BLACKWOOD’S
                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
            NO. CCCCXXXIX.       MAY, 1852.       VOL. LXXI.




                               CONTENTS.


        GOLD: ITS NATURAL AND CIVIL HISTORY,                517
        LIFE OF NIEBUHR,                                    542
        THOMAS MOORE,                                       559
        MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. PART XXI., 569
        OUR LONDON COMMISSIONER. NO. II.,                   596
        THE GOLD-FINDER,                                    607
        THE VINEYARDS OF BORDEAUX,                          617
        THE DEMOCRATIC CONFEDERACY,                         626


                               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. CCCCXXXIX.       MAY, 1852.       VOL. LXXI.




               GOLD: ITS NATURAL AND CIVIL HISTORY.[1][2]


The progress of knowledge naturally leads to the discovery not only of
new arts, and of new uses for artificial productions, but of new stores
of natural wealth in the bowels of the earth itself, and of new methods
of extracting and rendering them useful. This last point is amply
illustrated by the history of the progressive discovery and development
of our own most valuable mineral treasures—the coal and ironstone
deposits—which add so much both to our natural resources and to our
national strength.

But, independent of the advance of knowledge, the exploration and
colonisation of new countries by a civilised race leads of necessity to
the discovery of regions rich in mineral wealth, which were unknown
before, and brings new metallic supplies into the markets of the world.

When Spain conquered Mexico first, and afterwards Peru and Chili, Europe
became flooded with the precious metals to a degree unknown before in
the history of modern nations. When Russia began to explore her
provinces on the slopes of the Ural, gold-washings were discovered,
which have, by their enormous yield, made up for the deficient supply
which commotion and misrule in Central and Southern America had caused
in European countries. The possession of California by an observant and
curious people, of Anglo-Saxon breed, was almost immediately followed by
those wonderful discoveries which have made the world ring, and have
attracted adventurers from every region. And, lastly, the turning of
keen eyes upon river beds in Australia—still less known and examined
than almost any district of America without the Arctic circle—has
brought to light those vast stores of gold which appear destined to lay
the basis of a new empire in the Australian archipelago.

Nor have such discoveries been confined to the so-called precious
metals. The advance of North American civilisation towards the head
waters of the Missouri has made known abundant mines of lead, which the
cost of transport chiefly prevents as yet from seriously competing with
European produce along the Atlantic border. The joint march of Canada
and the United States along the shores of Lake Superior, has laid open
veins of copper of inexhaustible magnitude—on a scale, we may say, in
size and richness commensurate with the other great natural features of
the American continent;—while, of coal and ironstone, the Central States
of the Union are so full, that imagination itself cannot conceive a time
when they shall cease to be sufficient for the wants of the whole
civilised world.

Men untrained themselves to observe, and ignorant that it is
intellectual knowledge which opens and guides the eye, affect to
wonder—often, indeed, do seriously wonder—that gold so plentifully
scattered over the surface of a country as it is said to be in
California and Australia, or sprinkling with its yellow sheen thick
veins of snowy quartz, should, for a time so comparatively long, have
escaped observation. “What surprises me,” says Captain Sutter, in whose
mill-race the gold was first discovered, “is, that this country should
have been visited by so many scientific men, and that not one of them
should have ever stumbled upon these treasures; that scores of keen-eyed
trappers should have crossed the valley in every direction, and tribes
of Indians have dwelt in it for centuries, and yet this gold should
never have been discovered. I myself have passed the very spot above a
hundred times during the last ten years, but was just as blind as the
rest of them, so I must not wonder at the discovery not having been made
earlier.”[3]

Such seeming blindness, indeed, is not really a matter of surprise. The
ability to observe is an intellectual gift no less than the ability to
reason; and, like the latter talent, the former also must be trained. It
must be taught where to look, and what to look for; what the signs are
of the presence of the thing we wish to find, and where they are likely
to be met with.

It is not, in truth, a just reproach to unsuspecting men, that they have
not seen what they never imagined the presence of. It would scarcely
have been so, had they failed to see in a given place what they were
told was likely to be found. Many of our readers are familiar with the
existence of black lines in the solar spectrum; many may have seen them,
and justly wondered. Some may even recollect, when, years ago,
Frauenhofer first announced their existence, how opticians everywhere
mounted their most homogeneous prisms, and gazed at the spectrum eager
to see them, and how many looked in vain. Of course, the failure was
ascribed to the imperfection of their prisms, and not to their own
defective skill. One philosopher we remember, then already
distinguished, and whom now all delight to honour, of whom it was told
that having obtained one of the beautifully perfect prisms of
Frauenhofer’s own manufacture, he was still unable to see the lines; but
that another who had seen them came to his aid, instructed him how to
look, and in an instant he not only clearly saw them, but exclaimed with
wonder at his own blindness. Such were our own sensations also when
first we saw them. Was it, then, a reproach to Sir Isaac Newton and his
successors that these lines escaped them? The same reproach might be
made to the predecessors of almost every discoverer in every walk of
modern science. Many before him probably had looked from the same spot,
with similar advantages for seeing, and had not seen. But they had gazed
without any special object or previous instruction, and they had failed
to discern what another coming after them, prepared to look for it, and
knowing what it was like, and where likely to be, would have at once
descried.

Hence the discovery of most of the rich mines in past times was the
result of some unlooked-for accident happening generally to
naturally-observant but ignorant men. Thus Jacob says of the mines in
the Hartz—


  “There are various conflicting opinions among the learned in
  antiquities respecting the discovery of the mineral wealth of the
  Hartz. The most probable accounts fix it in the tenth century; and the
  tradition is, that a hunter of the name of Ramm, when engaged in the
  chase, had fastened his horse to a tree, who, by pawing with his feet,
  had scraped away the soil, and thereby discovered some minerals; that
  specimens of them were sent to the Emperor Otho, to whom all minerals,
  as regalities of the Empire, belonged, and who sent expert miners to
  examine the district, from Franconia.”—(JACOB, i. p. 254.)


And again of the mines of Saxony—


  “The mines of Saxony were first discovered in the tenth century, when
  the whole district in which they are situated was covered with wood
  and without inhabitants. Some carriers from Halle, on their way to
  Bohemia, whither they carried salt, observing metallic substances in
  the tracks made by the wheels, some of these were taken up and sent to
  Goslar to be examined, when they were found to consist of lead with a
  considerable quantity of silver. This led to the establishments for
  mining, which have continued, with some variations in their products,
  from the year 1169 to the present day.”—(JACOB, i. p. 252.)


And of the mines of Potosi—


  “In the latter end of the year 1545 the mines of the Cerro de Potosi
  were accidentally discovered. According to the account of Herrera, the
  discovery was owing to an Indian hunter, Diego Hualca, who, in pulling
  up a shrub, observed filaments of pure silver about the roots. On
  examination the mass was found to be enormous, and a very great part
  of the population was thereby drawn to the spot and employed in
  extracting the metal. A city soon sprang up, though in a district of
  unusual sterility. The mountain was perforated on all sides, and the
  produce, in a few of the first years, exceeded whatever has been
  recorded of the richest mines in the world.”—(JACOB, ii. p. 57.)


And so with the discovery of the rich washings of California. As early
as the time of Queen Anne, Captain Sheldrake, in command of an English
privateer on the coast, discovered that the black sands of the
rivers—such as the washers now find at the bottom of their
_rockers_—yielded gold largely, and pronounced the whole country to be
rich in gold. But it remained in the hands of the Indians and the Jesuit
fathers till 1820, when California was made a territory of the Mexican
commonwealth, and a small party of adventurers came in. Captain
Sheldrake and his published opinions had then been long forgotten,[4]
and an accident made known again the golden sands in 1848, after the
territory had been ceded to, and was already attracting adventurers
from, the United States.


  “The discoverer was Mr Marshall, who, in September 1847, had
  contracted with Captain Sutter to build a saw-mill near some pine
  woods on the American Fork, now a well-known feeder of the Sacramento
  river. In the spring of 1848 the saw-mill was nearly ready, the dam
  and race being constructed; but, when the water was set on to the
  wheel, the tail-race was found too narrow to let the water through
  quick enough. Mr Marshall, to save work, let the water right into the
  race with a strong stream, so as to sweep the race wider and deeper.
  This it did, and a great bank of gravel and mud was driven to the foot
  of the race. One day, Mr Marshall, on walking down the race to this
  bank, saw some glittering bits on the upper edge, and, having gathered
  a few, examined them and conjectured their value. He went down to
  Sutter’s Fort and told the captain, and they agreed to keep it a
  secret until a certain grist mill of the captain’s was finished. The
  news got about, however; a cunning Yankee carpenter having followed
  them in their visit to the mill-race, and found out the gold scales.

  Forthwith the news spread. The first workmen were lucky, and in a few
  weeks some gold was sent to San Francisco, and speedily the town was
  emptied of people. In three months there were four thousand men at the
  diggings—Indians having been hired, eighty soldiers deserted from the
  American posts, and runaways getting up from the ships in the harbour.
  Such ships as got away carried news to Europe and the United States;
  and, by the beginning of 1849, both sides of the Atlantic were in
  agitation.”—(WYLD, pp. 34, 35.)


But when no accident has intervened to force the discovery upon the
unsuspecting or unobservant, it has sometimes happened that great
riches, unseen by others, have been discovered by persons who knew what
to look for, what were the signs of the presence of the thing sought,
and who had gone to particular places for the purpose of exploration.
Such was the case in Australia.

The preliminary history of the Australian discovery is peculiar. From
what he had seen of the Ural, and had learned of the composition of the
chief meridian mountain ridge of Australia, Sir Roderick Murchison
publicly announced, in 1845, his belief that Australia was a country in
which gold was likely to be found—recommended that it should be sought
for, and even memorialised the home government on the subject.[5] But
although this opinion and recommendation were inserted and commented
upon in the colonial newspapers—although the Rev. W. B. Clarke published
letters predicting, for reasons given, the discovery of gold deposits in
California and Australia—although


  “Sir Francis Forbes of Sydney subsequently published and circulated in
  New South Wales a paper, in which he affirmed in the strongest manner,
  on scientific data, the existence of gold formations in New
  Holland—although a colonial geologist had been sent out some years
  before and was settled at Sydney—and lastly, although one part of the
  prediction was soon so wonderfully fulfilled by the Californian
  discoveries—yet oven the discoveries in California did not arouse the
  New Hollanders to adequate researches, though reports were spread of
  wonderful discoveries in Victoria and South Australia, which were
  speedily discredited. It was reserved for a gentleman of New South
  Wales, Mr Edward Hammond Hargraves, to make the definite discoveries.
  He appears to have acted independently of all previous views on the
  subject; but having acquired experience in California, and being
  struck with the resemblance between the Californian formations and
  those of New Holland, he determined on a systematic search for gold,
  which he brought to a successful issue on the 12th of February of this
  year 1850, by the discovery of gold diggings in the Bathurst and
  Wellington districts, and which he prosecuted until he had ascertained
  the existence of gold sands in no less than twelve places.”—(WYLD, p.
  30.)


When this was made known by Mr Hargraves in a formal report to the
authorities at Sydney, in April 1850, they then (!) despatched the
provincial geologist to examine the localities, and confirm the
discoveries of Mr Hargraves! But the public did not wait for such
confirmation. On the 1st of May the discoveries became known in Sydney.
In thousands the people forsook the city, the villages, cattle stations,
and farms, in the interior, for the neighbourhood of Bathurst, where the
gold had been found. Summerhill Creek alone soon numbered its four
thousand diggers, who thence speedily spread themselves along the other
head waters of the Darling and Murrumbidgee—rivers flowing westward from
the inland slope of the mountain ridge, (Blue Mountains and Liverpool
range,) which runs nearly parallel to the south-eastern coast of
Australia, and at the distance from it of about one hundred miles. Near
Bathurst the summit of the ridge attains, in Mount Canobolus, a height
of 4461 feet. In numerous places among the feeders of these streams,
which themselves unite lower down to form the main channel of the
Murray, gold was speedily found. It was successfully extracted also from
the upper course of the Hunter River, and from the channel of Cox’s
River—both descending from the eastern slope of the same ridge, within
the province of New South Wales. In the province of Victoria, the
feeders of the Glenelg and other rivers, which descend from the southern
prolongation of the same chain—the Australian Pyrenees—have yielded
large quantities of gold; and recently, Geelong and Melbourne have
become the scene of an excitement scarcely inferior to that which has
longer prevailed in the country round Bathurst. South Australia also,
where the main river, Murray, passes through it to the sea at Adelaide,
has been reported to contain the precious metal. So suddenly does the
first spark of real fire spread into a great flame of discovery—so
clearly can all eyes see, when taught how to look, what to look for, and
in what circumstances.

But in New South Wales, and in the province of Victoria, the excitement,
and the zeal and success in digging, have up to the latest advices been
the greatest. In the beginning of June 1850, the Governor-General had
already bestowed a grant of £500 upon Mr Hargraves, and an appointment
of £350 a-year, as acknowledgments of his services—acknowledgments he
well deserved, but which might have been saved honourably to the colony,
and creditably to science, had the recommendation made five years before
by geologists at home, and by scientific colonists, been attended to. In
the same month the Sir Thomas Arbuthnot sailed from Sydney for England
with £4000 worth of gold already among her cargo. The success of the
explorers continues unchecked up to the latest arrivals from Australia.
“When I left, on the 10th of August 1851,” says the captain of one of
her Majesty’s ships of war, in a letter now before us, “there was then
weekly coming into Sydney £13,000 of gold. One lump has been found one
hundred and six pounds in weight.” He adds, and we believe many are of
this opinion, “that it appears to be one immense gold field, and that
California is already thrown into the shade.” The news of five months’
later date only give additional strength to all previous announcements,
anticipations, and predictions.

Now, in reflecting on these remarkable and generally unexpected
discoveries, an enlightened curiosity suggests such questions as
these:—What are the conditions geographical, physical, or geological, on
which the occurrence of gold deposits depends? Why has the ability to
predict, as in the Australian case, remained so long unexercised, or
been so lately acquired? What are the absolute extent, and probable
productive durability, of the gold regions newly brought to light? What
their extent and richness compared with those known at former periods,
or with those which influence the market for precious metals now? What
the influence they are likely to exercise on the social and financial
relations of European countries? What the effect they will have on the
growth and commerce of the States which border the Pacific, or which are
washed by the Indian and Australian seas? In the present article we
propose to answer a few of these questions.

And, first, as to the Geography of the question. There are no limits
either in latitude or longitude, as used to be supposed, within which
gold deposits are confined—none within which they are necessarily most
abundant. In old times, the opinion was entertained that the precious
metals favoured most the hot and equatorial regions of the earth. But
the mines of Siberia, as far north as 69° of latitude, and the deposits
of California, supposed to extend into Oregon, and even into Russian
America, alone show the absurdity of this opinion.

Nor does the physical character of a country determine in any degree
whether or not it shall be productive of gold. It may, like California,
border the sea, or be far inland, like the Ural slopes, or the Steppes
of the Kirghis; it may be flat, and of little elevation, or it may
abound in streams, in lakes, and in mountains;—none of these conditions
are necessarily connected with washings or veins of gold. It is true
that mountain chains are usually seen at no great distance from
localities rich in golden sands, and that metalliferous veins often cut
through the mountains themselves. But these circumstances are
independent of the mountains as mere physical features. It is not
because there are mountains in a country that it is rich in gold, else
gold mines would be far more frequent; and mountainous regions, like our
own northern counties, would abound in mineral wealth. It is the nature
of the rocks of which a country consists—its geological and chemical
characters, in other words, which determine the presence or absence of
the most coveted of metals. Humboldt, indeed, supposed, from his
observations, that, to be productive of gold, the chain of mountains
which skirt the country must have a meridional direction. But further
research has shown that this is by no means a necessary condition,
although hitherto, perhaps, more gold has been met with in the
neighbourhood of chains which have a prevailing north or south direction
than of any other. We may safely say, therefore, that there are no known
physical laws or conditions, by the application or presence of which the
existence of gold can with any degree of probability be predicted.

Let us study for a little, then, the geology of a region of gold.

_First_, Every general reader now-a-days is aware that the crust of our
globe consists of a series of beds of rock, laid one over the other,
like the leaves of a book; and that of these the lowest layers, like the
courses of stone in the wall of a building, are the oldest, or were the
first laid down. These rocky beds are divided into three groups, of
which the lowest, or oldest, is called the primary; the next in order,
the secondary; and the uppermost, or newest, the tertiary.

_Second_, That in certain parts of the world this outer crust of rocks
is broken through by living volcanoes, which, with intermissions more or
less frequent, belch forth flames and smoke, with occasional torrents of
burning lava. That where, or when, the cause of such eruptions is not
sufficiently powerful to produce living volcanoes, earthquakes are
occasioned; cracks or fissures, more or less wide, are produced in the
solid rocks; smoking fumeroles appear; and vapour-exhaling surfaces show
that fires, though languid and dormant for the time, still exist
beneath. That besides the rocks of lava they have poured out, these
volcanic agencies change the surface of a country more widely still by
the alterations they gradually effect upon the previously existing
slaty, calcareous, or sandstone rocks; converting limestone into marble,
and baking sandstone into more or less homogeneous quartz, and common
slates or hardened clays into mica slates, gneiss, and granite-like
rocks. That such volcanic agencies, producing similar phenomena, have
existed in every geological epoch; and though the evidences of these are
most extensive and distinct, perhaps, among the rocks of the oldest or
primary period, that they are numerous and manifest also among those of
the secondary and tertiary periods.

_Third_, That rocks of every age and kind, when exposed to the action of
the air, the vicissitudes of the seasons, the beating of the rains, the
force of flowing water, the dash of the inconstant sea, and other
natural agencies, crumble down, wear away, or are torn asunder into
fragments of every size. These either remain where they are formed, or
are carried by winds and moving waters to distances, sometimes very
great, but which are dependent on the force of the wind or water which
impel them, and on the size or density of the fragments themselves. Thus
are our shores daily worn away by the action of the sea, and the
fragments distributed along its bottom by the tides and currents; and
thus, from the far northern mountains of America, does the Missouri
bring down detached fragments thousands of miles into the Gulf of
Mexico, whence the Gulf Stream carries them even to the icy Spitzbergen.

_Fourth_, That over all the solid rocks, almost everywhere is spread a
covering of this loose, and, for the most part, drifted matter,
consisting of sands, gravels, and clays. These overspread not only
valleys and plains, but hill-sides and slopes, and sometimes even
mountain-tops, to a greater or less depth. There are comparatively few
spots where these loose materials do not cover and conceal the native
rocks; but in some localities, and especially in wide plains and deep
river valleys, they are sometimes met with in accumulations of enormous
depth. In our own island, a depth of two hundred feet of such
superficial sands, gravels, and clays, is by no means unusual. They are
often sorted into beds alternately coarse and fine, evidently by the
action of moving water; and while the great bulk of the fragments of
which our English gravels consist can generally be traced to native
rocks at no great distance from the spots on which they rest, yet among
them are to be found fragments also, which must have been brought from
Norway, and other places, many hundred miles distant.

On the surface of these drifted masses we generally live, and from the
soils they form we extract by tillage the means of life.

_Fifth_, That these, occasionally thick, beds of drifted matter—_drift_
we shall for brevity call it—are in some places cut through by existing
rivers, the beds of which run between high banks of clay, sand, or
gravel, which the action of the stream has gradually worn and washed
away. This is seen in many of our own river valleys; and it is
especially visible along the great rivers of North America. The effect
of this wearing action is to remove, mix up, and _re_distribute, towards
the river’s mouth, the materials which have been scooped out by the
cutting water, and thus to produce, on a small scale, along the river’s
bed, what had long before been done in the large, when the entire bed of
drift through which the river flows was itself spread over the plain or
valley by more mighty waters.

These things being understood, a very wide geological examination of
gold-bearing localities has shown—

_First_, That gold rarely occurs in available quantity in any of the
stratified rocks, except in those which belong to the primary or oldest
group, and in these only when or where they have been, more or less,
disturbed or altered by ancient volcanic or volcanic-_like_ action; by
the intrusion, for example into cracks and hollows, of veins and masses
of serpentine, granite, syenite, and other igneous rocks, in a melted or
semi-fluid state.

_Second_, That among these primary stratified rocks a subdivision, to
which the name of Silurian was given by Sir Roderick Murchison, has
hitherto, as a whole, proved by far the richest in this kind of mineral
wealth; though the slate-rocks below, and the sandstones and limestones
above, in favourable circumstances, maybe equally gold-bearing.

_Third_, That the drifted sands and gravels, in which gold-washing is
profitable, occur only in the proximity, more or less near, of such
ancient and altered (so called metamorphic) rocks. They are, in fact,
the fragments of such rocks broken up, pounded, and borne to their
present sites by natural causes, operating long ages ago, but similar in
kind to those which now degrade and carry away to lower levels the
crumbling particles still torn off from our hardest mountains by the
ceaseless tooth of time.

Numerous as have been the deposits of gold found in various ages and
countries, they all confirm the general geological conclusions above
stated. The main and most abundant sources of gold which were known to
the ancients, occurred among the sands of rivers, and amid the gravels
and shingles which formed their banks. Such were the gold-washings in
the beds of the Phasis, the Pactolus, the Po, the Douro, the Tagus, and
the mountain streams which descended from the alpine heights of Greece,
of Italy, of America, of Asia Minor, and of many other countries. These
rivers all descend from, or, early on their way, pass through or among,
ancient rocks, generally old and altered Silurian strata, such as those
we have spoken of, in which the gold originally existed, and from which
the existing rivers, since they assumed their present channels, have in
some few cases, and to a small amount, separated and brought it down.
And if in any region, as in Nubia, Hungary, Bohemia, and Macedonia,[6]
the ancient or mediæval nations followed up their search to the sources
of the rich rivers, and were successful in finding and extracting gold
from the native rocks, later explorations, wherever made, have shown
that these mines were situated among old and disturbed deposits of the
primary and Silurian age.

The more modern discoveries in America, Siberia, and elsewhere, prove
the same. So that, among geologists, it is at present received as an
established fact, that the primary, the so called azoic and palæozoic
rocks, are the only great repositories of native gold.

There are no known laws, either physical or chemical, by which the
almost exclusive presence of gold in these ancient rocks can be
accounted for or explained. A conjecture has been hazarded, however, to
which we shall for a moment advert.

From the fissures and openings which abound in volcanic neighbourhoods,
gases and vapours are now seen continually to arise. Whatever is capable
of being volatilised—driven off in vapour, that is—by the existing heat,
rises from beneath till it reaches the open air, or some comparatively
cool spot below the surface, where it condenses and remains. Such was
the case also in what we may call the primary days of geology.

Gold is one of the few metals which occur, for the most part, in the
native or metallic and malleable state. But in this state it is not
volatile, and could not have been driven up in vapour by ancient
subterranean heat. But, as in the case of many other metals, the
prevailing belief is, that it has been so volatilised—not in the
metallic state, however, but in some form of chemical combination in
which it is capable of being volatilised. No such combinations are yet
known, though their existence is not inconsistent with—may in fact be
inferred from—our actual knowledge.

It is further supposed that, at the period when the primary rocks were
disturbed by intrusions of granites, porphyries, serpentines,
greenstones, &c., which we have spoken of as volcanic-like phenomena,
the elementary bodies, which, by their union with the gold, are capable
of rendering it volatile, happened to exist more abundantly than at the
period of any of those other disturbances by which the secondary and
tertiary rocks were affected; and that this is the reason why signs of
gold-bearing exhalations, and consequently gold-bearing veins, are rare
in the rocks of the newer epochs.

According to this view of the introduction of gold into the fissures and
veins of the earliest rocks, its presence is due to what we may call the
fortuitous and concurrent presence in the under crust of other
elementary substances along with the gold, which by uniting with it
could make it volatile, rather than to the action or influence of any
widely-operating chemical or physical law. The explanation itself,
however, it will be remembered, is merely conjectural, and, we may add,
neither satisfactory nor free from grave objections.

But from the geological facts we have above stated, several very
interesting consequences follow, such as—

_First_, That wherever the rocks we have mentioned occur, and altered as
we have described, the existence and discovery of gold are rendered
probable. Physical conditions may not be equally propitious everywhere.
Broad valleys and favourable river channels may not always coexist with
primary rocks traversed by old volcanic disturbances; or the ancient
sands and shingles with which the particles of abraded gold were
originally mixed may, by equally ancient currents, have been scoured out
of existing valleys, and swept far away. But these are matters of only
secondary consideration, to be ascertained by that personal exploration
which a previous knowledge of the geological structure will justify and
encourage.

Whenever the geology of a new country becomes known, therefore, it
becomes possible to predict the presence or absence of native gold, in
available quantities, with such a degree of probability as to make
public research a national, if not an individual duty. This led Sir
Roderick Murchison to foretell the discovery of gold in Australia, as we
have already explained; and similar knowledge places similar predictions
within the power of other geologists.

We happen to have before us, at this present moment, a geological map of
Nova Scotia. Two such maps have been published, one by Messrs Alger and
Jackson, of Boston, and another by Dr Gesner, late colonial geologist
for the province of New Brunswick. In these maps the north-western part
of the province is skirted by a fringe of old primary rocks, partly
metamorphic, and sometimes fossiliferous, and resting on a back ground
of igneous rocks, which cover, according to Gesner, the largest portion
of this end of the province. Were we inclined to try our hand at a
geological prediction, we should counsel our friends in the vale of
Annapolis to look out for yellow particles along the course of the
Annapolis river, and especially at the mouths and up the beds of the
cross streams that descend into the valley from the southern highlands.

Nature, indeed, has given the Nova Scotians in this Annapolis valley a
miniature of the more famed valley of the Sacramento. Their north and
south mountains represent respectively the coast range and the Sierra
Nevada of the Sacramento Basin. The tributaries in both valleys descend
chiefly from the hills on the left of the main rivers. The Sacramento
and the Annapolis rivers both terminate in a lake or basin, and each
finally escapes through a narrow chasm in the coast ridge by which its
terminating basin communicates with the open sea. The Gut of Digby is,
in the small, what the opening into the harbour of San Francisco now
called the “Golden Gate” and the “Narrows” is in the large; and if the
Sacramento has its plains of drifted sand and gravel, barren and
unpropitious to the husbandman, the Annapolis river, besides its other
poor lands, on which only the sweet fern luxuriates, has its celebrated
Aylesford sand plain, or devil’s goose pasture—a broad flat “given up to
the geese, who are so wretched that the foxes won’t eat them, they hurt
their teeth so bad.” Then the south mountains, as we have said, consist
of old primary rocks, such as may carry gold—disturbed, traversed by
dykes, and changed or metamorphosed, as gold-bearing rocks usually are.
Whether quartz veins abound in them we cannot tell; but the idle boys of
Clare, Digby, Clements, Annapolis, Aylesford, and Horton, may as well
keep their eyes about them, and the woodmen, as they hew and float down
the pine logs for the supply of the Boston market. A few days spent with
a “long Californian Tom,” in rocking the Aylesford and other sands and
gravel-drifts of their beautiful valley, may not prove labour in vain.
What if the rich alluvials of Horton and Cornwallis should hide beneath
more glittering riches, and more suddenly enriching, than the famed
crops of which they so justly boast? Geological considerations also
suggest that the streams which descend from the northern slopes of the
Cobequid Mountains should not be overlooked. It may well be that the
name given to Cap d’Or by the early French settlers two hundred years
ago, may have had its origin in the real, and not in the imaginary
presence of glittering gold.

But to return from this digression. _Second_, The same facts which thus
enable us to predict or to suggest inquiry, serve also to test the truth
or falsehood of ancient traditions regarding the former fruitfulness in
gold of countries which now possess only the fading memory of such
natural but bygone wealth. Our geological maps direct us to European
countries, in which all the necessary geological conditions coexist, and
in which, were the world still young, a geologist would stake a fair
reputation on the hazard of discovering gold. But the art of extracting
gold from auriferous sands is simple, and easily practised. It is
followed as successfully by the black barbarians of Africa as by the
whitest savages of California. The longer a country has been inhabited,
therefore, by a people among whom gold is valued, the less abundant the
region is likely to be in profitable washings of gold. The more will it
approach to the condition of Bohemia, where gold prevailed to a great
extent, and was very productive in the middle ages, though it has been
long worked out, and the very localities of its mines forgotten.[7]

Were it to become, for example, a matter of doubtful tradition, which
the historian was inclined to pass by, that in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth three hundred men were employed near Elvan’s Foot—not far, we
believe, from Wanlockhead in Scotland—at a place called the Gold Scour,
in washing for the precious metal, who in a few summers collected as
much as was valued at £100,000; or that in 1796, ten thousand pounds’
worth of gold was collected in the alluvial soil of a small district in
Wicklow—the geologist would come to his aid and assure him that the
natural history of the neighbourhood rendered the occurrence of gold
probable, and the traditions, therefore, worthy of reliance.

_Third_, They explain, also, why it is that, where streams flowing from
one slope of a chain or ridge of mountains are found to yield rich
returns to the gold-seekers, those which descend from the opposite slope
often prove wholly unproductive. In the Ural, rich mines occur almost
solely on the eastern, or Siberian slope of the great chain. On the
western, or European slope, a few inconsiderable mines only are worked.
So, as yet, in the Sierra Nevada in California, the chief treasures
occur in the feeders of the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers, which
descend from its western side. The eastern slope, which falls towards
the broad arid valley of the Mormons, is as yet unfamed, and may
probably never prove rich in gold. These circumstances are accounted for
by the fact that, in the Ural, the older rocks, of which we have spoken
as being especially gold-bearing, form the eastern slope of the ridge
only, the western flank of the range being covered for the most part by
rocks of a more modern epoch. The same may be the case also with the
Sierra Nevada where it is still unexplored; and the Utah Lake, though
remote, by its saltness lends probability to this conjecture.

_Fourth_, and lastly, they make clear the distinction between the “dry
and wet diggins” we read of in our Californian news—why in so many
countries the beds of rivers have been deserted by the gold-finders, and
why the river banks, and even distant dry and elevated spots, have
proved more productive than the channel itself.[8]

Let us attempt to realise for a moment the condition of a country like
California, at the period, not geologically remote, when the
gold-bearing drift was spread over its magnificent valley. The whole
region was covered by the sea to an unknown depth. The snowy ridge,
(Nevada,) and probably the coast ridge, also formed lines of rocky
islands or peaks, which withstood the fury of the waves, and, if they
were covered with ice, the wearing and degrading action also of the
moving glaciers. The spoils of the crumbling rocks sank into the waters,
and were distributed by tides and currents along the bottom of the
valley. The narrow opening through the coast chain, by which the bay of
San Francisco now communicates with the Northern Pacific, would, at the
period we speak of, prevent the debris of the Nevada rocks from being
washed out into the main basin of the Pacific, and this would enable the
metallic, as well as the other spoils of these rocks, to accumulate in
the bottom, and along the slopes of what is now the valley of
California.

By a great physical change the country was lifted out of the sea, either
at once or by successive stages, and it presented then the appearance of
a valley long and wide, covered almost everywhere by a deep clothing of
sands, gravels, and shingles, with which were intermingled—not without
some degree of method, but at various depths, and in various
proportions—the lumps and grains of metallic gold which had formerly
existed in the rocks, of which the sands and shingles had formed a part.

And now the tiny streams, which had formerly terminated their short
courses in the sea itself, flowed down the mountain slopes, united their
waters in the bottom, and formed large rivers. These gradually cut their
way into the superficial sands, washed them as the modern gold-washer
does in his cradle, and collected, in certain parts of their beds, the
heavier particles of gold which they happened to meet with in their
descent. Hence the golden sands of the Sacramento and the San Joaquin,
and of so many of the rivers celebrated in ancient story. But the beds
of these rivers could never be the receptacle of all the gold of such a
district. _They_ derived nearly all their wealth from the sands and
clays or gravels they had scooped out in forming their channels; and as
these channels occupy only a small fraction of the surface of the
bottoms and slopes of most river valleys, they could, or were likely to
contain, only an equally small fraction of the mineral wealth of their
several regions. The more ancient waters had distributed the gold
throughout the whole drift of the country. The river, like a “long Tom,”
had cradled a small part of it, and proved its richness. The rest of the
drift, if rocked by art, would prove equally, it might be even more,
productive.

It is in this old virgin drift, usually untouched by the river, that the
so-called dry diggings are situated. The reader will readily understand
that, while no estimate can be formed of the quantity of gold which an
entire valley like that of the Sacramento and San Joaquin, or which wide
sandy plains like those of Australia, may ultimately yield, yet it will
require great sagacity to discover, it may even be that only accident
and long lapse of time will reveal, in what spots and at what depths the
gold is most abundantly accumulated, and where it will best pay the cost
of extraction.

We do not now advert to any of the other points connected with the
history of gold on which our geological facts throw light. These
illustrations are sufficient to show how rich in practical inferences
and suggestions geological and chemical science is, in this as in many
other special branches of mineral inquiry.

Nor need we say much in answer to our question,—“Why the ability to
predict, as in the Australian case,” or generally to draw such
conclusions and offer such suggestions and explanations, has remained so
long unanswered, or been so lately acquired? Geology and chemistry are
both young sciences, almost unknown till within a few years, rapidly
advancing, and every day applying themselves more widely and directly to
those subjects which effect the material prosperity and individual
comforts of mankind. Knowledge which was not possessed before our day,
could obviously neither be applied at all by ancient nations, nor
earlier by the moderns.

To the consideration of the absolute extent and probable productive
durability of the gold regions newly brought to light—of their extent
and richness compared with those known in former times—and of their
probable effects on the social and financial relations of mankind, we
shall now turn our attention.


In the preceding part we have explained the circumstances in which gold
occurs—the geological conditions which appear to be necessary to its
occurrence—and where, therefore, we may expect to find it. But no
conditions chemical or geological at present known are able to
indicate—_a priori_, and apart from personal examination and trial—in
what quantity the precious metal is likely to occur, either in the
living rocks of a gold-bearing district, or in the sands and gravels by
which it may be covered. Yet, next to the fact of the existence of gold
in a country, the quantity in which it is likely to occur, and the
length of time during which a profitable yield may be obtained, are the
questions which most interest, not only individuals on the spot, but all
other countries to which the produce of its mines is usually sent, or
from which adventurers are likely to proceed.

We have already remarked, that, in nearly all the gold regions which
have been celebrated in past times, their mineral riches have been for
the most part extracted from the drifted sands and gravels which
overspread the surface. We have also drawn attention to the small amount
of skill and intelligence which this extraction requires, and to the
brief time in which such washings may be exhausted even by ignorant
people. Most of our modern gold mines are situated in similar drifts. We
may instance, from among the less generally known, those of Africa, from
which are drawn the supplies that come to us yearly from the gold coast.


  “Of all the African mines those of Bambouk are supposed to be the
  richest. They are about thirty miles south of the Senegal river; and
  the inhabitants are chiefly occupied in gold-washing during the eight
  months of dry weather. About two miles from Natakou is a small
  round-topped hill, about 300 feet high, the whole of which is an
  alluvial formation of sand and pulverised emery, with grains of iron
  ore and gold, in lumps, grains, and scales. This hill is worked
  throughout; and it is said the richest lumps are found deepest. There
  are 1200 pits or workings, some 40 feet deep—but mere holes unplanked.
  This basin includes at least 500 square miles. Forty miles north, at
  the foot of the Tabwara mountains, are the mines of Semayla, in a
  hill. This is of quartz slate; and the gold is got by pounding the
  rock in large mortars. In the river Semayla are alluvial deposits,
  containing emery impregnated with gold. The earth is washed by the
  women in calabashes. The mine of Nambia is in another part of the
  Tabwara mountains, in a hillock worked in pits. The whole gold
  district of Bambouk is supposed to extend over 10,000 square miles.

  “Close to the Ashantee country is that of the Bunkatoos, who have rich
  gold workings, in pits at Bukanti and Kentosoe.”—(WYLD, p. 44.)


From this description we see that all the mines in the Senegal country
are gold-washings, with the exception of those of Semayla, to which we
shall hereafter allude. No skill is required to work them; and should
European constitutions ever permit European nations to obtain an
ascendancy in this part of Africa, such mines may be effectually
exhausted before an opportunity is afforded for the application of
European skill. And so in California and Australia, should the gold
repositories be all of the same easily explored character, the metal may
be suddenly worked out by the hordes of all classes who have been
rushing in; and thus the influence of the mines may die away after a few
brief years of extraordinary excitement.

When California first became famous, the popular inquiry everywhere was
simply, what amount of immediate profit is likely to be realised by an
industrious adventurer? What individual temptation, in other words, is
there for me or my connections to join the crowd of eager emigrants?

Passing over the inflated and suspicious recitals which found their way
into American and European journals, such statements as the following,
from trustworthy sources, could not fail to have a most stimulating
effect—


  “To give you an instance, however, of the amount of metal in the
  soil—which I had from a miner on the spot, three Englishmen bought a
  claim, 30 feet by 100 feet, for fourteen hundred dollars. It had been
  twice before bought and sold for considerable sums, each party who
  sold it supposing it to be nearly exhausted. In three weeks the
  Englishmen paid their fourteen hundred dollars, and cleared thirteen
  dollars a-day besides for their trouble. This claim, which is not an
  unusually rich one, though it has perhaps been more successfully
  worked, has produced in eighteen months over twenty thousand dollars,
  or five thousand pounds’ worth of gold.”[9]


Mr Coke is here describing the riches of a spot on the immediate banks
of the river, where circumstances had caused a larger proportion than
usual of that gold to be collected, or thrown together—which the river,
in cutting out its gravelly channel, had separated or _rocked out_, as
we have described in the previous part of this article. This rich spot,
therefore, is by no means a fair sample of the country, though, from Mr
Coke’s matter-of-fact language, many might be led to think so. Few spots
so small in size could reasonably be expected to yield so rich a store
of gold, though its accumulation in this spot certainly does imply that
the quantity of gold diffused through the drift of the country may in
reality be very great. It may be so, however, and yet not pay for the
labour required to extract it.

That many rich prizes have been obtained by fortunate and steady men in
these diggings, there can be no doubt; and yet, if we ask what benefit
the emigrant diggers, as a whole, have obtained, the information we
possess shows it to be far from encouraging. On this subject we find, in
one of the books before us, the following information:—[10]


  “The inaccessibility of the _placers_, the diseases, the hardships,
  and the _very moderate remuneration resulting to the great mass of the
  miners_, were quite forgotten or omitted—in the communications and
  reports of a few only excepted.

  “A few have made, and will hereafter make, fortunes there, and very
  many of those who remain long enough will accumulate something; but
  the great mass, all of whom expected to acquire large amounts of gold
  in a short time, must be comparatively disappointed. I visited
  California to dig gold, but chose to abandon that purpose rather than
  expose life and health in the mines; and as numbers were already
  seeking employment in San Francisco without success, and I had neither
  the means nor the inclination to speculate, I resolved to return to my
  family, and resume my business at home.”—(P. 207.)


Thousands, we believe, have followed Mr Johnson’s example; and thousands
more would have lived longer and happier, had they been courageous
enough, like him, to return home unsuccessful.


  “The estimate in a former chapter of three or four dollars per day per
  man, as the average yield during my late visit to the gold regions,
  has been most extensively and generally confirmed since that period.
  Innumerable letters, and persons lately returned from the diggings,
  (including successful miners,) now fix the _average at from three to
  four dollars per day_ for each digger during the season.”—(P. 243.)

  “Thus far the number of successful men may have been one in every
  hundred. In this estimate those only should be considered successful
  who have _realized and safely invested their fortunes_. The thousands
  who thus far have made their fortunes, but are still immersed in
  speculations, do not belong as yet to the foregoing number.”—(P. 245.)


This is applying the just principle, “Nemo ante obitum beatus,” which is
too generally forgotten when the first sudden shower of riches falls
upon ourselves or our neighbours.


  “Individual efforts, as a general rule, must prove abortive. So far as
  my knowledge enables me to judge, they already have. _I do not know of
  a single instance of great success at the mines_ on the part of a
  single member of the passengers or ship’s company with whom I came
  round Cape Horn: of the former there were a hundred, and of the latter
  twenty. Many have returned home, who can tell the truth.”—(P. 249.)


This last extract does not contain Mr Johnson’s own experience, but that
of a physician settled at San Francisco, from whose communication he
quotes; and the same writer adds many distressing particulars, which we
pass by, of the fearful misery to which those free men, of their own
free will, from the thirst of gold, have cheerfully exposed themselves.

                      “Quid non mortalia pectora cogis
                  Auri sacra fames?”

The latest news from Australia contains a repetition of the Californian
experience. A recent _Australian and New Zealand Gazette_ speaks thus of
the gold-hunters—


  “In all parts of the colony, labour is quitting its legitimate
  employment for the lottery of gold-hunting; and, as a natural
  consequence, industrial produce is suffering. Abundant as is the
  metal, misery among its devotees is quite as abundant. The haggard
  look of the unsuccessful, returning disheartened in search of ordinary
  labour, is fully equalled by the squalor of the successful, who, the
  more they get, appear to labour the harder, amidst filth and
  deprivation of every kind, till their wasted frames vie with those of
  their less lucky neighbours. With all its results, gold-finding is
  both a body and soul debasing occupation; and even amongst so small a
  body of men, the vices and degradation of California are being
  enacted, in spite of all wholesome check imposed by the authorities.”


It is indeed a melancholy reflection that, wherever such mines of the
precious metals have occurred, there misery of the most extreme kind has
speedily been witnessed. The cruelties of the Spanish conquerors towards
the Indian nations of Mexico and Peru, are familiar to all. They are now
brought back fresh upon our memories by the new fortunes and prospects
of the western shores of America. Yet of such cruelties the Spaniards
were not the inventors. They only imitated in the New, what thousands of
years before the same thirst for gold had led other conquerers to do in
the Old World. Diodorus, after mentioning that, in the confines of Egypt
and the neighbouring countries, there are parts full of gold mines, from
which, by the labour of a vast multitude of people, much gold is dug,
adds—


  “The kings of Egypt condemn to these mines, not only notorious
  criminals, captives in war, persons falsely accused, and those with
  whom the king is offended, but also all their kindred and relations.
  These are sent to this work, either as a punishment, or that the
  profit and gain of the king may be increased by their labours. There
  are thus infinite numbers thrust into these mines, all bound in
  fetters, kept at work night and day, and so strictly guarded that
  there is no possibility of their effecting an escape. They are guarded
  by mercenary soldiers of various barbarous nations, whose language is
  foreign to them and to each other; so that there are no means either
  of forming conspiracies, or of corrupting those who are set to watch
  them. They are kept to incessant work by the overseer, who, besides,
  lashes them severely. Not the least care is taken of the bodies of
  these poor creatures; they have not a rag to cover their nakedness;
  and whosoever sees them must compassionate their melancholy and
  deplorable condition; for though they may be sick, or maimed, or lame,
  no rest, nor any intermission of labour, is allowed them. Neither the
  weakness of old age, nor the infirmity of females, excuses any from
  that work to which all are driven by blows and cudgels, till at
  length, borne down by the intolerable weight of their misery, many
  fall dead in the midst of their insufferable labours. Thus these
  miserable creatures, being destitute of all hope, expect their future
  days to be worse than the present, and long for death as more
  desirable than life.”[11]


How truly might we apply to gold the words of Horace—

                  “Te semper _anteit_ sæva necessitas,
                  Clavos trabaleis et cuneos manu,
                  Gestans ahena, nec severus
                  Uncus abest, liquidumque plumbum.”

There was both irony and wisdom in the counsel given by the Mormon
leaders to their followers after their settlement on the Salt Lake.
“_The true use of gold_ is for paving streets, covering houses, making
culinary dishes; and when the saints shall have preached the gospel,
raised grain, and built up cities enough, the Lord will open up the way
for a supply of gold to the perfect satisfaction of his people.” This
kept the mass of their followers from moving to the diggings of Western
California. They remained around the lake “to be healthy and happy, to
raise grain and build cities.”[12]

But the occurrence of individual disappointment, or misery in procuring
it, will not prevent the gold itself from afterwards exercising its
natural influence upon society when it has been brought into the markets
of the world. When the riches of California began to arrive, therefore,
graver minds, whose thoughts were turned to the future as much as to the
present, inquired, _first_, how much gold are these new diggings sending
into the markets?—and, _second_, how long is this yield likely to last?

_1st_, To the first of these questions—owing to the numerous channels
along which the gold of California finds its way into commerce—it seems
impossible to obtain more than an approximate answer. Mr Theodore
Johnson (p. 246) estimates the produce for

                  1848, at 8 million dollars.
                  1849, from 22 to 37 million dollars.

Or in the latter year, from four to seven millions sterling. It would,
of course, be more in 1850, as it is assumed to be by Mr Wyld, from
whose pamphlet (p. 22) we copy the following table of the estimated
total yield of gold and silver by all the known mines of the world, in
the five years named in the first column:—

                        Gold.     Silver.     Total.
                 1800                       £10,250,000
                 1840 £5,000,000 £6,750,000  11,750,000
                 1848  7,000,000  6,750,000  13,750,000
                 1850 17,500,000  7,500,000  25,000,000
                 1851 22,500,000  7,500,000  30,000,000

Supposing the Russian mines, from which upwards of four millions’ worth
of the gold of 1848 was derived, to have remained equally productive in
1850 and 1851, this estimate assigns a yield of £10,000,000 worth of
gold to California in 1850, and £15,000,000 to California and Australia
together in 1851.

The _New York Herald_ (October 31st, 1851) estimates the produce of the
Californian mines alone, for the years 1850 and 1851, at

                1850, 68,587,000 dollars, or £13,717,000
                1851, 75,000,000      „      £15,000,000

These large returns may be exaggerations, but they profess to be based
on the custom-house books, and may be quite as near the truth as the
lower sums of Mr Wyld. But supposing either statement to contain only a
tolerable guess at the truth, it may well induce us anxiously to
inquire, in the second place, how long is such a supply to continue?

_2d_, Two different branches of scientific inquiry must be followed up
in order to arrive at anything like a satisfactory answer to this second
question. We must investigate both the probable durability of the
surface diggings, and the probable occurrence of gold in the native
rocks.

Now, the duration of profitable gold-washing in a region depends,
_first_, on the extent of country over which the gold is spread, and the
universality of its diffusion. _Second_, on the minimum proportion of
gold in the sands which will pay for washing; and this, again, on the
price of labour.

The valley of the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers, in California, is
500 miles long, by an average of 50 miles broad; comprehending an area,
therefore, of 25,000 square miles.

We do not know as yet over how much of this the gold is distributed; nor
whether, after the richest and most accessible spots have been hunted
out, and apparently exhausted, the surface of the country generally will
admit of being washed over with a profit. We cannot draw a conclusion in
reference to this point from any of the statements yet published as to
the productiveness of particular spots. But, at the same time, we ought
to bear in mind that deserted spots may often be returned to several
times, and may yield, to more careful treatment, and more skilful
methods in after years, returns of gold not less considerable than those
which were obtained by the first adventurers. Besides, if we are to
believe Mr Theodore Johnson,


  “There is no reason to doubt that the whole range of mountains
  extending from the cascades in Oregon to the Cordilleras in South
  America, contain greater or less deposits of the precious metals; and
  it is well known that _Sonora, the northern state of Mexico, is
  equally rich in gold as the adjoining country of Alta California_. The
  Mexicans have hitherto proved too feeble to resist the warlike Apaches
  in that region, consequently its treasure remains comparatively
  undisturbed.”—(P. 231.)


Passing by Mr Johnson’s opinion about the Oregon mountains, what he says
of Sénora has probably a foundation in truth, and justifies us in
expecting from that region a supply of gold which may make up for any
falling off in the produce of the diggings of California for many years
to come.

The question as to the minimum proportion of gold in the sands of
California, or in those of Australia—the state of society, the workmen
and the tools, in both countries being much the same—which can be
extracted with a profit, or the minimum daily yield which will make it
worth extracting, has scarcely as yet become a practical one.

As a matter of curiosity, however, connected with this subject, it is
interesting to know what is the experience of other gold regions in
these particulars.

In Bohemia, on the lower part of the river Iser, there were formerly
gold-washings. “The sand does not now yield more than _one grain of gold
in a hundredweight_; and it is supposed that so much is not regularly to
be obtained. There are at present no people searching for gold, and
there have been none for several centuries.”[13] This, therefore, may be
considered less than the minimum proportion which will enable washers to
live even in that cheap country. In the famed gold country of Minas
Geraes, in Brazil, where gangs of slaves are employed in washing, the
net annual amount of gold extracted seems to be little more than £4
a-head; and in Columbia, where provisions are dearer, “a mine, which
employs sixty slaves, and produces 20 lb. of gold of 18 carats annually,
is considered a good estate.”[14]

These also approach so near to the unprofitable point, that
gold-washing, where possible, has long been gradually giving way, in
that country, to the cultivation of sugar and other agricultural
productions.

In regard to Siberia, Rose, in his account of his visit to the mines of
the Ural and the Altai, gives the results of numerous determinations of
the proportion of gold in the sands which are considered worth washing
at the various places he visited. Thus on the Altai, at Katharinenburg,
near Beresowsk, and at Neiwinskoi, near Neujansk, and at Wiluyskoi, near
Nischni Tagilsk, the proportions of gold in 100 poods[15] of sand, were
respectively—

      Katharinenburg, 1.1 to 2.5, or an average of 1.3 solotniks.
      Neiwinskoi,     ½ solotnik.
      Wiluyskoi,      1½ solotnik.

These are respectively 72, 26, and 80 troy grains to the ton of sand;
and although the proportion of 26 grains to the ton is little more than
is found unworth the extraction from the sands of the Iser, and implies
that nearly 19 tons of sand must be washed to obtain one troy ounce of
gold, yet it is found that this washing can in Siberia be carried on
with a profit.

In the gold-washings of the Eastern slopes of the Ural, near Miask, the
average of fourteen mines in 1829 was about 1⅛ solotniks to the 100
poods, or 60 grains to the ton of sand. The productive layers varied in
thickness, from 2 to 10 feet, and were covered by an equally variable
thickness of sand and gravel, which was too poor in gold to pay for
washing.[16]

We have no data, as yet, from which to judge of the richness of the
Californian and Australian sands, compared with those of Siberia. And,
if we had, no safe conclusion could be drawn from them as to the
prolonged productiveness of the mines, in consequence of another
interesting circumstance, which the prosecution of the Uralian mines has
brought to light. It is in every country the case that the richest sands
are first washed out, and thus a gradual falling off in every locality
takes place, till spot by spot the whole country is deserted by the
washers. We give an example of this falling off in four of the Ural
mines in five successive years. The yield of gold is in solotniks from
the 100 poods of sand—

                      I.        II.      III.       IV.
             1825, 2.28 sol. 1.56 sol. 5.64 sol.
             1826, 1.43  „   0.83  „   2.46  „   7.28 sol.
             1827, 0.64  „   0.77  „   1.43  „   5.0   „
             1828, 0.58  „   0.29  „   1.92  „   3.52  „

As all the Ural diggings exhibit this kind of falling off, it has been
anticipated, from time to time, that the general and total yield of gold
by the Siberian mines would speedily diminish. But so far have these
expectations been disappointed, that the produce has constantly
increased from 1829 until now. On an average of the last five years, the
quantity of gold yielded by the Russian, and chiefly by the Siberian
mines, is now greater than that obtained from the South American gold
mines in their richest days.[17]

While, therefore, it is certain that the new American and Australian
diggings will individually, or on each spot, become poorer year by year,
yet, as in Siberia, the extension of the search, and the employment of
improved methods, may not only keep up the yield for a long period of
years, but may augment the yearly supply even beyond what it has yet
been.

But while so much uncertainty attends the consideration of the extent,
richness, and durability of mines situated in the gold-bearing sands and
gravels, something more precise and definite can be arrived at in regard
to the gold-bearing rocks. In nearly all the gold countries of past
times, the chief extraction of the precious metal, as we have said, has
been from the drifted sands. It is so also now in Siberia, and it was
naturally expected that the same would be the case in California. And as
other countries had for a time yielded largely, and then become
exhausted, so it was predicted of this new region, and it was too
hastily asserted that the increasing thousands of diggers who were
employed upon its sands must render pre-eminently shortlived its
gold-bearing capability. This opinion was based upon the two
considerations—_first_, that there is no source of reproduction for
these golden sands, inasmuch as it is only in very rare cases that
existing rivers have brought down from native rocks the metallic
particles which give their value to the sands and gravels through which
they flow—and _second_, that no available quantity of gold was likely to
be found in any living rocks.

