
such an apology—as was signed by Isabella II. on the 26th July last.
Doubtless nothing less would do; but surely most princes—or they are
meaner than the world believes them—would have preferred abdication to
so humbling themselves. In that notable proclamation, she completely
cried _peccavi_, promised better behaviour, and protested her entire
adherence to Espartero’s political principles. Since he has been here,
her conduct towards him has been such as to make it appear miraculous
how she ever managed to do without him. She constantly requires his
presence, and, notwithstanding the immense deal of business he has to
attend to, he is obliged to go daily to the palace. Doubtless she has
not yet quite recovered from the alarm of the revolution, and looks upon
Espartero as her best safeguard. I will not attribute any covert or
perfidious motive to a sovereign who has suffered severely for her
errors, and has pledged herself to amendment. But it would be very
desirable to separate her from her mother, whose intriguing spirit will
never be at rest so long as there is life in her body, and a possibility
of her working evil. She continues at the palace, instead of being sent
away from Madrid, and guarded in some castle or royal residence. Of
course, there are difficulties in the way of removing her, and it seems
cruel to separate her from her daughter, from whom, perhaps, before
long, she may be separated for ever. But the paramount consideration is
the welfare of Spain; and, moreover, in reality, the links that bind the
two ladies to each other are of a less tender nature than may be
supposed, or would seem natural. Christina, it is well known, has never
loved this daughter, whom she shamefully neglected, and, it may almost
be said, wilfully corrupted, with a view to place upon her throne the
Duchess of Montpensier. She has that influence over Isabella which long
habit, and the ascendancy of a strong mind over a weak one, naturally
give to her. And probably the Queen hangs more than ever upon her
mother, now that her lover has been sent away, and her palace cleared of
that crew of supple courtiers, ready for any base subserviency or
corrupt complaisance, who have so long infested it. “It is absolutely
necessary,” the venerable San Miguel is reported one day to have said to
the Queen, “that the Señor de Arana should go on a mission to Ciudad
Rodrigo. There he will be very near to Portugal, and may easily pass
into that country.” This caused instant anxiety and alarm. “You answer
to me for his life,” was the reply. “It runs not the slightest risk,”
said the old general, and so the thing was arranged. The favourite
departed, and is perhaps already as completely forgotten by the person
most interested in retaining him here as he appears to be by everybody
else. He is not likely to be recalled, so long as Espartero is in power,
and it is to be hoped he will not be replaced. The clearance of the
court was left for the Duke de la Victoria, who assumed the office of
governor of the palace, and speedily dismissed the titled and
embroidered, but impure, crowd that haunted its halls and avenues.

