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BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCLXXIV. DECEMBER, 1846. VOL. LX.


  CONTENTS.

  KOHL IN DENMARK AND IN THE MARSHES,           645

  LORD METCALFE'S GOVERNMENT OF JAMAICA,        662

  ANNALS AND ANTIQUITIES OF LONDON,             673

  MARLBOROUGH'S DISPATCHES. 1711-1712,          690

  MILDRED. A TALE. PART I.,                     709

  THE LAW AND ITS PUNISHMENTS,                  721

  LEGENDS OF THE THAMES,                        729

  RECENT ROYAL MARRIAGES,                       740

  ST MAGNUS', KIRKWALL,                         753

  THE GAME LAWS,                                754


  EDINBURGH:
  WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND 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 BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.




  _In the Press, a Seventh Edition of_

  THE HISTORY OF EUROPE,
  FROM THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION TO THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

  BY ARCHIBALD ALISON, F. R. S.


  *** This Edition will be handsomely printed in Crown Octavo; the First
  Volume to be Published on the 24th of December, and the remaining Volumes
  Monthly.

  PRICE SIX SHILLINGS EACH.




BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCLXXIV. DECEMBER, 1846. VOL. LX.




KOHL IN DENMARK AND IN THE MARSHES.

     _Die Marschen und Inseln der Herzogthuemer Schleswig und
     Holstein. Reisen in Daenemark und den Herzogthuemer Schleswig und
     Holstein._


Mr. Kohl, the most prolific of modern German writers, the most
indefatigable of travellers, is already well known to the English
public by his "Sketches of the English," "Travels in Ireland," and
many other publications too numerous to remember. He is a gentleman
of marvellous facility in travelling over foreign ground--of
extraordinary capabilities in the manufacturing of books. Within
five years he has given to the world, hostages for fame, some
thirty or forty volumes; and explored, socially, politically,
scientifically, and aesthetically, North and South Russia, Poland,
Moravia, Hungary, Bavaria, Great Britain, France, Denmark, and we
know not how many other countries besides. It is as difficult to
stop his pen as his feet. He is always trotting, and writing whilst
he trots, and evidently without the smallest fatigue from either
occupation. He plays on earth the part assigned to the lark above it
by the poet: he,

  "Singing, still doth soar; and soaring, ever singeth."

He has already announced a scheme that has occurred to him for
a commercial map, which shall contain, in various colours, the
productions and raw materials of every country in the world, with
lines appended, marking the course they take to their several ports
of embarkation. We shrewdly suspect that this gigantic scheme has
grown out of another, more personal and profitable, and already
put in practice. We could almost swear that Mr Kohl had drawn up a
literary map on the very same principle, with dots for the countries
and districts to be visited and worked up, and lines to mark the
course for the conveyance of that very raw material, which he is
eternally digging up on the way, in the shape of disquisitions about
nothing, and moral reflections on every thing. Denmark occupies him
to-day. We will wager that he is already intent upon working out an
article or book from neighbouring Norway or adjacent Sweden.

It was remarked the other day by a writer, that one great literary
fault of the present day is a desire to be "so priggishly curt and
epigrammatic," that almost every lucubration comes from the furnace
with a coating of "small impertinence," perfectly intolerable to
the sober reader. If any writer is anxious to correct this fault,
let him take our advice gratis, and sit down at once to a course
of Kohl. So admirable a spinner of long yarns from the smallest
threads, never flourished. We have most honestly and perseveringly
waded through his eleven or twelve hundred pages of close print,
and we unhesitatingly confess that we have never before perused
so much, of which we have retained so little. Does not every man,
woman, and child, in these days of cheap fares and everlasting
steamers, know by heart all that can be said or sung about "tones
from the sea?" Are they not to be summoned, at any given moment,
under any given circumstances, by your fire at twilight, on your
pillow at midnight? Mr Kohl proses about these eternal "_tones_,"
till salt water becomes odious--about storms, till they calm you
to sleep--about calms, till they drive you to fury--about winds
and waves, till your head aches with their motion. We will not
pretend to tell you, reader, all the differences that exist between
high marsh-land and low marsh-land, broad dikes and narrow dikes,
or to describe the downs and embankments which we have seen, go
whithersoever we may, ever since we have risen from the perusal of
Mr Kohl's book. We will not, because Mr Kohl has dealt hardly by
us, have our revenge upon you. Nay, we could not, if we would. The
picture is jumbled in our critical head, as it lies confused in
the author's work, which is as disjointed a labour as ever puzzled
science seeking in chaos for a system. Backwards and forwards he
goes--now up to his head in the marshes, now lighting upon an
island, disdaining geography, giving the go-by to history, dragging
us recklessly through digressions, repudiating any thing like order,
and utterly oblivious of that beautiful scheme so dear to his heart,
by which we are to trace the natural course of every thing under the
sun but the narrative of Mr Kohl's very tedious adventures.

Mr Kohl knows very well what is the duty of a faithful delineator of
foreign countries and manners. He acknowledges in his preface, that
his work is rather a make-up of simple remarks than a comprehensive
description of the countries named in the titlepage. This confession
is not--as is often the case--a modest appreciation of great merits,
but a true estimate of small achievements. It is the simple fact.
As for the consolatory reflections of the author, that he has at
all events proved that he knows more of the lands he describes than
his countrymen who stay at home, it is of so lowly a character that
we are by no means disposed to discuss it. When he adds, however,
that he has already earned a kind reception from the world, and
trusts to be reckoned amongst the men who have been useful, we may
be permitted to hint, that neither a kind reception nor the quality
of usefulness will long be vouchsafed to the individual who leads
confiding but unfortunate readers a Will-o'-the-Wisp chase over bogs
and moors that have no end, and compels them to swallow, diluted in
bottles three, the draught which might easily have found its way
into an ordinary phial.

That there are gems in the volumes cannot be denied: that they
are not of the first water, is equally beyond a doubt. Scattered
over a prodigious surface, they have not been gained without some
difficulty. Those who are not able or disposed to turn to the
original, will be glad to learn from us something of the sturdy
Frieslanders and Ditmarschers. They who have energy and patience
enough to overcome the prolixity of the author, will at least give
us credit for some perseverance, and appreciate the difficulties of
our task.

Mr Kohl commences his work with a description of the _Islands_.
We will follow the order of the titlepage, and begin with the
"Marshes" and their brave and hardy inhabitants. The author informs
us, with pardonable exultation, that, upon asking a German of
ordinary education whether he knew who the Ditmarschers are, he
was most satisfactorily answered, "_Ja wohl!_ are they not the
famous peasants of Denmark who would not surrender to the king?"
We question whether many Englishmen, of even an extraordinary
education, would have answered at once so glibly or correctly. To
enable them to meet the question of any future Kohl with promptness
and success, we will introduce them at once to this singular race,
and give a rapid sketch of their country and political existence.

The territory inhabited by the Ditmarschers is a small district of
flat country, stretching along the Elbe and the Eyder, and is about
a hundred miles in length. Its maritime frontier was originally
defended by lofty mounds, which opposed the encroachments of the
sea; whilst inland it found protection in an almost impenetrable
barrier of thick wood, bogs, lakes, and morass. This barrier
constitutes the marshes so minutely described by our author. The
Ditmarschers are a people of Friesic origin; the name, according
to Mr Kohl, being derived from _Marsch_, _Meeresland_, sea-land,
and _Dith_, _Thit_, or _Teut_, _Deutsch_, German. In the time
of Charlemagne, or his immediate successors, the district was
included in the department of the Mouth of the Elbe, and was known
as the Countship of Stade. It was bestowed by the Emperor Henry
IV., in 1602, upon the archbishops of Bremen, to be held by them
in fief. The Ditmarschers, however, were but slippery subjects;
and, maintaining an actual independence within their embankments,
cared little who governed them, provided sufficient advantages were
offered by the prince or prelate who demanded their allegiance. In
1186, we find them claiming the protection of Bishop Valdemar of
Sleswig, the uncle and guardian of Prince Valdemar, afterwards known
as Valdemar the conqueror; for, "being grievously worried by the
oppressions of the bailiffs of their spiritual Lord," they declared
a perfect indifference as to "whether they paid tribute to Saint
Peter of Bremen, or Saint Peter of Sleswig." They passed from the
rule of Bishop Valdemar, who was subsequently excommunicated, to
that respectively of the Duke of Holstein, the Bishop of Bremen,
and Valdemar II., King of Denmark. When the last-named monarch gave
battle to his revolted subjects at Bornhoeved in Holstein, in the
year 1227, the Ditmarschers suddenly united their bands with those
of the enemy, and decided the fate of the day against the king. They
then returned to the rule of the bishops of Bremen, stipulating for
many rights and privileges, which they enjoyed unmolested during
300 years; that is to say, up to the year 1559, whilst they yielded
little more than a nominal obedience to their spiritual lords, and
evinced no great alacrity in assisting them in times of need.

During their long period of practical independence and freedom,
the Ditmarschers governed themselves like stanch republicans.
Their grand assembly was the _Meende_, to which all citizens were
eligible above the age of eighteen. It met in extraordinary cases at
Meldorf, the capital: but commonly seventy or eighty _Radgewere_,
or councillors, decided upon all questions of national policy
propounded to them by the _Schlueter_, or overseers of the various
parishes into which the district was divided, who generally managed
the affairs of their own little municipality independently of their
neighbours. This simple institution underwent some modifications
about the middle of the fifteenth century, when, in consequence of
internal dissensions, eight-and-forty men were chosen as supreme
judges for life. These "_achtundveertig_" had, however, but little
real power. They met weekly; but on great emergencies they summoned
a general assembly, amounting to about 1500 persons, and consisting
of the various councillors and _schlueter_. This assembly held forth
in the market-place of the capital. The masses closely watched the
proceedings, and when it was deemed necessary, called upon one of
their own number to address the meeting on behalf of the rest.

The peace enjoyed by the Ditmarschers from without, contrasted
strongly with the tumults that were often experienced within. The
annals of these people inform us, that whole families and races
were from time to time swept away by the hand of the foe, and by
the violence of party spirit. The Ditmarschers celebrate several
days as anniversaries of victories. One, the _Hare_ day, dates as
far back as 1288, when a party of Holsteiners made an incursion
into the marshes, but were speedily opposed by the natives. For
a time the two hostile bands watched each other, neither willing
to attack, when a hare suddenly started up between them. Some of
the Ditmarschers, pursuing the frightened animal, exclaimed _Loep,
loep!_--"Run, run!" The foremost Holsteiners, seeing the enemy
approaching at full speed, were thrown into confusion; whilst those
behind them, hearing the cry of "run, run!" took to their heels,
and a general rout ensued. The day of "melting lead" is another
joyful anniversary. Gerard VII. of Holstein, endeavouring in 1390[1]
to subjugate the country of the Ditmarschen, drove the people at the
crisis of an assault to such extremities, that they were obliged to
take refuge in a church, which they obstinately defended against
the Duke's troops, until Gerard, infuriated, ordered the leaden
roof of the building to be heated. The melted lead trickled down on
the heads of the Ditmarschers, who, finding themselves reduced to
a choice of deaths, desperately fought their way out, engaged the
Holsteiners, whom they overcame, and who, ignorant of the country,
were either lost in the intricacies of the marshes or drowned in
the dikes. The forces of a count, a duke, and a king, were in turns
routed by the brave Ditmarschers, who have not yet forgotten the
glory of their ancient peasantry. In 1559, however, they ceased to
gain victories for celebration. In that year Denmark and the Duchies
united to subdue the small but very valiant nation. They marshalled
an army of twenty-five thousand picked men, whilst the Ditmarschers
could with difficulty collect seven thousand. John Rantzan commanded
the allied army. He captured Meldorf, set fire to the town, pursued
the inhabitants in all directions and destroyed the greater number
whilst they were nobly fighting for their liberties. Utterly beaten,
the Ditmarschers submitted to their conquerors. Three of the
clergy proceeded to the enemy, bearing a letter addressed to the
princes as "The Lords of Ditmarschen," and offering to surrender
their arms and ammunitions, together with all the trophies they
had ever won. A general capitulation followed: not wholly to the
disadvantage of the people, since it was stipulated that none but
a native of the country should hold immediate authority over it.
At first the land was divided amongst the sovereigns of Denmark,
Holstein, and Sleswig; but in 1773 it was finally ceded in full to
the Danish monarch, together with part of Holstein, by the Duke of
Schleswig-Holstein, (afterwards Grand-Duke of Russia,) in exchange
for Oldenburg and Delmenhorst. The Ditmarschers, at the present
hour enjoy many of their former privileges: they acknowledge no
distinctions of rank; they have their forty-eight Supreme Judges
(the ancient _schlueter_) under the name of _Voegte_ or overseers,
and may, in fact, be regarded as one of the best samples of
republicanism now existing in the world.

  [1] Mr Kohl fixes the date of the "melted lead" day at 1319,
  forgetting that Margaret, the Semiramis of the North, in whose reign
  the event occurred, did not reign in Denmark until about 1375. She
  died in 1412.

Thus much for their history. Of their far-farmed dikes and sluices,
of the marsh-lands and downs which their embankments inclosed,
much more may be said, for Mr Kohl devotes half his work to their
consideration. We will not fatigue the indulgent reader by engaging
him for a survey. The land is distinguished by the inhabitants by
the terms _grest_ and _marsch_; the former being the hilly district,
the latter the deposits from the sea:--the one is woody in parts,
having heath and sand, springs and brooks: the other is flat,
treeless, heathless, with no sand or spring, but one rich series of
meadows, intersected in every direction by canals and dikes. Far as
the eye can reach, it rests upon broad and fertile meads covered
with grazing cattle; whilst from the teeming plain stand forth
farm-houses innumerable, raised upon _wurten_, or little hillocks,
some ten or twelve feet above the level of the land, for security
against constantly recurring inundation. All external appliances
needful for the establishment are elevated upon these heights, whose
sides are, for the most part, covered with vegetable gardens, and
here and there with flowers and shrubs. The houses have but one
story; they are long, and built of brick. For protection against
the unsteady soil, they are often supported by large iron posts
projecting from the sides, and looking like huge anchors. There are
few villages or hamlets in the marshes. The inhabitants are not
gregarious, but prefer the independence of a perfectly insulated
abode. The "threshold right" is still so strictly maintained amongst
them, that no officer of police dare enter, unpermitted, the house
of a Ditmarscher, or arrest him within his own doors.

The roads in the marshes, as may be supposed, are, at times, almost
impassable; riding is therefore more frequent than driving or
walking, although many of the more active marshers accelerate their
passage across the fens by leaping-poles, which they employ with
wonderful dexterity. The women ride always behind the men, on a seat
fastened to the crupper. As the dikes lie higher than the meadows,
they prove the driest road for carriages and passengers; but they
are not always open to the traveller, lest too constant a traffic
should injure the foundations. The carriages chiefly used are a
species of land canoe. They are called _Koerwagen_, and are long,
narrow, and awkward. On either side of the vehicle, chairs or seats
swing loosely. No one chair is large enough for the two who occupy
it, and who sit with their knees closely pressed against the seat
which is before them.

The process of gradually reclaiming new land from the waves is
somewhat curious. As soon as a sufficient amount of deposit has been
thrown up from the sea, outguards, or breakwaters, called _hoefter_
are immediately erected. Within the breakwater there remains a pool
of still water, which by degrees fills up with a rich slime or mud
called _slick_. As soon as the slick has attained an elevation
sufficient to be above the regular level of the high waves, plants
styled "_Queller_" appear, and are soon succeeded by others termed
_Druecknieder_, from the tendency of their interlaced roots and
tendrils to keep down the soft mud. In the course of years, the soil
rises, and a meadow takes the place of the former stagnant pool.
As these new lands are extremely productive, often yielding three
hundred-fold on the first crop of rape-seed, sixty to eighty fold
on barley, and from thirty to forty on wheat, their possession is
ever a subject of great dispute. Formerly the diking and embankments
were undertaken by companies; but at present they are in the hands
of the Danish government, which makes all necessary outlay in the
beginning, and appropriates whatever surplus may remain upon the
original cost to future repairs and to the aid of the general
poor fund. Some slight idea may be formed of the enormous expense
incurred in the construction and maintenance of these dikes, when we
state that the _Dagebieller_ dike alone cost ten thousand dollars
for one recent repair. Ninety thousand dollars were one summer
spent in building embankments around reclaimed land, now valued at
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, thus showing a clear gain
of sixty thousand dollars by the undertaking. The embankments are
generally from fifteen to twenty feet high. When the nature of the
soil upon which they are raised is considered, together with the
scarcity of wood on these low lands, it will not be difficult to
understand that constant labour is needed to prevent the land from
being undermined by the sea, and that it is only by unremitting
industry, and constant attention to the condition of the breakwaters
and dikes, that the enemy can at all be kept at bay.

The dangers that are to be encountered, and the laborious efforts
that must be made for subsistence at home, train the Frieslander of
the marshes and islands for the perils of the deep, which we find
him encountering with a brave and dogged resolution. The islanders,
especially, are constantly engaged in the whale and other fisheries.
In the islands visited by Mr Kohl, the greater number of the men
were far away on the seas, and their wives and daughters conducting
the business of their several callings; some tending cattle, some
spinning, others manufacturing gloves. Seals abound upon the coast,
and are caught by sundry ingenious devices. A fisher disguises
himself in a seal-skin, and travels up to a troop of these sea
monsters, imitating, as far as he is able, their singular movements
and contortions. When, fairly amongst them, he lifts the gun which
has been concealed beneath his body, and shoots amongst the herd.
If discovered asleep a seal is sure to be caught, for his slumbers
are sound. Conscious of his weakness, _Phoca_ stations a patrol at
some little distance from his couch, and an alarm is given as soon
as any man appears. At certain seasons of the year vast flocks of
ducks light upon the islands, and are caught chiefly by the aid of
tame decoy-birds, who mislead the others into extensive nets spread
for the visitors. One duck-decoyer will catch twenty thousand birds
in the course of a summer; the soft down obtained from the breast of
one species is the _eider down_. The season begins in September and
lasts till Christmas. Hamburg beef is due to the localities we speak
of. One of the large meadow districts already mentioned, is said
to fatten eight thousand head of oxen yearly, who, at their death,
bequeath to the world the far-famed dainty.

The islands visited by our author are those lying in that part
of the North Sea which the Danes call _Vesterhafet_, or the
western harbour, and which extends close to the shores from the
mouth of the Elbe to Jutland. Of these the most noted are Syltoe,
Foehr, Amrum, Romoe, and Pelvorn. Around them lie many excellent
oyster-beds--royal property, and yielding an annual income of twenty
thousand dollars. The people inhabiting these islands are said to be
of Friesic origin: they certainly were colonists from Holland, and
they still exhibit many peculiarities of the ancient Friesic stock.
They are clean, neat, simple, honest, and moral. Few establishments
for the punishment of culprits are to be found either in the islands
or on the marshes. As late as the fifteenth and sixteenth century,
in cases of homicide the accused was doomed to walk over twelve
burning ploughshares. Great crimes seem unknown to-day; and the
practice of leaving house-doors unbarred and unlocked upon the wide
and desolate marshes, testifies not a little to the general honesty
of the people.

Mr Kohl talks a whole boxfull of balaam about the identity of the
islanders and the English. In the first place, he insists that
_Hengist_ and _Horsa_ were gentlemen of Friesic extraction; and
secondly, he compares them to a spirituous liquor: thirdly, he
argues on the topic like a musty German bookworm, who has travelled
no further than round his own room, and seen no more humanity than
the grubby specimen his looking-glass once a-week, at shaving
time, presents to him. What authority has Mr Kohl for this Friesic
origin of Hengist and Horsa? Is there a port along the Elbe and
the Weser, or on the coasts of Jutland and Holstein, which does
not claim the honour of having sent the brothers out? Is not the
question as difficult to decide, the fact as impossible to arrive
at, as Homer's birthplace? But supposing the hypothesis of Mr Kohl
to be true, he surely cannot be serious when he asserts, that
the handful of men who landed with the brothers in Britain, have
transmitted their Friesic characteristics through every succeeding
age, and that these are discernible now in all their pristine vigour
and integrity. Can he mean what he says? Is he not joking when he
puts forward the "rum" argument? A little of that liquor, he says,
flavours a bowl of punch. Why shouldn't a little Friesic season the
entire English nation with the masculine force of the old Teutonic
Frieslanders? Why should it? If Hengist and Horsa supplied the rum,
who, we are justified in asking, came down with the sugar and lemon?
If the beverage be milk-punch, who was the dairyman? These are
questions quite as apt as Mr Kohl's, not a whit more curious than
his illustrations. The points of identity between the Frieslander
and the Englishman are marvellous, if you can but see them. The
inhabitants of the marshes and islands are grave, reserved, and
thoughtful; so are the English; so, for that matter, are the Upper
Lusatians, if we are to believe Ernst Willkomm; so are a good many
other people. The marshers have an eye to their own interests; so
have the English. This is a feature quite peculiar to the marshers
and the English. It may be called the _right_ eye, every other
nation possessing only the left. Of course, Mr Kohl is perfectly
blind to his interests, in publishing the present work: yet he is
Friesic too! From the Frieslanders we have inherited our "English
spleen." How many years have we been attributing it to the much
maligned climate? We are starched and stiff; so are the islanders.
The marshers dress a May king and queen at a spring festival. We
know something about a May queen at the same blessed season. If
these were the only instances of kindred resemblance, our readers
might fail to be convinced, after all, of the truth of the Friesic
theory. These doubts, if any linger, shall be removed at once. One
morning a Frieslander carefully opened Mr Kohl's door, and said, "_I
am afraid_ there is a house on fire." Kohl rushed forth and found
the building in flames; which incident immediately reminded him--he
being a German and a philosopher--of the excessive caution of the
Englishman, which, under the most alarming circumstances, forbids
his saying any thing stronger than "I believe," "I am afraid," "I
dare say." Verily we "believe," we are "afraid," we "dare say,"
that Mr. Kohl is a most incorrigible twaddler. One more peculiarity
remains to be told. They keep gigs in the marshes. There are
"gentlemen" there as well as in England. Are there none elsewhere?

The customs of the Ditmarschers could not fail to be interesting.
That of the _Fenstern_ or _Windowing_ is romantic, and perilous
to boot. At dead of night, when all good people are asleep, young
gallants cross the marshes and downs for miles to visit the girls
of their acquaintance, or it may be _the_ girl of fairest form
and most attractions. Arrived at the house, they scale the walls,
enter a window, and drop into the chamber of the lady, who lies
muffled up to the chin on a bed of down, having taken care to
leave a burning lamp on the table, and fire in the stove, that
her nocturnal callers may have both light and warmth. Upon the
entrance of her visitor, she politely asks him to be seated--his
chair being placed at the distance of a few feet from the bed. They
converse, and the conversation being brought to an end, the gallant
takes his departure either by the door or window. Some opposition
has been shown of late to this custom by a few over-scrupulous
parents; but the fathers who are bold enough to put bolts on their
doors or windows, are certain of meeting with reprisals from the
gallants of the district. The _Fenstern_ is subject to certain
laws and regulations, by which those who practise it are bound to
abide. Another curious custom, and derived like the former from the
heathen, was the dance performed at the churching of women up to the
close of the last century--the woman herself wearing a green and a
red stocking, and hopping upon one leg to church. The Friesic women
are small and delicately formed: their skin, beautifully soft and
white, is protected most carefully against the rough atmosphere by a
mantle, which so completely covers the face, that both in winter and
summer little can be seen beyond the eyes of the women encountered
in the open streets. The generally sombre hue of the garments
renders this muffling the more remarkable; for it is customary for
the relatives of those who are at sea to wear mourning until the
return of the adventurers. Skirt, boddice, apron, and kerchief, all
are dark; and the cloth which so jealously screens the head and face
from the sun and storm, is of the same melancholy hue.

The churchyards testify to the fact, that a comparatively small
number of those who, year after year, proceed on their perilous
expeditions, return to die at home. The monuments almost exclusively
record the names of women--a blank being left for that of the absent
husband, father, or brother, whose remains are possibly mouldering
in another hemisphere. Every device and symbol sculptured in the
churchyard has reference to the maritime life, with which they are
all so familiar. A ship at anchor, dismasted, with broken tackle, is
a favourite image, whilst the inscription quaintly corresponds with
the sculptured metaphor. It is usual for the people to erect their
monuments during life, and to have the full inscriptions written,
leaving room only for the _date_ of the decease. In the island of
Foehr and elsewhere, the custom still prevails of hiring women to
make loud lamentations over the body, as it is carried homewards
and deposited in the earth. The churches are plain to rudeness, and
disfigured with the most barbarous wood carvings of our Saviour, of
saints, and popes. These rough buildings are, for the most part, of
great antiquity, and traditions tell of their having been brought
from England. There can be no doubt that British missionaries were
here in former days. At the time of the Reformation, the islanders
refused to change their faith; but once converted to Lutheranism,
they have remained stanch Protestants ever since, and maintain a
becoming veneration for their pastors. The clergy are natives of the
islands, and therefore well acquainted with the Friesic dialect, in
which they preach. Their pay is necessarily small, and is mostly
raised by the voluntary contributions of the parishioners. As
may be supposed, the clergy have much influence over the people,
especially on the smaller islands, where the inhabitants have but
little intercourse with strangers. Temperance societies have been
established by the pastors. Brandy, tea, and coffee, came into
general use throughout the islands about a century ago, and ardent
drinking was in vogue until the interference of the clergy. The
Ditmarschers especially, who are allowed to distil without paying
excise duties, carried the vice of drunkenness to excess; but they
are much improved.

The greatest diversity of languages, or rather of dialects, exists
in the islands, arising probably from the fact of Friesic not being
a written language. The dialect of the furthest west approaches
nearer to English than any other. The people of _Amrum_ are proud
of the similarity. They retain the _th_ of the old Icelandic, and
have a number of words in which the resemblance of their ancient
form of speech to the old Anglo-Saxon English is more apparent than
in even the Danish of the present day; as, for instance, _Hu mani
mile?_ How many miles? _Bradgrum_, bridegroom; _theenk_, think, &c.
In many of the words advanced by Mr Kohl, that gentleman evidently
betrays an unconsciousness of their being synonymous with the modern
Danish; and, therefore, strikingly inimical to his favourite theory
of the especial Friesic descent of the English people and language.
Little or nothing is known of the actual geographical propagation
of the old Friesic. At present it is yielding to the Danish and the
Low German in the duchies of Sleswig and Holstein. Many names are
still common amongst the people, which seem to have descended from
the heathen epoch, and which are, in fact, more frequently heard
than the names in the "Roman Calendar," met with elsewhere. _Des_,
_Edo_, _Haje_, _Pave_, _Tete_, are the names of men; _Ehle_, _Tat_,
_Mantje_, _Ode_, _Sieg_, are those of women. None of them are known
amongst any other people. Much confusion exists with respect to the
patronymic, there being no surnames in use in many of the islands.
If a man were called _Tete_, his son _Edo_ would be _Edo Tetes_;
and then, again, _Tat_, the wife of the _Edo_, would be _Tat Edos_,
and his son _Des_, _Des Edos_; whilst _Des's_ son _Tete_ would be
_Tete Des's_, and so on in the most troublesome and perplexing
combinations.

The Frieslanders, like other northern nations, are superstitious,
and they have a multitude of traditions or sagas, some of them
very curious and interesting. We must pass over these instructive
myths--always the rarest and most striking portion of a people's
history--more cursorily than we could wish, and cite a few only of
the most peculiar. The island of _Sylt_, which is the richest in
remains of _hoeogen_, the celts of heathen heroes, &c., lays claim
to the largest number of Maerchen. The most characteristic of all
is that of _de Mannigfuel_, the "colossal ship," (or world,) which
was so large that the commander was obliged to ride about the deck
in order to give his orders: the sailors that went aloft as boys
came down greyheaded, so long a time having elapsed whilst they
were rigging the sails. Once, when the ship was in great peril,
and the waters were running high, the sailors, disheartened by
their protracted watching and labour, threw out ballast in order to
lighten the vessel, when, lo! an island arose, and then another,
and another still, till land was formed--the earth being, according
to the sailors' notion, the secondary formation. Once--many ages
afterwards--when the _Mannigfuel_ was endeavouring to pass through
the Straits of Dover, the captain ingeniously thought to have the
side of the vessel, nearest Dover, rubbed with white soap, and
hence the whiteness of the cliffs at Dover. The achievements
recounted of _de Mannigfuel_ are endless. The following explanation
of the formation of the Straits of Dover is found in a Friesic
saga:--Once upon a time, a queen of England, the land to the west
of the North Sea, and a king of Denmark, the land to the east of
the North Sea, loved each other, and plighted troth; but, as it
happened, the king proved faithless, and left the poor queen to
wear the willow. England was then joined to the Continent by a
chain of hills called _Hoeneden_; and the queen, desiring to wreak
vengeance on her false wooer and his subjects, summoned her people
around her, and setting them to work for seven years in digging
away these hills, at the end of the seventh year the waves pushed
furiously through the channel that had been dug, and swept along the
coasts of Friesland and Jutland, drowning and carrying away 100,000
persons. To this very hour the Jutland shores yearly tremble before
the fatal vengeance of the slighted queen. The Frieslanders are so
wedded to this marvellous geological myth, that they insist upon
its historical foundation. In some versions 700, in others 7000, in
others again, even 700,000 men are said to have been employed in
this gigantic undertaking.

Another allegorical saga is the narrative of the share taken by the
man in the moon in the matter of the daily ebbing and flowing of
the sea. His chief, or indeed only occupation, seems to be to pour
water from a huge bucket. Being somewhat lazy, the old gentleman
soon grows weary of the employment, and then he lies down to rest.
Of course whilst he is napping, the water avails itself of the
opportunity to return to its ordinary level.

The constellation of the Great Bear, or Charles's Wain, is,
according to the Frieslanders, the chariot in which Elias and many
other great prophets ascended into heaven. There being now-a-days
no individual sufficiently pious for such a mode of transit, it has
been put aside, with other heavenly curiosities, its only office
being to carry the angels in their nocturnal excursions throughout
the year. The angel who acts as driver for the night, fixes his eye
steadily upon the centre point of the heavenly arch, (the polar
star,) in order that the two stars of the shaft of the chariot
may keep in a straight line with the celestial focus. The rising
and setting of the sun is thus explained:--A host of beautiful
nymphs receive the sun beneath the earth in the western hemisphere,
and cutting it into a thousand parts, they make of it little air
balloons, which they sportively throw at the heavenly youths,
who keep guard at the eastern horizon of the earth. The gallant
band, not to be outdone by their fair antagonists, mount a high
ladder, and when night has veiled the earth in darkness, toss back
the golden balls, which, careering rapidly through the vault of
heaven, fall in glittering showers upon the heads of the celestial
virgins of the west. The children of the sky, having thus diverted
themselves through the night, they hasten at dawn of day to collect
the scattered balls, and joining them into one huge mass, they bear
it upon their shoulders, mid singing and dancing, to the eastern
gates of heaven. The enchanting rosy light which hovers round the
rising orb is the reflection of the virgins' lovely forms, who,
beholding their charge safely launched upon its course, retire, and
leave it, as we see it, to traverse the sky alone.

The following exquisite tradition connects itself with that brief
season when, in the summer of the far north, the sun tarries night
and day above the horizon. _All-fader_ had two faithful servants,
of the race of those who enjoyed eternal youth, and when the sun
had done its first day's course, he called to him _Demmarik_, and
said, "To thy watchful care, my daughter, I confide the setting sun
that I have newly created; extinguish its light carefully, and guard
the precious flame that no evil approach it." And the next morning,
when the sun was again about to begin its course, he said to his
servant _Koite_, "My son, to thy trusty hand I remit the charge
of kindling the light of the sun I have created, and of leading
it forth on its way." Faithfully did the children discharge the
duties assigned to them. In the winter they carefully guarded the
precious light, and laid it early to rest, and awakened it to life
again only at a late hour; but, as the spring and summer advanced,
they suffered the glorious flame to linger longer in the vault of
heaven, and to rejoice the hearts of men by the brightness of its
aspect. At length the time arrived when, in our northern world, the
sun enjoys but brief rest. It must be up betimes in the morning to
awaken the flowers and fruit to life and light, and it must cast
its glowing beams across the mantle of night, and lose no time in
idle slumber. Then it was that _Demmarik_, for the first time, met
_Koite_ face to face as she stood upon the western edge of heaven,
and received from the hands of her brother-servant the orb of light.
As the fading lamp passed from one to the other, their eyes met, and
a gentle pressure of their hands sent a thrill of holy love through
their hearts. No eye was there save that of the _All-fader_, who
called his servants before him, and said, "Ye have done well; and as
recompense, I permit ye to fulfil your respective charges conjointly
as man and wife." Then, _Demmarik_ and _Koite_, looking at each
other, replied--"No, All-fader! disturb not our joy; let us remain
everlastingly in our present bridal state; wedded joy cannot equal
what we feel now as betrothed!" And the mighty _All-fader_ granted
their prayer, and from that time they have met but once in the year,
when, during four weeks, they greet each other night after night;
and then, as the lamp passes from one to the other, a pressure of
the hand and a kiss calls forth a rosy blush on the fair cheek of
_Demmarik_ which sheds its mantling glow over all the heavens,
_Koite's_ heart the while thrilling with purest joy. And should they
tarry too long, the gentle nightingales of the _All-fader_ have but
to warble _Laisk tudrueck, laisk tudrueck! oepik!_ "Giddy ones, giddy
ones! take heed!" to chide them forward on their duty.

With a lovelier vision, reader! we could not leave you dwelling upon
the rugged but, to the heart's core, thoroughly poetic Frieslander.
Let us leave the gentle Demmarik and devoted Koite to their chaste
and heavenly mission, and with a bound leap into Denmark, whither Mr
Kohl, in his forty-fourth volume of travels, summons us, and whither
we must follow him, although the prosaic gentleman is somewhat
of the earth, earthy, after the blessed imitations we have had,
reader--you and we--of the eternal summer's day faintly embodied in
the vision of that long bright day of the far north!

Should any adventurous youth sit down to Mr Kohl's volume on
Denmark, and, half an hour afterwards, throw the book in sheer
disgust and weariness out of the window, swearing never to look
into it again, let him be advised to ring the bell, and to request
Mary to bring it back again with the least possible delay. Having
received it from the maid of all work's horny hand, let the said
youth begin the book again, but, as he would a Hebrew Bible, at the
other end. He may take our word for it there is good stuff there,
in spite of the twaddle that encountered him erewhile at Hamburg.
Mr Kohl has been won by aldermanic dinners in the chief city of
the Hanseatic League, as Louis Philippe was touched by aldermanic
eloquence and wit in the chief city of the world, and he babbles of
mercantile operations and commercial enterprise, until the heart
grows sick with fatigue, and is only made happy by the regrets which
the author expresses--just one hour after the right time--respecting
his inability to enlarge further upon the fruitful and noble
theme of the monetary speculations of one of the richest and most
disagreeable communities of Europe.

Before putting foot on Danish ground, Mr Kohl is careful to make
a kind of solemn protest touching Germanic patriotism, lest, we
presume, he should be suspected of taking a heretical view of the
question at issue at the present moment between the Sleswig-Holstein
provinces and the mother-country Denmark. It is not for us to
enter into any political discussions here, concerning matters of
internal government which are no more business of ours than of his
Majesty Muda Hassim, of the island of Borneo; but we must confess
our inability to understand why such a terrific storm of patriotic
ardour has so suddenly burst forth in Germany, respecting provinces
which, until recently, certainly up to the time when the late
king gave his people the unasked-for boon of a constitution, were
perfectly happy and contented under the Danish rule, to which they
had been accustomed some five or six hundred years.[2] It is only
since the assembly of the states was constituted, that the Sleswig
Holsteiners have been seized with the Germanic _furor_--a malady
not a little increased by the inflammatory harangues of needy
demagogues, and the pedantic outpourings of a handful of professors
stark-mad on the subject of German liberty. If there is one thing
more absurd than another, upon this globe of absurdity, it is the
cant of "nationality," "freedom," "fatherland," "brotherhood," &c.
&c., which is dinned into your ears from one end of Germany to the
other; but which, like all other cants, is nothing but so much
wind and froth, utterly without reason, stamina, or foundation. We
should like to ask any mustached and bearded youth of Heidelberg
or Bonn, at any one sober moment of his existence, to point out
to us any single spot where this boasted "nationality" is to be
seen and scanned. Will the red-capped, long-haired _Bursch_ tell
us when and where we may behold that "vaterland" of which he is
eternally dreaming, singing, and drinking? Why, is it not a fact
that, to a Prussian, an Austrian or a Swabian is an alien? Does
not a Saxe-Coburger, a Hessian, and any other subject of any small
duchy or principality, insist, in his intense hatred of Prussia,
that the Prussians are no Germans at all; that they have interests
of their own, opposed to those of the true German people; and that
they are as distinct as they are selfish? You cannot travel over the
various countries and districts included under the name of Germany,
without learning the thorough insulation of the component parts.
The fact is forced upon you at every step. Mr Kohl himself belongs
to none of the states mentioned. He is a native of Bremen--one of
the cities of that proud Hanseatic League which certainly has never
shown an enlarged or patriotic spirit with reference to this same
universal "vaterland." Arrogant and lordly republics care little
for abstractions. They have a keen instinct for their own material
interests, but a small appreciation of the glorious ideal. We ask,
again, where is this all pervading German patriotism?

  [2] In the year 1660, the different estates of Denmark made a
  voluntary surrender of their rights into the hands of their
  sovereign, who became by that act _absolute_: it is a fact
  unparalleled in the history of any other country. Up to the year
  1834, this unlimited power was exercised by the kings, who, it must
  be said to their honour, never abused it by seeking to oppress or
  enslave their subjects. In the year 1834, however, Frederic VI.,
  of his own free will and choice, established a representative
  government. The gift was by no means conferred in consequence of
  any discontent exhibited under the hitherto restrictive system.
  The intentions of the monarch were highly praiseworthy; their
  wisdom is not so clear, as, under the new law, the kingdom is
  divided into four parts--1. The Islands; 2. Sleswig; 3. Jutland;
  4. Holstein; each having its own provincial assembly. The number
  of representatives for the whole country amounts to 1217. Each
  representative receives four rix-dollars a-day (a rix-dollar is 2s.
  2-1/2d.) for his services, besides his travelling expenses. The
  communication between the sovereign and the assembly is through a
  royal commissioner, who is allowed to vote, but not to speak.--See
  _Wheaton's History of Scandinavia_.

We have said that Mr Kohl is a great traveller. We withdraw the
accusation. He has written forty odd volumes, but they have been
composed, every one of them, in his snug _stube_, at Bremen, or
wheresoever else he puts up, under the influence of German stoves,
German pipes, and German beer. A great traveller is a great
catholic. His mind grows more capacious, his heart more generous,
as he makes his pilgrimages along this troubled earth, and learns
the mightiness of Heaven, the mutability and smallness of things
temporal. Prejudice cannot stand up against the knowledge that pours
in upon him; bigotry cannot exist in the wide temple he explores.
The wanderer "feels himself new-born," as he learns, with his
eyes, the living history of every new people, and compares, in his
judgment, the lessons of his ripe manhood with the instruction
imparted in his confined and straitened youth. If it may be said
that to learn a new language is to acquire a new mind, what is
it to become acquainted, intimately and face to face, with a new
people, new institutions, new faiths, new habits of thought and
feeling? There never existed a great traveller who, at the end of
his wanderings, did not find himself, as if by magic, released of
all the rust of prejudice, vanity, self-conceit, and pride, which
a narrow experience engenders, and a small field of action so
fatally heaps up. We will venture to assert that there is not a
monkey now caged up in the zoological gardens, who would not--if
permitted by the honourable Society--return to his native woods
a better and a wiser beast for the one long journey he has made.
Should Mr Kohl, we ask, behave worse than an imprisoned monkey? We
pardon M. Michelet when he rants about _la belle France_, because
we know that the excited gentleman--eloquent and scholarly as he
is--is reposing eternally in Paris, under the _drapeau_, which
fans nothing but glory into his smiling and complacent visage.
When John Bull, sitting in the parlour of the "Queen's Head,"
smoking his clay and swallowing his heavy, with Bob Yokel from the
country, manfully exclaims, striking Bob heartily and jollily on the
shoulder, "D--n it, Bob, an Englishman will whop three Frenchmen
any day!" we smile, but we are not angry. We feel it is the beer,
and that, like the valiant Michelet, the good man knows no better.
Send the two on their travels, and talk to them when they come
back. Well, Mr Kohl has travelled, and has come back; and he tells
us, in the year of grace 1846, that the crown-jewel in the diadem
of France is Alsace, and that the Alsatians are the pearls amongst
her provincialists--the Alsatians, be it understood, being a German
people, and, as far as report goes, the heaviest and stupidest that
"vaterland" can claim. The only true gems in the Autocrat's crown
are, according to the enlightened Kohl, the German provinces of
Liefland, Esthonia, and Courland. All the industry and enterprise of
the Belgians come simply from their Teutonic blood; the treasures
of the Danish king must be looked for in the German provinces of
Sleswig and Holstein. This is not all. German literature and the
German tongue enjoy advantages possessed by no other literature
and language. English universities are "Stockenglisch," downright
English; the French are quite Frenchy; the Spanish are solely
Spanish; but German schools have taken root in every part of the
earth. At Dorpat, says Mr Kohl, German is taught, written, and
printed; and therefore the German spirit is diffused throughout all
the Russias. At Kiel the same process is going forward on behalf of
Scandinavia. The Slavonians, the Italians, and Greeks, are likewise
submitting, _nolens volens_, to the same irresistible influence.
The very same words may be found in M. Michelet's book of "The
People,"--only for _German_ spirit, read _French_.

Mr Kohl proceeds in the same easy style to announce the rapid giving
way of the Danish language in Denmark and the eager substitution of
his own. He asserts this in the teeth of all those Danish writers
who have started up within the last fifty years, and who have
boldly and wisely discarded the pernicious practice (originating in
the German character of the reigning family) of expressing Danish
notions in a foreign tongue. He asserts it in the teeth of Mrs
Howitt and of the German translators, whom this lady calls to her
aid, but who have very feebly represented that rich diction and
flexible style so remarkable in the Danish compositions referred
to, and so much surpassing the power of any other northern tongue.
We should do Mr Kohl injustice if we did not give his reason for
regarding the Danish language as a thing doomed. He was credibly
informed that many fathers of families were in the habit of
promising rewards to their children if they would converse in German
and not in Danish! Hear this, Lord Palmerston! and if, on hearing
it, you still allow the rising generation, at our seminaries, to ask
for _du pang_ and _du bur_, and to receive them with, it may be, a
silver medal for proficiency, the consequences be on your devoted
head!

Denmark has been comparatively but little visited by the stranger.
She offers, nevertheless, to the antiquary, the poet, and the
artist, materials of interest which cannot be exceeded in any other
district of the same extent. Every wood, lake, heath, and down, is
rich in historical legends or mythical sagas; every copse and hill,
every cave and mound, has been peopled by past superstition with
the elf and the sprite, the _ellefolk_ and _nissen_. Her history,
blending with that of her Scandinavian sisters, Norway and Sweden,
is romantic in the extreme--whether she is traced to the days of
her fabulous sea-kings, or is read of in the records of those who
have chronicled the lives of her sovereigns in the middle ages.
The country itself, although flat, is picturesque, being thickly
interspersed with lakes, skirted by, and embosomed in, luxuriant
beech woods; whilst ever and anon the traveller lights upon some
ancient ruin of church or tower, palace or hermitage, affecting, if
only by reason of the associations it awakens with an age far more
prosperous than the present. The existence of the Danish people,
as a nation, has been pronounced a miracle. It is hardly less.
Small and feeble, and surrounded by the foreigner on every side,
Denmark has never been ruled by a conqueror. Amid the rise and fall
of other states, she has maintained her independence--now powerful
and victorious, now depressed and poor, but never succumbing,
never submitting to the stranger's yoke. Her present dynasty is
the oldest reigning European family. It dates back to Christian
I.--himself descended in a direct female line from the old kings
of Scandinavia--who, as Duke of Oldenburg, was chosen king by the
states in 1448.

A good account of Denmark and the Danes is yet wanting. It may be
collected by any honest writer, moderately conversant with the
language and history of the country. We fear that Mr. Kohl will not
supply the literary void, if we are to judge from the one volume
before us. Others are, however, to follow; and as our author is
immethodical, he may haply return to make good imperfections, and to
fill up his hasty sketches. We cannot but regret that he should have
passed so rapidly through the Duchy of Holstein. Had he followed
the highways and byways of the province, instead of flitting like
a swallow--to use his own words--over the ground by means of the
newly-opened railroad through Kiel, his "Travels" would surely have
been the better for his trouble. Instead of pausing where the most
volatile would have been detained, our author satisfies himself
with simply expressing his unfeigned regret at being obliged to
pursue his journey, consoling his readers and himself with the very
paradoxical assertion that we are most struck by the places of
which we see least; since, being all of us more or less poetically
disposed, we permit the imagination to supply the deficiencies of
experience;--an argument which, we need scarcely say, if carried
to its fullest limits, brings us to the conviction, that he who
stays at home is best fitted to describe the countries the furthest
distant from his fireside. Surely, Mr Kohl, you do not speak from
knowledge of the fact!