But in respect of the living rocks, two circumstances have been found to
coexist in California, which have not been observed in any region of
gold-washings hitherto explored, and which are likely to have much
effect on the special question we are now considering. These two
circumstances are the occurrence of numerous and, it is said, extensive
deposits of the precious metals in the solid quartz veins among the
spurs of the Sierra Nevada, and of apparently inexhaustible beds of the
ores of quicksilver.

The discovery of gold in the native rock was by no means a novelty. The
ancient Egyptians possessed mines in the Sahara and other neighbouring
mountains. “This soil,” says Diodorus, “is naturally black; but in the
body of the earth there are many veins shining with white marble,
(quartz?) and glittering with all sorts of bright metals, out of which
those appointed to be overseers cause the gold to be dug by the
labourers—a vast multitude of people.”[18]

At Altenberg also, in Bohemia, in the middle ages, the mixed metals
(gold and silver) were found in beds of gneiss;[19] and, at present, in
the Ural and Altai, a small portion of the gold obtained is extracted
from quartz veins, which penetrate the granite and other rocks; but
these and other cases, ancient and modern, though not forgotten, were
not considered of consequence enough to justify the expectation of
finding gold-bearing rocks of any consequence in California. It is to
another circumstance that we owe the so early discovery of such rocks in
this new country, and, as in so many other instances, to a class of men
ignorant of what history relates in regard to other regions.

As early as 1824, the inner country of North Carolina was discovered to
be productive of gold. The amount extracted in that year was only 6000
dollars, but it had reached in 1829 to 128,000 dollars. The washings
were extended both east and west, and finally it was made out that a
gold region girdles the northern part of Virginia, the two Carolinas,
and Georgia. This region is situated towards the foot of the mountains,
and where the igneous rocks begin to disturb and penetrate the primary
stratified deposits. As the sands became poorer in this region, the
ardent miners had followed up their stream-washings to the parent rock,
and in veins of rusty quartz had discovered grains and scales of native
gold. To obtain these, like the Africans at Semayla, they blasted,
crushed, and washed the rock.

Now, among the first who, fired by fresher hopes, pushed to the new
treasure-house in California, came the experienced gold-seekers from the
Carolinian borders. Following the gold trail into the gulches and
ravines of the Snowy ridge, some of them were able to fix their trained
eyes on quartz veins such as they had seen at home, and, scattered
through the solid rock, to detect sparkling grains of gold which might
long have escaped less practised observers. And through the same men,
skilled in the fashion and use of the machinery found best and simplest
for crushing and separating the gold, the necessary apparatus was
speedily obtained and set to work to prove the richness of the new
deposits. This richness may be judged of by the following statements:—


  “Some of the chief quartz workings are in Nevada and Mariposa
  Counties, but the best known are on the rancho or large estate bought
  by Colonel Fremont from Alvarado, the Mexican governor. They are those
  of Mariposa, Agua Fria, Nouveau Monde, West Mariposa, and Ave
  Maria—the first leased by an American company, the third by a French,
  and the others by English companies. Some of the quartz has been
  assayed for £7000 in the ton of rock. A Mariposa specimen was in the
  Great Exhibition.

  “The Agua Fria mine was surveyed and examined by Captain W. A.
  Jackson, the well-known engineer of Virginia, U.S., in October 1850,
  for which purpose openings were made by a cross-cut of sufficient
  depth to test the size of the vein and the richness of the ore. The
  vein appears to be of a nearly uniform thickness—of from three and a
  half to four and a half feet—and its direction a few points to the
  north of east; the inclination of the vein being 45°. Of the ore, some
  specimens were transmitted to the United States Mint in January 1851;
  and the report of the assays then made, showed that 277 lb. of ore
  produced 173 oz. of gold—value 3222 dollars, or upwards of £650
  sterling; being at the rate of £5256 a ton.

  “The contents of the vein running through the property, which is about
  600 feet in length, and crops out on a hill rising about 150 to 200
  feet above the level of the Agua Fria Creek, is estimated at about
  18,000 tons of ore to the water level only; and how far it may descend
  below that, is not at present known.

  “The West Mariposa mine, under Colonel Fremont’s lease, has a vein of
  quartz which runs the whole length of the allotment, averages six feet
  in thickness, and has been opened in several places. The assay of
  Messrs Johnson and Mathey states that a poor specimen of 11 oz. 9 dwt.
  18 grains, produced of gold 2 dwt. 17 grains, which would give £1347
  per ton; and a rich specimen, weighing 17 oz. 12 dwt. gave 3 oz. 15
  dwt. 9 grains, being at the rate of £24,482 per ton.”—(WYLD, pp.
  36–39.)


The nature and durability of the influence which the discovery and
working of these rich veins is likely to have, depends upon their
requiring capital, and upon their being in the hands of a limited number
of adventurers. In consequence of this they cannot be suddenly
exhausted, but may continue to yield a constant supply for an indefinite
number of years.

In connection with the durability of this supply from the quartz
veins—besides the unsettled question as to the actual number and extent
of such veins which further exploration will make out—there is the
additional question as to how deep these veins will prove rich in gold.
Our readers are probably aware that what are called veins are walls,
more or less upright, which rise up from an unknown depth through the
beds of rock which we have described as overlying each other like the
leaves of a book. This wall generally consists of a different material
from that of which the rocks themselves consist, and, where a cliff
occurs, penetrated by such veins, can readily be distinguished by its
colour from the rocks through which it passes. Now, when these veins
contain metallic minerals, it has been long observed that, in descending
from the surface, the mineral value of the vein undergoes important
alterations. Some are rich immediately under the surface of the ground;
others do not become so till a considerable depth is reached; while in
others, again, the kind of mineral changes altogether as we descend. In
Hungary the richest minerals are met with at a depth of eighty or a
hundred fathoms. In Transylvania, veins of gold, in descending, become
degraded into veins of lead. In Cornwall, some of the copper veins
increase in richness the greater the depth to which the mine is carried;
while others, which have yielded copper near the surface, have gradually
become rich in tin as the depth increased.[20]

Now, in regard to the auriferous quartz veins, it is the result of past
experience that they are often rich in the upper part, but become poorer
as the explorations are deepened, and soon cease to pay the expense of
working. In this respect it is just possible that the Californian veins
may not agree with those of the Ural and of other regions, though this
is a point which the lapse of years only can settle. Two things,
however, are in favour of the greater yield of the Californian veins
than those of other countries in past times—that they will be explored
by a people who abound in capital, in engineering skill, and in energy,
and that it is now ascertained that veins may be profitably rich in
gold, though the particles are too small to be discerned by the naked
eye. Thus, while all the explorations will be made with skill and
economy, many veins will be mined into, which in other countries have
been passed over with neglect; and the extraction of gold from all—but
especially from the poorer sands and veins—will be aided by the second
circumstance to which we have adverted as peculiar to California, the
possession of vast stores of quicksilver.


  “The most important, if not the most valuable, of the mineral products
  of this wonderful country, is its quicksilver. The localities of
  several mines of this metal are already known, but the richest yet
  discovered is the one called Forbes’s mines, about sixty miles from
  San Francisco, near San José. Originally discovered and _denounced_,
  according to the Mexican laws then in force, it fell under the
  commercial management of Forbes of Tepic, who also has some interest
  in it. The original owner of the property on which it is situated,
  endeavoured to set aside the validity of the denouncement; but whether
  on tenable grounds or otherwise, I know not. At this mine, by the
  employment of a small number of labourers, and two common iron kettles
  for smelting, they have already sold quicksilver to the amount of
  200,000 dollars, and have now some two hundred tons of ore awaiting
  the smelting process. The cinnabar is said to yield from sixty to
  eighty per cent of pure metal, and there is no doubt that its average
  product reaches fifty per cent. The effect of these immensely rich
  deposits of quicksilver, upon the wealth and commerce of the world,
  can scarcely be too highly estimated, provided they are kept from the
  clutches of the great monopolists. Not only will its present
  usefulness in the arts be indefinitely extended and increased by new
  discoveries of science, but the extensive mines of gold and silver in
  Mexico, Chili, and Peru, hitherto unproductive, will now be made
  available by its application.”—(JOHNSON’S _Sights in the Gold Region_,
  p. 201.)


By mere washing with water, it is impossible to extract the finer
particles and scales of gold either from the natural sand or from the
pounded rock. But an admixture and agitation with quicksilver licks up
and dissolves every shining speck, and carries it, with the fluid metal,
to the bottom of the vessel. The amalgam, as it is called, of gold and
quicksilver thus obtained, when distilled in a close vessel, yields up
its quicksilver again with little loss, and leaves the pure gold behind.
For the perfect extraction of the gold, therefore, from its ores,
quicksilver is absolutely necessary, and it can be performed most
cheaply where the latter metal is cheapest and most abundant. Hence the
mineral conditions of California seem specially fitted to make it an
exception to all gold countries heretofore investigated, or of which we
have any detailed accounts. They promise it the ability to supply a
large export of gold, probably long after the remunerative freshness of
the diggings, properly so called, whether wet or dry, shall have been
worn off.

But both the actual yearly produce of gold, and the probable permanence
of the supply, have been greatly increased by the still more recent
discoveries in Australia. A wider field has been opened up here for
speculation and adventure than North-Western America in its best days
ever presented. We have already adverted to the circumstances which
preceded and attended the discovery of gold in this country, and new
research seems daily to add to the number of districts over which the
precious metal is spread. It is impossible, however, even to guess over
how much of this vast country the gold field may extend, and of richness
enough to make washing possible and profitable. The basin of the river
Murray, in the feeders of which gold has been found in very many places,
has a mean length from north to south of 1400 miles, and a breadth of
400—comprising an area of from 500,000 to 600,000 square miles. This is
four times the area of California, and five times that of the British
Islands; but whether the gold is generally diffused over this wide area,
or whether it is confined to particular and limited localities, there
has not as yet been time to ascertain.

It is chiefly in the head waters or feeders of the greater streams which
flow through this vast basin that the metal has hitherto been met with;
but the peculiar physical character of the creeks, and of the climate in
these regions, suggests the probability that the search will be
profitably extended downwards along the entire course of the larger
rivers. Every reader of Australian tours and travels is aware of the
deep and sudden floods to which the great rivers of the country are
subject, and of the disastrous inundations to which the banks of the
river Murray are liable. The lesser creeks or feeders of this river, in
which the washings are now prosecuted, are liable to similar
visitations. The Summerhill creek, for example, at its junction with the
Lewis river, is described as fifty or sixty yards wide, and the “water
as sometimes rising suddenly twenty feet.” Now, supposing the gold drift
to have been originally confined to the districts through which the
upper waters of these rivers flow, the effect of such floods, repeated
year by year, must have been to wash out from their banks and bottoms,
and to diffuse along the lower parts of their channels, or of the
valleys they flooded, the lighter portions, at least, of metallic riches
in which the upper country abounded. The larger particles or lumps may
have remained higher up: but all that the force of a deep stream in its
sudden flood could carry down, may be expected among the sands and
gravels, and in the wider river beds, and occasionally flooded tracts of
the lower country. In other words, there is reason to believe that from
its head waters on the western slopes of the Australian Alps, to its
mouth at Adelaide, the Murray will be found to some degree productive in
gold, and more or less remunerative to future diggers.

But there is in reality no reason to believe that the gold of the great
Australian basin was ever confined—at least since the region became
covered with drift—to the immediate neighbourhood of the mountains, or
to the valleys through which its mountain streams pursue their way. We
have already fully explained that it is not to the action of existing
rivers on the native gold-bearing rocks of the mountain, that the
presence of the precious metal in their sands is generally due, but to
that of numerous degrading causes, operating simultaneously and at a
more ancient period, when the whole valley was covered deep with water.
By these, the debris of the mountains here, as in California, must have
been spread more or less uniformly over the entire western plain. This
vast area, therefore, comprehending so many thousand square miles, may,
through all its drifted sands and gravels, be impregnated with metallic
particles. Dry diggings, consequently, may be hereafter opened at great
distances from the banks of existing streams. Time alone, in fact, can
tell over how much of this extensive region it will pay the adventurer
to dig and wash the wide-spread depths of drift.

Then there is the province of Victoria, south of the Australian Alps, in
which gold is described as most plentiful. The streams which descend
from the southern slope of these mountains are numerous, in consequence
of the peculiarly large quantity of rain which falls on this part of
Australia,[21] and over a breadth of 200 miles they are represented as
all rich in gold. And besides, the country east of the meridian chain,
between Bathurst and the sea, and all the still unknown portion of the
Australian continent, have yet to add their stores to those of Victoria
and of the basin of the Murray. And though we do not know to what extent
quartz veins prevail in the mountains of New South Wales, we have
authentic statements as to their existence not very remote from
Bathurst, and as to their being rich in gold. Here also, therefore, as
in California, there may be a permanent source of gold supply, which may
continue to yield, after the washings have ceased to be greatly
remunerative—which may even augment in productiveness as that of the
sands declines. On the whole, then, although it is impossible to form
any estimate of the actual amount of gold which year by year the great
new mining fields are destined to supply to the markets of the world,
yet we think two deductions may be assumed as perfectly certain from the
facts we have stated—_first_, that the average annual supply for the
next ten years is likely to be greater than it ever was since the
commencement of authentic history—and _second_, that the supply, though
the washings fall off, will be kept up for an indefinite period, by the
exploration of the gold-bearing quartz veins in Australia and America.

In the table we have copied from Mr Wyld, the produce of gold for 1851
is estimated—guessed is a better word—at £22,500,000. Advices from
Melbourne to the 22d of December state that the receipts of gold in that
place in a single day had amounted to 16,333 ounces—that the total
produce of the Ballarat and Mount Alexander diggings, from their
discovery on the 29th September to the 17th of December, two months and
a half, had been 243,414 ounces, valued at £730,242—that from twenty
thousand to thirty thousand persons were employed at the diggings—and
that the auriferous grounds, already known, which can be profitably
worked, cannot be dug for years to come “by any number of people that
can by possibility reach them.” Those from Sydney calculate the export
from that place to have been at the rate of three millions sterling
a-year; while the report of the Government Commissioners, “On the extent
and capability of the mines in New South Wales,” gives it as their
unanimous opinion, that they offer a “highly remunerative employment to
at least a hundred thousand persons—four times the number now employed.”
With these data, there appears no exaggeration in the estimate now made
in the colony, that the yearly export of gold will not be less than
seven or eight millions sterling. With this more accurate knowledge of
the capabilities of Australia than was possessed when Mr Wyld’s estimate
was made, and with the hopes and rumours that exist as to other new
sources of supply, are we wrong in guessing that the total produce of
gold alone, for the present and some succeeding years, cannot be less
than £25,000,000 to £30,000,000 sterling? What was the largest yield of
the most fruitful mines in ancient times compared with this? The annual
product of the ancient Egyptian mines of gold and silver is said by
Herodotus to have been inscribed on the walls of the palace of the
ancient kings at Thebes, and the sum, as he states it in Grecian money,
was equal to six millions sterling! This Jacob[22] considers to be a
gross exaggeration; but he believes, nevertheless, that “the produce of
the mines of that country, together with that of the other countries
whose gold and silver was deposited there, far exceeded the quantity
drawn from all the mines of the then known world in subsequent ages,
down to the discovery of America.”

And what did America yield after the discovery by Columbus, (1492,) and
the triumphs of Cortes and Pizarro? Humboldt estimates the annual yield
of gold, from the plunder of the people and from the mines united—

                     From 1492 to 1521 at  £52,000
                      „   1521 to 1546 at £630,000

And from the discovery of the silver mine of Potosi in 1545, to the end
of the century, the produce of silver and gold together was about
£2,100,000 from America; and from America and Europe together,
£2,250,000 a-year.

Again, during the eighteenth century, the yearly produce of the precious
metals—gold and silver together—obtained from the mines of Europe,
Africa, and America, is estimated by Mr Jacob (ii. p. 167) at
£8,000,000; and for the twenty years previous to 1830, at about
£5,000,000 sterling.[23] And although the greatly enlarged produce of
the Russian mines, in gold especially, has come in to make up for the
failure or stoppage of the American mines since 1800, yet what does the
largest of all past yields of gold amount to, compared with the
quadrupled or quintupled supply there seems now fair and reasonable
grounds for expecting?

And what are to be the consequences of the greatly augmented supply of
gold which these countries promise? Among the first will be to provoke
and stimulate the mining industry of other countries to new activity and
new researches; and thus, by a natural reaction, to add additional
intensity to the cause of change. Such was the effect of the discovery
of America upon mining in Europe, and especially in Germany. “In
fourteen years after 1516, not less than twenty-five noble veins were
discovered in Joachimsthal in Bohemia, and in sixty years they yielded
1,250,000 marcs of silver.”[24] And,


  “The discovery of America, and of the mines it contained,” says Mr
  Jacob, “seems to have kindled a most vehement passion for exploring
  the bowels of the earth in search of gold in most of the countries of
  Europe, but in no part of it to so great an extent as in the Bishopric
  of Salzburg. The inhabitants of that country seemed to think
  themselves within reach of the Apple of the Hesperides and of the
  Golden Fleece, and about to find in their streams the Pactolus of
  antiquity. Between the years 1538 and 1562,[25] more than a thousand
  leases of mines were taken. The greatest activity prevailed, and one
  or two large fortunes were made.”—(JACOB, i. p. 250.)


This impulse has already been felt as the consequence of recent
discovery. The New York papers have just announced the discovery of new
deposits of gold in Virginia, “equal to the richest in California;” in
Queen Charlotte’s Island gold is said to have been found in great
abundance; in New Caledonia and New Zealand it is spoken of; and the
research after the precious metal is at the present moment propagating
itself throughout the civilised world. And that the activity thus
awakened is likely to be rewarded by many new discoveries, and by larger
returns in old localities, will appear certain, when we consider,
_first_, that the geological position and history of gold-producing
regions is far better understood now than it ever was before; _second_,
that the value of quartz veins, previously under-estimated, has been
established by the Californian explorations, and must lead in other
countries to new researches and new trials; _thirdly_, that the
increased supply of quicksilver which California promises may call into
new life hosts of deserted mines in Southern America and elsewhere; and,
_lastly_, that improved methods of extraction, which the progress of
chemical science is daily supplying, are rendering profitable the poorer
mines which in past days it was found necessary to abandon.

About the end of the seventeenth century the reduction in the price of
quicksilver, consequent on the supplies drawn from the mines of Idria,
greatly aided the mines of Mexico, (Jacob, ii. p. 153;) and of the
effects of better methods Rose gives the following illustrations, in his
description of the celebrated Schlangenberg mine in Siberia:—


  “At first, ores containing only four solotniks of silver were
  considered unfit for smelting, and were employed in the mines for
  filling up the waste. These have long already been taken out, and
  replaced by poorer ores, which in their turn will probably by-and-by
  be replaced by still poorer.”—“The ancient inhabitants washed out the
  gold from the ochre of these mines, as is evident from the heaps of
  refuse which remain on the banks of the river Smejewka. This refuse
  has been found rich enough in gold to pay for washing and extracting
  anew.”[26]


The history of all mining districts, and of all smelting and refining
processes,[27] present us with similar facts; and the aspects of applied
science, in our day, are rich in their promise of such improvements for
the future. If, therefore, to all the considerations we have presented
we add those from which writers like M’Culloch[28] had previously
anticipated an increased supply of the precious metals—such as the
pacification of Southern America, and the application of new energy to
the mines of that country, and probably under the direction of a new
race—the calmest and coolest of our readers will, we think, coincide
with us in anticipating from _old_ sources, as well as from _new_, an
increased and prolonged production of the precious metals.

Of the social and political consequences of these discoveries, the most
striking and attractive are those which are likely to be manifested in
the immediate neighbourhood—using the word in a large sense—of the
countries in which the new gold mines have been met with. The peopling
of California and Australia—the development of the boundless traffic
which Western America and the islands of the Australasian, Indian, and
Chinese seas are fitted to support—the annexation of the Sandwich
Islands(!)—the establishment of new and independent dominions on the
great islands to the south and west—the throng of great ships and
vessels of war we can in anticipation see dotting and over-awing the
broad Pacific—the influence, political and social, of these new nations
on the old dominions and civilisation of the fabled East, and of still
mysterious China and hidden Japan;—we may almost speak of this _forward_
vision, as Playfair has written of the effect upon his mind of Hutton’s
expositions of the _past_—“The mind seemed to grow giddy by looking so
far back into the abyss of time; and while we listened with earnestness
and admiration to the philosopher, who was now unfolding to us the order
and series of these wonderful events, we became sensible _how much
further reason may sometimes go than imagination can venture to
follow_.”

But its influence, though less dazzling, will be as deep and perceptible
upon the social relations of the older monarchies of Europe. Our own
richly commercial and famed agricultural country, and its dependencies,
will be especially affected. Prices will nominally rise—commerce and
general industry will be stimulated—and a gilding of apparent prosperity
will overspread class interests, which would otherwise languish and
decline. How far this is likely to be favourable to the country, on the
whole—to interfere with, disguise, or modify the effect of party
measures—we have recently discussed in previous articles, and shall for
the present pass by.

Perhaps that portion of its influence which, in this country of great
money fortunes, and in some of the Continental states, is attracting
most attention, is the change likely to be produced by it in the bullion
market, especially in the relative values of gold and silver, and even
(should this not materially alter, in consequence of an enlarged produce
from the silver mines) in the real value of annuities, stock, and bonds
of every description. It has occasionally happened in ancient times,
that by a sudden large influx of gold the comparative value of that
metal has been lowered in an extraordinary degree. Thus Strabo, in his
_Geography_, (book iv. chap. vi. sect. 9,) has the following passage:—


  “Polybius relates that, in his time, mines of gold were found among
  the Taurisci Norici, in the neighbourhood of Aquilea, so rich that, in
  digging to the depth of two feet only, gold was met with, and that the
  ordinary sinkings did not exceed fifteen feet; that part of it was in
  the form of native gold, in pieces as large as a bean or a lupin,
  which lost only one-eighth in the fire; and that the rest, though
  requiring more purification, gave a considerable product; that some
  Italians, having associated themselves with the barbarians to work the
  mines, _in the space of two months the price of gold fell one-third
  throughout the whole of Italy_; and that the Taurisci, having seen
  this, expelled their foreign partners, and sold the metal
  themselves.”[29]


Were anything of this nature to happen—though very far less in degree—as
a consequence of the recent discoveries, it could not fail to produce a
serious monetary revolution, and much pecuniary distress, both
individual and general, which the wisest legislation could neither
wholly prevent nor remove. Such a sudden and extreme effect many have
actually anticipated from them, and measures have, in consequence, been
taken, even by Continental governments, such as are detailed in the
following passage from Mr Wyld’s pamphlet:—


  “Among the many extraordinary incidents connected with the Californian
  discoveries, was the alarm communicated to many classes, which was not
  confined to individuals, but invaded governments. The first
  announcement spread alarm; but, as the cargoes of gold rose from a
  hundred thousand dollars to a million, bankers and financiers began
  seriously to prepare for an expected crisis. In England and the United
  States the panic was confined to a few; but, on the Continent of
  Europe, every government, rich and poor, thought it needful to make
  provision against the threatened evils. The governments of France,
  Holland, and Russia, in particular, turned their attention to the
  monetary question; and, in 1850, the government of Holland availed
  itself of a law, which had not before been put in operation, to take
  immediate steps for selling off the gold in the banks of Amsterdam, at
  what they supposed to be the then highest prices, and to stock
  themselves with silver. This operation was carried on concurrently
  with a supply of bullion to Russia for a loan, a demand for silver in
  Austria, and for shipment to India; and it did really produce an
  effect on the silver market.

  “The particular way in which the Netherlands operations were carried
  out was especially calculated to produce the greatest disturbance of
  prices. The ten-florin gold pieces were sent to Paris, coined there
  into napoleons, and silver five-franc pieces drawn out in their place.
  At Paris, the premium on gold, in a few months, fell from nearly two
  per cent to a discount, and at Hamburg a like fall took place. In
  London, the great silver market, silver rose between the autumn and
  the New Year, from 5s. per oz. to 5s. 1⅝d. per oz., and Mexican
  dollars from 4s. 10½d. to 4s. 11⅝d. per oz.; nor did prices recover
  until towards the end of the year 1851, when the fall was as sudden as
  the rise.”—(WYLD, pp. 20, 21.)


Now, without identifying ourselves with any unreasonable fears, or
partaking of the alarms occasionally expressed, either at home or
abroad, we cannot shut our eyes to the certainty of a serious amount of
influence being exercised upon monetary and financial affairs, by a long
continuance of the increased supplies of gold which are now pouring into
the European and American markets. We concede all that can fairly be
demanded, in the way of increased supply—to meet the wants of the new
commerce springing up in the Pacific and adjacent seas—to allow of the
increased coinage which the new States in North America, and the growing
population of our own colonies require—to make up for the extending use
of gold and silver in articles of luxury which increasing wealth and
improving arts must occasion—to restore the losses from hoarding, from
shipwreck, from wear and tear of coin, and the thousand other causes of
waste—and to admit of the large yearly storing of coin for the purposes
of emigration: all that can fairly be demanded to meet these and other
exigencies we admit; and yet there will still, at the present rate of
yield, be a large annual surplus, which must gradually cheapen gold in
the market. There are no data upon which we can base any calculations as
to the yearly consumption of gold alone for all these purposes; but
estimates have been made by Humboldt, Jacob, and M’Culloch, of the
probable consumption of gold and silver together, up to a very recent
period. The latter author disposes of the annual supply of the
metals—estimated at nine millions before the recent discoveries—in the
following manner:—

       Consumption in the arts in Europe and America, £4,840,000
       Exportation to Australia and India,             2,600,000
       Waste of coin (at 1 per cent,)                  1,600,000
                                                      ——————————
                      Making together,                £9,040,000

which was very nearly the supposed yield of all known mines, when Mr
M’Culloch’s estimate was made. If we add a half to all these items—as we
conceive a very liberal allowance—we shall have a round sum of thirteen
and a half millions sterling of gold and silver together, as sufficient
to supply all the wants of increasing use in the arts, waste in coinage,
extending commerce, colonial settlement, State extension, and Eastern
exportation. But the actual produce

                 for 1851 is estimated at   £30,000,000
                 and if we deduct            13,500,000
                                            ———————————
                 there remains a balance of £16,500,000

—irrespective of all increase which is likely to be caused by the
extension of the Australian gold field, and by the operation of the
various other causes we have adverted to in the present article. This
surplus also will consist chiefly of gold; so that whatever interest may
otherwise attach to the curious fact stated by Mr Wyld, it is clear that
his conclusion is premature, that no alteration is to be looked for in
the relative market values of the two precious metals. Only a greatly
increased activity and produce in the silver mines can prevent it.

But, independent of the question as between the two metals, there
remains as certain the influence of the surplus gold supply upon the
general bullion and other markets. The immediate demands, or actual
outlets for increased coinage, may for a few years absorb even this
large surplus, but its final action in lowering the comparative value of
gold, and in altering nominal prices and values generally, cannot be
reasonably doubted.




                          LIFE OF NIEBUHR.[30]


The name of Niebuhr is so inveterately associated with certain profound
discussions in historical criticism, that we must beg our readers to
read twice over the notice at the foot of our page, in order to assure
themselves that it is not the History of Rome, but the Life of its
author, that we are about to bring before their attention. We shall
hardly, perhaps, be able to abstain from some glance at that method of
historical criticism so justly connected with the name of Niebuhr, but
it is the life and personal character of the man which will occupy us on
the present occasion.

One observation on that historical criticism we will at once permit
ourselves to make, because it has a distinct bearing upon the
intellectual character of Niebuhr, as well as on the peculiarities of
his historical work. The distinguishing character of that school of
historical criticism, of which he may be considered the founder, is not
its scepticism, for it was no new thing to doubt of the extraordinary
events related of the early periods of Roman, or of any other history.
There have been always people sceptically disposed. Our David Hume could
very calmly give it as his opinion that true history begins with the
first page of Thucydides. It was nothing new, therefore, to disturb our
faith in the earlier portions of the Roman history, or to pronounce them
to be fables. The novelty lay in the higher and more patient and more
philosophical manner in which those fables were investigated, and their
origin, and their true place and connection with history, determined.
The elder sceptic, having satisfied himself that a narrative was
fabulous, threw it aside: the modern critic follows the spirit, the life
of the nation, into the fable itself. He does not attempt, as the
half-doubting, half-believing historian has done, to shape it at once to
the measure of modern credence, by merely modifying a few of the
details, reducing an extravagance, or lopping off a miracle; but, taking
his stand on whatever facts remain indisputable, or whatever knowledge
may be obtained from collateral sources, he investigates thoroughly the
fabulous or poetic narrative. He endeavours to transport himself into
the times when men thought after a poetic fashion—or, at all events,
when pleasure and excitement, not accuracy and instruction, were the
objects they aimed at; he labours to form an estimate of the
circumstances that kindled their imagination, to show _how the fable
grew_, and thus to extract from it, in every sense of the word, its full
historical significance.

How difficult such a task, and how precarious, after all, the result of
such labours, we must leave at present to the reflection of our readers.
What we have here to observe is, that such a method of historical
criticism is not to be pursued by a mind stored only with dry erudition,
or gifted only with the faculty of withholding its belief. Such store of
erudition is indispensable, but it must be combined with that strong
power of imagination which can recall into one vivid picture the
scattered knowledge gained from many books, and which enables its
possessor to live in the scenes and in the minds of the bygone ages of
humanity. Accordingly, it is this combination of ardent imagination with
most multifarious erudition that we meet with in Niebuhr; and it is not
the life of a dry pedant, or of one of cold sceptical understanding, or
of a mere philologer, that we have here presented to us.

These two volumes are extremely entertaining. They are chiefly composed
of the letters of Niebuhr; nor do we remember to have ever encountered a
series of letters of more unflagging interest. This interest they owe in
great measure to the strongly-marked personal character of the writer.
They are not only good letters, containing always something that
suggests reflection, but they sustain their biographical or dramatic
character throughout. It ought to be added, too, that they are most
agreeably translated. The work has been altogether judiciously planned,
and ably executed. A candid and explicit preface at once informs us of
the sources from which it is derived; we are forewarned that many
materials requisite to a complete life of Niebuhr still remain
inaccessible; meanwhile, what is here presented to us bears an authentic
stamp, and appears, as matters stand, to be the best biography that
could be given to the English public. Of the merits of Niebuhr himself
the author has preferred that others should speak. He has chosen almost
entirely to restrict himself within the modest province of the
translator or the editor. Into the motives of this reticence we have no
business to pry: whatever is done, is done well; whatever is promised is
ably performed. A book professing to be the Life of Niebuhr will excite
some expectations which this publication will not satisfy; but when an
author limits himself to a distinct and serviceable task, and performs
that task well, he is entitled to our unreserved thanks, and to our
simple commendation, unmixed with any murmur of complaint.

Interesting as we have found this book, still the perusal of two compact
octavo volumes may deter some readers who might desire, at a rather less
cost of time, to obtain an insight into the life and character of
Niebuhr. To such readers the following abbreviated sketch may not be
unacceptable. We must premise that the present work is founded on a
memoir of Niebuhr published by his sister-in-law, Madame Hensler. This
consists of a series of his letters divided into sections, each section
being preceded by such biographical notice as was necessary to their
explanation. The English author has retained this arrangement, adding,
however, considerably to the narrative of Madame Hensler from other
authentic sources, and omitting such of the letters as he judged might
be devoid of interest. Nearly one-half of these, we are told, have been
omitted—chiefly on the ground that they were on learned subjects, and
might detract from the interest of the biography. We have no doubt that
a sound discretion has been exercised on this point; nevertheless we
trust that these two volumes will meet with sufficient encouragement to
induce the author to publish that third volume at which he hints, and
which is to contain “the letters referred to, together with the most
valuable portions of his smaller writings.” We sincerely hope that one
who has performed this task so well will continue to render the same
good services to the English public. The arrangement we have alluded
to—that of letters divided into sections, with a biographical notice at
the head of each, sufficient to carry us over the ensuing section—seems
to us very preferable to the ordinary plan of our memoir writers, who
attach the explanatory notice to each separate letter. Under this last
plan, one never settles down fairly to _letter-reading_. We cannot, of
course, in the following sketch, retain the advantages of this
arrangement, but must put together our facts and our quotations in the
best order we can.

Idle and cursory readers, who have only heard or thought of Niebuhr as
the provoking destroyer of some agreeable fictions—as the ruthless enemy
of poetic and traditionary lore—will be surprised to find what a deep
earnestness of conviction there was in this man, and how his enthusiasm
for truth and for all virtue rises into romance. Once for all, let no
man parade his love of poetry, with the least hope of being respected
for it, who has not a still greater love of truth. Nay, if we reflect
patiently and calmly upon this matter, we shall find that there is but
one way to keep this flower of poesy in perennial bloom—it is to see
that the waters of truth are flowing free and clear around it. We may be
quite sure that to whatever level this stream, by its own vital force,
shall rise or sink, the same fair lily will be seen floating just on the
surface of it. Just where these waters lie open to the light of heaven,
do we find this beautiful creation looking up from them into the sky.

The scene and circumstances amongst which the childhood of Niebuhr was
passed, appear to us to be singularly in accordance with the future
development and character of the man. They were favourable to
concentration of thought, and to an independent, self-relying spirit;
they were favourable to the exercise of an imagination which was fed
continually by objects remote from the senses, and by knowledge obtained
from books, or else from conversation with his father, who was both a
learned man and a great traveller. If nature, in one of her freaks—or,
let us say, if some German fairies, of an erudite species, had resolved
to breed a great scholar, who should be an independent thinker—who
should be devoted to books, yet retain a spirit of self-reliance—who
should have all the learning of colleges without their pedantry, and
read through whole libraries, and yet retain his free, unfettered right
of judgment—how would they have proceeded to execute their project?
Would they have thrown their little pupil at the feet of some learned
professor at Bonn or Göttingen? Not at all. They would have carried
their changeling into some wild tract of country, shut him up there with
his books, and given him for his father a linguist and a traveller. They
would have provided for him just those circumstances into which young
Niebuhr was thrown. His childish imagination was no sooner kindled than
he found himself wandering in all quarters of the globe, and listening
to the stories of the most remote ages.

This father of our historian—Carsten Niebuhr—was himself a remarkable
man; full of energy, of great perseverance, and of strong feelings. He
had been one of five travellers despatched by the Danish Government on
an expedition of discovery into the East. In crossing the deserts of
Arabia, his four companions sank under the hardships and calamities they
encountered. This was in the first year of their journey; nevertheless,
he pursued his way alone, and spent six years in exploring the East. He
had returned to Copenhagen, and “was on the point,” says our biography,
“of undertaking a journey into the interior of Africa, when he fell in
love with a young orphan lady, the daughter of the late physician to the
King of Denmark.” He gives up Africa, and all the world of travel and
discovery, for this “young orphan lady;” and a few years after his
marriage, we find him settled down at Meldorf, as _land-schreiber_ to
the province of South Dithmarsh—a civil post, whose duties seem chiefly
to have concerned the revenues of the province.

This Meldorf is a little, decayed, antiquated town, not without its
traditions of municipal privileges; and Dithmarsh is what its name
suggests to an English ear—an open marshy district, without hills or
trees, with nothing but the general sky, which we all happily share in,
to give it any beauty. One figures to one’s self the traveller, who had
been exploring the sunny regions of the East, or who had been living at
Copenhagen, in the society of scholars and of statesmen, retiring, with
his young orphan lady, to this dreary Dithmarsh, peopled only by
peasantry. Even the high-road runs miles off from his habitation, so
that no chance can favour him, and no passing or belated traveller rests
at his door. He occupies his spare hours in building himself a house; in
which operation there is one little fellow standing by who takes
infinite delight. This is our Barthold George Niebuhr, who had been born
in Copenhagen on the 27th of August 1776. He and an elder sister will be
principal inhabitants of the new house when it is built, and their
education be the chief care and occupation of the traveller.

Barthold is in his sixth or seventh year when his father writes thus of
him:—


  “He studied the Greek alphabet only for a single day, and had no
  further trouble with it: he did it with very little help from me. The
  boy gets on wonderfully. Boje says he does not know his equal; but he
  requires to be managed in a peculiar way. May God preserve our lives,
  and give us grace to manage him aright! Oh if he could but learn to
  control the warmth of his temper—I believe I might say his pride! He
  is no longer so passionate with his sister: but if he stumbles in the
  least in repeating his lessons, or if his scribblings are alluded to,
  he fires up instantly. He cannot bear to be praised for them; because
  he believes he does not deserve it. In short, I repeat it, he is
  proud; he wants to know everything, and is angry if he does not know
  it.... My wife complains that I find fault with Barthold
  unnecessarily. I did not mean to do so. He is an extraordinarily good
  little fellow; but he must be managed in an extraordinary way; and I
  pray God to give me wisdom and patience to educate him properly.”


Here we have “his picture in little;” the wonderful quickness and
application, the extreme conscientiousness, and the warmth of temper
which distinguished the man Niebuhr through his career. But who is this
Boje, who says “he does not know his equal?” And how happens it that
there is any one in Meldorf—a place, we are told, quite destitute of
literary society—who is entitled to give an opinion on the subject? This
Boje was ex-editor of the _Deutsches Museum_, and translator, we
believe, of Walter Scott’s novels; and has been lately appointed prefect
of the province. His coming is a great event to the Niebuhrs, a valuable
acquisition to their society, and of especial importance to young
Barthold; for Boje has “an extensive library, particularly rich in
English and French, as well as German books,” to which library our
youthful and indefatigable student is allowed free access. French and
English he has, from a very early age, been learning from his father and
mother. Are we not right in saying, that no Teutonic fairies could have
done better for their pupil? By way of nursery tale, his father amuses
him with strange accounts of Eastern countries, of the Turks, of
sultans, of Mahomet and the caliphs. He is already a politician. “He had
an imaginary empire called Low-England, of which he drew maps, and he
promulgated laws, waged wars, and made treaties of peace there.” Then
comes Boje to give him his first lesson upon _myths_. The literary
prefect of Dithmarsh, writing to a friend, says:—


  “This reminds me of little Niebuhr. His docility, his industry, his
  devoted love for me, procure me many a pleasant hour. A short time
  back, I was reading _Macbeth_ aloud to his parents, without taking any
  notice of him, till I saw what an impression it made on him. Then I
  tried to render it intelligible to him, and even explained to him how
  the witches were only poetical beings. When I was gone, he sat down,
  (he is not yet seven years old,) and wrote it all out on seven sheets
  of paper, without omitting one important point, and certainly without
  any expectation of receiving praise for it; for, when his father asked
  to see what he had written, and showed it to me, he cried for fear he
  had not done it well. Since then, he writes down everything of
  importance that he hears from his father or me. We seldom praise him,
  but just quietly tell him when he has made any mistake, and he avoids
  the fault for the future.”


Very surprising accounts are given of the boy’s precocious sagacity in
picturing to himself a historic scene, with all its details, or
following out the probable course of events. These accounts are rather
_too_ surprising. When the war broke out in Turkey, it so excited his
imagination that he not only dreamt of it, but anticipated in his
dreams, and we suppose also in his waking hours, the current of events.
His notions were so just, and his knowledge of the country, and the
situations of the towns, so accurate, that, we are told, “the
realisation of his nightly anticipations generally appeared in the
journals a short time afterwards.” One would say that the fairies had
indeed been with him. Madame Hensler’s narrative partakes here, in some
measure, of that marvellous character which accompanies family
traditions of all kinds, whether of the Roman _gens_ or the Danish
household. But on other occasions, and from Niebuhr’s own words, we
learn that, owing to his minute knowledge, his most tenacious memory,
and his vivid imagination, he, at a very early time, manifested that
spirit of quite philosophical divination which led him to his
discoveries in Roman history. We say quite philosophical divination; for
we do not suppose that Niebuhr claimed for himself, or his friends for
him, any mysterious intuition into the course of events; but there is
occasionally, both in the memoir and in the letters, a vagueness of
expression on this subject which might lead to misapprehension, and
which one wishes had been avoided.

We must now follow this precocious pupil to the University at Kiel. A
lad of seventeen, we find him already a companion for professors.
Writing home to his parents, he says of Dr Hensler:—“My ideas about the
origin of the Greek tribes, the history of the colonisation of the Greek
cities, and my notions in general about the earliest migration from west
to east, are new to him; and he thinks it probable that they may be
correct. He exhorts me to work them out, and bring them into as clear a
form as I can.” Meanwhile, he is to be occupied, heart and soul, in
studying metaphysics under Reinhold, one of the most celebrated
disciples of Kant. To enumerate the studies in which he is alternately
engaged, would be to pass in review the whole series of subjects which
are taught in a university; just as, at a somewhat later period, to
enumerate all the languages which he had learnt, would be simply to name
in order every language which a European scholar, by the aid of grammar
and dictionary, could learn. His father, with a very excusable pride,
makes out, in one of his letters, a list of his son’s attainments of
this kind: he was, more or less, master of some twenty languages.

In this philologist, however, there was no want of poetic feeling or
vivid imagination. When reading the ancients, he completely lived in
their world and with them. He once told a friend who had called on him
and found him in great emotion, that he often could not bear to read
more than a few pages at a time in the old tragic poets; he realised so
vividly all that was said, and done, and suffered. “He could see
Antigone leading her blind father—the aged Œdipus entering the grove—he
could catch the music of their speech.” Neither in this youth, so
stored, so fed with books, was there any deadness of heart towards the
living friend. We have some letters full of a painful sensitiveness at
the apprehension that his correspondent had forgotten or grown cold
towards him. The gravest fault in his character was too quick a temper;
but if this led him to take offence unjustly, he was always sufficiently
just and generous to seek for reconciliation. Least of all had his
erudition or his erudite labours quenched the moral enthusiasm of his
nature. From childhood up to manhood, from manhood to his latest day,
the same high sense of moral rectitude pervaded all his judgments, and
influenced all his actions. The same boy who would not receive praise if
he did not think he deserved it, in after years would not draw a salary
if he did not think it was rigidly earned, nor accept a present even
from a municipality—from the city of Geneva—for rendering a service
which he had spontaneously performed. At the university of Kiel we find
him breaking with an intimate friend, and much to his own regret,
because he finds that friend holding philosophical tenets destructive,
as he thinks, of the sentiment of moral obligation. “He is a fatalist
and indifferentist. I subscribe to Kant’s principles with all my heart.
I have broken with M., not from any dispute we have had, but on account
of the detestable conclusions which necessarily follow from his
opinions, conclusions that absolutely annihilate morality. I really
loved him notwithstanding, but, with such principles, I could not be his
friend.” Considering the singular and precarious tenure by which a
Kantian holds his faith in the freedom of the will, this was rather
severe dealing, not a quite perfect example of philosophical toleration;
but it shows, at least, that the heart was in the right place.

Up to this moment have not the fairies done well? But now comes a new
element into the calculations, a new phase of the drama, with which no
fairies condescend to deal. Young Niebuhr like the rest of us _must
live_, must earn the wherewithal, must choose his career, his
profession. Here the fairies forsake him. Here, in more true and prosaic
style, he is unfaithful to himself. We cannot but regard it as the great
and continuous error of his life, that he did not devote himself to
learning as his profession. He could have done so. At the very same time
there came an offer of a professorship, and a proposal to be the private
secretary of Count Schimmelman, the Danish minister of finance. He chose
the latter. That the professorship offered to him was connected with but
slender emolument, can have had little to do with the determination,
because other and more eminent and more lucrative professorships would
have speedily been open to him, and because the mere love of money was
never a strong inducement in the mind of Niebuhr. Political ambition
seems to have been the motive that turned the scale. Looking now at his
life as an accomplished completed career, it is impossible not to regret
this choice. We see ten of the most precious years of his early manhood
wasted in financial and other public business, which a hundred others
could have transacted as well; it is, in fact, a mere fragment of his
life that is exclusively or uninterruptedly devoted to letters. He is
more frequently at the head of some national bank, or revenue
department, than in the professor’s chair; and the author of the Roman
history has to say of himself, that “calculations are my occupation;
merchants, Jews, and brokers, my society.”

Niebuhr had, whilst at the university, formed an acquaintance which led
afterwards to a matrimonial engagement. Amelia Behrens, younger sister
of Madame Hensler, who was the daughter-in-law of the Professor Hensler
previously mentioned, seems from the first to have thoroughly
appreciated the high character and great attainments of the young
student. She herself must have been a woman of very superior mind; she
had great sweetness of temper, and was in every way calculated for the
wife of the ardent, generous, hasty, but affectionate Niebuhr. The first
mention that is made of Miss Behrens is not very auspicious. In a letter
to his father, he has been lamenting his painful timidity and
bashfulness before ladies, and thus continues,—“However much I may
improve in other society, I am sure I must get worse and worse every day
in their eyes; and so, out of downright shyness, I scarcely dare speak
to a lady; and as I know, once for all, that I must be insupportable to
them, their presence becomes disagreeable to me. Yesterday, however, I
screwed up my courage, and began to talk to Miss Behrens and young Mrs
Hensler. Now, in gratitude and candour, I must confess that they were
sociable enough towards me to have set me at my ease, if my shyness were
not so deeply rooted. But it is of no use. I avoid them, and would
rather be guilty of impoliteness, by avoiding them, than by speaking to
them, which I should now feel to be the greatest impoliteness of all.”
Circumstances, however, after he had left the university of Kiel,
brought him into social and unreserved communication with the family of
the Behrens; and this lady whom he avoided, dreading her precisely
because she _did_ interest his youthful imagination, became his
betrothed.

Here the biography takes a very eccentric course. Niebuhr not only comes
to England on foreign travel, which is precisely what we should expect
of such a person, but he settles himself down at Edinburgh as a student.
_The life seems to go back._ After having entered on official duties,
engaged himself to be married, and thus pledged himself to the real
business of life, we see this erudite youth, with his tale of twenty
languages nearly complete, entering the classes at Edinburgh, and
writing about them as if he were recommencing his university career. If
this work of Madame Hensler were one of old date, and we felt authorised
to exercise upon it that conjectural criticism so fashionable in our
times, we should boldly say that the authoress, deceived by the
similarity of name, had intercalated into her series some letters of
_another Niebuhr_; we should dispute the identity of the Niebuhr who
writes from the university of Edinburgh, with him who passed through the
university of Kiel, and was afterwards, for a short time, secretary to
Count Schimmelman. Such conjectural emendations being, however,
altogether inadmissible, we must accept the facts and the letters as
they are here given us.

Niebuhr’s motives for this residence in Scotland were, according to
Madame Hensler’s account, of a very miscellaneous description. Besides
the advantages to be derived from visiting a foreign land, “he was to
brace up and strengthen both his mental and physical energies in
preparation for active life.” Why this should be better accomplished as
a student in Edinburgh than as a citizen in Copenhagen, we do not
apprehend; nor what there was in the air of Denmark that had enfeebled
the spirit of self-reliance or of enterprise. But we are told that “he
had become too dependent on the little details of life. He felt that he
stood, so to speak, outside the world of realities.” Therefore he sets
himself down for a year as a student at Edinburgh.

London, of course, is first visited. He speaks highly of the English.
Throughout his life he entertained a predilection for our countrymen,
and extols the integrity and honesty of the national character. We feel
a certain bashfulness, a modest confusion, when we hear such praises;
but, as national characters nowhere stand very high, we suppose we may
accept the compliment. Occasionally we sell our patriotic votes, as at
St Alban’s and elsewhere; occasionally we fill our canisters of
preserved meats with poisonous offal; and there is not a grocer’s shop
in all England where some adulterated article of food is not cheerfully
disposed of. Nevertheless, it seems we are a shade more honest than some
of our neighbours. The compliment does not greatly rejoice us.

However, it is not all praise that we receive. He finds “that true
warm-heartedness is extremely rare” amongst us. We shall be happy to
learn that it is commonly to be met with in any part of the world. He
laments, too, the superficiality and insipidity of general conversation.
“That narrative and commonplaces form the whole staple of conversation,
from which all philosophy is excluded—that enthusiasm and loftiness of
expression are entirely wanting, depresses me more than any personal
neglect of which, as a stranger, I might have to complain. I am,
besides, fully persuaded that I shall find things very different in
Scotland; of this I am assured by several Scotchmen whom I already
know.”

In this full persuasion he sets forth to Scotland. We have an account of
his journey, which, read in these railroad times, is amusing enough. The
translator of the letters has evidently been determined that we should
not miss the humour of the contrast. Niebuhr gives his absent Amelia as
minute a description of the mode of travelling as if he were writing
from China. After describing the post-chaises, “very pretty
half-coaches, holding two,” and the royal mail, rapid, “but inconvenient
from the smallness of its build, and particularly liable to be upset,”
he proceeds to the old-fashioned stage-coach—


  “In travelling by this, you have no further trouble than to take your
  place in the office for as far as you wish to go; for the proprietor
  of the coach has, at each stage, which are from ten to fifteen English
  miles at most from each other, relays of horses, which, unless an
  unusual amount of travelling causes an exception, stand ready
  harnessed to be put to the coach. Four horses, drawing a coach with
  six persons inside, four on the roof, a sort of conductor beside the
  coachman, and overladen with luggage, have to get over seven English
  miles in the hour; and, as the coach goes on without ever stopping,
  except at the principal stages, it is not surprising that you can
  traverse the whole extent of the country in so few days. But, for any
  length of time, this rapid motion is quite too unnatural. You can only
  get a very piecemeal view of the country from the windows, and, with
  the tremendous speed with which you go, can keep no object long in
  sight; you are unable also to stop at any place.”


After three days’ travelling “at this tremendous speed,” he reached
Newcastle, from which the above letter was dated. The rest of the
journey was also performed with the same unnatural rapidity. By some
chance he made acquaintance with a young medical student, and the two
together commenced housekeeping in Edinburgh on a very frugal and
sensible plan.

The letters which Niebuhr wrote to his parents from Edinburgh, and which
contained his observations on the graver matters of politics and of
learning, were unfortunately burnt; those which were addressed to his
betrothed have been alone preserved, and these chiefly concern matters
of a domestic and personal nature. We hear, therefore, very little of
the more learned society into which, doubtless, Niebuhr occasionally
entered. With Professor Playfair he formed an intimacy which was
afterwards renewed at Rome. Other names are mentioned, but no
particulars are given. The subjects which he principally studied in
Edinburgh were mathematics and physical sciences. Philological and
historical studies he prosecuted by himself, and by way of recreation.
“In these departments he regarded the learned men there as incomparably
inferior to the Germans.” A Mr Scott, an old friend of his father’s, and
to whom he brought letters of introduction, was the most intimate
acquaintance he possessed. The quite patriarchal reception that he
received from Mr Scott and his family will be read with interest. As to
his impressions of the Scotch, as a people, these are extremely various:
he is at one time charmed with their unexampled piety; at another, he
finds it a dreary formalism; and then, again, from the height of his
Kantian philosophy, he detects a shallow French infidelity pervading the
land. Such inconsistencies are natural and excusable in a young man
writing down his first impressions in a most unreserved correspondence.
But there would be very little gained by quoting them here at length. We
pass on from this episode in the life, and now proceed with the main
current of events.

On his return to Copenhagen, Niebuhr was appointed assessor at the board
of trade for the East India department, with some other secretaryship or
clerkship of a similar description. Thereupon he married, (May 1800;)
and in some letters written soon after this event, he describes himself
as in a quite celestial state of happiness. “Amelia’s heavenly
disposition, and more than earthly love, raise me above this world, and
as it were separate me from this life.”

Then come official promotion and increased occupation. Nevertheless his
favourite studies are never altogether laid aside. The day might be
spent at his office or in the exchange, in drawing up reports, in
correspondence or in interviews with most uninteresting people, and when
the night came he was often exhausted both in body and in mind; yet, “if
he got engaged at once in an interesting book or conversation, he was
soon refreshed, and would then study till late at night.”