Availing myself of the roving and desultory license conceded to the
letter-writer, I step back a few weeks to note some small but not
uninteresting circumstances, which I find I have omitted to mention.
When O’Donnell’s outbreak occurred, not only were the civil guards
removed from their duty on the roads and concentrated in the capital,
and at other points, to act in bodies as troops against the insurgents
and against the people, but the numerous police of Madrid became too
much engrossed by their political avocations to heed the ordinary
objects of their solicitude. The proper regulation of the streets was
neglected, and a prodigious swarm of beggars, emerging from their
habitual lurking-places, spread itself over the town. The streets were
infested by the most revolting deformities. The least disagreeable
section of the mendicant mob was that consisting of the blind men, who,
always numerous in Madrid, were now apparently in redoubled strength.
There is an independent spirit amongst these _ciegos_, and they seldom
beg, but poke their way about with a big stick, or are led by a friend,
and sell newspapers, flying sheets, and extraordinary supplements. Since
the revolution there has been much work for them, and from seven in the
morning until late at night one hears their discordant cries, consisting
generally of the names of new newspapers, (many have been started within
the last month), the _Esparterista_, the _Independencia_, the _Sentinela
del Pueblo_, or of the announcement of the “latest news from the
palace,” “the departure of the _tia Cristina_,” or “the life of the
robber Sartorius,”—all for two _cuartos_, or one halfpenny. It were
unjust to these benighted dispensers of intelligence to class them
amongst the beggars, although they certainly are a nuisance, owing to
their straightforward manner of perambulation, which compels everybody
to keep out of their way who does not desire to have their heavy feet
stamped upon his, or their protruded stick thrust against his shins. But
the blind are quite agreeable and ornamental compared with the maimed,
the diseased, the shrivelled, the distorted, who lie under walls and
upon the staircases of public buildings, station themselves at street
corners, ride about on donkeys, and everywhere disgust you with their
nauseous presence, and pester you with their piteous whine. The
Spaniards are charitable—that is to say, they are great alms-givers—and
this of course encourages street-begging. There are places of refuge and
humane establishments in Madrid whither all destitute persons have a
right to repair—whither, indeed, it is the duty of the police to compel
them to betake themselves. But for some time past it can hardly be said
that there has been any police in this capital; and I assure you that a
walk through it is anything but a gratification, either to the eyes or
the olfactories. It is full of strange, complicated, and most unfragrant
odours, to which the puzzled and tortured nose involuntarily and in vain
attempts to ascribe an origin. And it is plentifully besprinkled with
objects that should never be seen out of an hospital. Here, seated or
squatted on the pavement of one of the most crowded thoroughfares, is a
wretch with an arm shrivelled to the bone; here another whose leg grows
up behind his back, his foot appearing over his shoulder. Here is an
unfortunate creature who almost reminds us of the days when lepers sat
by the road-side and implored alms. A little farther on a man, in an old
soldier’s coat, displays the hideous stump of his amputated leg; and in
this narrow passage we run up against a boy leading a donkey, on which
is stretched, upon his belly, a shapeless mass of humanity, his limbs
naked, and every one of them in some way or other distorted and
deformed. And here—haunting the narrow court that leads to the
post-office, and whose asphalt pavement, most injudicious in this
climate, grows sticky and stinking beneath the beams of the August
sun—is a tall young fellow without any arms at all, who, in the names of
many saints, entreats pity upon a _pobre joven_, unable to work, and
expects you to put your coppers into his waistcoat pocket. As if
political revolutions and vagabond music had some mysterious connection,
the number of street bands, Italian harp-players, organ-grinders, and
guitar-strummers, that have deafened us during the last six weeks, is
something extraordinary. It was noticed by persons here that on one
particular day, early in July, all these itinerant professors
disappeared, and it was inferred that an outbreak was close at hand. But
either the musicians had been falsely alarmed, or a general feast or
fast held by them was the cause of the suspension of their hostilities
against the tympanum of Madrid, for no insurrection occurred at that
time, although we had not very long to wait for it.