In his present volumes, Mr Kohl refers only passingly to the subject
of education in Denmark. He remarks that the national schools far
surpassed his expectations. He might have said more. For the last
thirty or forty years, we believe, it has been rare to meet with
the commonest peasant who could not read and write; a fact proving,
at least, that Denmark is rather in advance than otherwise of her
richer neighbours in carrying out the educational measures which, of
late years, have so largely occupied the attention of the various
governments of Europe. No one in Denmark can enter the army or navy
who has not previously received his education at one or other of
the military academies of the country. The course of study is well
arranged. It embraces, besides the classics, modern languages,
drawing, and exercises both equestrian and gymnastic. The academies
themselves are under the immediate direction of the best military
and naval officers in the service. For the education of the people,
two or three schools are provided in every village, the masters
receiving a small salary, with a house and certain perquisites. In
1822 the system of Bell was introduced in the elementary public
schools, and since that period it has been generally adhered to.

Our author speaks with natural surprise of the small number of
Roman Catholics he encountered in the Danish States. The <DW7>s
have no church or chapel throughout the kingdom; indeed, with the
exception of the private chapel of the Austrian minister, no place
of worship. We were aware that such was the fact a few years ago;
we were scarcely prepared to find that Rome, who has been so busy
in planting new shoots of her faith in every nook of the known
world, is still content to have no recognition in Denmark. Heavy
penalties are incurred by all who secede to the Romish church. In
Sweden a change to Roman Catholicism is followed by banishment.
This severity, we presume, must be ascribed to state policy rather
than to a spirit of intolerance, for Jews and Christians of every
denomination are permitted the freest exercise of their faith.
Since the year 1521, the era of the Reformation in Denmark, the
religion of the country has been Lutheran. The Danish church is
divided into five dioceses, of which the bishop of Zealand is the
metropolitan. His income is about a thousand a-year, whilst that
of the other prelates varies from four to six hundred. The funds
of the clergy are derived principally from tithes; but the parish
ministers receive part of their stipend in the form of offerings
at the three great annual festivals. Until lately, there existed
much lukewarmness on all religious questions. Within the last ten
or fifteen years, however, a new impulse has been given to the
spiritual mind by the writing and preaching of several Calvinistic
ministers, who have migrated from Switzerland and established
themselves in Copenhagen. Their object has been to stop the
recreations which, until their arrival, enlivened the Sabbath-day.
They have met with more success in the higher classes than amongst
the people, who now, as formerly, assemble on the green in front of
the village church at the close of service, and pursue their several
pastimes.

Mention is made in Mr Kohl's volume, of the churchyards and
cemetries he visited in his hasty progress. Compared with those of
his own northern Germany, the Scandinavian places of burial are
indeed very beautiful. The government has long since forbidden any
new interments to be made within the churches, and many picturesque
spots have, in consequence, been converted into cemetries. In
the immediate vicinity of Copenhagen there are several; but the
essence of Mr Kohl's plan being want of arrangement, he makes
no mention of them for the present. One of these cemetries, the
_Assistenskirkegaard_, outside the city, has an unusual number of
fine monuments, with no exhibitions of that glaring want of taste so
frequently met with elsewhere. The village churchyards are bright,
happy-looking spots, which, by their cheerful aspect, seem to rob
the homes of the dead of all their natural gloom and desolation.
Every peasant's grave is a bed of flowers, planted, watched, and
cherished by a sorrowing friend. At either end of the seven or
eight feet of mound rises a wooden cross, on which fresh wreaths
of flowers appear throughout the summer, giving place only to the
"eternals" which adorn the grave when snow mantles its surface. A
narrow walk, marked by a line of box, incloses every mound; or,
not unfrequently, a trellis-work, tastefully entwined of twigs and
boughs. The resting-places of the middle classes are surmounted
by a tablet, not, as in our churchyards, rigidly inclosed within
impassable palisades, but standing in a little garden, where the
fresh-blown flowers, the neatly trimmed beds, and generally the
garden-bench, mark that the spot is visited and tended by the
friends of those who sleep below. Hither widowed mothers lead their
children, on the anniversary of their father's death, to strew
flowers on his grave, to hang up the wreaths which they have wound;
but, above all, to collect the choicest flowers that have bloomed
around him, which must henceforth deck, until they perish, the
portrait of the departed, or some relic dear for his sake. We have
watched the rough work-worn peasant, leading by the hand his little
grandchild, laden with flowers and green twigs to freshen the grave
of a long-absent helpmate; and as we have remarked, we confess not
without emotion, feeble infancy and feeble age uniting their weak
efforts to preserve, in cleanliness and beauty, the one sacred patch
of earth--we have believed, undoubtingly, that whilst customs such
as these prevail, happiness and morality must be the people's lot;
and that very fearful must be the responsibility of those who shall
sow the first seeds of discord and dissension amongst the simple
peasantry of so fair a land!

The cathedrals of Denmark are of great antiquity. Those of Ribe, of
Viboig in Jutland, of Lard, Ringsted, and Roeskilde, in Zealand,
all date from the end of the eleventh, or the beginning of the
twelfth century; since which remote period, in fact, no churches
of any magnitude have been erected. Roeskilde is one of the oldest
cities in the kingdom. In the tenth century it was the capital.
Canute the Great may be considered as the originator and founder of
its existing cathedral, which was completed in the year 1054. It
has occasionally undergone slight repairs, but never any material
alteration. The edifice is full of monuments of the queens and
kings of the ancient race of Valdemar, as well as of those of the
present dynasty. Some of the earliest sovereigns are inclosed within
the shafts of the pillars, or in the walls themselves; a mode of
sepulture, it would appear, as honourable as it is singular, since
we find amongst the immured the great _Svend Etridsen_, and other
renowned and pious benefactors of the church. In front of the
altar is the simple sarcophagus of Margaret, the great queen of
Scandinavia, erected by her successor, Eric the Pomeranian. The
queen is represented lying at full length, with her hands devoutly
folded on her breast. At this sarcophagus our author lingers for a
moment to express sentiments which would have brought down upon him
the anathemas of the good John Knox, could that pious queen-hater
but have heard them. Mr Kohl defies you to produce, from the number
of royal ladies who have held supreme power in the world, one
instance of inadequacy and feebleness. Every where, he insists,
examples of female nobility and strength of character are found
linked with the destinies of kings who have earned for themselves no
better titles than those of the _faineant_ and the simple. The style
of Roeskilde cathedral is pure Gothic; but in consequence of the
additions which the _interior_ has received from time to time from
kings and prelates, that portion of the edifice is more remarkable
for historical interest than for purity of style or architectural
beauty. One incident in connexion with this building must not
be omitted. When Mr Kohl quitted the cathedral, he offered his
cicerone a gratuity. The man respectfully declined accepting even
the customary fees. The reason being asked of a Danish gentleman,
the latter answered, that the man was a patriot, and proud of the
historical monuments of his country; it would be degradation to take
reward from a stranger who seemed so deeply interested in them.
One would almost suspect that this honest fellow was _a verger of
Westminster Abbey_!

The church of St Kund, at Odense, was erected in honour of King
Kund, murdered in the year 1100 in the church of St Alben, at
Odense. The bones of the canonised were immured in the wall over
the altar. Many sovereigns have been interred here. Indeed, it is a
singular fact that the respective burial-places of every Christian
king of Denmark, from the earliest times up to the present day,
are traced without the slightest difficulty; whilst every heathen
sovereign, of whom any historical record remains, lies buried
beneath a mound within sight of Seire, the old heathen capital of
the country. St Kund's church is of Gothic architecture. Amongst the
many paintings that decorate its walls is one of a female, known as
_Dandserinden_, or "The Dancer." She is the heroine of a tradition,
met with under slightly modified forms in various parts of Denmark.
It is to the following effect:--A young lady, of noble family, went
accompanied by her mother to a ball; and being an indefatigable
dancer, she declared to her parent, who bade her take rest, that she
would not refuse to dance even though a certain gentleman himself
should ask her as a partner. The words were scarcely uttered before
a finely dressed youth made his appearance, held out his hand, and,
with a profound obeisance, said, "Fair maiden, let us not tarry."
The enthusiastic dancer accepted the proffered hand, and in an
instant was with the moving throng. The music, at that moment,
seemed inspired by some invisible power--the dancers whiled round
and round, on and on, one after the other, whilst the standing
guests looked upon all with dread horror. At length, the young
lady grew pale--blood gushed from her mouth--she fell on the floor
a corpse. But her partner, (we need not say who _he_ was,) first
with a ghastly smile, then with a ringing laugh, seized her in his
arms, and vanished with her through the floor. From that time she
has been doomed to dance through the midnight hours, until she can
find a knight bold enough to tread a measure with her. Regarding the
sequel, however, there are a number of versions.

Mr Kohl's volume adverts cursorily to the many institutions still
existing in Denmark, which owe their origin to the days of Roman
Catholicism, and have been formed upon the model of Catholic
establishments. Several _Froekenstifts_, or lay nunneries, are
still in being. They are either qualifications of some ancient
monastic foundation, or they have been endowed from time to time
by royal or private munificence. Each house has a lady superior,
who is either chosen by the king or queen, or succeeds to the
office by right of birth--some noble families having, in return
for large endowments, a perpetual advowson for a daughter of the
house. At these _Froekenstifts_, none but ladies of noble birth
can obtain fellowships. As a large number of such noble ladies
are far from wealthy, a comfortable home and a moderate salary
are no small advantages. A constant residence within the cloister
is not incumbent upon the "fellows;" but a requisition, generally
attached to each presentation, obliges them to live in their _stift_
for a certain number of weeks annually. The practice of founding
institutions for ladies of noble birth has risen naturally in a
country where _family_ is every thing, and wealth is comparatively
small: where it is esteemed less degrading to live on royal bounty
than to enter upon an occupation not derogatory to any but noble
blood. The system of _pensioning_ in Denmark is a barrier to real
national prosperity. Independence, self-respect, every consideration
is lost sight of in the monstrous notion, that it is beneath a
high-born man to earn his living by an honourable profession.
Diplomacy, the army, and navy, are the three limited careers open
to the aristocracy of Denmark; and since the country is poor, and
the nobility, in their pride, rarely or never enrich themselves by
plebeian alliances, it follows, of course, that a whole host of
younger brothers, and a countless array of married and unmarried
patricians, must fall back upon the bounty of the sovereign,
administered in one shape or another. The Church and Law are made
over to the middle classes. To such an extent is pride of birth
carried, that without a title no one can be received at Court. In
order, therefore, to admit such as are excluded by the want of
hereditary rank, honorary but the most absurd titles are created.
"_Glatsraad_," "_Conferenceraad_," Councillor of State, Councillor
of Conference, carry with them no duties or responsibilities, but
they obtain for their possessors the right of _entree_, otherwise
unattainable. In Germany, the titles of the people, from the
under-turnpike-keeper's-assistant's lady, up to the wife of the
lord with a hundred tails, are amusing enough. They have been
sufficiently ridiculed by Kotzebue; but the distinctions of Denmark
go far beyond them. A lady, whose husband holds the rank of major
(and upwards) in the army, or of captain (and upwards) in the navy,
or is of noble birth, is styled a _Frue_; her daughter is born a
_Froeken_: but the wife of a private individual, with no blood worth
the naming in her veins, is simply _Madame_, and her daughter's
_Jomfrue_. You might as easily pull down Gibraltar as the prejudice
which maintains those petty and frivolous distinctions. It is highly
diverting to witness the painful distress of Mr Kohl at hearing
ladies of noble birth addressed as _Frue Brahe_, _Frue Rosenkrands_,
instead of by the sublime title of _Gnaedige Frau_, eternally in the
mouths of his own title-loving countrymen. It is singular, however,
that whilst the Danes are so tenacious of honorary appellations,
they are without those constant quantities, the _von_ and _de_
of Germany and France. The _Sture_, the _Axe_, the _Trolle_, and
the other nobles who, for ages, lived like kings in Denmark, were
without a prefix to their names. _Greve_ and _Baron_ are words of
comparatively modern introduction.

There are about twenty high fiefs in Denmark--the title to hold one
of these lordships, which bring with them many important privileges,
being the possession of a certain amount of land, rated at the
value of the corn it will produce. The owners are exempt from all
payment of taxes, not only on their fiefs, but on their other
lands: they have the supervision of officials in the district:
are exempted from arrest or summons before an inferior court, to
which the lesser nobility are liable; and they enjoy the right of
appropriating to their own use all treasures found under the earth
in their lordships. Next to these come the baronial fiefs; then
the _stammehuser_, or houses of noble stock, all rated according
to various measures of corn as the supposed amount of the land's
produce; all other seats or estates are called _Gaarde_, Courts,
or _Godser_, estates. The country residences of the nobility are
strikingly elegant and tasteful. They are surrounded by lawns and
parks in the English fashion, and often contain large collections
of paintings and extensive libraries. Along the upper corridors
of the country residences of the nobility are ranged large wooden
chests, (termed _Kister_,) containing the household linen, kept in
the most scrupulous order. Many of these _Kister_ are extremely
ancient, and richly carved in oak. Every peasant family, too, has
its _Kiste_, which holds the chief place in the sitting-room, and
is filled with all the treasure, as well as all the linen, of
the household. Amongst other lordly structures, Mr Kohl visited
_Gysselfelt_,[3] near Nestned in Zealand. It was built in 1540
by Peter Oxe, and still stands a perfect representation of the
fortresses of the time. Its fosses yet surround it--the drawbridges
are unaltered: and, round the roof, at equal distances, are the
solid stone pipes from which boiling water or pitch has often been
poured upon the heads of the assailants below. In the vicinity
of this castle is _Bregentned_, the princely residence of the
Counts _Moltke_. The _Moltke_ are esteemed the richest family in
Denmark. Their ancestors having munificently endowed several lay
nunneries, the eldest daughter of the house is born abbess-elect
of the convent of _Gysselfelt_: the eldest son is addressed always
as "His Excellence." The splendid garden, the fine collection of
antiquities, the costly furniture and appointments that distinguish
the abode at _Bregentned_ send Mr Kohl into ecstasies. He is equally
charmed by the sight of a few cottages actually erected by the fair
hands of the noble daughters of the House of Moltke. The truth is,
Mr Kohl, republican as he is, is unequal to the sight of any thing
connected with nobility. The work of a noble hand, the poor daub
representing a royal individual, throws him immediately into a fever
of excitement, and dooms his reader to whole pages of the most
prosaic eloquence.

  [3] Whilst in this neighbourhood, Mr Kohl should have explored
  the Gunderler Wood, where stone circles and earth mounds are yet
  carefully preserved, marking the site of one of the principal places
  of sacrifice in heathen times. At _Gysselfelt_, a lay nunnery
  exists, founded as recently as the year 1799.

The condition of the peasantry of Denmark is described as much
better--as indeed it is--than that of the labourers of any other
country. If there is no superabundance of wealth in Denmark, there
is likewise no evidence of abject poverty. The terms upon which the
peasants hold their farms from the landed proprietors are by no
means heavy; and their houses, their manner of dressing, and their
merry-makings, of themselves certify that their position is easy,
and may well bear a comparison with that of their brethren of other
countries. Within the last twenty years, great improvements have
been effected in agriculture, and the best English machines are now
in common use amongst the labourers.

Upon the moral and political condition of the Danish people at
large, we will postpone all reflections, until the appearance of
Mr Kohl's remaining volumes. We take leave of volume one, with
the hope that the sequel of the work will faithfully furnish such
interesting particulars as the readers of Mr Kohl have a right to
demand, and he, if he be an intelligent traveller, has it in his
power to supply. We do not say that this first instalment is without
interest. It contains by far too much desultory digression; it has
more than a sprinkling of German prosing and egotism: but many of
its pages may be read with advantage and instruction. If the work is
ever translated, the translator, if he hope to please the English
reader, must take his pen in one hand and his shears in the other.




LORD METCALFE'S GOVERNMENT OF JAMAICA.


The death of Lord Metcalfe excited one universal feeling--that his
country had lost a statesman whom she regarded with the highest
admiration, and the warmest gratitude. The _Times_, and the other
public journals, in expressing that feeling, could only give a
general and abridged memoir of this great and good man. Every part
of his public life--and that life commencing at an unusually early
period--stamps him with the reputation of a statesman endowed in
an eminent degree with all the qualities which would enable him
to discharge the most arduous and responsible duties. Every part
of it presents an example, and abounds in materials, from which
public men may derive lessons of the most practical wisdom, and
the soundest rules for their political conduct. His whole life
should be portrayed by a faithful biographer, who had an intimate
acquaintance with all the peculiar circumstances which constituted
the critical, arduous, and responsible character of the trusts
committed to him, and which called for the most active exercise of
the great qualities which he possessed. That part of it which was
passed in administering the government of Jamaica, is alone selected
for comment in the following pages. It is a part, short indeed as
to its space, but of sufficient duration to have justly entitled
him, if he had distinguished himself by no other public service, to
rank amongst the most eminent of those, who have regarded their high
intellectual and moral endowments as bestowed for the purpose of
enabling them to confer the greatest and most enduring benefits on
their country, and who have actively and successfully devoted those
qualities to that noble purpose.

No just estimate of the nature, extent, and value of that service,
and of those endowments, can be formed, without recalling the
peculiar difficulties with which Lord Metcalfe had to contend, and
which he so successfully surmounted, in administering the government
of Jamaica.

The only part of colonial society known in England, consisted of
those West Indian proprietors who were resident here. They were
highly educated--their stations were elevated--their wealth was
great, attracting attention, and sometimes offending, by its
display. It was a very prevalent supposition, that they constituted
the whole of what was valuable, or wealthy, or respectable in
West Indian colonial society; that those who were resident in the
colonies could have no claim to either of these descriptions; and
that they were the mere hired managers of the properties of the
West Indians resident in England. This notion was entertained by
the government. The hospitable invitations from the West Indians
in England, which a Governor on the eve of his departure for
his colony accepted, served to impress it strongly on his mind.
He proceeded to his government with too low an estimate of the
character, attainments, respectability, and property of those who
composed the community over whom he was to preside. The nobleman or
general officer on whom the government had been bestowed, entered on
his administration, familiar, indeed, with the Parliament of Great
Britain, and with what Mr Burke calls "her imperial character, and
her imperial rights," but little acquainted with, and still less
disposed to recognise, the rights and privileges of the Colonial
Assemblies, although those assemblies, in the estimation of the same
great authority, so exceedingly resembled a parliament in all their
forms, functions, and powers, that it was impossible they should
not imbibe some idea of a similar authority. "Things could not be
otherwise," he adds; "and English colonies must be had on those
terms, or not had at all." He could not, as Mr Burke did, "look
upon the imperial rights of Great Britain, and the privileges which
the colonies ought to enjoy under these rights, to be just the most
reconcilable things in the world."

The colonists, whose Legislative Assemblies had from the
earliest period of their history, in all which regarded their
internal legislation, exercised the most valuable privileges of
a representative government, would, on their part, feel that the
preservation of those privileges not only constituted their security
for the enjoyment of their civil and political rights as Englishmen,
but must confer on them importance, and procure them respect in the
estimation of the government of the parent state. Thus, on the one
hand, a governor, in his zeal to maintain the imperial rights, from
the jealousy with which he watched every proceeding of the Assembly,
and his ignorance of their constitution and privileges, not
unfrequently either invaded these privileges, or deemed an assertion
of them to be an infringement of the rights of the Imperial
Parliament. On the other hand, the Colonists, with no less jealousy,
watched every proceeding of the governor which seemed to menace any
invasion of the privileges of their Assemblies, and with no less
zeal were prepared to vindicate and maintain them. The Governor and
the Colonial Assembly regarded each other with feelings which not
only prevented him from justly appreciating the motives and conduct
of the resident colonists, but confirmed, and even increased the
unfavourable impressions he had first entertained. His official
communications enabled him to impart to and induce the government
to adopt the same impressions. The influence of these feelings, in
like manner, on Colonial Assemblies and colonists too frequently
prevented them from justly appreciating the motives of the Governor,
from making some allowance for his errors, and too readily brought
them into collision with him.

It cannot be denied that those impressions exercised on both sides
of the Atlantic an influence so strong, as to betray itself in the
communications and recommendations, and indeed in the whole policy
of the government, as well as in the legislation of the colonies.

This imperfect acquaintance with the character of the resident
colonists, and the unfavourable impression with which the
proceedings and motives of their Legislative Assemblies were
regarded, prevailed amongst the public in Great Britain.

The colonial proprietors resident in Great Britain felt little
sympathy, either with the colonial legislatures, or with those
resident in the colonies. This want of sympathy may be attributed
to a peculiarity which distinguished the planters of British from
those of other European colonies. The latter considered the colony
in which they resided as their home. The former regarded their
residence in it as temporary. They looked to the parent state as
their only home, and all their acquisitions were made with a view to
enjoyment in that home. This feeling accompanied them to England.
It was imbibed by their families and their descendants. The colony,
which had been the source of their wealth and rank, was not, as
she ought to have been, the object of their grateful affection.
They regarded with indifference her institutions, her legislature,
her resident community. From this want of sympathy, or from the
want of requisite information, they made no effort to remove the
unfavourable impressions with which the executive Government and
the Assemblies regarded each other, or to promote the establishment
of their relations in mutual conciliation and confidence.

Another cause operated very powerfully in exciting a strong
prejudice against the inhabitants of our West Indian colonies. The
feeling which was naturally entertained against the slave trade and
slave colonies was transferred to the resident colonists, and almost
exclusively to them. By a numerous and powerful party, slavery had
been contemplated in itself, and in the relations and interests
which it had created, and its abolition had been endeavoured to be
effected as if it were the crime of the colonies _exclusively_. It
was forgotten "that it was," to use the language of Lord Stowel,
"in a peculiar manner the crime of England, where it had been
instituted, fostered, and encouraged, even to an excess which some
of the colonies in vain endeavoured to restrain." Besides the acts
passed by the legislatures of Pennsylvania and South Carolina, when
those were British colonies, we find that when the Assembly of
Jamaica, in 1765, was passing an act to restrain the importation
of slaves into the colony, the governor of Jamaica informed the
Assembly of that island, that, consistently with his instructions,
he could not give his assent to a bill for that purpose, which had
then been read twice. In 1774, the Jamaica Assembly attempted to
prevent the further importation, by an increase of duties thereon,
and for this purpose passed two acts. The merchants of Bristol and
Liverpool petitioned against their allowance. The Board of Trade
made a report against them. The agent of Jamaica was heard against
that report; but, upon the recommendation of the Privy Council,
the acts were disallowed, and the disallowance was accompanied
by an instruction to the governor, dated 28th February 1775, by
which he was prohibited, "upon pain of being removed from his
government," from giving his assent to any act by which the duties
on the importation of slaves should be augmented--"on the ground,"
as the instruction states, "that such duties were to the injury and
oppression of the merchants of this kingdom and the obstruction of
its commerce."

The opposition to the abolition of the slave trade was that of
the merchants and planters resident in England, and to their
influence on the members of the colonial legislature must be
attributed whatever opposition was offered by the latter. In
the interval between the abolition of the slave trade and that
of slavery, the feelings of prejudice against them grew still
stronger. Every specific measure by which this party proposed to
ameliorate the condition of the slaves, was accompanied by some
degrading and disqualifying remarks on the conduct of the resident
inhabitants. An act of individual guilt was treated as a proof of
the general depravity of the whole community. In consequence of
the enthusiastic ardour with which the abolition of slavery was
pursued, all the proposed schemes of amelioration proceeded on the
erroneous assumption, that the progress of civilisation and of
moral and religious advancement ought to have been as rapid amongst
the slave population of the colonies, as it had been in England
and other parts of Europe. It was forgotten, that until the slave
trade was abolished, the inherent iniquity of which was aggravated
by the obstacle it afforded to the progress of civilisation, every
attempt to diffuse moral and religious instruction was impeded and
counteracted by the superstitions and vices which were constantly
imported from Africa. Thus, instead of the conciliation which
would have rendered the colonists as active and zealous, as they
must always be the _only efficient_, promoters of amelioration,
irritation was excited, and they were almost proscribed, and placed
without the pale of all the generous and candid, and just and
liberal feelings which characterise Englishmen.

This state of public feeling operated most injuriously in retarding
and preventing many measures of amelioration which would have been
made in the slave codes of the several colonies.

Jamaica experienced, in a greater degree than any other colony, the
effects of those unfavourable impressions with which the motives
and proceedings of her legislature were regarded, and of those
feelings of distrust and suspicion which influenced the relations
of the executive government and the Assembly. Her Assembly was more
sensitive, more zealous, more tenacious than any other colony in
vindicating the privileges of her legislature, whenever an attempt
was made to violate them. The people of Jamaica, when that colony
first formed part of the British empire, did not become subjects
of England by conquest--they were by birth Englishmen, who, by
the invitation and encouragement of their sovereign, retained
possession of a country which its former inhabitants had abandoned.
They carried with them to Jamaica all the rights and privileges
of British-born subjects. The proclamation of Charles II. is not
a grant, but a declaration, confirmation, and guarantee of those
rights and privileges. The constitution of Jamaica is based on those
rights and privileges. It is, to use the emphatic language of Mr
Burke, in speaking of our North American colonies, "a constitution
which, with the exception of the commercial restraints, has every
characteristic of a free government. She has the express image of
the British constitution. She has the substance. She has the right
of taxing herself through her representatives in her Assembly. She
has, in effect, the sole internal government of the colony."

The history of the colony records many attempts of the governor and
of the government to deprive her of that constitution, by violating
the privileges of her Assembly; but it records also the success
with which those attempts were resisted, and the full recognition
of those privileges by the ample reparation which was made for
their violation. That very success rendered the people of Jamaica
still more jealous of those privileges, and more determined in the
uncompromising firmness with which they maintained them. But it did
not render the governors or the home government less jealous or
less distrustful of the motives and proceedings of the Assembly.
As the whole expense of her civil, military, and ecclesiastical
establishment was defrayed by the colony, with the exception of the
salaries of the bishop, archdeacon, and certain stipendiary curates;
and as that expense, amounting to nearly L400,000, was annually
raised by the Assembly, it might have been supposed that the power
of stopping the supplies would have had its effect in creating more
confidence and conciliation, but it may be doubted whether it did
not produce a contrary effect.

The feelings entertained by the government towards the colonies,
were invoked by the intemperate advocates for the immediate
abolition of slavery, as the justification of their unfounded
representations of the tyranny and oppression with which the
planters treated their slaves. Happily, that great act of atonement
to humanity, the abolition of slavery, has been accomplished; but
the faithful historian of our colonies, great as his detestation
of slavery may and ought to be, will yet give a very different
representation of the relation which subsisted between master and
slave. He will represent the <DW64>s on an estate to have considered
themselves, and to have been considered by the proprietor, as
part of his family; that this self-constituted relationship was
accompanied by all the kindly feelings which dependence on the one
hand, and protection on the other, could create; and that such was
the confidence with which both classes regarded each other, that,
with fearless security, the white man and his family retired to
their beds, leaving the doors and windows of their houses unclosed.
These kindly feelings, and that confidence, were at length impaired
by the increasing attempts to render the employers the objects
of hatred. At the latter end of 1831, a rebellion of the most
appalling nature broke out amongst the slave population. A district
of country, not less than forty miles in extent, was laid waste.
Buildings and other property, to the amount of more than a million
in value, exclusive of the crops, were destroyed.

In 1833, the act for the abolition of slavery was passed; and
it cannot be denied, that the feelings of distrust and jealousy
with which government had so long regarded the Assembly and their
constituents, accompanied its introduction, progress, and details.
They accompanied also the legislative measures adopted by the
Assembly for carrying into effect its provisions, and especially
those for establishing and regulating the apprenticeship. The
manner in which the relative rights and duties of master and
apprentices were discharged, was watched and examined with the same
unfavourable feelings as if there had existed a design to make
the apprenticeship a cover for the revival of slavery--an object
which, even had there been persons wicked enough to have desired it,
could never have been accomplished. There were persons in Jamaica
exercising a powerful influence over the minds of the apprentices,
who proclaimed to them their belief, that it was the design of their
masters to reduce them to slavery, and who appealed to the suspicion
and jealousy of the government as justifying and confirming that
belief. Such was the influence of those feelings, that two attempts
were made in Parliament to abolish the apprenticeship. They were
unsuccessful; but enough had been said and done to fill the minds
of the apprentices with the greatest distrust and suspicion of
their masters. In June 1838, the Assembly was especially convened
for the purpose of abolishing it. The governor, as the organ of
her Majesty's government, distinctly told the Assembly that it was
impossible to continue the apprenticeship. "I pronounce it," he
says, "physically impossible to maintain the apprenticeship, with
any hope of successful agriculture." The state to which the colony
had been reduced, is told in the answer of the Assembly to this
address: "Jamaica does, indeed, require repose; and we anxiously
hope, that should we determine to remove an unnatural servitude,
we shall be left in the exercise of our constitutional privileges,
without interference." The colony was thus compelled to abolish
the apprenticeship, although it had formed part of the plan of
emancipation--not only that it might contribute to the compensation
awarded for the abolition of slavery, but that it might become that
intermediate state which might prepare the apprentices for absolute
and unrestricted freedom, and afford the aid of experience in such
legislation as was adapted to their altered condition. It was again
and again described by the Secretary of State for the colonies, in
moving his resolutions, "to be necessary not only for the security
of the master, but for the welfare of the slave." The apprenticeship
was thus abruptly terminated two years before the expiration of the
period fixed by the act of the Imperial Parliament for its duration,
before any new system of legislation had been adopted, and when the
emancipated population had been taught to regard the planters with
far less kindly feelings than those which they entertained in their
state of slavery.

The difficulties and dangers with which the colony was now
threatened were such as would have appalled any prudent man, and
would render it no less his interest than his duty to assist the
Assembly in surmounting them. It was, however, the misfortune of
Jamaica that her governor, from infirmity of body and of temper,
far from endeavouring to surmount or lessen, so greatly increased
these difficulties and dangers, that it appeared scarcely possible
to extricate the colony from them. His conduct in the session of
November 1838 was so gross a violation of the rights and privileges
of the Assembly, as to leave that body no other alternative but that
of passing a resolution, by which they refused to proceed to any
other business, except that of providing the supplies to maintain
the faith of the island towards the public creditor, until they had
obtained reparation for this violation.

This course had obtained the sanction, not only of long usage and
practice, but of the government of the parent state. The history
of Jamaica abounds in numerous instances where governors, who had
by their conduct given occasion for its adoption, had been either
recalled, or ordered by the Executive Government to make such
communication to the Assembly as had the character of being an
atonement for the violation of their privileges, and an express
recognition of them. Upon this resolution being passed, the governor
prorogued the Assembly. On being re-assembled, they adhered to their
former resolution. The governor dissolved the Assembly. A general
election took place, when the same members who had composed the
large majority concurring on that resolution, were re-elected, and
even an addition made to their majority. The Assembly, as might be
expected, on being convened, adhered to their former resolution. It
was then prorogued until the 10th of July 1839. The government, upon
the urgent recommendation of the governor, and influenced by his
misrepresentations, proposed to Parliament a measure for suspending
the functions of the Legislative Assembly. Unjustifiable and
reprehensible as this measure was, yet it is only an act of justice
to the government of that day to remember that it originated, not
only in the recommendation of the governor, supported also by that
of the two preceding governors of Jamaica, but was sanctioned, and
indeed urged on it, by several influential Jamaica proprietors and
merchants, resident in London. Indeed, until the bill had been some
time in the House of Commons, it was doubtful whether it would be
opposed by Sir Robert Peel and his adherents. The determination of
several members who usually supported the government, to oppose a
measure destructive of the representative part of the constitution
of this great colony, enabled him and his party to defeat the
bill on the second reading. The government being thus left in a
minority, resigned; but the attempt of Sir Robert Peel to form a
ministry having failed, the former government was restored, and they
introduced another bill, equally objectionable in its principles,
and equally destructive of the representative branch of the
Jamaica constitution. An amendment was proposed on the part of Sir
Robert Peel, by the party then considered Conservative; but as the
amendment would leave the bill still inconsistent with the rights of
this popular branch of the constitution, they were deprived of the
support of those who had before united with them in their opposition
to the first bill, and they were therefore left in a minority.
The bill passed the House of Commons. The amendment, which had
been rejected, was adopted by the House of Lords, and the bill was
passed. The powerful speeches of Lords Lyndhurst and Brougham, and
those of the other noble lords by whom the amendment was supported,
afford abundant evidence that they disapproved of the principles of
the bill, and were unanswered and unanswerable arguments for its
rejection.

Lord John Russell, and other members of the government, might well
believe, and express their prediction, that such a bill would not
satisfy the Assembly, but that they would still refuse to resume
their legislation; and that in the next session the House must adopt
the original measure.

It was in the power of the ministry, without resorting to any
measure of undue interference which could have furnished their
opponents with any ground of censure, by passively leaving the
administration of the government of the colony to its ordinary
course, and adopting the ordinary means of selecting a governor,
to have fulfilled their own prediction. They might thus have
saved themselves from the taunt with which Sir Robert Peel, in
the debate on the 16th January 1840, attributed the satisfactory
manner in which the Assembly of Jamaica had resumed their
legislative proceedings, to "the opinion of the ministers having
been overruled." But the conduct of Lord John Russell, who had then
accepted the seals of secretary for the colonies, was influenced
by higher motives. He immediately applied himself to secure, by
confidence, the cordial co-operation of the Assembly of Jamaica,
in that legislation which should promote the best interests of all
classes of the community. For the accomplishment of this object,
he anxiously sought for a governor who united the discretion,
the judgment, the temper and firmness, which would promote that
confidence, and obtain that co-operation, and, at the same time,
maintain the dignity of the executive, and the supremacy of
Parliament.

From no consideration of personal or political connexion, but purely
from the conviction that Lord Metcalfe was eminently distinguished
by these qualities, Lord John Russell offered to him the Government
of Jamaica. He had just returned from the East Indies, where he
had displayed the greatest ability, and met with almost unexampled
success. He had scarcely tasted the sweets of the repose which
he had promised himself. His acceptance of the Government was a
sacrifice of that repose to his high sense of duty, and to the noble
desire of rendering a great public service to his country.

But to little purpose would such a character have been selected,
and to little purpose would he have possessed those eminent
qualities, if he had been sent to Jamaica with instructions which
would have controled their exercise. A more wise, just, and liberal
policy was adopted by the government. Lord Metcalfe was left with
the full, free, unfettered power of accomplishing, in his own
manner, and according to his own discretion, the great object of
his administration. Of the spirit of his instructions, and of the
discretion and powers confided to him, he gives his own description
in his answer to an address which, on his return to England, was
presented him by the Jamaica proprietors resident in London, "I was
charged by her Majesty's government with a mission of peace and
reconciliation."

It is scarcely possible to conceive a public trust so full of
difficulties, and requiring the possession and exercise of so
many high and rare qualities for its successful discharge, as
the Government of Jamaica at the time it was undertaken by Lord
Metcalfe. Some account has been given of the difficulties which
attended the government of every West Indian colony, and of those
which were peculiar to that of Jamaica. It should be added, that the
office of Governor, independently of the difficulties occasioned by
any particular event, is itself of so peculiar a character as to
require no inconsiderable share of temper and address as well as
judgment. He is the representative of his Sovereign, invested with
many of the executive powers of sovereignty. He must constantly
by his conduct maintain the dignity of his Sovereign. He cannot,
consistently with either the usages of his office or the habits of
society, detach himself from the community over which he presides
as the representative of his Sovereign. It is necessary for him to
guard against a possibility of his frequent and familiar intercourse
with individuals, impairing their respect for him and his authority,
and, at the same time, not deprive himself of the friendly
disposition and confidence on their part which that intercourse may
enable him to obtain. Especially must he prevent any knowledge of
the motives and views of individuals with which this intercourse
may supply him, from exercising too great, or, indeed, any apparent
influence on his public conduct. It will be seen how well qualified
Lord Metcalfe was to surmount, and how successfully he did surmount,
all these difficulties.

It has been stated, that the bill, even with the amendment it
received in the House of Lords, was so inconsistent with the
constitutional rights of Jamaica, that it was apprehended there
would be great reluctance on the part of the Assembly to resume
the exercise of its legislative functions. Considerations, which
did honour to the character of that body, induced the members to
overcome that reluctance, even before they had practical experience
of the judicious and conciliatory conduct of Lord Metcalfe, and of
the spirit in which he intended to administer his government. There
was a party of noblemen and gentlemen, possessing considerable
property in Jamaica, and of great influence in England, at the head
of whom was that excellent man, the late Earl of Harewood, who had
given their most cordial support, in and out of Parliament, to the
agent of the colony in his opposition to the measure for suspending
the legislative functions of the Assembly. They had thus acquired
strong claims on the grateful attention of the legislature of
Jamaica. In an earnest and affectionate appeal to the Assembly,
they urged that body to resume its legislation. The Assembly and
its constituents, with the generosity which has ever distinguished
them, and with a grateful sense of the powerful support they had
received from this party, felt the full force of their appeal.
Lord Metcalfe, by his judicious conduct in relation to the bill,
by the conciliatory spirit which his whole conduct on his arrival
in Jamaica, and first meeting the Assembly, evinced, and by his
success in impressing the members with the belief that her Majesty's
government was influenced by the same spirit, inspired them with
such confidence in the principles on which his government would be
administered, that they did not insist on their objections to the
bill, but resolved on resuming their legislation. They did resume
it. "They gave him," to use his own language, "their hearty support
and active co-operation in adopting and carrying into effect the
views of her Majesty's government, and in passing laws adapted to
the change which had taken place in the social relations of the
inhabitants of Jamaica."

Before we state the principles on which he so successfully conducted
the government of Jamaica, and endeavour to represent the value
of those services which, by its administration, he rendered to
his country, we would select some of those qualities essential to
constitute a great statesman, with which he was most richly endowed.
He was entrusted with public duties of great responsibility at a
very early period of life. Impressed with a deep sense of that
responsibility, he felt that the faculties of his mind ought to
be not only dedicated to the discharge of those duties, but that
he ought to bestow on them that cultivation and improvement which
could enable his country to derive the greatest benefit from them.
He acquired the power of taking an enlarged and comprehensive view
of all the bearings of every question which engaged his attention,
and he exercised that power with great promptitude. He distinguished
and separated with great facility and with great accuracy what was
material from what was not in forming his judgment. He kept his
mind always so well regulated, and its powers so entirely under
his control--he preserved his temper so calm and unruffled--he
resisted so successfully the approach of prejudice, that he was
enabled to penetrate into the recesses of human conduct and motives,
and to acquire the most intimate knowledge and the most practical
experience of mankind.

The acquisition of that experience is calculated to impress the
statesman with an unfavourable opinion of his species, and to
excite too general a feeling of distrust. This impression, unless
its progress and effects are controlled, may exercise so great an
influence as effectually to disable the judgment, frustrate the
best intentions, and oppose so many obstacles as to render the
noble character of a great and good statesman wholly unattainable.
It is the part of wisdom no less than of benevolence, so far
to control it, that it shall have no other effect than that of
inducing caution, prudence, and circumspection. He will regard it
as reminding him that those for whom he thinks and acts, are beings
with the infirmities of our fallen nature; as teaching him to appeal
to, and avail himself of the better feelings and motives of our
nature; and, whenever it is practicable, to render those even of an
opposite character the means of effecting good, and if that be not
practicable, to correct and control them so as to deprive them of
their baneful effects.

Lord Metcalfe followed the dictates of his natural benevolence, no
less than those of his excellent judgment, in applying to those
purposes, and in this manner, his great knowledge and experience
of mankind. Burke, who has been most truly called "the greatest
philosopher in practice whom the world ever saw," has said, "that
in the world we live in, distrust is but too necessary; some of
old called it the very sinews of discretion. But what signify
common-places, that always run parallel and equal? Distrust is
good, or it is bad, according to our position and our purpose."
Again, "there is a confidence necessary to human intercourse, and
without which men are often more injured by their own suspicions,
than they would be by the perfidy of others." No man knew better or
made a more wise and judicious and successful application of these
maxims of wisdom and benevolence than Lord Metcalfe. The grateful
attachment of the community in which he lived abundantly proved that
distrust, when it was required by his judgment, never impaired the
kindness of his own disposition, or alienated from him the esteem
and affection of others.

The rock on which too often a governor has made shipwreck of his
administration has been the selection of individuals or families on
whom he bestowed his exclusive confidence. The jealousy and envy
which this preference excited in others did not constitute the
only or even the greatest part of the evil. The selected few were
desirous of making themselves of importance, and inducing him to
value their support as essential to the success of his government.
With this view they attributed to others unfriendly feelings
towards the governor which they never entertained, and endeavoured
to persuade him that they themselves were the only persons on whom
he could rely. Their professions betrayed him into the great error
of too soon and too freely making them acquainted with the views
and designs of his government. Lord Metcalfe was too wise and too
just to have any favourites; towards all, he acted with a frankness,
sincerity, and kindness which made all equally his friends. Lord
Metcalfe united with singular equanimity of temper, an extraordinary
degree of self-possession. He never was betrayed into an intimation
of his opinions or intentions, if prudence required that they should
not be known. The time when, and the extent to which such intimation
should be given, were always the result of his previous deliberate
judgment. But this reserve was accompanied with so much kindness
and gentleness of manner, that it silenced any disappointment or
mortification in not attaining that insight into his views which was
sought. A short intercourse with Lord Metcalfe could not fail to
satisfy the mind that any attempt to elicit from him opinions which
he did not desire to impart, would be wholly fruitless.

Another evil, no less injurious to the government than to the
colony, was the hasty and imperfect estimate which governors formed
of the motives and conduct of colonial legislatures. It had then
been too frequent to represent those bodies as influenced by a
hostile feeling, where no such feeling existed, and to exaggerate
their difficulties in administering their government. Lord
Metcalfe's administration was characterised by the candour with
which he appreciated, the fidelity with which in his communications
to her Majesty's government he represented, and the uncompromising
honesty and firmness with which he vindicated the motives and
acts of the Jamaica legislature, and repelled the prejudices, the
misrepresentations, and calumnies by which it had been assailed.
He brought to his administration, and never failed to evince, a
constitutional respect for the institutions of the colony, and the
strictest impartiality in maintaining the just rights of all classes
of the community. Her Majesty's government continued to him that
unlimited confidence he so well deserved, and left him to carry
out his wise and beneficent principles of government. To cheer
him in his noble undertaking, to bestow on the Assembly the most
gratifying reward for their conduct, and to give them the highest
assurance of the confidence of the government, the royal speech
on the prorogation of Parliament contained her Majesty's gracious
approbation of the disposition and proceedings of the legislature.

So sound were the principles on which he administered the
government--so firm and lasting was the confidence reposed in him
by the assembly, that during his administration there was not the
slightest interruption of the most perfect harmony between him and
the different branches of the legislature. He had the satisfaction
of witnessing a most beneficent change in the manner, the care,
and spirit in which the acts of the colonial legislature were
examined, objections to them treated, and amendments required, by
the government. The acts were not, as before, at once disallowed;
but the proposed amendments were made the subjects of recommendation
by communications to the legislature from the governor. The Assembly
felt this change, and met it in a corresponding spirit, which
readily disposed them to adopt the recommendations of the government.

Having fully and effectually accomplished the noble and Christian
purpose with which he undertook the arduous duties of the
government, he resigned it in June 1842. The state in which he left
Jamaica, contrasted with that in which he found the colony on the
commencement of his administration, was his rich reward. He came
to Jamaica at a time when her legislation was suspended, mutual
feelings of distrust and jealousy disturbing not only the relation
between the governor and the legislature, but all the social
relations in the colony; when laws were required for the altered
state of society, and when the tranquillity and existence of the
colony were placed in the greatest jeopardy. When he resigned the
government, there had been effected a perfect reconciliation of the
colony and the mother country; order and harmony, and good feeling
amongst all classes had been restored; legislation had been resumed,
laws had been passed adapted to the change which had taken place in
the social relations of the inhabitants; and the cordial and active
co-operation of the legislature had been afforded, notwithstanding
the financial difficulties of the colony, in extending at a great
cost the means of religious and moral instruction, and in making
the most valuable improvements in the judicial system. He quitted
the shores of Jamaica beloved, respected, and revered, with a
gratitude and real attachment which few public men ever experienced.
The inhabitants of Jamaica raised to him a monument which might
mark their grateful homage to his memory. But there is engraven
on the hearts of the public of Jamaica another memorial, in the
affectionate gratitude and esteem with which they will feel the
enduring blessings of his government, and recall his Christian
charity, ever largely exercised in alleviating individual distress;
his kindness and condescension in private life; and his munificent
support of all their religious and charitable institutions, and of
every undertaking which could promote the prosperity and happiness
of the colony.

On Lord Metcalfe's arrival in England, a numerous meeting of the
Jamaica proprietors and merchants was held, and an address presented
to him, in which they offered him the tribute of their warmest
and sincerest gratitude for the benefits which he had conferred
on the colony "by the eminent talents, the wise, and just, and
liberal principles which made his administration of the government
a blessing to the colony, and had secured him the affection of all
classes of the inhabitants, as well as the high approbation of his
sovereign."

His answer to that address was a beautiful illustration of
the unaffected modesty, of the kindness and benevolence of
his disposition, and of the principles which influenced his
administration. "Charged by her Majesty's government with a mission
of peace and reconciliation, I was received in Jamaica with open
arms. The duties which I had to perform were obvious; my first
proceedings were naturally watched with anxiety; but as they
indicated good-will and a fair spirit, I obtained hearty support and
co-operation. My task in acting along with the spirit which animated
the colony was easy. Internal differences were adjusted--either by
being left to the natural progress of affairs, during which the
respective parties were enabled to apprehend their real interests;
or by mild endeavours to promote harmony, and discourage dissension.
The loyalty, the good sense, and good feeling of the colony did
every thing."