Towards the end of 1805 a distinguished Prussian statesman, whose name
is not here given, and who was then at Copenhagen on a mission from his
government, sounded Niebuhr on his willingness to enter the Prussian
service in the department of finance. After much hesitation and some
correspondence, Niebuhr finally accepted a proposal made to him of “the
joint-directorship of the first bank in Berlin, and of the
_Seehandlung_,” a privileged commercial company (as a note of the editor
informs us) for the promotion of foreign commerce. Such were the labours
to which Niebuhr was willing to devote the extraordinary powers of his
mind—such were the services which his contemporaries were willing to
accept from him. But we have only to glance at the date of these
transactions to call to mind that we are traversing no peaceful or
settled times. We are, in fact, in the thick of the war. Whilst Niebuhr
was working at his assessorship in Copenhagen, that city was bombarded
by the English; and now that he goes to take possession of his
directorship in Berlin, he has to fly with royalty itself before the
armies of Napoleon. The battle of Jena, and many other battles, have
been fought and lost, and the French are advancing on the capital.
Flight to Memel, ministerial changes, alternate rise and fall of Von
Stein and Count Hardenberg—in all these events poor Niebuhr was now
implicated. When peace is made with Napoleon, we find him despatched to
Holland to negotiate a Dutch loan, the Prussian government being in
great distress for money to pay the contributions imposed upon them by
the French. Then follows some misunderstanding with Count Hardenberg,
who has succeeded to power, which happily interrupts for a time the
official career of our great scholar. He is appointed Professor of
History in the university of Berlin. In Michaelmas 1810 the university
reopened, and Niebuhr delivered his first course of lectures on the
history of Rome.

For about three years we now see him in what every one will recognise as
his right and legitimate place in the world, and labouring at his true
vocation. His lectures excited the keenest interest—he was encouraged to
undertake his great work, _The History of Rome_: it is in this interval
that both the first and second volumes were published. An extract from
his letters will show the pleasant change in his career, and give us
some insight into the position he held in the university.


  “Milly (his wife Amelia) has told you that the number of my hearers
  was much greater than I had anticipated. But their character, no less
  than their number, is such as encourages and animates me to pursue my
  labours with zeal and perseverance. You will feel this when I tell you
  that Savigny, Schleiermacher, Spalding, Ancillon, Nicolovius,
  Schmedding, and Süvern were present. Besides the number and selectness
  of my audience, the general interest evinced in the lecture exceeds my
  utmost hopes. My introductory lecture produced as strong an impression
  as an oration could have done; and all the dry erudition that followed
  it, in the history of the old Italian tribes, which serves as an
  introduction to that of Rome, has not driven away even my unlearned
  hearers. The attention with which Savigny honours me, and his
  declaration that I am opening a new era for Roman history, naturally
  stimulates my ardent desire to carry out to the full extent the
  researches which one is apt to leave half finished as soon as one
  clearly perceives the result to which they tend, in order to turn to
  something fresh....

  “With a little more quiet, my position would be one more completely in
  accordance with my wishes than I have long ventured even to hope for.
  There is such a real mutual attachment between my acquaintances and
  myself, and our respective studies give such an inexhaustible interest
  to conversation, that I now really possess in this respect what I used
  to feel the want of; for intercourse of this kind is quickening and
  instructive. The lectures themselves, too, are inspiriting, because
  they require persevering researches, which, I venture to say, cannot
  remain unfruitful to me; and they are more exciting than mere literary
  labours, because I deliver them with the warmth inspired by fresh
  thoughts and discoveries, and afterwards converse with those who have
  heard them, and to whom they are as new as to myself. This makes the
  lectures a positive delight to me, and I feel quite averse to bring
  them to a close. What I should like, would be to have whole days of
  perfect solitude, and then an interval of intercourse with the persons
  I really like, but not to remain so many hours together with them as
  is customary here. It would be scarcely possible to have less
  frivolity and dulness in a mixed society. Schleiermacher is the most
  intellectual man amongst them. The complete absence of jealousy among
  these scholars is particularly gratifying.”


It is not long we are allowed to pause upon this agreeable and fruitful
era of intellectual activity. Two volumes, however, are published of
that history of which it is not here our purpose to speak, of which we
would not wish to speak lightly or inconsiderately, which we admire and
would cordially applaud, but which, we feel, has not yet received its
exact place or value in the historical literature of Europe. We have not
the time, nor will we lay claim to the profound erudition requisite, to
do full justice to Niebuhr’s _History of Rome_. We do not regret,
therefore, that the present occasion calls for no decided verdict; and
that it does not devolve on us to draw the line, and show where just,
and bold, and discriminating criticism terminates, and where ingenious
and happy conjecture begins to assume the air and confidence of history.
On one point there can be no dispute—that his work exercised a great,
and, upon the whole, a most salutary influence on historical criticism.
It is not too much to say, that no history has been written since its
appearance in which this influence cannot be traced.

Both volumes were received in a most cordial and encouraging manner by
his friends and by the public, and materials for a third volume were
being collected, when suddenly we hear that our professor—is drilling
for the army! Napoleon’s disastrous campaign in Russia has given hope to
every patriotic German to throw off the degrading yoke of France.
Niebuhr, though by his father’s side of Danish extraction, was, in
heart, wholly a German. When the Landwehr was called out he refused to
avail himself of the privilege of his position to evade serving in it—he
sent in his name as a volunteer, and prepared himself by the requisite
exercises. Meanwhile, till he could do battle with the musket, he fought
with the pen, and edited a newspaper. “Niebuhr’s friends in Holstein,”
writes Madame Hensler, “could hardly trust their eyes when he wrote them
word that he was drilling for the army, and that his wife entered with
equal enthusiasm into his feelings. The greatness of the object had so
inspired Madame Niebuhr, who was usually anxious, even to a morbid
extent, at the slightest imaginable peril for the husband in whom she
might truly be said to live, that she was willing and ready to bring
even her most precious treasure as a sacrifice to her country.”

French troops were now constantly passing through Berlin, on their way
from the fatal plains of Russia. The dreadful sufferings which they had
manifestly endured did not fail to excite a general compassion; but
their appearance excited still more the patriotic hopes of the citizens
to liberate themselves from the degrading domination of France. Berlin
was evacuated by the French. Then came the Cossacks, following in the
route of the common enemy. “They bivouac,” says a letter of Niebuhr,
“with their horses in the city; about four in the morning they knock at
the doors, and ask for breakfast. This is a famous time for the
children, for they set them on their horses, and play with them.” Here
is an extract that will bring the times vividly before us. Niebuhr is
writing to Madame Hensler:—


  “I come from an employment in which you will hardly be able to fancy
  me engaged—namely, exercising. Even before the departure of the
  French, I began to go through the exercise in private, but a man can
  scarcely acquire it without a companion. Since the French left, a
  party of about twenty of us have been exercising in a garden, and we
  have already got over the most difficult part of the training. When my
  lectures are concluded, which they will be at the beginning of next
  week, I shall try to exercise with regular recruits during the
  morning, and, as often as possible, practise shooting at a mark.... By
  the end of a month, I hope to be as well drilled as any recruit who is
  considered to have finished his training. The heavy musket gave me so
  much trouble at first, that I almost despaired of being able to handle
  it; but we are able to recover the powers again that we have only lost
  for want of practice. I am happy to say that my hands are growing
  horny; for as long as they had a delicate bookworm’s skin, the musket
  cut into them terribly....

  “I mentioned to you a short time since, my hopes of getting a
  secretaryship on the general staff. With my small measure of physical
  power, I should have been a thousand times more useful in that office
  than as a private soldier. The friend I have referred to would like me
  to enter the ministry. Perhaps something unexpected may yet turn up.
  Idle, or busy about anything but our liberation, I cannot be now.”


It is impossible to read the account of these stirring times _just now_,
without asking ourselves whether it is probable that our own learned
professors of Oxford and Cambridge may ever have their patriotism put to
a similar trial. Perhaps, even under similar circumstances, they would
act the wiser part by limiting themselves to patriotic exhortations to
the youth under their control or influence. Of one thing we feel
persuaded, that there would be no lack of ardour, or of martial
enthusiasm, amongst the students of our venerable universities. After a
few months drilling and practising, there would be raised such a corps
of riflemen from Oxford and Cambridge as fields of battle have not often
seen. How intelligence _tells_, when you put a musket in its hands, is
as yet but faintly understood. We, for our own part, hope that the
_voluntary principle_ will here arouse itself in time, and do its
bidding nobly. For as to that ordinary militia, which is neither
voluntary service nor thorough discipline, where there is neither
intelligence, nor ardour, nor professional spirit, nor any one good
quality of a soldier, we have no confidence in it whatever: we would not
willingly trust our hen-coops to such a defence; there is neither body
nor soul in it. As a reserve force from which to recruit for the regular
army, it may be useful. But to drill and train a set of unwilling
servitors like these, with the intention of taking the field with them,
would be a fatal mistake; for it would lull the nation into a false
sense of security. But a regiment of volunteers of the spirited and
intelligent youth of England, we would match with entire confidence
against an equal number of any troops in the world. Why should not there
be permanent rifle-clubs established in every university, and in every
town? These, and our standing army, increased to its necessary
complement, would constitute a safe defence. Volunteers, it is said,
cannot be kept together except in moments of excitement. And this was
true while the volunteers had only to drill and to march; but practice
with the rifle is itself as great an amusement as archery, or boating,
or cricket, or any other that engages the active spirit of our youth.
There is a skill to be acquired which would prompt emulation. There is
an art to learn. These clubs would meet together, both for competition,
and for the purpose of practising military evolutions on a larger scale,
and thus the spirit of the institution would be maintained, and its
utility increased. Nor would it be difficult to suggest some honorary
privilege which might be attached to the volunteer rifleman. Such, we
are persuaded, is the kind of militia which England ought to have for
her defence; such, we are persuaded, is the only force, beside the
standing army, on which any reliance can safely be placed.

All honour to the historian who unravels for us the obscurities of the
past! Nevertheless, one simple truth will stare us in the face. We take
infinite pains to understand the Roman _comitia_; we read, not without
considerable labour, some pages of Thucydides; yet the daily English
newspaper has been bringing to our door accounts of a political
experiment now enacting before us, more curious and more instructive
than Roman and Grecian history can supply. The experiment, which has
been fairly performed on a neighbouring shore, gives a more profound
lesson, and a far more important one, than twenty Peloponnesian wars.
That experiment has demonstrated to us that, _by going low enough_, you
may obtain a public opinion that shall sanction a tyranny over the whole
intelligence of the country. A man who, whatever his abilities, had
acquired no celebrity in civil or military life, inherits a name; with
that name he appeals to the universal suffrage of France; and universal
France gives him permission to do what he will with her laws and
institutions—to destroy her parliament—to silence her press—to banish
philosophy from her colleges. It is a lesson of the utmost importance;
and moreover, a fact which, at the present moment, justifies some alarm.
It is not intelligent France we have for our neighbour, but a power
which represents its military and its populace, and which surely, if we
are to calculate on its duration, is of a very terrific character. But
we must pursue our biographical sketch of the life of Niebuhr.

Although our professor never actually shoulders that musket of which we
have seen him practising the use, and gets no nearer to the smoke of
powder than to survey the battle of Bautzen from the heights, he is
involved in all the civil turmoils of the time. He is summoned to
Dresden, where the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Russia are in
conference together. He follows the Sovereigns to Prague; he is again
despatched to Holland, to negotiate there for subsidies with the English
commissioners. Saddest event of all, his domestic happiness receives a
fatal blow in the death of his wife. She must have been a woman of
tender spirit and elevated character. She entered ardently into all the
pursuits, and shared all the fame, of her husband. A few days before her
death, Niebuhr, as he was holding her in his arms, asked her if there
was no pleasure that he could give her—nothing that he could do for her
sake. She replied, with a look of unutterable love, “You shall finish
your history, whether I live or die.”

The history, however, proceeded very slowly. When public tranquillity
was restored, Niebuhr did not return to his professor’s chair; he went,
as is very generally known, to Rome on a diplomatic mission. Here he
spent a considerable portion of his life; and although his residence in
that city might seem peculiarly favourable to his great undertaking, yet
it proved otherwise;—either his time was occupied in the business or the
ceremonial attached to his appointment, or his mind was unhinged.
Besides, we have seen, from his own confession, that he needed such
stimulants as those he found at Berlin, of friends, and conversation,
and a literary duty, to keep him to one train of inquiry or of labour.
It was very much the habit of his mind to propose to himself numerous
works or literary investigations. We have amongst his loose memoranda of
an earlier date one headed thus, “Works which I have to complete.” The
list comprises no less than seven works, every one of which would have
been a laborious undertaking. No scheme or outline of these several
projected books was to be found, but the writer of the Memoir before us
remarks that we are not to infer from this that such memoranda contain
mere projects, towards whose execution no step was ever taken.


  “That Niebuhr proposed,” says Madame Hensler, “any such work to
  himself, was a certain sign that he had read and thought deeply on the
  subject; but he was able to trust so implicitly to his extraordinary
  memory, that he never committed any portion of his essays to paper
  till the whole was complete in his own mind. His memory was so
  wonderfully retentive that he scarcely ever forgot anything which he
  had once heard or read, and the facts he knew remained present to him
  at all times, even in their minutest details.

  “His wife and sister once playfully took up Gibbon, and asked him
  questions from the table of contents about the most trivial things, by
  way of testing his memory. They carried on the examination till they
  were tired, and gave up all hope of even detecting him in a momentary
  uncertainty, though he was at the same time engaged in writing on some
  other subject.”


Niebuhr married a second time. Madame Hensler, accompanied by her niece,
had visited him in his affliction; their presence gradually cheered him;
and Margaret Hensler, the niece, “soothed him with her gentle
attentions, and gave him peculiar pleasure with her sweet singing. After
some time he engaged himself to her, and married her before he left
Berlin.”

We have now to follow him to Rome. The correspondence is here, as indeed
throughout these volumes, very entertaining; and it would be utterly
impossible to convey to our readers, in our brief survey, a fair
impression of the sort of interest this work possesses. The memoir may
be regarded as merely explanatory of the letters, and the letters
themselves are not distinguished so much by remarkable passages as by a
constantly sustained interest. They are not learned, for the erudite
portion of the correspondence has been omitted, but they are never
trivial; they perpetually suggest some topic of reflection, and are
thoroughly imbued with the character and personality of the writer. We
have lately had several biographies of eminent men written on the same
plan, the letters being set forth as the most faithful portraiture of
the man; but in none of these, so far as we can recall them to mind, are
the letters at once so valuable in themselves, and so curious for the
insight they give us into the character and feelings of the writer.

In reading Niebuhr’s letters from Italy, we must always bear in mind
that they are written by one of warm and somewhat irascible temper, and
who has a standard of moral excellence which would be thought of a most
inconvenient altitude by the people of any country in Europe. He is
honest as the day, but open to receive very sudden and much too strong
impressions. We must also look at the date of his letters, and ask
ourselves what changes may have taken place since Niebuhr wrote. With
these precautions, they will be found to convey many very instructive
hints. From his first entrance into Italy to the last hour of his
residence, he expresses the same opinion of the low standard of
intellectual culture amongst its educated classes. Whilst he is yet at
Florence, he writes thus:—


  “My preconceived opinion of the scholars and higher classes in Italy
  has proved perfectly correct, as I was convinced would be the case,
  because I possessed sufficient data to form an accurate idea of them.
  I have always allowed the existence of individual exceptions, as
  regards erudition; but even in these cases, there is not that
  cultivation of the whole man which we demand and deem indispensable. I
  have become acquainted with two or three literary men of real ability;
  but, in the first place, they are old men, who have only a few years
  longer to live; and when they are gone, Italy will be, as they say
  themselves, in a state of barbarism; and, in the second, they are like
  statues wrought to be placed in a frieze on the wall—the side turned
  towards you is of finished beauty, the other unhewn stone. They are
  much what our scholars may have been sixty or eighty years ago. No one
  feels himself a citizen....

  “The three genuine and intellectual scholars of my acquaintance,
  Morelli, Garatoni, and Fontana, are all ecclesiastics. They are,
  however, only ecclesiastics by profession, for I have not found in
  them the slightest trace either of a belief in the dogmas of
  Catholicism, or of the pietism which you meet with in Germany. _When
  an Italian has once ceased to be a slave of the Church, he never seems
  to trouble his head about such matters at all. Metaphysical
  speculations are utterly foreign to his nature, as they were to the
  old Romans._ Hence the vacuity of mind which has become general since
  the suppression of freedom, except in the case of those who find a
  sphere of action in writing literary and historical memoirs. Their
  public men are immeasurably behind the Germans in knowledge and
  cultivation.”


What matter for reflection there is here, the reader will not need our
assistance to point out. Let those who censure Protestantism for the
spirit of speculation it is connected with, either as cause or effect,
consider how important a part that speculative tendency plays in
sustaining the intellectual activity of a people.

When Niebuhr arrives at Rome, the picture that he draws is still darker.
Even the antiquities of the city seem to have given him little pleasure;
he was more disturbed at what had been taken away than gratified by the
little that remained. Then, although he well knew that the life of an
ambassador at Rome could not be free from restraint and interruption,
yet the courtly formalities he was compelled to observe were far more
vexatious than he had anticipated. Housekeeping, too, perplexed him.
Things were dear, and men not too honest. “Without a written agreement
nothing can be done.” In a letter to Savigny, he writes thus:—


  “Rome has no right to its name; at most, it should be called New Rome.
  Not one single street here goes in the same direction as the old one;
  it is an entirely foreign vegetation that has grown up on a part of
  the old soil, as insignificant and thoroughly modern in its style as
  possible, without nationality, without history. It is very
  characteristic that the really ancient and the modern city lie almost
  side by side.

  “There are nowhere any remains of anything that it was possible to
  remove. The ruins all date from the time of the emperors; and he who
  can get up an enthusiasm about them, must at least rank Martial and
  Sophocles together.... St Peter’s, the Sistine Chapel, and the Loggie,
  are certainly splendid; but even St Peter’s is disfigured internally
  by the wretched statues and decorations.... Science is utterly extinct
  here. Of philologists, there is none worthy of the name except the
  aged De Rossi, who is near his end. The people are apathetic.

  “This, then, is the country and place in which my life is to be
  passed! It is but a poor amends that I can get from libraries, and
  yet my only hope is from the Vatican. That we may be crossed in
  every way, this is closed till the 5th of November, and to have it
  opened sooner is out of the question; in other respects, all
  possible facilities have been promised me by the Pope himself,
  Cardinal Gonsalvi, Monsignor Testi, and the Prefect of the library,
  Monsignor Baldi. This last is now engaged in printing, at his own
  cost, a work on which he has expended six hundred scudi, without
  hope of receiving any compensation for it. It is on seventeen
  passages in the Old Testament, in which he has found the cross
  mentioned by name.... At Terni, I found the old art of
  land-surveying still extant: I rode along what was probably an
  ancient ‘limes,’ found the ‘rigor,’ and the ‘V. Pedes.’ I shall go
  there again, if I live till next autumn. It is a charming place.
  There are at least fifty houses in the town, among them one very
  large, which date from the Roman times, and which have never yet
  been observed or described by any traveller. Several of the churches
  are Roman private houses. If one could but discover in Rome anything
  like this! I long inexpressibly to have it for my burial-place.
  Everything is ancient in Terni and its neighbourhood—even the mode
  of preparing the wine. Oh to have been in Italy five hundred years
  ago!”


One of the most agreeable topics mentioned in the period of his
biography, is the interest Niebuhr took in the new school of German art
then springing up at Rome. Every one, from prints and engravings, if
from no other source, is now acquainted with the works of Cornelius,
Overbeck, Veit, Schadow, and others. They were then struggling with all
the usual difficulties of unemployed and unrecognised genius. Niebuhr
neither possessed, nor affected to possess, any special knowledge of
art, but he was delighted with the genuine enthusiasm of his
fellow-countrymen; he kindled in their society; he was persuaded of
their great talent, and exerted whatever influence he possessed in
obtaining for them some high employment. He wished that the interior of
some church or other public building should be placed at their disposal,
to decorate it with suitable paintings. The scattered notices that we
find here of these artists we pass over very unwillingly, but we must
necessarily confine ourselves to the course of our narrative.

By his first wife, Niebuhr had no family. His second, _Gretchen_ as she
is affectionately called—and who, we may observe in passing, is
described as equally amiable, though not quite so intellectual or
cultivated as the first—brought him several children, one son and three
daughters. The birth of his son, April 1817, was an event which gave him
the keenest delight, and kindled in all their fervour his naturally
ardent affections. It was the first thing, we are told, that really
dispelled the melancholy that fell on him after the loss of his _Milly_.
It is curious and touching to note how he mingled up his reminiscences
of his first wife with this gift brought him by the second. Writing to
Madame Hensler, he says:—


  “The trial is over, but it has been a terrible trial. How Gretchen
  rejoices in the possession of her darling child after all her
  suffering, you can well imagine. Her patience was indescribable. In my
  terrible anxiety I prayed most earnestly, _and entreated my Milly,
  too, for help. I comforted Gretchen with telling her that Milly would
  send help._”


Then come plans for the education of the boy. How much does the
following brief extract suggest!—


  “I am thinking a great deal about his education. I told you a little
  while ago how I intended to teach him the ancient languages very
  early, by practice. I wish the child to believe all that is told him;
  and I now think you write in an assertion which I have formerly
  disputed, that it is better to tell children no tales, but to keep to
  the poets. But while I shall repeat and read the old poets to him in
  such a way that he will undoubtedly take the gods and heroes for
  historical beings, I shall tell him, at the same time, that the
  ancients had only an imperfect knowledge of the true God, and that
  these gods were overthrown when Christ came into the world. He shall
  believe in the letter of the Old and New Testaments, and I shall
  nurture in him from his infancy a firm faith in all that I have lost,
  or feel uncertain about.”


On the opposite page we read the following letter to the same
correspondent, Madame Hensler:—


  “I have spent yesterday and last night in thinking of my Milly, and
  this day, too, is sacred to these recollections. I saw her a few days
  ago in a dream. She seemed as if returning to me after a long
  separation. I felt uncertain, as one so often does in dreams, whether
  she was still living on this earth, or only appeared on it for a
  transient visit. She greeted me as if after a long absence, _asked
  hastily after the child, and took it in her arms_.

  “Happy are those who can cherish such a hallowing remembrance as that
  of the departure of my Milly with pious faith, trusting for a brighter
  and eternal spring. Such a faith cannot be acquired by one’s own
  efforts. Oh that it may one day be my portion!”


“My son shall have a firm faith in all that I have lost, or feel
uncertain about!” May the paternal hope, and the paternal confidence in
its own “plans of education,” be fully justified.

One thing appears evident, that a residence at Rome (at least at the
period when Niebuhr wrote) could not be very propitious to the
cultivation of faith in educated minds. What is brought before us very
vividly in these letters, and without any purposed design, is the
combination of cold, worldly formalism, not to say hypocrisy, with harsh
intolerant measures. The priesthood, with whom Niebuhr mingles, detest
fanaticism, yet act with systematic bigotry. What union can be more
repulsive than this—the cold heart and the heavy hand! A pious Chaldean,
a man of great ability, comes to Rome to get a Bible printed there in
his native language, under the censorship of the Propaganda. He applies
to Niebuhr to assist him with money; Niebuhr exerts himself in his
cause. The Chaldean is banished from Rome. His offence is not, as might
perhaps be apprehended, the wish to print the Bible; he has accepted
assistance from our Bible Society in carrying out his scheme. In sharp
contrast with bigoted conduct of this description, we have Niebuhr’s
general impression of the utter coldness of heart amongst the
ecclesiastics at Rome. They run as follows—(the R. in this extract
stands for Ringseis, a physician who had accompanied the Crown Prince of
Bavaria to Rome, and who was a zealous and pious Catholic):—


  “About the Italians you will have heard R’s. testimony, and we
  Protestants can leave it to him to paint the clergy, and the state of
  religion in this country. In fact, we are all cold and dead compared
  to his indignation. His society has been a great pleasure to us all,
  even to our reserved friend Bekker, who in general turns pale at the
  very thought of Popery, and finds me far too indulgent. With an
  enthusiast so full of heart as R. you can get on; between such a
  luxuriance of fancy and the unshackled reason, there is much such an
  analogy as subsists between science and art; whilst, on the contrary,
  the slavish subjection to the Church is ghastly death. The most
  superficial prophet of so-called enlightenment cannot have a more
  sincere aversion to enthusiasm than the Roman priesthood; and, in
  fact, their superstition bears no trace of it. Little as the admirers
  of Italy care for my words, I know that I am perfectly correct in
  saying, that even among the laity you cannot discover a vestige of
  piety.”


Meanwhile the years pass on, and the education of the little boy really
begins. Niebuhr says he succeeds in the task better than he could
venture to hope. Our readers cannot but be curious to know what was the
course of instruction the great historian pursued.


  “Marcus already knows no inconsiderable number of Latin words, and he
  understands grammar so well that I can now set him to learn parts of
  the conjunctions without their teasing him like dead matter: he
  derives many of the forms from his own feeling. I am reading with him
  selected chapters from Hygin’s _Mythologicum_—a book which perhaps it
  is not easy to use for this purpose, and which yet is more suited to
  it than any other, from the absence of formal periods, and the
  interest of the narrative. For German, I write fragments of the Greek
  mythology for him. I began with the history of the Argonauts; I have
  now got to the history of Hercules. I give everything in a very free
  and picturesque style, so that it is as exciting as poetry to him:
  and, in fact, he reads it with such delight that we are often
  interrupted by his cries of joy. The child is quite devoted to me; but
  this educating costs me a great deal of time. However, I have had my
  share of life, and I shall consider it as a reward for my labours if
  this young life be as fully and richly developed as lies within my
  power.

  “Unexpected thoughts often escape him. Two days ago he was sitting
  beside me and began, ‘Father, the ancients believed in the old gods;
  but they must have believed also in the true God. The old gods were
  just like men.’”


All this time we have said nothing of the political embassy of Niebuhr.
He was appointed ambassador to Rome to negotiate a concordat with the
Pope. But it appears that several years elapsed before he received his
instructions from his own court. We hardly know, therefore, whether to
say that the negotiations were prolonged, or that their commencement had
been delayed. Niebuhr always speaks in high terms of the Pope, (Pius
VII.,) as a man every way estimable. Between them a very friendly
feeling seems to have subsisted. There does not appear, therefore, to
have been any peculiar or vexatious delay on the part of the Holy See.
After Niebuhr had been in Rome more than four years, Count Hardenberg,
the Prussian minister, who had been attending the conference at Laybach,
made his appearance on the scene. To him, as we gather from the very
brief account before us, was attributed with some unfairness the merit
of concluding the negotiations. However this might be, the terms of this
concordat were at length agreed upon, and Niebuhr had no longer any
peculiar mission to detain him at Rome. Shortly afterwards he petitioned
for leave of absence, and returned to Germany. He never went back again
to Rome, but happily resumed the professor’s chair—this time, however,
in the University of Bonn; or rather he delivered lectures at Bonn, for
it does not appear that he was an appointed professor.

But before we leave Rome for Bonn, or diplomacy for the professorial
duties, we must glance at a little essay given us in the appendix,
written by Chevalier Bunsen, and entitled _Niebuhr as a Diplomatist in
Rome_. Bunsen was, during part of this period, secretary to the embassy,
and of course in perpetual communication with Niebuhr. The few anecdotes
he relates present us with a very distinct picture of this German Cato
amongst the modern Romans. Judging by what are popularly understood to
be the qualifications of a diplomatist, we should certainly say that our
historian was by no means peculiarly fitted for this department of the
public service. He was an unbending man, had much of the stoic in his
principles, though very little of the stoic in his affections, and was
more disposed to check or crush the hollow frivolity about him than to
yield to it, or to play with it. He could throw a whole dinner-table
into consternation, by solemnly denouncing the tone of levity which the
conversation had assumed. At the house of some prince in Rome the events
then transpiring in Greece had led Niebuhr to speak with earnestness on
the future destiny of the Christian Hellenes. On the first pause that
occurred, a fashionable diner-out contrived to turn the conversation,
and in a few moments the whole table was alive with a discussion—on this
important point, whether a certain compound sold at the Roman
coffee-houses, under the slang name of “aurora,” was mostly coffee or
mostly chocolate! Niebuhr sat silent for some time; but he, too, took
advantage of the next pause to express his indignation and surprise,
that “in such times, and with such events occurring around us, we should
be entertained with such miserable trifles!” For a short time all were
mute. Not a very diplomatic style, we should say, of conversation.

It was very characteristic of such a man, that, on the occasion of
giving a grand entertainment in his character of ambassador, he should
have the music of the Sistine Chapel performed in his house. He detested
the modern Italian operatic music. He thought it becoming his
embassadorial position that something national should be selected. He
therefore chose that celebrated music which all foreigners make it a
point of duty to go and listen to at the Sistine Chapel during Passion
Week. When the gay assemblage, after an animated conversation, repaired
for the concert to the brilliantly lighted saloon, a choir of sixteen
singers from the chapel filled the air with their solemn strains. We do
not wonder, as Chevalier Bunsen says, that “the assembly was evidently
seized with a peculiar feeling,” or that many of them stole away to
something they thought more amusing.

Even his connection with the learned men of Rome was not of long
continuance. But this was owing to no want of sympathy in their studies
or pursuits on the part of Niebuhr, as the following anecdote will
testify—(those who know Leopardi as a poet will read it with peculiar
interest):—


  “I still remember the day when he (Niebuhr) entered with unwonted
  vivacity the office in which I was writing, and exclaimed, ‘I must
  drive out directly to seek out the greatest philological genius of
  Italy that I have as yet heard of, and make his acquaintance. Just
  look at the man’s critical remarks upon the Chronicle of Eusebius.
  What acuteness! What real erudition! I have never seen anything like
  it before in this country—I must see the man.’

  “In two hours he came back. ‘I found him at last with a great deal of
  trouble, in a garret of the Palazzo Mattei. Instead of a man of mature
  age, I found a youth of two or three and twenty, deformed, weakly, and
  who has never had a good teacher, but has fed his intellect upon the
  books of his grandfather, in his father’s house at Recanati; has read
  the classics and the Fathers; is, at the same time, as I hear, one of
  the first poets and writers of his nation, and is withal poor,
  neglected, and evidently depressed. One sees in him what genius this
  richly endowed nation possesses.’ Capei has given a pleasing and true
  description of the astonishment experienced by both the great men at
  their first meeting; of the tender affection with which Niebuhr
  regarded Leopardi, and all that he did for him.”


Our diminishing space warns us that we must limit ourselves to the last
scene of the life and labours of Niebuhr. After some intervals spent at
Berlin, he took up his residence at Bonn, recommenced his lectures,
recommenced his History. Before proceeding further in his task, he found
it necessary to revise the two volumes already published. In this
revision he engaged so zealously that he almost re-wrote them. The third
volume, as is well known, was not published in his lifetime: the
manuscript was revised for the press by his friend and disciple,
Professor Classen.

This and other manuscripts ran the risk of being consumed by the flames;
for his new house, in the planning and arrangement of which he had taken
much pleasure, was burnt down on the night of the 6th February 1830. It
was indeed a misfortune, he said, but he did not feel as he felt “that
night when he was near headquarters at the battle of Bautzen, and
believed the cause of his country to be, if not lost, in the most
imminent peril.” But though much else was destroyed, the books and
papers were preserved; and there was great rejoicing when here and there
a precious treasure was found again, which had been looked on as lost;
and the reappearance of the longed-for manuscript of the second volume
of the history (then going through the press) was greeted with hearty
cheers.

The prospect of public affairs, now embroiled by the French Revolution
of 1830, seems to have disturbed him more than the loss of his house.
From the selfishness of the governing party, and the rashness of their
opponents, he was disposed to predict the saddest results—loss of
freedom, civil and religious. “In fifty years,” he says in one place,
“and probably much less, there will be no trace left of free
institutions, or the freedom of the press, throughout all Europe—at
least on the Continent.” In this enforced darkness, Protestantism would,
of course, have no chance against her great antagonist. Wherever the
spirit of mental freedom decays, the Roman Catholic must triumph. He
says, “Already, all the old evils have awakened to full activity; all
the priestcraft, all, even the most gigantic plans for conquest and
subjugation; and there is no doubt that they are secretly aiming at, and
working towards, a religious war, and all that tends to bring it on.”

The interest which Niebuhr took in the public events of Europe was
indirectly the cause of his last illness. One evening he spent a
considerable time waiting and reading in the hot news-room, without
taking off his thick fur cloak, and then returned home through the cold
frosty night air, heated in mind and body. He looked in, as he passed,
on his friend Classen, to unburden some portion of his fervid cares for
the universal commonwealth. “But,” said he, “I have taken a severe
chill, I must go to bed.” And from the couch he then sought he never
rose again.


  “On the afternoon of the 1st of January 1830,” thus concludes the
  account of his last days which we have from the pen of Professor
  Classen, “he sank into a dreamy slumber: once, on awakening, he said
  that pleasant images floated before him in sleep; now and then he
  spoke French in his dreams; probably he felt himself in the presence
  of his departed friend De Serre. As the night gathered, consciousness
  gradually faded away; he woke up once more about midnight, when the
  last remedy was administered; he recognised in it a medicine of
  doubtful operation, never resorted to but in extreme cases, and said
  in a faint voice, ‘What essential substance is this? Am I so far
  gone?’ These were his last words; he sank back on his pillow, and
  within an hour his noble heart had ceased to beat.”


Any attempt at the final estimate of Niebuhr as a historian, we have
already said we shall not make. The permanence of the structure that he
has reared must be tested by time and the labours of many scholars.
Indeed, where a reputation like this is concerned, old father Time will
be slow in his operations—he is a long while trimming the balance and
shuffling the weights—perhaps new weights are to be made. Niebuhr’s
great and salutary influence in historical literature, we repeat, is
undeniable; and this signal merit will always be accorded to him. For
his character as a man, this is better portrayed even by the few
extracts we have been able to make from his letters, than by any summary
or description we could give. But these extracts have necessarily been
brief, and are unavoidably taken, here and there, from letters which it
would have been much more desirable to quote _in extenso_, and therefore
we recommend every reader who can bestow the leisure, to read these
volumes for himself. He will find them, in the best sense of the word,
very amusing.




                             THOMAS MOORE.


The recent death of the Poet Moore has rendered it incumbent on us, as
taking an interest in the literary honour of the empire, to give a brief
sketch of his career. In this outline we scarcely need say that we shall
be guided by the most perfect impartiality. We have the due feeling for
the memory of genius, and the due respect for the sacredness of the
grave. Though differing from Moore in political opinions, we shall be
willing to give him the praise of sincerity; and, though declining
panegyric, we shall with equal willingness give our tribute to the
talents which adorned his country.

It is to be hoped that a Memoir will be supplied by some of those
friends to whose known ability such a work can be intrusted; and with as
much of his personal correspondence, and personal history, as may be
consistent with the feelings of his family and the regard for his fame.

Thomas Moore was born in Dublin on the 30th of May 1780. His parentage
was humble; but it is the glory of Britain to disregard pedigree, where
nature has given the ability which leads to distinction.

The period at which Moore first came before the public eye was one
singularly exciting to Ireland. The Civil War under James II. had left
bitterness in the Roman Catholic mind, and the Penal Laws gave ample
topics for the declaimers. But, from the commencement of the reign of
George III., those laws had undergone a course of extinction, and all
the harsher parts of their pressure were gradually abolished.

We are not the panegyrists of those laws; they erred, in making the
_religious belief_ of the Romanist an object of penalty. Faith, let it
be of whatever blindness, cannot be enlightened by force of law. But we
are to remember, that the Irish Roman Catholics had been in _arms_
against their sovereign; that they had shed English blood in the quarrel
of a religion notoriously persecuting; that they had brought foreign
troops into the country in aid of their rebellion; and that they had
formed an alliance with France, then at war with England. It was further
to be remembered, that in their Parliament under a returned rebel, who
had abdicated the throne of both islands—and whose success would have
made Ireland a vassal, as he himself was a pensioner, of France—they had
confiscated (against the most solemn promises) the property of two
hundred leading Protestants, and would have eventually confiscated the
whole property of Protestantism.

Ireland had made itself a field of battle, and the only relief for its
emergencies was to make it a _garrison_.

The wisdom of that measure was shown in its fruits—the true test of all
statesmanship: Ireland remained undisturbed for _seventy_ years. During
the party and popular irritations of the two first Brunswick reigns,
during the two Scottish invasions of 1715 and 1745, and during the
American war, Ireland was perfectly tranquil—certainly not through
loyalty, and as certainly through law. At that time there was no
favoured party of agitation—no faction suffered to clamour itself into
place, and the country into tumult. There was no relaxation of the laws
of the land for scandalous intrigue or insolent importunity. The rule
was strict, and strictly administered; no manufacture of grievance was
permitted to give a livelihood to a disturber, and no celebrity was in
the power of a demagogue, but the ascent to the pillory. Common sense,
public justice, and vigilant law, were the _triad_ which governed
Ireland, and their fruits were seen in the most rapid, vigorous, and
extensive improvement of the country. No kingdom of Europe had ever so
quickly obliterated the traces of civil war. Improvement was visible, in
every form of national progress. Ireland had previously been a country
of pasture, and, of course, of depopulation: it became a country of
tillage. It had formerly been totally destitute of commerce: it now
pushed its trade to the thriving States of America, and grew in wealth
by the hour. It was formerly compelled, by the want of native
manufactures, to purchase the clothing of its population from England:
it now established the northern province as an emporium of the linen
trade, which it still holds, and which is more than a gold mine to a
crowded population.

The increase of human life in Ireland was perhaps the most memorable in
the annals of statistics. In the beginning of the eighteenth century the
population was calculated at little more than 700,000. It now started
forth by _millions_. And the national increase of wealth, intelligence,
and public spirit, was shown in a manner equally significant and
singular. Ireland had the honour of _inventing_ (if we may use the word)
the Volunteers. The threat of a French invasion had alarmed the people,
and Parliament asked the important question of the Viceroy, What forces
were provided for the defence of the kingdom? His answer was, that he
had but 7000 men at his disposal. The nation instantly determined to
take the defence on themselves, and they raised an army such as the
world had never before seen—wholly spontaneous in its rise,
self-equipped, serving without pay, self-disciplined—80,000 men ready
for the field!

The armies of Greece and Rome, even when republican, were
_conscriptions_; the _levée en masse_ in France was compulsory, and the
guillotine was the recruiting officer; the gigantic columns of the
Imperial armies were chiefly raised under the absolute scourge. The
_land-sturm_ of the Germans was created under the rigidity of a system
which drove the whole population into the field—rightly and righteously
drove them; for what but the low selfishness of brawling and bustling
Radicalism, or the petty penury of superannuated avarice, would declare
it a hardship to defend one’s own country, or hesitate to pay the manly
and necessary expenditure which fitted them for that defence? But
Ireland, without hesitation, and without stipulation—without the pitiful
pusillanimity of a weaver’s soul and body, or the shrinking selfishness
of a pawnbroker in the shape of a legislator—rushed to arms, and scared
away invasion!

The expense of this illustrious effort was enormous, the occupation of
time incalculable—but the act was heroic. And let what will come,
whether Ireland is to have a career worthy of her natural powers, or to
perish under the ascendancy of her deadly superstition, that _act_ will
form the brightest jewel in her historic diadem, as it will the noblest
inscription on her tomb. But the whole effort implied the prosperity, as
well as the patriotism, of the kingdom. Paupers cannot equip themselves
for the field. The country must have had substantial resources to meet
the expenditure. The arming of the volunteers would have exhausted the
treasury of half the sovereigns of Europe, and yet the country bore it
freely, fearlessly, and without feeling the slightest embarrassment in
those efforts which were at the moment extending her interests through
the world.

We have alluded to this fragment of Irish history, because it
illustrates the system of fraud and falsehood under which pretended
patriotism in Ireland has libelled, and continues to libel, England—a
system which talks of peace, while it is perpetually provoking
hostility; which boasts of its zeal for the country, while it is cutting
up every root of national hope; and which is equally boastful in the
streets, and cowardly in the field.

But another crisis came, and the manliness of the national character was
to be tried in a still severer emergency. The Penal Laws were virtually
extinguished, on the presumption that Popery was reconcilable by
benefits, and that Irish patriotism was not always the language of
conspiracy. The mistake was soon discernible in a Popish League for the
subversion of the English Government. The “United Irishmen”—a name in
itself a falsehood, for the object was to crush one-half of the nation,
by establishing the tyranny of the other—were formed into a League. But
the League was broken up, not in the field, but in the dungeon, and the
insurrection was extinguished by the executioner. Wolfe Tone, the
Secretary of the United Irishmen, came over in a French ship of war, to
effect the _peaceful_ liberation of his “aggrieved country,” was
imprisoned, and cut his own throat. Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the hero of
novels, and the martyr of poetry, lurked in the capital, in the
_soldierly_ disguise of a milkwoman, was taken in his bed, wounded in
the arrest, and died of the wound. Not one of the leading conspirators
died in the field; all who were not hanged begged their lives, delivered
up their secrets for their own contemptible safety, and were transported
to America, there to recover their courage, and wipe off their shame, by
libelling England.

But among the most cruel acts of those villains was the attempt to
involve the students of the University in their crime. Their converts
were few, and those among the most obscure; but those were effectually
ruined. A visitation was held under the Lord Chancellor Clare, and the
delinquents were chiefly expelled. On this occasion Moore was
questioned. His intimacy with the family of the Emmetts, who seem all to
have been implicated in the charge, and his peculiar intercourse with
the unfortunate and guilty Robert Emmett, who, a few years after, was
hanged for open insurrection, rendered him liable to suspicion. He was
accordingly examined at that formidable tribunal. But his stature was so
undersized, his appearance so boyish, and his answers were given with
such evident simplicity, that, to suppose _him_ intrusted with the
secrets of conspiracy, still less the sharer of a sanguinary revolt,
seemed next to impossible, and he was dismissed without animadversion.
Thus the future author of so many strains on the slavery of Ireland, and
the tyranny of England, the publisher of such stores—

                  “Of fluent verse, and furious prose,
                  Sweet songster of fictitious woes”—

was “quitte pour la peur,” and sent to receive the plaudits of his
friends for his firmness, and the cautions of his own common sense with
respect to his intimacies for the future.

Moore’s want of stature was an actual misfortune to him through life,
which, though not shown with the bitterness of Byron on his lameness,
must have been a source of perpetual vexation in society. He was one of
the smallest men, perhaps, in existence, above a dwarf. Yet he was
well-proportioned; and his lively countenance, which looked the very
mirror of good-nature, aided by his manners, which had by instinct the
grace of good society, made his figure, after the first introduction,
almost forgotten. When he had established his fame, of course, none
adverted to defects of any kind, and the “little Tom Moore” of Ireland
became the Mr Moore of England, by the consent of all circles. He
possessed, also, those gifts which create popularity. The people of
Ireland have a remarkable fondness for music, and Moore was a musician
by nature. Of music he knew nothing as a science, but he felt its soul.
The heavy harmonies of Germany—in which the chief object is to show the
toil of the performer and the patience of his auditory, to press
discords into the service, and to crush the very sense of pleasure—would
not have been endured by the Irish, who, like all lovers of the genuine
art, prefer songs to musical problems, and to be bewitched rather than
be bewildered. Moore, accordingly, cultivated the finer part—its
feeling. He has been heard to say, “that if he had an original turn for
anything, it was for music;” and he certainly produced, in his earliest
career, some of the most original, tender, and tasteful melodies in
existence for the Piano, which he touched with slight, but sufficient
skill; and, sung to his own soft and sweet lines, he realised more of
the _magic_ of music than any performer whom we ever heard.

This subject, however apparently trivial, is not trifling in a Memoir of
Moore; for, independently of its being his chief introduction into
society, it was a _characteristic_ of the man. He was the originator of
a style, in which he had many imitators, but no equal; and after he
abandoned it for other means of shining, almost no follower. It was
neither Italian, nor, as we have observed, German; it had neither the
frivolity of the French school nor the wildness of the Irish; it was
exclusively his own—a mixture of the playful and the pathetic; sweet,
and yet singular; light, and yet often drawing tears. This effect, the
finest in music—for what taste would compare a Sinfonia to a song?—he
accomplished by the admirable management of a sweet voice, though but of
small compass, accompanied by a few chords of the instrument, rather
filling up the intervals of the voice than leading them: the whole
rather an exquisite recitation than a song; the singer more the
_minstrel_ than the _musician_.

This description of his early powers, however extravagant it may seem to
strangers, will be recognised as literally true by those who heard him
in Ireland, and in the budding of his talent. He was an _inventor_; his
art required the united taste of the composer and the poet, and this
accounts for its having perished with him.

But a larger field was soon to open before Moore. The Rebellion of 1798
was a death-blow to the hopes of all those sanguine speculators who
longed to become Presidents of the new republic. It drained the national
resources—it disgusted the national understanding—it made Ireland
disunited, and England at once contemptuous of Irish feeling, and
suspicious of Irish loyalty. The safety of the empire obviously rendered
it impossible to leave in its rear a nation which might throw itself, at
a moment’s notice, into the arms of France, Spain, or America—which had
actually solicited a French army, and which still carried on
transactions amounting to treason at home, and alliance abroad. Thus,
the _regenerators_ of Ireland, instead of raising her to a republic,
sank her into a province. Even the dream of national independence was at
an end; her Parliament was extinguished, and the only reality was the
UNION.

Still, though the national pride was deeply hurt by the measure, the
graver judgment of the nation acquiesced in the extinction of the
Legislature. This was the fruit of those concessions which had been made
by the ignorance of Government, and demanded by the intrigues of the
Opposition. From the period of lowering the franchise to the Roman
Catholic forty-shilling freeholder, the votes of the Romish peasantry
became to the Government a terror, to the Opposition a snare, and to
both, the sources of a new policy. In a few sessions more, the
Parliament must have become almost totally _Papist_. Thus, after much
declamation in the clubs, and much murmuring in the streets—after
threats of declaring the mover of the measure “an enemy to his
country”—and after a duel between the celebrated Grattan, the head of
the Opposition, and Corry, the Chancellor of the Irish Exchequer, the
diadem was taken off the head of Ireland, and quietly lodged in
Whitehall. England thenceforth became the field of Irish ambition, and
the mart of Irish ability.

Moore came to London apparently for the purpose of commencing his
studies as a barrister. Whether his volatile and fanciful spirit would
have relished the details of a profession demanding so much labour in
its rudiments, and so much perseverance in its pursuit, is now not worth
a question, for he probably never opened a book of law; but he had
brought with him a book of a more congenial kind; a translation of
_Anacreon_, to be published by subscription, and dedicated “by
permission” to the Prince of Wales, (George IV.,)—an honour obtained,
like all his early popularity, through his musical accomplishments.

Moore was not a scholar, in the sense of a Markland or a Bentley; but he
had the best part of scholarship, the spirit of his author. The elegance
of this versification of the old Greek lover of “smiles and wine” was
universally acknowledged. All former translations of _Anacreon_ were
poor and pedantic, to the richness and grace of the volume then offered
to the public eye.

Whether the original was the work of Ionia or Athens; whether one-half
of the Odes were not _imitations_ in later Greek, with Gregory Nazianzen
and a dozen others for their authors; whether Polycrates or Hipparchus
was their patron—in short, the questions which still perplex Oxford, and
break the rest of Cambridge—which drive both into the logomachies of
Teutonic criticism, and waste English pens and patience on the imported
drudgeries of the Leipsic press—were matters which gave the translator
but slight trouble. Nature had created him for the translation—the
praises of wine and beauty, of flowers and sunshine, were a language of
his own; they formed his style through the greater part of his life; and
Cupid and Bacchus never had a laureate more devoted, and more
successful.

After lingering for some years in London, fêted by the great and
followed by the little, Moore was appointed to an office in the West
Indies. Thus was harshly hazarded the life of a man of genius; and the
talent which was destined to distinguish his country was sent to take
its chance of the yellow fever. The guest of princes and the favourite
of fashion must have felt many a pang at finding himself consigned to
Bermuda. The poetic romance of the “still vext Bermoothes” was probably
insufficient to console him for the pavilion at Brighton, and the
soirees of Portman Square. But necessity must not deliberate—the _res
angusta domi_ was imperative—and the bard submitted to banishment with
the grace and gaiety that never forsook him. The appointment was
unfortunate. Connected with the public revenue, it had been transacted
by deputy; and Moore, on his arrival, found himself answerable for the
chasms in the official chest. No one charged _him_ with those chasms.
But, as the lawyers hold, “the Crown makes no bad debts,” the unlucky
poet was responsible in a sum which would have mortgaged all Parnassus,
and made the Nine insolvent. The appointment was finally resigned, and
Moore, _solutus negotiis_, shook off the dust of his feet against the
gates of the West Indies.

Taking advantage of his proximity to America, he now resolved to visit
the great Republic, Canada, and the wonder of the Transatlantic world,
Niagara!

America was made by Moore the subject of some spirited poetry; but it
had another effect, less expected, yet equally natural—it cured him of
Republicanism. The lofty superstitions which haunt the sepulchres of
Greece and Rome, the angry ambition which stimulated the Irish patriot
into revolt, or that fantasy of righting the wrongs of all mankind,
which put live coals into the hands of the Frenchman to heap on the
altar of imaginary freedom, were all extinguished by the hard reality
before his eyes. He found the Americans, as all have found them,
vigorous, active, and persevering in their own objects; men of canals,
corduroy roads, and gigantic warehouses; sturdy reclaimers of the swamp
and the forest; bold backwoodsmen, and shrewd citizens, as they ought to
be; but neither poets nor painters, nor touched with the tendernesses of
romance, nor penetrating the profound of philosophy. Even their
patriotism startled the mourner over the sufferings of the _Isle of
Saints_; and the _Ledger_, more honoured than the _Legend_, offended all
his reveries of a

                  “Paradise beyond the main,
                  Unknown to lucre, lash, and chain.”

Even the habits of Republicanism were found too primitive to be
pleasing. He had the honour of an interview with Jefferson, then
president; and this “four years’ monarch” received him in his nightgown
and slippers, and stretched at his length on a sofa. Moore recoiled at
this display of _nonchalance_, and would have been perfectly justified
in turning on his heel, and leaving this vulgarism to the indulgence of
“showing a Britisher” the manners of a “free and intelligent citizen.”
This rough specimen of freedom disgusted him, as well it might; and
though Republicanism in rhyme might still amuse his fancy, he evidently
shrank from the reality ever after.

Canada increased his poetical sketches. He wrote some spirited Odes on
its stern landscape, and some bitter lines on the United States, in
revenge for its extinction of his dreams. But, with America, he left all
revolution behind him, and never more cast a “longing, lingering look”
on the subversion of thrones.

On his return to Europe, he found it necessary to consider into what new
path he was to turn. He had long left the hope of shining on the bench;
office was now closed upon him; authorship was his only resource; and to
authorship he turned with all the quickness of his nature, sharpened by
the Roman’s

                       “MAGISTER ARTIS, VENTER.”

The exertion became more important to him, from his having made a
disinterested match; and, in the spirit of a poet, been contented to
take beauty as the marriage portion. He now retired into the country,
and prepared for a life of vigorous authorship. In this choice, he
evidently consulted his immediate circumstances more than the natural
direction of his mind. Such a man was made for cities; all his habits
were social, and he must have languished for society. The cooing of
doves and the songs of nightingales were not the music to accompany such
verses as these—

                “Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour,
                When pleasure, like the midnight flower,
                That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
                Begins to bloom for sons of night,
                    And maids who love the moon.”

We can imagine the look of melancholy with which, after having finished
his stanzas, Moore gave a moonlight glance to the woods and wilds, as he
stood at his cottage door, and thought of the lively scenes at that
moment glittering in London. Solitude may be the place of the
philosopher, and universities the stronghold of science; but, for the
knowledge of life, the play of character, the vigour of manly
competitorship, and even the variety of views, events, and character,
which make the true materials of the poetic faculty, association with
our kind is indispensable. The poet in retirement either becomes the
worship of a circle of women, who pamper him with panegyric, until he
degenerates into silliness; or, living alone, becomes the worse thing—a
worshipper of himself. Like a garrison cut off from its supplies, he
lives on short allowance of ideas; like a hermit, thinks his rags
sanctity, and his nonsense Oracles; or, like Robinson Crusoe, imagines
his geese conversible, and his island an empire.