The Spanish revolution of 1854 has, I need hardly say, not been
accomplished without some expense. Revolutions are costly amusements:
from the State they take money, and from the people days of labour.
Although this one has, up to the present time, especially as regards
Madrid, and in all Spain except Catalonia, been particularly orderly for
a movement of the kind, and remarkably free from excess and riot, there
still is a bill to pay. The provincial juntas, during their few days of
local but almost absolute power, issued various decrees that would have
played havoc with the finances had they not been promptly repealed by
the regular government established under Espartero, to which, however,
even up to the present moment, some of these juntas refuse to give up.
In many provinces important taxes were taken off, without any measures
being adopted to replace the heavy deficit their abolition would
occasion in the public revenue. And some of these taxes were of daily
collection, as, for instance, duties on goods entering towns. Then there
were barricades to be paid, damages to be repaired, streets to be
repaired, and many other charges. And the outgoing ministers, when they
saw their political end approaching, took scandalous liberties with the
public money. Of the portion of the forced loan that had been collected,
but a few thousand reals were to be discovered, although at least half a
million sterling had been got in, and paid at Madrid into the coffers of
the State. In short, as regards finance, the new government has entered
office under most unfavourable circumstances. But the purses of
Progresista capitalists, rigidly closed to the Sartorius ministry, are
freely opened to that of Espartero. And no time has been lost in
effecting savings in various departments. Numbers of useless clerks and
government officials have been dismissed; and although, according to the
very bad rule here observed, all these men are entitled to more or less
retiring pension, to be more or less punctually paid, still the economy
is considerable. But the great saving will result from the character of
the men who have come into office, and who are all respected for their
integrity. O’Donnell, it is true, made his fortune in no very reputable
way—by the slave-trade, when he was governor of Cuba—but that has been
such a common and received practice that it would be erroneous to infer,
from his having followed it, that he would necessarily take bribes in
Madrid, or defraud the country he assists to govern. A Spanish general,
sent out to command at the Havanna, sees nothing improper—as there is
certainly nothing extraordinary—in receiving his ounce or two of gold
for every slave landed. Don José Concha, now on the eve of embarking for
Cuba to resume the post he formerly held there, is almost the only
instance, for many years, of resistance to the temptation held out to
West Indian captain-generals by the importers of the raw article from
Africa. In Spain, however, O’Donnell passes for an honourable man, who
keeps his word when it is pledged, and is incapable of the baseness and
peculation of which Spanish ministers have been too often guilty.

Although formed and headed by the most popular man in Spain, and
composed of men by no means unwelcome to the nation, the present
ministry, brief though its existence yet has been, has not escaped
censure for some of its acts. Of course, all the persons whom the
revolution has upset, all the employés who are put on half-pay, all the
friends of the polacos, the partisans of Sartorius, Bravo Murillo,
Roncali, and other notorious ex-ministers, who now find themselves sunk
in the slough of despond, are furious against the new order of things,
and spare no pains to damage the government by propagating false reports
and malicious inventions. On the other hand, the ultra-liberals, the
republicans and clubbists, look upon the present men as a mere
compromise, and declare that the revolution has been nipped in the bud,
and has not gone half far enough. They have faith in Espartero, and
discretion enough not violently to agitate, at least for the present,
against his government; but here there are clearly the elements of two
oppositions, one factious and reactionary, the other, by its impatience
for progress, nearly or quite as dangerous. The most recent and the
principal ground of complaint the latter party has found, is the
intimation in a ministerial document published two days ago in the
_Madrid Gazette_, and which preludes to a decree regulating the mode of
convocation of the Constituent Cortes—that the government intends to
admit no discussion as to the permanence of Isabella and her dynasty on
the Spanish throne. There is at present a very strong feeling in Spain
against the Queen personally, and against the race to which she belongs;
and those who desire to see her compelled to abdicate, or dethroned by
the vote of a National Convention—the proper name for the single popular
chamber that is to assemble on the 8th of next November—do not perhaps
sufficiently reflect on the difficulties to which such a measure would
give rise. They are ready to remove, but are they prepared to replace,
the erring daughter of the treacherous Ferdinand? My belief is, that
were Isabella to-morrow to sign her act of abdication, it would be
joyfully received by a large portion of the nation, but that discord
would ensue as to who or what should replace her. During the latter days
of the Sartorius ministry there were seven or eight candidates in the
field for the premiership—as soon as it should be vacant. There have
lately been nearly as many named for the throne, should the present
sovereign quit it. First there is her daughter, with a long
regency—probably that of Espartero. But this would only lead to fresh
complications. The Princess of the Asturias is a puny, unhealthy child;
besides which there are reasons, known to all, and which I need not
particularise, that make it extremely doubtful whether the Spanish
nation would accept her as their sovereign even in name. This admitted,
there are still many to choose out of, but there are difficulties and
objections in every case. There are Montemolin, Montpensier, Don Pedro
of Portugal: a federative republic has been talked of, and some have
ventured to hint even at Don Enrique, the Queen’s cousin and
brother-in-law. The two last, however, are out of the question. The
priest party would give all its support to Montemolin, and, were an
attempt made to change the dynasty, he might possibly find sufficient
adherents to commence a civil war, whose duration and consequences to
Spain it would be impossible to foresee. Montpensier would find few
partisans. Brought into Spain by intrigue, and against the wish of the
people, he has wanted either the tact or the opportunity to gain their
esteem and affection. Living in retirement at Seville, he has been
little heard of, and the general opinion of his abilities is decidedly
poor. I say nothing of the Spanish dislike to a French sovereign, or of
the opposition that the present ruler of France would probably make to
his elevation to the throne of Spain. Amongst the better classes here
there is decidedly a leaning to the young King of Portugal. The
favourable accounts received of his talents and character, the increase
of importance that would be given to Spain by the union of the two
countries into the kingdom of Iberia, the commercial advantages to be
derived from the command of the whole course of the two great rivers
that traverse Portugal and the greater part of Spain,—these are some of
the circumstances that induce many here to cast wishful looks in the
direction of the young heir of Braganza. Pedro V., they say, would suit
them well. And even some of the objections urged against the scheme,
such as the vast difference in customhouse tariffs and religious
tolerance in the two countries, are set down by them amongst the
advantages and inducements to their union. The converts in Spain to such
a reduction of the imports on foreign manufactures as should destroy
smuggling, benefit the treasury, and produce an increase of the demand
for Spanish produce, daily augment in numbers. As to religious
tolerance, the Spaniards begin to see that it is inseparable from true
liberty, and to be ashamed of the system of bigotry that disgraces their
country. The appointment of Don José Alonso, a most determined opponent
of ultramontane influence, to the ministry of Grace and Justice, is
significant of the feeling prevailing here, and of a probable move in
the right direction. The liberals all declare the existing concordat to
be doomed, and if the Pope opposes the great alterations that will be
made in the present system, and which will doubtless include the
expulsion of the Jesuits, and a great reduction in the hierarchical
establishment in Spain, it is by no means impossible that the whole
fabric of papal interference will be swept away, and that Spain will
have the Spanish church as France has the Gallican.