The beneficial effects of his administration did not cease on his
resignation. The principles on which he had conducted it, were
such, that an adherence to them could not fail to secure similar
effects in every succeeding government. It was his great object
to cultivate such mutual confidence and good feeling between her
Majesty's government and the legislature, and all classes of the
colony, as would influence and be apparent in the views and measures
of the government, and as would secure the cordial co-operation
of the legislature in adopting them. In promoting that object, he
was ever anxious to supply the government with those means, which
his local information and experience could alone furnish, of fully
understanding and justly appreciating the views and measures of
the Assembly. He was sensibly alive to whatever might impair the
confidence of the government in that body. It was his desire to
convey the most faithful representations himself, and to correct
any misrepresentations conveyed by others. In a word, it was his
constant object to keep the government fully and faithfully informed
of all which would enable it to render justice to the colony.
Until Lord Metcalfe's administration, her Majesty's government
never understood, and never rightly appreciated, the motives and
conduct of the legislature of Jamaica, and never did they know
the confidence which might be bestowed on that legislature, and
the all-powerful influence which, by means of that confidence,
could be exercised on its legislation. The foundation for the
most successful, because the most beneficial, government was thus
permanently laid by Lord Metcalfe.

Lord Elgin succeeded Lord Metcalfe as the governor of Jamaica. He
had the wisdom to follow the example of his predecessor, and adopt
his principles of government, and pursue the path which he had
opened. His administration was uninterrupted by any misunderstanding
between the executive government and the Assembly. It merited and
received the approbation of his sovereign, and the gratitude of the
colony.

More than six years have elapsed since Lord Metcalfe entered on
the government of Jamaica. During that space of time, in the
former history of the colony, there were frequent dissolutions or
prorogations caused by some dispute between the government and the
Assembly, or between the different branches of the legislature.
Since the appointment of Lord Metcalfe, no misunderstanding has
arisen, but perfect harmony has prevailed amongst them. The
principles of Lord Metcalfe, which established the relations between
the government of the parent state and the various branches of the
legislature of Jamaica, and between all classes of society there,
in perfect confidence and good feeling, and entirely excluded
distrust and suspicion, were so strongly recommended by the enduring
success of his administration, that it is not possible to anticipate
that they will ever be forgotten or abandoned. There can be no
difficulties which may not be surmounted, and confidence can never
be supplanted by distrust: there can be no governor of Jamaica whose
administration will not have merited and received the approbation
of his sovereign, and the gratitude of the colony, so long as he
religiously follows the example, and adheres to the principles
of Lord Metcalfe. By such an adherence to these principles,
Jamaica will retain, not the remembrance alone of the wisdom, the
justice, the benevolence of his administration, and the blessings
it conferred, but she will enjoy, in every succeeding generation,
the same administration, for although directed by another hand,
it will be characterised by the sane wisdom, the same justice and
beneficence, and confer on her the same blessings.

But as the beneficent effects of his government are not limited in
their duration to the time, so neither are they confined to the
colony, in which it was administered. The same experience of its
success, and the same considerations no less of interest than of
duty, recommend and secure the adoption of its principles in the
administration of the government of every other colony, as well as
of Jamaica. Such was the impression with which the other British
colonies regarded his administration in Jamaica. They considered
that the same principles on which the government of Jamaica had
been administered, would be adopted in the administration of their
governments. Shortly after Lord Metcalfe's return from Jamaica, a
numerous and influential body, interested in the other colonies,
presented him with an address, expressing "the sentiments of
gratitude and admiration with which they appreciated the ability,
the impartiality, and the success of his administration of the
government of Jamaica. They gratefully acknowledged his undeviating
adherence to those just and liberal principles by which alone
the relations between the parent state and the colonies can be
maintained with the feelings essential to their mutual honour
and welfare; and they expressed their conviction, that, as his
administration must be the unerring guide for that of every other
colony, so its benefits will extend to the whole colonial empire
of Great Britain." Thus, by his administration of the government
of one colony, during only the short space of two years, he laid
the foundation for that permanent union of this and all the other
colonies with the parent state, which would secure the welfare and
happiness of the millions by whom they are inhabited, and add to the
strength, the power, and splendour of the British empire.

Such is a faint record of only two years of the distinguished
public life of this great and good man. How few statesmen have ever
furnished materials for such a record? What greater good can be
desired for our country, than that the example of Lord Metcalfe,
and his administration of Jamaica, may ever be "the guide-post and
land-mark" in her councils for the government of all her colonies,
and may ever exercise a predominant influence in the relations
between them and the parent state?




ANNALS AND ANTIQUITIES OF LONDON.

     _An Antiquarian Ramble in the Streets of London; with Anecdotes
     of their more celebrated Residents._ By J. T. SMITH, late Keeper
     of the Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, Author of
     _Nollekins and his Times_, &c.


What is London? Walk into Lombard Street, and ask the Merchant;
he will tell you at once--the Docks and the Custom-House, Lloyd's
and the Bank, the Exchange, Royal or Stock. Drive your cab to
the Carlton, and learn that it is Pall-mall and the Clubs, St
James's and the Parks, Almack's and the Opera. Carry your question
and your fee together to legal chambers, and be told that it is
Westminster and Chancery Lane, Lincoln's Inn and the Temple. All
that remains of mankind, that is not to be numbered in these several
categories, will tell you it is a huge agglomeration of houses and
shops, churches and theatres, markets and monuments, gas-pipes and
paving-stones. Believe none--Yes, believe them all! We make our
London, as we make our World, out of what attracts and interests
ourselves. Few are they who behold in this vast metropolis a
many-paged volume, abounding in instruction, offering to historian
and philosopher, poet and antiquary, a luxuriant harvest and
never-failing theme. We consider London, with reference to what
it is and may become, not to what it has been. The present and
the future occupy us to the exclusion of the past. We perambulate
the great arteries of the Monster City, from Tyburn to Cornhill,
from Whitechapel to the Wellington statue, and our minds receive
no impression, save what is directly conveyed through our eyes; we
pass, unheeding, a thousand places and objects rich in memories of
bygone days, of strange and stirring events--great men long since
deceased, and customs now long obsolete. We care not to dive into
the narrow lanes and filthy alleys, where, in former centuries, sons
of Genius and the Muses dwelt and starved; we seek not the dingy
old taverns where the wit of our ancestors sparkled; upon the spot
where a hero fell or a martyr perished, we pause not to gaze and
to recall the memories of departed virtue and greatness. We are a
matter-of-fact generation, too busy in money-getting to speculate
upon the past. So crowded has the world become, that there is scarce
standing-room; and even the lingering ghosts of olden times are
elbowed and jostled aside. It is the triumph of the tangible and
positive over the shadowy and poetical.

Things which men will not seek, they often thankfully accept when
brought to them in an attractive form and without trouble. Upon this
calculation has the book before us been written. It is an attempt
to convey, in amusing narrative, the history, ancient, mediaeval,
and modern, of the streets and houses of London. For such a work,
which necessarily partakes largely of the nature of a compilation,
it is obvious that industry is more essential than talent--extensive
reading than a brilliant pen. Both of industry and reading Mr Smith
makes a respectable display, and therefore we shall not cavil at
any minor deficiencies. His subject would have been better treated
in a lighter and more detached form; and, in this respect, he
might have taken a hint from an existing French work of a similar
nature, relating to Paris. But his materials are too sterling and
interesting to be spoiled by any slight mistake in the handling. He
has accumulated a large mass of information, quotation, and extract;
and although few persons may read his book continuously from
beginning to end, very many, we are sure, will dip with pleasure and
interest into its pages.

West and East would have been no inappropriate title for Mr Smith's
twin volumes. In the first, he keeps on the Court side of Temple
Bar; the second he devotes to the City. As may be supposed, the
former is the more sprightly and piquant chronicle; but the latter
does not yield to it in striking records and interesting historical
facts. Let us accompany the antiquarian on his first ramble, from
Hyde Park Corner to Charing Cross, starting from Apsley House, of
which, although scarcely included in the design of his work, as
announced on the title-page, he gives, as of various other modern
buildings, a concise account.

How few individuals of the human tide that daily flows and ebbs
along Piccadilly are aware, that within a century that aristocratic
quarter was a most disreputable outlet from London. The ground now
covered with ranges of palaces, the snug and select district of
May Fair, dear to opulent dowagers and luxurious _celibataires_,
was occupied, but a short hundred years since, by a few detached
dwellings in extensive gardens, and by a far larger number of low
taverns. Some of these, as the White Horse and Half Moon, have
given their names to the streets to which their bowling-greens and
skittle-alleys tardily gave way. The Sunday excursions of the lower
orders were then more circumscribed than at present; and these
Piccadilly publics were much resorted to on the Sabbath, in the
manner of a country excursion; for Piccadilly was then the country.
"Among the advertisements of sales by auction in the original
edition of the _Spectator_, in folio, published in 1711, the mansion
of Streater, jun., is advertised as _his country house_, being near
Bolton Row, in Piccadilly; his town residence was in Gerrard Street,
Soho." The taverns nearest to Hyde Park were chiefly patronised by
the soldiers, particularly, we are informed, on review days, when
they sat in rows upon wooden benches, placed in the street for their
accommodation, combing, soaping, and powdering each other's hair.
The bad character of the neighbourhood, and perhaps, also, the
nuisance of May Fair, which lasted for fifteen days, and was not
abolished till 1708, prevented the ground from increasing in value;
and accordingly we find that Mr Shepherd, after whom Shepherd's
Market was named, offered for sale, as late as the year 1750,
his freehold mansion in Curzon Street, and its adjacent gardens,
for five hundred pounds. At that price it was subsequently sold.
Houses there were, however, in the then despised neighbourhood
of Piccadilly, of high value; but it arose from their intrinsic
magnificence, which counterbalanced the disadvantages of situation.
Evelyn mentions having visited Lord John Berkeley at his stately
new house, which was said to have cost thirty thousand pounds, and
had a cedar staircase. He greatly commends the gardens, and says
that he advised the planting of certain holly-hedges on the terrace.
Stratton Street was built on the Berkeley estate, and so named in
compliment to the Stratton line of that family. At what is now
the south end of Albemarle Street, stood Clarendon House, built,
as Bishop Burnet tells us, on a piece of ground granted to Lord
Clarendon by Charles II. The Earl wished to have a plain ordinary
house, but those he employed preferred erecting a palace, whose
total cost amounted to fifty thousand pounds.

"During the war," says the Bishop, "and in the plague year, he had
about three hundred men at work, which he thought would have been an
acceptable thing, when so many men were kept at work, and so much
money, as was duly paid, circulated about. But it had a contrary
effect: it raised a great outcry against him." The sale of Dunkirk
to the French for four hundred thousand pounds, had taken place only
three years before, and was still fresh in men's minds. The odium of
this transaction fell chiefly on Lord Clarendon, who was accused of
pocketing a share of its profits; and the people gave the name of
Dunkirk House to his new mansion. Others called it Holland House,
thereby insinuating that it was built with bribes received from the
Dutch, with whom this country then waged a disastrous war. In spite
of popular outcry, however, the house was completed in 1667, the
year of Clarendon's disgrace and banishment. Fifteen years later,
after his death, his heir sold the place to the Duke of Albemarle
for twenty-five thousand pounds, just half what it cost; and the
Duke parted with it for ten thousand more. Finally, it was pulled
down to make room for Albemarle and Stafford Streets; of which
latter, as appears from old plans of London, the centre of Clarendon
House occupied the entire site.

Piccadilly was formerly the headquarters of the makers of leaden
figures. The first yard for this worthless description of statues
was founded by John Van Nost, one of the numerous train of Dutchmen
who followed William III. to England. His establishment soon had
imitators and rivals; and, in 1740, there were four of these
figure-yards in Piccadilly, all driving a flourishing trade in
their leaden lumber. The statues were as large as life, and often
painted. "They consisted of Punch, Harlequin, Columbine, and other
pantomimical characters; mowers whetting their scythes, haymakers
resting on their rakes, gamekeepers in the act of shooting, and
_Roman_ soldiers with _firelocks_; but, above all, that of a
kneeling African with a sundial upon his head, found the most
extensive sale." Copies from the antique were also there, and had
many admirers; but the unsuitableness of the heavy and pliable
material was soon discovered, and, after a brief existence, the
figure-yards died a natural death.

On the etymology of the word Piccadilly, Mr Smith expends much
erudite research, without, as it appears to us, arriving at a
very definite or satisfactory conclusion. A pickadill is defined
by Blount, in his _Glossography_, as "the round hem of a garment,
or other thing; also a kinde of stiff collar, made in fashion of
a band." Hence Mr Smith infers, that the famous ordinary near St
James's, which first bore the name of Piccadilly, may have received
it because at that time it was the outmost or skirt-house of the
suburb. The derivation is ingenious, but rather far-fetched. Another
notion is, that a certain Higgin, a tailor, who built the house,
had acquired his money by the manufacture of pickadills, then in
great vogue. The orthography of the name has varied considerably.
Evelyn mentions in his memoirs, that, as one of the commissioners
for reforming the buildings and streets of London, he ordered the
paving of the road from St James's North, "which was a quagmire,"
and likewise of the Haymarket about "Pigudello." In the same year,
however, 1662, it is found inscribed in tradesmen's tokens as
Pickadilla; and this appears to be the most ancient mode of spelling
it. In _Gerard's Herbal_, published in the reign of Queen Elizabeth,
(1596,) the author, talking of the "small wild buglosse," says
that this little flower "growes upon the drie ditch bankes about
Pickadilla."

Where Bennet and Arlington Streets now stand, was formerly the
celebrated mulberry gardens, referred to by Malone as a favourite
haunt of Dryden, who loved to eat tarts there with his mistress,
Anne Reeve. To the polite ears of the nineteenth century, the
very name of a public garden is a sound of horror; and to see
the cream of _the ton_ taking their evening lounge at Cremorne,
or the "Royal Property," and battening upon mulberry tarts and
sweetened wine, would excite as much astonishment as if we read in
the _Moniteur_ that the Duchess of Orleans had led a _galop_ at
Musard's masquerade. In the easy-going days of the second Charles,
things were very different, and a fashionable company was wont to
collect at the Mulberry Garden, to sit in its pleasant arbours,
and feast upon cheesecakes and syllabubs. The ladies frequently
went in masks, which was a great mode at that time, and one often
adopted by the court dames to escape detection in the intrigues
and mad pranks they so liberally permitted themselves. "In _The
Humorous Lovers_, a comedy written by the Duke of Newcastle,[4] and
published in 1677, the third scene of Act I. is in the Mulberry
Garden. Baldman observes to Courtly, ''Tis a delicate plump wench;
now, a blessing on the hearts of them that were the contrivers of
this garden; this wilderness is the prettiest convenient place to
woo a widow, Courtly.'" One can hardly fancy a wilderness in the
heart of St James's, except of houses; but the one mentioned in the
above passage had ceased to exist at the time the play appeared, at
least as a place of public resort. Five years previously, the King
had granted to Henry Earl of Arlington, "that whole piece or parcel
of ground called the Mulberry Gardens, together with eight houses,
with their appurtenances thereon," at a rent of twenty shillings per
annum. Goring House, in which Mr Secretary Bennet, afterwards Earl
of Arlington, resided, was probably one of these eight houses. Two
years subsequently to the grant, it was burnt down, and the earl
removed to Arlington House, which stood on the site of Buckingham
Palace. Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, bought the former, pulled it
down in 1703, and erected a new mansion, which was sold to the crown
by his son, and allotted, in 1775, as a residence for the Queen,
instead of Somerset House.

  [4] It was by the Duchess of Newcastle, according to Pepys, that
  this play was written. In his Diary he says, under date of the
  11th April 1667:--"To Whitehall, thinking there to have seen the
  Duchess of Newcastle coming this night to court to make a visit to
  the Queen. The whole story of this lady is a romance, and all she
  does is romantic. Her footmen in velvet coats, and herself in an
  antique dress, as they say; and was the other day at her own play,
  _The Humorous Lovers_, the most ridiculous thing that ever was
  wrote, but yet she and her lord mightily pleased with it; and she
  at the end made her respects to the players from her box, and did
  give them thanks." This was the eccentric dame who kept a maid of
  honour sitting up all night, to write down any bright idea or happy
  inspiration by which she might be visited.

We are glad to learn from Mr Smith, that there is a plan on foot
for the removal of the confined, dirty, and unwholesome district
between Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey, now one of the
vilest parts of the metropolis, the favourite abode of thieves,
beggars, pawnbrokers, and gin-sellers. The streets adjacent to the
palace have at no time been of the most spacious or respectable
description, although Pimlico is vastly improved from what it was
in the days of Ben Jonson, who uses the name to express all that
was lowest and most disreputable. In his play of _The Alchymist_,
he says, "Gallants, men and women, and of all sorts, tag-rag and
bob-tail, have been seen to flock here in threaves, these ten
weeks, as to a second Hoxton or Pimlico." And again, "besides
other gallants, oysterwomen, sailors' wives, tobacco-men--another
Pimlico." _Apropos_ of the gin-palaces which have replaced the
old-fashioned public-houses that abounded some twenty years ago
in Westminster, Mr Smith makes a digression on the subject of
drunkenness, and quotes some curious particulars from an old
treatise, called _The London and Country Brewer_. "Our drunkenness,
as a national vice," says the writer, "takes its date from the
restoration of Charles the Second, or a few years later." It may
be questioned whether drunkenness was not pretty well established
as an English vice long before the period here referred to. We
have the authority of various writers, however, for its having
greatly increased about the time of the Stuarts' restoration. "A
spirit of extravagant joy," says Burnet, in his _History of his
own Times_, "spread over the nation. All ended in entertainments
and drunkenness, which overrun the three kingdoms to such a
degree, that it very much corrupted all their morals. Under the
colour of drinking the King's health, there were great disorders,
and much riot every where." This was no unnatural reaction after
the stern austerity of the Protectorate. "As to the materials,
(of drunkenness,") continues _The Brewer_, "beer and ale were
considerable articles; they went a great way in the work at first,
but were far from being sufficient; and then strong waters came into
play. The occasion was this: In the Dutch wars it had been observed
that the captains of the Hollanders' men-of-war, when they were
about to engage with our ships, usually set a hogshead of brandy
abroach afore the mast, and bid the men drink _sustick_, that they
might fight _lustick_; and our poor seamen felt the force of the
brandy to their cost. We were not long behind them; but suddenly
after the war we began to abound in strong-water shops." Even
the chandlers and the barber-surgeons kept stores of spirituous
compounds, for the most part of exceeding bad quality, but sweetened
and spiced, and temptingly displayed in rows of glass bottles, under
Latin names of imposing sound. Aniseed-water was the favourite
dram; until the French, finding out the newly-acquired taste of
their old enemies, deluged the English markets with brandy, which
was recommended by the physicians, and soon acquired universal
popularity. It was sold about the streets in small measures, at a
halfpenny and a penny each; and the consumption was prodigious,
until a war broke out with France, when the supply of course
stopped, and the poor were compelled to return to their _aqua vitae_
and _aqua mirabilis_, or, better than either, to the ale-glass.
When speaking of the royal cockpit at Whitehall, Mr Smith tells
us of "Admiral M'Bride, a brave sailor of the old school, who
constantly kept game-cocks on board his ship, and on the morning of
an action, endeavoured, and that successfully, to animate his men by
the spectacle of a cock-fight between decks." This, if not a very
humane expedient, according to modern notions, was at any rate an
improvement upon Dutch courage, with which British seamen of the
present day would scorn to fortify themselves.

St James's Park, originally a swamp, was first inclosed by Harry
the Eighth, but little was done towards its improvement and
embellishment until after the Restoration. It was within its
precincts, that in July 1626 Lord Conway assembled the numerous
and troublesome French retinue of Queen Henrietta Maria, and
communicated to them the king's pleasure that they should
immediately quit the country. The legion of hungry foreigners,
including several priests and a boy bishop, scarcely of age, had
hoped long to fatten upon English soil, and they received their
dismissal with furious outcry and loud remonstrance. Their royal
mistress also was greatly incensed, and broke several panes of glass
with her fists, in no very queenly style. But Charles for once was
resolute; the Frenchmen had, to use his own expressions, so dallied
with his patience, and so highly affronted him, that he could no
longer endure it. They found, however, all sorts of pretexts to
delay their departure, claiming wages and perquisites which were
not due, and alleging that they had debts in London, and could not
go away till these were discharged. L'Estrange, in his Life of
Charles I., and D'Israeli in his _Commentaries_, gives many curious
particulars of the proceedings of this troop of bloodsuckers.
Under pretence of perquisites, they pillaged the queen's wardrobe
and jewel-case, not leaving her even a change of linen. The king
accorded them a reasonable delay for their preparations, but
at last he lost all patience, as will be seen by the following
characteristic letter to the Duke of Buckingham, dated from Oaking,
the 7th of August 1626:

     "STEENIE,--I have received your letter by Dic Greame, (Sir
     Richard Graham.) This is my answer: I command you to send all
     the French away to-morrow out of the towne, if you can by fair
     means, (but stike not long in disputing,) otherways force them
     away, dryving them away lyke so manie wilde beastes, until ye
     have shipped them, and so the devil goe with them. Let me heare
     no answer, but of the performance of my command. So I rest your
     faithful, constant, loving friend, C. R."

Thereupon the debts of the obnoxious French were paid, their claims,
both just and unjust, satisfied, presents given to some of them,
and they set out for Dover, nearly forty coaches full. "As Madame
St George, whose vivacity is always described as extremely French,
was stepping into the boat, one of the mob could not resist the
satisfaction of flinging a stone at her French cap. An English
courtier, who was conducting her, instantly quitted his charge, ran
the fellow through the body, and quietly returned to the boat. The
man died on the spot, but no further notice appears to have been
taken of the inconsiderate gallantry of the English courtier."

The Stuarts were commonly plagued with the foreign attendants
of their wives. When Charles the Second's spouse, Catherine of
Braganza, arrived in England, she was escorted by a train of
Portuguese ladies, who highly disgusted the king and his court,
less, however, by their Papistry and greediness, than by their
surpassing ugliness and obstinate adherence to the fashions of
their country. "Six frights," says Anthony Hamilton in his memoirs
of Count Grammont, "who called themselves maids of honour, and a
duenna, another monster, who took the title of governess to these
extraordinary beauties. Among the men were Francisco de Melo, and
one Tauravedez, who called himself Don Pedro Francisco Correo
de Silva, extremely handsome, but a greater fool than all the
Portuguese put together; he was more vain of his names than his
person; but the Duke of Buckingham, a still greater fool than he,
though more addicted to raillery, gave him the name of Peter of
the Wood. He was so enraged at this, that, after many fruitless
complaints and ineffectual menaces, poor Pedro de Silva was
obliged to leave England; while the happy duke kept possession of
a Portuguese nymph more hideous than the queen's maids of honour,
whom he had taken from him, as well as two of his names. Besides
these, there were six chaplains, four bakers, a Jew perfumer, and a
certain officer, probably without an office, who called himself her
highness's barber." Evelyn also tells us, that "the queen arrived
with a train of Portuguese ladies in their monstrous fardingals
or guard-infantas, their complexions olivader, and sufficiently
unagreeable;" and Lord Clarendon talks of "a numerous family of men
and women, that were sent from Portugal"--the women "old and ugly
and proud, incapable of any conversation with persons of quality and
a liberal education; and they desired, and indeed had conspired so
far to possess the queen herself, that she should neither learn the
English language, nor use their habit, nor depart from the manners
and fashions of her own country in any particulars." Although the
Infanta herself was by no means ill-looking, her charms did not
come up to those of the flattered portrait which her mother, the
old Queen of Portugal, had sent to Charles; and it is possible that
the selection of plain women for her retinue had been intentional,
that their ugliness might serve as a foil to her moderate amount of
beauty. After a short time, however, the majority of these uncomely
Lusitanians were sent back to their native country.

To return to Mr Smith and St James's Park. After his Restoration,
Charles the Second, who, as worthy Thomas Blount says in his
Boscobel, had been hunted to and fro like a "partridge upon the
mountains," became very _casanier_, decidedly stay-at-home, in
his habits, and cared little to absent himself from London and
its vicinity. He had had buffeting and wandering enough in his
youth, and, on ascending the throne of his unfortunate father,
he thought of little besides making himself comfortable in his
capital, careless of expense, which, even in his greatest need, he
seems never to have calculated. He planted the avenues of the park,
made a canal and an aviary for rare birds, which gave the name to
Bird-Cage Walk. Amongst other freaks, and to provide for a witty
Frenchman who amused him, he erected Duck Island into a government.
Charles de St Denis, seigneur of St Evremond, who had been banished
from France for a satire on Cardinal Mazarine, was the first and,
it is believed, the last governor. He drew the salary attached
to the appointment, which was certainly a more lucrative than
honourable one for a man of his talents and reputation. According
to Evelyn, Charles stored the park with "numerous flocks of fowle.
There were also deer of several countries--white, spotted like
leopards; antelopes, as elk, red deer, roebucks, staggs, Guinea
grates, Arabian sheep," &c. In the Mall, also made by him, Charles
played at ball and took his daily walk. "Here," says Colley Cibber,
"Charles was often seen amid crowds of spectators, feeding his
ducks and playing with his dogs, affable even with the meanest of
his subjects." Mr Smith regrets the diminished affability and less
accessible mood of sovereigns of the nineteenth century, although he
admits that the populace of France and England are at the present
day too rude for it to be advisable that kings and queens should
walk amongst them with the easy familiarity of the second Charles.
Of that there can be very little doubt. Even Charles, whose dislike
of ceremony and restraint, and love of gossip and new faces, were
cause, at least as much as any desire for popularity, that he thus
mingled with the mob, occasionally experienced the disagreeables
of his undignified manner of life. Aubrey the credulous, Mr Smith
tells us, relates in his Miscellanies the following anecdote of
an incident that occurred in the Park. "Avise Evans had a fungous
nose, and said that it was revealed to him that the king's hand
would cure him: and at the first coming of King Charles II. into St
James's Park, he kissed the king's hand, and rubbed his nose with
it, which disturbed the king, but cured him." It was whilst walking
on the Mall that the pretended Popish plot of Oates and Bedloe was
announced to Charles. "On the 12th of August 1678," says Hume,
"one Kirby, a chemist, accosted the king as he was walking in the
Park. 'Sir,' said he, 'keep within the company; your enemies have
a design upon your life, and you may be shot in this very walk.'
Being asked the reason of these strange speeches, he said that two
men, called Grove and Pickering, had engaged to shoot the king, and
Sir George Wakeman, the queen's physician, to poison him." Charles,
unlike his grandfather, the timid James, was little apprehensive
of assassination, and, when sauntering in the Park, preferred the
society of two or three intimates to the attendance of a retinue.
On one occasion, however, as a biographer has recorded, an impudent
barber startled him from his usual happy _insouciance_. Accustomed
to chat familiarly with his good-humoured master, the chin-scraper
ventured to observe, whilst operating upon that of the king, that
he considered no officer of the court had a more important trust
than himself. "Why so, friend?" inquired the king. "Why," replied
the barber, "I could cut your majesty's throat whenever I chose."
Charles started up in consternation, swore that the very thought
was treason, and the indiscreet man of razors was deprived of his
delicate charge.

In the _Daily Post_ for October 31st, 1728, is an order of the Board
of Green Cloth for clearing St James's Park of the shoe-cleaners
and other vagrants, and sending them to the House of Correction.
This reminds us of what has often excited our surprise, the absence
from the streets of London of an humble but very useful class of
professionals, who abound in many continental towns, in all French
ones of any size. Abundant ingenuity is displayed in London in the
discovery and invention of strange and out-of-the-way employments.
Men convert themselves into "animated sandwiches" by back and
breastplates of board, encase themselves in gigantic bottles to
set forth the merits of some famed specific or potent elixir, or
walk about with advertisements printed on their coats, peripatetic
fly-sheets, extolling the comfort and economy of halfpenny steamers,
and of omnibuses at a penny a mile. Some sweep crossings, others
hold horses; but none of the vast number of needy _industrials_
who strain their wits to devise new means of obtaining their daily
ration and nightly shelter, have as yet taken pattern by the French
_decrotteur_ and German _stiefel-wichser_, and provided themselves
for stock in trade with a three-legged stool, a brace of brushes,
and a bottle of blacking. No one has been at Paris without finding
the great convenience of the _ateliers de decrottage_ which abound
in the passages and in the more frequented of the streets, where,
for three or four _sous_, the lounger who has had boots and
trousers bemired by rapid cab or lumbering _diligence_, is brushed
and polished with unparalleled rapidity and dexterity. But a very
moderate capital is required for the establishment of these temples
of cleanliness, and we recommend the subject to the consideration of
decayed railway "stags."

"Duke Street Chapel, with a flight of steps leading to the Park,
formed originally a wing of the mansion of the notorious Judge
Jeffries. The house was built by him, and James the Second, as a
mark of especial favour, allowed him to make an entry to the Park by
the steps alluded to. The son of Jeffries inhabited it for a short
time." It was this son and successor of the infamous Jeffries, who,
with a party of rakes and debauchees, mohocks as they were at that
time called, insulted the remains of the poet Dryden, and the grief
of his widow. They happened to pass through Gerrard Street, Soho,
when Dryden's remains were about to be conveyed from his house, No.
43, in that street, to Westminster Abbey. Although it was in the
daytime, Jeffries was drunk; he swore that Dryden should not be
buried in so shabby a manner, (eighteen mourning coaches waited to
form the procession,) and that he would see due honour done to his
remains. After frightening Lady Elizabeth, who was ill in bed, into
a fainting fit, these aristocratic ruffians stopped the funeral,
and sent the body to an undertaker in Cheapside. The bishop waited
several hours in Westminster Abbey, and at last went away. When
Jeffries became sober, he had forgotten all about the matter, and
refused to have any thing to do with the interment. The corpse lay
unburied for three weeks. At last the benevolent Dr Garth had it
taken to the College of Physicians, got up a subscription for the
expenses of the funeral, and followed the body to Westminster Abbey.
The poet's son challenged Jeffries, but Jeffries showed the white
feather, and, to avoid personal chastisement, kept carefully out
of the way for three years, when Charles Dryden was drowned near
Windsor.

Mr Smith is most indulgent to the blunders and blockheadism of our
modern architects and monument-makers, far too much so, indeed,
when he speaks approvingly of Trafalgar Square and its handsome
fountains, and without positive disapprobation of the vile
collection of clumsy buildings and ill-executed ornament defacing
that site. There has been a deal of ink spilt upon this subject, and
we have no intention of adding to the quantity, especially as there
is no chance that any flow of fluid, however unlimited, shall blot
out the square and its absurdities. But we defy any Englishman, with
the smallest pretensions to taste, to pass Charing Cross without
feelings of shame and disgust at the mismanagement and ignorance
there manifest. Such an accumulation of clumsiness was surely never
before witnessed. The wretched National Gallery with its absurd
dome, crushed beneath the tall and symmetrical proportions of St
Martin's portico, overtopped even by the private dwelling-houses
in its vicinity; the dirty, ill-devised, and worse-executed
fountains, with their would-be-gracefully curved basins, the steps
and parapets, which give the whole place the appearance of an
exaggerated child's toy. Well may foreigners shrug their shoulders,
and smile at the public buildings of the great capital of Britain.
A fatality attends all our efforts in that way. In regard to
architecture and ornament, we pay more and are worse served than
any body else. So habituated are we to failure in this respect,
that when a public building is completed, scaffolding removed, and
a fair view obtained, we wonder and exult if it is found free from
glaring defects, and in no way particularly obnoxious to censure. As
to its proving a thing to be proud of, to be gazed at and admired,
and to be spoken of out of England, or even in England, after the
fuss and ceremony of its inauguration is over, we never dream of
such a thing. The negative merit of having avoided the ridiculous
and the grotesque, is subject for satisfaction, almost for pride.
Assuredly we love not to exalt other countries at the expense of our
own, to draw invidious comparisons between things English and things
foreign. But the difference between public buildings of modern
erection in London and in Paris is so immense, that it can escape no
one. Take, for instance, the Paris _Bourse_ and the London Exchange.
The former, it has been objected, is out of character; a Greek
temple is no fitting rendezvous for the sons of commerce; a less
classic fane were more appropriate for the discussion of exchanges,
for sales of cotton and muscovado. The objection, according to us,
is flimsy and absurd, and must have originated with some Vandalic
and prejudiced booby, with whom consistency was a monomania.
Nevertheless we will, for argument's sake, admit its validity. Is
that a reason that the traders and capitalists of London should meet
in a building which, for heaviness and exaggerated solidity, rivals
a South American Inquisition? Do the Barings and the Rothschilds
anticipate an attack upon their strong boxes, and intend to stand a
siege within the massive walls of the Royal Exchange? Assuredly the
narrow doorways may easily be defended; for a time, at least, the
ponderous walls will mock the cannonade. The curse of heaviness is
upon our architects. There is total want of grace, and lightness,
and airiness in all their works. Behold our new Senate House! Do
its florid beauties and overdone decorations, unsparingly as they
have been lavished, and convenient as they will doubtless be found
as receptacles for bird's nests, contrast favourably with the
elegant and dignified simplicity of the Chamber of Deputies? The
two, it will be said, cannot be assimilated: the vast difference
of size precludes a comparison. We reply, that the buildings are
for the same purpose; but were they not, proportion at least should
be observed. The Parliament House is far too low for its length.
Want of elevation is the common fault, both in the ideas and in the
productions of our architects.

Are we more successful in statues than in buildings? Mr Smith has
some sensible remarks on this score. Speaking of the equestrian
statue of George III. in Cockspur Street, he says, that "critics
object to the cocked hat and tie-wig in the royal figure; but,
some ages hence, these abused parts will be the most valuable in
the whole statue. It may very reasonably be asked, why an English
gentleman should be represented in the dress of a Roman tribune?
Let the man appear, even in a statue, in his habit as he lived; and
whatever _we_ may say, posterity will be grateful to us. We should
like to know exactly the ordinary walking-dress of Caesar or Brutus,
and how they wore their hair; and we should not complain if they
had cocked hats or periwigs, if we knew them to be exact copies of
nature." It is certain that modern physiognomy rarely harmonises
with ancient costume. What is to be said of the aspect of the "first
gentleman of Europe," wrapped in his horsecloth, and astride on his
bare-backed steed, in the aforesaid Square of Trafalgar? Assuredly
nothing in commendation. There are portraits of Napoleon in classic
drapery, and, even with his classically correct countenance, he
looks a very ordinary, under-sized Roman. But, in his grey _capote_
and small cocked hat, the characteristic is preserved, and we at
once think of, and wonder at, the hero of Austerlitz and Marengo.

Leicester Square, as Mr Smith justly observes, has more the
appearance of the _Grande Place_ of some continental city than of
a London square. The headquarters and chief rendezvous of aliens,
especially of Frenchmen, it bears numerous and unmistakeable marks
of its foreign occupancy. French hotels and restaurants replace
taverns and chop-houses. French names are seen above shops;
promises of French, German, and Spanish conversation, are read in
the windows; and grimy-visaged, hirsute individuals, in plaited
pantaloons and garments of eccentric cut, saunter, cigar in mouth,
over the shabby pavement. It is curious to remark the different
tone and station taken by English in Paris and French in London.
In the former capital, nothing is too good for the intruding
islanders. In the best and most expensive season, they throng
thither, and strut about like lords of the soil, perfectly at home,
and careless of the opinions of the people amongst whom they have
condescended to come. The best houses are for their use; the most
expensive shops are favoured with their custom; and if occasionally
tormented by a troublesome consciousness of paying dearly for
their importance, they easily console themselves by a malediction
on the French _voleurs_, who thus take advantage of their long
purses and open hands. How different is it with the Frenchman in
London! He comes over, for the most part, at the dullest time of
the year, in the autumn, when the town is foggy, and dreary, and
empty; when the Parks are deserted, shutters shut, the theatres
dull, and exhibitions closed. He has certain vague apprehensions of
the tremendous expense entailed by a visit to the English capital.
To avoid this, he makes a toil of a pleasure; wearies himself with
economical calculations; and creeps into some inferior hotel or dull
lodging-house, tempted by low prices and foreign announcements.
We find French deputies abiding in Cranbourn Street, and counts
contenting themselves with a garret at Pagliano's. Thence they
perambulate westwards; and ignorant, or not choosing to remember,
that London is out of town, and that they have selected the very
worst possible season to visit it, they greatly marvel at the
paucity of equipages, at the abundance of omnibuses and hack-cabs,
and the scarcity of sunbeams; and return home to inform their
friends that London is a _ville monstre_, with spacious streets,
small houses, few amusements; very great, but very gloomy; and
where the nearest approach to sunshine resembles the twinkling of a
rushlight through a plate of blue earthenware.

"The foreign appearance of Leicester Square is not of recent growth.
It seems to have been the favourite resort of strangers and exiles
ever since the place was built. Maitland, who wrote more than a
hundred years ago, describing the parish of St Anne's, in which
it is situate, says--'The fields in these parts being but lately
converted into buildings, I have not discovered any thing of great
antiquity in this parish. Many parts of it so greatly abound with
French, that it is an easy matter for a stranger to imagine himself
in France.'"

Sydney Alley is named after the Earls of Leicester, who had their
town-house on the north side of the square, where Leicester Place
has since been opened. Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, daughter of
James I., occupied, for some years, this residence of the Sydneys.
She also inhabited a house in Drury Place, where Craven Street
now stands, which was built for her by Lord Craven. It was called
Bohemia House for many years afterwards, and at last became a
tavern, at the sign of the Queen of Bohemia. "The Earl of Craven
was thought to have been privately married to the queen, a woman of
great sweetness of temper and amiability of manners--a universal
favourite both in this country and Bohemia, where her gentleness
acquired her the title of 'The Queen of Hearts.' By right of their
descent from her, the House of Hanover ascended the throne of this
kingdom." Lord Craven was the eldest son of Sir William Craven,
lord-mayor of London in 1611. He fought under Gustavus Adolphus with
great distinction, and returned to England at the Restoration, when
Charles II. made him viscount and earl. He commanded a regiment of
the guards until within three or four years of his death, which
occurred in 1697, at the advanced age of eighty-five. "He was an
excellent soldier," says the advertisement of his decease in No.
301 of the _Postman_, "and served in the wars under Palsgrave of
the Rhine, and also under the great Gustavus Adolphus, where he
performed sundry warlike exploits to admiration; and, in a word, he
was then in great renowne."

However indifferently Leicester Square may at present be inhabited,
and notwithstanding its long-standing reputation as a foreign
colony, it has been the chosen abode of many distinguished men.
Hogarth and Reynolds lived and died there. Hogarth's house is now
part of the Sabloniere Hotel. Sir Joshua's was on the opposite side
of the square; and both of them, especially the latter, were much
resorted to by the wits and wise men of the day. Johnson, Boswell,
and, at times, Goldsmith, were constant visitors to Reynolds. John
Hunter, the anatomist, lived next-door to Hogarth's house; and in
1725, Lords North and Grey, and Arthur Onslow, the Speaker, also
inhabited this square. Leicester House, where the Queen of Bohemia
lived, is called by Pennant the "pouting-place of princes." George
II. retired thither when he quarrelled with his father; and his son
Frederick, the father of George III., did the same thing for the
same reason. Whilst Prince Frederick and the Princess of Wales lived
there, they received the wedding visit of the Hon. John Spencer,
ancestor of the present Earl Spencer, and of his bride, Miss Poyntz.
Contrary to established etiquette, the bridal party went to visit
the Prince before paying their respects to the King. They came in
two carriages and a sedan chair; the latter, which was lined with
white satin, contained the bride, and was preceded by a black page,
and followed by three footmen in splendid liveries. The diamonds
presented to Mr Spencer, on occasion of his marriage, by Sarah,
Duchess of Marlborough, were worth one hundred thousand pounds. The
bridegroom's shoe-buckles alone cost thirty thousand pounds. An old
gentleman, born more than a century ago, from whom Mr Smith obtained
some of these particulars, informed him, that about that time the
neighbourhood was so thinly built, that when the heads of two men,
executed for participation in the Scotch rebellion, were placed on
Temple Bar, a man stood in Leicester Fields with a telescope, to
give the boys a sight of them for a penny a-piece.

A house in Leicester Fields was the scene of some of the
eccentricities of that semi-civilised hero, Peter the Great of
Russia. It belonged to the Earl of Aylesbury, and was inhabited,
during the Czar's visit to this country, by the Marquis of
Carmarthen, who gave a grand ball there, on the 2d April 1698, in
honour of the imperial stranger. The Marquis was Peter's particular
chum and boon companion, and the Czar preferred his society to
all the gaieties and visitors that beset him during his residence
in England. Peter was very shy of strangers, and when William the
Third gave him a magnificent entertainment at St James's, he would
not mix with the company, but begged to be put into a cupboard,
whence he could see without being seen. He drank tremendously, and
made Lord Carmathen do the same. Hot brandy, seasoned with pepper,
was his favourite drink. Something strong he certainly required
to digest his diet of train-oil and raw meats. On one occasion,
when staying in Leicester Fields with the Marquis, he is said to
have drunk a pint of brandy and a bottle of sherry before dinner,
and eight bottles of sack after it, and then to have gone to the
play, seemingly no whit the worse. He lodged in York Buildings, in
a house overlooking the river, supposed by some to be that at the
left-hand corner of Buckingham Street. A house in Norfolk Street
also had the honour of sheltering him. "On Monday night," says No.
411 of the _Postman_ "the Czar of Muscovy arrived from Holland, and
went directly to the house prepared for him in Norfolk Street." His
principal amusement was being rowed on the Thames between London
and Deptford; and at last, in order to live quietly and avoid the
hosts of visitors who poured in upon him, he took Admiral Benbow's
house at the latter place. It stood on the ground now occupied by
the Victualling Office, and was the property of the well-known John
Evelyn.

"Horne Tooke," says Mr Smith, "in his _Diversions of Purley_,
derives the word Charing from the Saxon _Charan_, to turn; and the
situation of the original village, on the bend or turning of the
Thames, gives probability to this etymology." Every body knows that
Charing, now so central a point, was once a little hamlet on the
rural high-road between London and Westminster, and that the "Cross"
was added to it by Edward the First, who, when escorting his wife's
remains from Lincolnshire to Westminster Abbey, erected one at each
place where the beloved corpse rested. The first cross, which was
of wood, and probably of rude enough manufacture, gave way to one
of stone, designed by Cavalini. About the middle of the seventeenth
century, that period of puritanical intolerance, this was removed by
order of the Commons' House, an order which the royalists took care
to ridicule by song and lampoon. According to Lilly the astrologer
and quack, the workmen were three months pulling it down, and some
of the stones were used for the pavement before Whitehall. Others
were made into knife-handles, and Lilly saw some of them which were
polished and looked like marble. Those were days in which kingly
memorials found as little favour as popish emblems; and after the
death of Charles the First, the statue that now stands at Charing
Cross, and which had been cast by Le Sueur in 1633 for the Earl of
Arundel, was sold and ordered to be broken up. It was bought by one
Rivet, a brazier, who, instead of breaking, buried it. This did not
prevent the ingenious mechanic from making a large and immediate
profit by the effigy of the martyred monarch; for he melted down
old brass into knife and fork-handles, and sold them as proceeding
from the King's statue. Roundheads and cavaliers all flocked to buy;
the former desiring a trophy of their triumph, the latter eager to
possess a memento of their lamented sovereign. In 1678, L70,000
was voted by Parliament for the obsequies of Charles I., and for a
monument to his memory, and with a portion of this sum, how large a
one is not known, the statue was repurchased.

The historian of the streets and houses of a great and ancient
city, has, in many ways, a most difficult task to perform. Not only
must he read much, observe closely, and diligently inquire, display
ingenuity in deduction and judgment in selection, but he must be
steadfast to resist temptation. For, assuredly, to the lover of
antiquarian and historical lore, the temptation is immense, whilst
culling materials from quaint old diaries, black-letter pamphlets,
and venerable newspapers, to expatiate and extract at a length
wholly inconsistent with the necessary limits of his work. Some
writers are at pains to dilate their matter--his chief care must
be to compress. What would fairly fill a sheet must be packed into
a page--the pith and substance of a volume must be squeezed into a
chapter. The diligent compiler should not be slightly considered by
the creative and aspiring genius. Like the bee, he forms his small,
rich store, from the fragrance of a thousand flowers--adopting the
sweet, rejecting the nauseous and insipid. Nor must he dwell too
long on any pet and particular blossom, lest what would please
in due proportion should cloy by too large an admixture. To vary
the metaphor, the writer of such a work as this _Antiquarian
Ramble_, should be a sort of literary Soyer, mixing his materials
so skilfully that the flavour of each is preserved, whilst not one
unduly predominates. He must not prance off on a hobby, whether
architectural, historical, social, or romantic, but relieve his
cattle and his readers by jumping lightly and frequently from one
saddle to another.