It is true, that Moore suffered less from this famine of poetic food
than most of his race. His buoyancy of spirit never lost sight wholly of
London, and his annual visit to the concerts and conversations of
Berkeley Square, and other scenes of high life, refreshed his
recollections. But when he tells us that _Lalla Rookh_ was written “amid
the snows of two or three Derbyshire winters,” and, in a phraseology
which seems like apologising to himself for this exile, talks of his
“being enabled by that _concentration_ of thought, which _retirement
alone_ can give, to call up around him some of the sunniest of his
Eastern scenes,” the very toil and turgidity of the language show us
that he felt himself in the _wrong_ place. In fact, now that naked
necks, turned-down shirt-collars, and dishevelled hair, no longer make
poets _à la_ Byron—when even the white waistcoats of Young England are
no longer proof of chivalry—we wish to save the innocent hearts and
fantastic heads of the rising generation from the experiment which Don
Quixote performed so little to the satisfaction of Sancho Panza in the
desert. We never heard of a great poet living a hundred miles from a
metropolis. Contiguity to the world of men and women was essential. All
the leaders of the tribe lived as near London as they could. Cowley
lived within a walk, Pope within a drive, Milton within sight, of the
walls—Shakspeare saw London Bridge every day of his life—Dryden lived in
the Grecian Coffeehouse—Byron, with his own goodwill, never would have
stirred out of Bond Street; and when the newspapers and Doctors’ Commons
at length drove him abroad, he nestled down in Venice, instead of
singing among the slopes of the Apennines, or acting distraction among
the pinnacles of the Alps. It is even not improbable that the last few
and melancholy years of Moore’s life owed some of their depression to
the weariness of this unnatural solitude.

On his return from America in 1803, we lose sight of him for a while. He
was then probably harassed by government transactions connected with his
luckless appointment; but in 1805 he gave unhappy evidence of his
revival by the publication of _Poems by Mr Thomas Little_.

We have no desire to speak of this work. Perhaps “his poverty, but not
his will,” was in fault. He made some kind of apology at the time, by
attributing the performance “to an imagination which had become the
slave of the passions;” and subsequently he made the better apology of
excluding it from his collected volumes. Yet, in this work, he did less
harm to society than injustice to himself. The graver classes, of
course, repelled it at once; the fashionable world took but little
notice of a book which could not be laid in their drawing-rooms; and the
profligate could be but little excited by its babyisms, for Moore’s
amatory poems were always babyish. They wanted, in a remarkable degree,
the fervency of passion. They prattled rather than felt: they babbled of
lips and eyes like an impudent child; their Cupid was always an Urchin,
and the urchin was always in the nursery. His verses of this school were
flowing, but they never rose above prettiness; they never exhibited love
in its living reality—in its seriousness and power—its madness of the
brain, and absorption of the soul—its overwhelming raptures, and its
terrible despair. There is a deeper sense of the truth and nature of
_passion_ in a single ballad of Burns than in all the amatory poems that
Moore ever wrote.

The injustice to himself consisted in his thus leaving it in the hands
of every stranger, to connect the life of the man with the
licentiousness of the author. Yet we have never heard that his life was
other than decorous; his conversation certainly never offended general
society—his manners were polished—and we believe that his mind was at
all times innocent of evil intention. Still, these poems threw a long
shade on the gentle lustre of his fame.

He now fell under the lash of the _Edinburgh Review_, never more
sternly, and seldom so justly, exercised. Moore indignantly sent a
message to the editor. Jeffrey, refusing to give up the name of the
Zoilus in disguise, accepted the message, and the parties met.
Fortunately some friend, with more sense than either, sent also _his_
message, but it was to the Bow Street magistrates, and the belligerents
were captured on the field. In conveying the instruments of war to Bow
Street, the bullets had fallen out; and this circumstance was, of
course, too comic to be forgotten by the wits. The press shot forth its
epigrams, the point of which was the harmlessness of the hostilities. It
was observed—

                  “That the pistols were leadless
                    Is no sort of news,
                  For _blank_-cartridge should always
                    Be fired at _Reviews_.”

We transcribe but another squib.

           “A Scotchman and Irishman went out to fight,
           Both equal in fierceness, both equal in fright;
           Not a pin, ’twixt the heroes, in valour to choose,
           The son of the _Scissors_, and son of the Muse.”

The whole affair was an illustration of the barbaric absurdity of
duelling. Lord Brougham was subsequently supposed to be the layer on of
the critical lash. If Jeffrey had given him up, Moore would have shot
him if he could; and if Brougham had survived, he would have shot
Jeffrey. Thus, two of the cleverest men of their day might have been
victims to the bastard chivalry of the nineteenth century. How Moore
himself would have fared in the fray, no one can tell; but being as
honourably savage as any of his countrymen, and as untameable as a
tiger-cat, he would certainly have shot somebody, or got pistolled
himself.

His next work was an opera. This attempt did not encourage him in trial
of the stage. It had but a brief existence. Moore, though lively, was
not a wit; and though inventive, was not dramatic. The inimitable
“Duenna” of the inimitable Sheridan has expelled all Opera from the
English stage, by extinguishing all rivalry.

But a broader opportunity now spread before him. A musical collector in
Ireland had compiled a volume of the Native melodies, which, though
generally rude in science, and always accompanied by the most aboriginal
versification, attracted some publicity. Moore, in his happiest hour,
glanced over these songs, and closed with the proposal of a publisher in
Ireland to write the poetry, and bring the melodies themselves into a
_civilised_ form. The latter object he effected by the assistance of
Stevenson, an accomplished musician, and even a popular composer: the
former might be safely intrusted to himself.

It is to be remembered (though Ireland may be wroth to the bottom of its
sensibilities) that its most remote musical pedigree falls within the
last century; that all beyond is shared with Scotland; and that the
harmonies which Ossian shook from his harp, and which rang in the
palaces of Fingal, and the nursing of Romulus and Remus, have equal
claims to authenticity. Beyond the last century, the claims of Ireland
to music were disputed by Scotland; and there was a species of
partnership in their popular airs. But the true musician of Ireland was
Carolan, a blind man who wandered about the houses of the country
gentlemen, like Scott’s minstrel, except that his patriotism was less
prominent than his love of eating and drinking. He thought more of pay
than of Party, and limited his Muse to her proper subjects—Love and
Wine. But he was a musician by nature, and therefore worth ten thousand
by art; and the finest melodies in Moore’s portfolio were the product of
a mind which had no master, and no impulse but its genius.

Time had not weaned Moore from the absurdity of imagining that every
rebel must be a hero, or that men who universally begged their lives, or
died by the rope, were the true regenerators of the country. His early
connection with the Emmett family had been distressingly renewed by the
execution of Robert Emmett, justly punished for a combination of folly
and wickedness, perhaps without example in the narratives of impotent
convulsion. Emmett was a barrister, struggling through the first
difficulties of his difficult profession, when somebody left him a
luckless legacy of five hundred pounds. He laid it all out in powder and
placards, and resolved to “make a Rebellion.” Without any one man of
note to join him, without even any one patron or member of faction to
give the slightest assistance, without any one hope but in _miracle_, he
undertook to overthrow the Government, to crush the army, to extinguish
the Constitution, to remodel the Aristocracy, to scourge the Church, to
abolish the throne, and, having achieved these easy matters, to place Mr
Robert Emmett on the summit of Irish empire.

Accordingly, he purchased a green coat with a pair of gold epaulettes;
rushed from a hovel in a back street, at the head of about fifty
vagabonds with pikes; was met and beaten by a party of yeomanry going to
parade; ran away with his _army_; hid himself in the vicinity of Dublin
for a few days; was hunted out, and was tried and hanged. Those are the
actual features of the transaction, where poetry has done its utmost to
blazon the revolt, and partisanship has lavished its whole budget of
lies on the heroism of the revolter; those _are_ the facts, and the only
facts, of Mr Robert Emmett’s revolution.

Moore made his full advantage of the disturbances of the time; and it
must be allowed that they wonderfully improved his poetry. Their strong
reality gave it a strength which it never possessed before, and the
imaginary poutings of boys and girls were vividly exchanged for the
imaginary grievances of men. What can be more animated than these
lines:—

               “Oh, for the swords of former time!
                 Oh, for the men who bore them!
               When, armed for Right, they stood sublime,
                 And tyrants crouched before them.
               When, pure yet, ere courts began
                 With honours to enslave him,
               The best honours worn by man,
                 Were those which virtue gave him.
                           Oh, for the swords, &c.”

Or this—


                                LAMENT.

             “Forget not the field where they perished,
               The truest, the last of the brave!
             All gone, and the bright hope we cherished
               Gone with them, and quenched in their grave.
             Oh, could we from Death but recover
               Those hearts as they bounded before,
             In the face of high heaven to fight over
               This combat for freedom once more.”

The phrase used in the speeches of the late “Agitator,” till it grew
ridiculous by the repetition, will be found in the following fine
lines:—

       “Remember thee! yes, while there’s life in this heart,
       It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art,
       More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy showers,
       Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

       Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
       _First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea_,
       I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
       But, oh, could I love thee more deeply than now?

       No! thy chains, as they rankle, thy blood, as it runs,
       But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons,
       Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest,
       Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.”

It would be _cruel_ to ask for the evidence of all this tyranny—a link
of the chains that rankle on the limbs of Ireland, or a drop of the
blood that so perpetually oozes from her wounds. But poetry is
privileged to be as “unhappy” as it pleases—to weep over sorrows unfelt
by the world—and to fabricate wrongs, only to have the triumph of
sweeping them away. We would tolerate half the harangues of the Irish
disturbers for one poet like Moore.

Some of the most finished of those verses were devoted to the memory of
Emmett, and they could not have been devoted to a subject more unworthy
of his poetry. In Ireland, for the last five hundred years, every fault,
folly, and failure of the nation is laid to the charge of England. The
man who _invents_ a “grievance” is sure to be popular; but if he is to
achieve the supreme triumph of popularity, he must fasten his grievance
on the back of England; and if he pushes his charge into practice, and
is ultimately banished or hanged, he is canonised in the popular
calendar of patriotism. This absurdity, equally unaccountable and
incurable, actually places Emmett in the rank of the Wallaces and
Kosciuskos;—thus degrading men of conduct and courage, encountering
great hazards for great principles, with a selfish simpleton, a trifler
with conspiracy, and a runaway from the first sight of the danger which
he himself had created. Moore’s hero was a feeble romancer; his national
regenerator a street rioter; and his patriotic statesman merely a giddy
gambler, who staked his pittance on a silly and solitary throw for
supremacy, and saw his stake swept away by the policeman! Totally
foolish as Ireland has ever been in her politics, she ought to be most
ashamed of this display before the world—of inaugurating this
stripling-revolutionist, this fugitive champion, this milk-and-water
Jacobin, among her claims to the homage of posterity. Yet this was the
personage on whose death Moore wrote these touching lines:—

       “O breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
       Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid;
       Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
       As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head.
       But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
       Still brightens with verdure the grave where he sleeps,
       And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
       Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.”

On the death of the celebrated Richard Brinsley Sheridan, some of his
Notes and Manuscripts were put into Moore’s hands, and the alliance
constituted by the Whiggism of both was presumed to insure a
satisfactory tribute to the remembrance of perhaps the most gifted man
of the age. But their Whiggism was different; Sheridan’s was party, and
Moore’s was prejudice. Sheridan had put on and off his Whiggism, with
the grave affectation, or the sarcastic ease, of one who knew its
worthlessness; Moore adopted it with the simplicity of ignorance, and
the blind passion of the native character. The result was, a biography
that pleased no one. Those whom Sheridan had lashed in the House of
Commons, thought that it was too laudatory; while his admirers charged
it with injustice. However, to those who cared nothing for the
partisanship of either, the volume was amusing, occasionally eloquent,
though less anecdotical than was to be expected from a career almost
_one anecdote_ from the beginning. On the whole, it sustained Moore’s
reputation.

His _Life of Byron_, at a later period, had an increased popularity. The
subject was singularly difficult; Byron had provoked a quarrel with the
world, and was proud of the provocation. He had led a career of private
petulance, which was deeply offensive to individuals, and he disclaimed
all respect for those higher decorums which society demands. The power
of his verse had thrown a shield over the living poet, but a severe
tribunal apparently awaited the dead. Moore accomplished his task with
dexterity, judicious selection, and still more judicious suppression,
were exercised; and he was enabled to produce a performance at once
faithful to the fame of the dead, and free from insult to the living.

A more reluctant glance must be given to Moore’s political writings. In
this unhappy digression from the natural pursuits of a poet, Moore
showed all the _monomania_ of the Irish Papist. England is now familiar
with the singular contradiction of fact to phrase, which exists in all
the partisanship of Ireland. The first principle of the modern orator in
Ireland is a reckless defiance of the common sense of mankind; facts fly
before him, and truths are trampled under his heel. In the most insolent
challenges to the law, he complains that he is tongue-tied; in the most
extravagant license of libel, he complains of oppression; and in the
most daring outrage against authority, he complains that he is a
_slave_! Summoning public meetings for the purpose of extinguishing the
Government, and summoning them with _impunity_, he pronounces the
Government to be a tyrant, and the land a dungeon. The reader who would
conceive the condition of Ireland from its Papist speakers must think
that he is listening to the annals of Norfolk Island, or the mysteries
of a French _oubliette_. Moore’s politics shared the _monomania_ of his
Popish countrymen.

But he suddenly turned to more congenial objects, and produced his
popular poem of _Lalla Rookh_. The scenery of India gave full
opportunity to the luxuriance of his style; the wildness of Indian
adventure, and the novelty of Indian romance, excited public curiosity,
and the volume found its way into every drawing-room, and finally rested
in every library. But there its course ended; the glitter which at first
dazzled, at length exhausted, the public eye. We might as well look with
unwearied delight on a piece of tissue, and be satisfied with vividness
of colour, in place of vividness of form. Moore’s future fame will
depend on his _National Melodies_.

He received large sums for some of his volumes; but what are occasional
successes, when their products must be expanded over a life! He always
expressed himself as in narrow circumstances, and his retired mode of
living seemed to justify the expression. Towards the close of his days,
his friend the Marquis of Lansdowne obtained for him a pension of £300
a-year. But he had not long enjoyed this important accession to his
income before his faculties began to fail. His memory was the first to
give way; he lingered, in increasing decay, for about two years, till on
the 26th of February he died, at the age of nearly 72.

His funeral took place in a neighbouring churchyard, where one of his
daughters was buried. It was so strictly and so unnecessarily private
that but two or three persons attended, of the many who, we believe,
would have willingly paid the last respect to his remains.

Thus has passed away a great poet from the world—a man whose manners
added grace to every circle in which he moved—animation to the gay, and
sentiment to the refined. If England holds his remains, Ireland is the
heir of his fame; and if she has a sense of gratitude, she will give
some public testimonial of her homage to the genius which has given
another ray to the lustre of her name.




                MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.


                         BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.


                       BOOK XI.—INITIAL CHAPTER.

It is not an uncommon crotchet amongst benevolent men to maintain that
wickedness is necessarily a sort of insanity, and that nobody would make
a violent start out of the straight path unless stung to such disorder
by a bee in his bonnet. Certainly, when some very clever, well-educated
person, like our friend, Randal Leslie, acts upon the fallacious
principle that “roguery is the best policy,” it is curious to see how
many points he has in common with the insane: what over-cunning—what
irritable restlessness—what suspicious belief that the rest of the world
are in a conspiracy against him, which it requires all his wit to baffle
and turn to his own proper aggrandisement and profit. Perhaps some of my
readers may have thought that I have represented Randal as unnaturally
far-fetched in his schemes, too wire-drawn and subtle in his
speculations; yet that is commonly the case with very refining
intellects, when they choose to play the knave;—it helps to disguise
from themselves the ugliness of their ambition, just as a philosopher
delights in the ingenuity of some metaphysical process, which ends in
what plain men call “atheism,” who would be infinitely shocked and
offended if he were entitled an atheist. As I have somewhere said or
implied before, it is difficult for us dull folks to conceive the glee
which a wily brain takes in the exercise of its own ingenuity.

Having premised thus much on behalf of the “Natural” in Randal Leslie’s
character, I must here fly off to say a word or two on the agency in
human life exercised by a passion rarely seen without a mask in our
debonnair and civilised age—I mean Hate.

In the good old days of our forefathers, when plain speaking and hard
blows were in fashion—when a man had his heart at the tip of his tongue,
and four feet of sharp iron dangling at his side, Hate played an honest,
open part in the theatre of the world. In fact, when we read history, it
seems to have “starred it” on the stage. But now, where is Hate?—who
ever sees its face? Is it that smiling, good-tempered creature, that
presses you by the hand so cordially? or that dignified figure of state
that calls you its “right honourable friend?” Is it that bowing,
grateful dependant?—is it that soft-eyed Amaryllis? Ask not, guess not;
you will only know it to be Hate when the poison is in your cup, or the
poniard in your breast. In the Gothic age, grim Humour painted “the
Dance of Death;” in our polished century, some sardonic wit should give
us “the Masquerade of Hate.”

Certainly, the counter-passion betrays itself with ease to our gaze.
Love is rarely a hypocrite. But Hate—how detect, and how guard against
it? It lurks where you least suspect it; it is created by causes that
you can the least foresee; and Civilisation multiplies its varieties,
whilst it favours its disguise: for Civilisation increases the number of
contending interests, and Refinement renders more susceptible to the
least irritation the cuticle of Self-Love. But Hate comes covertly forth
from some self-interest we have crossed, or some self-love we have
wounded; and, dullards that we are, how seldom we are aware of our
offence! You may be hated by a man you have never seen in your life; you
may be hated as often by one you have loaded with benefits;—you may so
walk as not to tread on a worm; but you must sit fast on your easy-chair
till you are carried out to your bier, if you would be sure not to tread
on some snake of a foe. But, then, what harm does the Hate do us? Very
often the harm is as unseen by the world as the hate is unrecognised by
us. It may come on us, unawares, in some solitary byway of our life;
strike us in our unsuspecting privacy; thwart us in some blessed hope we
have never told to another: for the moment the world sees that it is
Hate that strikes us, its worst power of mischief is gone.

We have a great many names for the same passion—Envy, Jealousy, Spite,
Prejudice, Rivalry; but they are so many synonyms for the one old
heathen demon. When the death-giving shaft of Apollo sent the plague to
some unhappy Achæan, it did not much matter to the victim whether the
god were called Helios or Smintheus.

No man you ever met in the world seemed more raised above the malice of
Hate than Audley Egerton: even in the hot war of politics he had
scarcely a personal foe; and in private life he kept himself so aloof
and apart from others that he was little known, save by the benefits the
waste of his wealth conferred. That the hate of any one could reach the
austere statesman on his high pinnacle of esteem,—you would have smiled
at the idea! But Hate is now, as it ever has been, an actual Power
amidst “the Varieties of Life;” and, in spite of bars to the door, and
policemen in the street, no one can be said to sleep in safety while
there wakes the eye of a single foe.


                              CHAPTER II.

The glory of Bond Street is no more. The title of Bond Street Lounger
has faded from our lips. In vain the crowd of equipages and the blaze of
shops: the renown of Bond Street was in its pavement—its pedestrians.
Art thou old enough, O reader! to remember the Bond Street Lounger and
his incomparable generation? For my part, I can just recall the decline
of the grand era. It was on its wane when, in the ambition of boyhood, I
first began to muse upon high neckcloths and Wellington boots. But the
ancient _habitués_—the _magni nominis umbræ_—contemporaries of Brummell
in his zenith—boon companions of George IV. in his regency—still haunted
the spot. From four to six in the hot month of June, they sauntered
stately to and fro, looking somewhat mournful even then—foreboding the
extinction of their race. The Bond Street Lounger was rarely seen alone:
he was a social animal, and walked arm in arm with his fellow-man. He
did not seem born for the cares of these ruder times; not made was he
for an age in which Finsbury returns members to Parliament. He loved his
small talk; and never since then has talk been so pleasingly small. Your
true Bond Street Lounger had a very dissipated look. His youth had been
spent with heroes who loved their bottle. He himself had perhaps supped
with Sheridan. He was by nature a spendthrift: you saw it in the roll of
his walk. Men who make money rarely saunter; men who save money rarely
swagger. But saunter and swagger both united to stamp PRODIGAL on the
Bond Street Lounger. And so familiar as he was with his own set, and so
amusingly supercilious with the vulgar residue of mortals whose faces
were strange to Bond Street. But He is gone. The world, though sadder
for his loss, still strives to do its best without him; and our young
men, now-a-days, attend to model cottages, and incline to
Tractarianism—I mean those young men who are quiet and harmless, as a
Bond Street Lounger was of old—_redeant Saturnia regna_. Still the
place, to an unreflecting eye, has its brilliancy and bustle. But it is
a thoroughfare, not a lounge. And adown the thoroughfare, somewhat
before the hour when the throng is thickest, passed two gentlemen of an
appearance exceedingly out of keeping with the place. Yet both had the
air of men pretending to aristocracy—an old-world air of respectability
and stake in the country, and Church-and-Stateism. The burlier of the
two was even rather a beau in his way. He had first learned to dress,
indeed, when Bond Street was at its acmé, and Brummell in his pride. He
still retained in his garb the fashion of his youth; only what then had
spoken of the town, now betrayed the life of the country. His neckcloth
ample and high, and of snowy whiteness, set off to comely advantage a
face smooth-shaven, and of clear, florid hues; his coat of royal blue,
with buttons in which you might have seen yourself _veluti in speculum_,
was, rather jauntily, buttoned across a waist that spoke of lusty middle
age, free from the ambition, the avarice, and the anxieties that fret
Londoners into thread-papers; his smallclothes of greyish drab, loose at
the thigh and tight at the knee, were made by Brummell’s own
breeches-maker, and the gaiters to match (thrust half-way down the calf)
had a manly dandyism that would have done honour to the beau-ideal of a
county member. The profession of this gentleman’s companion was
unmistakable—the shovel-hat, the clerical cut of the coat, the neckcloth
without collar, that seemed made for its accessory—the band, and
something very decorous, yet very mild, in the whole mien of this
personage, all spoke of one who was every inch the gentleman and the
parson.

“No,” said the portlier of these two persons—“no, I can’t say I like
Frank’s looks at all. There’s certainly something on his mind. However,
I suppose it will be all out this evening.”

“He dines with you at your hotel, Squire? Well, you must be kind to him.
We can’t put old heads upon young shoulders.”

“I don’t object to his head being young,” returned the Squire; “but I
wish he had a little of Randal Leslie’s good sense in it. I see how it
will end: I must take him back into the country; and if he wants
occupation, why, he shall keep the hounds, and I’ll put him into
Brooksby farm.”

“As for the hounds,” replied the Parson, “hounds necessitate horses; and
I think more mischief comes to a young man of spirit, from the stables,
than from any other place in the world. They ought to be exposed from
the pulpit, those stables!” added Mr Dale thoughtfully; “see what they
entailed upon Nimrod! But agriculture is a healthful and noble pursuit,
honoured by sacred nations, and cherished by the greatest men in
classical times. For instance, the Athenians were—”

“Bother the Athenians!” cried the Squire irreverently; “you need not go
so far back for an example. It is enough for a Hazeldean that his father
and his grandfather and his great-grandfather all farmed before him; and
a devilish deal better, I take it, than any of those musty old
Athenians—no offence to them. But I’ll tell you one thing, Parson—a man,
to farm well, and live in the country, should have a wife; it is half
the battle.”

“As to a battle, a man who is married is pretty sure of half, though not
always the better half, of it,” answered the Parson, who seemed
peculiarly facetious that day. “Ah, Squire, I wish I could think Mrs
Hazeldean right in her conjecture!—you would have the prettiest
daughter-in-law in the three kingdoms. And I think, if I could have a
good talk with the young lady apart from her father, we could remove the
only objection I know to the marriage. Those Popish errors—”

“Ah, very true!” cried the Squire; “that Pope sticks hard in my gizzard.
I could excuse her being a foreigner, and not having, I suppose, a
shilling in her pocket—bless her handsome face!—but to be worshipping
images in her room instead of going to the parish church, that will
never do. But you think you could talk her out of the Pope, and into the
family pew?”

“Why, I could have talked her father out of the Pope, only, when he had
not a word to say for himself, he bolted out of the window. Youth is
more ingenuous in confessing its errors.”

“I own,” said the Squire, “that both Harry and I had a favourite notion
of ours, till this Italian girl got into our heads. Do you know we both
took a great fancy to Randal’s little sister—pretty, blushing,
English-faced girl as ever you saw. And it went to Harry’s good heart to
see her so neglected by that silly, fidgetty mother of hers, her hair
hanging about her ears; and I thought it would be a fine way to bring
Randal and Frank more together, and enable me to do something for Randal
himself—a good boy, with Hazeldean blood in his veins. But Violante is
so handsome, that I don’t wonder at the boy’s choice; and then it is our
fault—we let them see so much of each other, as children. However, I
should be very angry if Rickeybockey had been playing sly, and running
away from the Casino in order to give Frank an opportunity to carry on a
clandestine intercourse with his daughter.”

“I don’t think that would be like Riccabocca; more like him to run away
in order to deprive Frank of the best of all occasions to court
Violante, if he so desired; for where could he see more of her than at
the Casino?”

SQUIRE.—“That’s well put. Considering he was only a foreign doctor, and,
for aught we know, went about in a caravan, he is a gentlemanlike
fellow, that Rickeybockey. I speak of people as I find them. But what is
your notion about Frank? I see you don’t think he is in love with
Violante, after all. Out with it, man; speak plain.”

PARSON.—“Since you so urge me, I own I do not think him in love with
her; neither does my Carry, who is uncommonly shrewd in such matters.”

SQUIRE.—“Your Carry, indeed!—as if she were half as shrewd as my Harry.
Carry—nonsense!”

PARSON, (reddening.)—“I don’t want to make invidious remarks; but, Mr
Hazeldean, when you sneer at my Carry, I should not be a man if I did
not say that—”

SQUIRE, (interrupting.)—“She was a good little woman enough; but to
compare her to my Harry!”

PARSON.—“I don’t compare her to your Harry; I don’t compare her to any
woman in England, sir. But you are losing your temper, Mr Hazeldean!”

SQUIRE.—“I!”

PARSON.—“And people are staring at you, Mr Hazeldean. For decency’s
sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. We are just at the
Albany. I hope that we shall not find poor Captain Higginbotham as ill
as he represents himself in his letter. Ah! is it possible? No, it
cannot be. Look—look!”

SQUIRE.—“Where—what—where? Don’t pinch so hard. Bless me, do you see a
ghost?”

PARSON.—“There—the gentleman in black!”

SQUIRE.—“Gentleman in black! What!—in broad daylight! Nonsense!”

Here the Parson made a spring forward, and, catching the arm of the
person in question, who himself had stopped, and was gazing intently on
the pair, exclaimed—

“Sir, pardon me; but is not your name Fairfield? Ah, it is Leonard—it
is—my dear, dear boy! What joy! So altered, so improved, but still the
same honest face. Squire, come here—your old friend, Leonard Fairfield.”

“And he wanted to persuade me,” said the Squire, shaking Leonard
heartily by the hand, “that you were the gentleman in black; but,
indeed, he has been in strange humours and tantrums all the morning.
Well, Master Lenny; why, you are grown quite a gentleman! The world
thrives with you—eh! I suppose you are head-gardener to some grandee.”

“Not that, sir,” said Leonard smiling. “But the world has thriven with
me at last, though not without some rough usage at starting. Ah, Mr
Dale, you can little guess how often I have thought of you and your
discourse on Knowledge; and, what is more, how I have lived to feel the
truth of your words, and to bless the lesson.”

PARSON, (much touched and flattered.)—“I expected nothing less of you,
Leonard; you were always a lad of great sense, and sound judgment. So
you have thought of my little discourse on Knowledge, have you?”

SQUIRE.—“Hang knowledge! I have reason to hate the word. It burned down
three ricks of mine; the finest ricks you ever set eyes on, Mr
Fairfield.”

PARSON.—“That was not knowledge, Squire; that was ignorance.”

SQUIRE.—“Ignorance! The deuce it was. I’ll just appeal to you, Mr
Fairfield. We have been having sad riots in the shire, and the
ringleader was just such another lad as you were!”

LEONARD.—“I am very much obliged to you, Mr Hazeldean. In what respect?”

SQUIRE.—“Why, he was a village genius, and always reading some cursed
little tract or other; and got mighty discontented with King, Lords, and
Commons, I suppose, and went about talking of the wrongs of the poor,
and the crimes of the rich, till, by Jove, sir, the whole mob rose one
day with pitchforks and sickles, and smash went Farmer Smart’s
thrashing-machines; and on the same night my ricks were on fire. We
caught the rogues, and they were all tried; but the poor deluded
labourers were let off with a short imprisonment. The village genius,
thank heaven, is sent packing to Botany Bay.”

LEONARD.—“But, did his books teach him to burn ricks, and smash
machines?”

PARSON.—“No; he said quite the contrary, and declared that he had no
hand in those misdoings.”

SQUIRE.—“But he was proved to have excited, with his wild talk, the
boobies who had! ’Gad, sir, there was a hypocritical Quaker once, who
said to his enemy, ‘I can’t shed thy blood, friend, but I will hold thy
head under water till thou art drowned.’ And so there is a set of
demagogical fellows, who keep calling out, ‘Farmer This is an oppressor,
and Squire That is a vampire! But no violence! Don’t smash their
machines, don’t burn their ricks! Moral force, and a curse on all
tyrants!’ Well, and if poor Hodge thinks moral force is all my eye, and
that the recommendation is to be read backwards, in the devil’s way of
reading the Lord’s Prayer, I should like to know which of the two ought
to go to Botany Bay—Hodge who comes out like a man, if he thinks he is
wronged, or ’tother sneaking chap, who makes use of his knowledge to
keep himself out of the scrape?”

PARSON.—“It may be very true; but when I saw that poor fellow at the
bar, with his intelligent face, and heard his bold clear defence, and
thought of all his hard straggles for knowledge, and how they had ended,
because he forgot that knowledge is like fire, and must not be thrown
amongst flax—why, I could have given my right hand to save him. And, oh
Squire, do you remember his poor mother’s shriek of despair when he was
sentenced to transportation for life—I hear it now! And what,
Leonard—what do you think had misled him? At the bottom of all the
mischief was a Tinker’s bag. You cannot forget Sprott?”

LEONARD.—“Tinker’s bag!—Sprott!”

SQUIRE.—“That rascal, sir, was the hardest fellow to nab you could
possibly conceive; as full of quips and quirks as an Old Bailey lawyer.
But we managed to bring it home to him. Lord! his bag was choke-full of
tracts against every man who had a good coat on his back; and as if that
was not enough, cheek by jowl with the tracts were lucifers, contrived
on a new principle, for teaching my ricks the theory of spontaneous
combustion. The labourers bought the lucifers—”

PARSON.—“And the poor village genius bought the tracts.”

SQUIRE.—“All headed with a motto—‘To teach the working-classes that
knowledge is power.’ So that I was right in saying that knowledge had
burnt my ricks; knowledge inflamed the village genius, the village
genius inflamed fellows more ignorant than himself, and they inflamed my
stackyard. However, lucifers, tracts, village genius, and Sprott, are
all off to Botany Bay; and the shire has gone on much the better for it.
So no more of your knowledge for me, begging your pardon, Mr Fairfield.
Such uncommonly fine ricks as mine were, too! I declare, Parson, you are
looking as if you felt pity for Sprott; and I saw you, indeed,
whispering to him as he was taken out of court.”

PARSON, (looking sheepish.)—“Indeed, Squire, I was only asking him what
had become of his donkey, an unoffending creature.”

SQUIRE.—“Unoffending! Upset me amidst a thistle-bed in my own village
green. I remember it. Well, what did he say _had_ become of the donkey?”

PARSON.—“He said but one word; but that showed all the vindictiveness of
his disposition. He said it with a horrid wink, that made my blood run
cold. ‘What’s become of your poor donkey?’ said I, and he answered—”

SQUIRE.—“Go on. He answered—”

PARSON.—“‘Sausages.’”

SQUIRE.—“Sausages! Like enough; and sold to the poor; and that’s what
the poor will come to if they listen to such revolutionising villains.
Sausages! Donkey sausages!—(spitting)—’Tis as bad as eating one another;
perfect cannibalism.”

Leonard, who had been thrown into grave thought by the history of
Sprott and the village genius, now pressing the Parson’s hand, asked
permission to wait on him before Mr Dale quitted London; and was about
to withdraw, when the Parson, gently detaining him, said—“No; don’t
leave me yet, Leonard—I have so much to ask you, and to talk about. I
shall be at leisure shortly. We are just now going to call on a
relation of the Squire’s, whom you must recollect, I am sure—Captain
Higginbotham—Barnabas Higginbotham. He is very poorly.”

“And I am sure he would take it kind in you to call too,” said the
Squire with great good-nature.

LEONARD.—“Nay, sir, would not that be a great liberty?”

SQUIRE.—“Liberty! To ask a poor sick gentleman how he is? Nonsense. And
I say, sir, perhaps, as no doubt you have been living in town, and know
more of newfangled notions than I do—perhaps you can tell us whether or
not it is all humbug, that new way of doctoring people?”

“What new way, sir? There are so many.”

“Are there? Folks in London do look uncommonly sickly. But my poor
cousin (he was never a Solomon) has got hold, he says, of a
homey—homely—What’s the word, Parson?”

PARSON.—“ Homœopathist.”

SQUIRE.—“That’s it! You see the Captain went to live with one Sharpe
Currie, a relation who had a great deal of money, and very little
liver;—made the one, and left much of the other in Ingee, you
understand. The Captain had _expectations_ of the money. Very natural, I
dare say; but Lord, sir! what do you think has happened? Sharpe Currie
has done him! Would not die, sir; got back his liver, and the Captain
has lost his own. Strangest thing you ever heard. And then the
ungrateful old Nabob has dismissed the Captain, saying, ‘He can’t bear
to have invalids about him;’ and is going to marry, and I have no doubt
will have children by the dozen!”

PARSON.—“It was in Germany, at one of the Spas, that Mr Currie
recovered; and as he had the selfish inhumanity to make the Captain go
through a course of waters simultaneously with himself, it has so
chanced that the same waters that cured Mr Currie’s liver have destroyed
Captain Higginbotham’s. An English homœopathic physician, then staying
at the Spa, has attended the Captain hither, and declares that he will
restore him by infinitesimal doses of the same chemical properties that
were found in the waters which diseased him. Can there be anything in
such a theory?”

LEONARD.—“I once knew a very able, though eccentric homœopathist, and I
am inclined to believe there may be something in the system. My friend
went to Germany: it may possibly be the same person who attends the
Captain. May I ask his name?”

SQUIRE.—“Cousin Barnabas does not mention it. You may ask it of himself,
for here we are at his chambers. I say, Parson, (whispering slily,) if a
small dose of what hurt the Captain is to cure him, don’t you think the
proper thing would be a—legacy? Ha! ha!”

PARSON, (trying not to laugh.)—“Hush, Squire. Poor human nature! We must
be merciful to its infirmities. Come in, Leonard.”

Leonard, interested in his doubt whether he might thus chance again upon
Dr Morgan, obeyed the invitation, and with his two companions followed
the woman—who “did for the Captain and his rooms”—across the small
lobby, into the presence of the sufferer.


                              CHAPTER III.

Whatever the disposition towards merriment at his cousin’s expense
entertained by the Squire, it vanished instantly at the sight of the
Captain’s doleful visage and emaciated figure.

“Very good in you to come to town to see me—very good in you, cousin;
and in you too, Mr Dale. How very well you are both looking. I’m a sad
wreck. You might count every bone in my body.”

“Hazeldean air and roast beef will soon set you up, my boy,” said the
Squire kindly. “You were a great goose to leave them, and these
comfortable rooms of yours in the Albany.”

“They _are_ comfortable, though not showy,” said the Captain, with tears
in his eyes. “I had done my best to make them so. New carpets—this very
chair—(morocco!)—that Japan cat (holds toast and muffins)—just when—just
when—(the tears here broke forth, and the Captain fairly whimpered)—just
when that ungrateful bad-hearted man wrote me word ‘he was—was dying and
lone in the world;’ and—and—to think what I’ve gone through for him!—and
to treat me so. Cousin William, he has grown as hale as yourself,
and—and—”

“Cheer up, cheer up!” cried the compassionate Squire. “It is a very hard
case, I allow. But you see, as the old proverb says, ‘’tis ill waiting
for a dead man’s shoes;’ and in future—I don’t mean offence—but I think
if you would calculate less on the livers of your relations, it would be
all the better for your own. Excuse me.”

“Cousin William,” replied the poor Captain, “I am sure I never
calculated; but still, if you had seen that deceitful man’s
good-for-nothing face—as yellow as a guinea—and have gone through all
I’ve gone through, you would have felt cut to the heart as I do. I can’t
bear ingratitude. I never could. But let it pass. Will that gentleman
take a chair?”

PARSON.—“Mr Fairfield has kindly called with us, because he knows
something of this system of homœopathy which you have adopted, and may,
perhaps, know the practitioner. What is the name of your doctor?”

CAPTAIN, (looking at his watch.)—“That reminds me, (swallowing a
globule.) A great relief these little pills—after the physic I’ve taken
to please that malignant man. He always tried his doctor’s stuff upon
me. But there’s another world, and a juster!”

With that pious conclusion, the Captain again began to weep.

“Touched,” muttered the Squire, with his forefinger on his forehead.
“You seem to have a good tidy sort of nurse here, Cousin Barnabas. I
hope she’s pleasant, and lively, and don’t let you take on so.”

“Hist!—don’t talk of her. All mercenary; every bit of her fawning! Would
you believe it? I give her ten shillings a-week, besides all that goes
down of my pats of butter and rolls, and I overheard the jade saying to
the laundress that ‘I could not last long; and she’d—EXPECTATIONS!’ Ah,
Mr Dale, when one thinks of the sinfulness there is in this life! But
I’ll not think of it. No—I’ll not. Let us change the subject. You were
asking my doctor’s name? It is—”

Here the woman ‘with expectations’ threw open the door, and suddenly
announced—“DR MORGAN.”


                              CHAPTER IV.

The Parson started, and so did Leonard.

The Homœopathist did not at first notice either. With an unobservant bow
to the visitors, he went straight to the patient, and asked, “How go the
symptoms?”

Therewith the Captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy
reciting the catalogue of the ships in Homer. He had been evidently
conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. Nor was there a single
nook or corner in his anatomical organisation, so far as the Captain was
acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was
dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. The Squire listened with horror
to the morbific inventory—muttering at each dread interval, “Bless me!
Lord bless me! What, more still! Death would be a very happy release!”
Meanwhile the Doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting
down in the leaves of his pocket-book what appeared to him the salient
points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then,
drawing forth a minute paper, said—

“Capital—nothing can be better. This must be dissolved in eight
table-spoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours.”

“Table-spoonful?”

“Table-spoonful.”

“‘Nothing can be better,’ did you say, sir?” repeated the Squire, who,
in his astonishment at that assertion applied to the Captain’s
description of his sufferings, had hitherto hung fire—“‘nothing can be
better?’”

“For the diagnosis, sir!” replied Dr Morgan.

“For the dogs’ noses, very possibly,” quoth the Squire; “but for the
inside of Cousin Higginbotham, I should think nothing could be worse.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Dr Morgan. “It is not the Captain who
speaks here—it is his liver. Liver, sir, though a noble, is an
imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. Seat
of poetry, and love, and jealousy—the liver. Never believe what it says.
You have no idea what a liar it is! But—ahem—ahem. Cott—I think I’ve
seen you before, sir. Surely your name’s Hazeldean?”

“William Hazeldean, at your service, Doctor. But where have you seen
me?”

“On the hustings at Lansmere. You were speaking on behalf of your
distinguished brother, Mr Egerton.”

“Hang it!” cried the Squire: “I think it must have been my liver that
spoke there! for I promised the electors that that half-brother of mine
would stick by the land; and I never told a bigger lie in my life!”

Here the patient, reminded of his other visitors, and afraid he was
going to be bored with the enumeration of the Squire’s wrongs, and
probably the whole history of his duel with Captain Dashmore, turned,
with a languid wave of his hand, and said, “Doctor, another friend of
mine, the Rev. Mr Dale,—and a gentleman who is acquainted with
homœopathy.”

“Dale? What, more old friends!” cried the Doctor, rising; and the Parson
came somewhat reluctantly from the window nook, to which he had retired.
The Parson and the Homœopathist shook hands.

“We have met before on a very mournful occasion,” said the Doctor, with
feeling.

The Parson held his finger to his lips, and glanced towards Leonard. The
Doctor stared at the lad, but he did not recognise in the person before
him the gaunt careworn boy whom he had placed with Mr Prickett, until
Leonard smiled and spoke. And the smile and the voice sufficed.

“Cott—and it _is_ the poy!” cried Dr Morgan; and he actually caught hold
of Leonard, and gave him an affectionate Welch hug. Indeed, his
agitation at these several surprises became so great that he stopped
short, drew forth a globule—“Aconite—good against nervous shocks!”—and
swallowed it incontinently.

“Gad,” said the Squire, rather astonished, “’tis the first doctor I ever
saw swallow his own medicine! There must be something in it.”

The Captain now, highly disgusted that so much attention was withdrawn
from his own case, asked in a querulous voice, “And as to diet? What
shall I have for dinner?”

“A friend!” said the Doctor, wiping his eyes.

“Zounds!” cried the Squire, retreating, “do you mean to say, sir, that
the British laws (to be sure, they are very much changed of late) allow
you to diet your patients upon their fellow-men? Why, Parson, this is
worse than the donkey sausages.”

“Sir,” said Dr Morgan, gravely, “I mean to say, that it matters little
what we eat, in comparison with care as to whom we eat with. It is
better to exceed a little with a friend, than to observe the strictest
regimen, and eat alone. Talk and laughter help the digestion, and are
indispensable in affections of the liver. I have no doubt, sir, that it
was my patient’s agreeable society that tended to restore to health his
dyspeptic relative, Mr Sharpe Currie.”

The Captain groaned aloud.

“And, therefore, if one of you gentlemen will stay and dine with Mr
Higginbotham, it will greatly assist the effects of his medicine.”

The Captain turned an imploring eye, first towards his cousin, then
towards the Parson.

“I’m engaged to dine with my son—very sorry,” said the Squire. “But
Dale, here”—

“If he will be so kind,” put in the Captain, “we might cheer the evening
with a game at whist—double dummy.”

Now, poor Mr Dale had set his heart on dining with an old college
friend, and having, no stupid, prosy double dummy, in which one cannot
have the pleasure of scolding one’s partner, but a regular orthodox
rubber, with the pleasing prospect of scolding all the three other
performers. But as his quiet life forbade him to be a hero in great
things, the Parson had made up his mind to be a hero in small ones.
Therefore, though with rather a rueful face, he accepted the Captain’s
invitation, and promised to return at six o’clock to dine. Meanwhile, he
must hurry off to the other end of the town, and excuse himself from the
pre-engagement he had already formed. He now gave his card, with the
address of a quiet family hotel thereon, to Leonard, and not looking
quite so charmed with Dr Morgan as he was before that unwelcome
prescription, he took his leave. The Squire, too, having to see a new
churn, and execute various commissions for his Harry, went his way,
(not, however, till Dr Morgan had assured him that, in a few weeks, the
Captain might safely remove to Hazeldean;) and Leonard was about to
follow, when Morgan hooked his arm in his old _protégé’s_, and said,
“But I must have some talk with you; and you have to tell me all about
the little orphan girl.”

Leonard could not resist the pleasure of talking about Helen; and he got
into the carriage, which was waiting at the door for the homœopathist.

“I am going into the country a few miles to see a patient,” said the
Doctor; “so we shall have time for undisturbed consultation. I have so
often wondered what had become of you. Not hearing from Prickett, I
wrote to him, and received an answer as dry as a bone from his heir.
Poor fellow! I found that he had neglected his globules, and quitted the
globe. Alas, _pulvis et umbra sumus_! I could learn no tidings of you.
Prickett’s successor declared he knew nothing about you. I hoped the
best; for I always fancied you were one who would fall on your
legs—bilious-nervous temperament; such are the men who succeed in their
undertakings, especially if they take a spoonful of _chamomilla_
whenever they are over-excited. So now for your history and the little
girl’s—pretty little thing—never saw a more susceptible constitution,
nor one more suited—to pulsatilla.”

Leonard briefly related his own struggles and success, and informed the
good Doctor how they had at last discovered the nobleman in whom poor
Captain Digby had confided, and whose care of the orphan had justified
the confidence.

Dr Morgan opened his eyes at hearing the name of Lord L’Estrange. “I
remember him very well,” said he, “when I practised murder as an
allopathist at Lansmere. But to think that wild boy, so full of whim,
and life, and spirit, should become staid enough for a guardian to that
dear little child, with her timid eyes and pulsatilla sensibilities.
Well, wonders never cease. And he has befriended you too, you say. Ah,
he knew your family.”

“So he says. Do you think, sir, that he ever knew—ever saw—my mother?”

“Eh! your mother?—Nora?” exclaimed the Doctor quickly; and, as if struck
by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent and musing
a few moments; then, observing Leonard’s eyes fixed on him earnestly, he
replied to the question:—

“No doubt he saw her; she was brought up at Lady Lansmere’s. Did he not
tell you so?”

“No.” A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard’s mind, but as
suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have
deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L’Estrange a man
capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley’s son, would not Harley
have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him?
Besides, Lord L’Estrange looked so young;—old enough to be Leonard’s
father!—he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself, and said
falteringly—

“You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father.”

“And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief.”

“By your honour, sir?”

“By my honour, I do not know it.”

There was now a long silence. The carriage had long left London, and was
on a high-road somewhat lonelier, and more free from houses than most of
those which form the entrances to the huge city. Leonard gazed wistfully
from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed to
appeal to his memory. Yes! it was the road by which he had first
approached the metropolis, hand in hand with Helen—and hope so busy at
his poet’s heart. He sighed deeply. He thought he would willingly have
resigned all he had won—independence, fame, all—to feel again the clasp
of that tender hand—again to be the sole protector of that gentle life.

The Doctor’s voice broke on his reverie. “I am going to see a very
interesting patient—coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir—man of
great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. I can’t do him much
good, and he does me a great deal of harm.”

“How harm?” asked Leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder.

“Hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water—very pathetic case—grand
creature, who has thrown himself away. Found him given over by the
allopathists, and in a high state of _delirium tremens_—restored him for
a time—took a great liking to him—could not help it—swallowed a great
many globules to harden myself against him—would not do—brought him over
to England with the other patients, who all pay me well (except Captain
Higginbotham.) But this poor fellow pays me nothing—costs me a great
deal in time and turnpikes, and board and lodging. Thank Heaven I’m a
single man, and can afford it! My poy, I would let all the other
patients go to the allopathists if I could but save this poor big
penniless princely fellow. But what can one do with a stomach that has
not a rag of its coat left? Stop—(the Doctor pulled the check-string.)
This is the stile. I get out here and go across the fields.”

That stile—those fields—with what distinctness Leonard remembered them.
Ah, where was Helen? Could she ever, ever again be his child-angel?

“I will go with you, if you permit,” said he to the good Doctor. “And
while you pay your visit, I will saunter by a little brook that I think
must run by your way.”

“The Brent—you know that brook? Ah, you should hear my poor patient talk
of it, and of the hours he has spent angling in it—you would not know
whether to laugh or cry. The first day he was brought down to the place,
he wanted to go out and try once more, he said, for his old deluding
demon—a one-eyed perch.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Leonard, “are you speaking of John Burley?”

“To be sure, that is his name—John Burley.”

“Oh, has it come to this? Cure him, save him, if it be in human power.
For the last two years I have sought his trace everywhere, and in vain,
the moment I had money of my own—a home of my own. Poor, erring,
glorious Burley. Take me to him. Did you say there was no hope?”

“I did not say that,” replied the Doctor. “But art can only assist
nature; and, though nature is ever at work to repair the injuries we do
to her, yet, when the coats of a stomach are all gone, she gets puzzled,
and so do I. You must tell me another time how you came to know Burley,
for here we are at the house, and I see him at the window looking out
for me.”

The Doctor opened the garden gate to the quiet cottage to which poor
Burley had fled from the pure presence of Leonard’s child-angel. And
with heavy step, and heavy heart, Leonard mournfully followed, to behold
the wrecks of him whose wit had glorified orgy, and “set the table in a
roar.”—Alas, poor Yorick!


                               CHAPTER V.

Audley Egerton stands on his hearth alone. During the short interval
that has elapsed since we last saw him, events had occurred memorable in
English history, wherewith we have nought to do in a narrative
studiously avoiding all party politics even when treating of
politicians. The new Ministers had stated the general programme of their
policy, and introduced one measure in especial that had lifted them at
once to the dizzy height of popular power. But it became clear that this
measure could not be carried without a fresh appeal to the people. A
dissolution of Parliament, as Audley’s sagacious experience had
foreseen, was inevitable. And Audley Egerton had no chance of return for
his own seat—for the great commercial city identified with his name. Oh
sad, but not rare, instance of the mutabilities of that same popular
favour now enjoyed by his successors! The great commoner, the weighty
speaker, the expert man of business, the statesman who had seemed a type
of the practical steady sense for which our middle class is renowned—he
who, not three years since, might have had his honoured choice of the
largest popular constituencies in the kingdom—he, Audley Egerton, knew
not one single town (free from the influences of private property or
interest) in which the obscurest candidate, who bawled out for the new
popular measure, would not have beaten him hollow. Where one popular
hustings, on which that grave sonorous voice that had stilled so often
the roar of faction, would not be drowned amidst the hoots of the
scornful mob?

True, what were called the close boroughs still existed—true, many a
chief of his party would have been too proud of the honour of claiming
Audley Egerton for his nominee. But the ex-Minister’s haughty soul
shrunk from this contrast to his past position. And to fight against the
popular measure, as member of one of the seats most denounced by the
people,—he felt it was a post in the grand army of parties below his
dignity to occupy, and foreign to his peculiar mind, which required the
sense of consequence and station. And if, in a few months, these seats
were swept away—were annihilated from the rolls of Parliament—where was
he? Moreover, Egerton, emancipated from the trammels that had bound his
will while his party was in office, desired, in the turn of events, to
be nominee of no other man—desired to stand at least freely and singly
on the ground of his own services, be guided by his own penetration; no
law for action, but his strong sense and his stout English heart.
Therefore he had declined all offers from those who could still bestow
seats in Parliament. Those he could purchase with hard gold were yet
open to him. And the £5000 he had borrowed from Levy were yet untouched.

To this lone public man, public life, as we have seen, was the all in
all. But now more than ever it was vital to his very wants. Around him
yawned ruin. He knew that it was in Levy’s power at any moment to
foreclose on his mortgaged lands—to pour in the bonds and the bills
which lay within those rosewood receptacles that lined the fatal lair of
the sleek usurer—to seize on the very house in which now moved all the
pomp of a retinue that vied with the _valetaille_ of dukes—to advertise
for public auction, under execution, “the costly effects of the Right
Hon. Audley Egerton.” But, consummate in his knowledge of the world,
Egerton felt assured that Levy would not adopt these measures against
him while he could still tower in the van of political war—while he
could still see before him the full chance of restoration to power,
perhaps to power still higher than before—perhaps to power the highest
of all beneath the throne. That Levy, whose hate he divined, though he
did not conjecture all its causes, had hitherto delayed even a visit,
even a menace, seemed to him to show that Levy still thought him one “to
be helped,” or, at least, one too powerful to crush. To secure his
position in Parliament unshackled, unfallen, if but for another
year,—new combinations of party might arise, new reactions take place,
in public opinion! And, with his hand pressed to his heart, the stern
firm man muttered,—“If not, I ask but to die in my harness, and that men
may not know that I am a pauper, until all that I need from my country
is a grave.”

Scarce had these words died upon his lips ere two quick knocks in
succession resounded at the street door. In another moment Harley
entered, and, at the same time, the servant in attendance approached
Audley, and announced Baron Levy.

“Beg the Baron to wait, unless he would prefer to name his own hour to
call again,” answered Egerton, with the slightest possible change of
colour. “You can say I am now with Lord L’Estrange.”

“I had hoped you had done for ever with that deluder of youth,” said
Harley, as soon as the groom of the chambers had withdrawn. “I remember
that you saw too much of him in the gay time, ere wild oats are sown;
but now surely you can never need a loan; and if so, is not Harley
L’Estrange by your side?”

EGERTON.—“My dear Harley!—doubtless he but comes to talk to me of some
borough. He has much to do with those delicate negotiations.”

HARLEY.—“And I have come on the same business. I claim the priority. I
not only hear in the world, but I see by the papers, that Josiah
Jenkins, Esq., known to fame as an orator who leaves out his h’s, and
young Lord Willoughby Whiggolin, who is just now made a Lord of the
Admiralty, because his health is too delicate for the army, are certain
to come in for the city which you and your present colleague will as
certainly vacate. That is true, is it not?”