There still are certainly considerable difficulties in the way of the
union of the two crowns and countries. In the first place, is it sure
that the King of Portugal would accept the arduous task of governing
Spain? Would it be wise of him to exchange his present humble but safe
and respectable position amongst the sovereigns of Europe for one
certainly much more exalted, but also infinitely more arduous, and even
dangerous? Admitting, however, that he made up his mind to this, how
would the Portuguese like the plan? Waiving the question of national
antipathies, to which exaggerated weight has been given, how would
Portuguese pride endure that Portugal should be absorbed in Spain, even
whilst giving her a king? And what would they say to the loss of the
valuable smuggling trade of which Portugal is now the depôt, and which
is carried on through her ports and territory? If there be not a customs
union, there can be no real union between the countries. It is not
likely, however, that Portugal will long benefit in the way it now does
by the absurd Spanish tariff, of which a reform is inevitably
approaching. That tariff is doomed by the increasing good sense of the
nation and by the example of others, and its existence can be a question
only of time. There are other difficulties, such as the fusion of the
two debts and the election of one capital (is Madrid or Lisbon to be
sacrificed?) but it is thought that all these things might be reconciled
and arranged in a satisfactory manner. It is hoped France would not
object, and England’s co-operation and aid are reckoned upon—as they are
admitted to be indispensable. The Iberian monarchy, with Pedro V. on the
throne and an English princess for his wife—such is the dream of many
here. That at least a part of it may be realised, is certainly not
improbable. And I have reason to know that such a plan has occurred,
some years since, to persons in high places, not in this country, whose
influence, if steadily and perseveringly applied, would go far towards
carrying it out. No time could be more favourable for that than the
present, when England and France are bound in close alliance and cordial
amity, and when Spain is thoroughly disgusted with the dynasty that has
so long misruled her.