How many books might be written upon the themes briefly glanced at
in Mr Smith's book! Let us take, for instance, the places of public
executions in London. Charing Cross was for centuries one of them,
and its pillory was the most illustrious amongst the many that
formerly graced the capital--illustrious by reason of the remarkable
evil-doers who underwent ignominy in its wooden and unfriendly
embrace. The notorious Titus Oates, and Parsons, the chief contriver
of the Cock-Lane Ghost, were exposed in it. To the rough treatment
which, in former days, sometimes succeeded exposure in the pillory,
the following paragraph, from the _Daily Advertiser_ of the 11th
June 1731, abundantly testifies:--"Yesterday Japhet Crook, _alias_
Sir Peter Stranger, stood on the pillory for the space of one hour;
after which he was seated in an elbow-chair, and the common hangman
cut both his ears off with an incision knife, and showed them to
the spectators, afterwards delivered them to Mr Watson, a sheriff's
officer; then slit both his nostrils with a pair of scissors, and
sear'd them with a hot iron, pursuant to his sentence. He had a
surgeon to attend him to the pillory, who immediately applied things
necessary to prevent the effusion of blood. He underwent it all with
undaunted courage; afterwards went to the Ship tavern at Charing
Cross, where he stayed some time; then was carried to the King's
Bench Prison, to be confined there for life. During the time he
was on the pillory he laughed, and denied the fact to the last."
Petty punishments these, although barbarous enough, inflicted for
paltry crimes upon mean malefactors. Criminals of a far higher grade
had, previously to that, paid the penalty of their offences at the
Cross of Charing. Hugh Peters, Cromwell's chaplain, was there hung,
as were Scrope, Jones, Harrison, and others of the king-killers.
Long had been their impunity; but vengeance at last overtook them.
To the end they showed the stern fanatical resolution of Oliver's
iron followers. "Where is your GOOD OLD CAUSE?" cried a scoffer
to Harrison, as he was led to the scaffold. "Here!" he replied,
clapping hand on breast; "I go to seal it with my blood." At the
foot of the ladder, which he approached with undaunted mien, his
limbs were observed to tremble, and some amongst the mob made a
mockery of this weakness. "I judge," said Harrison, "that some do
think I am afraid to die, by the shaking I have in my hands and
knees. _I_ tell you NO! but it is by reason of much blood that I
have lost in the wars, and many wounds I have received in my body,
which caused this shaking and weakness in my nerves." And he spoke
further, and told the populace how he gloried in that he had done,
and how, had he ten thousand lives, he would cheerfully lay them
down in the same cause. "After he was hanged, a horrible scene took
place. In conformity to the barbarous sentence then, and for many
years afterwards, executed upon persons convicted of treason, he
was cut down alive and stripped, his belly was cut open, his bowels
taken out and burned before his eyes. Harrison, in the madness of
his agony, rose up wildly, it is said, and gave the executioner
a box on the ear, and then fell down insensible. It was the last
effort of matter over mind, and for the time it conquered." The
other regicides died with the same firmness and contempt of death.
"Their grave and graceful demeanour," says the account in the state
trials, "accompanied with courage and cheerfulness, caused great
admiration and compassion in the spectators." So much so, and so
strong was the sympathy excited, that the government gave orders
that no more of them should be executed in the heart of London.
Accordingly the remainder suffered at Tyburn.

Upon the old Westminster market-place a most barbarous event
occurred in the time of that tyrannical, acetous old virgin, Queen
Bess, who assuredly owes her renown and the sort of halo of respect
that surrounds her memory, far less to any good qualities of her
own, than to the galaxy of great men who flourished during her
reign. The glory that encircles her brow is formed of such stars as
Cecil, Burleigh and Bacon, Drake and Raleigh, Spencer, Shakspeare,
and Sydney. Touching this barbarity, however, enacted by order of
good Queen Bess. At the mature age of forty-eight, her majesty took
it into her very ordinary-looking old head to negotiate a marriage
with the Duke of Anjou. Commissioners came from France to discuss
the interesting subject, and were entertained by pageants and
tournaments, in which Elizabeth enacted the Queen of Beauty; and
subsequently the duke came over himself, as a private gentleman, to
pay his court to the last of the Tudors. The duke being a <DW7>,
the proposed alliance was very unpopular in England, and one John
Stubbs, a barrister of Lincoln's-Inn, wrote a pamphlet against it,
entitled, "The Discoverye of a gaping gulphe, whereinto England is
like to be swallowed by another French marriage, if the Lord forbid
not the banns, by letting her Majestye see the sin and punishment
thereof." Certain expressions in this imprudent publication greatly
angered the Queen; Stubbs and his servant, Page, were brought to
trial, and condemned to lose their right hands. This cruel and
unusual sentence was carried into effect on the market-place at
Westminster, and witnessed by Camden, who gives an account of it.
Both sufferers behaved with great fortitude and courage. Their hands
were cut off with a butcher's cleaver and mallet, and as soon as
Stubbs had lost his, he pulled off his cap with his left, waved it
in the air, and cried--"God save the Queen!" He then fainted away.
It took two blows to sever Page's hand, but he flinched not, and
pointing to the block where it lay, he exclaimed--"I have left there
the hand of a true Englishman!" And so he went from the scaffold,
says the account, "stoutlie and with great courage."

Amongst spots of sanguinary notoriety, Smithfield, of course, stands
prominent. The majority of the two hundred and seventy-seven persons
burned for heresy during Mary's short reign, suffered there; and
here also, upon two occasions, the horrible punishment of boiling
to death, formerly inflicted on poisoners, was witnessed. In France
this was the punishment of coiners, and there is still a street
at Paris known as the _Rue de l'Echaude_. In Stow's _Annals_ it
is recorded, that on the fifth of April 1531, "one Richard Rose,
a cook, was boiled in Smithfield for poisoning of divers persons,
to the number of sixteen or more." Two only of the sixteen died,
but the others were never restored to health. If any thing could
reconcile us to torture, as a punishment to be inflicted by man on
his offending brother, it is such a crime as this.

If the punishments of our ancestors were cruel, if trials were
sometimes over hasty, and small offences often too severely
chastised, on the other hand, culprits formerly had facilities of
escape now refused to them. The right of sanctuary was enjoyed by
various districts and buildings in London. Pennant and many other
writers have stigmatised this practice as absurd; Mr Smith defends
it upon very reasonable grounds. "In times when every man went
armed, when feuds were of hourly occurrence in the streets, when the
age had not yet learned the true superiority of right over might,
and when private revenge too often usurped the functions of justice,
it was essential that there should be places whither the homicide
might flee, and find refuge and protection until the violence of
angry passions had subsided, and there was a chance of a fair trial
for him." Not all sanctuaries, however, gave protection to the
murderer, at least in later times. Whitefriars, for instance, once a
refuge for all criminals, except traitors, afforded shelter, after
the fifteenth century, to debtors only. In 1697 this sanctuary was
abolished entirely, at the same time with a dozen others. It is not
well ascertained how it acquired the slang name of Alsatia, which
is first found in a play of Shadwell's, _The Squire of Alsatia_.
Immortalised by the genius of Scott, no sanctuary will longer be
remembered than Whitefriars. It was one of the largest; many others
of the privileged districts being limited to a court or alley, a
few houses or a church. Thus Ram Alley and Mitre Court in Fleet
Street, and Baldwin's Gardens in Gray's Inn Lane, were amongst these
refugees of roguery and crime. Whitefriars was much resorted to by
poets and players, dancing and fencing masters, and persons of the
like vagabond and uncertain professions. The poets and players were
attracted by the vicinity of the theatre in Dorset Gardens, built
after the fire of London, by Sir Christopher Wren, upon the site
of Dorset House, the residence of the Sackvilles. Here Sir William
Davenant's company of comedians--the Duke of York's servants, as
they were called--performed for a considerable time. It appears,
however, that even before the great fire, there was a theatre in
that neighbourhood. Malone, in his _Prologomena_ to Shakspeare,
quotes a memorandum from the manuscript book of Sir Henry Herbert,
master of the revels to King Charles I. It runs thus:--"I committed
Cromes, a broker in Long Lane, the 16th of February 1634, to the
Marshalsey, for lending a church robe with the name of Jesus upon it
_to the players in Salisbury Court_, to represent a Flamen, a priest
of the heathens. Upon his petition of submission and acknowledgement
of his faults, I released him the 17th of February 1634."

The ancient sanctuary at Westminster is of historical and
Shaksperian celebrity, as the place where Elizabeth Grey, Queen of
Edward the Fourth, took refuge, when Warwick the king-maker marched
to London to dethrone her husband, and set Henry the Sixth on the
throne. It was a stone church, built in the form of a cross, and
so strongly, that its demolition, in 1750, was a matter of great
difficulty. The precinct of St Martin's-le-Grand was also sanctuary.
Many curious particulars respecting it are to be found in Kempe's
_Historical Notices of the Collegiate Church, or Royal Free Chapel
and Sanctuary of St Martin's-le-Grand, London_, published in 1825.
In the reign of Henry the Fifth, this right of sanctuary gave rise
to a great dispute between the Dean of St Martin's and the city
authorities. "A soldier, confined in Newgate, was on his way to
Guildhall, in charge of an officer of the city, when on passing
the south gate of St Martin's, opposite to Newgate Street, five
of his comrades rushed out of Panyer Alley, with daggers drawn,
rescued him, and fled with him to the holy ground." The sheriff had
the sanctuary forced, and sent rescued and rescuers to Newgate.
The Dean of St Martin's, indignant at this violation of privilege,
complained to the king, who ordered the prisoners to be liberated.
Thereat the citizens, ever sticklers for their rights, demurred,
and at last it was made a Star-Chamber matter. The dean pleaded his
own cause, and that right skilfully and wittily. He denied that
the chapel of St Martin's formed any part of the city of London,
as claimed by the corporation; quoted a statute of Edward III.
constituting St Martin's and Westminster Abbey places of privilege
for treason, felony, and debt; and mentioned the curious fact,
that "when the King's justices held their sittings in St Martin's
Gate, for the trial of prisoners for treason or felony, the accused
were placed before them, _on the other side of the street_, and
carefully guarded from advancing forward; for if they ever passed
the water-channel which divided the middle of the street, they
might claim the saving franchise of the sacred precinct, and the
proceedings against them would be immediately annulled." The dean
also expressed his wonder that the citizens of London should be the
men to impugn his church's liberties, since more than three hundred
worshipful members of the corporation had within a few years been
glad to claim its privilege. The Star-Chamber decided against the
city, and the prisoners were restored to sanctuary. The Savoy was
another sanctuary; and it was the custom of the inhabitants to tar
and feather those who ventured to follow their debtors thither.

In the theatrical district of London, Mr Smith lingers long
and fondly; for there each house, almost every brick, is rich
in reminiscences, not only of players and playhouses, but of
wits, poets, and artists. In the burial-ground of St Paul's,
Covent-Garden, repose not a few of those who in their lifetime
inhabited or frequented the neighbourhood. There lies the author of
Hudibras. "Mr Longueville, of the Temple, Butler's steady friend,
and who mainly supported him in his latter days, when the ungrateful
Stuart upon the throne, whose cause he had so greatly served, had
deserted him, was anxious to have buried the poet in Westminster
Abbey. He solicited for that purpose the contributions of those
wealthy persons, his friends, whom he had heard speak admiringly of
Butler's genius, and respectfully of his character, but none would
contribute, although he offered to head the list with a considerable
sum." So poor Butler was buried in Covent-Garden, privately but
decently. He is in good company. Sir Peter Lely, the painter of
dames, the man who seemed created on purpose to limn the languishing
and voluptuous beauties of Charles the Second's court, is also
buried in St Paul's; as are also Wycherley and Southerne, the
dramatists; Haines and Macklin, the comedians; Arne, the musician;
Strange, the engraver; and Walcot, _alias_ Peter Pindar. Sir Peter
Lely lived in Covent-Garden, in very great style. "The original name
of the family was Vandervaes; but Sir Peter's father, a gallant
fellow, and an officer in the army, having been born at a perfumer's
shop, the sign of the Lily, was commonly known by the name of
Captain Lily, a name which his son thought to be more euphonious
to English ears than Vandervaes, and which he retained when he
settled here, slightly altering the spelling." Wycherley, a dandy
and a courtier, as well as an author, had lodgings in Bow Street,
where Charles II. once visited him when he was ill, and gave him
five hundred pounds to go a journey to the south of France for the
benefit of his health. When he afterwards married the Countess of
Drogheda, a young, rich, and beautiful widow, she went to live with
him in Bow Street. She was very jealous, and when he went over to
the "Cock" tavern, opposite to his house, he was obliged to make the
drawer open the windows, that his lady might see there was no woman
in the company. This "Cock" tavern was the great resort of the rakes
and mohocks of that day; of Buckhurst, Sedley, Killigrew, and others
of the same kidney. In fact, Bow Street was then the Bond Street of
London; and the "Cock," its "Long's" or "Clarendon." Dryden, in an
epilogue, talks of the "Bow Street beaux," and several contemporary
writers have similar allusions. Like most places where the rich
congregate, this fashionable quarter was a fine field for the
ingenuity of pick-pockets, and especially of wig and sword-stealers,
a class of thieves that appeared with full-bottomed periwigs and
silver-hilted rapiers. In those days, to keep a man's head decently
covered, cost nearly as much as it now does to fill his belly and
clothe his back. Wigs were sometimes of the value of forty or fifty
pounds. Ten or fifteen pounds was an exceeding "low figure" for
these modish incumbrances. Out of respect to such costly head-dress,
hats were never put on, but carried under the arm. The wig-stealers
could demand no more. Mr Smith quotes a passage from Gay, describing
their manoeuvres:--

    "Nor is thy flaxen wig with safety worn:
     High on the shoulder, in a basket borne,
     Lurks the sly boy, whose hand, to rapine bred,
     Plucks off the curling honours of thy head."

Will's coffeehouse was in Bow Street, and "being the grand resort
of wits and critics, it is not surprising," says Mr Smith, "that
it should become also the headquarters of envy, slander, and
detraction." There was then a lack of printed vehicles for the
venting of the evil passions of rival _literati_; lampoons were
circulated in manuscript, and read at Will's. As the acknowledgment
of the authorship might sometimes have had disagreeable consequences
for the author, a fellow of the name of Julian, who styled himself
"Secretary to the Muses," became the mouthpiece of libeller and
satirist. He read aloud in the coffee-room the pasquinades that were
brought to him, and distributed written copies to all who desired
them. Concerning this base fellow, Sir Walter Scott gives some
curious particulars in his edition of Dryden's works. There is no
record of cudgelings bestowed upon Julian, though it is presumed
that he did not escape them. "He is described," says Malone, "as
a very drunken fellow, and at one time was confined for a libel."
Dryden was a great sufferer from these violent and slanderous
attacks--a sufferer, indeed, in more senses than one; for, besides
being himself made the subject of venomous lampoons, he was
suspected unjustly of having written one, and was waylaid and beaten
on his way from Will's to his house in Gerrard Street. A reward of
fifty pounds was offered for the apprehension of his assailants, but
they remained undiscovered. Lord Rochester was their employer: Lord
Mulgrave the real author of the libel.

In James Street, Covent-Garden, where Garrick lodged, there
resided, from 1714 to 1720, a mysterious lady, who excited great
interest and curiosity. Malcolm, in his _Anecdotes of London
during the Eighteenth Century_, gives some account of her. She
was middle-sized, dark-haired, beautiful and accomplished, and
apparently between thirty and forty years old. She was wealthy,
and possessed very valuable jewels. Her death was sudden, and
occurred after a masquerade, where she said she had conversed with
the King. It was remembered that she had been seen in the private
apartments of Queen Anne; but after that Queen's death, she lived
in obscurity. "She frequently said that her father was a nobleman,
but that, her elder brother dying unmarried, the title was extinct;
adding, that she had an uncle then living, whose title was his least
recommendation. It seems likely enough that she was connected in
some way with the Stuart family, and with their pretensions to the
throne."

Dr Arne was born in King Street. His father, an honest upholsterer,
at the sign of the "Two Crowns and Cushions," is said to have been
the original of Murphy's farce of _The Upholsterer_. He did not
countenance his son's musical propensities; and young Arne had to
get up in the night, and practise by stealth on a muffled spinet.
The first intimation received by the worthy mattress-maker of his
son's proficiency in music, was one evening at a concert, where he
quite unexpectedly saw him officiating as leader of the orchestra.

Voltaire, when in England, after his release from the Bastille,
whither he had been sent for libel, lodged in Maiden Lane, at the
White Peruke, a wigmaker's shop. When walking out, he was often
annoyed by the mob, who beheld, in his spare person, polite manners,
and satirical countenance, the personification of their notion of
a Frenchman. "One day he was beset by so great a crowd that he
was forced to shelter himself against a doorway, where, mounting
the steps, he made a flaming speech in English in praise of the
magnanimity of the English nation, and their love of freedom.
With this the people were so delighted, that their jeers were
turned into applauses, and he was carried in triumph to Maiden
Lane on the shoulders of the mob." From which temporary elevation
the arch-scoffer doubtless looked down upon his dupes with glee,
suppressed, but immeasurable.

Quitting the abodes of wit and the drama for those of legal
learning, we pass from Covent-Garden to Lincoln's Inn Fields,
through Great Queen Street, in the Stuarts' day one of the most
fashionable in London. Here dwelt Lord Herbert of Cherbury, and
here he wrote the greater part of his treatise _De Veritate_,
concerning the publication of which he believed himself, according
to his own marvellous account, to have had a special revelation
from heaven. A strange weakness, or rather madness, on the part of
a man who disbelieved, or at least doubted, of general revelation.
For himself, he thought an exception possible. Insanity alone could
explain and excuse such illogical vanity. Near to this singular
enthusiast lived Sir Godfrey Kneller, whose next-door neighbour
and friend was Radcliffe the physician. "Kneller," says Horace
Walpole, in his Anecdotes of Painting, "was fond of flowers, and had
a fine collection. As there was great intimacy between him and the
physician, he permitted the latter to have a door into his gardens;
but Radcliffe's servants gathering and destroying the flowers,
Kneller sent him word he must shut up the door. Radcliffe replied
peevishly, "Tell him he may do any thing with it but paint it." "And
I," answered Godfrey, "can take any thing from him but his physic."
Pope and Gay were frequent visitors at the painter's studio. At the
wall of Lincoln's Inn Garden, Ben Jonson is by some asserted to have
laboured as a bricklayer. "He helped," says Fuller, "in the building
of the new structure of Lincoln's Inn, where, having a trowel in his
hand, he had a book in his pocket." Aubrey tells the same story,
which is discredited by Mr Gifford, who denies that the poet ever
was a bricklayer. Lord William Russell was executed in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, it being, Pennant tells us, the nearest open space from
Newgate, where he was confined.

Passing through Duke Street, where Benjamin Franklin lodged, when
working as a journeyman printer in the adjacent Great Wyld Street,
into Clare Market, the scene of Orator Henley's holdings-forth, we
thence, by Drury-Lane, the residence of Nell Gwynne and Nan Clarges
before they became respectively the King's mistress and a Duke's
wife, get back to the Strand and move Citywards. But to refer,
although merely nominally, to one half the subjects of interest
met with on the way, and suggested by Mr Smith, would be to write
an index, not a review. Here, therefore, we pause, believing that
enough has been said to convince the reader of the vast amount of
information and amusement derivable from the bricks and stones of
London, and able to recommend to him, should he himself set out
on a street pilgrimage, an excellent guide and companion in the
_Antiquarian Ramble_.




MARLBOROUGH'S DISPATCHES.

1711-1712.


After the reduction of Bouchain, Marlborough was anxious to
commence without delay the siege of Quesnoy, the capture of which
would, in that quarter, have entirely broken through the French
barrier. He vigorously stimulated his own government accordingly,
as well as that at the Hague, to prepare the necessary supplies
and magazines, and expressed a sanguine hope that the capture of
this last stronghold would be the means of bringing about the grand
object of his ambition, and a general peace.[5] The ministry, to
appearance, went with alacrity into his projects, and every thing
bore the aspect of another great success closing the campaign with
honour, and probably leading to a glorious and lasting peace. Mr
Secretary St John, in particular, wrote in the warmest style of
cordiality, approving the project in his own name as well as in that
of the Queen, and reiterating the assurances that the strongest
representations had been made to the Dutch, with a view to their
hearty concurrence. But all this was a mere cover to conceal what
the Tories had really been doing to overturn Marlborough, and
abandon the main objects of the war. Unknown to him, the secret
negotiation with the French Cabinet, through Torcy and the British
ministers, through the agency of Mesnager, had been making rapid
progress. No representations were made to the Dutch, who were fully
in the secret of the pending negotiation, about providing supplies;
and on the 27th September, preliminaries of peace, on the basis of
the seven articles proposed by Louis, were signed by Mesnager on
the part of France, and by the two English secretaries of state, in
virtue of a special warrant from the Queen.[6]

  [5] "The siege, so far as it depends on me, shall be pushed with
  all possible vigour, and I do not altogether despair but that, from
  the success of this campaign, we may hear of some advances made
  towards that which we so much desire. And I shall esteem it much the
  happiest part of my life, if I can be instrumental in putting a good
  end to the war, which grows so burdensome to our country, as well as
  to our allies."--_Marlborough to Lord Oxford_, Aug. 20, 1711; Coxe,
  vi. 92.

  [6] Coxe, vi. 93.

The conditions of these preliminaries, which were afterwards
embodied in the Treaty of Utrecht, were the acknowledgement of the
Queen's title to the throne, and the Protestant succession, by
Louis; an engagement to take all just and reasonable measures that
the crowns of France and Spain should never be united on the same
head,--the providing a sufficient barrier to the Dutch, the empire,
and the house of Austria; and the demolition of Dunkirk, or a proper
equivalent. But the crown of Spain was left to the Duke of Anjou,
and no provision whatever made to exclude a Bourbon prince from
succeeding to it. Thus the main object of the contest--the excluding
the Bourbon family from the throne of Spain, was abandoned: and
at the close of the most important, successful, and glorious war
ever waged by England, terms were agreed to, which left to France
advantages which could scarcely have been hoped by the Cabinet of
Versailles as the fruit of a long series of victories.

Marlborough felt deeply this clandestine negotiation, which not
only deprived him of the main object for which, during his great
career, he had been contending, but evinced a duplicity and want of
confidence on the part of his own government at its close, which
was a melancholy return for such inappreciable public services.[7]
But it was of no avail; the secession of England proved, as he
had foreseen from the outset, a deathblow to the confederacy.
Finding that nothing more was to be done, either at the head of the
army, or in direction of the negotiations, he returned home by the
Brille, after putting his army into winter-quarters, and landed at
Greenwich on the 17th November. Though well aware of the private
envy, as well as political hostility of which he was the object, he
did nothing that could lower or compromise his high character and
lofty position; but in an interview with the Queen, fully expressed
his opinion on the impolicy of the course which ministers were
now adopting.[8] He adopted the same manly course in the noble
speech which he made in his place in Parliament, in the debate on
the address. Ministers had put into the royal speech the unworthy
expression--"I am glad to tell you, that notwithstanding _the arts
of those who delight in war_, both place and time are appointed for
opening the treaty of a general peace." Lord Anglesea followed this
up, by declaring, in the course of the debate, that the country
might have enjoyed the blessing of peace soon after the battle of
Ramilies, if it had not been deferred by some person whose interest
it was to prolong the war.

  [7] "As you have given me encouragement to enter into the strictest
  confidence with you, I beg your friendly advice in what manner I am
  to conduct myself. You cannot but imagine it would be a terrible
  mortification for me to pass by the Hague when our plenipotentiaries
  are there, and myself a stranger to their transactions; and what
  hopes can I have of any countenance at home if I am not thought fit
  to be trusted abroad?"--_Marlborough to the Lord Treasurer_, 21st
  Oct. 1711.

  [8] I hear, that in his conversation with the Queen, the Duke of
  Marlborough has spoken against what we are doing; in short, his fate
  hangs heavy upon him, and he has of late pursued every counsel which
  was worst for him.--_Bolingbroke's Letters_, i. 480. Nov. 24, 1711.

Rising upon this, with inexpressible dignity, and turning to where
the Queen sat, Marlborough said, "I appeal to the Queen, whether I
did not constantly, while I was plenipotentiary, give her Majesty
and her Council an account of all the propositions which were made;
and whether I did not desire instruction for my conduct on this
subject. I can declare with a good conscience, in the presence of
her Majesty, of this illustrious assembly, and of God himself, who
is infinitely superior to all the powers of the earth, and before
whom, by the ordinary course of nature, I shall soon appear to
render account of my actions, that I was very desirous of a safe,
honourable, and lasting peace, and was very far from wishing to
prolong the war for my own private advantage, as several libels
and discourses have most falsely insinuated. My great age, and my
numerous fatigues in war, make me ardently wish for the power to
enjoy a quiet repose, in order to think of eternity. As to other
matters, I have not the least inducement, on any account, to desire
the continuance of the war for my own interest, since my services
have been so generously rewarded by her Majesty and her parliament;
but I think myself obliged to make such an acknowledgment to her
Majesty and my country, that I am always ready to serve them,
whenever my duty may require, to obtain an honourable and lasting
peace. Yet I can by no means acquiesce in the measures that have
been taken to enter into a negotiation of peace with France, upon
the foot of some pretended preliminaries, which are now circulated;
since my opinion is the same as that of most of the Allies, that _to
leave Spain and the West Indies to the House of Bourbon, will be the
entire ruin of Europe_, which I have with all fidelity and humility
declared to her Majesty, when I had the honour to wait upon her
after my arrival from Holland."[9]

  [9] _Parl. Hist._, 10th December 1711.

This manly declaration, delivered in the most emphatic manner,
produced a great impression; and a resolution against ministers
was carried in the House of Peers by a majority of twelve. In the
Commons, however, they had large majority, and an address containing
expressions similar to those used by Lord Anglesea, reflecting on
Marlborough, was introduced and carried there. The Whig majority,
however, continued firm in the Upper House; and the leaders of that
party began to entertain sanguine hopes of success. The Queen had
let fall some peevish expressions in regard to her ministers. She
had given her hand, in retiring from the House of Peers on the
15th December, to the Duke of Somerset, instead of her own Lord
Treasurer; it was apprehended her old partiality for Marlborough was
about to return; Mrs Masham was in the greatest alarm; and St John
declared to Swift that the Queen was false.[10] The ministers of
the whole alliance seconded the efforts of the Whigs, and strongly
represented the injurious effects which would ensue to the cause of
European independence in general, and the interests of England in
particular, if the preliminaries which had been agreed to should
be made the basis of a general peace. The Dutch made strong and
repeated representations on the subject; and the Elector of Hanover
delivered a memorial strongly urging the danger which would ensue
if Spain and the Indies were allowed to remain in the hands of a
Bourbon prince.

  [10] SWIFT'S _Journal to Stella_, Dec. 8, 1711.--Swift said to the
  Lord Treasurer, in his usual ironical style, "If there is no remedy,
  your lordship will lose your head; but I shall only be hung, and so
  carry my body entire to the grave."--Coxe, vi. 148, 157.

Deeming themselves pushed to extremities, and having failed in
all attempts to detach Marlborough from the Whigs, Bolingbroke
and the ministers resolved on the desperate measure of bringing
forward the accusation against him, of fraud and peculation in
the management of the public monies entrusted to his management
in the Flemish campaign. The charges were founded on the report
of certain commissioners to whom the matter had been remitted;
and which charged the Duke with having appropriated L.63,319 of
the public monies destined for the use of the English troops,
and L.282,366, as a per-centage of two per cent on the sum paid
to foreign ambassadors during the ten years of the war. In reply
to these abominable insinuations, the letter of the Duke to the
commissioners was published on the 27th December, in which he
entirely refuted the charges, and showed that he had never received
any sums or perquisites, not sanctioned by previous and uniform
usage, and far less than had been received by the general in the
reign of William III. And in regard to the L.282,000 of per-centage
on foreign subsidies, this was proved to have been a voluntary
gift from those powers to the English general, authorised by their
signatures and sanctioned by warrants from the Queen. This answer
made a great impression; but ministers had gone too far to retreat,
and they ventured on a step which, for the honour of the country,
has never, even in the worst times, been since repeated. Trusting
to their majority in the Commons, they dismissed the Duke from all
his situations on the 31st December; and in order to stifle the
voice of justice in the Upper House, on the following day patents
were issued calling _twelve_ new peers to the Upper House. On the
following day they were introduced amidst the groans of the House:
the Whig noblemen, says a contemporary annalist, "cast their eyes
on the ground as if they had been invited to the funeral of the
peerage."[11]

  [11] Cunningham, ii. 367.

Unbounded was the joy diffused among the enemies of England by these
unparalleled measures. On hearing of Marlborough's fall, Louis XIV.
said with triumph, "The dismission of Marlborough will do all we can
desire." The Court of St Germains was in exultation; and the general
joy of the Jacobites, both at home and abroad, was sufficient to
demonstrate how formidable an enemy to their cause they regarded the
Duke; and how destitute of truth were the attempts to show that he
had been engaged in a secret design to restore the exiled family.
Marlborough disdained to make any defence of himself in Parliament;
but an able answer on his part was prepared and circulated, which
entirely refuted the whole charges against the illustrious general.
So convinced were ministers of this, that, contenting themselves
with resolutions against him in the House of Commons, where their
influence was predominant, they declined to prefer any impeachment
or accusation, even in the Upper House swamped by their recent
creations. In the midst of this disgraceful scene of passion,
envy, and ingratitude, Prince Eugene arrived in London to endeavour
to stem the torrent and, if possible, prevent the secession of
England from the confederacy. He was lodged with the Lord Treasurer;
and the generous prince omitted no opportunity of testifying his
undiminished respect for his illustrious rival in the day of his
tribulation. The Treasurer having said to him at a great dinner,
"I consider this day as the happiest of my life, since I have the
honour to see in my house the greatest captain of the age." "If it
be so," replied Eugene, "I owe it to your lordship;" alluding to
his dismissal of Marlborough. On another occasion, some one having
pointed out a passage in one of the libels against Marlborough, in
which he was said to have been "perhaps once fortunate." "It is
true," said Eugene; "he was _once_ fortunate; and it is the greatest
praise which can be bestowed on him; for, as he was _always_
successful--that implies that all his other successes were owing to
his own conduct."[12]

  [12] BURNET'S _History of his Own Times_, vi. 116.

Alarmed at the weight which Marlborough might derive from the
presence and support of so great a commander, and the natural
sympathy of all generous minds with the cordial admiration which
these two great men entertained for each other, the ministers had
recourse to a pretended conspiracy, which it was alleged had been
discovered on the part of Marlborough and Eugene to seize the
government and dethrone the Queen, on the 17th November. St John and
Oxford had too much sense to publish such a ridiculous statement;
but it was made the subject of several secret examinations before
the Privy Council, in order to augment the apprehensions and
secure the concurrence of the Queen in their measures. Such as it
was, the tale was treated as a mere malicious invention, even by
the contemporary foreign annalists,[13] though it has since been
repeated as true by more than one party native historian.[14] This
ridiculous calumny, and the atrocious libels as to the embezzlement
of the public money, however, produced the desired effect. They
inflamed the mind of the Queen, and removed that vacillation in
regard to the measures of government, from which so much danger was
apprehended by the Tory administration. Having answered the desired
end, they were allowed quietly to go to sleep. No proceedings in
the House of Peers, or elsewhere, followed the resolutions of the
Commons condemnatory of Marlborough's financial administration in
the Low Countries. His defence, published in the newspapers, though
abundantly vigorous, was neither answered nor prosecuted as a libel
on the Commissioners or House of Commons; and the alleged Stuart
conspiracy was never more heard of, till it was long after drawn
from its slumber by the malice of English party spirit.

  [13] _Mem. de Torcy_, iii. 268, 269.

  [14] SWIFT'S _Four Last Years of Queen Anne_, 59; _Continuation of_
  RAPIN, xviii. 468. 8vo edit.

Meanwhile the negotiations at Utrecht for a general peace continued,
and St John and Oxford soon found themselves embarrassed by the
extravagant pretensions which their own conduct had revived in the
plenipotentiaries of Louis. So great was the general indignation
excited by the publication of the preliminaries at Utrecht, that St
John felt the necessity of discontinuing any general negotiation,
and converting it into a private correspondence between the
plenipotentiaries of the English and French crowns.[15] Great
difficulty was experienced in coming to an accommodation, in
consequence of the rising demands of the French plenipotentiaries,
who, deeming themselves secure of support from the English ministry,
not only positively refused to abandon Spain and the Indies, but
now demanded the Netherlands for the Elector of Bavaria, and the
cession of Lille and Tournay in return for the seizure of Dunkirk.
The sudden death, however, first of the Dauphiness of France,
and then of the Dauphin, the former of whom was carried off by
a malignant fever on the 12th, the latter on the 18th February
1712, followed by the death of their eldest son on the 23d,
produced feelings of commiseration for the aged monarch, now in his
seventy-third year and broken down by misfortunes, which rendered
the progress of the separate negotiation more easy. England agreed
to abandon its allies, and the main object of the war, on condition
that a guarantee should be obtained against the crowns of France
and Spain being united on the same head. On this frail security,
the English ministry agreed to withdraw their contingent from the
Allied army; and to induce the Dutch to follow their example, Ipres
was offered to them on the same terms as Dunkirk had been to Great
Britain.[16]

  [15] "The French will see that there is a possibility of reviving
  the love of war in our people, by the indignation that has been
  expressed at the plan given in at Utrecht."--_Mr Secretary St
  John to British Plenipotentiary_, Dec. 28, 1711.--BOLINGBROKE'S
  _Correspondence_, ii. 93.

  [16] Coxe, vi. 189, 184.

The disastrous effects of this secret and dishonourable secession,
on the part of England, from the confederacy, were soon apparent.
Great had been the preparations of the continental Allies for
continuing the contest; and while the English contingent remained
with them, their force was irresistible. Prince Eugene was at the
head of the army in Flanders, and, including the British forces
under the Duke of Ormond, it amounted to the immense force of
122,000 effective men, with 120 guns, sixteen howitzers, and an
ample pontoon train. To oppose this, by far the largest army he had
yet had to confront in the Low Countries, Villars had scarcely at
his command 100,000 men, and they were ill equipped, imperfectly
supplied with artillery, and grievously depressed in spirit by
their long series of disasters. Eugene commanded the army of the
confederates; for although the English ministry had been lavish
in their promises of unqualified support, the Dutch had begun to
entertain serious suspicions of their sincerity, and bestowed the
command on that tried officer instead of the Duke of Ormond, who
had succeeded Marlborough in the command of the English contingent.
But Marlborough's soul still directed the movements of the army;
and Eugene's plan of the campaign was precisely that which that
great commander had chalked out at the close of the preceding one.
This was to besiege Quesnoy and Landrecies, _the last_ of the iron
barrier of France which in this quarter protected the frontier,
and immediately after to inundate the open country, and advance as
rapidly as possible to Paris. It was calculated they might reach
it in _ten_ marches from Landrecies; and it was well known that
there was neither a defensible position nor fortress of any sort to
arrest the invaders' march. The Court of Versailles were in despair:
the general opinion was, that the King should leave Paris, and
retire to Blois; and although the proud spirit of Louis recoiled
at such a proposal, yet, in taking leave of Marshal Villars, he
declared--"Should a disaster occur, I will go to Peronne or St
Quentin, collect all my troops, and with you risk a last effort,
determined to perish, or save the State."[17]

  [17] _Mem. de Villars_, ii. 197.

But the French monarch was spared this last desperate alternative.
The defection of the British Cabinet saved his throne, when all his
means of defence were exhausted. Eugene, on opening the campaign on
the 1st May, anxiously inquired of the Duke of Ormond whether he
had authority to act vigorously in the campaign, and received an
answer that he had the same authority as the Duke of Marlborough,
and was prepared to join in attacking the enemy. Preparations were
immediately made for forcing the enemy's lines, which covered
Quesnoy, previous to an attack on that fortress. But, at the very
time that this was going on, the work of perfidious defection
was consummated. On May 10, Mr Secretary St John sent positive
orders to Ormond to take no part in any general engagement, as the
questions at issue between the contending parties were on the
point of adjustment.[18] Intimation of this secret order was sent
to the Court of France, but it was directed to be kept a positive
secret from the Allied generals. Ormond, upon the receipt of these
orders, opened a private correspondence with Villars, informing
him that their troops were no longer enemies, and that the future
movements of the troops under his command were only to get forage
and provisions. This correspondence was unknown to Eugene; but
circumstances soon brought the defection of England to light. In
the middle of it, the Allied forces had passed the Scheldt, and
taken post between Noyeller and the Boiase, close to Villars's
position. To bring the sincerity of the English to a test, Eugene
proposed a general attack on the enemy's line, which was open and
exposed, on the 28th May. _But Ormond declined_, requesting the
operation might be delayed for a few days. The defection was now
apparent, and the Dutch deputies loudly condemned such dishonorable
conduct; but Eugene, anxious to make the most of the presence of the
British troops, though their co-operation could no longer be relied
on, proposed to besiege Quesnoy, which was laid open by Villars's
retreat. Ormond, who felt acutely the painful and discreditable
situation in which, without any fault of his own, he was placed,
could not refuse, and the investment took place that very day. The
operations were conducted by _the Dutch and Imperial troops alone_;
and the town was taken, after a siege of six weeks, on the 10th
July.[19]

  [18] "Her Majesty, my lord, has reason to believe that we shall
  come to an agreement upon the great article of the union of the
  monarchies, as soon as a courier sent from Versailles to Madrid can
  return. It is, therefore, the Queen's _positive command_ to your
  Grace that _you avoid engaging in any siege, or hazarding a battle_,
  till you have further orders from her Majesty. I am, at the same
  time, directed to let your Grace know, that you are _to disguise
  the receipt of this order_; and her Majesty thinks you cannot want
  pretences for conducting yourself, without owning that which might
  at present have an ill effect if it was publicly known. _P.S._ I
  had almost forgot to tell your Grace that communication is made
  of this order _to the Court of France_, so that if the Marshal de
  Villars takes, in any private way, notice of it to you, your Grace
  will answer it accordingly."--_Mr Secretary St John to the Duke of
  Ormond_, May 10, 1712. BOLINGBROKE'S _Correspondence_, ii. 320.

  [19] Eugene to Marlborough, June 9, 1712.--Coxe vi. 199.

This disgraceful defection on the part of the English government
excited, as well it might, the utmost indignation among the Allies,
and produced mingled feelings of shame and mortification among all
real patriots or men of honour in this country. By abandoning the
contest in this manner, when it was on the very point of being
crowned with success, the English lost the fruit of TEN costly
and bloody campaigns, and suffered the war to terminate without
attaining the main object for which it had been undertaken. Louis
XIV., defeated, and all but ruined, was permitted to retain for his
grandson the Spanish succession; and England, victorious, and within
sight, as it were, of Paris, was content to halt in the career
of victory, and lost the opportunity, never to be regained for a
century to come, of permanently restraining the ambition of France.
It was the same as if, a few days after the battle of Waterloo,
England had concluded a separate peace, guaranteeing the throne of
Spain to Joseph Buonaparte, and providing only for its not being
held also by the Emperor of France. Lord Halifax gave vent to the
general indignation of all generous and patriotic men, when he said,
in the debate on the address, on 28th May, after enumerating the
proud list of victories which, since the commencement of the war,
had attended the arms of England,--"But all this pleasing prospect
is totally effaced by the orders given to the Queen's general, not
to act offensively against the enemy. I pity that heroic and gallant
general, who, on other occasions, took delight to charge the most
formidable corps and strongest squadrons, and cannot but be uneasy
at his being fettered with shackles, and thereby prevented from
reaping the glory which he might well expect from leading on troops
so long accustomed to conquer. I pity the Allies, who have relied
upon the aid and friendship of the British nation, perceiving that
what they had done at so great an expense of blood and treasure is
of no effect, as they will be exposed to the revenge of that power
against whom they have been so active. I pity the Queen, her royal
successors, and the present and future generations of Britain, when
they shall find the nation deeply involved in debt, and that the
common enemy who occasioned it, though once near being sufficiently
humbled, does still triumph, and design their ruin; and are informed
that this proceeds from the conduct of the British cabinet, in
neglecting to make a right use of those advantages and happy
occasions which their own courage and God's blessing had put into
their hands."[20]

  [20] _Parl. Hist._, May 28, 1712. _Lockhart Papers_, i, 392

Marlborough seconded the motion of Halifax, in a speech of peculiar
interest, as the last which he made on the conduct of this eventful
war. "Although," said he, "the negotiations for peace may be far
advanced, yet I can see no reason which should induce the Allies
or ourselves to remain inactive, and not push on the war with the
utmost vigour, as we have incurred the expense of recruiting the
army for the service of another year. That army is now in the
field; and it has often occurred that a victory or a siege produced
good effects and manifold advantages, when treaties were still
further advanced than in the present negotiation. And as I am of
opinion that we should make the most we can for ourselves, the
only infallible way to force France to an entire submission, is
to besiege and occupy Cambray or Arras, and to carry the war into
the heart of the kingdom. But as the troops of the enemy are now
encamped, it is impossible to execute that design, unless they are
withdrawn from their position; and as they cannot be reduced to
retire for want of provisions, they must be attacked and forced. For
the truth of what I say I appeal to a noble duke (Argyle) whom I
rejoice to see in this house, because he knows the country, and is
as good a judge of these matters as any person now alive." Argyle,
though a bitter personal enemy of Marlborough, thus appealed to,
said,--"I do indeed know that country, and the situation of the
enemy in their present camp, and I agree with the noble duke, that
it is impossible to remove them without attacking and driving them
away; and, until that is effected, neither of the two sieges alluded
to can be undertaken. I likewise agree that the capture of these two
towns is the most effectual way to carry on the war with advantage,
and would be a fatal blow to France."[21]

  [21] _Coxe_, vi. 192, 193.

Notwithstanding the creation of twelve peers to swamp the Upper
House, it is doubtful how the division would have gone, had not
Lord Strafford, a cabinet minister, observed, in reply to the
charge, that the British government was about to conclude a separate
peace,--"Nothing of that nature has ever been intended; for such
a peace would be so _foolish, villanous, and knavish_, that every
servant of the Queen must answer for it with his head to the nation.
The Allies _are acquainted with our proceedings, and satisfied with
our terms_." This statement was made by a British minister, in his
place in Parliament, on the 28th May, eighteen days _after_ the
private letter from Mr Secretary St John to the Duke of Ormond,
already quoted, mentioning the private treaty with Louis, enjoining
him to keep it secret from the Allies, and communicate clandestinely
with Villars. But such a declaration, coming from an accredited
minister of the crown, produced a great impression, and ministers
prevailed by a majority of sixty-eight to forty. In the course of
the debate, Earl Poulett let fall such cutting expressions against
Marlborough for having, as he alleged, led his troops to certain
destruction, in order to profit by the sale of the officers'
commissions,[22] that the Duke, without deigning a reply, sent him a
challenge on leaving the house. The agitation, however, of the Earl,
who was less cool than the iron veteran on the prospect of such a
meeting, revealed what was going forward, and by an order of the
Queen, the affair was terminated without bloodshed.[23]

  [22] "No one can doubt the Duke of Ormond's bravery; but he is not
  like a certain general who led troops to the slaughter, to cause a
  great number of officers to be knocked on the head in a battle, or
  against stone walls, in order to fill his pockets by the sale of
  their commissions."--Coxe, vi. 196.

  [23] _Lockhart Papers_, i. 392; Coxe, vi. 196, 199.

It soon appeared how much foundation there was for the assertion
of the Queen's ministers, that England was engaged in no separate
negotiation for a peace. On the 6th June were promulgated the
outlines of the treaty which afterwards became so famous as the
PEACE OF UTRECHT. The Duke of Anjou was to renounce for ever, for
himself and his descendants, all claim to the French crown; and the
crown of Spain was to descend, by _the male line_ only, to the Duke
of Anjou, and failing them to certain princes of the Bourbon line
by _male_ descent, always excluding him who was possessed of the
French crown.[24] Gibraltar and Minorca remained to England; Dunkirk
was to be demolished; the Spanish Netherlands were to be ceded to
Austria, with Naples, Milan, and Sardinia; the barrier towns were
to be ceded to the Dutch, as required in 1709, with the exception
of two or three places. Spain and her Indian colonies remained
with the Duke of Anjou and his male heirs, as King of Spain. And
thus, at the conclusion of the most glorious and successful war
recorded in English history, did the English cabinet leave to
France the great object of the contest,--the crown of Spain, and
its magnificent Indian colonies, placed on the head of a prince of
the Bourbon race. With truth did Marlborough observe, in the debate
on the preliminaries--"The measures pursued in England for the last
year are directly contrary to her Majesty's engagements with the
Allies, sully the triumphs and glories of her reign, and will render
the English name odious to all other nations."[25] It was all in
vain. The people loudly clamoured for peace; the Tory ministry was
seconded by a vast numerical majority throughout the country. The
peace was approved of by large majorities in both houses. Parliament
was soon after prorogued; and Marlborough, seeing his public career
terminated, solicited and obtained passports to go abroad, which he
soon afterwards did.

  [24] The words of the treaty, which subsequent events have rendered
  of importance, on this point, were these:--Philippe V. King of
  Spain renounced "a toutes pretentions, droits, et titres que lui et
  sa posterite avaient ou pourraient avoir a l'avenir a la couronne
  de France. Il consentit pour lui et sa posterite que ce droit fut
  tenu et considere comme passe au Duc de Berry son frere et a ses
  descendans et posterite _male_; et en defaut de ce prince, et de sa
  posterite _male_, au Duc de Bourbon son cousin et _a ses heritiers_,
  et aussi successivement a tous les princes du sang de France." The
  Duke of Saxony and his _male_ heirs were called to the succession,
  failing Philippe V. and his male heirs. This act of renunciation
  and entail of the crown of Spain on _male_ heirs, was ratified by
  the Cortes of Castile and Arragon; by the parliament of Paris,
  by Great Britain and France in the sixth article of the Treaty
  of Utrecht.--_Vide_ SCHOELL, _Hist. de Trait._, ii. 99, 105, and
  DUMONT, _Corp. Dipl._, tom. viii. p. 1. p. 339.

  [25] Coxe, vi. 205.