EGERTON.—“My old committee now vote for Jenkins and Whiggolin. And I
suppose there will not be even a contest. Go on.”

“So my father and I are agreed that you must condescend, for the sake of
old friendship, to be once more member for Lansmere!”

“Harley,” exclaimed Egerton, changing countenance far more than he had
done at the announcement of Levy’s portentous visit—“Harley—No, no!”

“No! But why? Wherefore such emotion?” asked L’Estrange, in surprise.

Audley was silent.

HARLEY.—“I suggested the idea to two or three of the late Ministers;
they all concur in advising you to accede. In the first place, if
declining to stand for the place which tempted you from Lansmere, what
more natural than that you should fall back on that earlier
representation? In the second place, Lansmere is neither a rotten
borough, to be bought, nor a close borough, under one man’s nomination.
It is a tolerably large constituency. My father, it is true, has
considerable interest in it, but only what is called the legitimate
influence of property. At all events, it is more secure than a contest
for a larger town, more dignified than a seat for a smaller. Hesitating
still? Even my mother entreats me to say how she desires you to renew
that connection.”

“Harley,” again exclaimed Egerton; and, fixing upon his friend’s
earnest face, eyes which, when softened by emotion, were strangely
beautiful in their expression—“Harley, if you could but read my heart
at this moment, you would—you would—” His voice faltered, and he
fairly bent his proud head upon Harley’s shoulder; grasping the hand
he had caught, nervously, clingingly—“Oh Harley, if I ever lose your
love, your friendship!—nothing else is left to me in the world.”

“Audley, my dear dear Audley, is it you who speak to me thus? You, my
school friend, my life’s confidant—you?”

“I am grown very weak and foolish,” said Egerton, trying to smile. “I do
not know myself. I, too, whom you have so often called ‘Stoic,’ and
likened to the Iron Man in the poem which you used to read by the
riverside at Eton.”

“But even then, my Audley, I knew that a warm human heart (do what you
would to keep it down) beat strong under the iron ribs. And I often
marvel now, to think you have gone through life so free from the wilder
passions. Happier so!”

Egerton, who had turned his face from his friend’s gaze, remained silent
for a few moments, and he then sought to divert the conversation, and
roused himself to ask Harley how he had succeeded in his views upon
Beatrice, and his watch on the Count.

“With regard to Peschiera,” answered Harley, “I think we must have
overrated the danger we apprehended, and that his wagers were but an
idle boast. He has remained quiet enough, and seems devoted to play. His
sister has shut her doors both on myself and my young associate during
the last few days. I almost fear that, in spite of very sage warnings of
mine, she must have turned his poet’s head, and that either he has met
with some scornful rebuff to incautious admiration, or that he himself
has grown aware of peril, and declines to face it; for he is very much
embarrassed when I speak to him respecting her. But if the Count is not
formidable, why, his sister is not needed; and I hope yet to get justice
for my Italian friend through the ordinary channels. I have secured an
ally in a young Austrian prince, who is now in London, and who has
promised to back, with all his influence, a memorial I shall transmit to
Vienna. _Apropos_, my dear Audley, now that you have a little
breathing-time, you must fix an hour for me to present to you my young
poet, the son of _her_ sister. At moments the expression of his face is
so like hers.”

“Ay, ay,” answered Egerton quickly, “I will see him as you wish, but
later. I have not yet that breathing-time you speak of; but you say he
has prospered; and, with your friendship, he is secure from fortune. I
rejoice to think so.”

“And your own _protégé_, this Randal Leslie, whom you forbid me to
dislike—hard task!—what has he decided?”

“To adhere to my fate. Harley, if it please Heaven that I do not live to
return to power, and provide adequately for that young man, do not
forget that he clung to me in my fall.”

“If he still cling to you faithfully, I will never forget it. I will
forget only all that now makes me doubt him. But you talk of not living,
Audley! Pooh!—your frame is that of a predestined octogenarian.”

“Nay,” answered Audley, “I was but uttering one of those vague
generalities which are common upon all mortal lips. And now farewell—I
must see this Baron.”

“Not yet, until you have promised to consent to my proposal, and be once
more member for Lansmere. Tut! don’t shake your head. I cannot be
denied. I claim your promise in right of our friendship, and shall be
seriously hurt if you even pause to reflect on it.”

“Well, well, I know not how to refuse you, Harley; but you have not been
to Lansmere yourself since—since that sad event. You must not revive the
old wound—_you_ must not go; and—and I own it, Harley; the remembrance
of it pains even me. I would rather not go to Lansmere.”

“Ah! my friend, this is an excess of sympathy, and I cannot listen to
it. I begin even to blame my own weakness, and to feel that we have no
right to make ourselves the soft slaves of the past.”

“You do appear to me of late to have changed,” cried Egerton suddenly,
and with a brightening aspect. “Do tell me that you are happy in the
contemplation of your new ties—that I shall live to see you once more
restored to your former self.”

“All I can answer, Audley,” said L’Estrange, with a thoughtful brow,
“is, that you are right in one thing—I am changed; and I am struggling
to gain strength for duty and for honour. Adieu! I shall tell my father
that you accede to our wishes.”


                              CHAPTER VI.

When Harley was gone, Egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme
physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed
and jaded.

“To go back to that place—there—there—where—Courage, courage—what is
another pang?”

He rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast,
paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. Gradually
his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure—the secret
eye, the guarded lip, the haughty collected front. The man of the world
was himself once more.

“Now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer,” murmured Egerton, with
that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior
power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. He rang the bell:
the servant entered.

“Is Baron Levy still waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Admit him.”

Levy entered.

“I beg your pardon, Levy,” said the ex-minister, “for having so long
detained you. I am now at your commands.”

“My dear fellow,” returned the Baron, “no apologies between friends so
old as we are; and I fear that my business is not so agreeable as to
make you impatient to discuss it.”

EGERTON, (with perfect composure.)—“I am to conclude, then, that you
wish to bring our accounts to a close. Whenever you will, Levy.”

THE BARON, (disconcerted and surprised.)—“_Peste! mon cher_, you take
things coolly. But if our accounts are closed, I fear you will have but
little to live upon.”

EGERTON.—“I can continue to live on the salary of a Cabinet Minister.”

BARON.—“Possibly; but you are no longer a Cabinet Minister.”

EGERTON.—“You have never found me deceived in a political prediction.
Within twelve months, (should life be spared to me) I shall be in office
again. If the same to you, I would rather wait till then, formally and
amicably to resign to you my lands and this house. If you grant that
reprieve, our connection can thus close, without the _éclat_ and noise,
which may be invidious to you, as it would be disagreeable to me. But if
that delay be inconvenient, I will appoint a lawyer to examine your
accounts, and adjust my liabilities.”

THE BARON, (soliloquising.)—“I don’t like this. A lawyer! That may be
awkward.”

EGERTON, (observing the Baron, with a curl of his lip.)—“Well, Levy, how
shall it be?”

THE BARON.—“You know, my dear fellow, it is not my character to be hard
on any one, least of all upon an old friend. And if you really think
there is a chance of your return to office, which you apprehend that an
_esclandre_ as to your affairs at present might damage, why, let us see
if we can conciliate matters. But, first, _mon cher_, in order to become
a Minister, you must at least have a seat in Parliament; and, pardon me
the question, how the deuce are you to find one?”

EGERTON.—“It is found.”

THE BARON.—“Ah, I forgot the £5000 you last borrowed.”

EGERTON.—“No; I reserve that sum for another purpose.”

THE BARON, (with a forced laugh.)—“Perhaps to defend yourself against
the actions you apprehend from me?”

EGERTON.—“You are mistaken. But to soothe your suspicions, I will tell
you plainly, that finding any sum I might have insured on my life would
be liable to debts preincurred, and (as you will be my sole creditor)
might thus at my death pass back to you; and doubting whether, indeed,
any office would accept my insurance, I appropriate that sum to the
relief of my conscience. I intend to bestow it, while yet in life, upon
my late wife’s kinsman, Randal Leslie. And it is solely the wish to do
what I consider an act of justice, that has prevailed with me to accept
a favour from the hands of Harley L’Estrange, and to become again the
member for Lansmere.”

THE BARON.—“Ha!—Lansmere! You will stand for Lansmere?”

EGERTON, (wincing.)—“I propose to do so.”

THE BARON.—“I believe you will be opposed, subjected to even a sharp
contest. Perhaps you may lose your election.”

EGERTON.—“If so, I resign myself, and you can foreclose on my estates.”

THE BARON, (his brow colouring.)—“Look you, Egerton, I shall be too
happy to do you a favour.”

EGERTON, (with stateliness.)—“Favour! No, Baron Levy, I ask from you no
favour. Dismiss all thought of rendering me one. It is but a
consideration of business on both sides. If you think it better that we
shall at once settle our accounts, my lawyer shall investigate them. If
you agree to the delay I request, my lawyer shall give you no trouble;
and all that I have, except hope and character, pass to your hands
without a struggle.”

THE BARON.—“Inflexible and ungracious, favour or not—put it as you
will—I accede, provided, first, that you allow me to draw up a fresh
deed, which will accomplish your part of the compact;—and secondly, that
we saddle the proposed delay with the condition that you do not lose
your election.”

EGERTON.—“Agreed. Have you anything further to say?”

THE BARON.—“Nothing, except that, if you require more money, I am still
at your service.”

EGERTON.—“I thank you. No; I owe no man aught except yourself. I shall
take the occasion of my retirement from office to reduce my
establishment. I have calculated already, and provided for the
expenditure I need, up to the date I have specified, and I shall have no
occasion to touch the £5000 that I still retain.”

“Your young friend, Mr Leslie, ought to be very grateful to you,” said
the Baron, rising. “I have met him in the world—a lad of much promise
and talent. You should try and get him also into Parliament.”

EGERTON, (thoughtfully.)—“You are a good judge of the practical
abilities and merits of men, as regards worldly success. Do you really
think Randal Leslie calculated for public life—for a Parliamentary
career?”

THE BARON.—“Indeed I do.”

EGERTON, (speaking more to himself than Levy.)—“Parliament without
fortune—’tis a sharp trial; still he is prudent, abstemious, energetic,
persevering; and at the onset, under my auspices and advice, he might
establish a position beyond his years.”

THE BARON.—“It strikes me that we might possibly get him into the next
Parliament; or, as that is not likely to last long, at all events into
the Parliament to follow—not for one of the boroughs which will be swept
away, but for a permanent seat, and without expense.”

EGERTON.—“Ay—and how?”

THE BARON.—“Give me a few days to consider. An idea has occurred to me.
I will call again if I find it practicable. Good day to you, Egerton,
and success to your election for Lansmere.”


                              CHAPTER VII.

Peschiera had not been so inactive as he had appeared to Harley and the
reader. On the contrary, he had prepared the way for his ultimate
design, with all the craft and the unscrupulous resolution which
belonged to his nature. His object was to compel Riccabocca into
assenting to the Count’s marriage with Violante, or, failing that, to
ruin all chance of his kinsman’s restoration. Quietly and secretly he
had sought out, amongst the most needy and unprincipled of his own
countrymen, those whom he could suborn to depose to Riccabocca’s
participation in plots and conspiracies against the Austrian dominions.
These his former connection with the Carbonari enabled him to track in
their refuge in London; and his knowledge of the characters he had to
deal with fitted him well for the villanous task he undertook.

He had, therefore, already collected witnesses sufficient for his
purposes, making up in number for their defects in quality. Meanwhile,
he had (as Harley had suspected he would) set spies upon Randal’s
movements; and the day before that young traitor confided to him
Violante’s retreat, he had, at least, got scent of her father’s.

The discovery that Violante was under a roof so honoured, and seemingly
so safe as Lord Lansmere’s, did not discourage this bold and desperate
adventurer. We have seen him set forth to reconnoitre the house at
Knightsbridge. He had examined it well, and discovered the quarter which
he judged favourable to a _coup-de-main_, should that become necessary.

Lord Lansmere’s house and grounds were surrounded by a wall, the
entrance being to the high-road, and by a porter’s lodge. At the rear
there lay fields crossed by a lane or by-road. To these fields a small
door in the wall, which was used by the gardeners in passing to and from
their work, gave communication. This door was usually kept locked; but
the lock was of the rude and simple description common to such
entrances, and easily opened by a skeleton key. So far there was no
obstacle which Peschiera’s experience in conspiracy and gallantry did
not disdain as trivial. But the Count was not disposed to abrupt and
violent means in the first instance. He had a confidence in his personal
gifts, in his address, in his previous triumphs over the sex, which made
him naturally desire to hazard the effect of a personal interview; and
on this he resolved with his wonted audacity. Randal’s description of
Violante’s personal appearance, and such suggestions as to her character
and the motives most likely to influence her actions, as that young
lynx-eyed observer could bestow, were all that the Count required of
present aid from his accomplice.

Meanwhile we return to Violante herself. We see her now seated in the
gardens at Knightsbridge, side by side with Helen. The place was
retired, and out of sight from the windows of the house.

VIOLANTE.—“But why will you not tell me more of that early time? You are
less communicative even than Leonard.”

HELEN, (looking down, and hesitatingly.)—“Indeed there is nothing to
tell you that you do not know; and it is so long since, and things are
so changed now.”

The tone of the last words was mournful, and the words ended with a
sigh.

VIOLANTE, (with enthusiasm.)—“How I envy you that past which you treat
so lightly! To have been something, even in childhood, to the formation
of a noble nature; to have borne on those slight shoulders half the load
of a man’s grand labour. And now to see Genius moving calm in its clear
career; and to say inly, ‘Of that genius I am a part!’”

“HELEN, (sadly and humbly.)—“A part! Oh, no! A part? I don’t understand
you.”

VIOLANTE.—“Take the child Beatrice from Dante’s life, and should we have
a Dante? What is a poet’s genius but the voice of its emotions? All
things in life and in Nature influence genius; but what influences it
the most, are its sorrows and affections.”

Helen looks softly into Violante’s eloquent face, and draws nearer to
her in tender silence.

VIOLANTE, (suddenly.)—“Yes, Helen, yes—I know by my own heart how to
read yours. Such memories are ineffaceable. Few guess what strange
self-weavers of our own destinies we women are in our veriest
childhood!” She sunk her voice into a whisper: “How could Leonard fail
to be dear to you—dear as you to him—dearer than all others?”

HELEN, (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed.)—“Hush, hush! you must
not speak to me thus; it is wicked—I cannot bear it. I would not have it
be so—it must not be—it cannot!”

She clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her
face, and the face was very sad, but very calm.

VIOLANTE, (twining her arm round Helen’s waist.)—“How have I wounded
you?—how offended? Forgive me—but why is this wicked? Why must it not
be? Is it because he is below you in birth?”

HELEN.—“No, no—I never thought of that. And what am I? Don’t ask me—I
cannot answer. You are wrong, quite wrong, as to me. I can only look on
Leonard as—as a brother. But—but, you can speak to him more freely than
I can. I would not have him waste his heart on me, nor yet think me
unkind and distant, as I seem. I know not what I say. But—but—break to
him—indirectly—gently—that duty in both forbids us both to—to be more
than friends—than——”

“Helen, Helen!” cried Violante, in her warm, generous passion, “your
heart betrays you in every word you say. You weep; lean on me, whisper
to me; why—why is this? Do you fear that your guardian would not
consent? He not consent! He who—”

HELEN.—“Cease—cease—cease.”

VIOLANTE.—“What! You can fear Harley—Lord L’Estrange? Fie; you do not
know him.”

HELEN, (rising suddenly.)—“Violante, hold; I am engaged to another.”

Violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as
death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from
her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. She caught
Helen’s hand firmly, and said, in a hollow voice—

“Another! Engaged to another! One word, Helen—not to him—not
to—Harley—to——”

“I cannot say—I must not. I have promised,” cried poor Helen, and as
Violante let fall her hand, she hurried away.

Violante sate down, mechanically. She felt as if stunned by a mortal
blow. She closed her eyes, and breathed hard. A deadly faintness seized
her; and when it passed away, it seemed to her as if she were no longer
the same being, nor the world around her the same world—as if she were
but one sense of intense, hopeless misery, and as if the universe were
but one inanimate void. So strangely immaterial are we really—we human
beings, with flesh and blood—that if you suddenly abstract from us but a
single, impalpable, airy thought, which our souls have cherished, you
seem to curdle the air, to extinguish the sun, to snap every link that
connects us to matter, and to benumb everything into death, except woe.

And this warm, young, southern nature, but a moment before was so full
of joy and life, and vigorous, lofty hope. It never till now had known
its own intensity and depth. The virgin had never lifted the veil from
her own soul of woman. What, till then, had Harley L’Estrange been to
Violante? An ideal—a dream of some imagined excellence—a type of poetry
in the midst of the common world. It had not been Harley the Man—it had
been Harley the Phantom. She had never said to herself, “He is
identified with my love, my hopes, my home, my future.” How could she?
Of such, he himself had never spoken; an internal voice, indeed, had
vaguely, yet irresistibly, whispered to her that, despite his light
words, his feelings towards her were grave and deep. O false voice! how
it had deceived her. Her quick convictions seized the all that Helen had
left unsaid. And now suddenly she felt what it is to love, and what it
is to despair. So she sate, crushed and solitary, neither murmuring nor
weeping, only now and then passing her hand across her brow, as if to
clear away some cloud that would not be dispersed; or heaving a deep
sigh, as if to throw off some load that no time henceforth could remove.
There are certain moments in life in which we say to ourselves, “All is
over; no matter what else changes, that which I have made my all is gone
evermore—evermore.” And our own thought rings back in our ears,
“Evermore—evermore!”


                             CHAPTER VIII.

As Violante thus sate, a stranger, passing stealthily through the trees,
stood between herself and the evening sun. She saw him not. He paused a
moment, and then spoke low, in her native tongue, addressing her by the
name which she had borne in Italy. He spoke as a relation, and excused
his intrusion: “For,” said he, “I come to suggest to the daughter the
means by which she can restore to her father his country and his
honours.”

At the word “father” Violante roused herself, and all her love for that
father rushed back upon her with double force. It does so ever—we love
most our parents at the moment when some tie less holy is abruptly
broken; and when the conscience says, “_There_, at least, is a love that
never has deceived thee!”

She saw before her a man of mild aspect and princely form. Peschiera
(for it was he) had banished from his dress, as from his countenance,
all that betrayed the worldly levity of his character. He was acting a
part, and he dressed and looked it.

“My father!” she said quickly, and in Italian. “What of him? And who are
you, signior? I know you not.”

Peschiera smiled benignly, and replied in a tone in which great respect
was softened by a kind of parental tenderness.

“Suffer me to explain, and listen to me while I speak.” Then, quietly
seating himself on the bench beside her, he looked into her eyes, and
resumed.

“Doubtless, you have heard of the Count di Peschiera?”

VIOLANTE.—“I heard that name, as a child, when in Italy. And when she
with whom I then dwelt, (my father’s aunt,) fell ill and died, I was
told that my home in Italy was gone, that it had passed to the Count di
Peschiera—my father’s foe.”

PESCHIERA.—“And your father, since then, has taught you to hate this
fancied foe?”

VIOLANTE.—“Nay; my father did but forbid me ever to breathe his name.”

PESCHIERA.—“Alas! what years of suffering and exile might have been
saved your father, had he but been more just to his early friend and
kinsman; nay, had he but less cruelly concealed the secret of his
retreat. Fair child, I am that Giulio Franzini, that Count di Peschiera.
I am the man you have been told to regard as your father’s foe. I am the
man on whom the Austrian emperor bestowed his lands. And now judge if I
am in truth the foe. I have come hither to seek your father, in order to
dispossess myself of my sovereign’s gift. I have come but with one
desire, to restore Alphonso to his native land, and to surrender the
heritage that was forced upon me.”

VIOLANTE.—“My father, my dear father! His grand heart will have room
once more. Oh! this is noble enmity, true revenge. I understand it,
signior, and so will my father, for such would have been his revenge on
you. You have seen him?”

PESCHIERA.—“No, not yet. I would not see him till I had seen yourself;
for you, in truth, are the arbiter of his destinies, as of mine.”

VIOLANTE.—“I—Count? I—arbiter of my father’s destinies? Is it possible!”

PESCHIERA, (with a look of compassionate admiration, and in a tone yet
more emphatically parental.)—How lovely is that innocent joy; but do not
indulge it yet. Perhaps it is a sacrifice which is asked from you—a
sacrifice too hard to bear. Do not interrupt me. Listen still, and you
will see why I could not speak to your father until I had obtained an
interview with yourself. See why a word from you may continue still to
banish me from his presence. You know, doubtless, that your father was
one of the chiefs of a party that sought to free Northern Italy from the
Austrians. I myself was at the onset a warm participator in that scheme.
In a sudden moment I discovered that some of its more active projectors
had coupled with a patriotic enterprise schemes of a dark nature—and
that the conspiracy itself was about to be betrayed to the government. I
wished to consult with your father; but he was at a distance. I learned
that his life was condemned. Not an hour was to be lost. I took a bold
resolve, that has exposed me to his suspicions, and to my country’s
wrath. But my main idea was to save him, my early friend, from death,
and my country from fruitless massacre. I withdrew from the intended
revolt. I sought at once the head of the Austrian government in Italy,
and made terms for the lives of Alphonso and of the other more
illustrious chiefs, which otherwise would have been forfeited. I
obtained permission to undertake myself the charge of securing my
kinsman in order to place him in safety, and to conduct him to a foreign
land, in an exile that would cease when the danger was dispelled. But
unhappily he deemed that I only sought to destroy him. He fled from my
friendly pursuit. The soldiers with me were attacked by an intermeddling
Englishman; your father escaped from Italy—concealing his retreat; and
the character of his flight counteracted my efforts to obtain his
pardon. The government conferred on me half his revenues, holding the
other at its pleasure. I accepted the offer to save his whole heritage
from confiscation. That I did not convey to him, what I pined to
do—viz., the information that I held but in trust what was bestowed by
the government, and the full explanation of what seemed blamable in my
conduct—was necessarily owing to the secresy he maintained. I could not
discover his refuge; but I never ceased to plead for his recall. This
year only I have partially succeeded. He can be restored to his heritage
and rank, on one proviso—a guarantee for his loyalty. That guarantee the
government has named: it is the alliance of his only child with one whom
the government can trust. It was the interest of all Italian nobility,
that the representation of a house so great falling to a female, should
not pass away wholly from the direct line;—in a word, that you should
ally yourself with a kinsman. But one kinsman, and he the next in blood,
presented himself. Brief—Alphonso regains all that he lost on the day in
which his daughter gives her hand to Giulio Franzini, Count di
Peschiera. “Ah,” continued the Count, mournfully, “you shrink—you
recoil. He thus submitted to your choice is indeed unworthy of you. You
are scarce in the spring of life. He is in its waning autumn. Youth
loves youth. He does not aspire to your love. All that he can say is,
love is not the only joy of the heart—it is joy to raise from ruin a
beloved father—joy to restore, to a land poor in all but memories, a
chief in whom it reverences a line of heroes. These are the joys I offer
to you—you, a daughter, and an Italian maid. Still silent! Oh speak to
me!”

Certainly this Count Peschiera knew well how woman is to be wooed and
won; and never was woman more sensitive to those high appeals which most
move all true earnest womanhood, than was the young Violante. Fortune
favoured him in the moment chosen. Harley was wrenched away from her
hopes, and love a word erased from her language. In the void of the
world, her father’s image alone stood clear and visible. And she who
from infancy had so pined to serve that father, who had first learned to
dream of Harley as that father’s friend! She could restore to him all
for which the exile sighed; and by a sacrifice of self! Self-sacrifice,
ever in itself such a temptation to the noble! Still, in the midst of
the confusion and disturbance of her mind, the idea of marriage with
another seemed so terrible and revolting, that she could not at once
conceive it; and still that instinct of openness and honour, which
pervaded all her character, warned even her inexperience that there was
something wrong in this clandestine appeal to herself.

Again the Count besought her to speak; and with an effort she said,
irresolutely—

“If it be as you say, it is not for me to answer you; it is for my
father.”

“Nay,” replied Peschiera. “Pardon, if I contradict you. Do you know so
little of your father as to suppose that he will suffer his interest to
dictate to his pride. He would refuse, perhaps, even to receive my
visit—to hear my explanations; but certainly he would refuse to buy back
his inheritance by the sacrifice of his daughter to one whom he has
deemed his foe, and whom the mere disparity of years would incline the
world to say he had made the barter of his personal ambition. But if I
could go to him sanctioned by you—if I could say your daughter overlooks
what the father might deem an obstacle—she has consented to accept my
hand of her own free choice—she unites her happiness, and blends her
prayers, with mine,—then, indeed, I could not fail of success: and Italy
would pardon my errors, and bless your name. Ah! Signorina, do not think
of me save as an instrument towards the fulfilment of duties so high and
sacred—think but of your ancestors, your father, your native land, and
reject not the proud occasion to prove how you revere them all!”

Violante’s heart was touched at the right chord. Her head rose—her
colour came back to her pale cheek—she turned the glorious beauty of her
countenance towards the wily tempter. She was about to answer, and to
seal her fate, when at that instant Harley’s voice was heard at a little
distance, and Nero came bounding towards her, and thrust himself, with
rough familiarity, between herself and Peschiera. The Count drew back,
and Violante, whose eyes were still fixed on his face, started at the
change that passed there. One quick gleam of rage sufficed in an instant
to light up the sinister secrets of his nature—it was the face of the
baffled gladiator. He had time but for few words.

“I must not be seen here,” he muttered; “but to-morrow—in these
gardens—about this hour. I implore you, for the sake of your father—his
hopes, fortunes, his very life, to guard the secret of this interview—to
meet me again. Adieu!”

He vanished amidst the trees, and was gone—noiselessly, mysteriously, as
he had come.


                              CHAPTER IX.

The last words of Peschiera were still ringing in Violante’s ears when
Harley appeared in sight, and the sound of his voice dispelled the vague
and dreamy stupor which had crept over her senses. At that voice there
returned the consciousness of a mighty loss, the sting of an intolerable
anguish. To meet Harley there, and thus, seemed impossible. She turned
abruptly away, and hurried towards the house. Harley called to her by
name, but she would not answer, and only quickened her steps. He paused
a moment in surprise, and then hastened after her.

“Under what strange taboo am I placed?” said he gaily, as he laid his
hand on her shrinking arm. “I inquire for Helen—she is ill, and cannot
see me. I come to sun myself in your presence, and you fly me as if gods
and men had set their mark on my brow. Child!—child!—what is this? You
are weeping?”

“Do not stay me now—do not speak to me,” answered Violante through her
stifling sobs, as she broke from his hand and made towards the house.

“Have you a grief, and under the shelter of my father’s roof? A grief
that you will not tell to me? Cruel!” cried Harley, with inexpressible
tenderness of reproach in his soft tones.

Violante could not trust herself to reply. Ashamed of her
self-betrayal—softened yet more by his pleading voice—she could have
prayed to the earth to swallow her. At length, checking back her tears
by a heroic effort, she said, almost calmly, “Noble friend, forgive me.
I have no grief, believe me, which—which I can tell to you. I was but
thinking of my poor father when you came up; alarming myself about him,
it may be, with vain superstitious fears; and so—even a slight
surprise—your abrupt appearance, has sufficed to make me thus weak and
foolish; but I wish to see my father!—to go home—home!”

“Your father is well, believe me, and pleased that you are here. No
danger threatens him; and you, _here_, are safe.”

“I safe—and from what?”

Harley mused irresolute. He inclined to confide to her the danger which
her father had concealed; but had he the right to do so against her
father’s will?

“Give me,” he said, “time to reflect, and to obtain permission to
intrust you with a secret which, in my judgment, you should know.
Meanwhile, this much I may say, that rather than you should incur the
danger that I believe he exaggerates, your father would have given you a
protector—even in Randal Leslie.”

Violante started.

“But,” resumed Harley, with a calm, in which a certain deep mournfulness
was apparent, unconsciously to himself—“but I trust you are reserved for
a fairer fate, and a nobler spouse. I have vowed to live henceforth in
the common workday world. But for you, bright child, for you, I am a
dreamer still!”

Violante turned her eyes for one instant towards the melancholy speaker.
The look thrilled to his heart. He bowed his face involuntarily. When he
looked up, she had left his side. He did not this time attempt to follow
her, but moved away and plunged amidst the leafless trees.

An hour afterwards he re-entered the house, and again sought to see
Helen. She had now recovered sufficiently to give him the interview he
requested.

He approached her with a grave and serious gentleness.

“My dear Helen,” said he, “you have consented to be my wife, my life’s
mild companion; let it be soon—soon—for I need you. I need all the
strength of that holy tie. Helen, let me press you to fix the time.”

“I owe you too much,” answered Helen, looking down, “to have a will but
yours. But your mother,” she added, perhaps clinging to the idea of some
reprieve—“your mother has not yet—”

“My mother—true. I will speak first to her. You shall receive from my
family all honour due to your gentle virtues. Helen, by the way, have
you mentioned to Violante the bond between us?”

“No—that is, I fear I may have unguardedly betrayed it, against Lady
Lansmere’s commands too—but—but—”

“So, Lady Lansmere forbade you to name it to Violante. This should not
be. I will answer for her permission to revoke that interdict. It is due
to Violante and to you. Tell your young friend all. Ah, Helen, if I am
at times cold or wayward, bear with me—bear with me; for you love me, do
you not?”


                               CHAPTER X.

That same evening Randal heard from Levy (at whose house he staid late)
of that self-introduction to Violante which (thanks to his skeleton key)
Peschiera had contrived to effect; and the Count seemed more than
sanguine—he seemed assured as to the full and speedy success of his
matrimonial enterprise. “Therefore,” said Levy, “I trust I may very soon
congratulate you on the acquisition of your family estates.”

“Strange!” answered Randal, “strange that my fortunes seem so bound up
with the fate of a foreigner like Beatrice di Negra and her connection
with Frank Hazeldean.” He looked up at the clock as he spoke, and added—

“Frank, by this time, has told his father of his engagement.”

“And you feel sure that the Squire cannot be coaxed into consent?”

“No; but I feel sure that the Squire will be so choleric at the first
intelligence, that Frank will not have the self-control necessary for
coaxing; and, perhaps, before the Squire can relent upon this point, he
may, by some accident, learn his grievances on another, which would
exasperate him still more.”

“Ay, I understand—the _post obit_?”

Randal nodded.

“And what then?” asked Levy.

“The next of kin to the lands of Hazeldean may have his day.”

The Baron smiled.

“You have good prospects in that direction, Leslie: look now to another.
I spoke to you of the borough of Lansmere. Your patron, Audley Egerton,
intends to stand for it.”

Randal’s heart had of late been so set upon other and more avaricious
schemes, that a seat in Parliament had sunk into a secondary object;
nevertheless, his ambitious and all-grasping nature felt a bitter pang,
when he heard that Egerton thus interposed between himself and any
chance of advancement.

“So!” he muttered sullenly—“so. This man, who pretends to be my
benefactor, squanders away the wealth of my forefathers—throws me
penniless on the world; and, while still encouraging me to exertion and
public life, robs me himself of—”

“No!” interrupted Levy—“not robs you; we may prevent that. The Lansmere
interest is not so strong in the borough as Dick Avenel’s.”

“But I cannot stand against Egerton.”

“Assuredly not—you may stand with him.”

“How?”

“Dick Avenel will never suffer Egerton to come in; and though he cannot,
perhaps, carry two of his own politics, he can split his votes upon
you.”

Randal’s eyes flashed. He saw at a glance, that if Avenel did not
overrate the relative strength of parties, his seat could be secured.

“But,” he said, “Egerton has not spoken to me on such a subject; nor can
you expect that he would propose to me to stand with him, if he foresaw
the chance of being ousted by the very candidate he himself introduced.”

“Neither he nor his party will anticipate that possibility. If he asks
you, agree to stand—leave the rest to me.”

“You must hate Egerton bitterly,” said Randal; “for I am not vain enough
to think that you thus scheme but from pure love to me.”

“The motives of men are intricate and complicated,” answered Levy, with
unusual seriousness. “It suffices to the wise to profit by the actions,
and leave the motives in shade.”

There was silence for some minutes. Then the two drew closer towards
each other, and began to discuss details in their joint designs.

Randal walked home slowly. It was a cold moonlit night. Young idlers of
his own years and rank passed him by, on their way from the haunts of
social pleasure. They were yet in the first fair holiday of life. Life’s
holiday had gone from him for ever. Graver men, in the various callings
of masculine labour—professions, trade, the state—passed him also. Their
steps might be sober, and their faces careworn; but no step had the
furtive stealth of his—no face the same contracted, sinister, suspicious
gloom. Only once, in a lonely thoroughfare, and on the opposite side of
the way, fell a foot-fall, and glanced an eye, that seemed to betray a
soul in sympathy with Randal Leslie’s.

And Randal, who had heeded none of the other passengers by the way, as
if instinctively, took note of this one. His nerves crisped at the
noiseless slide of that form, as it stalked on from lamp to lamp,
keeping pace with his own. He felt a sort of awe, as if he had beheld
the wraith of himself; and ever, as he glanced suspiciously at the
stranger, the stranger glanced at him. He was inexpressibly relieved
when the figure turned down another street and vanished.

That man was a felon, as yet undetected. Between him and his kind there
stood but a thought—a veil airspun, but impassable, as the veil of the
Image at Sais.

And thus moved and thus looked Randal Leslie, a thing of dark and secret
mischief—within the pale of the law, but equally removed from man by the
vague consciousness that at his heart lay that which the eyes of man
would abhor and loathe. Solitary amidst the vast city, and on through
the machinery of Civilisation, went the still spirit of Intellectual
Evil.


                              CHAPTER XI.

Early the next morning Randal received two notes—one from Frank, written
in great agitation, begging Randal to see and propitiate his father,
whom he feared he had grievously offended; and then running off, rather
incoherently, into protestations that his honour as well as his
affections were engaged irrevocably to Beatrice, and that her, at least,
he could never abandon.

And the second note was from the Squire himself—short, and far less
cordial than usual—requesting Mr Leslie to call on him.

Randal dressed in haste, and went at once to Limmer’s hotel.

He found the Parson with Mr Hazeldean, and endeavouring in vain to
soothe him. The Squire had not slept all night, and his appearance was
almost haggard.

“Oho! Mr young Leslie,” said he, throwing himself back in his chair as
Randal entered—“I thought you were a friend—I thought you were Frank’s
adviser. Explain, sir; explain.”

“Gently, my dear Mr Hazeldean,” said the Parson. “You do but surprise
and alarm Mr Leslie. Tell him more distinctly what he has to explain.”

SQUIRE.—“Did you or did you not tell me or Mrs Hazeldean, that Frank was
in love with Violante Rickeybockey?”

RANDAL, (as in amaze.)—“I! Never, sir! I feared, on the contrary, that
he was somewhat enamoured of a very different person. I hinted at that
possibility. I could not do more, for I did not know how far Frank’s
affections were seriously engaged. And indeed, sir, Mrs Hazeldean,
though not encouraging the idea that your son could marry a foreigner
and a Roman Catholic, did not appear to consider such objections
insuperable, if Frank’s happiness were really at stake.”

Here the poor Squire gave way to a burst of passion, that involved, in
one tempest, Frank, Randal, Harry herself, and the whole race of
foreigners, Roman Catholics, and women. While the Squire himself was
still incapable of hearing reason, the Parson, taking aside Randal,
convinced himself that the whole affair, so far as Randal was concerned,
had its origin in a very natural mistake; and that while that young
gentleman had been hinting at Beatrice, Mrs Hazeldean had been thinking
of Violante. With considerable difficulty he succeeded in conveying this
explanation to the Squire, and somewhat appeasing his wrath against
Randal. And the Dissimulator, seizing his occasion, then expressed so
much grief and astonishment at learning that matters had gone as far as
the Parson informed him—that Frank had actually proposed to Beatrice,
been accepted, and engaged himself, before even communicating with his
father; he declared so earnestly, that he could never conjecture such
evil—that he had had Frank’s positive promise to take no step without
the sanction of his parents; he professed such sympathy with the
Squire’s wounded feelings, and such regret at Frank’s involvement, that
Mr Hazeldean at last yielded up his honest heart to his consoler—and
griping Randal’s hand, said, “Well, well, I wronged you—beg your pardon.
What now is to be done?”

“Why, you cannot consent to this marriage—impossible,” replied Randal;
“and we must hope therefore to influence Frank by his sense of duty.”

“That’s it,” said the Squire; “for I’ll not give way. Pretty pass things
have come to, indeed! A widow too, I hear. Artful jade—thought, no
doubt, to catch a Hazeldean of Hazeldean. My estates go to an outlandish
Papistical set of mongrel brats! No, no, never!”

“But,” said the Parson, mildly, “perhaps we may be unjustly prejudiced
against this lady. We should have consented to Violante—why not to her?
She is of good family?”

“Certainly,” said Randal.

“And good character?”

Randal shook his head, and sighed. The Squire caught him roughly by the
arm—“Answer the Parson!” cried he, vehemently.

“Indeed, sir, I cannot speak ill of the character of a woman, who may,
too, be Frank’s wife; and the world is ill-natured, and not to be
believed. But you can judge for yourself, my dear Mr Hazeldean. Ask your
brother whether Madame di Negra is one whom he would advise his nephew
to marry.”

“My brother!” exclaimed the Squire furiously. “Consult my distant
brother on the affairs of my own son!”

“He is a man of the world,” put in Randal.

“And of feeling and honour,” said the Parson; “and, perhaps, through
him, we may be enabled to enlighten Frank, and save him from what
appears to be the snare of an artful woman.”

“Meanwhile,” said Randal, “I will seek Frank, and do my best with him.
Let me go now—I will return in an hour or so.”

“I will accompany you,” said the Parson.

“Nay, pardon me, but I think we two young men can talk more openly
without a third person, even so wise and kind as you.”

“Let Randal go,” growled the Squire. And Randal went.

He spent some time with Frank, and the reader will easily divine how
that time was employed. As he left Frank’s lodgings, he found himself
suddenly seized by the Squire himself.

“I was too impatient to stay at home and listen to the Parson’s
prosing,” said Mr Hazeldean, nervously. “I have shaken Dale off. Tell me
what has passed. Oh! don’t fear—I’m a man, and can bear the worst.”

Randal drew the Squire’s arm within his, and led him into the adjacent
park.

“My dear sir,” said he, sorrowfully, “this is very confidential what I
am about to say. I must repeat it to you, because without such
confidence, I see not how to advise you on the proper course to take.
But if I betray Frank, it is for his good, and to his own father;—only
do not tell him. He would never forgive me—it would for ever destroy my
influence over him.”

“Go on, go on,” gasped the Squire; “speak out. I’ll never tell the
ungrateful boy that I learned his secrets from another.”

“Then,” said Randal, “the secret of his entanglement with Madame di
Negra is simply this—he found her in debt—nay, on the point of being
arrested—”

“Debt!—arrested! Jezabel!”

“And in paying the debt himself, and saving her from arrest, he
conferred on her the obligation which no woman of honour could accept
save from her affianced husband. Poor Frank!—if sadly taken in, still we
must pity and forgive him!”

Suddenly, to Randal’s great surprise, the Squire’s whole face brightened
up.

“I see, I see!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “I have it—I have it.
’Tis an affair of money! I can buy her off. If she took money from him,
the mercenary, painted baggage! why, then, she’ll take it from me. I
don’t care what it costs—half my fortune—all! I’d be content never to
see Hazeldean Hall again, if I could save my son, my own son, from
disgrace and misery; for miserable he will be, when he knows he has
broken my heart and his mother’s. And for a creature like that! My boy,
a thousand hearty thanks to you. Where does the wretch live? I’ll go to
her at once.” And as he spoke, the Squire actually pulled out his
pocket-book and began turning over and counting the bank-notes in it.

Randal at first tried to combat this bold resolution on the part of the
Squire; but Mr Hazeldean had seized on it with all the obstinacy of his
straightforward English mind. He cut Randal’s persuasive eloquence off
in the midst.

“Don’t waste your breath. I’ve settled it; and if you don’t tell me
where she lives, ’tis easily found out, I suppose.”

Randal mused a moment. “After all,” thought he, “why not? He will be
sure so to speak as to enlist her pride against himself, and to irritate
Frank to the utmost. Let him go.”

Accordingly, he gave the information required; and, insisting with great
earnestness on the Squire’s promise not to mention to Madame di Negra
his knowledge of Frank’s pecuniary aid, (for that would betray Randal as
the informant); and satisfying himself as he best might with the
Squire’s prompt assurance, “that he knew how to settle matters, without
saying why or wherefore, as long as he opened his purse wide enough,” he
accompanied Mr Hazeldean back into the streets, and there left
him—fixing an hour in the evening for an interview at Limmer’s, and
hinting that it would be best to have that interview without the
presence of the Parson. “Excellent good man,” said Randal, “but not with
sufficient knowledge of the world for affairs of this kind, which _you_
understand so well.”

“I should think so,” quoth the Squire, who had quite recovered his
good-humour. “And the Parson is as soft as buttermilk. We must be firm
here—firm, sir.” And the Squire struck the end of his stick on the
pavement, nodded to Randal, and went on to Mayfair as sturdily and as
confidently as if to purchase a prize cow at a cattle show.


                              CHAPTER XII.

“Bring the light nearer,” said John Burley—“nearer still.”

Leonard obeyed, and placed the candle on a little table by the sick
man’s bedside.

Burley’s mind was partially wandering; but there was method in his
madness. Horace Walpole said that “his stomach would survive all the
rest of him.” That which in Burley survived the last was his quaint wild
genius. He looked wistfully at the still flame of the candle: “It lives
ever in the air!” said he.

“What lives ever?”

Burley’s voice swelled—“Light!” He turned from Leonard, and again
contemplated the little flame. “In the fixed star, in the
Will-o’-the-wisp, in the great sun that illumes half a world, or the
farthing rushlight by which the ragged student strains his eyes—still
the same flower of the elements. Light in the universe, thought in the
soul—ay—ay—Go on with the simile. My head swims. Extinguish the light!
You cannot; fool, it vanishes from your eye, but it is still in the
space. Worlds must perish, suns shrivel up, matter and spirit both fall
into nothingness, before the combinations whose union makes that little
flame, which the breath of a babe can restore to darkness, shall lose
the power to unite into light once more. Lose the power!—no, the
_necessity_:—it is the one _Must_ in creation. Ay, ay, very dark riddles
grow clear now—now when I could not cast up an addition sum in the
baker’s bill! What wise man denied that two and two made four? Do they
not make four? I can’t answer him. But I could answer a question that
some wise men have contrived to make much knottier.” He smiled softly,
and turned his face for some minutes to the wall.

This was the second night on which Leonard had watched by his bedside,
and Burley’s state had grown rapidly worse. He could not last many days,
perhaps many hours. But he had evinced an emotion beyond mere delight at
seeing Leonard again. He had since then been calmer, more himself. “I
feared I might have ruined you by my bad example,” he said, with a touch
of humour that became pathos as he added, “That idea preyed on me.”

“No, no; you did me great good.”

“Say that—say it often,” said Burley, earnestly; “it makes my heart feel
so light.”

He had listened to Leonard’s story with deep interest, and was fond of
talking to him of little Helen. He detected the secret at the young
man’s heart, and cheered the hopes that lay there, amidst fears and
sorrows. Burley never talked seriously of his repentance; it was not in
his nature to talk seriously of the things which he felt solemnly. But
his high animal spirits were quenched with the animal power that fed
them. Now, we go out of our sensual existence only when we are no longer
enthralled by the Present, in which the senses have their realm. The
sensual being vanishes when we are in the Past or the Future. The
Present was gone from Burley; he could no more be its slave and its
king.

It was most touching to see how the inner character of this man unfolded
itself, as the leaves of the outer character fell off and withered—a
character no one would have guessed in him—an inherent refinement that
was almost womanly; and he had all a woman’s abnegation of self. He took
the cares lavished on him so meekly. As the features of the old man
return in the stillness of death to the aspect of youth—the lines
effaced, the wrinkles gone—so, in seeing Burley now, you saw what he had
been in his spring of promise. But he himself saw only what he had
failed to be—powers squandered—life wasted. “I once beheld,” he said, “a
ship in a storm. It was a cloudy, fitful day, and I could see the ship
with all its masts fighting hard for life and for death. Then came
night, dark as pitch, and I could only guess that the ship fought on.
Towards the dawn the stars grew visible, and once more I saw the ship—it
was a wreck—it went down just as the stars shone forth.”

When he had made that allusion to himself, he sate very still for some
time, then he spread out his wasted hands, and gazed on them, and on his
shrunken limbs. “Good,” said he, laughing low; “these hands were too
large and rude for handling the delicate webs of my own mechanism, and
these strong limbs ran away with me. If I had been a sickly puny fellow,
perhaps my mind would have had fair play. There was too much of brute
body here! Look at this hand now! you can see the light through it!
Good, good!”

Now, that evening, until he had retired to bed, Burley had been
unusually cheerful, and had talked with much of his old eloquence, if
with little of his old humour. Amongst other matters, he had spoken with
considerable interest of some poems and other papers in manuscript which
had been left in the house by a former lodger, and which, the reader may
remember, that Mrs Goodyer had urged him in vain to read, in his last
visit to her cottage. But _then_ he had her husband Jacob to chat with,
and the spirit bottle to finish, and the wild craving for excitement
plucked his thoughts back to his London revels. Now poor Jacob was dead,
and it was not brandy that the sick man drank from the widow’s cruise.
And London lay afar amidst its fogs, like a world resolved back into
nebulæ. So to please his hostess and distract his own solitary thoughts,
he had condescended (just before Leonard found him out) to peruse the
memorials of a life obscure to the world, and new to his own experience
of coarse joys and woes. “I have been making a romance, to amuse myself,
from their contents,” said he. “They may be of use to you, brother
author. I have told Mrs Goodyer to place them in your room. Amongst
those papers is a journal—a woman’s journal; it moved me greatly. A man
gets into another world, strange to him as the orb of Sirius, if he can
transport himself into the centre of a woman’s heart, and see the life
there, so wholly unlike our own. Things of moment to us, to it so
trivial; things trifling to us, to it so vast. There was this journal—in
its dates reminding me of stormy events of my own existence, and grand
doings in the world’s. And those dates there, chronicling but the
mysterious unrevealed record of some obscure loving heart! And in that
chronicle, O Sir Poet, there was as much genius, vigour of thought,
vitality of being, poured and wasted, as ever kind friend will say was
lavished on the rude outer world by big John Burley! Genius, genius; are
we all alike, then, save when we leash ourselves to some matter-of-fact
material, and float over the roaring seas on a wooden plank or a herring
tub?” And after he had uttered that cry of a secret anguish, John Burley
had begun to show symptoms of growing fever and disturbed brain; and
when they had got him into bed, he lay there muttering to himself, until
towards midnight he had asked Leonard to bring the light nearer to him.

So now he again was quiet—with his face turned towards the wall; and
Leonard stood by the bedside sorrowfully, and Mrs Goodyer, who did not
heed Burley’s talk, and thought only of his physical state, was dipping
cloths into iced water to apply to his forehead. But as she approached
with these, and addressed him soothingly, Burley raised himself on his
arm, and waived aside the bandages. “I do not need them,” said he, in a
collected voice. “I am better now. I and that pleasant light understand
one another, and I believe all it tells me. Pooh, pooh, I do not rave.”
He looked so smilingly and so kindly into her face, that the poor woman,
who loved him as her own son, fairly burst into tears. He drew her
towards him and kissed her forehead.

“Peace, old fool,” said he fondly. “You shall tell anglers hereafter how
John Burley came to fish for the one-eyed perch which he never caught;
and how, when he gave it up at the last, his baits all gone, and the
line broken amongst the weeds, you comforted the baffled man. There are
many good fellows yet in the world who will like to know that poor
Burley did not die on a dunghill. Kiss me! Come, boy, you too. Now, God
bless you, I should like to sleep.” His cheeks were wet with the tears
of both his listeners, and there was a moisture in his own eyes, which
nevertheless beamed bright through the moisture.

He laid himself down again, and the old woman would have withdrawn the
light. He moved uneasily. “Not that,” he murmured—“light to the last!”
And putting forth his wan hand, he drew aside the curtain so that the
light might fall full on his face. In a few minutes he was asleep,
breathing calmly and regularly as an infant.

The old woman wiped her eyes, and drew Leonard softly into the adjoining
room, in which a bed had been made up for him. He had not left the house
since he had entered it with Dr Morgan. “You are young, sir,” said she
with kindness, “and the young want sleep. Lie down a bit: I will call
you when he wakes.”

“No, I could not sleep,” said Leonard. “I will watch for you.”

The old woman shook her head. “I must see the last of him, sir; but I
know he will be angry when his eyes open on me, for he has grown very
thoughtful of others.”

“Ah, if he had but been as thoughtful of himself!” murmured Leonard; and
he seated himself by the table, on which, as he leaned his elbow, he
dislodged some papers placed there. They fell to the ground with a dumb,
moaning, sighing sound.

“What is that?” said he starting.

The old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully.

“Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might keep
you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. And he
had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the poor young
lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me as he is;
dearer perhaps until now—when—when—I am about to lose him.”

Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they
had no interest for him at such a moment.

The hostess went on—

“Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him; she did not look like one
long for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers
besides these papers are still here; but I keep them aired and dusted,
and strew lavender over them, in case she ever come for them again. You
never heard tell of her, did you, sir?” she added, with great
simplicity, and dropping a half curtsey.

“Of her?—of whom?”

“Did not Mr John tell you her name—dear—dear;—Mrs Bertram.”

Leonard started;—the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley
L’Estrange.

“Bertram!” he repeated. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, sir! And many years after she had left us, and we had heard no
more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea,
sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John would break the seal, to know
if it would tell us anything about her; but it was all in a foreign
language like—we could not read a word.”

“Have you the packet? Pray show it to me. It may be of the greatest
value. To-morrow will do—I cannot think of that just now. Poor Burley!”

Leonard’s manner indicated that he wished to talk no more, and to be
alone. So Mrs Goodyer left him, and stole back to Burley’s room on
tiptoe.

The young man remained in deep reverie for some moments. “Light,” he
murmured. “How often ‘Light’ is the last word of those round whom the
shades are gathering!”[31] He moved, and straight on his view through
the cottage lattice there streamed light, indeed—not the miserable ray
lit by a human hand—but the still and holy effulgence of a moonlit
heaven. It lay broad upon the humble floors—pierced across the threshold
of the death chamber, and halted clear amidst its shadows.

Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent
splendour.

“And,” he said inly—“and does this large erring nature, marred by its
genial faults—this soul which should have filled a land, as yon orb the
room, with a light that linked earth to heaven—does it pass away into
the dark, and leave not a ray behind? Nay, if the elements of light are
ever in the space, and when the flame goes out, return to the vital
air—so thought, once kindled, lives for ever around and about us, a part
of our breathing atmosphere. Many a thinker, many a poet, may yet illume
the world, from the thoughts which yon genius, that will have no name,
gave forth—to wander through air, and recombine again in some new form
of light.”

Thus he went on in vague speculations, seeking, as youth enamoured of
fame seeks too fondly, to prove that mind never works, however
erratically, in vain—and to retain yet, as an influence upon earth, the
soul about to soar far beyond the atmosphere where the elements that
make fame abide. Not thus had the dying man interpreted the endurance of
light and thought.

Suddenly, in the midst of his reverie, a low cry broke on his ear. He
shuddered as he heard, and hastened forebodingly into the adjoining
room. The old woman was kneeling by the bedside, and chafing Burley’s
hand—eagerly looking into his face. A glance sufficed to Leonard. All
was over. Burley had died in sleep—calmly, and without a groan.

The eyes were half open, with that look of inexpressible softness which
death sometimes leaves; and still they were turned towards the light;
and the light burned clear. Leonard closed tenderly the heavy lids; and,
as he covered the face, the lips smiled a serene farewell.




                        OUR LONDON COMMISSIONER.


                                NO. II.