There is much more to be said on this subject of a change of dynasty,
but for the present I must conclude, for here is the middle of the
month; and moreover writing long letters with the thermometer at
fever-heat is almost too much exertion. And so, for at least another
moon, I quit the complicated question of Spanish politics, and bid you a
hearty farewell.

                                                                VEDETTE.


           _Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._

-----

Footnote 1:

  _Narrative of a Journey through Syria and Palestine in 1851 and 1852._
  By Lieut. VAN DE VELDE. 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1854.

Footnote 2:

  The old name for Corinth. The famous rock of the Acropolis is 1800
  feet high, and is a most prominent object from Athens, and all the
  open country to the east.

Footnote 3:

  The landscape here described is well known to travellers, being on the
  road between Corinth and Mycenæ. The Apesantian mount, with its broad,
  flat, tabular summit, overhangs Nemea, where three magnificent
  Corinthian pillars are all that remain to proclaim, amid the solitude,
  the once splendid worship of Nemean Jove. The defile of _Tretus_ is
  described by Pausanias (ii. 15), and by Colonel Mure in his Travels.

Footnote 4:

  The temple of Juno, near Mycenæ, of which the remains have lately been
  discovered.

Footnote 5:

  The well-known ruins of Tiryns, at the head of the Argolic gulf,
  between Nauplia and Argos. The “galleries” make a fine figure in
  illustrated tours; but Tiryns, situated on a low elliptical hillock,
  will disappoint the traveller. Not so _Mycenæ_, of which the remains
  are truly sublime, and well worthy to be associated for ever with the
  memory of the “king of men.”

Footnote 6:

  The old name of Ægina, whose maritime strength and commercial dignity
  are celebrated by Pindar. (Ol. viii.)

Footnote 7:

  Naxos.

Footnote 8:

  The climate of Rhodes is delightful. The Atabyrian mount is mentioned
  by Pindar, in the famous ode to Diagoras (ol. vii.), αλλ ὦ Ζεῦ πάτερ
  νὡτοισιν Αταβυριου. κ. τ. λ.

Footnote 9:

  On the subject of _Lycia_, and the topography of this part of the
  poem, it is perhaps superfluous to refer our readers to Sir Charles
  Fellowes’ works, and the travels, in the same district, of Professor
  Edward Forbes, now of this city.

Footnote 10:

  A warlike people in Lycia mentioned by Homer—Σολύμοισι κυδαλἰμοισι.

Footnote 11:

  So Homer. Arrian, in his life of Alexander (ii. 5), alludes to this
  plain, or one bearing the same name, near the river Pyramus in
  Cilicia.

Footnote 12:

  Colonial Land and Emigration Commissioners’ Report, 1853.

Footnote 13:

  _Of the Plurality of Worlds; an Essay. Also a Dialogue on the same
  subject._ Second Edition. Parker and Son, 1854.

  _More Worlds than One, the Creed of the Philosopher, and the Hope of
  the Christian._ By Sir DAVID BREWSTER, K.H., D.C.L. Murray, 1854.

  _The Planets: Are they Inhabited Worlds?_ Museum of Science and Art.
  By DIONYSIUS LARDNER, D.C.L., Chapters i., ii., iii., iv. Walton and
  Maberly, 1854.

Footnote 14:

  HERSCHEL, _Astron._, § 592.—[We quote from the first edition.]

Footnote 15:

  _Age of Reason._

Footnote 16:

  _More Worlds than One_, p. 199.

Footnote 17:

  _Ibid._, p. 202.

Footnote 18:

  _More Worlds than One_, p. 230.

Footnote 19:

  _Essay_ (2d edition), p. 261.

Footnote 20:

  _Dialogue_, p. 37.

Footnote 21:

  _Essay_, pp. 133, 134.

Footnote 22:

  _Ibid._, pp. 299, 300.