Great was the mourning, and loud the lamentations, both in the
British and Allied troops, when the fatal day arrived that the
former were to separate from their old companions in arms. On the
10th July, the very day on which Quesnoy surrendered, the last of
their long line of triumphs, Ormond, having exhausted every sort of
procrastination to postpone the dreaded hour, was compelled to order
the English troops to march. He in vain, however, gave a similar
order to the auxiliaries in British pay; the hereditary Prince of
Cassel replied--"The Hessians would gladly march, if it were to
fight the French." Another, "We do not serve for pay, but fame."
The native British, however, were compelled to obey the order of
their sovereign, and they set out, twelve thousand strong, from
the camp at Cambresis. Of all the Germans in British pay, only one
battalion of Holstein men, and a regiment of dragoons from Liege,
accompanied them. Silent and dejected they took their way; the men
kept their eyes on the ground, the officers did not venture to
return the parting salute of the comrades who had so long fought
and conquered by their side. Not a word was spoken on either side,
the hearts of all were too big for utterance; but the averted eye,
the mournful air, the tear often trickling down the cheek, told
the deep dejection which was every where felt. It seemed as if the
Allies were following to the grave, with profound affection, the
whole body of their British comrades. But when the troops reached
their resting-place for the night, and the suspension of arms was
proclaimed at the head of each regiment, the general indignation
became so vehement, that even the bonds of military discipline were
unable to restrain it. A universal cry, succeeded by a loud murmur,
was heard through the camp. The British soldiers were seen tearing
their hair, casting their muskets on the ground, and rending their
clothes, uttering all the while furious exclamations against the
government which had so shamefully betrayed them. The officers were
so overwhelmed with vexation, that they sat apart in their tents
looking on the ground, through very shame; and for several days
shrunk from the sight even of their fellow-soldiers. Many left their
colours to serve with the Allies, others withdrew, and whenever they
thought of Marlborough and their days of glory, tears filled their
eyes.[26]

  [26] Cunningham, ii. 432; Milner, 356.

It soon appeared that it was not without reason that these gloomy
presentiments prevailed on both sides, as to the consequences of the
British withdrawing from the contest. So elated were the French by
their secession, that they speedily lost all sense of gratitude and
even honesty, and refused to give up Dunkirk to the British, which
was only effected with great difficulty on the earnest entreaties
of the British government. So great were the difficulties which
beset the negotiation, that St John was obliged to repair in person
to Paris, where he remained _incognito_ for a considerable time,
and effected a compromise of the objects still in dispute between
the parties. The secession of England from the confederacy was
now openly announced; and, as the Allies refused to abide by her
preliminaries, the separate negotiation continued between the two
countries, and lingered on for nearly a year after the suspension of
arms.

Meanwhile Eugene, after the departure of the British, continued his
operations, and laid siege to Landrecies, the last of the barrier
fortresses on the road to Paris, in the end of July. But it soon
appeared that England had been the soul of the confederacy; and that
it was the tutelary arm of Marlborough which had so long averted
disaster, and chained victory to its standard. Nothing but defeat
and misfortune attended the Allies after her secession. Even the
great and tried abilities of Eugene were inadequate to procure for
them one single success, after the colours of England no longer
waved in their ranks. During the investment of Landrecies, Villars
drew together the garrisons from the neighbouring towns, no longer
threatened by the English troops, and surprised at Denain a body of
eight thousand men, stationed there for the purpose of facilitating
the passage of convoys to the besieging army. This disaster
rendered it necessary to raise the siege of Landrecies, and Villars
immediately resumed the offensive. Douay was speedily invested: a
fruitless effort of Eugene to retain it only exposed him to the
mortification of witnessing its surrender. Not expecting so sudden a
reverse of fortune, the fortresses recently taken were not provided
with provisions or ammunition, and were in no condition to make
any effectual resistance. Quesnoy soon fell from this cause; and
Bouchain, the last trophy of Marlborough's victories, opened its
gates on the 10th October. The coalition was paralysed; and Louis,
who so lately trembled for his capital, found his armies advancing
from conquest to conquest, and tearing from the Allies the fruits of
all their victories.[27]

  [27] _Mem. de Villars_, ii. 396, 421.

These disasters, and the evident inability of the Allied armies,
without the aid of the English, to keep their ground in Flanders,
in a manner compelled the Dutch, how unwilling soever, to follow
the example of Great Britain, in treating separately with France.
They became parties, accordingly, to the pacification at Utrecht;
and Savoy also concluded peace there. But the barrier for which
they had so ardently contended was, by the desertion of England,
so much reduced, that it ceased to afford any effectual security
against the encroachments of France. That power held the most
important fortresses in Flanders which had been conquered by Louis
XIV.--Cambray, Valenciennes, and Arras. Lille, the conquest on
which Marlborough most prided himself, was restored by the Allies,
and with it Bethune, Aire, St Venant, and many other places. The
Dutch felt, in the strongest manner, the evil consequences of a
treaty which thus, in a manner, left the enemy at their gates;
and the irritation consequently produced against England was so
violent that it continued through the greater part of the eighteenth
century. Austria, indignant at being thus deserted by all her
Allies, continued the contest alone through another campaign. But
she was overmatched in the contest; her resources were exhausted;
and, by the advice of Eugene, conferences were opened at Rastadt,
from which, as a just reward for her perfidy, England was excluded.
A treaty was soon concluded on the basis of the Treaty of Ryswick.
It left Charles the Low Countries, and all the Spanish territories
in Italy, except Sicily; but, with Sardinia, Bavaria was restored.
France retained Landau, but restored New Brisach, Fribourg, and
Kehl. Thus was that great power left in possession of the whole
conquests ceded to Louis XIV. by the treaties of Aix-la-Chapelle,
Nimeguen, and Ryswick, with the vast addition of the family alliance
with a Bourbon prince, possessing Spain and the Indies. A century
of repeated wars on the part of England and the European powers,
with France, followed by the dreadful struggle of the Revolutionary
contest, and the costly campaigns of Wellington, were the legacy
bequeathed to the nation by Bolingbroke and Harley, in arresting
the course of Marlborough's victories, and restoring France to
preponderance, when it was on the eve of being reduced to a level
consistent with the independence of other states. Well might Mr Pitt
style the Treaty of Utrecht "the indelible reproach of the age!"[28]

  [28] Mr Pitt to Sir Benjamin Keene.--_Memoirs of the Spanish Kings_,
  c. 57.

Marlborough's public career was now terminated; and the dissensions
which had cast him down from power had so completely extinguished
his political influence, that during the remaining years of his
life, he rarely appeared at all in public life. On landing on
the Continent, at Brille, on the 24th November, he was received
with such demonstrations of gratitude and respect, as showed how
deeply his public services had sunk into the hearts of men, and how
warmly they appreciated his efforts to avert from England and the
Coalition, the evils likely to flow from the Treaty of Utrecht. At
Maestricht he was welcomed with the honours usually reserved for
sovereign princes; and although he did his utmost, on the journey to
Aix-la-Chapelle, to avoid attracting the public attention, and to
slip unobserved through byways, yet the eagerness of the public, or
the gratitude of his old soldiers, discovered him wherever he went.
Wherever he passed, crowds of all ranks were waiting to see him,
could they only get a glimpse of the hero who had saved the empire,
and filled the world with his renown. All were struck with his noble
air and demeanour, softened, though not weakened, by the approach
of age. They declared that his appearance was not less conquering
than his sword. Many burst into tears when they recollected what he
had been, and what he was, and how unaccountably the great nation
to which he belonged had fallen from the height of glory to such
degradation. Yet was the manner of Marlborough so courteous and yet
animated, his conversation so simple and yet cheerful, that it was
commonly said at the time, "that the only things he had forgotten
were his own deeds, and the only things he remembered were the
misfortunes of others." Crowds of all ranks, from the highest to
the lowest, hastened to attend his levee at Aix-la-Chapelle on the
17th January 1713, and the Duke de Lesdeguieres, on leaving it,
said, with equal justice and felicity,--"I can now say that I have
seen the man who is equal to the Marechal de Turenne in conduct,
to the Prince of Conde in courage, and superior to the Marechal de
Luxembourg in success."[29]

  [29] _Life of Marlborough_, 175.

But if the veteran hero found some compensation, in the unanimous
admiration of foreign nations, for the ingratitude with which he
had been treated by the government of his own, he was soon destined
to find that gratitude for past services was not to be looked
for among foreign nations any more than his own countrymen. Upon
the restoration of the Elector, by the treaty of Rastadt, the
principality of Mendleheim, which had been bestowed upon Marlborough
after the battle of Blenheim by the Emperor Joseph, was resumed
by the Elector. No stipulation in his favour was made either by
the British government or the Imperial court, and therefore the
estate, which yielded a clear revenue of L2000 a-year, was lost to
Marlborough. He transmitted, through Prince Eugene, a memorial to
the Emperor, claiming an indemnity for his loss; but though it was
earnestly supported by that generous prince, yet being unaided by
any efforts on the part of the English ministry, it was allowed to
fall asleep. An indemnity was often promised, even by the Emperor
in writing,[30] but performance of the promise was always evaded.
The Duke was made a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, but obtained
nothing but empty honours for his services; and at this moment,
these high-sounding titles are all that remain in the Marlborough
family to testify the gratitude of the Caesars to the hero who saved
their Imperial and Royal thrones.[31]

  [30] "At the future congress, his Imperial Majesty will do all
  that is possible to sustain my Lord Duke in the principality
  of Mendleheim, but if it should so happen that any invincible
  difficulty should occur in that affair, his Imperial Highness
  will give his Highness an equivalent out of his own hereditary
  dominions."--_Emperor Charles VI. to Duchess of Marlborough_, August
  8, 1712.--Coxe, vi. 248.

  [31] Coxe, vi. 249, 251.

The same oblivion of past and inappreciable services, when they
were no longer required, pursued the illustrious general in his
declining years, on the part of his own countrymen. The got-up
stories about embezzlement and dilapidation of the public money, in
Flanders, were allowed to go to sleep, when they had answered their
destined purpose of bringing about his fall from political power.
No grounds were found for a prosecution which could afford a chance
of success, even in the swamped and now subservient House of Peers.
But every thing that malice could suggest, or party bitterness
effect, was done to fill the last days of the immortal hero with
anxiety and disquiet. Additional charges were brought against him
by the commissioners, founded on the allegation that he had drawn
a pistole per troop, and ten shillings a company, for mustering
the soldiers, though, in the foreign auxiliaries, it was often not
done. Marlborough at once transmitted a refutation of those fresh
charges, so clear and decisive, that it entirely silenced those
accusations.[32] But his enemies, though driven from this ground,
still persecuted him with unrelenting malice. The noble pile of
Blenheim, standing, as it did, an enduring monument at once of the
Duke's services and the nation's gratitude, was a grievous eyesore
to the dominant majority in England, and they did all in their
power to prevent its completion.

  [32] Duke of Marlborough's Answer, June 2, 1713.

Orders were first given to the Treasury, on June 1, 1712, to suspend
any further payments from the royal exchequer; and commissioners
were appointed to investigate the claims of the creditors and
expense of the work. They recommended the payment of a third to each
claimant, which was accordingly made; but as many years elapsed, and
no further payments to account were made, the principal creditors
brought an action in the Court of Exchequer against the Duke, as
personally liable for the amount, and the court pronounced decree
in favour of the plaintiffs, which was affirmed, after a long
litigation, in the House of Lords. Meanwhile the works, for want
of any paymaster, were at a stand; and this noble pile, this proud
monument of a nation's gratitude, would have remained a modern ruin
to this day, had it not been completed from the private funds of the
hero whose services it was intended to commemorate. But the Duke
of Marlborough, as well as the Duchess, were too much interested
in the work to allow it to remain unfinished. He left by his will
fifty thousand pounds to complete the building, which was still in
very unfinished state at the time of his death, and the duty was
faithfully performed by the Duchess after his decease. From the
accounts of the total expense, preserved at Blenheim, it appears,
that out of three hundred thousand pounds, which the whole edifice
cost, no less than sixty thousand pounds was provided from the
private funds of the Duke of Marlborough.[33]

  [33] Coxe, vi. 369, 373.

It may readily be believed that so long-continued and unrelenting a
persecution of so great a man and distinguished benefactor of his
country, proceeded from something more than mere envy at greatness,
powerful as that principle ever is in little minds. In truth, it was
part of the deep-laid plan for the restoration of the Stuart line,
which the declining state of the Queen's health, and the probable
unpopularity of the Hanover family, now revived in greater vigour
than ever. During this critical period, Marlborough, who was still
on the Continent, remained perfectly firm to the Act of Settlement,
and the Protestant cause. Convinced that England was threatened
with a counter-revolution, he used his endeavours to secure the
fidelity of the garrison of Dunkirk, and offered to embark at its
head in support of the Protestant succession. He sent General
Cadogan to make the necessary arrangements with General Stanhope
for transporting troops to England, to support the Hanoverian
succession, and offered to lend the Elector of Hanover L20,000 to
aid him in his endeavour to secure the succession. So sensible was
the Electoral house of the magnitude of his services, and his zeal
in their behalf, that the Electress Sophia entrusted him with a
blank warrant, appointing him commander-in-chief of her troops and
garrisons, on her accession to the crown.[34]

  [34] Coxe, vi. 263.

On the death of Queen Anne, on August 1, 1714, Marlborough
returned to England, and was soon after appointed captain-general
and master-general of the ordnance. Bolingbroke and Oxford were
shortly after impeached, and the former then threw off the mask, by
flying to France, where he openly entered into the service of the
Pretender at St Germains. Marlborough's great popularity with the
army was soon after the means of enabling him to appease a mutiny
in the guards, which at first threatened to be alarming. During the
rebellion in 1715, he directed, in a great degree, the operations
against the rebels, though he did not actually take the field; and
to his exertions, its rapid suppression was in a great measure to be
ascribed.

But the period had now arrived when the usual fate of mortality
awaited this illustrious man. Severe domestic bereavements preceded
his dissolution, and in a manner weaned him from a world which
he had passed through with so much glory. His daughter, Lady
Bridgewater, died in March 1714; and this was soon followed by
the death of his favourite daughter, Anne Countess of Sunderland,
who united uncommon elegance and beauty to unaffected piety and
exemplary virtue. Marlborough himself was not long of following
his beloved relatives to the grave. On the 28th May 1716, he was
seized with a fit of palsy, so severe that it deprived him, for a
time, alike of speech and recollection. He recovered, however, to
a certain degree, and went to Bath, for the benefit of the waters;
and a gleam of returning light shone upon his mind when he visited
Blenheim on the 18th October. He expressed great satisfaction at the
survey of the plan; which reminded him of his great achievements;
but when he saw, in one of the few rooms which were finished, a
picture of himself at the battle of Blenheim, he turned away with
a mournful air, with the words--"Something then, but now----" On
November 18th he was attacked by another stroke, more severe than
the former, and his family hastened to pay the last duties, as
they conceived, to their departing parent. The strength of his
constitution, however, triumphed for a time even over this violent
attack; but though he continued contrary to his own wishes, in
conformity with those of his friends, who needed the support of
his great reputation, to hold office, and occasionally appeared in
parliament, yet his public career was at an end. A considerable
addition was made to his fortune by the sagacity of the Duchess,
who persuaded him to embark part of his funds in the South Sea
scheme; and foreseeing the crash which was approaching, sold out so
opportunely, that, instead of losing, she gained L100,000 by the
transaction. On the 27th November 1721, he made his last appearance
in the House of Lords; but in June 1722, he was again attacked with
paralysis so violently, that he lay for some days nearly motionless,
though in perfect possession of his faculties. To a question from
the Duchess, whether he heard the prayers read as usual at night, on
the 15th June, in his apartment; he replied, "Yes; and I joined in
them." These were his last words. On the morning of the 16th he sunk
rapidly, and, at four o'clock, calmly breathed his last, in the 72d
year of his age.[35]

  [35] Lediard, 496. Coxe, vi. 384, 385.

Envy is generally extinguished by death, because the object of it
has ceased to stand in the way of those who feel it. Marlborough's
funeral obsequies were celebrated with uncommon magnificence, and
all ranks and parties joined in doing him honour. His body lay in
state for several days at Marlborough House, and crowds flocked
together from all the three kingdoms to witness the imposing
ceremony of his funeral, which was performed with the utmost
magnificence, on the 28th June. The procession was opened by a
long array of military, among whom were General, now Lord Cadogan,
and many other officers who had suffered and bled in his cause.
Long files of heralds, officers-at-arms, and pursuivants followed,
bearing banners emblazoned with his armorial achievements, among
which appeared, in uncommon lustre, the standard of Woodstock,
exhibiting the arms of France on the Cross of St George. In the
centre of the cavalcade was a lofty car, drawn by eight horses,
which bore the mortal remains of the Hero, under a splendid canopy
adorned by plumes, military trophies, and heraldic devices of
conquest. Shields were affixed to the sides, bearing the names of
the towns he had taken, and the fields he had won. Blenheim was
there, and Oudenarde, Ramilies and Malplaquet; Lille and Tournay;
Bethune, Douay, and Ruremonde; Bouchain and Mons, Maestricht and
Ghent. This array of names made the English blush for the manner
in which they had treated their hero. On either side were five
generals in military mourning, bearing aloft banderoles, on which
were emblazoned the arms of the family. Eight dukes supported
the pall; besides the relatives of the deceased, the noblest and
proudest of England's nobility joined in the procession. Yet the
most moving part of the ceremony was the number of old soldiers who
had combated with the hero on his fields of fame, and who might now
be known, in the dense crowds which thronged the streets, by their
uncovered heads, grey hairs, and the tears which trickled down their
cheeks. The body was deposited, with great solemnity, in Westminster
Abbey, at the east end of the tomb of Henry VII.; but this was not
its final resting-place in this world. It was soon after removed
to the chapel at Blenheim, where it was deposited in a magnificent
mausoleum; and there it still remains, surmounted by the noble pile
which the genius of Vanbrugh had conceived to express a nation's
gratitude.[36]

  [36] Coxe, vi. 384-387.

The extraordinary merit of Marlborough's military talents will not
be duly appreciated, unless the peculiar nature of the contest he
was called on to direct, and the character which he assumed in his
time, is taken into consideration.

The feudal times had ceased--at least so far as the raising of
a military force by its machinery was concerned. Louis XIV.,
indeed, when pressed for men, more than once summoned the ban
and arriere-ban of France to his standards, and he always had a
gallant array of feudal nobility in his antechambers, or around his
headquarters. But war, both on his part and that of his antagonists,
was carried on, generally speaking, with standing armies, supported
by the belligerent state. The vast, though generally tumultuary
array which the Plantagenet or Valois sovereigns summoned to their
support, but which, bound only to serve for forty days, generally
disappeared before a few months of hostilities were over, could no
longer be relied on. The modern system invented by revolutionary
France, of making war maintain war, and sending forth starving
multitudes with arms in their hands, to subsist by the plunder
of the adjoining states, was unknown. The national passions had
not been roused, which alone would bring it into operation. The
decline of the feudal system forbade the hope that contests could
be maintained by the chivalrous attachment of a faithful nobility:
the democratic spirit had not been so aroused as to supply its place
by popular fervour. Religious passions, indeed, had been strongly
excited; but they had prompted men rather to suffer than to act: the
disputations of the pulpit were their natural arena: in the last
extremity they were more allied to the resignation of the martyr,
than the heroism of the soldier. Between the two, there extended a
long period of above a century and a half, during which governments
had acquired the force, and mainly relied on the power, of standing
armies; but the resources at their disposal for their support were
so limited, that the greatest economy in the husbanding both of men
and money was indispensable.

Richard Coeur de Lion, Edward III., and Henry V., were the models
of feudal leaders, and their wars were a faithful mirror of the
feudal contests. Setting forth at the head of a force, which, if
not formidable in point of numbers, was generally extremely so
from equipment and the use of arms, the nobles around them were
generally too proud and high-spirited to decline a combat, even
on any possible terms of disadvantage. They took the field as
the knights went to a _champ clos_, to engage their adversaries
in single conflict; and it was deemed equally dishonourable to
retire without fighting from the one as the other. But they had no
permanent force at their disposal to secure a lasting fruit even
from the greatest victories. The conquest of a petty province,
a diminutive fortress, was often their only result. Hence the
desperate battles, so memorable in warlike annals, which they
fought, and hence the miserable and almost nugatory results which
almost invariably followed their greatest triumphs. Cressy,
Poictiers, and Azincour, followed by the expulsion of the English
from France; Methven and Dunbar, by their ignominious retreat from
Scotland; Ascalon and Ptolemais, by their being driven from the
Holy Land, must immediately occur to every reader. This state of
war necessarily imprinted a corresponding character on the feudal
generals. They were high-spirited and daring in action--often
skilful in tactics--generally ignorant of strategy--covetous of
military renown, but careless of national advancement--and often
more solicitous to conquer an adversary in single conflict, than
reduce a fortress, or win a province.

But when armies were raised at the expense, not of nobles, but of
kings--when their cost became a lasting and heavy drain on the royal
exchequer--sovereigns grew desirous of a more durable and profitable
result from their victories. Standing armies, though commonly
powerful, often irresistible when accumulated in large bodies--were
yet extremely expensive. They were felt the more from the great
difficulty of getting the people in every country, at that period,
to submit to any considerable amount of direct taxation. More
than one flourishing province had been lost, or powerful monarchy
overturned, in the attempt to increase such burdens; witness the
loss of Holland to Spain, the execution of Charles I. in England.
In this dilemma, arising from the experienced necessity of raising
standing armies on the one hand, and the extreme difficulty of
permanently providing for them on the other, the only resource was
to spare both the blood of the soldiers and the expenses of the
government as much as possible. Durable conquests, acquisitions of
towns and provinces which could yield revenues and furnish men,
became the great object of ambition. The point of feudal honour was
forgot in the inanity of its consequences; the benefits of modern
conquests were felt in the reality of their results. A methodical
cautious system of war was thus impressed upon generals by the
necessities of their situation, and the objects expected from them
by their respective governments. To risk little and gain much,
became the great object: skill and stratagem gradually took the
place of reckless daring; and the reputation of a general came to be
measured rather by the permanent addition which his successes had
made to the revenues of his sovereign, than the note with which the
trumpet of Fame had proclaimed his own exploits.

Turenne was the first, and, in his day, the greatest general in this
new and scientific system of war. He first applied to the military
art the resources of prudent foresight, deep thought, and profound
combination; and the results of his successes completely justified
the discernment which had prompted Louis XIV. to place him at the
head of his armies. His methodical and far-seeing campaigns in
Flanders, Franche Comte, Alsace, and Lorraine, in the early part of
the reign of that monarch, added these valuable provinces to France,
which have never since been lost. They have proved more durable than
the conquests of Napoleon, which all perished in the lifetime of
their author. Napoleon's legions passed like a desolating whirlwind
over Europe, but they gave only fleeting celebrity, and entailed
lasting wounds on France. Turenne's slow, or more methodical and
more cautious conquests, have proved lasting acquisitions to the
monarchy. Nancy still owns the French allegiance; Besancon and
Strasbourg are two of its frontier fortresses; Lille yet is a
leading stronghold in its iron barrier. Napoleon, it is well known,
had the highest possible opinion of that great commander. He was
disposed to place him at the head of modern generals; and his very
interesting analysis of his campaigns is not the least important
part of his invaluable memoirs.

Conde, though living in the same age, and alternately the enemy
and comrade of Turenne, belonged to a totally different class of
generals, and, indeed, seemed to belong to another age of the
world. He was warmed in his heart by the spirit of chivalry; he
bore its terrors on his sword's point. Heart and soul he was
heroic. Like Clive or Alexander, he was consumed by that thirst for
fame, that ardent passion for glorious achievements, which is the
invariable characteristic of elevated, and the most inconceivable
quality to ordinary, minds. In the prosecution of this object, no
difficulties could deter, no dangers daunt him. Though his spirit
was chivalrous--though cavalry was the arm which suited his genius,
and in which he chiefly delighted, he brought to the military art
the power of genius and the resources of art; and no man could make
better use of the power which the expiring spirit of feudality
bequeathed to its scientific successors. He destroyed the Spanish
infantry at Rocroy and Lens, not by mere desultory charges of the
French cavalry, but by efforts of that gallant body as skilfully
directed as those by which Hannibal overthrew the Roman legions at
Thrasymene and Cannae. His genius was animated by the spirit of the
fourteenth, but it was guided by the knowledge of the seventeenth,
century.

Bred in the school of Turenne, placed, like him, at the head of a
force raised with difficulty, maintained with still greater trouble,
Marlborough was the greatest general of the methodical or scientific
school which modern Europe has produced. No man knew better the
importance of deeds which fascinate the minds of men; none could
decide quicker, or strike harder, when the proper time for action
arrived. None, when the decisive crisis of the struggle approached,
could expose his person more fearlessly, or lead his reserves
more gallantly into the very hottest of the enemy's fire. To his
combined intrepidity and quickness, in thus bringing the reserves,
at the decisive moment, into action, all his wonderful victories,
in particular Ramilies and Malplaquet, are to be ascribed. But, in
the ordinary case, he preferred the bloodless methods of skill and
arrangement. Combination was his great _forte_, and there he was not
exceeded by Napoleon himself. To deceive the enemy as to the real
point of attack--to perplex him by marches and countermarches--to
assume and constantly maintain the initiative--to win by skill
what could not be achieved by force, was his great delight; and in
that, the highest branch of the military art, he was unrivalled
in modern times. He did not despise stratagem. Like Hannibal, he
resorted to that arm frequently, and with never-failing success.
His campaigns, in that respect, bear a closer resemblance to those
of the illustrious Carthaginian than those of any general in modern
Europe. Like him, too, his administrative and diplomatic qualities
were equal to his military powers. By his address, he retained in
unwilling, but still effective union, an alliance, unwieldy from its
magnitude, and discordant by its jealousies; and kept, in willing
multitudes, around his standards, a _colluvies omnium gentium_, of
various languages, habits, and religions--held in subjection by no
other bond but the strong one of admiration for their general, and a
desire to share in his triumphs.

Consummate address and never-failing prudence were the great
characteristics of the English commander. With such judgment did he
measure his strength with those of his adversary--so skilfully did
he choose the points of attack, whether in strategy or tactics--so
well weighed were all his enterprises, so admirably prepared the
means of carrying them into execution, that none of them ever
miscarried. It was a common saying at the time, which the preceding
narrative amply justifies, that he never fought a battle which he
did not gain, nor laid siege to a town which he did not take. This
extraordinary and unbroken success extended to all his manoeuvres,
however trivial; and it has been already noticed, that the first
disaster of any moment which occurred to his arms during _nine_
successive and active campaigns, was the destruction of a convoy
destined for the siege of St Venant, in October 1710, by one of
Villars' detachments.[37] It was the admirable powers of arrangement
and combination which he brought to bear on all parts of his army,
equally from the highest to the lowest parts, which was the cause of
this extraordinary and uninterrupted success.

  [37] Marlborough's Dispatches. _Blackwood's Magazine_, Nov. 1846, p.

He was often outnumbered by the enemy, always opposed by a
homogeneous army, animated by one strong national and military
spirit; while he was at the head of a discordant array of many
different nations, some of them with little turn for warlike
exploit, others lukewarm, or even treacherous in the cause. But
notwithstanding this, he never lost the ascendant. From the time
when he first began the war on the banks of the Maese in 1702, till
his military career was closed in 1711, within the iron barrier
of France, by the intrigues of his political opponents at home, he
never abandoned the initiative. He was constantly on the offensive.
When inferior in force, as he often was, he supplied the defect of
military strength by skill and combination; when his position was
endangered by the faults or treachery of others, as was still more
frequently the case, he waited till a false move on the part of his
adversaries enabled him to retrieve his affairs by some brilliant
and decisive stroke. It was thus that he restored the war in
Germany, after the affairs of the Emperor had been wellnigh ruined,
by the brilliant cross march into Bavaria, and splendid victory at
Blenheim; and regained Flanders for the Archduke by the stroke at
Ramilies, after the imperial cause in that quarter had been all but
lost by the treacherous surrender of Ghent and Bruges, in the very
centre of his water communications.

Lord Chesterfield, who knew him well, said that he was a man of
excellent parts, and strong good sense, but of no very shining
genius. The uninterrupted success of his campaigns, however, joined
to the unexampled address with which he allayed the jealousies
and stilled the discords of the confederacy whose armies he led,
decisively demonstrates that the polished earl's opinion was not
just; and that his partiality for the graces led him to ascribe
an undue influence in the great duke's career to the inimitable
suavity and courtesy of his manner. His enterprises and stratagems,
his devices to deceive the enemy, and counterbalance inferiority
of force by superiority of conduct; the eagle eye which, in the
decisive moment, he brought to bear on the field of battle, and the
rapidity with which in person he struck the final blow from which
the enemy never recovered, bespeak the intuitive genius of war. It
was the admirable _balance_ of his mental qualities which caused his
originality to be under-valued;--no one power stood out in such bold
relief as to overshadow all the others, and rivet the eye by the
magnitude of its proportions. Thus his consummate judgment made the
world overlook his invention; his uniform prudence caused his daring
to be forgotten; his incomparable combinations often concealed
the capacious mind which had put the whole in motion. He was so
uniformly successful, that men forgot how difficult it is always to
succeed in war. It was not till he was withdrawn from the conduct
of the campaign, and disaster immediately attended the Allied arms,
and France resumed the ascendant over the coalition, that Europe
became sensible who had been the soul of the war, and how much had
been lost when his mighty understanding was no longer at the head of
affairs.

A most inadequate opinion would be formed of Marlborough's
mental character, if his military exploits alone were taken into
consideration. Like all other intellects of the first order, he was
equally capable of great achievements in peace as in war, and shone
forth with not less lustre in the deliberations of the cabinet, or
the correspondence of diplomacy, than in directing columns on the
field of battle, or tracing out the line of approaches in the attack
of fortified towns. Nothing could exceed the judgment and address
with which he reconciled the jarring interests, and smoothed down
the rival pretensions, of the coalesced cabinets. The danger was not
so pressing as to unite their rival governments, as it afterwards
did those of the Grand Alliance in 1813, for the overthrow of
Napoleon; and incessant exertions, joined to the highest possible
diplomatic address, judgment of conduct, and suavity of manner, were
required to prevent the coalition, on various occasions during the
course of the war, from falling to pieces. As it was, the intrigues
of Bolingbroke and the Tories in England, and the ascendency of Mrs
Masham in the Queen's bedchamber councils, at last counterbalanced
all his achievements, and led to a peace which abandoned the most
important objects of the war, and was fraught, as the event has
proved, with serious danger to the independence and even existence
of England. His winter campaign at the Allied courts, as he himself
said, always equalled in duration, and often exceeded in importance
and difficulty, that in summer with the enemy; and nothing is more
certain, than that if a man of less capacity had been entrusted
with the direction of its diplomatic relations, the coalition would
have soon broken up without having accomplished any of the objects
for which the war had been undertaken, from the mere selfishness and
dissensions of the cabinets by whom it was conducted.

With one blot, for which neither the justice of history, nor the
partiality of biography either can or should attempt to make
any apology, Marlborough's private character seems to have been
unexceptionable, and was evidently distinguished by several noble
and amiable qualities. That he was bred a courtier, and owed his
first elevation to the favour with which he was regarded by one
of the King's mistresses, was not his fault:--It arose, perhaps,
necessarily from his situation, and the graces and beauty with which
he had been so prodigally endowed by nature. The young officer of
the Guards, who in the army of Louis XIV. passed by the name of the
"handsome Englishman," could hardly be expected to be free from the
consequences of female partiality at the court of Charles II. But
in maturer years, his conduct in public, after William had been
seated on the throne, was uniformly consistent, straightforward,
and honourable. He was a sincere patriot, and ardently attached
both to his country and the principles of freedom, at a time when
both were wellnigh forgotten in the struggles of party, and the
fierce contests for royal or popular favour. Though bred up in a
licentious court, and early exposed to the most entrancing of its
seductions, he was in mature life strictly correct, both in his
conduct and conversation. He resisted every temptation to which his
undiminished beauty exposed him after his marriage, and was never
known either to utter, or permit to be uttered in his presence, a
light or indecent expression. He discouraged to the utmost degree
any instances of intemperance or licentiousness in his soldiers, and
constantly laboured to impress upon his men a sense of moral duty
and Supreme superintendence. Divine service was regularly performed
in all his camps, both morning and evening; previous to a battle,
prayers were read at the head of every regiment, and the first act,
after a victory, was a solemn thanksgiving. "By those means," says a
contemporary biographer, who served in his army, "his camp resembled
a quiet, well-governed city. Cursing and swearing were seldom heard
among the officers; a drunkard was the object of scorn: and even the
soldiers, many of them the refuse and dregs of the nation, became,
at the close of one or two campaigns, tractable, civil, sensible,
and clean, and had an air and spirit above the vulgar."

In political life, during his career after that event, he was
consistent and firm; faithful to his party, but more faithful still
to his country. He was a generous friend, an attached, perhaps too
fond a husband. During the whole of his active career, he retained a
constant sense of the superintendence and direction of the Supreme
Being, and was ever the first to ascribe the successes which he had
gained, to Divine protection; a disposition which appeared with
peculiar grace amidst the din of arms, and the flourish of trumpets
for his own mighty achievements. Even the one occasion on which,
like David, he fell from his high principles, will be regarded by
the equitable observer with charitable, if not forgiving eyes. He
will recollect, that perfection never yet belonged to a child of
Adam; he will measure the dreadful nature of the struggle which
awaits an upright and generous mind when loyalty and gratitude impel
one way, and religion and patriotism another. Without attempting to
justify an officer who employs the power bestowed by one government
to elevate another on its ruins, he will yet reflect, that in such
a crisis, even the firmest heads and the best hearts may be led
astray. If he is wise, he will ascribe the fault--for fault it
was--not so much to the individual, as the time in which he lived;
and feel a deeper thankfulness that his own lot has been cast in a
happier age, when the great moving passions of the human heart act
in the same direction, and a public man need not fear that he is
wanting in his duty to his sovereign, because he is performing that
to his country.

Marlborough was often accused of avarice: but his conduct through
life sufficiently demonstrated that in him the natural desire
to accumulate a fortune, which belongs to every rational mind,
was kept in subjection to more elevated principles. His repeated
refusal of the government of the Netherlands, with its magnificent
appointment of L.60,000 a-year, was a sufficient proof how much he
despised money when it interfered with public duty; his splendid
edifices, both in London and Blenheim, attest how little he valued
it for any other sake but as it might be applied to noble and worthy
objects.[38] He possessed the magnanimity in every thing which is
the invariable characteristic of real greatness. Envy was unknown,
suspicion loathsome, to him. He often suffered by the generous
confidence with which he trusted his enemies. He was patient
under contradiction; placid and courteous both in his manners and
demeanour; and owed great part of his success, both in the field and
in the cabinet, to the invariable suavity and charm of his manner.
His humanity was uniformly conspicuous. Not only his own soldiers,
but his enemies never failed to experience it. Like Wellington,
his attention to the health and comforts of his men was incessant;
and, with his daring in the field and uniform success in strategy,
endeared him in the highest degree to the men. Troops of all nations
equally trusted him; and the common saying, when they were in any
difficulty, "Never mind--'Corporal John' will get us out of it,"
was heard as frequently in the Dutch, Danish, or German, as in the
English language. He frequently gave the weary soldiers a place in
his carriage, and got out himself to accommodate more; and his first
care, after an engagement, invariably was to visit the field of
battle, and do his utmost to assuage the sufferings of the wounded,
both among his own men and those of the enemy.

  [38] Marlborough House in London cost about L.100,000.--Coxe, vi.
  399.

The character of this illustrious man has been thus portrayed by two
of the greatest writers in the English language, the latter of whom
will not be accused of undue partiality to his political enemy. "It
is a characteristic," says Adam Smith, "almost peculiar to the great
Duke of Marlborough, that ten years of such uninterrupted and such
splendid successes as scarce any other general could boast of, never
betrayed him into a single rash action, scarce into a single rash
word or expression. The same temperate coolness and self-command
cannot, I think, be ascribed to any other great warrior of later
times--not to Prince Eugene, nor to the late King of Prussia, nor to
the great Prince of Conde, not even to Gustavus Adolphus. Turenne
seems to have approached the nearest to it: but several actions of
his life demonstrate that it was in him by no means so perfect as
in the great Duke of Marlborough."[39] "By King William's death,"
says Bolingbroke, "the Duke of Marlborough was raised to the head
of the army, and indeed of the confederacy, where he, a private
man, a subject, obtained by merit and by management a more decided
influence than high birth, confirmed authority, and even the crown
of Great Britain, had given to King William. Not only all the parts
of that vast machine, the Grand Alliance, were kept more compact and
entire, but a more rapid and vigorous motion was given to the whole;
and instead of languishing or disastrous campaigns, we saw every
scene of the war full of action. All those wherein he appeared,
and many of those wherein he was not then an actor, but abettor,
however, of their actions, were crowned with the most triumphant
success. I take with pleasure this opportunity of doing justice to
that great man, whose faults I know, whose virtues I admire, and
whose memory, _as the greatest general and greatest minister that
our country or any other has produced_, I honour."[40]

  [39] SMITH'S _Moral Sentiments_, ii. 158.

  [40] BOLINGBROKE'S _Letters on the Study of History_, ii. 172.




MILDRED;

A TALE.


PART I. CHAP. I.

The town of Wimborne, in Dorsetshire, boasts the possession of
a very ancient cathedral-like church, dignified with the title
of Minster, but, with this exception, is as utterly devoid, we
believe, of all interest to the traveller, as any of the numerous
country-towns which he rapidly passes through, and so gladly quits,
wondering for the moment how it is that any one can possibly consent
to be left behind in them. He who has journeyed from Southampton
to Poole will remember the town, from the circumstance that he
quitted by the same narrow streets by which he entered it, his road
not passing directly through, but forming an angle at this point.
He will call to mind what appeared an unaccountable turning and
twisting about of the coach, whilst the horses were being changed,
and a momentary alarm at finding that he was retracing his steps;
he will remember the two massive square towers of the old church,
peering above the roofs of the houses; and this is all that he will
know, or have the least desire to know, of the town of Wimborne.

If, however, the traveller should be set down in this quiet place,
and be compelled to wait there half a day for the arrival of some
other coach to carry him to his destination, he will probably wile
away his time by a visit to its antique and venerable church; and
after climbing, by the dark and narrow staircase, to the top of one
of its towers, he will be somewhat surprised to find himself--in
a library! A small square room is fitted up with shelves, whereon
a number of books are deposited, and the centre is occupied by a
large reading-desk, and a massive oak table, apparently coeval
with the tower itself, and which was probably placed there before
the roof was put on, since it never could have been introduced by
the stairs or through the window. It is no modern library, be it
understood--no vestry reading-room connected with the Sunday school
of the place; they are old books, black-letter quartos, illuminated
missals, now dark and mouldy, and whose parchment has acquired no
pleasant odour from age. By no means is it a circulating library,
for some of the books are still chained to the reading-desk; and
many more have their rusty iron chain twisted about them, by which
they, in their turn, were bound to the desk. If the traveller should
not be favoured with that antiquarian taste which finds a charm in
decyphering, out of mouldy and black-letter volumes, what would not
be worth his perusal in the most luxurious type of modern days, he
will at least derive some pleasure from opening the little windows
of the tower, and inhaling the fresh breeze that will blow in upon
him, and in looking over an extensive prospect of green meadows,
with their little river meandering about in them. It must have
formed a pleasant retreat at one time to the two or three learned
clerks, or minor canons, or neighbouring monks or friars--we may be
sure there were never many of such students--who used to climb this
turret for their morning or their evening lucubrations.

The only student who had, perhaps for some centuries, frequented
it--and she brought her own books with her, and was very unlike
either learned clerk, or monk, or friar--was Mildred Willoughby. She
used to delight--a taste savouring of extreme youth--to bring the
book she was perusing from her own comfortable parlour, to climb
up with it to this solitary height, and there read it alone. She
had no difficulty in obtaining from the parish-clerk permission to
be left in this chosen solitude--to draw the one wooden chair it
possessed to the window, and there to sit, and read, or muse, or
look upon the landscape, just as long as she pleased. It did not
very frequently happen that this functionary was called upon to
exhibit the old tower to the curiosity of strangers; but if this
occurred whilst she was thus occupied, she would rise from her seat,
and for a moment put on the air of a visitor also--walk slowly round
the room, looking at the backs of the books, or out of the window at
the prospect, as if she saw them for the first time! and when the
company had retreated, (and there was little to detain them long,)
would quietly return to her chair, her study, or her reverie.

One reason she might have given, beside the romantic and pensive
mood it inspired, for her choice of this retreat--the charm of being
alone. Nothing could be more quiet--to look at the exterior--than
the house she called her home. It stood at the extremity of the
town, protected from the road by its own neat inclosure of turf and
gravel-walk--surely as remote from every species of disturbance or
excitement as the most devoted student could desire. We question
even whether a barrel-organ or a hurdy-gurdy was ever known to
commit an outrage upon its tranquillity; and for its interior, were
not Mr and Miss Bloomfield (they were brother and sister, uncle and
aunt of Mildred) the most staid, orderly, methodical persons in the
world? Did not the bachelor uncle cover every part of the house,
and the kitchen stairs in particular, with thick carpet, in order
that the footsteps of John and the maid should not disquiet him? The
very appearance of the garden, both before and behind the house, was
sufficient to show how orderly a genius presided over it. Could box
be cut more neatly? or gravel-walks be kept cleaner? You saw a tall
lance-like instrument standing by the steps of the back-door, its
constant place. With this Mr Bloomfield frequently made the circuit
of his garden, but with no hostile purpose: he merely transfixed
with it the dry leaves or the splinters of wood that had strayed
upon his gravel, carrying them off in triumph to a neat wooden
receptacle, where they were both imprisoned and preserved. And Miss
Bloomfield, she also was one of the most amiable of women, and as
attached to a quiet and orderly house as her brother. Neither could
any two persons be more kind, or more fond of their niece, than
they were. But it was from this very kindness, this very fondness,
that Mildred found it so pleasant at times to escape. Her aunt,
especially, was willing to grant her any indulgence but that of
being alone. This her love for her niece, and her love of talking,
would rarely permit. Neither could Mildred very graciously petition
for this unsocial privilege. In youth, nothing is so delightful
as solitude, especially when it is procured by stealth, by some
subtle contrivance, some fiction or pretence; and many a time did
her aunt find it necessary to pursue Mildred to her own chamber,
and many a time did she bring her down into the parlour, repeating,
with unfeigned surprise, and a tone of gentle complaint, the always
unanswerable question--what she _could_ be doing so long in her own
room? Therefore it was that she was fain to steal out alone--take
her walk through the churchyard, ascend the tower, enter its little
library, and plant herself in its old arm-chair for an hour of
solitary reading or thinking.

Mildred Willoughby was born in India, and her parents (the greatest
misery attendant upon a residence in that climate) were compelled
to send her to England to be reared, as well as educated. She had
been placed under the care of her uncle and aunt. These had always
continued to live together--bachelor and spinster. As their united
incomes enabled them to surround themselves with every comfort and
personal luxury, and as they were now of a very mature age, it was
no longer considered to be in the chapter of probabilities that
either of them would change their condition. Miss Bloomfield, in
her youth, was accounted a beauty--the _belle_ of Wimborne; and we
may be sure that personal charms, a very amiable disposition, and a
considerable fortune, could not fail to bring her numerous admirers
and suitors. But her extreme placidity of temper no passion seems
ever to have ruffled; and it did so happen, that though her hand had
often been solicited, no opportunity of marriage had been offered to
her which would not have put in jeopardy some of those comforts and
indulgences to which she was habituated. She was pleased with the
attentions of gentlemen, and was studious to attract them; but there
was nothing in that word _love_ which could have compensated for the
loss of her favourite attendants, or of that pretty little carriage
that drew her about the country.

As for Mr Bloomfield, it was generally supposed that he had
suffered from more than one tender disappointment, having always
had the misfortune to fix his affections just where they could not
be returned. But those who knew him well would say, that Josiah
Bloomfield was, in fact, too timid and irresolute a man ever to have
married--that being himself conscious of this, yet courting, at the
same time, the excitement of a tender passion, he invariably made
love where he was sure to be rejected. Many a fascinating girl came
before him, whom he might have won, from whose society, for this
very reason, he quietly withdrew, to carry his sighs to some quarter
where a previous engagement, or some other obstacle, was sure to
procure him a denial. He thus had all the pleasing pains of wooing,
and earned the credit for great sensibility, whilst he hugged
himself in the safe felicity of a single life. By this time, a more
confirmed or obdurate bachelor did not exist; yet he was pleased
to be thought to wear the willow, and would, from time to time,
endeavour to extort compassion by remote hints at the sufferings he
had endured from unreturned affection.

Two such persons, it will be supposed, were at first somewhat
alarmed at the idea of taking into their establishment a little
girl about four or five years old. Indeed, they had, in the first
instance, only so far agreed to take charge of her as to find her
a fit school--to receive her at the holidays--and, in this distant
manner, superintend her education. But Mildred proved so quiet, so
tractable, and withal so cheerful a child, that they soon resolved
to depart from this plan. She had not been long in the house before
it would have been a great distress to both of them to have parted
with her. It was determined that she should reside perpetually
with them, and that the remittances received from India should be
employed in obtaining the very best masters that could be procured
from Bath or Exeter. Mr Bloomfield found, in the superintendence of
Mildred's education, an employment which made the day half as short
as it had ever been before. He was himself a man fond of reading;
and if he had not a very large store of thoughts, he had at least an
excellent library, into which Mildred, who had now arrived at the
age of fifteen, had already begun to penetrate.

And books--her music--&c., a few friends, more distinguished by
good-breeding and good-nature than by any vivacity of mind, were
all the world of Mildred Willoughby, and it was a world that there
seemed little probability of her getting beyond. It had been
expected that about this time she would have returned to India to
her parents; but her mother had died, and her father had expressed
no wish that she should be sent out to him. On the contrary, beyond
certain pecuniary remittances, and these came through an agent's
hands, there was nothing to testify that he bore any remembrance
of his daughter. Of her father, very contradictory reports had
reached her; some said that he had married again, and had formed
an engagement of which he was not very proud; others that he had
quitted the service, and was now travelling, no one knew where,
about the world. At all events, he appeared to have forgotten that
he had a daughter in England; and Mildred was almost justified in
considering herself--as she did in her more melancholy moments--as
in fact an orphan, thrown upon the care of an uncle and aunt, and
dependent almost entirely upon them.