In the northern outskirt of London, there is a dingy-looking, ill-shaped
building, on the bank of a narrow canal, where at one time, not very
long ago, real water fell in sparkling cascades, Trafalgars were fought
in veritable vessels, and, triumphant over all, radiant in humour and
motley, with wit at his fingers’ ends, and ineffable character in his
feet, laughed, hobbled, jeered, flouted, and pirouetted the clown,
Joseph Grimaldi. The audiences, in those days, were partial to beer.
Tobacco was a pleasant accompaniment to the wonders of the scene. Great
effect was produced by farces of a very unsentimental kind; and the
principal effort of the author was to introduce as much bustle and as
many kicks into his piece as he could. A bloody nose secured three
rounds of applause; a smack on the cheek was a successful repartee; a
coarse oath was only emphatic—nobody blushed, everybody swore. There
were fights in the pit, and the police-office was near at hand. It was
the one place of entertainment for a poor and squalid district. Poverty
and dirt went there to forget themselves, and came away unimproved. It
was better, perhaps, than the beer-shop, certainly better than the
prize-fight, but not so good as the tea-garden and hop. This building is
now the Theatre Royal, Sadler’s Wells, presided over by one of the best
actors on the English stage, and ringing, night after night, to the
language of Shakspeare and Massinger. How does the audience behave?
Better than young gentlemen of the Guards at a concert of sacred music;
better than young ladies of fashion at a scientific lecture. They don’t
yawn, they don’t giggle, they don’t whisper to each other at the finest
passages; but there is intense interest—eyes, heart, mind, all fixed on
the wondrous evolvement of the story. They stay, hour by hour, silent,
absorbed, attentive, answering the touch of the magician’s wand, warming
into enthusiasm, or melting into tears, with as fine an appreciation of
the working of the play as if they had studied the Greek drama, and been
critics all their days. Are they the same people, or the same class of
people, who roared and rioted in the pit in the days of the real water?
Exactly the same. The boxes are three shillings, the pit a shilling, the
gallery a sixpence. There are many fustian jackets in the pit, and in
the gallery a sprinkling of shirt sleeves. Masters of trades, and
respectable shopkeepers, and professional men, and their families are in
the boxes; and Mr Phelps is as great a benefactor to that neighbourhood
as if he had established a public park, or opened a lyceum for
education. There is a perceptible difference, we are told, in the
manners of the district. You can’t raise a man in any one department
without lifting him up in all. Improve his mind, you refine his
character; teach him even mathematics, he will learn politeness; give
him good society, he will cease to be coarse; introduce him to
Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont, Massinger, and Webster, he will be a
gentleman. A man with friends like these will not go to the tap of the
Black Dog. Better spend his sixpence at Sadler’s Wells, and learn what
was going on in Rome in the time of Coriolanus, or learn the
thanklessness of sycophantic friends in the Athenian Timon. With the
bluff and brutal Henry VIII. they are quite familiar, and form a very
tolerable idea of a certain pinchbeck cardinal’s pride, from the
insolence of the overweening Wolsey. That energy and honour overcome all
impediments, they have long discovered from the story of the Lady of
Lyons, and the grandeur of self-devotion in the noble aspirations of
Ion. A world like this opening to their eyes, reflects a pleasant light
on the common earth they inhabit. “One touch of nature makes the whole
world kin.” The same sentiment brings a big sob into their rough
throats, and swells the gentle bosom of the delicate young lady in the
front row of the dress circle. If the Queen were there, there would be a
quivering of the royal lip. Jack Wiggins, the tinman, cries as if he
were flogged. Let us off to see Sadler’s Wells, where a new play is to
be acted, with our old friend James VI. for its hero. A pretty hero for
a play!—The pedantic, selfish, ambitious, and cowardly son of Mary
Stuart, who kissed the hand reeking with his mother’s blood, and held
out the Scottish crown to be an awmous-dish, into which Elizabeth
disdainfully threw her niggard charity, like an old maid depositing a
farthing in the plate at the Magdalen Hospital door. This play is
improperly called a tragedy, because a few people happen to be killed in
the course of it. The foundation is decidedly comic—horribly,
grotesquely comic. There the laughter tries in vain to banish the
shudder, and between them a compound is created which we believe to be
new to the stage. The conventional tyrant of tragedy is entirely done
away with. There are no knittings of brows and crossings of elbows,
starts and struttings, such as we generally see made the accompaniments
of revenge and hatred. There is a low, selfish, cruel nature, disguised
in ludicrous repartee and jocular conversation—a buffoon animated by the
soul of Richard III., a harlequin’s lath tipt with deadly poison—our
ordinary ideas turned topsy-turvy, and Polonius running his sword
through Hamlet behind the arras. Whether this historical view of James
be correct or not, does not matter to the play. It is the view chosen by
the author on a preponderating weight of evidence; and the point of his
career chosen for the development of these blacker portions of his
disposition is the Gowrie plot, where even the king’s adulators were
unable to hide the murmurs of the people, who certainly believed his
conduct to have been cruel and unjust.

Such a piece of acting as Mr Phelps’s presentment of James is rarely
seen on the stage. His command of the Scotch dialect is wonderful in an
Englishman; his walk, his look, his attitude, are as palpable
indications of character as the language he employs. There is not a turn
of his mouth, or a leer of his eye, that is not in harmony with the
general design. His pride, terror, abasement, doubt, triumph, and final
despair, are all given with a marvellous versatility, which yet never
trenches on the identity of the actor’s creation. But touches are here
and there added, some to soften, some to darken, till the whole is like
a Dutch picture—laboriously minute in all its details, and perfect as a
finished whole.

The English envoy, Sir John Ayliffe, has been sent by Elizabeth with an
answer to a demand made by James, that she should proclaim him her
successor on the English throne. He has diverged from his road to
Holyrood to the castle of the Laird of Restalrig—the secret, but
principal agent in a plot for seizing the king; and is greatly alarmed
on hearing that Spanish and Roman agents are at the Scottish court,
promising the king great pecuniary assistance if he will march across
the Border, and, with the help of the discontented Catholic nobility,
assert his claim by force. He therefore agrees to aid Restalrig in his
attempt to secure the king, and proceeds on his way to Edinburgh. Lord
Gowrie, with his brother, is on a visit to the Laird, Gowrie being, of
course, in love with his daughter, and is easily worked on to aid the
plot by hearing of certain indignities which had been offered to his
mother in his absence by the minions of the king. He also goes to
Edinburgh, and here we are introduced to his mother, the widowed
countess, who urges him to revenge her wrongs, and vindicate his honour
by confronting the oppressor. Restalrig has also come to the capital,
encounters his friend Gomez, the Spanish agent, and is by him requested
to take care of certain sums of gold which have been sent over for the
purpose of purchasing the assistance of the nobles to the views of
Spain. We now come into the court of Holyrood. James gabbles, and
storms, and fleeches, and goes through the most strange, yet natural
evolutions—hears a negative reply from England delivered by Sir John
Ayliffe—is startled by the apparition of Gowrie drest in his father’s
arms—and dismisses the court with a threat of vengeance against all his
opponents, especially the heirs of his old enemy, Lord Ruthven.

The interest of the plot hangs on the intellectual combat between the
wily and sagacious laird, and the truculent and relentless king. With
some of the gold obtained from the Spaniard, Restalrig induces James to
move the court to Falkland, in order to be more easily seized when in
the vicinity of Gowrie’s house; but James carries his design farther,
and goes into the mansion of the Gowries, having arranged with his train
to follow him, and make themselves masters of his hosts. When
Restalrig’s triumph in the success of his plan and the imprisonment of
the king is at its height, a chivalrous sense of honour in the young
earl has disconcerted the whole design, by restoring James to liberty,
and admitting his followers. Slaughter then takes place; but while James
is rejoicing in his gratified revenge, and the destruction of his
enemies, it is announced to him that Restalrig, at the head of the men
of Perth, is at the gate; they are clamorous for vengeance—the
alarm-bells are ringing—strange yells of an outraged populace are
heard—James, in an agony of cowardly remorse, blames the instruments of
his cruelty—and the curtain falls, leaving him in immediate expectation
of being torn to pieces in punishment of his useless crime. The
performers have little to do in this play, except to bring out the
peculiarities of the king. Restalrig is played with a rough humour, and
appreciation of the part, by Mr Bennet; but the effect of the young
earl, upon whom a great deal depends in the scene of the release, is
entirely destroyed by the unfortunate voice and feebleness of the actor.
As an exhibition, however, of how one great performer can vivify a whole
play in spite of all drawbacks, we pronounce the acting of Mr Phelps in
some respects without a parallel on the modern stage.

In the good old comedy of the “Man of the World,” he is no less
remarkable in his delineation of Sir Pertinax Macsycophant. His power
over the Scotch dialect is the same; and it is only a less powerful
performance, from the character itself being less diversified, and the
tragic element being entirely omitted. Disagreeable characters both,
from their hardness and selfishness; and we should like to see the same
art applied to some softer and more captivating specimens of the
Scottish species.

We have been forced already to confess that single-character pieces are
the only style of drama to which full justice can be done in any theatre
in London. Many people, deluded by this circumstance, and preferring the
perfection of one to the mediocrity of many, will gravely tell you that
the drama itself ought to be formed, in this respect, on the model of
the stage; that the interest ought to be concentred in the hero, and the
others kept entirely subordinate, or at least only endowed with vitality
enough to enable them to survive the kicks and buffets with which the
chief personage of the plot asserts his superiority. That one central
interest must exist in a properly-constructed drama, there is no doubt;
but it is a terrible narrowing of the author’s walk if you debar him
from affixing this interest to a group, and limit it entirely to one.
You force him to descend to mere peculiarities, and the evolvement of
character in its most contracted sense—thereby, and to this extent,
trenching upon the province of farce, which consists in a development of
the humours of some selected individual. The drama, on the other hand,
paints humanity in the abstract, modified in its particular action by
the position and character of the personages of the story; and in so far
as, for the sake of one chief actor, the movement of the play is made to
depend on him, the poet sinks from being the Titian or Michael Angelo of
his art, into the Watson Gordon, Phillips, or Pickersgill;—high names
certainly; but portrait-painting, even at its best, is not history. Let
any man read _Julius Cæsar_, and think of the Kembles, Young, Macready,
and Elliston all in the same play, and talk no more of a one-charactered
drama as the fittest for representation, and the highest of its class. A
one-charactered drama is only the best when there is but one good actor
in a theatre; if there were three good actors, a three-charactered play
would speedily arise; where all were good, Shakspeare would
reappear—that is to say, crowds would go to see Shakspeare, instead of
going, as now, to see this or that performer in Hamlet or Macbeth.

The nearest approach to this diffusion of excellence is to be found on
the French stage. A unity of purpose is visible in the whole company.
The flunky who announces the countess’s carriage enters into the spirit
of the scene, and is as completely the flunky, and nothing more, as
Regnier is the marquis, and nothing less. But one man we possess on the
English boards, who is very superior to Regnier and all his clan.
Charles Matthews has more graceful ease, more untiring vivacity, more
genial comprehension, than the very finest of the Parisians. For
ninety-five nights he has held a hushed theatre in the most complete
subjection to his magic art, and was as fresh and forcible on the last
night of the course as at its beginning. Yet never once does he raise
his voice above drawing-room pitch; no reliance has he on silver
shoe-buckles or slashed doublets; he wears the same coat and other
habiliments in which he breakfasts at home or dines with a friend. Never
once does he point an epigram with a grimace, or even emphasise a
sentiment with a shrug of his shoulders. The marvel is how the effect is
created; for there is no outward sign of effort or intention. That the
effect is there, is manifest from pit to gallery; and yet, there stands
a quiet, placid, calm-eyed, pleasant-mannered, meek-voiced, bald-headed,
gentlemanly stockbroker, with respectable brass-buttoned blue coat and
grey trousers, such as is to be seen on any day of the week pursuing his
way from St John’s Wood or Brompton; and, at first sight, as unfit for
theatrical representation as the contents of his ledger for the material
of an epic poem. But he is placed in queer and unaccountable
situations?—made intensely interesting by some strange instance of
mistaken identity?—or endangered in life and fame by some curiously
ingenious piece of circumstantial evidence? Nothing of the kind. The man
is before you all the time. You know his whole circumstances as well as
he himself does. He has a wife and daughter; he lives in a
well-furnished capacious house—we should say in the upper part of Baker
Street; and probably a brass plate reveals to the inquiring passenger
that it is the residence of Mr Affable Hawk. That is his name: a
merchant or stockbroker, at one time very honest and very rich; but his
partner, a Mr Sparrow, has eloped with the co-partnery funds, leaving Mr
Hawk’s affairs in inextricable confusion, and throwing him into the
disagreeable necessity of living on his wits. He has a great and
available capital, and lays it out to the best advantage. Never did wits
so stand in the stead of money before. With them he pays off debts, with
them he embarks in speculations, and on their security raises loans
throwing seed in the stoniest places, and receiving a hundredfold. Nor
is his triumph over a set of trustful spinsters, or persons unaccustomed
to business. He does not live upon pigeons, but, like the lovers in
Boccaccio, makes an excellent dinner on a sharp-beaked falcon. Mr
Hardcore will stand no more nonsense. He rushes into the house—hat on
head, stick in hand. He will have his money, or issue a writ at once.
With a gentlemanly motion towards his head, Mr Affable convicts him
silently of ill-breeding and impertinence, and the hat is instantly
removed. With the utmost suavity, he requests the irate creditor to
write to his clerk to stop farther proceedings, and to add, in a
postscript, a cheque for £200. The man is staggered by the immensity of
the impertinence. But the calm superiority of his debtor makes itself
felt in spite of his utmost efforts. Certain shares in a brilliant
speculation have been secured by Mr Hawk for his friend at a very low
premium. The letter to the clerk is written. But the cheque for £200?
Sir Harry Lester, a rich baronet, is about to marry Mr Hawk’s daughter;
all debts are to be paid by the enraptured son-in-law; a fitting
breakfast must be given; a few trinkets, a few dresses. You wouldn’t
have such a glorious prospect spoiled by the want of such a trifle?
Hardcore writes the cheque, and rushes off to secure the depreciated
shares. Another comes in who throws himself on the charity of his
debtor, pleads poverty, distress, even starvation. How can the polished
and humane Mr Hawk resist so touching an appeal? He can’t. He doesn’t.
He goes for three pounds, as an instalment of which it appears he has
already paid nine, making a remarkably good return on the loan of our
penurious friend, Mr Earthworm. That gentleman rejoices in the success
of his “dodge,” and appears triumphant in his conquest over the feelings
of Mr Hawk. But the benevolent debtor now returns, pays the three
sovereigns, and hurries his visitor off to make way for Mr Grossmark,
who is about to purchase shares in a speculation of Mr Hawk’s, which is
to yield three hundred per cent. “How much is required?” says the
miserable Earthworm—“three hundred pounds?” He thinks he can raise the
sum—a friend who is very rich will help him: he will advance the money.
“But the four hundred pounds are required at once.” “Is it _four_
hundred?” A bow from Mr Hawk. “Well, my friend will not stick at that.”
“And the five hundred pounds will set the matter afloat,” said Mr Hawk;
“but go—there’s a good fellow—for I hear Grossmark’s step, and the
shares are promised to him.” Earthworm’s disguise is seen through, and
falls off like the traveller’s cloak before the heat of the sun. “Here!
here’s the money,” he cries—puts a pile of notes into Mr Hawk’s
reluctant hand, and the bargain is closed. Prosperity once more seems an
inhabitant of Baker Street. He has received seven hundred pounds, and
can now provide a trousseau, and furnish forth a wedding breakfast.
Twenty thousand pounds he has settled on his daughter; but they are any
twenty thousand he may be able to extract from the uncountable riches of
his son-in-law. This noble specimen of Hibernian honour rejoices in a
double name; one being Sir Harry Lester, with which to tickle the ears
of the millionaires of Baker Street, and the other his workday
appellation under which he enacts the distinguished part of a stag in
railways, and a defaulter in other speculations. His interview with Mr
Hawk would be diamond cut diamond if the strength and brilliancy weren’t
all on one side. Preliminaries are settled—the amount of marriage
portion agreed upon—a description of the Lester estates, including a
salt marsh taken on trust, and all things verging towards a satisfactory
fulfilment. The salt marsh instantly suggests to the ingenious Hawk a
perfect California of speculation; divided into shares, market rigged,
property realised, and no other inquiries are made. But the course of
true love never did run smooth. In the most dramatic scene of the play,
the mutual discovery is made that Mr Hawk is an insolvent, and Sir Harry
a swindler—the Lester estates are in an Irish bog, the salt marsh is the
sea. Pleasant is it to see the mild self-composure, and sublime
self-reliance of Mr Hawk. For some years he has softened his creditors’
hearts, and amused their hopes with reports of the return of his runaway
partner Mr Sparrow, with all the funds of the firm, and a vast increase
of capital by successful trade in the East. That expedient has been
tried so often that it begins to lose its effect. The creditors laugh
when he mentions Sparrow’s name. What can be better than to make Sir
Harry bronze his countenance, shave off his beard, put on a wig, buy a
carriage in Long Acre, and post up to Baker Street at the very moment,
decisive of his fate, when his creditors, now aware of the failure of
his chance of marrying his daughter to a fortune, are to assemble with
their united claims and remorselessly convey him to the Fleet? Sir Harry
agrees. Hawk retires to mature his plans; but Mrs Hawk, radiant with
some unexpected good news, hurries in—stops Sir Harry from the execution
of his infamous plot, and waits in happy expectation the _dénouement_ of
the piece. The creditors come in—they bawl, they grin, they scold, they
bully. Sparrow is appealed to in vain. They have heard too much of that
Levanter’s return to believe in it any more. Hark! a carriage rattles up
to the door. They look out of the window: carriage covered with mud;—old
fellow hobbles out—pigtail wig exactly as ordered. Capital, Sir Harry,
cries Hawk! Now, then, gentlemen, will you be persuaded? Won’t you wait
for ten days till I have arranged our partnership accounts, and then we
will pay you in full? The creditors pause. At last one of them goes out
to see. He comes back with a cheque for the amount of his debt! Hawk
stands aghast. Another goes out, and comes in holding up a bank post
bill for ten thousand pounds! More and more confounded. Hawk has
uncomfortable thoughts of forgery, and thinks Sir Harry carries the joke
too far. At last the wife of his bosom rushes in, and at the other door
Sir Harry makes his appearance. This is magic, witchcraft, sorcery; for
still the creditors go out, and still come back with all their claims
discharged. The real Sparrow has indeed returned; and, having thus made
the _amende_, is in a position to solicit an interview with his injured
partner; and that sagacious and now thoroughly honourable gentleman
concludes the series of his “dodges” with a solemn declaration in favour
of probity and fair-dealing, which would have been more edifying if he
could have appealed to his own conduct in illustration of what he said.
There was no occasion for any piece of hypocrisy like this at the end.
His life was a sermon. We have heard an objection made to the moral of
this play, that it invests swindling with dignity, and so unites
dishonesty with wit, ease, grace, and fascinating manner, as to make
dishonesty itself far from a repulsive object. Have you ever reflected,
oh critic, that the creditors here are the helots of the scene, to be a
disgust and warning to others; and, in the midst of their apparent
respectabilities, are shown to be the dishonest workers of their own
losses?—that Mr Hawk is far less the tempter of those City gentlemen,
than the creation of the style of speculation in which they are all
engaged. Without Earthworms and Hardcores there would be no possible
existence for our easy, pleasant, buoyant friend Hawk. The whole play
may be called “Rochefoucauld’s Maxims Dramatised;” for a better satire
on the selfishness, meanness, and gullibility of the animal man is not
to be found in the whole range of literature or philosophy. What little
is to be done by Mr Roxby, as Sir Harry, is done “excellent well.” There
is a very praiseworthy obtuseness to the rascality of his conduct, and
calm consideration of his claims, which is very edifying as contrasted
with the thorough appreciation of him instantaneously arrived at by his
intended father-in-law. The principal creditors also are very adequately
represented, especially the miserable begging impostor, by Mr Frank
Matthews. A more life-like combination of mendicity, and its unvarying
accompaniment mendacity, was never observed by Mr Horsford; and we
confess to a feeling approaching displeasure, when we learn that the
beneficent Sparrow has restored his money to that smooth-tongued,
supple-backed, blackhearted vagabond. Now, what is the conclusion
derived from all this?—That a dramatic feast of this quality has not
been seen in our time. Not that the language is comparable to
Sheridan’s—in fact, the composition is rather poor; not even that there
is any novelty in the plot;—but the strength of this play is first of
all in the prevailing truthfulness of Charles Matthews’ acting; and,
secondly, that it never on any one occasion oversteps the modesty of
nature. With the sole exception of the opportune return of the
defaulting partner, we believe that the entire story of this drama was
enacted every day in the neighbourhood of Capel Court all the time of
the railway mania, and is now performing every day not far from the
Stock Exchange. And the proof that this lecture, as it may be called, on
the art of commercial gambling, is carried on in accordance with
inevitable natural laws, is that in spite of the English names, the
Irish baronet, the Baker Street furniture, and the thoroughly London
atmosphere that surrounds all the personages introduced, the play is
originally French. The scene is Paris—the creditors are Parisian—the
swindling, speculating, caballing, kite-flying, and mystification, are
all originally the offspring of the Bourse; and all the merit of the
English play-wright is, that he has very ingeniously hidden the
birthplace of his characters, without altering, or in the slightest
degree damaging, their features; and, in fact, has given them letters of
naturalisation under which they could rise to be Lord Mayors of London,
and eat turtle and drink port as if to the manner born. The author is
poor Balzac, lately dead, who left _Mercadet_ a legacy to the stage of
more value by far than all his contributions to it during his lifetime.
His minute dissection of character had given a charm to his novels, but
gave no promise of a success upon the boards; for his ends were worked
out by a thousand little traits, as in our own Miss Austin, without ever
having recourse to the broad effects that seem adapted to the
theatre;—and we believe his dramatic triumph came as a surprise upon the
Parisian public, which, at the same time, highly appreciated his Eugenie
Grandet, and his other revelations of provincial life.

While dwelling on the performances of the Lyceum, it would be
unpardonable to omit, from the notice of Maga and her readers, the
genius of Mr Beverley, the scene-painter. It almost requires an apology
for applying that old appellation to a man who lavishes upon the
landscapes required in a play a richness of imagination and power of
touch which would bring envy to the hearts of the Poussins or Claude. It
is not by gorgeous colours, or startling light and shade, that Beverley
produces his effects. With a severe adherence to his original design, he
works out a scene, so perfect in its parts, and so combined as a whole,
that it is difficult to realise to the mind the gigantic scale, or the
coarse touches, with which it is painted: you gaze on it as on a
finished picture by some great artist, who has devoted months to its
elaboration in the solitude of his studio; and wonder not less at the
taste, and fancy, and sentiment of those extraordinary works, than at
the rapidity with which they are produced, and the inexhaustible
resources of the mind that gives them birth. It rests with Mr Beverley
himself, whether to follow his illustrious predecessors, Roberts and
Stanfield, to the highest honours of the Academy, or to continue an
exhibition of his own, where the applause of shouting theatres testifies
nightly to his artistic powers; and ample room and verge enough is given
for his highest conceptions, which would, perhaps, object to find
themselves cramped within the limits of an ordinary frame, and subjected
to the tender mercies of a hostile hanging committee. Whichever way he
decides, the arts will infallibly be the gainers. If he descends to
ordinary canvass, and places “infinite riches in a little room,” he will
take rank in after ages with the masters who have ennobled the English
school; if he continues where he is, not less useful will his efforts be
in diffusing a love of beauty and a knowledge of effect. The Lyceum,
like its Athenian prototype, will become a lecture-hall; and from his
lessons and examples, new Wilsons and Turners, new Calcotts and
Constables, may arise to maintain the supremacy of British landscape
against all competitors.

Our readers must remember a very spirited account of an ascent of Mont
Blanc by Mr Albert Smith. Very spirited, and very interesting it was;
but you should go and hear the author give his _vivâ voce_ version of
it, illustrated by Beverley’s views. When we say the descriptions are
funny, we are not correct; though certainly there is a great deal of
whim and fun in the course of his address. When we say the narrative is
grave, startling, entrancing, we are not correct; though, undoubtedly,
there are passages that take away the auditor’s breath, and hair-breadth
’scapes that make him shudder;—but the true description of the whole two
hours’ entertainment is, that it is a remarkable combination of talent,
humour, lucid narrative, and personal adventure, which everybody ought
to go and hear, and a succession of scenes and paintings which everybody
ought to go and see. The deaf man will be delighted; the blind man will
be amazingly pleased; but people in the full enjoyment of eyes and ears
will be inexcusable, if they refuse them so great a treat as the united
efforts of two such artists will afford.

Saturday—and the week’s inspection has come to a close. A cold east wind
is howling along Oxford Street, evidently in search of snow, and rather
disappointed at not finding the Serpentine covered with ice. The Almanac
tells us it is April; but our extremities have private information that
it is December. As we go shivering home, we will diverge for a moment
into the most curious repository of nick-nacks the world contains—being
the gatherings of thirty years, at a cost of thirty thousand pounds. We
call in Argyll Street, and are civilly received by Mr Hertz, the
proprietor of the collection. He is a little, round, oily-faced German,
evidently of the Jewish persuasion, and remarkably fond of tobacco. His
room is like a pawnbroker’s shop; only all his customers must have been
possessors of picture galleries, and have brought themselves into
difficulties by cultivating a “taste.” There are wardrobes richly
inlaid, with a genealogy as carefully kept as the pedigree of a
race-horse. He will tell you how it came into the hands of Louis XIV.,
and how it ornamented a chamber in the Tuileries during the Empire; or a
ring will be shown you, with the hair of Julius Cæsar under the glass.
Beautiful miniatures are pointed out, of great value as works of art,
but far more valuable from their being undoubted likenesses of their
fair and famous originals. Beauties of the reign of Francis; eyes that
looked kindly on Henry IV.; cheeks that flushed in vain to win a
transient smile from the Grand Monarque, are all there. Then there are
little ivory cabinets, and screens magnificently embroidered, all with
their respective stories—there being no article that depends entirely on
its intrinsic merits, but borrows a great part of its interest from the
adventures it has gone through. Finally, he gives you a key, and sends
you off, under the guardianship of his maid, to a house in Great
Marlborough Street, which you find filled, from cellar to garret, with
works of a still more valuable description. We have only time to mention
some very fine cartoons by Correggio, and a splendid statue in black
marble of a Roman prizefighter. This is a very fine specimen of ancient
skill. Mr Hertz’s object is to sell the entire collection, and we
believe he declines to dispose of it piecemeal. Were this not the case,
it would be indispensable for the country to secure some of the
treasures here contained, though it would perhaps be asking too much of
the Chancellor of the Exchequer to endow the British Museum with the
miscellaneous articles by which the statue and cartoons are accompanied.
Colder, colder still, and fast and furious we hurry towards our
chambers. What do blockheads and poetasters of all ages mean by the
balmy breath of April?—the sunny showers of April?—the “smiles and tears
together” characteristic of that hopeful and delicious month? We believe
it is a cuckoo note, continued by imitative mediocrity from the days of
Theocritus. All very well for him in the beautiful climate of Sicily to
cover the head of Spring with fresh flowers, and lie upon the grass
playing his Pandean pipes. But where are flowers to be seen, at this
most uncheering season, here? Or who can lie down on the grass before
the end of July without the certainty of cold and rheumatism? Here has
the cold wind been blowing for two months—sneezes and snufflings loading
every breeze; and yet you turn to a pastoral poem, an eclogue or
rhapsody, about the beauties of nature, and you read whole passages in
praise of April! With our hat clenched over our brow, and a handkerchief
held to our mouth, we career madly through Leicester Square. On the
steps of Miss Linwood’s old exhibition, a man is standing enveloped in
ancient armour. He might as well be cased in ice. But utterly
unconscious seems he of the absurdity of his appearance, or of the cold
that must be shot through him from steel cuirass and iron greaves. In a
gentle voice he addresses the passer by. “It is useless to observe,” he
says, “that all intelligent individuals will be gratified by a sight of
the strongest man in the world.” This is so different from the usual
style of those touters, that we involuntarily slacken our pace. “It is
scarcely necessary,” he proceeds, “to remark that Professor Crosso is
decidedly at the head of his profession, and that the entrance money is
only one shilling.” We are won by the smooth volubility of the knightly
orator. Who is Professor Crosso?—and what is his profession? We ascended
the steps, traversed a gallery, deposited a shilling, and entered a
large apartment with a number of wooden benches, a small gallery at the
back, and a green curtain door, hiding for a time the wonders of the
stage. Three fiddlers strung their instruments with most unholy discord;
the company gradually dropped in, principally foreigners; the gas gave a
leap of increased light; a tune began, and the curtain rose. Oh, earth
and sky! what is this we behold? A _tableau-vivant_ of the death of
Hector. Old Priam, venerable from the length of his beard, is the
central figure; around him sit the maids and matrons of Troy. Hector
lies dead in front; and to slow music, the stage on which they stand is
whirled round so as to give a variety of views of the same group, and
great applause rewards the display. There is certainly a great scarcity
of drapery about the principal figures, but nothing to be found fault
with on the score of decorum or propriety; but we read in a small
hand-bill that the _artistes_ are all German, and we gaze with great
curiosity on the development of the Teutonic form. The round hilarious
faces, the flat noses, and prominent chins, would prove, to the entire
satisfaction of Professor Owen, that our Bavarian friends were lineal
descendants of the Caffres at the Cape. There was not a single one of
the Trojan ladies who did not look well practised in asking the
inhabitants to buy a broom. The sons of Priam seemed waiters from the
foreign _restaurants_ in Lisle Street; and the dead Hector had a strong
resemblance to the owner of a small cigar-shop, where there is a card in
the window with the words, “Hier sprecht Mann Deutsch.” There were other
subjects illustrated, but all by the same _artistes_. The figures were
very tastefully disposed; but a little more beauty, and a closer
approximation to the outlines of the Canova Venus, would be a great
improvement. However, the patriotic audience were highly gratified, and
the Dutch ideal evidently fulfilled. Performances then began, where
there was a display of strength which would be incredible if there was
no trick in some of the displays. The professor tossed weights about
which were more fit for waggons than human arms. An immense iron bar was
laid upon the floor, which he first lifted by the middle with unanimous
approbation; he then raised it, keeping it horizontal by a hold about
one-third from the end. He then laid it down, and grasping one end of
it, certainly succeeded in raising the other end from the ground, while
the minutest observation could detect no hair suspended from the
ceiling, nor other means by which he could be assisted in the feat. But
the crowning performance, which was preceded by a long pause, to enable
“the yellow-haired and blue-eyed Saxons” to recover from their surprise,
was called the Harmless Guillotine, and consisted in cutting off a
girl’s head, without doing her any harm. The professor walked in leading
his victim by the hand. She was probably one of the Trojan maidens, and
by no means so favourable a specimen of female charms as the Argive
Helen. With a vast amount of guttural and other splutter, the professor
addressed the audience in German; and was interpreted by one of the
fiddlers for the benefit of any untravelled Englishman who might be
present. The object of the speech was to beg the ladies not to be
alarmed at what they are about to see; for though the head appeared to
be cut off, he assured them, on his own word as a gentleman and a
Christian, that it was mere deception, and that he was by no means the
murderer he appeared. He then led away his victim, and placed her on a
kind of sofa-bed at the back of the stage, and drew the curtains round
her. He next advanced, and asked whether the company would have the
execution done behind the curtain or in front? There was a unanimous
answer to this, that we wished to see the operation; whereupon he drew
the curtain, waved a sword two or three times, and appeared to saw away
at the girl’s neck, till finally the head came off, and in a triumphant
manner he held it up for popular applause. It was a failure. The stage
was so dark, the figure so indistinct, the preparation so clumsy, that
we could not by any means entertain the feelings of horror and
astonishment he intended to produce. The fiddler, in a feeble voice,
invited any of the ladies or gentlemen present to go on the stage and
examine more nearly the separated head and its marks of reality. But
nobody responded to the invitation; and again we fixed our hat
desperately over our brows, and faced once more the pitiless blowings of
the April breeze.

Thus have we attempted to give a clear and dispassionate view of some of
the amusements offered to the millions of London. The list we have
chosen is very limited; for, in this communication we have omitted all
mention of the great majority of the theatres, the operas, the _salles
de danse_, the panoramas, the dioramas, and other pictorial exhibitions.
What we wish to impress on the intelligent reader is the absolute
necessity of improving, and turning to as beneficial purpose as
possible, the means of entertainment which already exist. The theatre,
we maintain, has in itself the material most fitted for this purpose;
not the theatre of show and spectacle, of burlesque and buffoonery, but
the theatre of life and poetry. The machinery is already there, the
actors capable of improvement, the drama ready to spring into fresh
existence, and all that is wanted is the fostering presence of good and
benevolent men—wise enough to see the immense engine, for good or for
evil, which it is in their power to direct, and brave enough, in the
confidence of a good cause, to despise the sneers of the ignorant. The
amusements of the people, properly considered, are as important as their
ability to spell, or even as the comfort of their houses; and the
philanthropic economist who spreads the light of education into desolate
lanes, and brightens, with cleanliness and convenience, the poor man’s
room, only half executes his task if he does not afford intellectual
recreation to the mechanic who has a shilling or two to spare, but
leaves him to the false encitement of the melodrama, or the leer and
vulgarity of the tea-garden.

But this is Sunday morning, and we are at Woolwich in time for changing
guard. Here are four or five thousand artillery, and a regiment or two
of dragoons; and what with cadets and engineers, the fighting population
must be close on seven thousand men. The heath spreads its smooth hard
surface in front of the parade-ground, and scattered all over the place
are cannons and carriages, and mortars and implements of warfare enough
to exterminate the human race in half-an-hour. There are no such fine
intelligent-looking men as the artillery in the British service. Great
care is taken in the selection of recruits; for the duties even of a
private need both bodily and mental activity. Their pay is higher than
that of the line, and their conduct so good, that out of that immense
body only four have made their appearance before a magistrate for the
last two years.

The quiet of the town is wonderful. There is not a uniform anywhere to
be seen, except where the sentry, with drawn sword, guards the heath
gates. On this great expanse there is no motion. A flag here and there
sways to and fro in the breeze, and occasionally the burst of a
bugle-call rises into the air from some distant barrack-yard. But now a
few officers and their wives and families move silently about—fine
handsome lads come down by twos and threes from the college of
cadets—white-haired generals, and majors and captains scarcely less
white-haired, pace solemnly along the gravel—and, finally, we all arrive
at the door of the barrack chapel, which is guarded by sentinels, and
devoted entirely to the garrison. On entering on the ground line we are
surprised to find ourselves in the gallery. On the different pew doors
the ranks and designations of the occupants are written—general
officers, field-officers, officers, &c. &c.; and on going forward to the
front of the seat, and looking down into the body of the building, we
see already assembled the men of the 4th Dragoons on the cross-benches
in front of the pulpit, and artillerymen on the seats under the gallery.
A beautiful sight—above a thousand gallant fellows in their blue
trousers with red or yellow stripes, their belts crossed, their
side-arms on, and all exhibiting any medals or decorations they may
possess. A corporal in full uniform acted as clerk, and the band played
the anthems, while some military choristers sang the hymns and
responses. Better behaviour it is impossible to see in a church. It was
a calm, observant, and very attentive congregation. After the prayers,
the clergyman, who rejoices in a very fine voice, commenced his sermon
amid the hushed attention of his audience. He was very plain, very
straightforward, and spoke to them as men who had duties which were by
no means inconsistent with the Christian character. Their temptations he
touched upon, and gave them warnings and advice. In about a quarter of
an hour, having seen that his admonition had had its effect—for he
preached without book, and kept his eye on his congregation the whole
time—he dismissed them with their faculties unfatigued, and what he had
told them fresh upon their minds. On standing up or kneeling down, the
clash of their swords upon the pavement was very fine; the jingle of
spurs also was heard whenever they moved; and not the less gallantly
will they press their horses’ flanks, and sway their sabres in some
deathful charge, that they heard and treasured the lessons of their
friend the chaplain. We intend, on some future occasion, to devote a
whole paper to a day at Woolwich, but we have already seen enough to
take off the edge of our fear of a French invasion. With Hardinge at the
head of our Ordnance, and the great name of Wellington still sounding in
the hearts of his countrymen—with rifle corps innumerable, and the whole
empire ready to rise at the first beacon that flares on Beachy Head—we
shall only observe to the whole world in arms, that if by some miracle
it finds its way to English ground, it will receive the most tremendous
thrashing that ever a world in arms, or out of them, received since
history began. We therefore solemnly advise all foreign nations, kings,
princes, adventurers, bullies, and personages whatsoever, to keep a
civil tongue in their heads, and stay quietly at home.




                            THE GOLD-FINDER.


                               I.

           To travellers by the seas, or on long plains,
       The distant objects, on the horizon’s verge,
       Show but their highest summits; so with Time.
       Time orbs so silently beneath our feet,
       We look around, and know not that we move,
       Or that the point whereon we stand, to-day,
       This moment, is our culminating point;
       The Past and Future dip as they recede,
       And only give to view the tops of things.
       Therefore, be happy now; the mental eye
       May take his pleasure, pleasure if it be,
       In gazing on the Cottage, or the Church;
       The Heart may fondly dwell upon the one,
       And think of days of piety, to be;
       And on the other, till the breath of Home
       Waft to the soul more pleasant memories
       Than the West stealing o’er a field of hay;—
       Blest in our ignorance, we cannot see
       That, underneath the rose-grown eaves of Home
       Lurk fire and sickness, bickering and want;
       Or, where the steeple-cross shines in the sun,
       That damp, cold graves are nestling dark beneath.
           All Nature cries, “Be happy now.” The Bee,
       Whose angry labours wound the ear of Noon,
       Finds in the winter, from his garnered store,
       Quick spoliation, and a bitter death;
       The light-winged Butterfly, with truer scope,
       Ranges, all summer, through the garden-beds,
       And, ignorant of darker days to come,
       Enjoys a life-long holiday; the Man
       Who spake as never man did, bade us view
       The untended lilies of the desert-plain:
       “They toil not,” said he, “neither do they spin;
       And yet I say to you that Solomon,
       In all his glory, was not clad like these.”
           Michael De Mas knew not this holy truth;
       Alas! _his_ thought was ever of the morrow:
       And yet he was no foolish homesick swain,
       Such as, amid the perils of the strife,
       The conflict of existence, pine and sigh
       To flee to some ideal resting-place,
       To feed on contemplation, or to woo
       Some simple Thestylis in beechen groves.
       To him the cry of subjugate despair
       Rang, like a trumpet of encouragement;
       And brave resistance did but seem to him
       Another step that led him to the heights.
           Ten years had poured their various gifts on earth
       Of death and life, of sunshine and of shade,
       Since Michael left his little school disgraced
       By acts of lawless violence; and went
       Back to a ruined parent’s ruined home,
       To feed his heart on innutritious dreams
       And idle scorn of those he would not know.
           Once when the lights of English Autumn time,
       Clear, vigorous, spirit-cheering, morning lights,
       Were dancing on a thousand thousand trees,
       Were streaming on a thousand fertile fields,
       And smoking on a hundred cottage tops,
       He felt that these, once his, were his no more:
       A stranger ploughed his very garden plots;
       The Halls, where his forefathers fed the shire,
       Were fallen, and the stones and timbers sold;
       One-tenth of all the house, one-hundredth part
       Of the broad lands, and how much less part still
       Of the respect and power that graced the name,
       Would cleave to him the heir. So slow had been
       The gradual alienation, that till now
       He had not felt it fully; but that morn
       (’Twas Sabbath) they had been to worship God,
       And even in the very Church, where once
       The service staid for them, and bells rang on
       Till good Sir Marmaduke, in coach of state,
       Drawn by six solemn Flanders steeds, and girt
       By a full score of stalwart serving men,
       Approaching, gave the signal to begin,
       Even there a London Scrivener, with his brood
       Of pale and purse-proud children of the fog,
       Sate in their ancient place, beneath the crest
       Which Black Sir Walter wore at Agincourt;
       Ay, over the cold stones, where lies at peace
       The knight who fell at Naseby, by his King,
       There sate his steward’s grandson.
                             “Ah,” thought Michael,
       “The desolate abomination stands
       Most proudly where it ought not; ’tis not these
       I blame, but gold, the cursed cause of all,
       Gold that o’erthrew my fathers, and raised these,
       These—and why not me also?” till he swore
       That gold, and gold alone, should be his god,
       As who alone rewards its worshippers.
       “Therefore,” he said, “dear Idol, I to thee
       From henceforth pay my vows; thou who dost raise
       The Beggar, till the Princes of the Earth
       Bow low to kiss his stirrup; who dost give
       Power and distinction, virtue and renown.
       My name shall be among the fortunate,
       For I am of those whose will is Destiny.
       And then, perhaps, when Victory shall be mine,
       My Margaret will not turn away from me,
       As now, methinks, even she must wish to do.”
           The thought was inspiration: all on fire,
       He wrote to one, their noble house’s chief,
       Whose voice was heard at Eastern council boards;
       And with the ardour of a youthful heart,
       He urged his claim: “His Lordship knew him well,
       The soldier’s spirit He felt; for He was strong;—
       The influence of wind, or sun, or rain,
       Could never sap His sinews: were it his
       To draw a sword in yonder golden land,
       He promised them no niggard of himself,
       No slothful wearer of a scarlet coat,
       Most terrible to women.”
                             Marvel not
       That Michael took the final step alone;
       His Mother never knew a wish but his;
       His Father, ah, the sorrows of decay,
       And sorrow-taught indulgence, made him cold,
       Cold as the inmate of an idiot’s cell.


                               II.

       Michael had gained his end, and India’s Sun
       Now ruled his eager blood; some of his hopes
       Were crowned with triumph; he got store of gold,
       But lost his sense of honour.
                                 In days like those,
       Deceit and violence gave the rule of life
       To men once wise and generous; they were poor,
       And they had power: Opinion, far away
       Raved, like the idle murmurs of the Sea,
       Heard, in still summer evenings, from a hill.
       Blame them not over harshly; skill and valour
       Give power, which, even when marred and mixed with wrong,
       May bless those who abide its visitings.
       When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick clouds
       Have hid the friendly faces of the stars,
       The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and there
       Some wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by them
       Immunity from other lingering deaths,
       And that may seem an Evil; yet the air,
       Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear,
       And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine,
       And gives to men, for many and many a day,
       Prosperity and pleasure: so with these,
       God’s chosen messengers to work his will;
       They purify the poisoned moral gale,
       Cause peace and plenty wheresoe’er they go,
       And lead in happiness on a path of thorns.
           Among the foes of the English settlers, one
       Was ever foremost; he—by what arts won
       Boots not to trace—had made a friend of Michael,
       Who grew in power and riches day by day.
           But purer times were coming; there were heard
       Deserved, though little looked for then from those,
       Themselves not pure who raised them, murmurings;
       Surmise grew into knowledge; Michael’s friends
       Were few; men stained as he pronounced his doom.
           Still there was hope; he never knew despair:
       The Rajah he had served should shelter him,
       And he would lead his Armies; he foresaw
       More wealth, more power, more means of growing great.


                               III.

           He passed from low Bengal’s unbroken green,
       That, like a harlot, smiles but to betray,
       And with a troop of chosen cavaliers,
       Came to the Holy Land of Hindostan,
       Wearily wandering, whether the strong sun
       Parched the wide champaign, and the furnace blasts
       Came howling, hot and dry, whirling the sand
       In dense and overwhelming canopy,
       So that, for hours, the dark was palpable;
       Or whether, under the moist star of Eve,
       The village slumbered peaceful, great old trees
       Intensely still, and immemorial pools
       Silently shining, save where, now and then,
       The Alligator glided from the bank,
       Warned by the chill of evening, or the girls
       With tinkling bangles, and the ringing laugh
       Of youth, and happiness, and unrestraint,
       In coming down for water, scared away
       The timid monster of two elements.
           Once, as they halted in an ancient grove,
       Set by some hospitable hand, of old,
       And consecrate to travellers, now too near
       The fortress of a wild Mahratta Prince,
       The weary band were throwing by their arms,
       And, gathered in their separate brotherhoods,
       Prepared for evening’s rest; some made in earth
       Their simple ovens, some set up the tents,
       Some slew the bleating kid, some kneeling, turned
       Their faces to the West, their Prophet’s shrine,
       And with much prostrate bending, prayed to Him
       Who made the morning and the even-tide.
           Suddenly came upon them, unawares,
       The soldiers of the castle, bound their arms,
       And drove them, harshly, o’er the plain, on foot,
       Weary and terror-stricken, through the gate,
       Into the presence hall, where sate their chief.
       Sternly he questioned Michael of his wealth,
       And with what hope he, from a foreign land,
       Was wandering, thus attended; who, in scorn,
       Answered him nothing; till “Away with him!
       Bind him there on the house-top, that the moon
       Shed curses on his face, pale as her own,
       And our strong Sun burn up his alien blood;
       And straitly search, and bring me all his gold.”
           They laid him on a low, unfurnished couch,
       And left him, bound, alone; he could but look
       Up to the sky, his head so fast was set,
       And so he lay, and strove to rest himself,
       But vainly; the sharp cords entered his flesh,
       The dews sank on his shuddering skin; the Moon
       Rose, like a fire, among the mango boughs,
       And, slowly wending on her westward way,
       Smote him with deadly influence: so night passed,
       A night as long as three; the chilly dawn
       Came, grey, and weakly struggling with the Moon,
       Then threw a red flush over all the East,
       Whereat the Moon turned white, and hid herself,
       While the great Orb that is her lord arose,
       And swiftly mounted high: his pain increased,
       His body streamed, his brain was agonised,
       His sense was reeling; suddenly there came
       A tingling stillness on his ears; his eyes
       Closed; and he scarcely knew of one who said,
       “Let be; unbind him; ’tis a warrior good.”
           Long days the fever lasted, but his strength,
       Nursed by the breezes of a hardier clime,
       Would not desert him; so that he arose,
       A bold, refreshed young giant: then the Chief
       Spoke soothing words; and Michael hid his wrath,
       And answered calmly; till they made them terms,
       That Michael gave the service of his skill
       To tame those wild Mahrattas, ruling them
       To discipline, that they might grow more fierce,
       Like dogs, that wreak on foes their masters’ will.


                               IV.

           Time held his course; the strong-willed man of blood
       Prospered in all he undertook, and throve,
       And gathered stores, and seemed to casual eyes
       A happy child of Fortune; yet there burned
       Two unextinguished furnaces of woe
       Within him—lust of gold and of revenge:
       For his was not a spirit that e’er could yield,
       Or ever cease to think upon its wrongs.
           And therefore watched he, many days and years,
       How he might compass his employer’s ruin,
       And yet not risk his fortunes; the last spark
       Of holier fire, his love for that fair girl,
       That cottage-flower of purity and truth,
       Margaret, the sister of his boyhood’s friend—
       That spark still smouldered in some inmost nook
       Of his sin-darkened bosom, for the fumes
       Of thought debased, rose ever, like a smoke,
       Dimming the smiles of Nature; the carouse,
       The fierce extremes of dalliance and of blood,
       Had almost made him something less than Man.
           At length came round the time he waited for;
       The fraud and rapine of the prince he served
       Rose to such height, as seemed, to the English chiefs
       A source of fear, if not at once abridged;
       And thereupon, they issued words of War.
           Full long the Rajah treated, hoping still,
       By terms, to pacify the alien power
       Which, even then, was growing terrible;
       But each concession, made a day too late,
       Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold;
       For, in those days, the illusion of the East
       Had not yet vanished; like the peasant boy
       Who deems that London streets are paved with gold,
       Men, old in all the arts of peace and war,
       Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw,
       Might harbour still the treasures of romance.
       At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay,
       And, hoping that the neighbouring potentates,
       (Whose crooked policy still left in doubt
       Which side they meant to favour) when they saw
       Their countryman but once victorious,
       Would join to drive the usurper to the Sea,
       Resolved to stand the hazard of a fight.


                               V.

           The season was the later Indian rains;
       The sorrowing sky, bereaved of her Lord,
       Was dark and full of weeping, and the heart
       Of Michael, though a bold one, had been trained
       In its cold native Island, to a love
       Of the bright beams of Summer; and the Sun
       Even when it dealt destruction, gave him joy:
       And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread,
       Such as the priests of old Jerusalem
       Felt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept,
       From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful,
       Upon the fatal night before the storm,
       When the Shechinah left them audibly.
           Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on,
       And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts,
       Felt fear and wonder that he was alone.
       Around his tent he heard the mighty waters
       Plash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry;
       Within, the congregated insect life
       Monotonously hummed; he made two turns,
       Then, calling for his torch, took an old book,
       Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last gift
       Of a dear mother, given to him with sobs,
       And murmured blessings, when he left his home.
           He opened it, and face to face arose
       The dead old years he thought to have escaped,
       All chronicled in letters; there he saw
       Answers to some of his, containing doubts
       Long since become negations, some again
       Encouraging resolves of his, long broke,
       And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leaf
       But marked some downward step: Oh, in our life
       There are no hours so full of speechless woe,
       As those in which we read, through misty eyes,
       Letters from those who loved us once; of whom
       Some have long ceased to love at all; the hand
       That traced the fond warm records still and cold;
       The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to all
       That moves and mourns and sins upon the earth;
       And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged,
       Still live, still love, but live for us no more.
           He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heard
       That sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,
       The strong spasmodic weeping of a man.
       And all that night in Michael’s tent there burned,
       Though foul with smoke, and swayed by gusty winds,
       A strong bright torch, fit emblem of his soul,
       That keen lamp of God’s lighting bright and strong.
       While, looking on a tress of golden hair
       That lay before him, all night long he sate;
       This was the man who left in days gone by,
       A friend, and a friend’s sister, dear as he—
       A most kind mother, sinking with her cares—
       An apathetic father, worn with woe—
       A home in ruins—and a noble name,
       To be renewed, or ended, by himself.


                               VI.

           All things had now combined; they were to march
       Against the English army; thoughts long nursed
       Had taken form, to ripen into deeds.
           The rains were ended; and the army met
       In an old city where he marshalled them;
       And, as he walked at evening, on the terrace
       Of the high castle where his dwelling was,
       He looked through fretted arches to the plain,
       And saw their tents dropped white and countless there,
       Like sheep without a shepherd—like poor sheep
       Marked for the slaughter—and he pitied them.
           Ere long, the dying despot of the day
       Sank softly down, drowned in a sea of blood—
       Like the old Roman Wolf in Capreæ.
       Michael prepared for action: dark night fell,
       The tents were lost to sight, the shouting sank,
       The drums were silent, all the plain was dark;
       Only against the far horizon loomed
       The uneven outline of the distant hills.
           He called his trusty troopers, and stole forth,
       Hoping to pass the camp all unobserved;
       But with that Host was one who loved him not,
       His own Lieutenant, nephew to the King,
       And higher in the soldiers’ hearts than he—
       This man had dogged his path for many a day—
       And when they came to the town’s outer gate,
       They found it strictly guarded; Michael rode,
       In anger, at the densest, shouting loud,
       “Smite, smite them, spare not, each man for his life.”
       His Arab Horse, that stood with gathered limbs,
       And head reined to his chest, sprang at the cry,
       And leaping, like a flame, plunged in the crowd;
       The rest was one confusion, without sight,
       Or sound—a breathless dream of ecstasy—
       Till he, and half a hundred mounted men,
       Were pouring o’er the plain, as pour the floods,
       When the dams burst, and winter drowns the fields.
           On came the fierce Lieutenant, and behind
       Thundered a motley rabble, whose lean steeds
       Could ill sustain that violent career,
       And soon there were not left who followed him
       Five hundred horsemen; still the chase was hot;—
       Hot was the chase, and long—o’er scorched sands,
       And open cornfields, till the spent pursuers
       Began to drop behind;—some, rolled on earth,
       Saw their girths broken, or their horses slain.
       Then Michael’s men drew bridle and stood still,
       Waiting the onset of the exhausted crew,
       Whose numbers now were scarce the double of theirs.
       First came the bold Foujdar. “Forward!” he cried;
       “Down with the false Feringhi” his last word;—
       A pistol flash, a groan, a drop of blood
       On the white drapery he wore—his horse
       Was riderless for ever. Michael turned
       Fierce on the cowed pursuers, “Get you back,
       And tell your master he is now to pay
       My long-held forfeit for foul injuries,
       Who dared to fling on me, when I was weak,
       The childish insults of a childish mind.”
           That night he was within the British lines;
       But his dear gold was gone; for at the gate
       His waggon-bullocks and their driver slain,
       And half his guard cut off, he had but saved
       His life alone, and some few jewels, stored
       Upon his person: once more, all his toil,
       His guilt, was foiled; he was a beggar still.