Footnote 23:

  _Ibid._, pp. 308, 309.

Footnote 24:

  Psalm cxv. 16.

Footnote 25:

  Isaiah, xlii. 5.

Footnote 26:

  Isaiah, xlv. 12, 18.

Footnote 27:

  _More Worlds than One_, p. 17.

Footnote 28:

  _Essay_, p. 359.

Footnote 29:

  _Essay_, p. 359.

Footnote 30:

  _Ibid._, pp. 94, 95.

Footnote 31:

  _Ibid._, pp. 98, 99.

Footnote 32:

  _Ibid._, p. 103.

Footnote 33:

  _Ibid._, p. 104.

Footnote 34:

  _Essay_, p. 360.

Footnote 35:

  _Ibid._, p. 360 (Professor Owen).

Footnote 36:

  _Ibid._, p. 362.

Footnote 37:

  _Ibid._, pp. 364, 365.

Footnote 38:

  _Essay_, pp. 370, 371.

Footnote 39:

  _Essay_, pp. 371, 372.

Footnote 40:

  _Ibid._, pp. 375, 376.

Footnote 41:

  Matt. xvi. 26, 27.

Footnote 42:

  _Dialogue_, pp. 53, 54.

Footnote 43:

  _Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands_. By Mrs HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 2
  vols. London: 1854.

Footnote 44:

  _An Apology for the Colouring of the Greek Court._ By OWEN JONES.
  London, 1854.

Footnote 45:

  White marble.—This contempt of white marble is about as wise as
  Walpole’s contempt of white teeth, which gave rise to his well-known
  expression, “The gentlemen with the foolish teeth.” Yet though a
  people have been known to paint their teeth black, white teeth, as
  white marble, will keep their fashion.

Footnote 46:

  “_Circumlitio._”—See Mr Henning’s evidence before Committee of House
  of Commons on the preservation of stone by application of hot wax
  penetrating the stone, and his mode of using it, similar to the
  encaustic process.

Footnote 47:

  In the _Clouds_, Aristophanes makes Socrates swear by the Graces—σοφῶς
  γε νῆ τάς χαριτας—twitting him, as the scholiast remarks, upon his
  former employment, alluding to his work of the Graces.—_Clouds_, 771.

Footnote 48:

  “Inter _statuas_ Græci sic distinguunt teste Philandro, ut statuas
  Deorum vocent ἔιδοιλα; Heroum ξοἄνα; Regum ἄνδριαντας: Sapientum
  εἴκελα; Bene-meritorum βρενεα; quod tamen discrimen auctoribus non
  semper observatur.”—HOFFMANN’S _Lexicon_.

Footnote 49:

  We do not presume to be critical upon the Bœotian schoolmaster’s
  Greek; but no modern student would take him for an authority in
  prosody. He says the impetuosity of the genius of Homer hurried him
  into a false quantity in the first line of the _Iliad_, in the word
  Θεὰ. Plutarch was forgetful of the rule of _a purum_ in the vocative.
  His prejudice is sufficiently shown in his essay _On the Malignity of
  Herodotus_, whom he disliked, because the historian did not speak over
  favourably of the Bœotians. “Plutarch was a Bœotian, and thought it
  indispensably incumbent on him to vindicate the cause of his
  countrymen.”—BELOE’S _Herod_.

Footnote 50:

  The “devotion”—the estimation in which the Athenians held their gods,
  at the very time of their building magnificent temples, and of their
  highest perfection in art, we may fairly gather from their dramatic
  performances. If Zeus himself was treated with little reverence, other
  deities to whom they erected statues fared worse. Bacchus is exhibited
  on the stage as a coward—Hercules as a glutton.—_Vide_ Aristophanes
  and Euripides. So much for the motives invented for the Athenians by
  Mr Jones. Had such motives been appealed to, not a drachma would have
  been obtained.

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                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end
      of the last chapter.
 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 5. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript
      character, e.g. M^r.