One fine summer's day, as she was enjoying her lofty solitude in
the minster tower, a visitor had been allowed to grope up his way
unattended into its antique library. On entering, he was not a
little startled to see before him in this depository of mouldering
literature a blooming girl in all the freshness and beauty of
extreme youth. He hesitated a moment whether to approach and
disturb so charming a vision. But, indeed, the vision was very soon
disturbed. For Mildred, on her side, was still more startled at this
entrance, alone and suddenly, of a very handsome young man--for
such the stranger was--and blushed deeply as she rose from her
chair and attempted to play as usual the part of casual visitor. He
bowed--what could he less?--and made some apology for his having
startled her by his abrupt entrance.

The stranger's manner was so quiet and unpresuming, that the
timidity of Mildred soon disappeared, and before she had time to
think what was most _proper_ to do, she found herself in a very
interesting conversation with one who evidently was as intelligent
as he was well-bred and good-looking. She had let fall her book in
her hurry to rise. He picked it up, and as he held the elegantly
bound volume in his hand, which ludicrously contrasted with the
mouldy and black-letter quartos that surrounded them, he asked with
a smile, on which shelf he was to deposit it. "This fruit," said
he, "came from another orchard." And seeing the title at the back,
he added, "Italian I might have expected to find in a young lady's
hand, but I should have looked for a Tasso, not an Alfieri."

"Yes," she replied gaily, "a damsel discovered reading in this old
turret ought to have book of chivalry in her hand. I have read
Tasso, but I do not prefer him. Alfieri presents me quite as much as
Tasso with a new world to live in, and it is a more real world. I
seem to be learning from him the real feelings of men."

The stranger was manifestly struck by this kind of observation
from one so young, and still more by the simple and unpretending
manner in which it was uttered. Mildred had not the remotest idea
of talking criticism, she was merely expressing her own unaffected
partialities. He would have been happy to prolong the conversation,
but the clerk, or verger, who had missed his visitor--as well he
might, for his visitor had purposely given him the slip, as all wise
men invariably do to all cicerones of whatever description--had at
length tracked his fugitive up the tower, and into the library. His
entrance interrupted their dialogue, and compelled the stranger very
soon afterwards to retreat. He made his bow to the fair lady of the
tower and descended.

Mildred read very little more that day, and if she lingered somewhat
longer in meditation, her thoughts had less connexion than ever
with antiquities of any kind. She descended, and took her way
home. The probability that she might meet the stranger in passing
through the town--albeit there was nothing, disagreeable in the
thought--made her walk with unusual rapidity, and bend her eyes
pertinaciously upon the ground. The consequence of which was, that
in turning the corner of a street which she passed almost every day
of her life, she contrived to entangle her dress in some of the
interesting hardware of the principal ironmonger of the place, who,
for the greater convenience of the inhabitants, was accustomed to
advance his array of stoves and shovels far upon the pavement, and
almost before their feet. As she turned and stooped to disengage
her dress, she found that relief and rescue were already at hand.
The stranger knight, who had come an age too late to release her
as a captive from the tower, was affording the best assistance he
could to extricate her from entanglement with a kitchen-range. Some
ludicrous idea of this kind occurred to both at the same time--their
eyes met with a smile--and their hands had very nearly encountered
as they both bent over the tenacious muslin. The task, however,
was achieved, and a very gracious "thank you" from one of the most
musical of voices repaid the stranger for his gallantry.

That evening Mildred happened to be sitting near the window--it
must have been by merest hazard, for she very rarely occupied that
part of the room--as the Bath coach passed their gates. A gentleman
seated on the roof appeared to recognise her--at least, he took
his hat off as he passed. Was it the same?--and what if it were?
Evidently he was a mere passer-by, who had been detained in the town
a few hours, waiting for this coach. Would he ever even think again
of the town of Wimborne--of its old minster--or its tower--and the
girl he surprised sitting there, in its little antique library?


CHAPTER II.

Between two or three years have elapsed, and our scene changes from
the country town of Wimborne to the gay and pleasant capital of
Belgium.

Mr and Miss Bloomfield had made a bold, and, for them, quite a
tremendous resolution, to take a trip upon the Continent, which
should extend--as far as their courage held out. The pleasure and
profit this would afford their niece, was no mean inducement to the
enterprise. Mr Bloomfield judged that his ward, after the course of
studies she had pursued, and the proficiency she had attained in
most feminine accomplishments, was ripe to take advantage of foreign
travel. Mr Bloomfield judged wisely; but Mr Bloomfield neither
judged, nor was, perhaps, capable of judging how far, in fact, the
mind of his niece _had_ advanced, or what singular good use she
had made of his own neglected library. She had been grappling with
all sorts of books--of philosophy and of science, as well as of
history and poetry. But that cheerful quietude which distinguished
her manner, concealed these more strenuous efforts of her mind. She
never talked for display--she had, indeed, no arena for display--and
the wish for it was never excited in her mind. What she read and
thought, she revolved in herself, and was perfectly content. How it
might have been had she lived amongst those who would have called
her forth, and overwhelmed her with praise, it would be difficult to
tell. As it was, Mildred Willoughby presented to the imagination the
most fascinating combination of qualities it would be possible to
put together. A young girl of most exquisite beauty, (she had grown
paler than when we last saw her, but this had only given increased
lustre to her blue eye)--of manners the most unaffected--of a temper
always cheerful, always tranquil--was familiar with trains of deep
reflection--possessed a practised intellect and really cultivated
mind. In this last respect, there was not a single person in all
Wimborne or its neighbourhood who had divined her character. That
she was a charming girl, though a little too pale--very amiable,
though a little too reserved--of a temper provokingly calm, for
she was not ruffled even where she ought to be--and that she sang
well, and played well; such would have been the summary of her good
qualities from her best and most intimate friends. She was now
enjoying, with her uncle and aunt--but in a manner how different
from theirs!--the various novelties, great and small, which a
foreign country presents to the eye.

Those who, in their travels, estimate the importance of any spot by
its distance or its difficulty of access, will hardly allow such
a place as Brussels to belong to _foreign parts_. It is no more
than an excursion to Margate: it is but a day's journey. True; but
your day's journey has brought you to another people--to another
religion. We are persuaded that a man shall travel to Timbuctoo,
and he shall not gain for himself a stronger impression of novelty,
than a sober Protestant shall procure by entering the nearest
country where the Roman Catholic worship is in full practice.
He has seen cathedrals--many and beautiful--but they were mere
architectural monuments, half deserted, one corner only employed for
the modest service of his church--the rest a noble space for the
eye to traverse, in which he has walked, hat in hand, meditating
on past times and the middle ages. But if he cross the Channel,
those past times--they have come back again; those middle ages--he
is in the midst of them. The empty cathedral has become full to
overflowing; there are the lights burning in mid-day, and he hears
the Latin chant, and sees high-priests in gorgeous robes making
mystic evolutions about the altar; and there is the incense, and
the sprinkling of holy water, and the tinkling bell, and whatever
the Jew or the Pagan has in times past bequeathed to the Christian.
Or let him only look up the street. Here comes, tottering in the
air, upon the shoulders of its pious porters, Our Lady herself,
with the Holy Child in one arm, and her sceptre in the other, and
the golden crown upon her head. Here she is in her satin robe,
stiff with embroidery, and gay with lace, and decked with tinsel
ornaments beyond our power of description. If the character of the
festival require it, she is borne by six or eight maidens clad in
white, with wreaths of white roses on their heads; and you hear it
whispered, as they approach, that such a one is beautiful Countess
of C----; and, countess or not, there is amongst those bearers a
face very beautiful, notwithstanding that the heat of the day, and
a burden of no light weight, has somewhat deranged the proportions
of the red and white which had been so cunningly laid on. And then
comes the canopy of cloth of gold, borne over the bare head of the
venerable priest, who holds up to the people, inclosed in a silver
case, imitative of rays of glory, the sacred host; holds it up with
both his hands, and fastens both his eyes devoutly on the back of
it; and boys in their scarlet tunics, covered with white lace, are
swinging the censor before it; and the shorn priests on each side,
with lighted tapers in their hands, tall as staves, march, chanting
forth--we regret to say, with more vehemence than melody.

Is not all this strange enough? The state-carriage of the King of
the Ashantees was, some years ago, captured in war, and exhibited in
London; and a curious vehicle it was, with its peacocks' feathers,
and its large glass beads hung round the roof to glitter and jingle
at the same time. But the royal carriage of the Ashantees, or all
that the court of the Ashantees could possibly display, is not half
so curious, half so strange to any meditative spirit, as this image
of the Holy Virgin met as it parades the streets, or seen afterwards
deposited in the centre of the temple, surrounded by pots of
flowers, real and artificial, by vases filled with lilies of glazed
muslin, and altogether tricked out with such decorations as a child
would lavish on its favourite doll if it had an infinite supply of
tinsel.

And they worship _that_!

"No!" exclaims some very candid gentleman. "No sir, they by no means
worship it; and you must be a very narrow-minded person if you think
so. Such images are employed by the Catholic as representatives,
as symbols only--visible objects to direct his worship to that
which is invisible." O most candid of men! and most liberal of
Protestants! we do not say that Dr Wiseman or M. Chateaubriand
worship images. But just step across the water--we do not ask you to
travel into Italy or Spain, where the symptoms are ten times more
violent--just walk into some of these churches in Belgium, _and
use your own eyes_. It is but a journey of four-and-twenty hours;
and if you are one of those who wish to bring into our own church
the more frequent use of form and ceremony and visible symbol, it
will be the most salutory journey you ever undertook. Meanwhile
consider, and explain to us, why it is--if images are understood
to have only this subordinate function--that one image differs so
much from another in honour and glory. This Virgin, whom we have
seen parade the streets, is well received and highly respected; but
there are other Virgins--ill-favoured, too, and not at all fit to
act as representatives of any thing feminine--who are infinitely
more honoured and observed. The sculpture of Michael Angelo never
wins so much devotion as you shall see paid here, in one of their
innumerable churches, to a dark, rude, and odious misrepresentation
of Christ. They put a mantle on it of purple cotton, edged with
white, and a reed in its hand, and they come one after the other,
and kiss its dark feet; and mothers bring their infants, and put
their soft lips to the wound that the nail made, and then depart
with full sense of an act of piety performed. And take this into
account, that such act of devotion is no casual enthusiasm, no
outbreak of passionate piety overleaping the bounds of reason;
it is done systematically, methodically; the women come with
their green tin cans, slung upon their arm, full of their recent
purchases in the market, you see them enter--approach--put down the
can--kiss--take up the can, and depart. They have fulfilled a duty.

But we have not arrived in Brussels to loiter in churches or discuss
theology.

"Monsieur and the ladies will go to the ball to-night," said their
obliging host to our party. "It is an annual ball," he continued,
"given by the Philanthropical Society for the benefit of the poor.
Their Majesties, the king and the queen, will honour it with their
presence, and it is especially patronised by your fair countrywomen.

"Enough," said Mr Bloomfield; "we will certainly go to the ball.
To be in the same room with a living king and queen--it is an
opportunity by no means to be lost."

"And then," said Miss Bloomfield, "it is an act of charity."

This species of charity is very prevalent at Brussels. You dance
there out of pure commiseration. It is an excellent invention, this
gay benevolence. You give, and you make no sacrifice; you buy balls
and concerts with the money you drop into the beggar's hat; charity
is all sweetness. Poverty itself wears quite a festive air; the poor
are the farmers-general of our pleasures; it is they who give the
ball. Long live the dance! Long live the poor!

They drive to the ball-room in the Rue Ducale. They enter an oblong
room, spacious, of good proportions, and brilliantly lit up with
that gayest of all artificial lights--the legitimate wax candle,
thickly clustered in numerous chandeliers. Two rows of Corinthian
columns support the roof, and form a sort of arcade on either side
for spectators or the promenade, the open space in the centre being,
of course, devoted to the dance. At the upper end is a raised dais
with chairs of state for their Majesties. What, in day-time, were
windows are filled with large mirrors, most commodiously reflecting
the fair forms that stand or pass before them. How smooth is the
inlaid polished floor! and how it seems to foretell the dance
for which its void space is so well prepared! No incumbrance of
furniture here; no useless decorations. Some cushioned forms covered
with crimson velvet, some immense vases occupying the corners of the
room filled with exotic plants, are all that could be admitted of
one or the other.

The orchestra, established in a small gallery over the door, strikes
up the national air, and the royal party, attended by their suite,
proceed through the centre of the room, bowing right and left. They
take their seats. That instant the national air changes to a rapid
waltz, and in the twinkling of an eye, the whole of that spacious
floor is covered thick with the whirling multitude. The sober Mr
Bloomfield, to whom such a scene is quite a novelty, grows giddy
with the mere view of it. He looks with all his might, but he ought
to have a hundred pairs of eyes to watch the mazes of this dance.
One couple after another appear and vanish as if by enchantment. He
sees a bewitching face--he strives to follow it--impossible!--in
a minute fifty substitutes are presented to him--it is lost in a
living whirlpool of faces.

To one long accustomed to the quiet and monotony of a country life,
it would be difficult to present a spectacle more novel or striking
than this of a public ball-room; and though for such a novelty it
was not necessary to cross the water, yet assuredly, in his own
country, Mr Bloomfield would never have been present at such a
spectacle. We go abroad as much to throw ourselves for a time into
new manners of life, as to find new scenes of existence. He stood
bewildered. Some two hundred couples gyrating like mad before him.
Sometimes the number would thin, and the fervour of the movement
abate--the floor began, in parts, to be visible--the storm and the
whirlwind were dying away. But a fresh impulse again seized on both
musicians and dancers--the throng of these gentle dervishes, of
these amiable maenads, became denser than ever--the movement more
furious--the music seemed to madden them and to grow mad itself: he
shut his eyes, and drew back quite dizzy from the scene.

It is a singular phenomenon, this waltz, retained as it is in the
very heart of our cold and punctilious civilisation. How have we
contrived, amidst our quiet refinement and fastidious delicacy,
to preserve an amusement which has in it the very spirit of the
Cherokee Indian? There is nothing sentimental--nothing at all,
in the waltz. In this respect, mammas need have no alarm. It is
the mere excitement of rapid movement--a dextrous and delirious
rotation. It is the enthusiasm only of the feet--the ecstacy of
mere motion. Yes! just at that moment when, on the extended arm of
the cavalier, the soft and rounded arm of his partner is placed so
gently and so gracefully--(as for the hand upon the whalebone waist
no electricity comes that way)--just then there may be a slight
emotion which would be dangerous if prolonged; but the dance begins,
and there is no room for any other rapture than that of its own
swift and giddy course. There are no beatings of the heart after
that; only pulsations of the great artery.

Found where it is, it is certainly a remarkable phenomenon, this
waltz. Look now at that young lady--how cold, formal, stately!--how
she has been trained to act the little queen amongst her admirers
and flatterers! See what a _reticence_ in all her demeanour. Even
feminine curiosity, if not subdued, has been dissimulated; and
though she notes every thing and every body, and can describe,
when she returns home, the dress of half the ladies in the room,
it is with an eye that seems to notice nothing. Her head has just
been released from the hair-dresser, and every hair is elaborately
adjusted. To the very holding of an enormous bouquet, "round
as my shield," which of itself seems to forbid all thoughts of
motion--every thing has been arranged and re-arranged. She sits
like an alabaster figure; she speaks, it is true, and she smiles as
she speaks; but evidently the smile and the speech have no natural
connexion with one another; they co-exist, but they have both been
quite separately studied, prepared, permitted. Well, the waltz
strikes up, and at a word from that bowing gentleman, himself a
piece of awful formality, this pale, slow, and graceful automaton
has risen. Where is she now? She is gone--vanished--transformed.
She is nowhere to be seen. But in her stead there is a breathless
girl, with flushed cheeks, ringlets given to the wind, dress flying
all abroad, spinning round the room, darting diagonally across it,
whirling fast as her little feet can carry her--faster, faster--for
it is her more powerful cavalier, who, holding her firmly by the
waist, sustains and augments her speed.

Perhaps some ingenious mind may discover a profound philosophy in
all this; perhaps, by retaining this authorised outlet for the mere
rage of movement, the rest of civilised life is better protected
against any disturbance of that quietude of deportment which it is
so essential to maintain.

But if the waltz appeared to Mr Bloomfield like dancing gone mad,
the quadrille which divided the evening with it, formed a sort of
compensation by carrying matters to the opposite extreme. A fly in
a glue-pot moves with about the same alacrity, and apparently the
same amount of pleasure, as did the dancers this evening in their
crowded quadrille. As no one, of course, could be permitted to stand
with his back to royalty, they were arranged, not in squares, but
in two long files as in a country-dance. The few couples that stood
near their majesties were allowed a reasonable share of elbow-room,
and could get through their evolutions with tolerable composure. But
as the line receded from this point, the dancers stood closer and
closer together, and at the other extremity of the room it became
nothing less than a dense crowd; a crowd where people were making
the most persevering and ingenious efforts to accomplish the most
spiritless of movements--with a world of pains just crawling in
and out again. The motions of this _dancing_ crowd viewed from a
proper elevation, would exactly resemble those slow and mysterious
evolutions one sees, on close examination, in the brown dust of a
cheese, in that condition which some people call ripe, and others
rotten.

As to Miss Bloomfield, she keeps her eyes, for the most part, on the
king and queen. Having expected to see them rise and join the dance,
she was somewhat disappointed to find them retain their seats, the
king chatting to a lady at his right, the queen to a lady on her
left. Assuredly, if there were any one in that assembly who had
come there out of charity, it was their Majesties. Or rather, they
were there in performance of one of the duties of royalty, perhaps
not the least onerous, that of showing itself in public on certain
occasions. When they rose, it was to take their leave, which they
were doubtless very glad to do. Nor, indeed, were those who had
been most attracted by the advertised presence of their Majesties
sorry to witness their departure. They would carry many away with
them--there would be more room for the dance--and the quadrille
could reassume its legitimate form.

But Mildred--what was she doing or thinking all this time? To her
the scene was entirely new; for though Mr and Miss Bloomfield
probably attended county balls in their youth, they had not, for
some years, so far deviated from the routine of their lives as
to frequent any such assemblies. Besides, she had to encounter,
what they certainly had not, the gaze of every eye as she passed,
and the whispered exclamations of applause. But to have judged
from her manner--from that delightful composure which always
distinguished it, as free from insipidity as from trepidation or
fluster, you would have thought her quite familiar with such scenes
and such triumphs. Reflection supplied the place of experience.
You saw that those clear blue eyes, from which she looked out with
such a calm and keen inquiry, were by no means to be imposed on;
that they detected at once the true meaning of the scene before
her. She was solicited to dance, but neither the waltz nor the
quadrille were at all enticing, and she contented herself with the
part of spectator. Her chief amusement was derived from the novel
physiognomies which the room presented; and indeed the assortment,
comprising, as it did, a sprinkling of many nations--French and
Belgian, English and German--was sufficiently varied. There were
even two or three _lions_ of the first magnitude, who (judging from
the supreme _hauteur_ with which they surveyed the scene) must have
been imported from the patron capital of Paris. Lions, bearded
magnificently--no mere luxuriance, or timid overgrowth of hair, but
the genuine full black glossy beard--faces that might have walked
out of Titian's canvass. Mildred would have preferred them in the
canvass; they were much too sublime for the occasion. Then there
were two or three young English _exquisites_, gliding about with
that published modesty that proclaimed indifference, which seeks
notoriety by the very graceful manner in which it seems struggling
to avoid it. You see a smile upon their lips as they disengage
themselves from the crowd, as if they rallied themselves for taking
any share in the bustle or excitement of the scene; but that smile,
be it understood, is by no means intended to escape detection.

There were a greater number of fat and elderly gentlemen than
Mildred would have expected, taking part in the dance, or
circulating about the room with all or more than the vivacity
of youth. How happy!--how supremely blest!--seems that rotund
and bald-headed sire, who, standing on the edge of the dais, now
forsaken by their Majesties, surveys the whole assembly, and invites
the whole assembly to return the compliment. How beautifully the
bland sympathy he feels for others mingles with and swells his sense
of self-importance! How he dominates the whole scene! How fondly
patronises! And then his smile!--why, his heart is dancing with them
all; it is beating time to twice two hundred feet. An old friend
approaches him--he is happy too--would shake him by the hand. The
hand he gives; but he cannot withdraw his eye from the wide scene
before him; he cannot possibly call in and limit his sympathies at
that moment to one friend, however old and dear. And he who solicits
his hand, he also is looking around him at the same time, courting
the felicitations of the crowd, who will not fail to observe that he
too is there, and there amongst friends.

In the female portion of the assembly there was not so much novelty.
Mildred could only remark that there was a large proportion of
_brunettes_, and that the glossy black hair was parted on the
head and smoothed down on either side with singular neatness and
precision. Two only out of this part of the community attracted her
particular notice, and they were of the most opposite description.
Near to her stood a lady who might have been either thirty,
or forty, or fifty, for all that her sharp and lively features
betrayed. She wore one of those small round hats, with the feather
drooping round it, which formed, we believe, a part of the costume
of Louis XV.; and that which drew the notice of Mildred was the
strange resemblance she bore, in appearance and manner, to the
portraitures which some French memoirs had made familiar to her
imagination. As she watched her in conversation with an officer in
full regimentals, who stood by her side, her fancy was transported
to Versailles or St Cloud. What a caustic pleasantry! What a
malicious vivacity! It was impossible to doubt that the repartees
which passed between her and her companion were such as to make the
ears of the absent tingle. There were some reputations suffering
there as the little anecdote was so trippingly narrated. Her
physiognomy was redolent of pleasant scandal--

                        "Tolerably mild,
    To make a wash she'd hardly stew a child;"

but to extract a jest, there was no question she would have
distilled half the reputations in the room.

The other object of Mildred's curiosity, we pause a moment to
describe, because she will cross our path again in the course of
this narrative. Amongst all the costly and splendid dresses of her
sex, there was a young girl in some simple striped stuff, the most
unsophisticated gown imaginable, falling flat about her, with a
scanty cape of the same material about her neck--the walking-dress,
in short, of a school-girl. The only preparation for the ball-room
consisted of a wreath imitative of daisies, just such a wreath as
she might have picked up in passing through a Catholic cemetry. And
the dress quite suited the person. There she stood with eyes and
mouth wide open, as if she saw equally through both apertures, full
of irrepressible wonder, and quite confounded with delight. She
had been asked to dance by some very young gentleman, but as she
elbowed her way through the quadrille, she was still staring right
and left with unabated amazement. Mildred smiled to herself as she
thought that with the exception of that string of white tufts round
her head, no larger than beads, which was to pass for a wreath, she
looked for all the world as if some spirit had suddenly snatched her
up from the pavement of the High Street of Wimborne, and deposited
her in the ball-room of Brussels. Little did Mildred imagine that,
that crude little person, absurd, untutored, ridiculous as she was,
would one day have it in her power to subdue, and torture, and
triumph over her!


CHAPTER III.

Mildred was at this moment checked in her current of observation,
and reduced to play something more than the part of spectator. Her
ear caught a voice, heard only once before, but not forgotten; she
turned, and saw the stranger who had surprised her when, in her
girlish days, she was sitting in the minster tower. He immediately
introduced himself by asking her to dance.

"I do not dance," she said, but in a manner which did not seem to
refuse conversation. The stranger appeared very well satisfied with
the compromise; and some pleasant allusion to the different nature
of the scene in which they last met, put them at once upon an easy
footing.

"You say you _do_ not dance--that is, of course, you _will_ not. I
shall not believe," he continued, "even if you had just stepped from
your high tower of wisdom, but that you can do any thing you please
to do. Pardon so blunt a speech."

"Oh, I _can_, I think," she replied. "My uncle, I believe, would
have taught me the broad-sword exercise, if any one had suggested
its utility to him."

And saying this, she turned to her uncle, to give him an
opportunity, if he pleased, of joining the conversation. It was an
opportunity which Mr Bloomfield, who had heard a foreign language
chattered in his ear all the evening, would have gladly taken;
but the patience of that gentleman had been for some time nearly
exhausted; he had taken his sister under his arm, and was just going
to propose to Mildred to leave the room.

The stranger escorted them through the crowd, and saw the ladies
into their carriage.

"Can we set you down any where?" said Mr Bloomfield, who, though
impatient to be gone, was disposed to be very cordial towards his
fellow-countryman. "We are at the _Hotel de l'Europe_."

"And I opposite at the _Hotel de Flandres_--I will willingly accept
your offer;" and he took the vacant seat in their carriage.

"How do you like Brussels?" was on the lips of both gentlemen at the
same time.

"Nay," said the younger, "I have been here, I think, the longest;
the question is mine by right of priority of residence."

Mr Bloomfield was nothing loath to communicate his impression of all
that he had seen, and especially to dilate upon a grievance which,
it seemed, had sorely afflicted him.

"As to the town, old and new, and especially the Grande Place, with
its Hotel de Ville, I have been highly interested by it; but, my
dear sir, the torture of walking over its horrid pavement! Only
conceive a quiet old bachelor, slightly addicted to the gout,
accustomed to take his walk over his well-rolled paths, or on his
own lawn, (if not too damp,) suddenly put down amongst these cruel
stones, rough and sharp, and pitched together in mere confusion,
to pick his way how he can, with the chance of being smashed by
some cart or carriage, for one is turned out on the same road with
the horses. I am stoned to death, with this only difference, that
I fall upon the stones instead of the stones falling upon me. And
when there is a pavement--_a trottoir_, as they call it--it is often
so narrow and slanting, and always so slippery, and every now and
then broken by some step put there purposely, it would seem, to
overthrow you, that it is better to bear the penance at once of the
sharp footing in the centre of the street. _Trottoirs_, indeed! I
should like to see any one trot upon them without breaking his neck!
A spider or a black beetle, or any other creature that crawls upon
a multitude of legs, and has not far to fall if he stumbles, is the
only animal that is safe upon them. I go moaning all the day about
these jogged pointed stones, that pitch me from one to the other
with all the malice of little devils; and, would you believe it?
my niece there only smiles, and tells me to get thick shoes! They
cannot hurt her; she walks somehow over the tops of them as if they
were so many balls of Indian rubber, and has no compassion for her
gouty uncle."

"Oh, my dear uncle"----

"No, none at all; indeed you are not overburdened with that
sentiment at any time for your fellow-travellers. You bear all the
afflictions of the road--your own and other people's--very calmly."

"Don't mind him, my dear," said Miss Bloomfield, "he has been
exclaiming again and again what an excellent traveller you make;
nothing puts you out."

"That is just what I say--nothing does put her out. In that she is a
perfect Mephistophiles. You know the scene of confusion on board a
steamer when it arrives at Antwerp, and is moored in under the quay
on a hot day, with its full complement of passengers. There you are
baked by the sun and your own furnaces; stunned by the jabber around
you, and the abominable roar over your head made by the escape of
the steam; the deck strewed with baggage, which is then and there to
be publicly examined--turned over by the revenue officers, who leave
you to pack up your things in their original compass, if you can.
Well, in all this scene of confusion, there sat my niece with her
parasol over her little head, looking quite composedly at the great
cathedral spires, as if we were not all of us in a sort of infernal
region there."

"No, uncle, I looked every now and then at our baggage, too,
and watched that interesting process you have described of its
examination. And when the worthy officer was going to crush aunt's
bonnet by putting your dressing-case on the top of it, I rose, and
arrested him. I had my hand upon his arm. He thought I was going to
take him prisoner of war, for he was about to put his hand to his
sword; but a second look at his enemy reassured him."

"Oh, you did squeak when the bonnets were touched," cried the uncle,
"I am glad of that: it shows that you have some human, at least some
feminine, feeling in your composition."

"But _apropos_ of the pavement," said the young stranger, who
could not join the uncle in this banter on his niece, and was
therefore glad to get back to some common ground. "I took up, in a
reading-room, the other day, a little pamphlet on phrenology, by
_M. Victor Idjiez_, _Fondateur du Musee Phrenologique_ at Brussels.
It might as well have been entitled, on animal magnetism, for he
is one of those who set the whole man in motion--mind and body
both--by electricity. Amongst other things, he has discovered that
that singular strength which madmen often display in their fits,
is merely a galvanic power which they draw (owing, I suppose, to
the peculiar state of their nerves,) from the common reservoir the
earth, and which, consequently, forsakes them when they are properly
isolated. In confirmation of this theory, he gives a singular _fact_
from a Brussels journal, showing that _asphalte pavement_ will
isolate the individual. A madman had contrived to make his escape
from confinement, having first thrown all the furniture of his room
out of the window, and knocked down and trampled upon his keeper.
Off he ran, and no one would venture to stop him. A corporal and
four soldiers were brought up to the attack: he made nothing of
them; after having beaten the four musketeers, he took the corporal
by the leg and again ran off, dragging him after upon the ground.
A crowd of work-people emerging from a factory met him in full
career with the corporal behind him, and undertook his capture. All
who approached him were immediately thrown down--scattered over
the plain. But his triumph was suddenly checked; he lighted upon
a piece of asphalte pavement. The moment he put his foot upon it,
his strength deserted him, and he was seized and taken prisoner.
The instant, however, he stepped off the pavement, his strength
revived, and he threw his assailants from him with the same ease as
before. And thus it continued: whenever he got off the pavement, his
strength was restored to him; the moment he touched it, he was again
captured with facility. The asphalte had completely isolated him."

"Ha! ha!" cried Mr Bloomfield; "the fellow, after all, was not
quite so mad as not to know what he was about. A Brussels pavement,
asphalte or not, is no place for a wrestling match. Isolated,
indeed! Oh, doubtless, it would isolate you most completely--at
least the soles of your feet--from all communication with the earth.
But does Mr--what do you call him?--proceed to theorise upon such
_facts_ as these?"

"You shall have another of them. Speaking of animal magnetism or
electricity, he says--'There are certain patients the iron nails
of whose shoes will fly out if they are laid in a direction due
north.'"[41]

  [41] "Il existe des malades dont les clous jai'lissent des
  chaussures quand ils sont etendus dans la direction du nord."

"But you are quoting from Baron Munchausen."

"Not precisely."

Miss Bloomfield, who had been watching her opportunity, here brought
in her contribution. "Pray, sir, do you believe the story they tell
of the architect of the Hotel de Ville--that he destroyed himself
on finding, after he had built it, that the tower was not in the
centre?"

"That the architect should not discover that till the building was
finished, is indeed _too good a story to be true_."

"But, then, why make the man kill himself? Something must have
happened; something must be true."

"Why, madam, there was, no doubt, a committee of taste in those days
as in ours. They destroyed the plan of the architect by cutting
short one of his wings, or prolonging the other; and he, out of
vexation, destroyed himself. This is the only explanation that
occurs to me. A committee of taste is always, in one sense at least,
the death of the artist."

"Yes, yes," said Mildred; "the artist can be no longer said to
exist, if he is not allowed, in his own sphere, to be supreme."

This brought them to the door of the hotel. They separated.

The next morning, on returning from their walk, the ladies found
a card upon their table which simply bore the name of "Alfred
Winston." The gentleman who called with it, the waiter said, had
left word that he regretted he was about to quit Brussels, that
evening, for Paris.

Mildred read the name several times--Alfred Winston. And this was
all she knew of him--the name upon this little card!

There were amongst the trio several discussions as to who or what
Mr Alfred Winston might be. Miss Bloomfield pronounced him to be
an artist, from his caustic observations on committees of taste,
and their meddling propensities. Mr Bloomfield, on the contrary,
surmised he was a literary man; for who but such a one would
think of occupying himself in a reading-room with a pamphlet on
phrenology, instead of the newspapers? And all ended in "wondering
if they should fall upon him again?"




THE LAW AND ITS PUNISHMENTS.


It is no uncommon boast in the mouth of Englishmen, that the system
of jurisprudence under which they have the happiness to live, is
the most perfect the world has ever seen. Having its foundation in
those cabalistic words, "Nullus liber <DW25>," &c., engraved with
an iron pen upon the tablets of the constitution by the barons of
King John, the criminal law, in their estimation, has been steadily
improved by the wisdom of successive ages, until, in the present
day, it has reached a degree of excellence which it were rashness to
suppose can by any human sagacity be surpassed. Under its protecting
influence, society reposes in security; under its just, but merciful
administration, the accused finds every facility for establishing
his innocence, and is allowed the benefit of every doubt that
ingenuity can suggest to rebut the probability of guilt; before
its sacred tribunals, the weak and the powerful, the poor and the
rich, stand in complete equality; under its impartial sentence, all
who merit punishment are alike condemned, without respect of any
antecedents of rank, wealth, or station. In such a system, no change
can take place without injury, for it is (not to speak irreverently)
a system of perfection.

This is the dream of many--for we must characterise it rather as a
dream than a deliberate conviction. Reason, we fear, has but little
to do with the opinions of those who hold that English jurisprudence
has no need of reform.

The praises which are so lavishly bestowed upon our criminal law may
be, to a great extent, just; but it is to be doubted whether they
are altogether judicious. It is true, that in no other system of
jurisprudence throughout the civilised world, or among the nations
of antiquity, has there existed, or is there so tender a regard for
the rights of the accused. In Germany, the wretch who falls under
suspicion of the law is subjected to a tedious and inquisitorial
examination, with a view to elicit from his own lips the proof, and
even the confession of guilt. This mental torture, not to speak
of the imprisonment of the body, may be protracted for years, and
even for life. In France, the facts connected with an offence are
published by authority, and circulated throughout the country,
to be greedily devoured by innumerable lovers of unwholesome
excitement; and not the simple facts alone, but a thousand
incidental circumstances connected with the transaction, together
with the birth, parentage, and education, and all the previous
life of the supposed offender, making in the whole a romance of
considerable interest, and possessing an attraction beyond the
ordinary tales which fill the _feuilleton_ of a newspaper. In
England, the position of the accused is widely different. We avoid
the errors and the tyranny of our neighbours; but have we not fallen
into the opposite extreme? Our magistrates scrupulously caution
prisoners not to say any thing that may criminate themselves. Every
thing that authority can effect by means of advice, which, under
the circumstances, is equivalent to command, is carefully brought
forward to prevent a confession. And if, in spite of checks,
warnings, and commands, the accused, overcome by the pangs of
conscience, and urged by an irresistible impulse to disburden his
soul of guilt, should perchance confess, the testimony is sometimes
rejected upon some technical point of law, which would seem to have
been established for the express purpose of defeating the ends
of justice. Indeed, the technicalities which surround our legal
tribunals have been, until very lately, and are still, in too many
instances, most strangely favourable to the escape of criminals.
The idlest quibbles, most offensive to common sense, and utterly
disgraceful in a court of criminal investigation, have at various
times been allowed as valid pleas in defence of the most palpable
crimes. Many a thief has escaped, on the ground of some slight and
immaterial misdescription of the stolen article, such as a horse
instead of a mare, a cow instead of an ox, a sheep for a ewe, and
so on. True, these absurdities exist no longer; but others still
remain, less ridiculous perhaps, but not less obstructive of the
course of justice, and quite as pernicious in their example. Great
and beneficial changes have been effected in the criminal code, and
too much praise cannot be bestowed upon Sir Robert Peel for his
exertions in this behalf. To her Majesty's commissioners, also,
some thanks are due for the labour they have expended with a view
to the consolidation and subsequent codification of the various
statutes. Their labours, however, have not hitherto been very
largely productive. The excellent object of simplifying our criminal
laws still remains to be accomplished, and so long as it does so, so
long will it be obnoxious to the censures which are not unsparingly
heaped upon it.

But if our jurisprudence be in one respect too favourable to the
criminal, in another, as it appears to us, the balance is more than
restored to its equilibrium. If, in the process of investigation,
justice leans too much to the side of mercy, the inquiry once over,
she quickly repents of her excessive leniency, and is careful to
justify her ways by a rigorous severity. The accused, if he is not
lucky enough to avail himself of the thousand avenues of escape that
are open during the progress of his trial, must abandon all hope of
further consideration, and look to undergo a punishment, of which
the full extent cannot be estimated by any human sagacity. Once
condemned, he ceases to be an object of care or solicitude, except
so far as these are necessary to preserve his life and restrain
his liberty. Through crime he has forfeited all claim upon the
fostering care of the state. He is an alien and an outcast, and has
no pretence for expecting any thing but misery.

Surely there is something vindictive in all this--something not
quite consistent with the calm and unimpassioned administration of
justice. The first impressions of any man of ordinary humanity must
be very much against a system which fosters and encourages such a
state of things. We believe that those first impressions would be
confirmed by inquiry; and it is our purpose in the present article
briefly to state the reasons for our belief.

The treatment of criminals under sentence of imprisonment must now
be well known to the public. Repeated discussion and innumerable
writings have rendered it familiar to every body. A man is condemned
to undergo, let us say, three years' incarceration in a jail. A
portion of the time is to be spent in hard labour. He commences
his imprisonment with no other earthly object than to get through
it with the least possible amount of suffering. Employment, which
might, under better circumstances, be a pleasant resource, is
distasteful to him because it is compulsory, and because it is
productive of no benefit to himself. The hours that are unemployed
are passed in company with others as bad as, or worse than,
himself. They amuse themselves by recounting the history of their
lives, their hairbreadth escapes, their successful villanies. Each
profits by the experience of the whole number, and stores it in
his memory for future guidance. Every good impulse is checked, and
every better feeling stifled in the birth. There is no room in a
jail for the growth of virtue; the atmosphere is not congenial to
its development. The prisoner, however well disposed, cannot choose
but listen to the debasing talk of those with whom he is compelled
to associate. Should he resist the wicked influence for a while, he
can hardly do so long. The poison will work. By little and little
it insinuates itself into the mind, and vitiates all the springs of
good. In the end, he yields to the irresistible force of continued
bad example, and becomes as bad as the worst.

But let us believe, for an instant, that one prisoner has resisted
the ill effects of wicked association--let us suppose him to have
escaped the contamination of a jail, to have received no moral hurt
from bad example, to be untainted by the corrupting atmosphere of
congregated vice--in short, to return into the world at the end
of his imprisonment a better man than he was at its commencement.
Let us suppose all this, although the supposition, it must be
confessed, is unsupported by experience, and directly in the teeth
of probability. He sallies forth from his prison, full of good
resolutions, and determined to win the character of an honest man.
Perhaps he has a small sum of money, which helps him to reach a part
of the country most distant from the scene of his disgrace. He seeks
for work, and is fortunate enough to obtain it. For a short time,
all goes well with him. He is industrious and sober, and gains the
good-will of his employer. He is confirmed in his good intentions,
and fancies that his hopes of regaining his position in society are
about to be realised. Vain hopes! Rumour is busy with his name.
His fellow-labourers begin to look coldly on him. The master does
not long remain in ignorance. The discharged convict is taxed with
his former degradation, and made to suffer again the consequences
of a crime he has well and fully expiated. His brief hour of
prosperity is over. He is cast forth again upon the world, denied
the means of gaining an honest livelihood, with nothing before him
but starvation or a jail. What wonder should he choose the latter!
Goaded by despair, or stimulated by hunger, he yields to the first
temptation, and commits a crime which places him again within prison
walls. It is his second conviction. He is a marked man. He were more
than mortal if he escaped the deteriorating effects of repeated
association with the hardened and the vicious. His future career
is certain. He falls from bad to worse, and ends his life upon the
scaffold.

We have imagined, for the sake of argument, a case which, in one of
its features, is unfortunately of very rare occurrence. Criminals
seldom, perhaps never, leave a jail with the slightest inclination
to a course of honesty. Their downward progress, when they have
once been exposed to the contamination of a prison life, may be
calculated almost with certainty. No sooner is the term of their
imprisonment expired, than they step forth into the world, eager to
recommence the old career of systematic villany. Good intentions,
and the desire of doing well, are almost always strangers to their
breasts. But should they, perchance, be alive to better things, and
be moved by wholesome impulses, what an awful responsibility rests
upon those who, by individual acts, or by a pernicious system, check
and render abortive the efforts of a dawning virtue! In the case
we have supposed, there is doubtless much that must be laid to the
score of human nature. Men will not easily be persuaded, that he who
has once made a grievous lapse from the path of honesty, will not
be ever prone to repeat the offence. None but the truly charitable
(an infinitesimal portion of every community) will expose themselves
to the risk of employing a discharged convict. But whilst this much
evil is justly attributed to the selfish cruelty of society, a much
larger share of blame attaches to the system which affords too
plausible a pretext for such uncharitable conduct. It is not merely
because a man has offended against the laws, and been guilty of
what, in legal parlance, may be a simple misdemeanour, that he is
regarded with suspicion and treated with ignominy; but much more,
because he has been confined in a jail, and exposed to all the
pernicious influences which are known to be rife within its walls.
It is deemed a thing incredible, that a man can issue from a hot-bed
of corruption, and not be himself corrupt. To have undergone a term
of imprisonment, is very generally thought to be equivalent to
taking a degree in infamy. On the system, therefore, rests much of
the blame which would otherwise attach to the world's cold charity;
to its account must be charged every subject who might have been
saved, and who, through despair, is lost to the service of the state.

The evils we have described are patent and notorious; the only
question, therefore, that arises is, whether they are inevitable and
inherent in the nature of things, or whether they may be avoided
by greater care and an improved system. Before entering upon this
question, it may be well to notice briefly the various opinions
that are entertained concerning the proper end and aim of criminal
punishment. We take for granted, that in every community, under
whatever political constitution it may exist and be associated,
the sole object of criminal _law_ is the peace and security of
society. With regard to the means by which this object may be best
attained, or, in other words, with regard to the whole system of
jurisprudence, from a preventive police down to the discipline
of jails and the machinery of the scaffold, a great diversity
of sentiment must naturally be expected. The pure theorist and
the subtle disciple of Paley, maintain that the proper, nay, the
sole object of punishment should be the prevention of crime. The
philanthropic enthusiast, and the man of strict religious feeling,
reject all other motives save only that of reforming the criminal.
The dispassionate inquirer, the practical man, and he who has
learned his lessons in the school of experience, take a middle
course, though inclining a little to the theory of Paley. They
hold that, whilst the amount, and to some extent the quality, of
punishment should be settled and defined chiefly with a view to
prevent the increase of crime by the deterring effect of fear,
yet the details ought, if possible, to be so managed as in the
end to bring about the reformation of the prisoner. We have no
hesitation in avowing, that this last opinion is our own. There is
an argument in its favour, which the most rigid disciple of the
pure "prevention" theory must recognise immediately as one of his
own most valued weapons. The "peace and security of society" are
his watchwords. They are ours also. But whilst, in his opinion, the
only way to produce the desired result is by a system of terrorism,
such as will deter from the perpetration of crime, we believe that
a careful solicitude concerning the moral conduct of the criminal
during his imprisonment, and an anxious endeavour to instruct and
improve his mind, by enforcing good habits, and taking away bad
example, would be found equally powerful in their operation upon
the well-being of society. For although it is a lamentable fact,
that the number of our criminals is always being kept up to its full
complement, by the addition of juvenile offenders, so that it would
be vain to indulge a hope, without cutting off the feeding-springs,
of materially diminishing our criminal population; yet it is equally
true that the most desperate and dangerous offenders are they who
have served their apprenticeship in jails, and there accomplished
themselves in all the various devices of ingenious wickedness. It
is these who give the deepest shade to the calendar of crime, and
work incalculable mischief both in and out of prison, by instructing
the tyros in all the most subtle varieties of villany. To reform
such men may seem an arduous, perhaps an impossible task; but it is
far less arduous, and certainly not impossible, to prevent their
becoming the hardened ruffians which we have, without exaggeration,
described them.

The truth must be told. The system of secondary punishments (as
they are called, though why we know not) is radically wrong. There
is something radically wrong in the discipline and regulations of
our jails. The details of imprisonment are faulty and imperfect.
Surely this is proved, when it is shown that men are invariably
rendered worse, instead of better, by confinement in a jail. Even
though it be admitted, for the sake of argument, that the state lies
under no obligation to attempt the reformation of its criminals, the
admission serves no whit to support a system under which criminals
are confirmed and hardened in their vicious courses. The state may
refuse to succour, but it has no right to injure. This, as it seems
to us, is the strong point against our present system. It does not
so much punish the body as injure the mind of the criminal; and, in
so doing, it eventually endangers rather than secures the peace of
society.

Many remedies have been proposed, but all, with an exception that
will presently be mentioned, are rather palliative than corrective.
Solitary confinement, for instance, is an undoubted cure for
the diseases engendered by bad example and evil communications;
but it breeds a host of other diseases, peculiar to itself, and
in many cases worse than those it cures. Not to speak of the
indulgence which so much idleness allows for vicious thoughts and
recollections, the chief objection to solitary confinement is,
that, if continued for any length of time, it unfits a man wholly
for subsequent intercourse with the world. He leaves his prison
with a mind prostrated to imbecility, and a body reduced to utter
helplessness; yet he retains, perhaps, the cunning of the idiot, and
just sufficient use of his limbs to serve him for a bad purpose. On
these painful considerations, however, it is unnecessary to dwell
at length. Solitary confinement, without occupation and without
intervals of society, was an experiment upon the human animal. It
has been tried in this country and elsewhere, and has signally
failed. At this moment, we believe, it has few or no supporters.