                               VII.

           His ill-gained wealth was gone, but not his heart;
       And gain it seemed to that impatient spirit
       That now he should not go, a man disgraced,
       To build his fallen ancestral home, long bare
       To the invading scorn of low-born men.
           He would sail eastward, with what yet remained,
       Touch at some island of the Tropic seas,
       And take a freight of spices; thence set sail
       For the rich ports of China, there to trade,
       And see the wonders of that unknown land;
       Thence o’er the broad Pacific, and so down
       By Panama, and Valparaiso, home
       By the cold Land of Fire: thus would he voyage,
       And gain more wealth, and win himself a name
       For riches and adventure, courage bold,
       And knowledge of strange countries. Then no more
       Would cleave to him the brand of his disgrace;—
       All bow the knee to him whom Fortune serves,
       And he would be her master: he would rise
       Higher and brighter o’er the heads of men,
       Blaze in their sight—no meteor, shortlived, vain,
       But rule them like the Day-God; then to him
       The Senate and the Court should open their gates,
       The mammon-loving City name his name,
       His old ancestral mansion rear its head,
       And he would dwell at ease, for all abroad
       He should behold the lands his fathers held,
       And breathe again his genial native air.
       Nature and he should both their youth renew,
       And all things have a beauty not their own.
       There, on the upland, shall a milder sun
       Smite the white cottage and the glistening vane;
       And nestle in the balmy stack, and float,
       A fruitful flood upon the southern wall;—
       There the great oak shall stir his solemn head,
       The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint,
       The poplar tremble, like the heart of man,
       Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;—
       The beech shall spread his venerable shade,
       The stately elms’ procession guard his walks,
       The birch-bark gleam through foliage, and the ash
       Wave ruddy clusters;—willows there shall weep,
       And the wet alder shall delight to wade
       Knee-deep in sluggish waters, where the kine
       Take the whole meadow with contented eye,
       Philosophers of nature.
                                 One dark thought
       Alone can mar these visions;—he must die,
       And leave the dear possessions: in this land
       Where men are struck down in their hour of strength,
       That thought will oft intrude;—by day it flies
       Before the excitement that his life affords—
       The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field.
       In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream:
       Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul,
       (For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter,
       Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place,
       And left him there alone;—there was no pain;
       But a sense that all was lost for evermore,
       That this was now, and worse might be to come,
       Made the stagnation misery; till, behold,
       The sad and silent years wore on;—at length
       His musing Spirit said within herself:—
       “Oh! for one breath of life; a day, an hour,
       Before the irrevocable change;—how great
       My power was, had I used it; now ’tis gone.
       Where is my wealth? a heap of rotten leaves
       Blown to the shores of folly, where it grew;
       My cherished body gone, perchance, for ever,
       Perhaps reserved to torment.” With the thought
       He strove to utter such a cry, as, heard
       Echoing beyond the hollow halls of Hell,
       Upon the confines of the orbed Earth,
       Might warn the guilty, ere it was too late;—
       And with that cry he woke: the dawning day
       Saw him confused with horror; when it set,
       He was carousing to the lips in sin.
           Now was no hope! save that domestic joys
       Might give him pause, and win him from his sins—
       Sins not now pleasant, but so strong of growth,
       That, like old Ivy, they had hid the tree,
       And threatened its destruction.
                               There was one,
       (Although he dared not name her) who had been
       A cottage light, still seen, though far away,
       In the dark, stormy wilderness of life;
       Her love should win him yet;—for he had heard
       That she was still unwedded; and he knew
       Her woman’s heart, in blessed ignorance,
       Might still be true to that which he had been.


                               VIII.

       He sailed, in search of wealth, from Ganges’ mouth,
       But the ship’s prow was never seen again,
       Stemming the homeward waters—whether, whelmed
       In stormy ocean, half way down she swayed
       And swung among the dolphins and the sharks;
       Or whether, on some calm Pacific night,
       Where on the farthest limits of the dark
       There rose and fell the momentary flash
       Of lone inland volcanoes, some soft breeze
       Had run her slowly on the coral reefs,
       And the blue waves had rippled o’er her grave,
           There was a nine days’ wonder;—men inquired,
       Where was the man, whose wealth, without an heir,
       (So lost, so wonderfully won again,
       After he left the country, by the faith
       Of an old servant, thought to have been slain,)
       Was fabulously splendid? And some said
       There was a Will; all he might have was left
       To strangers—“to a Lady he had loved.”
           It was the year that filled the century
       From Michael’s birth, when he was seen again.
           A venturous band had wandered in the West,
       Till far from towns, or any haunt of men,
       They came upon a region by the sea.
       Rock-bound and bare it lay; and all the storms
       That hurled the ancient, white-topped, weary waves
       On California, since the world began,
       Had, day by day, and year by untold year,
       Heaped all their violence on its patient side,
       And wasted it unhindered;—such salt herbs,
       Such dwarf and barren trees as the keen air
       Gave sufferance to, but rendered still more grim
       The stony desolation of the place.
           Yet was that soil not barren, or the men
       Had never sought its distant boundaries;
       For they were of the eager Saxon race,
       And e’en their rude and weather-wasted garb
       Bore mark of civilised life: “No foot of man,”
       Said one, “has trode these wastes from everlasting:
       Brothers, the land is virgin; part we here,
       And in the evening let us meet again,
       There, by the mouth of yonder natural cave,
       And share the general labours of the day—
       See, Edward, even now you tripped on gold.”
           They parted: in the evening, when they met,
       Their leader wore a sad and solemn look,
       And with few words he led them up the rocks,
       Into a stern wild scene. Far as they looked,
       Cliff heaped on cliff, and stone on fragment stone,
       The land’s brown ribs extended: here and there
       Steep chasms it had, declining to the sea:—
       Some were the beds of streams, that evermore
       Washed down the golden grain, and in a year
       Paid to the treasury of the insatiate flood
       More than the subjects of the richest Kings
       Yield to their despots in a century;—
       But some of them were dry, and choked with stones
       And logs of rotting timber, and deep sand;—
       Here, with the lumps of ore heaped high around
       They found a human skeleton; hard by,
       A rusty cutlass, such as mariners use,
       Whereon was rudely graven, and half-effaced,
       The words “Michael De Mas;” and underneath,
       “I die of want upon a bed of gold.”




                     THE VINEYARDS OF BORDEAUX.[32]


It is no easy matter now-a-days, for a tourist, whether he travels for
pleasure, health, or information, to throw his notes and memoranda into
such a shape as shall excite the interest of the reading public. Nothing
new is to be picked up by traversing the beaten highways of Europe. We
know all about Madrid, and Stockholm, and St Petersburg, and Vienna, and
Rome, and Naples. Not only the banks of the Danube and the Rhine, but
the coasts of Brittany and the fiords of Norway have been deflowered of
all their legends. There exists not as much virgin romance in this
quarter of the globe as would furnish a decent excuse for the
perpetration of three octavo volumes. Then, as to observations upon men
and manners—a line which earnest-minded travellers, who have an eye to
the regeneration of the human race, most commonly adopt—we shall fairly
confess that we take little interest, and repose less faith, in their
fancied discoveries. Your regenerator is almost invariably an
ass;—ignorant, garrulous, and as easy to be gulled as the last convert
to the Papacy. At every _table d’hôte_ he makes a violent effort to
increase his stores of knowledge by inveigling his nearest neighbour
into a discussion upon some point of grand social importance; and, in
nine cases out of ten, the result is, that he has to pay for the whole
of the liquor consumed, without being any wiser than before. And yet,
perhaps, even the travelling regenerator is less liable to be humbugged
than the travelling collector of statistics. The most truthful people in
the world neither think it necessary nor expedient to speak the truth
regarding themselves. Individuals are not apt to answer the queries of a
stranger touching the state of their own particular finances—neither do
men choose to disclose to foreigners the real nature of their national
relations. We are all in the habit of fibbing most egregiously, when the
honour, the pride, or the interest of our country is in any degree
concerned. Why should we scruple to confess that, on various occasions,
we made statements to confiding foreigners, under a solemn pledge of
secresy, which, when afterwards printed—the inevitable fate of all such
confidential statements—have greatly tended to the renown of this
portion of the United Kingdom? Our rule has always been to act upon the
principle professed by Caleb Balderstone, and never to stick at trifles
when the “credit of the family” was involved. We wholly deny that
fictions of this kind can be classed in the category of falsehoods. They
arise from a just and honourable estimate of the value of national
diplomacy; and no one but an arrant idiot would hesitate to contribute
his humble quota towards the exaltation of his race.

What right has a Frenchman or any other foreigner to inquire what is
going on in the heart of Great Britain? What business is it of his how
we cultivate our fields, work our machinery, or clear out the recesses
of our mines? Ten to one the fellow is no better than a spy; and if so,
it is our bounden duty to mislead him. But patriotism does not belong to
one nation only. When the Frenchman or other foreigner beholds an
unmistakable Briton, clad, perhaps, in the drab uniform of Manchester,
making curious investigations into the value of his crops, and the other
sources of his wealth, he most naturally concludes that the child of
perfidious Albion is actuated by some sinister motive. The result may be
conceived. Figures, more mendacious than any that were ever promulgated
by the League, are supplied with amazing liberality to the believing
statist. He calculates the product of a province, after the inspection
of a single farmyard; commits his observations to the press, and is
henceforward quoted as an oracle!

It is not from tourists that we can hope to gather accurate information
of the state of other countries. A very great amount of mischief and
misconception has arisen from an absurd reliance in the accuracy of men
who were absolute strangers to the country in which they sojourned, and
necessarily exposed to every sort of imposition; and really, with all
deference to our brethren of the daily press, we must be allowed to
express our conviction that the system of “Commissionership” has, of
late years, been carried a great deal too far. Of the talents of the
gentlemen so employed we would wish to speak with the utmost respect.
They are, almost all of them, clever fellows, sharp, shrewd, and
observing; but it is too much to expect that, at a moment’s notice, they
can forget the whole previous antecedents of their lives, and discourse
dogmatically and with perfect precision upon subjects of which they knew
nothing until they were gazetted for the special service.

Mr Reach, we trust, will do us the kindness to believe that these
preliminary remarks have not been elicited by anything contained in his
present volume, and also that we intend no insinuation derogatory of his
contributions in the capacity of a commissioner. The fact is, that we
have not read his papers on the social and agricultural condition of the
peasantry of France, being somewhat more deeply interested in the
condition of our peasantry at home; but we know quite enough of his
talent and ability to make us certain that he has treated the subject
both honestly and well. Fortunately we are not called upon now to
investigate his statistical budget. He comes before us in the more
agreeable character of a traveller in the sunny south of France. Led by
a fine natural instinct, he has tarried in the vinous district until he
has imbibed the true spirit of the region. His native Caledonian
sympathies in favour of claret—a disposition in which we cordially
participate, detesting port almost as intensely as Whiggery—were fully
developed by a sojourn in the neighbourhood of the Chateau Lafitte. Of
Ceres, at so much a quarter, he tells us nothing—of Bacchus, at so much
a bottle, he speaks well and eloquently. Endowed by nature with a gay
and happy temper, fond of fun, relishing adventure, and with a fine eye
for the picturesque, he ranges from the Garonne to the Rhone, from the
shores of the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterranean marshes, from the
sterile wastes of the Landes, by the splendour of the Pyrenees, to the
old Roman city of Nismes—making us wish all the while that we could have
made the journey in such agreeable company. As a fellow-traveller, we
should be inclined to say that he errs on the score of haste. Assuredly
we should have lingered with reverence at some places which he passed
with undue precipitancy. He had no right to hurry through Haut-brion as
he did—he should have dwelt longer at Leoville. Our matured taste and
experience of vintages would have mitigated the rapidity of his career.

Mr Reach has not done justice to himself in the selection of a title for
his volume. _Claret and Olives_ are rather apt to be misunderstood in
the present day, owing to the practices of previous authors, who have
been in the habit of vending the properties of the deceased Joseph
Miller under some such after-dinner disguise. _Wine and Walnuts_ was an
old title, whereof we have an indistinct recollection; our impression at
this moment being, that the wine was corked and the walnuts woefully
shrivelled. Then followed _Nuts and Nutcrackers_—maggoty enough, and
filled with devil’s-dust that might have choked a member of the League.
_Grog and Biscuits_ we presume to have been a feeble sort of production,
emanating from a disappointed mind, working on a heritage of wrong.
_Sherry and Cheroots_ did not amalgamate. _Alcohol and Anchovies_ gave
token of a diseased intellect and a ruined constitution. _Tumblers and
Talk_—a Glasgow publication, if we recollect aright—had little
circulation except among bibulous members of town-councils, or similar
corporations. _Ale and Æsthetics_ was but an unfortunate specimen of
alliteration. How many editions of _Beer and ‘Baccy_ have been printed,
we know not; but we are not aware as yet that the author has made his
fortune. With all these beacons before him, we could wish that Mr Reach
had announced his book under some other name. He is not to be
confounded, as an author, with the issuers of such catch-pennies.
Putting aside even his present work as one of limited interest—though we
should be puzzled to name any tourist who writes more pleasantly than
our author—his novel of _Leonard Lindsay_ displays a carefulness of
composition, and a life-like painting, in the style of Defoe, which
contrasts remarkably with the slip-shod trash now forming the staple
commodity of the circulating libraries. There is the right stuff in him,
visible throughout whatever he attempts; and if at times his taste is
liable to exception, we believe that aberration to be solely owing to
the exigencies of the times, which leave far too little leisure to most
men to revise and consider their productions.

The title, however, is unquestionably appropriate enough, though it may
be calculated to mislead the reader. In his wanderings he has visited
the home domain both of the vine and the olive—at least he has passed
from the sanctuary of the one to the outskirts of the other; but we
could really wish that he had not profaned the goodly vintage by
reminding us of those lumps of vegetable fatness which sometimes, even
now, are served up at an octogenarian symposium, in honour of the
goddess Dyspepsia. We honour oil like the Sultan Saladin, and could wish
to see it brought into more general use in this country; but there is
something revolting to us in the sight and colour of the olive, which
has neither the freshness of youth nor the fine hue of maturity. The
last man whom we remember to have seen eating olives was an eminent
manufacturer of Staleybridge, who helped himself to the fruit of Minerva
with his short stubby fingers, descanting all the while on the propriety
of the enactment of a bill for augmenting the hours of infant labour. He
died, if we recollect aright, about a fortnight afterwards—perhaps in
consequence of the olives: if so, we are not disposed to deny that at
times they may be served up with advantage.

Mr Reach, however, loathes the olive as much as we do, and therefore
there is no difference of opinion between us. We like the fine
enthusiasm with which he does justice to the taste of our mother
country—a taste which we are certain will not decay so long as Leith
flourishes, and the house of Bell and Rannie continues to maintain its
pristine ascendancy in claret. With us in the north, we are glad to say
there is no recognised medium between Glenlivat and Bordeaux. Either
have in the hot water, or produce your ’34; nobody will thank you for
that port which you bought last week at an auction, and which you are
desirous to represent as having been bottled for your use about the era
of the Reform Bill. It may be both “curious” and “crusted,” as you say
it is; but you had better have it set aside to make sauce for
wild-ducks. Indeed, “curious” port is, for many reasons, a thing to be
avoided. We remember once dining at the house of an excellent clergyman
in the country, whose palate, however, might have undergone a little
more cultivation, with mutual advantage to himself and to his
acquaintance. On that occasion we were presented three times with a
certain fluid, under three different names; but all of us afterwards
agreed that it was the same liquor, varying simply in degree of
temperature. First, it came in smoking in a tureen, and was then called
hare-soup; secondly, it was poured out cold from a decanter, under the
denomination of port; third, and lastly, it came before us tepidly, with
the accompaniment of sugar and cream, and the red-armed Hebe who brought
the tray had the effrontery to assure us that it was coffee. So much for
the curious vintage of Oporto—but we are forgetting Mr Reach.


  “It is really much to the credit of Scotland that she stood staunchly
  by her old ally, France, and would have nothing to do with that dirty
  little slice of the worst part of Spain—Portugal, or her brandified
  potations. In the old Scotch houses a cask of claret stood in the
  hall, nobly on the tap. In the humblest Scotch country tavern, the
  pewter _tappit-hen_, holding some three quarts—think of that, Master
  Slender—‘reamed’ (_Anglice_, mantled) with claret just drawn from the
  cask; and you quaffed it, snapping your fingers at custom-houses. At
  length, in an evil hour, Scotland fell.”


We have more than half a mind to ascend the Rhine to Bacharach, and
swear upon the altar of Lyæus—which must now be visible, if the weather
on the Continent has been as dry as here—never to relax our efforts
until either the Union, or the infamous duty on the wines of Bordeaux,
is repealed! But we must calm ourselves and proceed moderately. Now,
then, for the vineyards—here, as elsewhere, no very picturesque objects
to the eye, but conveying a moral lesson that real goodness does not
depend upon external appearances. We never saw a vineyard yet, whereof
the wine was worth drinking, which a man would care to look at twice.
Your raspberry-bush is, upon the whole, a statelier plant than the vine
when fulfilling its noblest functions; nevertheless, we presume there
are few who would give the preference to raspberry vinegar over
veritable Lafitte. We have seen the vineyards in spring, when, as poor
Ovid says—

           “Quoque loco est vitis, de palmite gemma movetur;”

but they do not bud at all so luxuriantly as a poet would fancy. The
only time for seeing them to advantage is at the gathering of the
grapes, when the gay dresses of the vintagers give animation to the
scene, and song and laughter proclaim the season of general jubilee.
There is nothing in our northern climates to compare with it, especially
of late years, since the harvest-home brings no certainty of added
wealth. Just fancy Mr Cobden at a _kirn_! Why, at the very sight of him
the twasome reel would stop of its own accord—the blind old fiddler,
scenting some unholy thing, would mitigate the ardour of his bow—and the
patriarch of the parish, brewing punch, would inevitably drown the
miller. Lucky for the intruder if he made his escape without being
immersed in a tub of sowens!

We shall let Mr Reach speak for himself, as to the complexion of his
favourite vineyards.


  “Fancy open and unfenced expanses of stunted-looking, scrubby
  bushes, seldom rising two feet above the surface, planted in rows
  upon the summit of deep furrow ridges, and fastened with great
  care to low fence-like lines of espaliers, which run in unbroken
  ranks from one end of the huge fields to the other. These
  espaliers or lathes are cuttings of the walnut-trees around, and
  the tendrils of the vine are attached to the horizontally running
  slopes with withes, or thongs of bark. It is curious to observe
  the vigilant pains and attention with which every twig has been
  supported without being trained, and how things are arranged, so
  as to give every cluster as fair a chance as possible of a goodly
  allowance of sun. Such, then, is the general appearance of
  matters; but it is by no means perfectly uniform. Now and then you
  find a patch of vines unsupported, drooping, and straggling, and
  sprawling, and intertwisting their branches like beds of snakes;
  and again, you come into the district of a new species of bush, a
  thicker, stouter affair, a grenadier vine, growing to at least six
  feet, and supported by a corresponding stake. But the low,
  two-feet dwarfs are invariably the great wine-givers. If ever you
  want to see a homily, not read, but grown by nature, against
  trusting to appearances, go to Medoc and study the vines. Walk and
  gaze, until you come to the most shabby, stunted, weazened,
  scrubby, dwarfish expanse of bushes, ignominiously bound neck and
  crop to the espaliers, like a man on the rack—these utterly poor,
  starved, and meagre-looking growths, allowing, as they do, the
  gravelly soil to show in bald patches of grey shingle through the
  straggling branches,—these contemptible-looking shrubs, like
  paralysed and withered raspberries, it is which produce the most
  priceless, and the most inimitably-flavoured wines. Such are the
  vines that grow Chateau Margaux at half-a-sovereign the bottle.
  The grapes themselves are equally unpromising. If you saw a bunch
  in Covent Garden, you would turn from them with the notion that
  the fruiterer was trying to do his customer with over-ripe black
  currants. Lance’s soul would take no joy in them, and no sculptor
  in his senses would place such meagre bunches in the hands and
  over the open mouths of his Nymphs, his Bacchantes, or his Fauns.
  Take heed, then, by the lesson, and beware of judging of the
  nature of either men or grapes by their looks. Meantime, let us
  continue our survey of the country. No fences or ditches you
  see—the ground is too precious to be lost in such vanities—only,
  you observe from time to time a rudely curved stake stuck in the
  ground, and indicating the limits of properties. Along either side
  of the road the vines extend, utterly unprotected. No raspers, no
  ha-ha’s, no fierce denunciations of trespassers, no polite notices
  of spring-guns and steel-traps constantly in a state of
  high-go-offism—only, where the grapes are ripening, the people lay
  prickly branches along the wayside to keep the dogs, foraging for
  partridges among the espaliers, from taking a refreshing mouthful
  from the clusters as they pass; for it seems to be a fact, that
  everybody, every beast, and every bird, whatever may be his, her,
  or its nature in other parts of the world, when brought amongst
  grapes, eats grapes. As for the peasants, their appetite for
  grapes is perfectly preposterous. Unlike the surfeit-sickened
  grocer’s boys, who, after the first week, loathe figs, and turn
  poorly whenever sugar candy is hinted at, the love of grapes
  appears literally to grow by what it feeds on. Every garden is
  full of table vines. The people eat grapes with breakfast, lunch,
  dinner, and supper. The labourer plods along the road munching a
  cluster. The child in its mother’s arms is lugging away with its
  toothless gums at a bleeding bunch; while, as for the vintagers,
  male and female, in the less important plantations, heaven only
  knows where the masses of grapes go to, which they devour,
  labouring incessantly at the _metier_, as they do, from dawn till
  sunset.”


In all this, however, we cannot say that we detect any matter for
surprise. The grape season lasts only for a short period; and we have
observed symptoms of a similarly universal appetite in this country when
gooseberries are at their perfection. Nay, we shall venture to say that
Mr Reach himself would cut no indifferent figure in a garden where the
honeyblobs, hairy-yellows, and bloody-captains were abundant. As for the
consumption by the vintagers and pressmen, that can be accounted for on
the same principle which forbids the muzzling of the ox while treading
out the corn; but we never enter willingly into such details, being
satisfied that, with regard to many things edible, potable, and
culinary, it is imprudent to be too curious in investigation. We eat and
drink in confidence, as our fathers did before us, trusting that what
harmed not them can do us no manner of injury; and we do not feel at all
grateful to those gentlemen who think it necessary to go out of their
way for the purpose of presenting as with detailed accounts of the
minutiæ of the vinous manufacture.

It is, we think, a peculiar feature of the wines of the Bordelais, that
you will rarely, if ever, find a connoisseur who will confess an
undivided and exclusive attachment to any one particular growth. We fear
that the claret-drinker has much of the libertine in his disposition. He
flits from vineyard to vineyard, without being able to fix his
affections once and for ever. Such pleasant fickleness is not akin to
the downright English spirit, and therefore perhaps it is that
Englishmen generally prefer the heavy Portuguese drench, to the lively
Gallican nectar. In London it is not uncommon to hear a man swearing by
Barclay and Perkins, in almost feudal opposition to Meux. Many would
rather be tee-totallers than defile their throats with other beer than
that of Hanbury; and the partisans of Bass stand in deadly opposition to
those who espouse the cause of Allsopp. So on the Rhine, men are bigoted
to their vineyards. One individual approaches you, as Uhland beautifully
remarks in the best of his romantic ballads,—

                    “With a flask of Asmannshauser
                    In each pocket of his trowser,”

and vows, by the memory of Herrmann, and by that of Brennus, who first
brought the vine from Italy, that the red fluid is incomparably superior
to the pale. With a scornful laugh the adherent of Steinberger listens
to the boast, and pours into his glass a beverage which scents the room
like a dozen nosegays. A fiery devotee of Neiersteiner stands up—or
rather tries to do so, if he is deep in his third bottle—for the credit
of his pet vintage; and a priest, addicted to Liebfrauen-milch, in vain
attempts to end the controversy by descanting upon the sanctity of his
liquor. In Nuremberg we have witnessed several serious rows on the
subject of the superiority of beer. A hot contest had been going on for
some time as to the merits of the respective browsts of “right Bavarian”
at the Himmelsleiter and the Jammer-thal, the two most considerable
beer-taverns in Germany; until at last—this was in ’48—we of the
Himmelsleiter being no longer able to stand the _outrecuidance_ of our
opponents, who were notoriously of the democratic party, marched upon
them, and, under cover of political principle, smashed the glasses, and
set several casks of the obnoxious fluid abroach. This is bare matter of
fact; but if any gentleman is sceptical as to the possibility of such a
movement, we may as well remind him that the only serious rising which
took place in Bavaria originated from a proposed impost of an
infinitesimal duty upon beer. Were England as Bavaria is, the
continuance of the malt-tax would have led to a crisis of the most
alarming description—and, after all, we cannot help thinking that the
name of Hampden would now have been held in higher estimation, had he
stood forward in the cause of his country’s beer, instead of being the
opponent of a miserable tax, which weighed only upon men of his own
condition.

But we must not become political. So, gentlemen, “the memory of Hampden”
in any kind of beer you choose, from the smallest to the stiffest;—and
now to our present subject. We are very sorry indeed to observe that the
taste in champagne—a wine which we hold in much reverence—is becoming
hideously depraved in this country. We do not speak merely of
England—England can look after herself, and Cyrus Redding is a safe
monitor on such subjects, who, we trust, will make strong head against
national depreciation. Sparkling Hock and petillating Moselle may be
tolerated, though we do not like them; and we have no objection to St
Peray as an agreeable companion to a cutlet. But, latterly, some
superlative trash has made its appearance among us under such names as
the Ruby and the Garnet; and we would earnestly recommend all good
Christians who have a regard for their stomachs to avoid these. The fact
is, that there is no tolerable medium in the quality of the wines of
Champagne. Either they are first-rate, in order to secure which you had
best stick to the established names, or they are not one whit preferable
to Perry. A conservative taste in wines is likely to be the most
correct. Adhere to the ancient vineyards, and have nothing to do with
newfangled fluids, however puffed or recommended. If you want to know
how these are made, listen to Mr Reach, whose fine palate enabled him at
once to detect the slightest touch of adulteration. Young men are apt to
be led astray by the splendour of novel names, and to believe in the
possibility of the discovery of new vineyards. They cannot resist an
imposition, if it is paraded before them with proper pomp and dignity.
Some years ago a nondescript species of liquor, bad enough to perpetuate
the cholera in a province, was received with considerable approbation,
because it bore the high-sounding name of “Œil de Montmorenci.” We
always distrust in wines those poetical and chivalresque titles. From
this condemnation, however, we would specially exclude “Beaujolais de
Fleury,” a delicious liquor, which might have beseemed the cup of old
King Réné of Provence. But your Œil de Montmorencis, your Chateau
Chastelheraults, and your Sang de St Simeons, with other similar
ptisans, are neither more nor less than the concoction of those
ingenious troubadours, the wine-fabricators of Cette.


  “I said that it was good—good for our stomachs—to see no English
  bunting at Cette. The reason is, that Cette is a great manufacturing
  place, and that what they manufacture there is neither cotton nor
  wool, Perigord pies nor Rheims biscuits, but wine. ‘_Içi_,’ will a
  Cette industrial write with the greatest coolness over his Porte
  Cochère—‘_Içi on fabrique des vins._’ All the wines in the world,
  indeed, are made in Cette. You have only to give an order for
  Johannisberg or Tokay—nay, for all I know, for the Falernian of the
  Romans, or the nectar of the gods—and the Cette manufacturers will
  promptly supply you. They are great chemists, these gentlemen, and
  have brought the noble art of adulteration to a perfection which would
  make our own mere logwood and sloe-juice practitioners pale and wan
  with envy. But the great trade of the place is not so much
  adulterating as concocting wine. Cette is well situated for this
  notable manufacture. The wines of southern Spain are brought by
  coasters from Barcelona and Valencia. The inferior Bordeaux growths
  come pouring from the Garonne by the Canal du Midi; and the hot and
  fiery Rhone wines are floated along the chain of etangs and canals
  from Beaucaire. With all these raw materials, and, of course, a
  chemical laboratory to boot, it would be hard if the clever folks of
  Cette could not turn out a very good imitation of any wine in demand.
  They will doctor you up bad Bordeaux with violet powders and rough
  cider—colour it with cochineal and turnsole, and outswear creation
  that it is precious Chateau Margaux, vintage of ’25. Champagne, of
  course, they make by hogsheads. Do you wish sweet liqueur wines from
  Italy and the Levant? The Cette people will mingle old Rhone wines
  with boiled sweet wines from the neighbourhood of Lunel, and charge
  you any price per bottle. Port, sherry, and Madeira, of course, are
  fabricated in abundance with any sort of bad, cheap wine and brandy,
  for a stock, and with half the concoctions in a druggist’s shop for
  seasoning. Cette, in fact, is the very capital and emporium of the
  tricks and rascalities of the wine-trade; and it supplies almost all
  the Brazils, and a great proportion of the northern European nations,
  with their after-dinner drinks. To the grateful Yankees it sends out
  thousands of tons of Ay and Moet; besides no end of Johannisberg,
  Hermitage, and Chateau Margaux—the fine qualities and dainty aroma of
  which are highly prized by the Transatlantic amateurs. The Dutch flag
  fluttered plentifully in the harbour, so that I presume Mynheer is a
  customer to the Cette industrials—or, at all events, he helps in the
  distribution of their wares. The old French West Indian colonies also
  patronise their ingenious countrymen of Cette; and Russian magnates
  get drunk on Chambertin and Romanee Conte, made of low Rhone and low
  Burgundy brewages, eked out by the contents of the graduated vial. I
  fear, however, that we do come in—in the matter of ‘fine golden
  sherries, at 22s. 9½d. a dozen,’ or ‘peculiar old-crusted port, at 1s.
  9d.’—for a share of the Cette manufactures; and it is very probable
  that after the wine is fabricated upon the shores of the
  Mediterranean, it is still further improved upon the banks of the
  Thames.”


We wish that these remarks could be made practically useful to that
class of men who give dinners, and gabble about their wines. Nothing is,
to our mind, more disgusting than the conduct of an Amphytrion who
accompanies the introduction of each bottle by an apocryphal averment as
to its age, coupled with a minute account of the manner in which it came
into his possession—he having, in nine cases out of ten, purchased it at
a sale. Sometimes the man goes further, and volunteers a statement of
its price. Now this is, to say the very least of it, a mark of the worst
possible breeding. No guest, with a palate to his mouth, will relish the
wine any better, because the ninny-hammer who gives it declares that it
cost him seven guineas a dozen. We don’t want to know from an
entertainer, unless he be a tavern-keeper, the absolute cost of his
victuals. Just fancy Lucullus, in the saloon of Apollo, recounting the
items of his repast—“Flaccus, my friend, those oysters which you are
devouring with so much gusto cost ten sestertii a-piece. Fabius, my fine
fellow, that dish of thrushes which you have just swallowed was not got
for nothing—it cost me a whole sestertium. Peg away, Plancus, at the
lampreys! May Pluto seize me if a dozen of them are not worth a
tribune’s salary. You like the Falernian, Furius? Ay—that’s right Anno
Urbis 521—I bought it at Sylla’s sale. It just cost me its weight in
silver. Davus, you dog! bring another amphora with the red seal—the same
that we got from the cellars of Mithridates. Here’s that, O conscript
fathers, which will make the cockles of your hearts rejoice!” Now, who
will tell us that such conversation, which would be revolting even from
a Lucullus, ought to be tolerated from the lips of some pert
whippersnapper, who, ten years ago, would have been thankful for a
bumper of Bucellas after a repast upon fried liver? We are serious in
saying that it is full time to put a stop to such a nuisance, which is
more common than many people would believe; and perhaps the easiest way
of doing so is by doggedly maintaining that each bottle is corked. After
half-a-dozen of the famous vintage have been opened, and pronounced
undrinkable, the odds are that you will hear nothing more for the rest
of the evening on the subject of liquor. Your suggestion as to a tumbler
will be received with grateful humility, and thus you will not only
receive the applause of your fellow-guests, but the approbation of your
own stomach and conscience, both then and on the following morning.

There are many points connected with dinner-giving—dinner-taking
belonging to a different branch of ethics—which deserve mature
consideration. If you are not a man of large fortune, you must perforce
study economy. We presume that you have in your cellar a certain limited
portion of really good wine, such as will make glad the heart of man,
and leave no vestige of a headache; but you cannot afford, and you
certainly ought not to bestow, that indiscriminately. Good taste in wine
is, like good taste in pictures, and good taste in poetry, by no means a
common gift. Every man wishes to be thought to possess it; but, in
reality, the number of those who have the gift of the “geschmack,” as
the Germans term the faculty, is but few. Now it would evidently be the
height of extravagance were you to throw away first-rate wine upon men
who cannot appreciate it. Who, in the possession of his senses, would
dream of feeding pigs on pine-apples? And as, in this wicked world, we
are all of us occasionally compelled to give dinners to men, who, though
excellent creatures in other respects, are utterly deficient in the
finer sensations of our being, we cannot, for the life of us, see why
they should be treated contrary to the bent of their organisation. Give
them toddy, and they are supremely happy. Why place before them Lafitte,
which they are sure to swallow in total ignorance of its qualities, very
likely commending it as good “fresh claret,” and expressing their
opinion that such wine is better from the wood than the bottle? Keep
your real good liquor for such men as are capable of understanding it.
There is no higher treat than to form one of a party of six, all people
of first-rate intelligence, true, generous, clarety souls, when the best
of the vintages of Bordeaux is circulating at the board. No man talks of
the wine—he would as soon think of commending the air because it was
wholesome, or the sun because it gave him warmth. They drink it with a
quiet gusto and silent enjoyment, which prove that it is just the thing;
and no impertinent remonstrance is made when the bell is pulled, until
taste, which your true claret-drinker never disobeys, simultaneously
indicates to the party that they have had a proper allowance. Indeed,
you will almost never find a thorough gentleman, who has been properly
educated in claret, committing any excess. Port sends people to the
drawing-room with flushed faces, husky voices, and staring eyes, bearing
evident marks upon them of having partaken of the cup of Circe. Claret
merely fosters the kindlier qualities, and brings out in strong relief
the attributes of the gentleman and the scholar.

We should have liked, had time permitted, to have transcribed one or two
of Mr Reach’s sketches of scenery, especially his description of the
Landes, where, instead of wine, men gather a harvest of resin, and where
the shepherds imitate the crane, by walking perpetually upon stilts. We
already possessed some knowledge of that singular region from the
writings of George Sand, but Mr Reach’s description is more simple, and
certainly more easily realised. His account also of Pau, and its
society, and the neighbouring scenery, is remarkably good; but so is the
book generally, and therefore we need not particularise. Only, as we are
bound to discharge the critical function with impartiality, and as we
are rather in a severe mood, this not being one of our claret days, we
take leave to say that the legends which he has engrafted are by far the
least valuable portion of the volume. Everybody who knows anything of
modern bookmaking, must be aware that such tales are entirely
attributable to the fertile genius of the author; for we would as soon
believe in the discovery of a buried treasure, as in the existence of
those grey-haired guides, veteran smugglers, and antique boatmen, who
are invariably brought forward as the Homeridæ or recounters of floating
tradition. We have travelled a good deal in different parts of the
world, and seen as much of that kind of society as our neighbours; but
we can safely aver that we never yet met with a local Sinbad who had
anything to tell worth the hearing. If an author wants the materials of
romance, the best place that he can frequent is a commercial traveller’s
room. We have been privileged to hear in such social circles more
marvels than would furnish forth a whole library of romance, with this
additional advantage, that the narrator of the tale, whether it referred
to love or war, was invariably its principal hero.

But we are now rapidly approaching the limits of our paper, and must
break off. Those who have a mind to know something of the south of
France—of that strange old place, Aigues-Mortes, from which the
Crusaders once embarked for Palestine, but which is now almost entirely
deserted, and left like a mouldering wreck in the midst of the marshes
that surround it—of Nismes, with its remains of Roman greatness and
power—and of Languedoc, the name of which province is more inspiring
than its actual appearance—will do well to consult this lively and
agreeable volume. But beyond the district of the vine we are determined
not to journey now. Fair, we doubt not, are the vineyards in this
beautiful spring—fair, at least, in the eye of the poet who believes in
the promise of their buds. With us the lilacs and the laburnums are
scarce yet expanding their blossoms; but it is a beautiful and a
consoling thought that, within the circle of Bordeaux, thousands and
thousands of vines are just now bursting into blossom, to alleviate the
toils and cheer the hearts of the claret-drinkers of this and perchance
of the next generation. May the year be ever famous in the annals of
legitimate thirst! And with this devout aspiration, which we doubt not
will be echoed by many good fellows and true, we take our leave of Mr
Reach, thanking him for the amusement and information we have derived
from the perusal of his pleasant book.




                      THE DEMOCRATIC CONFEDERACY.


Although the precise period for the dissolution of Parliament is not yet
known, we hear, on every side, the hum of political preparation. Members
who had confidently reckoned on a longer lease of their seats, are
trying to reconcile past votes with the present temper of their
constituents, and, where they cannot openly vindicate their conduct,
suggesting pleas in palliation. The over-timorous, and those who feel
that they have no longer a chance of office, are issuing valedictory
addresses, expressive of their preference of private life to the turmoil
of a public career. Some are recanting former professions—others
becoming bolder and more determined in their views. It is natural that
such should be the case. The contest is not now solely between Whig and
Tory, or even between Free-Trader and Protectionist. It has, owing to
the occurrences of the last few months, assumed a more portentous
aspect. Since his resignation, if we may not assume an earlier date,
Lord John Russell has entered into the most close and intimate relations
with the Manchester party, whose confession of political faith, as they
themselves hardly scruple to avow, falls very little short of
Republicanism. No sooner was he in opposition than he hastened to take
counsel with Mr Cobden. The triumvirate was completed by the adhesion of
Sir James Graham, a man who, having exhausted every possible form of
moderate opinion, having played more parts in his day than the
imagination of Autolycus could conceive, has assumed in his advanced
years the character of an uncompromising democrat. Under Lord John
Russell, Whiggery had lost its power. He could no longer command the
suffrages, because he did not avow the opinions of the fiercer Liberal
party, and because, so long as he remained allied with and recognised by
the Whig aristocracy, he could not conciliate the chiefs and leaders of
the democracy. He did not even understand the traditions of his own
party—at all events, he has forgotten them for wellnigh twenty years.
However much the Whigs, in former times, may, for their own purposes,
have appeared to tamper with the Constitution, they were at least
understood to be in nowise the advocates of what is now called perpetual
progress. They were not constantly innovating, for innovation’s sake—or
altering for the sake of securing a little temporary popularity. But
Lord John Russell can no more abstain from experiment than a chemical
lecturer. Partly from natural propensity, and partly from political
exigencies, which he considered himself compelled to meet adroitly, in
order to defeat his chief political antagonist, he walked on, step by
step, until he reached the boundary of Radicalism. Once there, the
temptation to venture over was great. His own immediate followers were
few and feeble; behind him was the Conservative phalanx,—firm, united,
and powerful; before him was the _Garde Mobile_ of the Destructives,
eagerly beckoning him over. He went; and it is little wonder if those of
his staff who disapproved of so desperate a course, should now be either
retiring from the field, or wandering about in disguise. What line,
indeed, can a Ministerial Whig, who purposes to take his seat in the
next Parliament, adopt with regard to his constituents? If he should say
that he has faith and confidence in Lord John Russell, he must equally
declare that he has faith and confidence in Mr Cobden, for these two are
now inseparable in virtue of their late alliance. And if he is prepared
to support a Cobden Ministry, he must needs avow himself a democrat. If,
on the other hand, he should denounce Lord John Russell, and deny his
leadership, whom is he prepared to follow? Is he to oppose Lord Derby as
a Conservative, when the only possible party that can succeed to office
in the event of the defeat of Lord Derby is that of the Destructives?
Who leads him? Under what particular banner does he now profess to
serve? These are questions and considerations which, during the last two
months, have engrossed the attention of many a hesitating Whig, and
which are now agitating, with great force, the whole of the electoral
community. For it is quite clear that the old Whig party has ceased to
have a separate existence. We do not say that, in time coming, it may
not be reconstructed. There are materials enough to do that, providing a
fitting architect can be found; but in the absence of any such artist,
it must necessarily remain in abeyance. Men of moderate opinions—such as
Sir William Gibson Craig, whose high character, affable demeanour, and
unwearied attention to the interests of his constituents rendered his
re-election perfectly secure—decline to present themselves as candidates
at the approaching general election. Making every allowance for special
and private reasons, on which no one has a right to comment, it does
appear to us that such instances of withdrawal argue great uncertainty
as to the political future, and cannot in any way be construed into
tokens of approval of that line of conduct which Lord John Russell has
thought fit to adopt. We could very well understand such withdrawals
from public life, were the late Premier still in power. We can hardly
believe that they would have taken place, had he remained, in adversity,
the exponent and representative of the views which have hitherto been
held by gentlemen of the old Whig party. Our own conviction is, that his
conduct, since he was compelled to surrender power, has alienated the
confidence of the best and wisest of his former adherents, who regarded
his proposed Reform Bill with marked apprehension, and were sincerely
rejoiced to be freed from the responsibility which must have attached to
all, who, from party ties, might have thought themselves obliged to vote
for so very dangerous a measure. It is now well known that the leading
Whigs of England regard the defeat of Lord John Russell rather as a
deliverance than a calamity. Henceforward they have done with him. If he
is again to take office, he cannot count upon his old supporters. The
Whig peers—the Lansdownes, the Fitzwilliams, the Zetlands—are too
sensible, honourable, and loyal to support a Cabinet in which Mr Cobden
must have the principal say; and throughout the country we know that
public opinion among the educated classes is utterly opposed to, and
abhorrent of any such consummation. The few Whigs who are struggling to
attain or regain their contested seats, dare not venture upon a distinct
enunciation of their own opinions. They usually have recourse to such
general terms as—“wise and temperate reform;”—“that degree of progress
which the advanced position and increased intelligence of the age render
imperative;”—or, “the timely concession to popular demand of those
privileges which, if withheld, may hereafter be more clamorously
enforced.” It is no use commenting upon such language. The unhappy
individuals who employ it are quite guiltless of any meaning; and they
could not explain themselves if required. Generally speaking, they cut a
most miserable figure when under examination by some burly Radical. On
no one point are they explicit, save in their rejection of the ballot,
which they think themselves entitled to except to, as Lord John Russell
has hitherto declined to pronounce in favour of secret voting; and they
dare not, for the lives of them, attempt to mark out the limit of the
suffrage, or state the proper period for the duration of Parliaments.
This is but a cowardly and contemptible line of conduct. If they have
any spark of manhood in them, why can they not speak out? Surely by this
time they should know the points of the Charter by heart, and be able to
tell the constituencies to which of them they are ready to agree. On the
contrary, we find nothing but dodging, shuffling, equivocating, and
reserving. The fact is, that they have no mind of their own at all, and
they are in sore perplexity as to the state of two other minds which
they are trying to reconcile—the first being the mind of Lord John
Russell, and the second being the mind of the constituency which they
are addressing. For, apart from reform altogether, there are several
topics about which your pure Whig candidate must be exceedingly
cautious. For example, there is the withdrawal of the grant to Maynooth.
Even supposing that Lord John Russell were as alert a Protestant as he
professed himself to be in the autumn of 1850, how could he venture to
sacrifice the support of the Irish tail? Therein lies the difficulty.
You will find plenty of men—very determined Protestants, but also very
determined adherents of the late Ministry—who will tell you “that they
were always opposed to any grant of the kind;”—that is, that they
thought it essentially wrong, not only in a political, but in a
religious point of view; but, press one of these gentlemen upon the
point, especially if, as in the case of Edinburgh, the selection of a
candidate seems to depend greatly on his views with regard to that
measure, and you will almost invariably find that his attachment to
Protestantism is less strong than his regard for the interests of his
party. This may not be right, and we do not think it is so; but we
infinitely prefer the conduct and avowal of such men to the disgraceful
exhibitions which have lately been made by more than one Whig candidate.
Opinions, based on religious principle, never ought to be conceded.
Changed they may be; but what idea of the sincerity of such a change can
be formed, when we find it taking place immediately on the eve of an
election, and, in one instance, after the issue of an address? After
all, we are perhaps too severe. Every one knows what was the miserable
denouement of Lord John Russell’s determined stand for Protestantism
against Papal aggression; and it might be too much to expect that the
devoted and even servile follower should exhibit, in his own person,
more consistency than was displayed by his redoubted chief.

It is, however, quite apparent that, notwithstanding Lord John Russell’s
advances to the Radical party, the latter are by no means inclined to
place confidence in the Whigs. In every case in which such a movement
seems likely to be attended with any prospect of success, they are
putting forward candidates of their own—men whose adhesion to democratic
principles is beyond the possibility of a challenge. Persons whose names
were never before heard of—utterly briefless barristers, reporters and
writers for the Radical press, broken-down speculators, who consider a
career within the walls of St Stephen’s as the best method of effacing
the memory of the enormities of Capel Court, attorneys in dubious
practice, and the like class of characters—are presenting themselves to
constituencies rather on the strength of recommendations from the
Radical Reform Junta, than from any particular merits of their own. By
these men the Whigs are especially persecuted, and may, perhaps, in
various instances, be beaten. Yet, strange to say, the Whigs, as a
party, have not the courage to adopt any distinct principle, or announce
any determined line of action, which would serve at once to distinguish
and separate them from the fellowship of these political adventurers.
They are ashamed of their old party names, and persist in calling
themselves Liberals. Now, as we all know, Liberality is, in politics, an
exceedingly comprehensive term. Cuffey was a Liberal, so is Mr Feargus
O’Connor; so are Mr Joseph Hume, Mr John M’Gregor, Mr Cobden, Mr W.J.
Fox, Lord Melgund, and Mr James Moncrieff. And yet it would be difficult
to say upon what particular point, negations excluded, one and all of
these gentlemen are agreed. The fact is—and the Whigs know it—that there
is no such a thing as a united Liberal party, and that the soldering up
of their differences is impossible. When a Whig appeals to a
constituency as a Liberal, he is taking the worst and weakest, because
the most untenable, ground. He is acting the part of the Girondists, who
persisted in claiming kindred with the Montagnards, until the Mountain
fell upon and crushed them. It is this feature which distinguishes the
present from every previous contest. The chiefs of the Liberal sections
profess to act in concert and amity—they hold meetings, pass
resolutions, and lay down plans for future operations—their followers
are as much opposed to each other as Abram and Balthazar of the House of
Montague were to Sampson and Gregory of the House of Capulet. One thing
alone they agree in—they are determined to do everything in their power
to obstruct her Majesty’s present Government.

It is very needful that such matters should be considered at the present
time—that sober-minded people, who must take a part in the approaching
election, should thoroughly understand the responsibility which devolves
upon them, and the consequences which may ensue from their committing an
error of judgment. The influence of party watchwords, though materially
lessened of late years, has not yet ceased to exist; and it is possible
that some men may, through a terror of being charged with political
inconsistency, actually commit themselves to principles which they hold
in sincere abhorrence. Therefore it is necessary to look, not only to
the past and present position of parties, but also to their future
prospects and views, according to the support which may be accorded to
them by the country at the general election.

Let us suppose that, at the opening of the new Parliament, Lord Derby
should be defeated by a vote of want of confidence. His resignation must
follow as a matter of course, and then begins the strife. Past events
render it perfectly clear that the old Whig Government cannot return to
office, or, if it could do so, must act upon other principles than
before. Lord John Russell’s resignation in February was an event which
could not have been long postponed. His Cabinet was broken into
divisions; it was unpopular out of doors; and his own conduct had, on
various matters, been such as to engender general dissatisfaction. His
Reform Bill was a measure which gave vast umbrage to the majority even
of the urban electors. Its introduction was, perhaps, the most signal
proof of his political weakness, and, we may add, of his ignorance of
the state of popular feeling. No matter whether it was intended to be
carried or not, it remains, and ever will remain, an example of the
length to which personal ambition may carry an unscrupulous Minister.
Earl Grey’s administration of the Colonies has become a byword for
imbecility, blundering, and disaster. The finances were not in much
better hands. No movement was made by Sir Charles Wood towards the
termination of the Income-Tax, nor had he even the practical ability to
reimpose it upon an equitable basis. We do not allude to these things by
way of criticism on the past—indeed it would be unnecessary to do so, as
they are matters of common notoriety. We state them merely to show that
the reconstruction of the Whig Government, out of old materials, and on
old principles, is a thing impossible, and that the next professing
Liberal Government must differ greatly in kind and character from any
which has hitherto preceded it.

Could it possibly be a moderate Government? Let us first consider that.

Not only the Radical party, (who must be looked upon as the chief
supporters of such a Government,) but Lord John Russell and Sir James
Graham, are pledged to the introduction of certain organic changes,
differing only in degree. To suppose that any of them will adopt a less
measure than that which they have advocated, is out of the question; and
as the tendency of the movement has been, not from the Radicals to Lord
John Russell, but from Lord John Russell to the Radicals, we may very
naturally conclude that the result would be an approximation to the
views of Mr Cobden. That gentleman, as we know, (for he does not scruple
to tell us so in as many words,) has “ulterior objects” of his own, the
time for developing which in safety has probably not yet arrived. We
shall not inquire too curiously into the nature of those, being
satisfied, as probably will be most of our readers who have watched the
progress of the man, that they are not at all calculated to improve the
stability of any of our institutions. We cannot, therefore, see what
hopes can be entertained of the formation of a moderate Government,
supposing Lord Derby’s to be overthrown; unless, instead of uniting with
Mr Cobden, Lord John Russell could effect a union with some other
political party.

No such party exists. Unless we are much deceived, the majority of the
followers of the late Sir Robert Peel, at least the majority of those
who may be able to re-enter Parliament, are prepared to give their
support and confidence to Lord Derby’s Administration. There may, no
doubt, be exceptions. Sir James Graham and Mr Cardwell are clearly out
of the Conservative ranks, and may enlist under any banner they choose.
But as it is extremely problematical whether either of these gentlemen
will obtain seats in the new House of Commons, their views are of little
consequence. Other Obstructives, of whom there are a few, have no chance
whatever of being returned; so that the construction of what we may term
a moderate Liberal Government could not take place, from absolute want
of material. Indeed, judging from the language lately employed by the
knight of Netherby, we should say that moderation is as far from his
thoughts as from those of the rankest Radical in Oldham.

Unless, therefore, the electors are really anxious for a Radical
Government and for Radical measures, they ought to abstain from giving
a vote to any candidate who is hostile to the continuance of Lord
Derby’s Administration. Let us not be misunderstood. We are not now
arguing as to the propriety of sending Protectionists instead of
Free-Traders to Parliament; we are not asking any man to forsake his
opinions on points of commercial policy. Doubtless in the next
Parliament there will be some opposed to the reimposition of duties
upon corn, who, nevertheless, are prepared to accord their general
support to Lord Derby, the more readily because he has distinctly
stated that he leaves the corn-duties question “to the deliberate
judgment of the country, and to the general concurrence of the
country, without which I shall not,” said he, “bring forward that
proposition.” But in voting for any candidate, who sets forward as a
ground for his acceptance, the fact that he belongs to what is called
“the Liberal party,” let the electors remember that they are in truth
voting for Radical measures, and for organic changes. They may be slow
to believe so, but there can actually and absolutely be no other
result. These gentlemen of “the Liberal party,” however moderate their
individual views may be, seek to enter Parliament for the purpose of
overthrowing one Government and establishing another. Of course the
overthrow must always precede the reconstruction; and, most commonly,
it is not until the overthrow has been made, that the plan of the
structure is considered. We have already stated our reasons—and we
submit they are strong ones—for thinking that no moderate Liberal
Government, in the proper sense of the term, can be again constructed;
that Lord John Russell, if once more summoned to form a Cabinet, must
do so on a Radical basis, and the inevitable consequence must be the
establishment of a thorough democracy, on the ruins of our present
Constitution. We appeal in this matter as directly to the old
constitutional Whigs, as to that powerful body of the electors, who,
entertaining moderate opinions, are attached to no particular party in
the state. We entreat them earnestly to consider the difficulties of
the present crisis—difficulties which have arisen not so much from any
increasing power of the Radical faction, as from the weakness,
vacillation, and strong personal ambition of the late Whig leader. No
doubt it is an honourable and a high ambition which excites a
statesman to aim at the possession of power, but the honour ceases the
moment that principle is abandoned. And it does appear to us that, of
late years, far too little attention has been paid to the terms of the
conditions which are implied by a Minister’s acceptance of office.
Under our constitutional monarchy he is the servant of the Crown, and
he is bound to bring forward such measures only as will tend to the
dignity and the safety of that, and the welfare of the people
generally. Is it possible for any one conscientiously to maintain that
Lord John Russell has pursued such a course? Is it not, on the
contrary, apparent to all, that his main object, and the leading
thought of his life, has ever been the supremacy of his own political
party? Has he not, in order to prolong that supremacy, approached
repeatedly to factions with whose principles he had nothing in common,
and purchased their temporary support on terms alike degrading to the
giver and to the recipient? That is not the art of governing, at least
as it was understood of old. Once let it be known that a Government is
plastic—that it may be bullied, coerced, or driven into making
terms—and its moral power and influence are for ever gone. Is there
any reason—we would ask the electors—why any man should incur such
risk as must arise from the instalment of a Radical Ministry in power,
solely from personal devotion to the interests of my Lord John
Russell? There may be some who think that hitherto he has deserved
well of his country. So be it: we have no objection that they should
entertain such an opinion. But this much is undeniable, that however
good his intentions might be, he neither could, nor can, command a
majority of direct followers of his own; and that he has been forced
to scramble on from point to point by the assistance of political
antagonists, dexterously availing himself, at each turn, of the hand
which was immediately nearest. But this kind of course must always
have an end. A precipice lay before him; and, as no other arms were
open, he leaped into those of Mr Cobden.