The plan which has most largely and most deservedly attracted public
attention, is that of Captain Maconochie, known by the name of the
"Mark System." Captain Maconochie was superintendent of the penal
establishment at Norfolk Island, where he had constantly about
2000 prisoners under his command. This office he held for eight
years, and had, consequently, the most favourable opportunity of
observing the practical working of the old system. Finding it to
be defective, and injurious in every particular, he tried, with
certain unavoidable modifications, a plan of his own, which, as
he asserts, succeeded beyond his expectation. Having thus proved
its practicability in Norfolk Island, and satisfied himself of its
advantages, he wishes now to introduce it into England; and, with
a view of obtaining a favourable hearing and efficient support, he
has procured it to be referred to a committee of the "Society for
Promoting the Amendment of the Law." The committee have reported in
its favour; and their report, which is said to have been drawn up by
the learned Recorder of Birmingham, contains so concise and clear
a statement of the Captain's plan, that we take leave to extract a
portion of it:--

"Captain Maconochie's plan," says Mr M. D. Hill, "had its origin in
his experience of the evil tendency of sentences for a time certain,
and of fixed gratuitous jail rations of food. These he practically
found opposed to the reformation of the criminal. A man under a
time-sentence looks exclusively to the means of beguiling that
time. He is thereby led to evade labour, and to seek opportunities
of personal gratification, obtained, in extreme cases, even in
ways most horrible. His powers of deception are sharpened for the
purpose; and even, when unable to offend in act, he seeks in fancy
a gratification, by gloating over impure images. At the best,
his life stagnates, no proper object of pursuit being presented
to his thoughts. And the allotment of fixed gratuitous rations,
irrespective of conduct or exertion, further aggravates the evil,
by removing even the minor stimulus to action, furnished by the
necessity of procuring food, and by thus directly fostering those
habits of improvidence which, perhaps even more than determined
vice, lead to crime.

"In lieu of sentences to imprisonment or transportation, measured
thus by months or years, Captain Maconochie recommends sentences
to an amount of labour, measured by a given number of marks, to be
placed to the debit of the convict, in books to be kept for the
purpose. This debit to be from time to time increased by charges
made in the same currency, for all supplies of food and clothing,
and by any fines that may be imposed for misconduct. The duration
of his sentence will thus be made to depend on three circumstances.
_First_, The gravity of the original offence, or the estimate made
by the judge of the amount of discipline which the criminal ought
to undergo before he is restored to liberty. This regulates the
amount of the original debit. _Second_, The zeal, industry, and
effectiveness of his labour in the works allotted to him, which
furnish him with the means of payment, or of adding from time to
time to the credit side of his account. And, _Third_, His conduct
in confinement. If well conducted, he will avoid fines; and if
economical in food, and such other gratifications as he is permitted
to purchase with his marks, he will keep down the amount of his
debits.

"By these means, Captain Maconochie contends, that a term of
imprisonment may be brought to bear a close resemblance to adversity
in ordinary life, which, being deeply felt, is carefully shunned;
but which, nevertheless, when encountered in a manful spirit,
improves and elevates the character. All the objects of punishment
will be thus attained. There will be continued destitution, unless
relief is sought by exertion, and hence there will be labour and
suffering; but, with exertion, there will be not only the hope, but
the certainty of recovery--whence there will be improvement in good
habits, and right thinking. And the motives put into operation to
produce effort and economy, being also of the same character with
those in ordinary life, will advantageously prepare the prisoner for
their wholesome action on him after his discharge.

"The only other very distinctive feature in Captain Maconochie's
system is, his proposal that, after the prisoner has passed through
a term of probation, to be measured not by lapse of time, but by
his conduct as indicated by the state of his account, he shall be
advanced from separate confinement into a social state. For this
purpose, he shall become a member of a small class of six or eight,
these classes being capable of being separated from each other, just
as individuals are separated from individuals during the earlier
stage, the members of each class to have a common interest, the
marks earned or lost by each to count to the gain or loss of his
party, not of himself exclusively. By this means, Captain Maconochie
thinks prisoners will be rescued from the simply gregarious state
of existence, which is, in truth, a selfish one, now incident
to imprisonment in those jails to which the separate system is
not applied, and will be raised into a social existence. Captain
Maconochie is convinced, by experience, that much good feeling will
be elicited among them in consequence of this change. Indolence and
vice, which either prevent the prisoner from earning, or compel him
to forfeit his marks, will become unpopular in the community; and
industry and good conduct, as enabling him to acquire and preserve
them, will, on the contrary, obtain for him its approbation. On much
experience, he asserts that no portion of his _modus operandi_ is
more effective than this, by which, even in the depraved community
of Norfolk Island, he succeeded, in a wonderfully short time, in
giving an upward direction to the public opinion of the class of
prisoners themselves."

This brief outline of the Mark System undoubtedly presents to view
one of the boldest projects of reform that ever proceeded from a
private individual. It seeks to root up and utterly annihilate the
whole system of secondary punishments, and necessarily involves
a radical change in the criminal law. To a plan of so sweeping
a character, a thousand objections will of course be made. Some
will deny the necessity of so fundamental a change. Many will be
startled by the magnitude of the innovation alone, and refuse at
the very outset to accept a proposition which, whatever be its
intrinsic merits, presents itself to their imagination surrounded
with incalculable perils. Others will shake their heads, and doubt
the possibility of working out a problem, which, from the beginning
of time, has baffled the ingenuity of man. A few there may be, who
will regard the new system with a favourable eye, albeit on no other
ground than because it offers a prospect of escape from evils which
exist, and are increasing, and which can hardly be exchanged for
worse. For want of better companions, we shall take our position in
the last-mentioned class; confessing that there is much in Captain
Maconochie's system which seems at present Utopian, and savours too
strongly of an enthusiasm which can see none but its own colours,
but deeply impressed, at the same time, with the plausibility of his
general theory. It is vain to hope that the unaided efforts of the
chaplain will ever reform the inmates of a jail. No man was ever
yet preached into good habits, except by a miracle. It is vain to
hope that a discipline (if such it can be called) which enforces
sometimes idleness, and sometimes useless labour, providing at the
same time for all the wants of the body, with an abundance never
enjoyed beyond the prison walls, will ever make men industrious,
or frugal, or any thing else than dissolute and idle. In short, it
is vain to hope, in the present state of things, that the criminal
population of these kingdoms will ever be diminished, or even
checked in its steady tendency to increase. If, then, all these
hopes, which are exactly such as a philanthropist may reasonably
indulge, be vain and futile, no man would be open to a charge of
folly, should he embrace any, even the wildest proposition that
holds out the prospect of improvement.

Captain Maconochie's system may be divided into two distinct
and very different parts; namely, the general principles and
the details. Concerning the latter, we are unwilling to hazard
an opinion, deeming them peculiarly a matter of experiment, and
incapable of proof or refutation by any other test than experience.
But principles are universal, and, if true, may always be supported
by argument, and strengthened by discussion; those of the Mark
System, we think, will bear the application of both. No one
possessed of the smallest experience of the human mind, will deny
that it is utterly impossible to inculcate and fix good habits
by a process which is continually distasteful to the patient.
With regard to labour, which is compulsory and unproductive, the
labourer, so far from becoming habituated to it, loathes it the more
the longer he is obliged to continue it. Such labour, moreover,
has no good effect upon the mind; it produces nothing but disgust
and discontent. A similar result is produced upon the body under
similar circumstances. Exercise is only beneficial when taken with
a good will, and enjoyed with a zest: a man who should walk but
two or three miles, grumbling all the way, would be as tired at
the end as though he had walked twenty in a more contented mood.
What, then, will some one say, are prisoners not to be punished
at all? Is every thing to be made easy to them, and ingenuity
taxed for devices to render their sentences agreeable, and to take
the sting from imprisonment? The answer is ready. The law is not
vindictive, and does not pretend to inflict suffering beyond what is
necessary for the security of society. The thief and the homicide
cannot be allowed to go at large. They must either be sent out of
the country, or shut up within it. By some means or other, they
must be deprived of the power of inflicting further injury upon
their fellow-creatures. But how long are they to be cut off from
the world? For a time fixed and irrevocable, and irrespective of
subsequent good conduct, or reformation of character, or any other
consideration than only the magnitude of the original offence?
Surely neither reason nor humanity can approve such a doctrine;
for does it not, in fact, involve the very principle which our
law repudiates, namely, the principle that its punishments are
vindictive? If a man who steals a horse, and is condemned to three
years' imprisonment, be compelled to undergo the whole sentence,
without reference to his conduct under confinement, this surely is
vengeance, and not, what it assumes to be, a punishment proportioned
to the necessity of the case. It is, no doubt, proper that a
criminal should be condemned to suffer some loss of liberty, more
or less, according to the nature of his delinquency, and a minimum
should always be fixed; but it seems equally proper, and consistent
with acknowledged principles, that a power should reside somewhere
of diminishing the maximum, and where more advantageously than in
the criminal himself? If the motives which govern the world at
large, and operate upon men in ordinary life, to make them frugal
and industrious, and to keep them honest, can be brought to bear
upon the isolated community of a jail, why should they not? The
object is humane; not injurious, but, on the contrary, highly
beneficial to society; and not opposed to any established rule
of law or general policy. We can conceive no possible argument
against it, save that which we have already noticed, and, we trust,
satisfactorily.

It is worthy of notice, as being calculated to satisfy the scruples
of those who may be alarmed at the introduction of what they imagine
a novel principle into our criminal jurisprudence, that this, the
main feature of the Mark System, is not new. It is sanctioned by
long usage in our penal settlements. In the Australian colonies, a
man under sentence of transportation for years or for life may, by
his own conduct, both shorten the duration and mitigate the severity
of his punishment. By industry, by a peaceable demeanour, by the
exercise of skill and ingenuity acquired in better times, he may
obtain advantages which are not accorded to others. By a steady
continuance in such behaviour, he may acquire the privilege of
working for himself, and enjoying the produce of his labour. In the
end, he may even be rewarded by a free pardon. If all these things
may be done in Australia, why not also in England? Surely there is
more to be said on behalf of convicts sentenced to imprisonment than
for those sentenced to transportation. If our sympathy, or, to speak
more correctly, our mercy, is to be inversely to the enormity of the
offence, then the English prisoner is most entitled to our regard.
It is possible that the transportation system may be wrong, but, at
least, let us be consistent.

It is not necessary that Captain Maconochie's plan should be adopted
_in extenso_, to the immediate and active subversion of the ancient
system. We may feel our way. There is no reason why a single prison
should not be set apart, or, if necessary, specially constructed,
for the purpose of applying the test of practice to the new theory.
A short act might be passed, empowering the judges to inflict labour
instead of time-sentences--of course, within a certain limit as
to number. Captain Maconochie himself might be entrusted with the
superintendence of the experiment, in order to avoid the possibility
of a suspicion that it had not received a fair trial. If, with
every reasonable advantage, the scheme should eventually prove
impracticable, then, of course, it will sink into oblivion, and be
consigned to the limbo of impossible theories. The country will
have sustained no loss, save the insignificant expense of the model
machinery.

Considering the whole subject--its importance, its difficulty, the
novelty of the proposed amendments, and their magnitude--we are
disposed to agree with the learned Recorder of Birmingham, that
"the plan is highly deserving of notice." Objections, of course,
might be made in abundance, over and above those we have thought
proper to notice. These, however, may be all reduced to one, namely,
that the scheme is impracticable. That it may prove so, we do not
deny; nor could any one, with a grain of prudence, venture to deny
it, seeing how many promising projects are daily failing, not
through their own intrinsic defects, but through miscalculation
of opposing forces. The test of the Mark System, we repeat, must
be experience. All that we seek to establish in its favour is the
soundness of its principles. Of these we do not hesitate to avow a
perfect approval; and, in doing so, we do not fear being classed
among the disciples of the new school of pseudo-philanthropy, whose
academy is Exeter Hall, and whose teachers are such men as Lord
Nugent and Mr Fox. It is quite possible to feel compassion for the
guilty, and a solicitude for their temporal as well as eternal
welfare, without elevating them into the dignity of martyrs, and
fixing one's attention upon them, to the neglect of their more
honest and less protected neighbours. It is no uncommon thing to
hear comparisons drawn between the conditions of the prisoner and
the pauper--between the abundant nourishing food of the former,
and the scanty meagre rations of the latter! There is no doubt that
better fare is provided in a jail than in a workhouse. Good reasons,
perhaps, may be given for the distinction, but in appearance it is
horribly unjust. No system which proposed to encourage it would ever
receive our approbation. The Mark System is adverse to the pampering
of criminals. It seeks to enforce temperance and frugality, both
by positive rewards, and by punishing gluttony and indulgence.
Its object is the improvement, not of the physical, but the moral
condition of the prisoner. His mind, not his body, is its especial
care--a prudent, humane, we will even say, a pious care! Visionary
it may be, though we think not--absurd it can never be, except in
the eyes of those to whom the well-being of their fellow-creatures
is matter of indifference, and who, too frivolous to reflect, or too
shallow to penetrate the depths of things, seek to disguise their
ignorance and folly under cover of ridicule. To such we make no
appeal. But to the many really humane and sensible persons who are
alive to the importance of the subject, we recommend a deliberate
examination of the Mark System.

  M.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE THAMES.


Never was there such a summer on this side of the Tropics. How is
it possible to exist, with the thermometer up to boiling point!
London a vast caldron--the few people left in its habitable parts
strongly resembling stewed fish--the aristocratic portion of the
world flying in all directions, though there are three horticultural
fetes to come--the attaches to all the foreign embassies sending in
their resignations, rather than be roasted alive--the ambassadors
all on leave, in the direction of the North Pole--the new governor
of Canada congratulated, for the first time in national history,
on his banishment to a land where he has nine months winter;--and
a contract just entered into with the Wenham Lake Company for ten
thousand tons of ice, to rescue the metropolis from a general
conflagration.

--Went to dine with the new East India Director, in his Putney
paradise. Sir Charles gives dinners worthy of the Mogul, and
he wants nothing of the pomps and pleasures of the East but a
harem. But, in the mean time, he gathers round him a sort of
human menagerie; and every race of man, from the Hottentot to the
Highlander, is to be found feeding in his Louis Quatorze saloons.

This certainly variegates the scene considerably, and relieves us
of the intolerable topics, of Parliament, taxes, the last attempt
on Louis Philippe, the last adventure of Queen Christina, or the
last good thing of the last great bore of Belgrave Square; with
the other desperate expedients to avoid the inevitable yawn. We
had an Esquimaux chief, who, however, dwelt too long on the luxury
of porpoise steaks; a little plump Mandarin, who indulged us with
the tricks of the tea trade; the sheik Ben Hassan Ben Ali, who had
narrowly escaped hanging by the hands of the French; and a New
Zealand chief, strongly suspected of habits inconsistent with the
European _cuisine_, yet who restricted himself on this occasion to
every thing at the table.

At length, in a pause of the conversation, somebody asked where
somebody else was going, for the dog-days. The question engaged us
all. But, on comparing notes, every Englishman of the party had been
everywhere already--Cairo, Constantinople, Calcutta, Cape Horn.
There was not a corner of the world, where they had not drunk tea,
smoked cigars, and anathematised the country, the climate, and the
constitution. Every thing was _use_--every soul was _blase_. There
was no hope of novelty, except by an Artesian perforation to the
centre, or a voyage to the moon.

At last a curious old personage, with a nondescript visage, and who
might, from the jargon of his tongue and the mystery of his costume,
have been a lineal descendant of the Wandering Jew, asked, had any
one at table seen the Thames?

The question struck us all at once. It was a grand discovery; it
was a flash of light; it was the birth of a new idea; it was an
influx of brilliant inquiry. It was ascertained, that though we had
all steamed up and down the Thames times without number, not one of
us had seen the river. Some had always steamed it in their sleep;
some had plunged at once into the cabin, to avoid the passengers on
deck; some had escaped the vision by the clouds of a cigar; some by
a French novel and an English dinner. But not one could recollect
any thing more of it than it flowed through banks more or less
miry; that it was, to the best of their recollection, something
larger than the Regent's Canal; and some thought that they had seen
occasional masts and smoke flying by them.

My mind was made up on the spot. Novelty is my original passion--the
spring of all my virtues and vices--the stimulant of all my desires,
disasters, and distinctions. In short, I determined to see the
Thames.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rose at daybreak--the sky blue, the wind fragrant, Putney throwing
up its first faint smokes; the villa all asleep. Leaving a billet
for Sir Charles, I ordered my cab, and set off for the Thames. "How
little," says Jonathan Swift, "does one-half of the world know what
the other is doing." I had left Putney the abode of silence, a
solitary policeman standing here and there, like the stork which our
modern painters regularly put into the corner of their landscapes to
express the sublime of solitude--no slipshod housemaid peeping from
her window; no sight or sound of life to be seen through the rows of
the flower-pots, or the lattices of the suburb gardens.

But, once in London, what a contrast. From the foot of London
bridge what a rush of life; what an incursion of cabs; what a
rattle of waggons; what a surge of population; what a chaos of
clamour; what volcanic volumes of everlasting smoke rolling up
against the unhappy face of the Adelaide hotel; what rushing of
porters, and trundling of trunks; what cries of every species,
utterable by that extraordinary machine the throat of man; what
solicitations to trust myself, for instant conveyance to the
remotest shore of the terraqueous globe!--"For Calais, sir? Boat
off in half-an-hour."--"For Constantinople? in a quarter."--"For
Alexandria? in five minutes."--"For the Cape? bell just going to
ring." In this confusion of tongues it was a thousand to one that I
had not jumped into the boat for the Niger, and before I recovered
my senses, been far on my way to Timbuctoo.

In a feeling little short of desperation, or of that perplexity
in which one labours to decypher the possible purport of a maiden
speech, I flung myself into the first steamer which I could reach,
and, to my genuine self-congratulation, found that I was under no
compulsion to be carried beyond the mouth of the Thames.

I had now leisure to look round me. The bell had not yet chimed:
passengers were dropping in. Carriages were still rolling down
to the landing-place, laden with mothers and daughters, lapdogs
and bandboxes, innumerable. The surrounding scenery came, as the
describers say, "in all its power on my eyes."--St Magnus, built by
Sir Christopher Wren, as dingy and massive as if it had been built
by Roderic the Goth; St Olave's, rising from its ruins, as fresh as
a fairy palace of gingerbread; the Shades, where men drink wine, as
Bacchus did, from the bunghole; the Bridge of Bridges, clambered
over and crowded with spectators as thick as hiving bees!

But--prose was never made for such things. I must be Pindaric.


LONDON BRIDGE.

_"My native land, good-night!"_

    Adieu, adieu, thou huge, high bridge
           A long and glad adieu!
    I see above thy stony ridge
          A most ill-favour'd crew.
    The earth displays no dingier sight;
    I bid the whole--Good-night, good-night!

    There, hang between me and the sky
          She who doth oysters sell,
    The youth who parboil'd shrimps doth cry,
          The shoeless beau and belle,
    Blue-apron'd butchers, bakers white,
    Creation's lords!--Good-night, good-night!

    Some climb along the slippery wall,
          Through balustrades some stare,
    One wonders what has perch'd them all
          Five hundred feet in air.
    The Thames below flows, ready quite
    To break their fall.--Good-night, good-night!

    What visions fill my parting eyes!
          St Magnus, thy grim tower,
    _Almost_ as black as London skies!
          The Shades, which are no bower;
    St Olave's, on its new-built site,
    In flaming brick.--Good-night, good-night!

    The rope's thrown off, the paddles move,
          We leave the bridge behind;
    Beat tide below, and cloud above;--
          Asylums for the blind,
    Schools, storehouses, fly left and right;
    Docks, locks, and blocks--Good-night, good-night!

    In distance fifty steeples dance.
          St Catherine's dashes by,
    The Customhouse scarce gets a glance,
          The sounds of Bowbell die.
    With charger's speed, or arrow's flight,
    We steam along.--Good-night, good-night!

    The Tower seems whirling in a waltz,
          As on we rush and roar.
    Where impious man makes Cheltenham salts,
          We shave the sullen shore;
    Putting the wherries all in fright,
    Swamping a few.--Good-night, good-night!

    We brave the perils of the Pool;
          Pass colliers chain'd in rows;
    See coalheavers, as black and cool
          As <DW64>s without clothes,
    Each bouncing, like an opera sprite,
    Stript to the skin.--Good-night, good-night!

    And now I glance along the deck
          Our own live-stock to view--
    Some matrons, much in fear of wreck;
          Some lovers, two by two;
    Some sharpers, come the clowns to bite;
    Some plump John Bulls.--Good-night, good-night!

    A shoal of spinsters, book'd for France,
          (All talking of Cheapside;)
    An old she-scribbler of romance,
          All authorship and pride;
    A diner-out, (timeworn and trite,)
    A _gobe-mouche_ group.--Good-night, good-night!

    A strolling actor and his wife,
          Both going to "make hay;"
    An Alderman, at fork and knife,
          The wonder of his day!
    Three Earls, without an appetite,
    Gazing, in spleen.--Good-night, good-night!

    Ye dear, delicious memories!
           That to our midriffs cling
    As children to their Christmas pies,
          (So, all the New-School sing;
    In collars loose, and waistcoats white,)
    All, all farewell!--Good-night, good-night!

The charming author of that most charming of all brochures, _Le
Voyage autour de ma Chambre_, says, that the less a man has to
write about, the better he writes. But this charming author was a
Frenchman; he was born in the land where three dinners can be made
of one potato, and where moonshine is a substantial part of every
thing. He performed his voyage, standing on a waxed floor, and
making a circuit of his shelves; the titles of his books had been
his facts, and the titillations of his snuff the food of his fancy.
But John Bull is of another style of thinking. His appetite requires
solid realities, and I give him docks, wharfs, steam-engines, and
manufactures, for his powerful mastication.--But, what scents are
these, rising with such potentiality upon the morning breeze? What
sounds, "by distance made more sweet?" What a multitude of black,
brown, bustling beings are crushing up that narrow avenue, from
these open boats, like a new invasion of the pirate squadrons from
the north of old. Oh, Billingsgate!--I scent thee--

    ----"As when to them who sail
    Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
    Mozambic, far at sea the north winds blow
    Sabaean odours from the spicy shore
    Of Araby the Blest. With such delay
    Well-pleased, they slack their course, and many a league,
    Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles."

The effect was not equally rapturous in the Thames; but on we flew,
passing groups of buildings which would have overtopped all the
castles on the Rhine, had they but been on fair ground; depots of
wealth, which would have purchased half the provinces beyond the
girdle of the Black Forest; and huge steamers, which would have
towed a captive Armada to the Tower.

The TOWER! what memories are called up by the name! How frowning are
those black battlements, how strong those rugged walls, how massive
those iron-spiked gates! Every stone is historical, and every era
of its existence has been marked by the mightiest changes of men,
monarchs, and times; then I see the fortress, the palace and the
prison of kings!

But, let me people those resounding arches, dim passages, and
solemn subterraneans, with the past. Here, two thousand years ago,
Julius Caesar kept his military court, with Quaestors, Prefects,
and Tribunes, for his secretaries of state; Centurions for his
chamberlains; and Augurs for his bishops. On this bank of the
stately river, on which no hovel had encroached, but which covered
with its unpolluted stream half the landscape, and rolled in quiet
majesty to meet the ocean; often stood the man, who was destined
to teach the Republican rabble of Rome that they had a master. I
leave antiquarians to settle the spot trodden by his iron sandal. I
disdain the minute meddling of the men of _fibulae_ and _frustums_ of
pitchers. But I can see--"in my mind's eye, Horatio"--the stately
Roman casting many an eager glance eastward, and asking himself,
with an involuntary grasp of his hilt, and an unconscious curl of
his lip, how long he was to suffer the haranguers of the populace,
the pilferers of the public, the hirelings of Cinna and Sylla, and
of every man who would hire them, the whole miry mass of reformers,
leaguers, and cheap-bread men, to clap their wings like a flight of
crows over the bleeding majesty of Rome.

Then the chance sound of a trumpet, or the tread of a cohort along
the distant rampart, would make him turn back his glance, and think
of the twenty thousand first-rate soldiers whom a wave of his finger
would move across the Channel, send through Gaul, sacking Lutetia,
darting through the defiles of the Alps, and bringing him in triumph
through the Janiculum, up to the temple of the Capitoline Jove.
Glorious dreams, and gloriously realised! How vexatious is it that
we cannot see the past, that we cannot fly back from the bustle
of this blacksmith world, from the jargon of public life, and the
tameness of private toil; into those majestic ages, when the world
was as magnificent as a theatre; when nations were swallowed up in
the shifting of a scene; when all were fifth acts, and when every
catastrophe broke down an empire!

But, what sounds are these? The steamer had shot along during
my reverie, and was now passing a long line of low-built strong
vessels, moored in the centre of the river. I looked round, and here
was more than a dream of the past; here was the past itself--here
was man in his primitive state, as he had issued from the forest,
before a profane axe had cropped its brushwood. Here I saw perhaps
five hundred of my fellow-beings, no more indebted to the frippery
of civilisation than the court of Caractacus.--Bold figures, daring
brows, Herculean shapes, naked to the waist, and with skins of the
deepest bronze. Cast in metal, and fixed in a gallery, they would
have made an incomparable rank and file of gladiatorial statues.

The captain of the steamer explained the phenomenon. They were
individuals, who, for want of a clear perception of the line to be
drawn between _meum_ and _tuum_, had been sent on this half-marine
half-terrestrial service, to reinforce their morals. They were now
serving their country, by digging sand and deepening the channel of
the river. The scene of their patriotism was called the "hulks," and
the patriots themselves were technically designated felons.

Before I could give another glance, we had shot along; and, to my
surprise, I heard a chorus of their voices in the distance. I again
applied to my Cicerone, who told me that all other efforts having
failed to rectify their moral faculties; a missionary singing-master
had been sent down among them, and was reported to be making great
progress in their conversion.

I listened to the sounds, as they followed on the breeze. I am not
romantic; but I shall say no more. The novelty of this style of
reformation struck me. I regarded it as one of the evidences of
national advance.--My thoughts instinctively flowed into poetry.


SONG FOR THE MILLION.

_"Mirth, admit me of thy crew."_

    Song, admit me of thy crew!
    Minstrels, without shirt or shoe,
    Geniuses with naked throats,
    Bare of pence, yet full of _notes_.
    Bards, before they've learn'd to write,
    Issuing their notes at _sight_;
    Notes, to tens of thousands mounting,
    Careless of the Bank's discounting.
    Leaving all the world behind,
    England, in thy march of Mind.

    Now, the carter drives his cart,
    Whistling, as he goes, Mozart.
    Now, a shilling to a guinea,
    Dolly cook, _sol-fas_ Rossini.
    While the high-soul'd housemaid, Betty,
    Twirls her mop to Donizetti.
    Or, the scullion scrubs her oven
    To thy Runic hymns, Beethoven.
    All the sevants' hall combined,
    England, in thy march of Mind.

    Now, may maidens of all ages
    Look unharm'd on pretty _pages_.
    Now, may paupers "_raise the wind_,"
    Now, may _score_ the great undined.
    Now, unblamed, may tender pairs
    Give themselves the tenderest _airs_.
    Now, may half-pay sons of Mars
    Look in freedom through their _bars_,
    Though upon a _Bench_ reclined,
    England, in thy march of Mind.

    Soon we'll hear our "London cries"
    Dulcified to harmonies;
    Mackerel sold in canzonets,
    Milkmen "calling," in duets.
    Postmen's bells no more shall bore us,
    When their clappers ring in chorus.
    Ears no more shall start at, Dust O!
    When the thing is done with _gusto_.
    E'en policemen grow refined,
    England, in thy march of Mind.

    Song shall settle Church and State,
    Song shall supersede debate.
    Owlet Joe no more shall screech,
    We shall make him sing his speech.
    Even the Iron Duke's "sic volo"
    Shall be soften'd to a _solo_.
    Discords then shall be disgrace,
    Statesmen shall play _thorough base_;
    Whigs and Tories intertwined,
    England, in thy march of Mind.

    Sailors, under canvass stiff,
    Now no more shall dread a _cliff_.
    From Bombay to Coromandel,
    The Faqueers shall chorus Handel.
    Arab sheik, and Persian maiden,
    Simpering serenades from Haydn.
    Crossing then the hemisphere,
    Jonathan shall chant Auber,
    All his love of pelf resign'd,
    England, to thy march of Mind.

--Still moving on, still passing multitudinous agglomerations of
brick, mortar, stone, and iron, rather than houses.--Docks crowded
with masts, thicker than they ever grew in a pine forest, and
echoing with the sounds of hammers, cranes, forges and enginery,
making anchors for all the ships of ocean, rails for all the roads
of earth, and chain-cables for a dozen generations to come. In
front of one of those enormous forges, which, with its crowd of
brawny hammerers glaring in the illumination of the furnace, gave
me as complete a representation of the Cyclops and their cave, as
any thing that can be seen short of the bowels of AEtna; stood a
growing church, growing of iron; the walls were already half-way
grown up. I saw them already pullulating into windows, a half-budded
pulpit stood in the centre, and a Gothic arch was already beginning
to spread like the foliage of a huge tree over the aisle. It was
intended for one of the colonies, ten thousand miles off.

As the steamer is not suffered in this part of the river to run down
boats at the rate of more than five miles an hour; I had leisure
to see the operation. While I gazed, the roof had _leaved_; and my
parting glance showed me the whole on the point of flourishing among
the handsomest specimens of civic architecture.

In front of another forge stood a lighthouse; it was consigned to
the West Indies. Three of its stone predecessors had been engulfed
by earthquakes, a fourth had been swept off by a hurricane. This was
of iron, and was to defy all the chances of time and the elements,
by contract, for the next thousand years. It was an elegant
structure, built on the plan of the "Tower of the Winds." Every
square inch of its fabric, from the threshold to the vane, was iron!
"What will mankind come to," said George Canning, "in fifty years
hence? The present age is impudent enough, but I foresee that the
next will be all _Irony_ and _Raillery_."

But all here is a scene of miracle. In our perverseness we laugh
at our "Lady of Loretto," and pretend to doubt her house being
carried from Jerusalem on the backs of angels. But what right have
I to doubt, where so many millions are ready to take their oaths
to the fact? What is it to us how many angels might be required
for the operation? or how much their backs may have been galled in
the carriage? The result is every thing. But here we have before
our sceptical eyes the very same result. We have St Catherine's
hospital, fifty times the size, transported half-a-dozen miles, and
deposited in the Regent's Park. The Virgin came alone. The hospital
came, with all its fellows, their matrons, and their master. The
virgin-house left only a solitary excavation in a hillside. The
hospital left a mighty dock, filled with a fleet that would have
astonished Tyre and Sidon, buildings worthy of Babylon, and a
population that would have sacked Persepolis.

But, what is this strangely shaped vessel, which lies anchored stem
and stern in the centre of the stream, and bearing a flag covered
over with characters which as we pass look like hieroglyphics? The
barge which marks the Tunnel. We are now moving above the World's
Wonder! A thousand men, women, and children, have marched under
that barge's keel since morning; lamps are burning fifty feet under
water, human beings are breathing, where nothing but the bones of a
mammoth ever lay before, and check-takers are rattling pence, where
the sound of coin was never heard since the days of the original
Chaos.

What a field for theory! What a subject for a fashionable Lecturer!
What a topic for the gossipry of itinerant science, telling us (on
its own infallible authority) how the globe has been patched up for
us, the degenerated and late-born sons of Adam! How glowingly might
their fancy lucubrate on the history of the prior and primitive
races which may now be perforating the interior strata of the
globe--working by their own gas-light, manufacturing their own
metals, and, from their want of the Davy-lamp, (and of an Act of
Parliament, to make it burn,) producing those explosions which _we_
call earthquakes, while our volcanoes are merely the tops of their
chimneys!

I gave the Tunnel a parting aspiration--


THE TUNNEL.

    Genii of the Diving-bell!
    Sing Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l,
    Whether ye parboil in steam,
    Whether float in lightning's beam,
    Whether in the Champs Elyses
    Dance ye, like Carlotta Grisi.
    Take your trumps, the fame to swell,
    Of Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l.

    Phantoms of the fiery crown!
    Plunged ten thousand fathoms down
    In the deep Pacific's wave,
    In the Ocean's central cave,
    Where the infant earthquakes sleep,
    Where the young tornadoes creep.
    Chant the praise, where'er ye dwell,
    Of Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l.

    What, if Green's Nassau balloon
    (Ere its voyage to the moon)
    'Twixt Vauxhall and Stepney plies,
    Straining London's million eyes,
    Dropping on the breezes bland,
    (Good for gazers,) bags of sand;
    Green's a blacksmith to a belle,
    To Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l.

    Great magician of the Tunnel!
    Earth bows down before thy funnel,
    Darting on through swamp and crag,
    Faster than a Gaul can brag;
    All Newmarket's tip-top speed,
    To thy stud is broken-knee'd;
    Zephyr spavin'd, lightning slow,
    To thy fiery rush below.

    Ships no more shall trust to sails,
    Boats no more be swamp'd by whales,
    Sailors sink no more in barks,
    (Built by contract with the sharks,)
    Though the tempest o'er us roar;
    Flying through thy Tunnel's bore,
    What care we for mount or main,
    What can stop the Monster-Train?

    There let Murchison and Lyell
    Of our Tunnel make the trial.
    We shall make them cross the Line,
    Fifty miles below the brine--
    Leaving blockheads to discuss
    Paving-stones with Swiss or Russ,
    Or in some Cathedral stall,
    Still to play their cup and ball.

    What, if rushes the Great Western
    Rapid as a racer's pastern,
    At each paddle's thundering stroke,
    Blackening hemispheres with smoke,
    Bouncing like a soda-cork;
    Raising consols in New York,
    E'er the lie has time to cool,
    Forged in bustling Liverpool.

    Yet, a river to a runnel,
    To the steamer is the Tunnel;
    Screw and sail alike shall lag,
    To the "Rumour" in thy bag.
    While _she_ puffs to make the land,
    Thou shalt have the Stock in hand,
    Smashing bill-broker and banker
    Days, before she drops her anchor.

    Then, if England has a foe,
    We shall rout him from below.
    Through our Ocean tunnel's arch,
    Shall the bold battalions march,
    Piled upon our flying waggons,
    Spouting fire and smoke like dragons;
    Sweeping on, like shooting-stars,
    Guardsmen, rifles, and hussars.

    We shall _tunnelize_ the Poles,
    Bringing down the cost of coals;
    Making Yankees sell their ice
    At a Christian sort of price;
    Making China's long-tail'd Khan
    Sell his Congo as he can,
    In our world of fire and shade,
    Carrying on earth's grand "Free Trade."

    We shall bore the broad Atlantic,
    Making every grampus frantic;
    Killing Jonathan with spite,
    As the Train shoots up to light.
    Mexico her hands shall clap,
    Tahiti throw up her cap,
    Till the globe one shout shall swell
    To Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l.

But this scene is memorable for more ancient recollections. It was
in this spot, that once, every master of a merchant ship took off
his hat in reverence to the _genius loci_; but never dared to drop
his anchor. It was named the Pool, from the multitude of wrecks
which had occurred there in the most mysterious manner; until it was
ascertained that it was the chief resort of the mermen and mermaids,
who originally haunted the depths of the sylvan Thamesis.

There annually, from ages long before the Olympiads, the youths and
maidens came, to fling garlands into the stream, and inquire the
time proper for matrimony. It was from one of their chants, that
John Milton borrowed his pretty hymn to the presiding nymph--

      "Listen, where thou art sitting,
    Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
      In twisted braids of lilies knitting
    The loose trains of thy amber-dropping hair.
      Listen, for dear honour's sake,
      Goddess of the Silver Lake,
          Listen and save!"

On the coast of Norway there is another Pool, entitled the
Maelstrom, where ships used to disappear, no one knew why. But
the manner was different; they no sooner touched the edge of the
prohibited spot than they were swept with the fury of a hurricane
into the centre, where they no sooner arrived than they were
pulled down, shattered into a thousand fragments, and never heard
of more. This was evidently the work of the mermen, who however,
being of Northern breed, had, like the usual generation of that
wild and winterly region, tempers of indigenous ferocity. But the
tenants of the Thames, inheriting the softer temper of their clime,
were gentler in their style of administering justice, which they
administered effectually, notwithstanding. Every unlucky vessel
which stopped upon the exclusive spot, quietly sank. The operation
regularly took place in the night. By morning the only remnant of
its existence was discoverable among the huts along the shore,
exhibiting foreign silks, Dutch drams, French brandy, and other
forbidden articles, which, somehow or other, had escaped from the
bosom of the deep.

The legend goes on to say, that from those fatalities the place was
cautiously avoided, until, about a hundred and fifty years ago, one
fine evening in May, a large merchantman came in full sail up the
river, and dropped her anchor exactly in the spot of peril. All the
people of the shore were astounded at this act of presumption, and
numberless boats put off to acquaint the skipper with his danger.
But, as the legend tells, "he was a bold vain man, with a huge
swaggering sword at his side, a purse in his girdle, and a pipe in
his mouth. Upon hearing of the aforesaid tale, he scoffed greatly,
saying, in most wicked and daring language, that he had came from
the East Indian possessions of the Dutch republic, where he had seen
jugglers and necromancers of all kinds; but he defied them all, and
cared not the lighting of his meerscham for all the mermaids under
the salt seas." Upon the hearing of which desperate speech all the
bystanders took to their boats, fearing that the good ship would be
plucked to the bottom of the river without delay.

But at morning dawn the good ship still was there, to the surprise
of all. However, the captain was to have a warning. As he was
looking over the stern, and laughing at the story, the steersman
saw him suddenly turn pale and fix his eyes upon the water, then
running by at the rate of about five knots. The crew hurried
forward, and lo and behold! there arose close to the ship a merman,
a very respectable-looking person, in Sunday clothes and with his
hair powdered, who desired the captain to carry his vessel from the
place, because "his anchor had dropt exactly against his hall door,
and prevented his family from going to church."

The whole history is well known at Deptford, Rotherhithe, and places
adjacent; and it finishes, by saying, that the captain, scoffing
at the request, the merman took his leave with an angry expression
on his countenance, a storm came on in the night, and nothing of
captain, crew, or ship, as ever heard of more.

But the spot is boundless in legendary lore. A prediction which
had for centuries puzzled all the readers of Mother Shipton, was
delivered by her in the small dwelling whose ruins are still visible
on the Wapping shore. The prophecy was as follows:--

    Eighteene hundred thirty-five,
    Which of us shall be alive?
    Many a king shall ende his reign;
    Many a knave his ende shall gain;
    Many a statesman be in trouble;
    Many a scheme the worlde shall bubble;
    Many a man shall selle his vote;
    Many a man shall turne his coat.
    Righte be wronge, and wronge be righte,
    By Westminster's candle-lighte.
    But, when from the top of Bow
    Shall the dragon stoop full low.
    When from church of holy Paul
    Shall come down both crosse and ball.
    When all men shall see them meete
    On the land, yet by the Fleet.
    When below the Thamis bed
    Shall be seen the furnace red;
    When its bottom shall drop out,
    Making hundreds swim about,
    Where a fishe had never swum,
    Then shall doleful tidings come.
    Flood and famine, woe and taxe,
    Melting England's strength like waxe;
    Till she fights both France and Spain,
    Then shall all be well again!

I shall have an infinite respect for Mother Shipton in future. All
was amply verified. The repairs of St Paul's, in the year stated,
required that the cross and ball should be taken down, which was
done accordingly. Bow Church, whose bells are supposed to thrill
the _intima praecordia_ of every Londoner's memory in every part of
the globe, happening to be in the same condition, the dragon on
the spire was also taken down, and cross, ball, and dragon, were
sent to a coppersmith's, in Ludgate Hill, beside the Fleet prison,
where they were to be seen by all the wondering population, lying
together. The third feature of the wisdom of Mother Shipton was
fulfilled with equal exactitude. The Thames Tunnel had been pushed
to the middle of the river's bed, when, coming to a loose portion of
the clay, the roof fell in; the Thames burst through its own bottom,
the Tunnel was instantly filled, and the workmen were forced to
swim for their lives. The remainder of the oracle, partly present,
is undeniable while we have an income tax, and the _finale_ may be
equally relied on, to the honour of the English Pythonness.




RECENT ROYAL MARRIAGES.


At this dull season, the long vacation of legislators, when
French deputies and English members, weary of bills and debates,
motions and amendments, take their autumnal ramble, or range
their well-stocked preserves, and when newspapers are at their
wits' end for subjects of discussion, a topic like the Spanish
marriages, intrinsically so important, in arrival so opportune, has
naturally monopolised the attention of the daily press. For some
time previously, the English public had paid little attention to
Spanish affairs. Men were weary of watching the constant changes,
the shameless corruption, the scandalous intrigues, from which
that unfortunate country and its unquiet population have so long
suffered; they had ceased in great measure to follow the thread of
Peninsular politics. The arbitrary and unconstitutional influences
employed at the last elections, and the tyranny exercised towards
the press, deprived foreigners of the most important data whence
to judge the real state of public feeling and opinion south of
the Pyrenees. The debates of Cortes elected under circumstances
of flagrant intimidation, and whose members, almost to a man,
were creatures of a _Camarilla_, were no guide to the sentiments
of a nation: journalists, sorely persecuted, writing in terror of
bayonets, in peril of ruinous fine and arbitrary imprisonment,
dared not speak the voice of truth, and feared to echo the wishes
and indignation of the vast but soldier-ridden majority of their
countrymen. Thus, without free papers or fair debates to guide them,
foreigners could attain but an imperfect perception of the state
of Spanish affairs. The view obtained was vague--the outline faint
and broken--details were wanting. Hence the Spanish marriages,
although so much has been written about them, have in England been
but partially understood. Much indignation and censure have been
expended upon those who achieved them; many conjectures have been
hazarded as to their proximate and remote consequences; but one very
curious point has barely been glanced at. Scarcely an attempt has
been made to investigate the singular state of parties, and strange
concurrence of circumstances, that have enabled a few score persons
to overbalance the will of a nation. How is it that a people, once
so great and powerful, still so easy to rouse, and jealous of its
independence, has suffered itself to be fooled by an abandoned
Italian woman, and a wily and unscrupulous foreign potentate--by a
corrupt _Camarilla_, and a party that is but a name? How is it that
Spain has thus unresistingly beheld the consummation of an alliance
so odious to her children, and against which, from Portugal to the
Mediterranean, from Gibraltar's straits to Cantabria's coast, but
one opinion is held, but one voice heard--a voice of reprobation and
aggrieved nationality?

Yes, within the last few weeks, wondering Europe has witnessed a
strange spectacle. A queen and her sister, children in years and
understanding, have been wedded--the former completely against her
inclinations, the latter in direct opposition to the wishes and
interests of her country, and in defiance of stern remonstrance and
angry protest from allied and powerful states--to most unsuitable
bridegrooms. The queen, Isabella of Spain, has, it is true, a
Spaniard for her husband; and him, therefore, her jealous and
suspicious subjects tolerate, though they cannot approve. Feeble
and undecided of character, unstable in his political opinions--if,
indeed, political opinions he have other than are supplied to him,
ready formed, by insidious and unworthy advisers--Don Francisco de
Assis is the last man to sit on the right hand of a youthful queen,
governing an unsettled country and a restless people, to inspire her
with energy and assist her with wise counsels. It redounds little
to the honour of the name of Bourbon, that if it was essential the
Queen should marry a member of that house, her present husband was,
with perhaps one exception, as eligible a candidate as could be
selected. That marriage decided upon, however, it became doubly
important to secure for the Infanta Luisa--the future Queen of Spain
should her sister die without issue--a husband in all respects
desirable; and, above all, one agreeable to the Spanish nation. Has
this been done? What advantages does the husband of the girl of
fourteen, of the heir-presumptive to the Spanish crown, bring to
Spain, in exchange for the rich dowery of his child-bride--for the
chance, not to say the probability, of being a queen's husband--and
for an immense accession of influence to his dynasty in the country
where that dynasty most covets it? The advantages are all of a
negative kind. By that marriage, Spain, delivered over to French
intrigues, exposed to the machinations and vampire-like endearments
of an ancient and hereditary foe, becomes _de facto_ a vassal to her
puissant neighbour.

The question of the Queen of Spain's marriage was first mooted
within a very few days after her birth. In the spring of 1830,
Queen Christina found herself with child for the first time; and
her husband, Ferdinand VII., amongst whose many bad and unkingly
qualities want of foresight could not be reckoned, published the
Pragmatic Sanction that secured the crown to his offspring should
it prove a girl. A girl it was; and scarcely had the infant been
baptised, when her father began to think of a husband for her. "She
shall be married," he said, "to a son of my brother Francisco."
By and by Christina bore a second daughter, and then the King
said--"They shall be married to the two eldest sons of my brother
Francisco."