If the main body of the Whigs are prepared to follow Lord John Russell
wherever he may go, notwithstanding all that has passed, and all that he
has indicated for the future, we, of course, can have no manner of
objection. But let them distinctly understand what is in store for them
if they choose to adopt such a course. Many of them, we know, were
thoroughly disgusted with the Reform Bill which he introduced this
Session; and did not hesitate to express their conviction that it was an
unnecessary, dangerous, and reprehensible measure. If Lord John Russell
returns to power, he must bring in a new Reform Bill far more democratic
than the last. That is the condition on which he is allowed to retain
the nominal leadership of the Opposition, and from it he cannot depart.
The Manchester party will not rest until they have attained their end.
They are for no half-measures; they are plagued by no scruples. Their
doctrine is, that political power should be vested in the uneducated
masses,—“the instinct of the million being,” according to their great
oracle, “wiser than the wisdom of the wisest.” In other words, mob rule
is to be paramount, and whatever the majority wish to be done, must be
straightway put into execution. Is there any reflecting man in the
country who does not shudder at the thought of such a consummation?—is
there any one conversant with history who does not see to what it must
necessarily lead? With no lack of demagogues to mislead and excite them,
what part of the British fabric would be secure against the attacks of
an ignorant democracy? It may be true that Lord John Russell does not
contemplate this—that he would even shrink from and repudiate the
thought with horror. But he is not the less doing all in his power to
forward the advance of anarchy. By consenting to lower the suffrage, he
has given authority and significance to demands far more comprehensive
in their scope. He has indicated that the bulwark which he himself
erected, twenty years ago, is not to be considered as permanent, but
merely temporary in its purpose. He has begun, like the foolish
dikebuilder of Holland, to tamper with the seawall of his own
construction, heedless of the inundation which must follow.

Let the Whigs pause for a moment, and consider what are the principles
maintained by the men with whom their leader is now in alliance. Of
their notions on religious matters it is difficult to speak with
accuracy. One large section of them consists of rank Papists, men under
the control and domination of the Roman Catholic priesthood, and ready
to do their bidding in anything that may advance the supremacy of a
false and apostate Church. Another section professes to regard all
Churches and creeds as alike, maintaining, as a fundamental doctrine,
that Establishments ought to be abolished, and religious teaching
maintained only on the strict Voluntary principle. The advocates of this
view are of course prepared to strike down the Established Churches of
England and of Scotland, to overturn the whole existing ecclesiastical
arrangements, and to confiscate ecclesiastical property. Another section
is supremely indifferent to religious teaching of any kind, regarding
secular education as quite sufficient for all the requirements of the
people. These are the men who regard all opposition to Papal aggression
as sheer bigotry and intolerance, who clamour for the admission of Jews
into one House of Parliament, whilst in the same breath they profess
themselves ready to dismiss the Christian prelates from the other. In
politics they are republican, all except the name. But, in truth, it
matters little what name is given to their creed, seeing that the
principle which they profess is that of pure democracy. It is not
pretended, and certainly they do not pretend, that if their scheme were
carried, the House of Peers could continue on its present footing to
coexist with the House of Commons. They admit that they have “ulterior
objects”—all revolutionists have—and these are left to our conjecture.
Is then our present Constitution so faulty, that the great body of the
electors are prepared to risk, and to recommend a change?

If not, let them beware of returning any man who will so far support
Lord John Russell as to act unscrupulously against Lord Derby. By all
means let the measures of the present Government be considered with the
utmost rigidness and exactitude, and let no favour be shown to them
beyond what they conscientiously deserve. The ordeal may be—must be, a
severe one; but Ministers will not shrink from it, being conscious of
the integrity of their motives. But it is no part of the game of
Opposition to allow them a fair trial, or even a fair hearing, if they
can in anywise be prevented. They must, say the democrats, be
crushed—and that immediately. Mr Cobden went the length of counselling
that they should not be permitted to get through the business of the
present Session, so apprehensive was he of the effect which an appeal to
the constitutional feelings of the country might produce. He and Mr
Villiers had concocted a scheme which they thought might precipitate a
crisis, but it was too scandalously factious to admit of its being
carried into effect.

The late Whig Government has been tried, and found wanting. It never can
be reconstituted again, and its old supporters are undoubtedly released
from all their ties of allegiance. It will be for them to determine
whether they are to follow Lord John Russell in his retreat to the camp
of the Radicals, or continue to maintain those constitutional principles
which were once the boast of the Whig party. The question is indeed a
serious and a momentous one. Lord Derby has most clearly indicated the
nature of the ground on which he stands. He does not appeal to the
country on this or that financial measure—he comes forward as the
supporter of the Protestant institutions of the realm, and as the
determined opponent of a designing and encroaching democracy. What sound
Protestant, or true lover of his country, can be indifferent to such an
appeal?

We have been thus particular in noticing the state of parties, because
we observe that various underlings of the late Government are canvassing
constituencies, especially in Scotland, in rather an artful manner. They
keep out of sight altogether the fact of the Chesham Place alliance.
They are as unwilling to allude to that treaty as to the notorious
Lichfield House compact, when the Whigs bartered religious principle for
Roman Catholic support. Now, this may be very convenient for those
gentlemen; but, we presume, the electors will agree with us in thinking
that the sooner they can arrive at a distinct understanding upon such
points the better. It is all very well to talk of “judicious and timely
reform,” but the orator who uses such terms should go a little further,
and explain to his audience the exact nature of the reform which he
contemplates. Because, if Lord John Russell’s abortive Bill is not to be
introduced again, but, in the event of his resumption of office,
another, revised by Mr Cobden, and approximating to the full
requirements of the Manchester politicians, is to be tabled instead—it
would be as well to know how far the liberality of honourable candidates
will permit them to advance. Also, it would be a curious and not
unprofitable subject of inquiry whether they still hold themselves to be
bound by the acts of their parliamentary leader? If they attended the
meeting at Chesham Place, they must be held as consenting parties to the
Cobden compact; if they did not, it might not be useless to ask who is
their leader, and what line of policy do they intend to pursue? It is a
good thing to hear the abstract opinions of political soldiers and
subalterns; but in these times, it is much more instructive to learn the
name of the captain of their troop. None of the gentlemen to whom we are
alluding are likely to originate measures—they must be contented to take
the word of command from others. If, therefore, they remain, and intend
to remain, followers of Lord John Russell, they form part of that grand
army of which Mr Cobden is a general of division, if not something
higher. They have pronounced for the democracy, and as democrats they
should accordingly be viewed.

It would be exceedingly instructive if we could exact from each
candidate a distinct definition of the meaning which he attaches to the
term “Liberal principles.” We observe from the Edinburgh newspapers that
a gentleman, professing “liberal principles,” proposes to contest the
representation of the Montrose burghs with Mr Joseph Hume—the inference
being, that the principles of the said Joseph are not sufficiently
liberal! Then, at Paisley, a candidate recommended by the same Joseph
Hume, and that superlative twaddler Sir Joshua Walmsley, comes forward,
on “liberal principles,” to oppose Mr Hastie, whom we have hitherto been
accustomed to regard as rather in advance of the Whigs. The Radicals of
Perth did not think Mr Fox Maule “liberal” enough for them, since they
brought forward an opponent in the person of a certain Mr Gilpin; and
now that Mr Maule has succeeded to the peerage, the gentleman who next
solicits the suffrages of the Fair City in his place, must make up his
mind to compare his “liberal principles” with those of the Gilpin. Not
long ago a well-known Whig citizen and civic functionary of Edinburgh
declared himself opposed to any further extension of the suffrage,
thereby intimating his dissent from the principle of Lord John Russell’s
Bill; and yet, at a meeting lately held for the purpose of selecting a
candidate, this same individual moved a resolution to the effect that
the candidate ought to be a man professing “liberal opinions!” Really
there is something ludicrous and intensely absurd in this general
employment of a phrase which can be made to mean almost anything. Is a
man in favour of a republic, abolition of the House of Peers,
suppression of the Church, and repudiation of the national debt? Then he
is undoubtedly a man of “liberal principles.” Is he merely for household
suffrage, electoral divisions, vote by ballot, and triennial
parliaments? He is likewise of “liberal principles.” Is he a
thick-and-thin supporter of Lord John Russell, having held a place under
the late Government? Who so ready as he to lay claim to “liberal
principles.” Does he wish the separation of Church and State? “Liberal”
again. Does he back up the Papacy in their insolent attempts at
aggression, and defend the grant of Maynooth? He does so on “liberal
principles.” Does he wish to see the Jews in Parliament? He vindicates
that wish on the score of “liberal principles.” Now, surely, unless
logic is an art as lying as that of chiromancy, it cannot be that all
the men holding such conflicting opinions are entitled to the name of
Liberals, or to claim credit to themselves for entertaining “liberal
opinions.” If so, who is illiberal? But it is not worth while to comment
further upon a point so very obvious as this. If Liberalism means
contemplated overthrow and anarchy, we make the gentlemen who profess
such principles as welcome to their title as was the late Thomas Paine,
when he too arrogated to himself, in his isolation, the name of Liberal.
If it means adherence to the principles of the Constitution, love of
social order, and regard for the welfare of the general body of the
people, we fear that we must deny the name to a good many of those who
claim it.

One miserable feature in the conduct of some of these _soi-disant_
Liberal candidates, especially the new ones, is their extreme avidity to
swallow any pledge that may be proposed, provided that, by so doing,
they can secure the suffrages of some inconsiderable fraction of the
electors. Their addresses are not deliberate expositions of their own
formed opinions, but are framed upon another and very liberal principle.
They endeavour to ascertain the points of doctrine which are supposed to
be the most popular with the constituency whom they are ambitious to
represent, and they issue their manifestoes accordingly. If anything has
been omitted, or if they have not gone far enough, an opportunity is
usually afforded them to make up for that deficiency at the first
meeting of the electors—so called by courtesy, for in many cases there
are not half-a-dozen electors, besides those on the platform, in the
room. Such meetings are invariably attended by the busy-bodies of the
place—radical cobblers, church-rate martyrs, philosophical barbers, and
perhaps one or two specimens of that most loathsome of all animals, the
dirty dandy. Here the candidate is expected to go through his facings,
and to answer every question which insolence can suggest, or ignorance
render unintelligible. No matter:—as our friend is a member of the
“Liberal party,” he can safely expand his conscience to any extent which
may be required; and the decisive and prompt manner in which he
frequently disposes of the most knotty points of social and political
economy, is delightful and edifying. Without ever having read a single
page on the subject, he is quite ready to reconstruct the Currency, and
pledges himself to bring in a bill to that effect, at the request of a
snuffy dealer in gingerbread, who never had credit for five pounds in
his life, and who has just made application for a _cessio bonorum_. An
individual in fustian, evidently in the last stage of _delirium
tremens_, after a hiccupped harangue on ecclesiastical rapacity, demands
from him his thoughts upon Church Establishments in general; and the
liberal candidate at once undertakes to have them all suppressed. If his
opinions on the subject of National Education are somewhat vague, the
fault lies with the respectable non-elector, who could not frame his
question so as to render it intelligible. To one earnest inquirer—a
carrier—he promises an entire and compulsory stoppage of Sunday trains.
To another—a publican—he pledges himself to remove the excise duties
from British spirits. To a third—a cabman—he indicates his resolution of
commencing a violent onslaught on the Customs, so that “the poor man’s
tobacco” may be no longer smoked under a sense of injustice. Of course
he disposes very summarily of the Army, Navy, and Colonies, these being
parasitical weeds which ought immediately to be done away with; in fact,
before he has done, there is hardly one institution, tax, custom,
establishment, or system in the United Kingdom which he has not
denounced as odious, and which he has not pledged himself to alter! So
convenient are your “liberal principles” in adjusting themselves to the
popular will.

What takes place now, bad as it is, is but a faint type of what would be
enacted if democracy had the upper-hand; and we would recommend all
those who are sceptical as to this matter, to attend personally some
meeting at which a candidate is subjected to this kind of examination,
and mark the intelligence which is displayed by the questioners, and the
consistency which is exhibited in the replies. It is, indeed, as sorry a
spectacle as a man could wish to witness; and could we suppose it to be
a reflex either of the mind of the electors, or of the settled opinions
of those who are likely to be Liberal members of Parliament, the idea
would inevitably cast a heavy gloom over our anticipations for the
future. But the truth is, that the electors have little or nothing to do
with it; and the great majority of the upstart aspirants after the
honours of legislation will, in a month or so, return to their usual
avocations, probably not without an imprecation on the folly which
induced them, at the bidding of an interested faction, to suspend the
humble toils on which their daily bread depended, and expose themselves
alike to ridicule and defeat. There are, however, reflections of a very
serious nature suggested by the efforts which the Radical party are
making for the introduction of organic changes, which ought not to be
lightly passed over.

Why is it that certain parties are now, more than heretofore, engaged in
getting up a cry for reform and extension of suffrage? Why is it that
some men, ostensibly belonging to the Whig party, who, a year or two
ago, held such views in utter detestation, have declared themselves
favourable to the movement? Has anything been done to curtail the
popular privileges—to take away from the people any portion of the power
which they previously possessed—to curtail the liberty of the press—or
in any way to trench upon the rights which are common to every subject?
Has there been any tyranny on the part of the Crown—any audible
complaint against the acts of the House of Peers? Nothing of the kind.
Has, then, the House of Commons failed in the fulfilment of its duty?
That averment can hardly be made, with consistency at least, by any
member of the Liberal party, since they have made it their boast that,
at the present moment, they are in possession of a majority in the Lower
House, and have taken credit to themselves for magnanimity in allowing
Lord Derby’s Ministry to exist, as they say, by sufferance, until the
ordinary business of the Session is completed. What, then, can be the
motive for the change which is now so loudly urged? It is simply this:
The Liberal party are aware that they no longer possess the confidence
of the country, and they hope, by rousing a new and formidable
agitation, to divert the public mind into another channel, and prevent
it from dwelling upon the injuries which they have inflicted upon the
industrious classes of the nation. How otherwise can we account for this
sudden and violent mania for extending the suffrage, which is apparent
in the election speeches of most of the Liberal candidates? Mark the
inconsistency of these men. They tell us—no matter whether falsely or
not—that the country never was in a state of greater prosperity than
now, and that such has been the fruit of their earnest and triumphant
efforts. Very well. If it be so, what reason can be urged for making any
organic change? Are not the prosperity and the welfare of a nation, and
that content which, as we are told, reigns among the working-classes,
the surest proofs that the Constitution is working admirably; and would
it not, in that case, be utter madness to alter its arrangement? Yet
such is the dilemma in which the Liberals, including Lord John Russell,
are placed. They dare not aver that the country is not prospering,
seeing that, for many years, they have had it all their own way, and
that any statement of the kind would be tantamount to a censure passed
upon themselves. On the contrary, they avow prosperity in the highest
degree, and yet they are clamouring for a change, which cannot improve,
but may possibly imperil it!

They cannot say that they demand extension of the suffrage because the
acts of another Ministry might possibly endanger the prosperity which
they assume to exist. Both the Radicals and Lord John Russell had
declared for extension of the suffrage long before Lord Derby was
summoned to take office. They were quite as keen for organic change at
the time when they tauntingly told us that Protection was coffined and
buried for ever, as they are now when they behold it in life and motion.
Nor can they reasonably suppose that a cry for extended suffrage will be
generally acceptable to the great body of the present electors, who are
jealous enough of the privileges which they have so long possessed, and
are by no means disposed to part with them, or to be swamped by the
uneducated rabble. We are loath to suppose that any, beyond the worst
and most unprincipled agitators of the Manchester rump, are base enough
to hope in their hearts that they may succeed in exciting popular tumult
and disturbance. We shall not consult Mr Roebuck’s _History of the Whig
Ministry_ for any similar passages in former days—we content ourselves
with the assurance that no disposition of the kind exists anywhere.
Therefore, after looking at the subject in all its bearings, we are
constrained to come to the conclusion, that all this talk about reform
on the part of the Liberals has its origin in a sincere and not
unnatural desire to mislead the people of this country, and to withdraw
their attention from those matters in which they are immediately and
most deeply interested.

The advocates of that system which has been dominant for several years,
although its introduction is of an older date, are, of course, loud in
its praise, and claim for it the credit of full and triumphant success.
We do not deny that their system has, in the mean time, had the effect
of cheapening commodities, though not in the ratio which they predicted.
The price of the loaf, of sugar, and of various other articles commonly
termed “of first necessity,” is lowered; and we may fairly acknowledge
that to many this not only appears, but is, a valuable boon. For,
undoubtedly, if we could procure all the articles which we consume at a
far lower rate than before, retaining, at the same time, our incomes
undiminished, we should each of us be immense gainers—we might either
work less, and continue to live as formerly, or we might work as
formerly, and gradually accumulate a capital; but if, in proportion to
the cheapness of commodities, our incomes equally diminish, then it is
not easy to see wherein the advantage lies.

It is obvious, then, that at least one class of persons—those who are in
the receipt of fixed incomes—must profit materially by any system which
induces the cheapening of commodities. The mere annuitant can now live
more comfortably than before; but as annuitants do not constitute a very
large class of the community, and as they necessarily must derive their
incomes from the product of internal labour, we apprehend that, in
treating of such questions, it is proper to look directly to the working
and productive classes. We do not intend to argue over again points
which we have repeatedly discussed in previous articles; our object just
now is to show that these pretended Liberals have reason on their side
in wishing to escape from a calm and deliberate investigation of the
consequences of their lauded policy.

We are told by them that the working-classes never were so comfortable
as they are just now. If we believed this, and believed also that the
comfort _could be permanent_—because both points of belief are necessary
before any one can be convinced of the excellence of their system—we
should submit to the deep degradation of acknowledging, in silence and
tears, our conversion to the tenets of the men of Manchester. But,
unfortunately, we believe nothing of the kind—nay, we know that the
contrary is the fact; and, first, let us try to understand, if possible,
the meaning of the Free-Traders.

We need not complicate the question as to what the working-classes are,
by insisting that every man who depends for his support upon his own
exertions belongs to that order. Heaven knows that the pen is oftentimes
a more toilsome implement than the shuttle or the spade; and, although
we cannot say that we ever had a fancy to try our hand at the loom, we
would have no objection, on occasion, to take a turn at trenching. By
the working-classes, we understand those who are engaged in mechanical
toil—in tilling the earth, cultivating its products, raising and
smelting its minerals, producing fabrics from raw materials, and
assisting the operations of commerce and manufactures in an endless
variety of ways. They are distinguished from the capitalist in this,
that they labour with their hands, and that labour is their sole
inheritance.

That it is the first duty of every Government to guard and protect that
class, has been our invariable doctrine. In them the motive strength of
Britain lies. Machinery is of man’s invention—the human frame is the
work of God alone, animated by His breath, and must not be treated as a
machine. They may be called upon—as all of us are called upon—to
contribute some portion of their labour for the maintenance of our
national institutions, which have undeniably exempted us from those
terrible calamities by which almost every other state in Europe has been
visited. A bad system of the entailment of state debts, commenced more
than a hundred and sixty years ago by a monarch who came over to this
country as a Liberator, has increased the national burdens, and
occasioned a further tax upon labour. Yet, nevertheless, it is
undeniable that the condition of the British labourer, in every
department of industry, has been for a long time superior to that of his
fellow in any other European country. The men of the working-classes
are, though they may not know it, possessed of enormous power. Wronged
they cannot be, except by their own consent, and as victims of delusion;
for the sympathy of the intelligence of the country is with them, and so
is that of the higher orders. To all who have true nobility of soul, the
rights of the working man are sacred; and when that ceases to be the
case, the days of the aristocracy are numbered.

But _why_ is it that the condition of the British labourer has been
superior to that of his foreign equal? That is indeed a consideration of
the very greatest importance; and it would be well if statistical
compilers and political economists had set themselves seriously to
consider “the reason why,” instead of simply noting the fact. We have
read a good many volumes—more than we care to enumerate—written by
gentlemen of that class, but we never have been able to find any
intelligible explanation of that phenomenon. Yet surely it is a
remarkable one. This country is, in respect of its population, far more
heavily burdened than any of the leading states of Europe—it has not the
climatic advantages of some of them—and it can scarcely be said to
produce the precious metals. Its exports, though undoubtedly large,
were, and are, as nothing to the quantity produced, intended for the
home consumption. It has been computed, from an investigation of the
census taken in 1841, that not much more than half a million of people,
the population being then nearly twenty seven millions, were employed in
the manufacture of articles for the foreign trade.[33]

It may be useful here to mention that, according to one foreign
statistical authority, Schnabel, the proportion of taxes paid yearly by
each individual in Great Britain, France, and Prussia, was in the
following ratio:—

                           Great Britain,  18
                           France,        11⅔
                           Prussia,        5½

And the comparative rate of agricultural wages is stated thus by Rau, in
his _Lehrbuch der Politischen Oekonomie_:—

                                              S. D.
                    Great Britain, (average,)  1  6
                    France,          (do.)     1 0¾
                    East Prussia,              0 4⅔

These figures, of course, may be slightly inaccurate, but they are
sufficient to show the great variation, both in taxation and wages,
which prevails in the three countries which are here specified; and we
have no reason to believe that, during the few years which have elapsed
since these calculations were made, any material difference in
proportion has taken place. A similar discrepancy prevails in wages of
every kind. For example, Mr Porter tells us that in Wurtemberg the wages
of the artisans in towns are from 1s. 8d. to 4s. 2d. per week; that in
Bavaria “labourers are paid at the rate of 8d. per day in the country,
and from 8d. to 1s. 4d. in the towns;” and that in Saxony “a man
employed in his loom, working very diligently from Monday morning until
Saturday night, from five o’clock in the morning until dusk, and even at
times with a lamp, his wife assisting him in finishing and taking him
the work, could not possibly earn more than 20 groschen (2s. 6d.
sterling) per week.” We might have added many other instances to these,
but we judge it to be unnecessary. We quote them simply for the purpose
of showing that labour in Britain, if heavily taxed, was better
remunerated than elsewhere.

Now, why was it better remunerated? That is—after all that has been said
and written on the subject, and Eolus-bags of oratory, and hundreds of
thousands of reams of paper have been expended on it—the question, upon
the solution of which the merit of the rival systems depends. It was
better remunerated in this way—because in Great Britain there has been a
far greater outlay of capital in every department and branch of
industry, than has been made in any other country of the world. With us,
land has been reclaimed, and brought under tillage, which elsewhere
would have been left in a state of nature. At an immense cost the
difficulties of climate have been overcome, and the soil rendered
productive, and capable of sustaining an increased number of
inhabitants. We must go back farther than the memory of the present
generation can reach, in order to appreciate the vast nature of the
improvements which were so effected. Since the commencement of the
present century, very nearly four millions of acres, in England alone,
have been brought into cultivation under the Inclosure Acts, besides all
that has been effected by private enterprise—and it is probable that
amount immensely exceeds the other—on land held by a simple tenure.
Eighty years ago, the greater part of the surface of what are now our
best cultivated counties, was covered with heath and ling, and of course
wholly unproductive. It was from this outlay of capital in the
cultivation of the soil that the rapid growth of our towns, and the
great increase of our manufactures, took their rise. The latter cannot
precede—it must always follow the other. The country supplied the towns
with food, and the towns in turn supplied the country with manufactures.
Such being the case, it is evident that the prosperity of either
interest depended greatly upon the circumstances of the other. If
agriculture was depressed, from whatever cause, there was no longer the
same demand as formerly for manufactures; if manufactures were
depressed, the agriculturist suffered in his turn. But in reality,
except from over-trading, and a competition pushed to an extent which
has affected the national interest, it is difficult to understand how a
depression in manufactures for the home trade could take place, except
through and in consequence of agricultural calamity. The home demand was
remarkably steady, and could be calculated upon with almost a certainty
of return. It was reserved for the enlightened economists of our age to
discover that the interests of agriculture and manufactures were not
harmonious. Such, clearly, was not the theory of our forefathers. The
Book of Common Prayer contains a form of thanksgiving for a good
harvest—it has none for a year of unusual export and import.

We must not, however, pass over without notice, the circumstances which
led to the extraordinary development of industry and enterprise in Great
Britain, in every department. Without consumers, it is quite evident
that agriculture could not have advanced with such rapid strides; and it
is important that there should be no misunderstanding on this matter.
The possession of a hundred or a thousand acres of land is of little
value unless the owner can command a remunerative market for his
produce; nor will he cultivate his land to the utmost unless he has the
assurance of such a market. It is all very well to say, that, by the
expenditure of a certain sum of money, such and such an amount of crops
may be reared on each acre;—that is a mere feat of agricultural
chemistry, such as Mr Huxtable offered to undertake upon pure sand with
the assistance of pigs’ dung; but the real and only question is—will the
return meet the outlay? Without some unusual and extraordinary cause to
increase the number of consumers, it is clear to us that the progress of
agriculture must have been comparatively slow; and accordingly, we find
that cause in the Continental war, which continued for nearly a quarter
of a century, and which has effected such mighty changes—the end of
which is not yet apparent—in the social position of Great Britain.

To maintain that war, the resources of this country were taxed to the
utmost. So great were the demands, that they could not possibly have
been met but for two things—one being the result of internal
arrangement, and the other arising from external circumstances. The
first of these was the suspension of cash payments, and the extension,
or rather creation, of credit, arising from an unlimited paper currency.
The second was the monopoly of the foreign markets, which we engrossed,
in virtue of our naval supremacy. No writer on the social state of
Britain, even at the present hour, and no political economist who does
not specially refer to these two circumstances, are worth consulting.
Better put their volumes into the fire, than discuss effects without
regard to their antecedent cause.

It may be that the extent to which that unlimited currency was pushed,
has since had disastrous results. If unwisely permitted without control
or regulation, it was, as we think, contracted in a manner even more
unwise; and the practical consequence has been an enormous addition to
the weight of the public debt. But without a currency of very large
extent—without the credit which that currency created—Great Britain
could not have continued the struggle so long, nor brought it to a
triumphant issue. It was this that stimulated both agriculture and
manufactures, the latter having, in addition, the inestimable privilege
of the command of the markets of the world, without any interference of
a rival. Reclaimed fields and new manufactories were the products of
that period; and unquestionably there never was an era in our history
when prosperity appeared to be more generally diffused. If prices were
high, so were wages. Employment was plentiful, because improvement was
progressing on every side, and no jealousy existed between the
manufacturer and the agriculturist. During fifteen years, from 1801 to
1815, the average annual quantity of wheat and wheat-flour imported to
this country was only 506,000 quarters.

Perhaps it may be instructive here to quote the words of an acute
observer in 1816, regarding the improvements which had taken place,
before any check occurred. The writer of the historical summary in the
_Edinburgh Annual Register_ for that year thus expresses himself:—


  “During the continuance of the last war, many things had conspired to
  stimulate to the highest extent the exertions of every class of the
  people of England. Cut off by the decrees of Buonaparte from direct
  intercourse with some of the richest countries of Europe, the policy
  which England had adopted in revenge of this exclusion, had greatly
  increased the action of those many circumstances which naturally
  tended towards rendering her the great, or rather the sole entrepot,
  of the commerce of the world. In her the whole of that colonial trade
  which had formerly been sufficient to enrich, not her alone, but
  France and Holland also, had now centred. The inventive zeal of her
  manufacturers had gone on from year to year augmenting and improving
  branches of industry, in which, even before, she had been without a
  rival. The increase of manufactures had been attended with a perpetual
  increase in the demand for agricultural produce, and the events of the
  two years of scarcity (as they were called) lent an additional spring
  to the motion of those whose business it was to meet this demand. The
  increase which took place in the agricultural improvements of the
  island, was such as had never before been equalled in any similar
  period of time. Invention followed invention, for economising labour,
  and increasing production; till throughout no inconsiderable part of
  the whole empire the face of the country was changed. ‘It may safely
  be said,’ asserted Mr Brougham, ‘that without at all comprehending the
  waste lands wholly added to the productive tenantry of the island, not
  perhaps that two blades of grass now grow where one only grew before,
  but certainly that five grow where four used to be; and that this
  kingdom, which foreigners were wont to taunt as a mere manufacturing
  and trading country, inhabited by a shopkeeping nation, is, in
  reality, for its size, by far the greatest agricultural state in the
  world!’”


Contrary, perhaps, to the general expectation, the close of the war and
the return of peace operated disastrously upon the internal interests of
the country. Though the manufacturing energies of the Continent had been
checked, its agriculture was ready and available; and accordingly, no
sooner were the ports opened than prices fell at an alarming rate. The
result was not only immediate agricultural distress in Britain, but _the
greatest depression in every branch of manufacture connected with the
home trade_. The agricultural distress needs no explanation. The vast
improvements on land had been made with borrowed money; and when prices
went down, the proprietor too often found himself unable from his rents
to pay the bare interest of the money expended. Yet, had these
improvements not taken place, how could Britain have continued the
struggle so long—how could her manufacturing population have been fed?
These are questions never considered now, especially by those agitators
who revile the landlords, or rather the Legislature, for the imposition
of the Corn Laws; but the truth is, that, unless the corn duty had been
then imposed, England must, within a very few years, either have
exhibited the humiliating spectacle of a bankrupt and ruined state, or
been plunged in revolution. The distress rapidly spread to the
manufacturers—for example, those engaged in the silk trade, and the iron
and coal-workers of Staffordshire and Wales. The fall in the price of
corn produced its natural effect by limiting the consumption of
everything else; and, as if to crown the calamity, the exporting
manufacturers, in their eagerness for gain, committed precisely the same
blunder, from the effects of which they are now suffering so severely;
and by creating a glut in the Continental markets, they both annihilated
their own profits, and excited such an alarm in foreign governments as
to give rise to a system of prohibitory duties, which continues to the
present hour. Then followed the resumption of cash payments, with all
its train of ruin—a measure which, whether necessary or not in
principle, could not have been carried but for the existence of a corn
law, which in some degree mitigated its pressure.

In a country so loaded with debt as ours, it is in vain to talk, as Lord
John Russell lately did, of a “natural price.” The term, indeed, has no
kind of significance under any circumstances; and we are perfectly
certain that the noble lord, when he employed it, was not attempting to
clothe a distinct idea in words. He found the phrase somewhere—perhaps
borrowed it from the _Economist_—and used it, because he thought it
sounded well. If he could reduce the price of all commodities here to
the level of that which prevails in a Continental country—a consummation
which appears to be contemplated and desired by the Free-Traders—the
result would necessarily be a like decadence of our wealth—not
accompanied, however, by a relaxation of our present burdens. The high
wages which the working-classes receive in this country, contrasted with
the low wages which are given elsewhere, depend upon the return which is
yielded to the capitalist who calls their labour into being. Now, let us
see what effect depression in any one great branch of industry exercises
upon the working-classes, who are not immediately dependent upon it for
their subsistence.

This involves one of the most curious phenomena in economical science.
When an interest is depressed, it does not always happen—especially in
the first stage of depression—that the labourers attached to that
interest feel immediately the consequences of the decline. Agricultural
wages, for example, do not fluctuate according to the price of wheat.
The retrenchment which becomes necessary in consequence of lessened
returns is usually effected, in the first instance at least, by
curtailment of personal expenditure on the part of the cultivator—by
abstinence from purchases, not necessary indeed, but convenient—and by
that species of circumspect, but nameless thrift, which, at the end of a
year, makes a very considerable difference in the amount of tradesmen’s
bills. This kind of retrenchment is the easiest, the safest, and the
most humane; and it is not until the depression becomes so great as to
render other and more stringent modes of economising necessary, that the
agricultural labourer is actually made to feel his entire dependence
upon the land, and the interest which he has in its returns. The small
tradesmen and dealers in the country and market towns are usually the
first to discern what is called the pressure of the times. They find
that the farmers are no longer taking from them the same quantity of
goods as before; that their stocks, especially of the more expensive
articles, remain on their hands unsold; and that there is no demand for
novelties. If the depression goes so far as to necessitate a diminution
of rental, then the same economy, but on a wider scale, is practised by
the landlord. Expensive luxuries are given up, establishments
contracted, and the town’s-people begin to complain of a dull season,
for which they find it impossible to account, seeing that money is
declared to be cheap. All this reacts upon the artisans very severely;
because in towns labour has a far less certain tenure than in the
country; and when there is a cessation of demand, workmen, however
skilled, are not only liable, but certain to be dismissed. If the
shopkeeper cannot get his goods off his hands, the manufacturer need not
expect to prevail upon him to give any farther orders. The demand upon
the mills becomes slack, and the manufacturer, finding that there is no
immediate prospect of revival, considers it his duty to have recourse to
short time.

This is precisely what has been going on for the last two years.
Landlords and farmers have curtailed their expenditure in consequence of
the great fall of prices; and the parties who have actually suffered the
most are the tradesmen with whom they commonly deal, and the artisans in
their employment. It is impossible to affect materially the gigantic
interest of agriculture without striking a heavy blow at the prosperity
of home manufactures; and unfortunately these manufactures, or at least
many branches of them, are now liable to foreign competition. If it
should be allowed that this is a true statement of the case—and we
cannot see how it can be controverted—then it will appear that the
working-classes, the vast majority of whom are engaged in producing for
the home market, have lost largely in employment if they have gained by
cheaper food.

And it is most remarkable, that in proportion as food has become cheap
in this country, so has emigration increased. That is apparently one of
the strangest features of the whole case. What contentment can there be
in a nation when the people are deserting their native soil by hundreds
of thousands? They did not do so while the other system was in
operation. Whatever were the faults of Protection, it did not give rise
to scenes like the following, which we find quoted in the _Economist_ of
17th April, as if it were something rather to be proud of than
otherwise. The pious editor entitles it “The Exodus.” Certainly he and
his friends have made Ireland the reverse of a land flowing with milk
and honey:—


  “The flight of the population from the south is thus described by the
  _Clonmel Chronicle_:—‘The tide of emigration has set in this year more
  strongly than ever it has within our memories. During the winter
  months, we used to observe solitary groups wending their way towards
  the sea-coast, but since the season opened, (and a most beautiful one
  it is,) these groups have been literally swelled into shoals, and,
  travel what road you may, you will find upon it strings of cars and
  drays, laden with women and children and household stuffs, journeying
  onward, their final destination being America. In all other parts of
  the country it is the same. At every station along the rail, from
  Goold’s Cross to Sallins, the third-class carriages receive their
  quota of emigrants. The Grand Canal passage-boats, from Shannon
  harbour to Sallins, appear every morning at their accustomed hour,
  laden down with emigrants and their luggage, on their way to Dublin,
  and thence to Liverpool, whence they take shipping for America.’”


And yet this wholesale expatriation is so far from appearing a
disastrous sign, that it does not even excite a word of comment from the
cold-blooded man of calculations. Truly there are various points of
similarity between the constitution of the Free-Trader and the frog!

Remarkable undoubtedly it is, and to be remarked and remembered in all
coming estimates of the character and ability of the men, styling
themselves statesmen, whose measures have led to the frightful
depopulation of a part of the British Empire. Remarkable it is, but not
to be wondered at, seeing that the same thing must occur in every
instance where a great branch of industry is not only checked, but
rendered unprofitable. Succeeding generations will hardly believe that
it was the design of the Whigs and the Free-Traders to feed the Irish
people with foreign grain, and so promote their prosperity, at a time
when their sole wealth was derived from agricultural produce. Just fancy
a scheme for promoting the prosperity of Newcastle by importing to it
coals to be sold at half the price for which that article is at present
delivered at the pit-mouth! Conceive to yourselves the ecstasy which
would prevail in Manchester if Swiss calicoes were brought there to be
vended at rates greatly lower than are now charged by the master
manufacturers! Undoubtedly the people of Newcastle and the operatives of
Manchester would in that case pay less than formerly both for fuel and
clothing—both of them “first articles of necessity;” but we rather
imagine that no long time would elapse before there were palpable
symptoms of a very considerable emigration. And lest, in their grand
reliance in a monopoly of coals and cottons, the Free-Traders should
scoff at our parallels as altogether visionary, we challenge them to
make a trial in a case which is not visionary. _Let them take off the
manufacturing protective duties which still exist, and try the effect of
that measure upon Birmingham, Sheffield, and Paisley._ Of course they
know better than to accept any such challenge; but we warn the
manufacturers—and let them look to it in time—that the day is rapidly
drawing near when all these duties must be repealed, unless justice is
done to the other suffering interests. If they persist in asking Free
Trade, and in refusing all equivalents or reparation for the mischief
they have done, _they shall have Free Trade_, BUT ENTIRE. Then we shall
see whether they—with all their machinery, all their ingenuity, and all
their capital—with all their immunity from burdens which are imposed
upon other classes—with all the stimulus given to them by the
income-tax, now levied since 1842, in order that taxes weighing on the
manufacturing interest might be repealed—can compete on open terms in
the home market with the manufacturers of the Continent. Do not let them
deceive themselves; that reckoning is nigh at hand. They must be content
to accept the measure with which they have meted to others; and we tell
them fairly, that they need not hope that this subject will be any
longer overlooked. _Not one rag of protection can be left to
manufactures of any kind, whether made up or not_, if Free Trade is to
be the commercial principle of the country. If so, the principle must be
universally recognised.

What is now taking place in Ireland, must, ere long, we are convinced,
take place in Britain. Nay, in so far as Scotland is concerned, the same
symptoms are exhibited already, almost in the same degree. In one point
of view, we cannot deplore the emigration. If it is fated that, through
the blindness and cupidity of men whose religious creed consists of
Trade Returns, and whose sole deity is Mammon, the system which has
contributed so much to the greatness and wealth of the nation, and which
has created a garden out of a wilderness, is to be abandoned for ever,
it is better that our people should go elsewhere, and find shelter under
a government which, if not monarchïcal, may be more paternal than their
own. It is a bitter thing, that expatriation; but it has been the
destiny of man since the Fall. They will find fertile land to till in
the prairies of the West—they will have blue skies above them, and a
brighter sun than here; and, if that be any consolation to them in their
exile, they may still contribute to the supply of food to the British
market, without paying, as they must have done had they continued here,
their quota to the taxes of the country. But we must fairly confess that
we feel less sympathy for those who go than for those who are compelled
to linger. Until the home demand is revived—which can only be in
consequence of the enhanced value of home produce—we can see nothing but
additional misery in store for all those artisans and operatives who are
unconnected with the foreign trade. With regard to that trade, we have
yet to learn how it has prospered. Those who are engaged in it admit
that, in spite of increased exports—which, be it remembered, do not by
any means imply increased demand—their reasonable hopes have been
disappointed; and that in regard to the countries from which we now
derive the largest supply of corn, their exports have materially
decreased. That is a symptom of no common significance; for it shows
that, simultaneously with the increase of their agriculture, those
countries are fostering and extending their own manufactures. As for the
other—the home trade—it is, by the unanimous acknowledgment of our
opponents, daily dwindling; and the income of the country—as the last
returns of the property-tax, which do not by any means disclose the
whole amount of the deficit, have shown us—has fallen off six millions
within the last two years. Were we to add the diminution on incomes
under £150 per annum, we have no doubt whatever that the loss would be
found to amount to more than three times that sum. All that is so much
lost to the retailer and home manufacturer. For a time, even yet,
cheapness may serve to palliate and disguise the evil; but it cannot do
so long. Many important branches of industry, such as the iron trade,
are in a state of extreme depression. The evil is not confined to the
mother country; it is impoverishing the fairest parts of our colonial
empire. Some of the sugar-growing colonies are on the verge of
abandonment. Unless a very different policy from that adopted by the
Liberals is pursued and sanctioned by the people of this country, the
catastrophe cannot long be delayed; and then, perhaps, the British
public, though too late, may be instructed as to the relative value of
colonial possessions of our own, and those belonging to states which do
not recognise reciprocity.

Years ago, when the Free-Traders were in the first blush of their
success, and the minds of men were still inflamed with the hot fever of
speculation, the advocates of the new system were requested to state in
what way they proposed to employ that mass of labour which must
necessarily be displaced by the substitution of so much foreign produce
instead of our own. They answered, with the joyousness of enthusiasm,
that there would be room enough and to spare in the factories for every
man who might so be thrown out of employment. It was not until an after
period that the stern and dreary remedy of emigration was prescribed and
enforced—not until it had become apparent from experience that all their
hopes of increased profit from foreign trade and expected reciprocity
were based upon a delusion. Then indeed the misery which had been
created by reckless legislation was exalted into a cause for triumph,
and the Exodus of the poor from the land of their birth, wherein they no
longer could find the means of labour, was represented as a hopeful sign
of the future destinies of the country.

We are very far, indeed, from blaming those who, at the present time,
declare themselves averse to any violent changes, and who think that
some remedy and redress may be given, without having recourse to an
entire alteration of the principle upon which our present commercial
policy is based. It may be that time is yet required before the effects
of Free Trade can be fully felt and appreciated by some of the classes
of this country; and, certainly, the first step which ought to be taken
in the new Parliament, should be a readjustment of taxation,
corresponding to the altered circumstances of the community. Of course,
as this demand is founded strictly upon justice, it will be opposed
strenuously by many of those who glory in their Liberal opinions; but we
believe that the great bulk of the British people, whatever may be their
thoughts on other points, have that regard to justice, that they will
not countenance oppression. It may be that the agricultural classes
cannot yet expect to receive that measure of relief which they have
waited and hoped for so long. The partial failure of the last harvest on
the Continent, though it has not brought up prices to a remunerative
level, has had more than the effect of checking their further decline;
and that circumstance, we are bound to admit, may have some influence on
the minds of many who are slow to believe that foreign importations can
really affect the permanence of British agriculture. The experience of
another season may be necessary to open their eyes. So far as we can
gather from the opinions of men who are engaged in the trade, and who
are best qualified to form a judgment upon such subjects, we may look
almost immediately for a great increase of importations, and a rapid
decline of prices. The failure on the Continent did not extend to the
wheat crop—it was limited to the rye and potatoes, the customary food of
the peasantry; and it is now ascertained that there is a large surplus
of wheat ready to be thrown into our ports. But it would be out of place
to discuss such points just now. The verdict lies with the country, to
which Lord Derby has appealed. If that verdict should not be of a nature
to enable him at once to apply a remedy to agricultural distress, by the
reimposition of a duty on corn, then we must look in the first instance
to such a readjustment of burdens as shall at least give fair play to
the cultivator of the soil. But there is much more than this. The
strength of the Protective case lies in its universal application to all
classes of the community; and it is not we, but our opponents, who
affect to regard it as a question in which no one is interested beyond
the landlord and the tenant. We look upon it as of vital importance to
the retailer, the tradesman, the artisan, and the home manufacturer, and
to all who labour for them; and it appears to us that the time has now
arrived when a full and searching Parliamentary inquiry should be made
on the subject of the cheap loaf in connection with the rate of wages,
and the prosperity of the home trade. Surely the Free-Traders can have
no reason to object to this. They ground their case on philanthropy and
regard to the interest of the poor and labouring man, and in that
respect we are both agreed. Well then;—if, as we think and say,
agricultural distress, occasioned by the low prices which have prevailed
in consequence of the large importations of foreign corn, has had the
effect of lessening employment generally throughout the country—a
position which, in our mind, is much strengthened by the enormous and
unprecedented increase of emigration—surely that proposition is capable
of tangible proof or equally distinct refutation. Let us know, from
authentic sources, not from partial or interested assertion, whether,
along with the cheap loaf, the people have had full and remunerative
employment—whether the condition of the working-classes and of the home
interests has been improved by the change or not. The inquiry
undoubtedly would be an extended, but at the same time a most valuable
one. It would necessarily, in order to arrive at a fair and thorough
understanding of the subject, embrace the present state of every trade
as contrasted with that of former years—it would show us in what way the
home market has been affected by what we must still be allowed to term a
diminution of the means of the purchaser. Surely such a subject as this
is well worth the pains of inquiry. Parliament cannot be better occupied
than in receiving evidence upon the condition of the people. And we
cannot rate too highly, either for the present or the future, the
importance of such an investigation in checking and correcting, or, it
may be, in confirming the doctrines of political economy, as they are
usually quoted and received.

Some, no doubt, may be interested in opposing such an inquiry. We have
little expectation that the Manchester men will accede to any such
reasonable proposal; for, as we have already said, we regard this outcry
of theirs for wild and sweeping reform simply as a ruse to withdraw the
attention of the public from the disastrous effects of their lauded
commercial system. Lord John Russell and his immediate Liberal followers
would probably oppose such an inquiry as impious, because casting a
doubt on the infallibility of Whig tradition. But we are convinced that
sensible and moderate men, of every shade of opinion, would rejoice to
see this vexed question brought to something like a practical test; so
that, whatever policy England may pursue for the future, it shall at
least have for its object that of promoting the welfare and the
happiness of the people.


           _Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._

-----

Footnote 1:

  _Notes on the Distribution of Gold throughout the World._ London:
  JAMES WYLD, 1851.

Footnote 2:

  _An Historical Inquiry into the Production and Consumption of the
  Precious Metals._ By WILLIAM JACOB, Esq., F.R.S. London: 1851.

Footnote 3:

  _California: its Past History, its Present Position, its Future
  Prospects_, p. 77.

Footnote 4:

  We leave our readers to form their own opinion of the following
  passage from Mr Theodore Johnson’s “Sights in the Gold
  Region:”—Speaking of the _Padres_ of the old mission of San Francisco
  Dolores, he says, “That these priests were cognisant of the abundance
  of the precious metal at that period is now well known; but they were
  members of the extraordinary society of the Jesuits, which, jealous of
  its all-pervading influence, and dreading the effect of a large
  Protestant emigration to the western as well as to the eastern shores
  of America, applied its powerful injunctions of secresy to the members
  of the order; and their faithful obedience, during so long a period,
  is another proof both of the strength and the danger of their
  organisation.”—(Second Edition, p. 104.)

Footnote 5:

  Reports of British Association for 1849—Appendix, p. 63.

Footnote 6:

  JACOB, i. chap. x. _passim_.

Footnote 7:

  Murchison—Reports of British Association, 1849, (Appendix, pp. 61,
  62.)

Footnote 8:

  “In the Temeswar Bannat the washings were performed exclusively by the
  gypsies, who display great skill in finding it. They dig chiefly on
  the _banks_ of the river Nera, where more gold is found than in the
  bottom of the stream.”—JACOB, i. p. 245.

Footnote 9:

  _A Ride over the Rocky Mountains._ By the Hon. HENRY J. COKE, p. 359.

Footnote 10:

  _Sights in the Gold Region, and Scenes by the Way._ By THEODORE J.
  JOHNSON. Second Edition. New York, 1850.

Footnote 11:

  Quoted by JACOB, vol. i. pp. 56, 57.

Footnote 12:

  _The Mormons, or Latter-Day Saints_, (a cotemporary history,) p. 227.
  London, 1851.

Footnote 13:

  JACOB, i. p. 246, note.

Footnote 14:

  JACOB, ii. pp. 263, 264, note.

Footnote 15:

  A pood is 36 lb. Russian, of which 100 are about 90 English
  avoirdupois; and a solotnik, 1–96th of a Russian pound, or about 65½
  troy grains.

Footnote 16:

  ROSE, _Reise nach dem Ural_, &c., chaps. ii. iv. viii. Berlin, 1842.

Footnote 17:

  Compare WYLD, p. 26, with JACOB, ii. pp. 62, 167.

Footnote 18:

  JACOB, i. p. 56. In copying the above extract from Diodorus, we
  inserted the word _quartz_ in brackets after his word “marble,” under
  the impression that the old Egyptian mines were, like the similar ones
  in California, really situated in veins of quartz, and not of marble.
  We have since communicated with a gentleman who, about twenty years
  ago, accompanied M. Linant, a French engineer in the service of
  Mehemet Ali, to examine these mines, and he informs us that the gold
  was really found in _quartz veins_ traversing a black slaty rock. The
  locality, as may be seen in Sharpe’s _Chronology and Geography of
  Ancient Egypt_, plate 10, is in the Eastern Desert, about the middle
  of the great bend of the Nile, and about the 21st parallel. The
  samples of rock brought down by M. Linant were considered rich enough
  to justify the despatch of a body of miners, who were subsequently
  attacked by the natives, and forced to abandon the place. A strong
  government would overcome this difficulty; and modern modes of
  crushing and extraction might possibly render the mines more
  productive than ever. A very interesting account of these mines is to
  be found in a work by Quatremere de Quincy—“_Notice des Pays voisins
  de l’Egypte_.”

Footnote 19:

  _Ibid._ p. 247.

Footnote 20:

  FOURNET, _Etudes sur les Depôts Metallifers_, p. 167.

Footnote 21:

  The reader will be interested by satisfying himself of this fact, so
  peculiar to Victoria, and so favourable to it as a place of
  settlement. He will find it pictured before his eye in the
  newly-published small and cheap, but beautifully executed, _School
  Physical Atlas_ of Mr Keith Johnston.

Footnote 22:

  JACOB, i. p. 55.

Footnote 23:

  _Ibid._ ii. p. 267.

Footnote 24:

  FOURNET, p. 169.

Footnote 25:

  Cortes invaded Mexico in 1519; Pizarro landed in Peru in 1527; and
  Potosi was discovered in 1545.

Footnote 26:

  ROSE, _Reise nach dem Ural_, i. 555–7.

Footnote 27:

  To some of our readers this remark may call to mind the beautiful
  process of Mr Lee Pattinson, of Newcastle, for refining lead, by which
  so much more silver is now extracted from all our lead ores, and
  brought to market.

Footnote 28:

  _Commercial Dictionary_, edit. 1847, p. 1056.

Footnote 29:

  Quoted in JOHNSTON’S _Notes on North America_, vol. ii. pp. 216, 217.

Footnote 30:

  _The Life and Letters of Barthold George Niebuhr, with Essays on his
  Character and Influence._ By the Chevalier BUNSEN and Professors
  BRANDIS and LOEBALL. In 2 vols.

Footnote 31:

  Every one remembers that Goethe’s last words are said to have been,
  “More Light;” and perhaps what has occurred in the text may be
  supposed a plagiarism from those words. But, in fact, nothing is more
  common than the craving and demand for light a little before death.
  Let any consult his own sad experience in the last moments of those
  whose gradual close he has watched and tended. What more frequent than
  a prayer to open the shutters and let in the sun? What complaint more
  repeated, and more touching, than “that it is growing dark?” I once
  knew a sufferer—who did not then seem in immediate danger—suddenly
  order the sick room to be lit up as if for a gala. When this was told
  to the physician, he said gravely, “No worse sign.”

Footnote 32:

  _Claret and Olives, from the Garonne to the Rhone._ By ANGUS B. REACH.
  London: 1852.

Footnote 33:

  Mr Spackman, in his _Analysis of the Occupations of the People_,
  states the whole number of persons employed in manufactures of every
  kind at 1,440,908; the total

              annual value of their production in 1841, at
                                                   £187,184,292
         Whereof, for the Home Trade, £128,600,000
         For the Foreign Trade,         58,584,292
                                      ————————————  187,184,292

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.