Ferdinand died; and, as he had often predicted--comparing himself
to the cork of a bottle of beer, which restrains the fermented
liquor--at his death civil war broke out. Isabella was still an
infant; the first thing to be done was to secure her the crown; and
for the time, naturally enough, few thought about her marriage.
Queen Christina was an exception. She apparently remembered and
respected her husband's wishes; and in her conversations and
correspondence with her sister, Luisa Carlota, wife of the Infante
Don Francisco de Paulo, she frequently referred to them, and
expressed a strong desire for their fulfilment. In the month of
June of the present year, a Madrid newspaper, the _Clamor Publico_,
published a letter of hers, written most strongly in that sense. It
bears date the 23d of January 1836, and is the reply to one from
Dona Luisa Carlota, in which reference was made to conversations
between the two sisters and Ferdinand, respecting the marriage of
his daughters to the sons of Don Francisco. "The idea has always
flattered my heart," Christina wrote, "and I would fain see its
realisation near at hand; for it was the wish and will of the
beloved Ferdinand, which I will ever strive to fulfil in all that
depends on me. *   *   *  Besides which, I believe that the national
representation, far from opposing, will approve these marriages,
as advantageous not only to our family, but to the nation itself,
your sons being Spanish princes. I will not fail to propose it
when the moment arrives." Notwithstanding these fair promises,
and her respect for the wishes of Ferdinand the well-beloved, we
find Christina, less than two years later, negotiating for her
royal daughter a very different alliance. Irritated, on the one
hand, against the Liberal party, to whose demands she had been
compelled to yield; and alarmed, upon the other, at the progress
of the Carlist armies, which were marching upon Madrid, then
defended only by the national guards, she treated with Don Carlos
for a marriage between the Queen and his eldest son. The Carlists
were driven back to their mountain strongholds, and, the pressing
danger over--although the war still continued with great fury--that
project of alliance was shelved, and another, a very important one,
broached. It was proposed to marry the Queen of Spain to an archduke
of Austria, who should command the Spanish army, and to whom
Christina expressed herself willing to give a share of the Regency,
or even to yield it entirely. This was the motive of the mission of
Zea Bermudez to Vienna. That envoy stipulated, as an indispensable
condition of the success of his negotiations, that they should be
kept a profound secret from the King of the French. The condition
was not observed. Christina herself, it is said, unable to keep
any thing from her dear uncle, told him all, and Bermudez had to
leave Vienna almost before the matter in hand had been entered
upon. Thereupon the queen-mother reverted to the marriage with a
son of Don Carlos. The Conde de Toreno, for a moment weak enough to
enter into her views, endeavoured to prepare the public for their
disclosure, by announcing in the Cortes, that wars like the one then
devastating Spain could only be terminated by a compromise--meaning
a marriage. The Cortes thought differently, and, by other means, the
war was brought to a close.

The year 1840 witnessed the expulsion of Christina from Spain, and
the appointment of Espartero to the Regency. During his three years'
sway, that general refused to make or meddle in any way with the
Queen's marriage. He said, that as she was not to marry till her
majority, and as he should then no longer be Regent, his government
had no occasion to busy itself with the matter. The friends of Spain
have reason to wish that the Duke de la Victoria had shown himself
less unassuming and reserved with respect to that most important
question. Whilst it was thus temporarily lost sight of at Madrid,
the queen-mother, in her retirement at Paris, took counsel with
the most wily and far-sighted sovereign of Europe, and from that
time must doubtless be dated the plans which Christina and Louis
Philippe have at last so victoriously carried out. They had each
their own interests in view--their own objects to accomplish--and
it so chanced that those interests and objects were easily made to
coincide. Concerning those of Christina, we shall presently speak
at some length; those of the French king are now so notorious, that
it is unnecessary to do more than glance at them. His first plan--a
bold one, certainly--was to marry the Queen of Spain to the Duke
d'Aumale. To this, Christina did not object. Her affection for
her daughter--since then grievously diminished--prompted her to
approve the match. The duke was a fine young man, and very rich.
To a tender mother--which she claimed to be--the temptation was
great. Doubtless, also, she received from Louis Philippe, as price
of her concurrence, an assurance that certain private views and
arrangements of her own should not to be interfered with--certain
guardianship accounts and unworthy peculations not too curiously
investigated. Of this, more hereafter. The result of the intrigues
and negotiations between the Tuileries and the Hotel de Courcelles,
was the diplomatic mission of M. Pageot, who was sent to London and
to the principal continental courts, to announce, on the part of
the King of the French, that, considering himself the chief of the
Bourbon family, he felt called upon to declare that, according to
the spirit of the treaty of Utrecht, the Queen of Spain could marry
none but a Bourbon prince. The success of this first move, intended
as a feeler to see how far he could venture to put forward a son
of his own, was not such as to flatter the wishes of the French
monarch. The reply of the British government was, that, according to
the constitution of Spain, the Cortes must decide who was to be the
Queen's husband and that he whom the Cortes should select, would,
for England, be the legitimate aspirant. Without being so liberal in
tone, the answers given by the cabinets of Vienna and Berlin were
not more satisfactory; and the spleen of the French king manifested
itself by the mouth of M. Guizot, who, with less than his usual
prudence, went so far as to menace Spain with a war, if the Queen
married any but a Bourbon. This occurred in March 1843.

In the following June, Espartero, in his turn, was driven from
power and from his country. Well known as it was, that French
manoeuvres and French gold had, by deluding the nation, and
corrupting the army, powerfully contributed to the overthrow of
the only conscientious and constitutional ruler with whom Spain
had for a long period been blessed, it was expected that Christina
and her friends would do their utmost to bring about the immediate
marriage of the Queen and the Duke d'Aumale. Then occurred the
long projected and much talked of visit of Queen Victoria to the
castle of Eu, where the question of Isabella's marriage was made
the subject of a conference between the sovereigns of France and
England, assisted by their ministers for foreign affairs, M. Guizot
and Lord Aberdeen. It was shortly afterwards known that the King
of the French had given the most satisfactory pledges, which were
communicated to the principal foreign courts, that he not only would
not strive to effect a marriage between the Queen of Spain and a
son of his, but that he would positively refuse his consent to any
such union. Further that if a marriage should be arranged between
the Duke of Montpensier and the Infanta Luisa, it should not take
place till Isabella was married and had issue. As an equivalent to
these concessions, the English minister for foreign affairs had to
declare, that without entering into an examination of the Treaty
of Utrecht, or recognising any right contrary to the complete
independence of the Spanish nation, it was desirable that the Queen
should wed a descendant of Philip the Fifth, provided always such
marriage was brought about conformably with the rules prescribed by
the constitution of Spain.

Compelled to abandon the design of marrying Isabella to a French
prince, Louis Philippe, like a wary and prudent general, applied
himself to improve the next best position, to which he had fallen
back, and where he determined to maintain himself. Aumale could not
have the Queen, but Montpensier should have the Infanta; and the
aim must now be to increase the value of prize No. 2, by throwing
prize No. 1 into the least worthy hands possible. In other words,
the Queen must be married to the most incapable and uninfluential
blockhead, who, being of Bourbon blood, could possibly be foisted
upon her and the Spanish nation. To this end Count Trapani was
pitched upon; and the first Narvaez ministry--including Senor Pedal
and other birds of the same disreputable feather--which succeeded
the one presided over by that indecent charlatan Gonzales Bravo,
did all in its power to forward the pretensions of the Neapolitan
prince, and accomplish his marriage with the Queen. To this end it
was absolutely necessary to dispense with the approbation of the
Cortes, required by the constitution. For although those Cortes had
been chosen without the concurrence of the Progresista party--whose
chiefs were all in exile, in prison, or prevented by the grossest
intimidation from voting at the elections--on the question of the
Trapani marriage they were found indocile. This profound contempt
and marked antipathy with which Spaniards view whatever comes from
Naples, and the offence given to the national dignity by the evident
fact, that this candidate was imposed upon the country by the
French government, convinced the latter, and that of Spain, which
was its instrument, that even the Cortes they themselves had picked
and chosen, lacked baseness or courage to consent to the Trapani
alliance. Then was resolved upon and effected the constitutional
REFORM, suppressing the article that required the approbation of
the Cortes, and replacing it by another, which only rendered it
compulsory to _announce_ to them the husband chosen by the Queen.
But the manoeuvres of France were too clumsy and palpable. It was
known that Christina had promised the hand of the Infanta to the
Duke of Montpensier; Louis Philippe's object in backing Trapani
was easily seen through; and so furious was the excitement of the
public mind throughout Spain, so alarming the indications of popular
exasperation, that the unlucky Neapolitan candidate was finally
thrown overboard.

Here we must retrace our steps, and consider Queen Christina's
motives in sacrificing what remained to her of prestige and
popularity in her adopted country, to assist, through thick and
thin, by deceit, subterfuge, and treachery, the ambitious and
encroaching views of her French uncle. There was a time--it is now
long past--when no name was more loved and respected by the whole
Spanish nation, excluding of course the Carlist party, than that of
Maria Christina de Borbon. She so frankly identified herself with
the country in which marriage fixed her lot, that in becoming a
Spanish queen she had apparently become a Spanish woman; and, in
spite of her Neapolitan birth, she speedily conquered the good-will
of her subjects. Thousands of political exiles, restored to home and
family by amnesties of her promotion, invoked blessings on her head:
the great majority of the nation, anxious to see Spain governed
mildly and constitutionally, not despotically and tyrannically,
hailed in her the good genius who was to accord them their desires.
Her real character was not yet seen through; with true Bourbon
dissimulation she knew how to veil her vices. She had the credit
also of being a tender and unselfish parent, ever ready to sacrifice
herself to the interests of her children. Her egotism was as yet
unsuspected, her avarice dormant, her sensuality unrevealed; and
none then dreamed that a day would come, when, impelled by the
meanest and most selfish motives, she would urge her weeping
daughter into the arms of a detested and incompetent bridegroom.

By her _liaison_ with Munoz, the first blow was given to Christina's
character and popularity. This scandalous amour with the son of a
cigar-seller at Tarancon, a coarse and ignorant man, whose sole
recommendations were physical, and who, when first noticed by
the queen, occupied the humble post of a private garde-de-corps,
commenced, in the belief of many, previously to the death of
Ferdinand. Be that true or not, it is certain that towards the
close of the king's life, when he was helpless and worn out by
disease, the result of his reckless debaucheries, she sought the
society of the stalwart lifeguardsman, and distinguished him by
marks of favour. It was said to be through her interest that he was
promoted to the rank of cadet in the body-guard, which gave him
that of captain in the army. Ferdinand died, and her intrigue was
speedily manifest, to the disgust and grief of her subjects. In
time of peace her degrading devotion to a low-born paramour would
doubtless have called forth strong marks of popular indignation; but
the anxieties and horrors of a sanguinary civil war engrossed the
public attention, and secured her a partial impunity. As it was, her
misconduct was sufficiently detrimental to her daughter's cause. The
Carlists taunted their opponents with serving under the banner of
a wanton; and the Liberals, on their part, could not but feel that
their infant queen was in no good school or safe keeping.

The private fortune of Ferdinand the Seventh was well known to be
prodigious. Its sources were not difficult to trace. An absolute
monarch, without a civil list, when he wished for money he had but
to draw upon the public revenue for any funds the treasury might
contain. Of this power he made no sparing use. Then there was the
immense income derived from the Patrimonia Real, or Royal Patrimony,
vast possessions which descend from one King of Spain to another,
for their use and benefit so long as they occupy the throne. The
whole of the town of Aranjuez, the estates attached to the Pardo,
La Granja, the Escurial, and other palaces, form only a portion of
this magnificent property, yielding an enormous annual sum. Add to
these sources of wealth, property obtained by inheritance, his gains
in a nefariously conducted lottery, and other underhand and illicit
profits, and it is easy to comprehend that Ferdinand died the
richest capitalist in Europe. The amount of his savings could but be
guessed at. By some they were estimated at the incredibly large sum
of eight millions sterling. But no one could tell exactly, owing to
the manner in which the money was invested. It was dispersed in the
hands of various European bankers; also in those of certain American
ones, by whose failure great loss was sustained. No trifling sum was
represented by diamonds and jewels. It was hardly to be supposed
that the prudent owner of all this wealth would die intestate, and
there is scarcely a doubt that he left a will. To the universal
astonishment, however, upon his decease, none was forthcoming, and
his wole property was declared at sixty millions of francs, which,
according to the Spanish law, was divided between his daughters. No
one was at a loss to conjecture what became of the large residue
there unquestionably was. It was well understood, and her subsequent
conduct confirmed the belief, that the lion's share of the royal
spoils was appropriated by the young widow, whose grief for the loss
of the beloved Ferdinand was not so violent and engrossing as to
make her lose sight of the main chance. After so glorious a haul,
it might have been expected that she would hold her hand, and rest
contented with the pleasing consciousness, that should she ever be
induced or compelled to leave Spain, she had wherewithal to live in
queenly splendour and luxury. But her thirst of wealth is not of
those that can be assuaged even by rivers of gold. Though the bed of
the Manzanares were of the yellow metal, and she had the monopoly
of its sands, the mine would be all insufficient to satiate her
avarice. After appropriating her children's inheritance, she applied
herself to increase her store by a systematic pillage of the Queen
of Spain's revenues. As Isabella's guardian, the income derived from
the Patrimonio Real passed through her hands, to which the gold
adhered like steel-dust to a loadstone. Whilst the nation strained
each nerve, and submitted to the severest sacrifices, to meet the
expenses of a costly war--whilst the army was barefoot and hungered,
but still stanch in defence of the throne of Isabella--Christina,
with her mouth full of patriotism and love of Spain, remitted to
foreign capitalists the rich fruits of her peculations, provision
for the rainy day which came sooner than she anticipated,
future fortunes for Munoz's children. The natural effect of her
disreputable intrigue or second marriage, whichever it at that
time was to be called, was to weaken her affection for her royal
daughters, especially when she found a second and numerous family
springing up around her. To her anxiety for this second family, and
to the influence of Munoz, may be traced her adherence to the King
of the French, and the cruel and unmotherly part she has recently
acted towards the Queen of Spain.

Previously to Christina's expulsion from the Regency in the year
1840, little was seen or known of her children by Munoz. During her
three years' residence at Paris, a similar silence and mystery was
observed respecting them, and they lived retired in a country-house
near Vevay, upon the Lake of Geneva, whither those born in the
French capital were also dispatched. This prudent reserve is now
at an end, and the grandchildren of the Tarancon tobacconist sit
around, almost on a level with, the throne of the Spanish Queen.
Titles are showered upon them, cringing courtiers wait upon their
nod, and the once proud and powerful grandees of Spain, descendants
of the haughty warriors who drove the Saracens from Iberian soil,
and stood covered in the presence of the Fifth Charles, adulate
the illegitimate progeny of a Munoz and a Christina. Subtile have
been the calculations, countless the intrigues, shameful the
misdeeds that have led to this result, so much desired by parents
of the ennobled bastards, so undesirable for the honour and dignity
of Spain. It is obvious that, with the immense wealth, whose
acquisition has been already explained, Christina would have had no
difficulty in portioning off her half-score children, and enabling
them to live rich and independent in a foreign county. But this
arrangement did not suit her views; still less did it accord with
those of the Duke of Rianzares. He founded his objections upon a
patriotic pretext. He wished his children, he said, to be Spanish
citizens, not aliens--to hold property in their own country--to
live respected in Spain, and not as exiles in a foreign land. It
may be supposed there was no obstacle to their so doing, and that
in Spain, as elsewhere, they could reckon at least upon that amount
of ease and consideration which money can give. But here came the
sticking-point, the grand difficulty, only to be got over by grand
means and great ingenuity. Christina had been the guardian of the
Queen and Infanta during their long minority: guardians, upon the
expiration of their trust, are expected to render accounts; and
this the mother of Isabel was wholly unprepared to do, in such a
manner as would enable her to retain the plunder accumulated during
the period of her guardianship. She had certainly the option of
declining to render any--of taking herself and her wealth, her
husband and her children, out of Spain, and of living luxuriously
elsewhere. But it has already been seen, that neither she nor Munoz
liked the prospect of such banishment, however magnificent and
numerous the appliances brought by wealth to render it endurable.
What, then, was to be done? It was quite positive that the husbands
of the Queen and Infanta would demand accounts of their wives'
fortune and of its management during their minority. How were their
demands to be met--how such difficulties got over? It was hard to
say. The position resembled what the Yankees call a "fix." The
cruel choice lay between a compulsary disgorgement of an amount of
ill-gotten gold, such as no moral emetic could ever have induced
Christina to render up, and the abandonment of Munoz's darling
project of making himself and his children lords of the soil in
their native land. The only chance of an exit from this circle
of difficulties, was to be obtained by uniting the Queen and her
sister to men so weak and imbecile, or so under the dominion and
influence of Christina, that they would let bygones be bygones, take
what they could get and be grateful, without troubling themselves
about accounts, or claiming arrears. To find two such men, who
should also possess the various qualifications essential to the
husbands of a Queen and Infanta of Spain, certainly appeared no
easy matter--to say nothing of the odious selfishness and sin
of thus sacrificing two defenceless and inexperienced children.
But Christina's scruples were few; and, as to difficulties, her
resolution rose as they increased. Had she not also a wise and
willing counsellor in the most cunning man in Europe? Was not her
dear uncle and gossip at hand to quiet her qualms of conscience, if
by such she was tormented, and to demonstrate the feasibility--nay,
more, the propriety of her schemes? To him she resorted in her hour
of need, and with him she soon came to an understanding. He met her
half-way, with a bland smile and words of promise. "Marry one of
your daughters," was his sage and disinterested advice, "to a son of
mine, and be sure that my boys are too well bred to pry into your
little economics. We should prefer the Queen; but, if it cannot
be managed, we will take the Infanta. Isabella shall be given to
some good quiet fellow, not over clever, who will respect you far
too much to dream of asking for accounts. Of time we have plenty;
be stanch to me, and all shall go well." What wonder if from the
day this happy understanding, this real _entente cordiale_, was
come to, Christina was the docile agent, the obedient tool, of her
venerable confederate! No general in the jaws of a defile, with foes
in front and rear, was ever more thankful to the guide who led him
by stealthy paths from his pressing peril, than was the daughter of
Naples to her wary adviser and potent ally. And how charming was
the union of interest--how touching the unanimity of feeling--how
beautifully did the one's ambition and the other's avarice dovetail
and coincide! The King's gain was the Queen's profit: it was the
slaughter with one pebble of two much-coveted birds, fat and savoury
mouthfuls for the royal and politic fowlers.

In the secret conclave at the Tuileries, "all now went merry
as a marriage bell." In the ears of niece and uncle resounded,
by anticipation, the joyous chimes that should usher in the
Montpensier marriage, proclaim their triumph, drown the cries
of rage of the Spanish nation, and the indignant murmurs of
Europe;--not that the goal was so near, the prize so certain and
easy of attainment. Much yet remained to do; a false step might be
ruinous--over-precipitation ensure defeat. The King of the French
was not the man to make the one, or be guilty of the other. With
"slow and sure" for his motto, he patiently waited his opportunity.
In due season, and greatly aided by French machinations, the
downfall of the impracticable and incorruptible Espartero was
effected. But the government of Spain was still in the hands of the
Progresistas. For it will be remembered that the immediate cause
of Espartero's fall was the opposition of a section of his own
party, which, united now in their adversity, unfortunately tunately
knew not, in the days of their power, how to abstain from internal
dissensions. The Lopez ministry held the reins of government. It was
essential to oust it. As a first step, a _Camarilla_ was organised,
composed of the brutal and violent Narvaez, the daring and
disreputable Marchioness of Santa Cruz, and a few others of the same
stamp, all ultra-Moderados in politics, and fervent partisans of
Christina. So successfully did they use their backstairs influence,
and wield their weapons of corruption and intrigue, that, within
four months, and immediately after the accelerated declaration of
the Queen's majority, Lopez and his colleagues resigned. Olozaga
succeeded them; but he, too, was a Progresista and an upholder of
Spanish nationality; there was no hope of his giving in to the
plans of Christina the Afrancesada. Moreover, he was hated by the
_Camarilla_, and especially detested by the Queen-mother, whose
expulsion from Paris he had demanded when ambassador there from
Espartero's government. She determined on a signal vengeance. The
Palace Farce, that strange episode in the history of modern Spanish
courts, must be fresh in every one's memory. An accusation, as
malignant as absurd, was trumped up against Olozaga, of having
used force, unmanly and disloyal violence, to compel Isabella to
sign a decree for the dissolution of the Cortes. No one really
believed the ridiculous tale, or that Salustiano de Olozaga, the
high-bred gentleman, the uniformly respectful subject, could have
afforded by his conduct the shadow of a ground for the base charge.
Subsequently, in the Cortes, he nobly faced his foes, and, with
nervous and irresistible eloquence, hurled back the calumny in their
teeth. But it had already served their turn. To beat a dog any stick
will do; and the only care of the _Camarilla_ was to select the one
that would inflict the most poignant wound. Olozaga was hunted from
the ministry, and sought, in flight, safety from the assassin's
dagger. Those best informed entertained no doubt that his expulsion
was intimately connected with the marriage question. With him the
last of the Progresistas were got rid of, and all obstacles being
removed, the Queen-mother returned to Madrid.

Were the last crowning proof insufficient to carry conviction,
it would be easy to adduce innumerable minor ones of Christina's
heartless selfishness--of her disregard to the happiness, and
even to the commonest comforts, of her royal daughter. We read in
history of a child of France, the widow of an English king, who,
when a refugee in the capital of her ancestors, lacked fuel in a
French palace, and was fain to seek in bed the warmth of which the
parsimony of a griping Italian minister denied her the fitting
means. It is less generally known, that only six years ago, the
inheritress of the throne of Ferdinand and Isabella was despoiled of
the commonest necessaries of life by her own mother, a countrywoman
of the miserly cardinal at whose hands Henrietta of England
experienced such shameful neglect. When Christina quitted Spain
in 1840, she not only carried off an enormous amount of national
property, including the crown jewels, but also her daughter's own
ornaments; and, at the same time, even the wardrobe of the poor
child was mysteriously, but not unaccountably, abstracted: Isabella
was left literally short of linen. As to jewels, it was necessary
immediately to buy her a set of diamonds, in order that she might
make a proper appearance at her own court. Such was the considerate
and self-denying conduct of the affectionate mother, who, in the
winter of 1843, resumed her place in the palace and counsels of the
Queen of Spain. In her natural protector, the youthful sovereign
found her worst enemy.

Persons only superficially acquainted with Spanish politics commonly
fall into two errors. They are apt to believe, first, that the two
great parties which, with the exception of the minor factions of
Carlists and Republicans, divide Spain between them, are nearly
equally balanced and national; secondly, that Moderados and
Progresistas in Spain are equivalent to Conservatives and Radicals
in other countries. Blunders both. Eccentric in its politics, as in
most respects, Spain cannot be measured with the line and compass
employed to estimate its neighbours. It is impossible to conceal
the fact, that to-day the numerous and the national party in Spain
is that of the Progresistas. The tyranny of Narvaez, the misconduct
of Christina, and, above all, the French marriage, have greatly
strengthened their ranks and increased their popularity. Their
principles are not subversive, nor their demands exorbitant: they
aim at no monopoly of power. Three things they earnestly desire
and vehemently claim: the freedom of election guaranteed by the
existing constitution of Spain, but which has been so infamously
trampled upon by recent Spanish rulers, liberty of the press, and
the preservation of Spain from foreign influence and domination.

Let us examine the composition and conduct of the party called
Moderado. This party, now dominant, is unquestionably the most split
up and divided of any that flourish upon Spanish soil. It is not
deficient in men of capacity, but upon none of the grave questions
that agitate the country can these agree. When the Cortes sit, this
is manifest in their debates. Although purged of Progresistas, the
legislative chambers exhibit perpetual disagreement and wrangling.
At other times, the dissensions of the Moderados are made evident
by their organs of the press. In some of these appear articles
which would not sound discordant in the mouths of Progresistas; in
others are found doctrines and arguments worthy of the apostles
of absolutism. Between Narvaez and Pacheco the interval is wider
than between Pacheco and the Progresistas. The first, in order
to govern, sought support from the Absolutists; the second could
not rule without calling the Liberals to his aid. Subdivided into
fractions, this party, whose nomenclature is now complicated, relies
for existence less upon itself than upon extraneous circumstances,
foreign support, and the equilibrium of the elements opposed to it.
The anarchy to which it is a prey, has been especially manifest
upon the marriage question. Whilst one of its organs shamelessly
supported Trapani, others cried out for a Coburg; and, again, others
insisted that a Spanish prince was the only proper candidate--thus
coinciding with the Progresistas. In fact, the Moderados, afraid,
perhaps, of compromising their precarious existence had no candidate
of their own; and in their fluctuations between foreign influence
and interior exigencies, between court and people, between their
wish to remain in power and the difficulty of retaining it, they
left, in great measure, to chance, the election in which they
dared not openly meddle. This will sound strange to the many who,
as we have already observed, imagine the Moderado party to be the
Conservative one of England or France; but not to those aware of the
fact, that it is a collection of unities, brought together rather by
accidental circumstances than by homogeneity of principles, united
for the exclusion of others, and for their own interests, not by
conformity of doctrines and a sincere wish for their country's good.

Such was the party, unstable and unpatriotic, during whose
ascendancy Christina and her royal confederate resolved to carry
out their dishonest projects. The Queen-mother well knew that the
mass of the nation would be opposed to their realisation; but she
reckoned on means sufficiently powerful to render indignation
impotent, and frustrate revolt. She trusted to the adherence of
an army, purposely caressed, pampered, and corrupted; she felt
strong in the support of a monarch, whose interest in the affair
was at least equal to her own; she observed with satisfaction the
indifferent attitude assumed by the British government with respect
to Spanish affairs. A Progresista demonstration in Galicia, although
shared in by seven battalions of the army--an ugly symptom--was
promptly suppressed, owing to want of organisation, and to the
treachery or incapacity of its leader. The scaffold and the galleys,
prison and exile, disposed of a large proportion of the discontented
and dangerous. Arbitrary dismissals, of which, for the most part,
little was heard out of Spain, purified the army from the more
honest and independent of its officers, suspected of disaffection to
the existing government, or deemed capable of exerting themselves
to oppose an injurious or discreditable alliance. Time wore on;
the decisive moment approached. Each day it became more evident
that the Queen's marriage could not with propriety be much longer
deferred. Setting aside other considerations, she had already fully
attained the precocious womanhood of her country; and it was neither
safe nor fitting that she should continue to inhale the corrupt
atmosphere of the Madrid court without the protection of a husband.
At last the hour came; the plot was ripe, and nothing remained but
to secure the concurrence of the victim. One short night, a night of
tears and repugnance on the one hand, of flatteries, of menaces and
intimidation, on the other decided the fate of Isabella. With her
sister less trouble was requisite. It needed no great persuasive art
to induce a child of fourteen to accept a husband, as willingly as
she would have done a doll. It might have been thought necessary to
consult the will of the Spanish nation, fairly represented in freely
elected Cortes. Such, at least, was the course pointed out by the
constitution of the country. It would also have been but decorous to
seek the approval and concurrence of foreign and friendly states,
to establish beyond dispute, that the proposed marriages were in
contravention of no existing treaties; for, with respect to one of
them, this doubt might fairly be raised. But all such considerations
were waived; decency and courtesy alike forgotten. The double
marriage was effected in the manner of a surprise; and, if
creditable to the skill, it most assuredly was dishonourable to the
character of its contriver. Availing himself of the moment when the
legislative chambers of England, France, and Spain, had suspended
their sittings; although, as regards those of the latter country,
this mattered little, composed, as they are, of venal hirelings--the
French King achieved his grand stroke of policy, the project on
which, there can be little doubt, his eyes had for years been
fixed. His load of promises and pledges, whether contracted at Eu
or elsewhere, encumbered him little. They were a fragile commodity,
a brittle merchandise, more for show than use, easily hurled down
and broken. Striding over their shivered fragments, the Napoleon
of Peace bore his last unmarried son to the goal long marked out
by the paternal ambition. The consequences of the successful race
troubled him little. What cared he for offending a powerful ally and
personal friend? The arch-schemer made light of the fury of Spain,
of the discontent of England, of the opinion of Europe. He paused
not to reflect how far his Machiavelian policy would degrade him in
the eyes of the many with whom he had previously passed for wise
and good, as well as shrewd and far-sighted. Paramount to these
considerations was the gratification of his dynastic ambition.
For that he broke his plighted word, and sacrificed the good
understanding between the governments of two great countries. The
monarch of the barricades, the _Roi Populaire_, the chosen sovereign
of the men of July, at last plainly showed, what some had already
suspected, that the aggrandisement of his family, not the welfare
of France, was the object he chiefly coveted. Conviction may later
come to him, perhaps it has already come, that _le jeu ne valoit
pas la chandelle_, the game was not worth the wax-lights consumed
in playing it, and that his present bloodless victory must sooner
or later have sanguinary results. That this may not be the case,
we ardently desire; that it will be, we cannot doubt. The peace of
Europe may not be disturbed--pity that it should in such a quarrel;
but for poor Spain we foresee in the Montpensier alliance a gloomy
perspective of foreign domination and still recurring revolution.

A word or two respecting the King-consort of Spain, Don Francisco
de Assis. We have already intimated that, as a Spanish Bourbon,
he may pass muster. 'Tis saying very little. A more pitiful race
than these same Bourbons of Spain, surely the sun never shone upon.
In vain does one seek amongst them a name worthy of respect. What
a list to cull from! The feeble and imbecile Charles the Fourth;
Ferdinand, the cruel and treacherous, the tyrannical and profligate;
Carlos, the bigot and the hypocrite; Francisco, the incapable. Nor
is the rising generation an improvement upon the declining one. How
should it be, with only the Neapolitan cross to improve the breed?
Certainly Don Francisco de Assis is no favourable specimen, either
physically or morally, of the young Bourbon blood. For the sake of
the country whose queen is his wife, we would gladly think well of
him, gladly recognise in him qualities worthy the descendant of a
line of kings. It is impossible to do so. The evidence is too strong
the other way. If it be true, and we have reason to believe it is,
that he came forward with reluctance as a candidate for Isabella's
hand, chiefly through unwillingness to stand in the light of his
brother Don Enrique, partly perhaps through consciousness of his own
unfitness for the elevated station of king-consort, this at least
shows some good feeling and good sense. Unfortunately, it is the
only indication he has given of the latter quality. His objections
to a marriage with his royal cousin were overruled in a manner
that says little for his strength of character. When it was found
that his dislike to interfere with his brother's pretensions was
the chief stumbling-block, those interested in getting over it set
the priests at him. To their influence his weak and bigoted mind
was peculiarly accessible. Their task was to persuade him that Don
Enrique was no better than an atheist, and that his marriage with
the Queen would be ruinous to the cause of religion in Spain. This
was a mere fabrication. Enrique had never shown any particularly
pious dispositions, but there was no ground for accusing him of
irreligion, no reason to believe that, as the Queen's husband,
he would be found negligent of the church's forms, or setting a
bad example to the Spanish nation. The case, however, was made
out to the satisfaction of the feeble Francisco, whose credulity
and irresolution are only to be equalled in absurdity by the
piping treble of the voice with which, as a colonel of cavalry, he
endeavoured to convey orders to his squadrons. Sacrificing, as he
thought, fraternal affection to the good of his country, he accepted
the hand reluctantly placed in his, became a king by title, but
remained, what he ever must be, in reality a zero.

It was during the intrigues put in practice to force the Trapani
alliance upon Spain, that the Spanish people turned their eyes
to Don Francisco de Paulo's second son, who lived away from the
court, following with much zeal his profession of a sailor. Not
only the Progresistas, but that section of the Moderados whose
principles were most assimilated to theirs, looked upon Don Enrique
as the candidate to be preferred before all others. For this there
were many reasons. As a Spaniard he was naturally more pleasing
to them than a foreigner; in energy and decision of character he
was far superior to his brother. Little or nothing was known of
his political tendencies; but he had been brought up in a ship
and not in a palace, had lived apart from _Camarillas_ and their
evil influences, and might be expected to govern the country
constitutionally, by majorities in the Cortes, and not by the aid
and according to the wishes of a pet party. The general belief was,
that his marriage with Isabella would give increased popularity to
the throne, destroy illegitimate influences, and rid the Queen of
those interested and pernicious counsellors who so largely abused
her inexperience. These very reasons, which induced the great mass
of the nation to view Don Enrique with favour, drew upon him the
hatred of Christina and her friends. He was banished from Spain,
and became the object of vexatious persecutions. This increased
his popularity; and at one time, if his name had been taken as a
rallying cry, a flame might have been lighted up in the Peninsula
which years would not have extinguished. The opportunity was
inviting; but, to their honour be it said, those who would have
benefited by embracing it, resisted the temptation. It is no secret
that the means and appliances of a successful insurrection were
not wanting; that money wherewith to buy the army was liberally
forthcoming; that assistance of all kinds was offered them; and
that their influence in Spain was great; for in the eyes of the
nation they had expiated their errors, errors of judgment only, by
a long and painful exile. But, nevertheless, they would not avail
themselves of the favourable moment. So long as a hope remained of
obtaining their just desires by peaceable means, by the force of
reason and the _puissante propagande de la parole_, they refused
again to ensanguine their native soil, and to re-enter Spain on
the smoking ruins of its towns, over the lifeless bodies of their
mistaken countrymen.

By public prints of weight and information, it has been estimated,
that during Don Enrique's brief stay at Paris, he indignantly
rejected certain friendly overtures made to him by the King of
the French. The nature of these overtures can, of course, only be
conjectured. Perhaps, indeed, they were but a stratagem, employed
by the wily monarch to detain his young cousin at Paris, that the
apparent good understanding between them might damp the courage
of the national party in Spain, and win the wavering to look with
favour upon the French marriage. There can be little question
that in the eyes of Louis Philippe, as well as of Christina, Don
Francisco is a far more eligible husband for the Queen than his
brother would have been, even had the latter given his adhesion to
the project of the Montpensier alliance. Rumour--often, it is true,
a lying jade--maintained that at Paris he firmly refused to do so.
She now whispers that at Brussels he has been found more pliant,
and that, within a brief delay, the happy family at Madrid will be
gratified by the return of that truant and mutinous mariner, Don
Enrique de Borbon, who, after he has been duly scolded and kissed,
will doubtless be made Lord High Admiral, or rewarded in some
equally appropriate way for his tardy docility. We vouch not for
the truth of this report; but shall be noway surprised if events
speedily prove it well founded. Men there are with whom the love
of country is so intense, that they would rather live despised in
their own land than respected in a foreign one. And when, to such
flimsy Will-o'-the-wisp considerations as the esteem and love of
a nation, are opposed rank, money, and decorations, a palace to
live in, sumptuous fare, and a well-filled purse, and perhaps,
ere long, a wealthy bride, who would hesitate? If any would, seek
them not amongst the Bourbons. Loath indeed should we be to pledge
ourselves for the consistency and patriotism of a man whose uncle
and grandfather betrayed their country to a foreign usurper. The
fruit of a corrupt and rotten stem must ever be looked upon with
suspicion. It is the more prized when perchance it proves sound and
wholesome.

Of the Duke of Montpensier, previously to his marriage, little
was heard, and still, little is generally known of him, except
that his exterior is agreeable, and that he had been rapidly
pushed through the various military grades to that of general of
artillery. That any natural talents he may be endowed with, have
been improved to the utmost by careful education, is sufficiently
guaranteed by the fact of his being a son of Louis Philippe. We
are able to supply a few further details. The Infanta's husband
is a youth of good capacity, possessing a liberal share of that
mixture of sense, judgment, and wit, defined in his native tongue
by the one expressive word _esprit_. His manners are pleasant and
affable; he is a man with whom his inferiors in rank can converse,
argue, even dispute--not a stilted Spanish Bourbon, puffed up with
imaginary merit, inflated with etiquette, and looking down, from
the height of his splendid insignificance and inane pride, upon
better men then himself. He is one, in short, who rapidly makes
friends and partisans. Doubtless, during his late brief visit to
Spain, he secured some; hereafter he will have opportunities of
increasing their number; and the probabilities are, that in course
of time he will acquire a dangerous influence in the Peninsula. The
lukewarm and the vacillating, even of the Progresista party, will
be not unlikely, if he shows or affects liberalism in his political
opinions, to take him into favour, and give him the weight of their
adherence; forgetting that by so doing they cherish an anti-national
influence, and twine more securely the toils of France round the
recumbent Spanish lion. On the other hand, there will always be a
powerful Spanish party, comprising a vast majority of the nation,
and by far the largest share of its energy and talent, distinguished
by its inveterate dislike of French interlopers, repulsing the
duke and his advances by every means in their power, and branding
his favourers with the odious name of AFRANCESADOS. To go into this
subject, and enlarge upon the probable and possible results of the
marriage, would lead us too far. Our object in the present article
has rather been to supply FACTS than indulge in speculations. For
the present, therefore, we shall merely remind our readers, that
jealousy of foreign interference is a distinguishing political
characteristic of Spaniards; and that, independently of this, the
flame of hatred to France and Frenchmen still burns brightly in many
a Spanish bosom. Spain has not yet forgiven, far less forgotten,
the countless injuries inflicted on her by her northern neighbours:
she still bears in mind the insolent aggressions of Napoleon--the
barbarous cruelties of his French and Polish legions--the officious
interference in '23. These and other wrongs still rankle in her
memory. And if the effacing finger of Time had begun to obliterate
their traces, the last bitter insult of the forced marriage has
renewed these in all their pristine freshness.

We remember to have encountered, in a neglected foreign gallery,
an ancient picture of a criminal in the hands of torturers.
The subject was a painful one, and yet the painting provoked a
smile. Some wandering brother of the brush, some mischievous and
idly-industrious TINTO, had beguiled his leisure by transmogrifying
the costumes both of victim and executioners, converting the ancient
Spanish garb into the stiff and unpicturesque apparel of the present
day. The vault in which the cruel scene was enacted, remains in
all its gloomy severity of massive pillars, rusty shackles, and
cobwebbed walls; the grim unshapely instruments of torture were
there; the uncouth visages of the executioners, the agonised
countenance of the sufferer, were unaltered. But, contrasting with
the antique aspect and time-darkened tints of these details, were
the vivid colouring and modern fashions of Parisian _paletots_, trim
pantaloons, and ball-room waistcoats. We have been irresistibly
reminded of this defaced picture by the recent events in Spain.
They appear to us like a page from the history of the middle ages
transported into our own times. The daring and unprincipled intrigue
whose _denoument_ has just been witnessed, is surely out of place
in the nineteenth century, and belongs more properly to the days of
the Medicis and the Guise. A review of its circumstances affords
the elements of some romantic history of three hundred years ago.
At night, in a palace, we see a dissolute Italian dowager and a
crafty French ambassador coercing a sovereign of sixteen into a
detested alliance. The day breaks on the child's tearful consent;
the ambassador, the paleness of his vigil chased from his cheek by
the flush of triumph, emerges from the royal dwelling. Quick! to
horse!--and a courier starts to tell the diplomat's master that the
glorious victory is won. A few days--a very few--of astonishment to
Europe and consternation to Spain, and a French prince, with gay and
gallant retinue, stands on the Bidassoa's bank and gazes wistfully
south-wards. Why does he tarry; whence this delay? He waits an
escort. Strange rumours are abroad of ambuscade and assassination;
of vows made by fierce guerillas that the Infanta's destined husband
shall never see Madrid. At last the escort comes. Enclosed in
serried lines of bayonets and lances, dragoons in van, artillery
in rear, the happy bridegroom prosecutes his journey. What is his
welcome? Do the bright-eyed Basque maidens scatter flowers in his
path and Biscay's brave sons strain their stout arms to ring peals
in his honour? Do the poor and hardy peasantry of Castile line the
highway and shout _vivas_ as he passes? Not so. If bells are rung
and flowers strewn, it is by salaried ringers and by women hired,
not to wail at a funeral, but to celebrate a marriage scarcely more
auspicious. If hurrahs, few and faint, are heard, those who utter
are paid for them. Sullen looks and lowering glances greet the
Frenchman, as, guarded by two thousand men-at-arms, he hurries to
the capital where his bride awaits him. In all haste, amidst the
murmurs of a deeply offended people, the knot is tied. Not a moment
must be lost, lest something should yet occur to mar the marriage
feast. And now for the rewards, shamefully showered upon the venal
abettors of this unpopular union. A dukedom and grandeeship of Spain
for the ambassador's infant son; titles to mercenary ministers;
high and time-honoured decorations, once reserved as the premium
for exalted valour and chivalrous deeds--to corrupt deputies;
diamond snuff-boxes, jewels and gold, to the infamous writers of
prostituted journals; Christina rejoices; her _Camarilla_ are in
ecstasies; Bresson rubs his hands in irrepressible exultation; in
his distant capital the French monarch heaves a sigh of relief and
satisfaction as his telegraph informs him of the _fait accompli_.
Then come splendid bullfights and monster _pucheros_, to dazzle the
eyes and stop the mouths of the multitude. _Pan y toros--panisac
circenses_--to the many-headed beast. And in all haste the prince
hurries back to Paris with his bride, to receive the paternal
benediction, the fraternal embrace, and the congratulations of the
few score individuals, who alone, in all France, feel real pleasure
and profit in his marriage. And thus, by foreign intrigue and
domestic treachery, has the independence of Spain been virtually
bought and sold.




ST MAGNUS', KIRKWALL.


    See yonder, on Pomona's isle--
      Where winter storms delight to roam;
    But beaming now with summer's smile--
      The Sainted Martyr's sacred dome!

    Conspicuous o'er the deep afar
      It sheds a soft and saving ray,
    A landmark sure, a leading star,
      To guide the wanderer on his way.

    It tells the seaman how to steer
      Through swelling seas his labouring bark
    It helps the mourner's heart to cheer,
      And speeds him to his heavenly mark.

    With joy of old this northern sky
      Saw holy men the fabric found,
    To lift the Christian Cross on high,
      And spread the Healer's influence round.

    By beauty's power they sought to raise
      Rude eyes and ruder hearts to Heaven:
    They sought to speak their Maker's praise
      With all the skill His grace had given.

    And now, where passions dark and wild
      Were foster'd once at Odin's shrine,
    A people peaceful, just, and mild,
      Live happy in that light divine.

    Preserved through many a stormy age,
      Let pious zeal the relic guard:
    Nor Time with slow insidious rage
      Destroy what fiercer foes have spared.




THE GAME LAWS.


From our youth upwards we have entertained a deep feeling of
affection for the respectable fraternity of the Quakers. Our love,
probably, had its date and origin from very early contemplation
of a print, which represented an elderly pot-bellied individual,
with a broad-brimmed hat and drab terminations, in the act of
concluding a treaty with several squatting Indians, only redeemed
from a state of nature by a slight garniture of scalps and wampum.
Underneath was engraved a legend which our grand-aunt besought
us to treasure in our memory as a sublime moral lesson. It ran
thus:--THE BLOODLESS TRIUMPH, OR PENN'S TREATY WITH THE CHIEFS; and
we were told that the fact thereby commemorated was one of the most
honourable achievements to be found in the pages of general history.
With infantine facility we believed in the words of the matron. No
blood or rapine--no human carcasses or smoking wigwams, deformed
the march of the Quaker conqueror. Beneath a mighty tree, in the
great Indian wilderness, was the patriarchal council held; and
the fee-simple of a territory, a good deal larger than an average
kingdom, surrendered, with all its pendicles of lake, prairie, and
hunting-ground, to the knowing philanthropist, in exchange for some
bales of broad-cloth, a little cutlery, a liberal allowance of
beads, and a very great quantity, indeed, of adulterated rum and
tobacco. Never, we believe, since Esau sold his birth-right, was a
tract of country acquired upon terms so cheap and easy. Some faint
idea of this kind appears to have struck us at the time; for, in
answer to some question touching the nature of the goods supposed
to be contained in several bales and casks which were prominently
represented in the picture, our relative hastily remarked, that she
did not care for the nature of the bargain--the principle was the
great consideration. And so it is. William Penn unquestionably acted
both wisely and well: he brought his merchandise to a first-rate
market, and left a valuable legacy of acuteness to his children
and faithful followers. Our grand-aunt--rest her soul!--died in
the full belief of ultimate Pennsylvanian solvency. She could not
persuade herself, that the representatives of the man who had
acquired a principality at the expense of a ship-load of rubbish,
would prove in any way untrue to their bonds; and by her last will
and testament, whereof we are the sole executor, she promoted us to
the agreeable rank of a creditor on the Pennsylvanian government. If
any gentleman is desirous to be placed in a similar position, with
a right to the new stock which has been recently issued in lieu of
a monetary dividend, he may hear of an excellent investment by an
early application to our brokers. We also are most firm believers in
the fact of American credit, and we shall not change our opinion--at
least until we effect the sale.

All this, however, is a deviation from our primary purpose, which
was to laud and magnify the Brotherhood. We repeat that we loved
them early, and also that we loved them long. It is true that
some years ago a slight estrangement--the shadow of a summer
cloud--disturbed the harmony which had previously existed between
Maga and the Society of Friends. A gentleman of that persuasion had
been lost somewhere upon the skirts of Helvellyn, and our guide and
father, Christopher, in one of those sublime prose-poeans which have
entranced and electrified the world, commemorated that apotheosis
so touchingly, that the whole of Christendom was in tears.
Unfortunately, some passing allusion to the garments of the defunct
Obadiah, grated uncomfortably on the jealous ear of Darlington. An
affecting picture of some ravens, digging their way through the
folds of the double-milled kerseymere, was supposed to convey an
occult imputation upon the cloth, and never, since then, have we
stood quite clear in the eyes of the offended Conventicle. Still,
that unhappy misunderstanding has by no means cooled our attachment.
We honour and revere the Friends; and it was with sincere pleasure
that we saw the excellent Joseph Pease take his seat and lift up
his voice within the walls of Parliament. Had Pease stood alone, we
should not now, in all human probability, have been writing on the
subject of the game laws.

We are, however, much afraid that a great change has taken place
in the temper and disposition of the Society. Formerly a Quaker
was considered most essentially a man of peace. He was reputed to
abhor all strife and vain disputation--to be laconic and sparing
in his speech--and to be absolutely crapulous with humanity.
We would as soon have believed in the wrath of doves as in the
existence of a cruel Quaker; nor would we, during the earlier
portion of our life, have entrusted one of that denomination with
the drowning of a superfluous kitten. Barring a little absurd
punctilio in the matter of payment of their taxes--at all times, we
allow, a remarkably unpleasant ceremony--the public conduct of our
Friends was blameless. They seldom made their voices heard except
in the honourable cause of the suffering or the oppressed; and
with external politics they meddled not at all, seeing that their
fundamental ideas of a social system differed radically from those
entertained by the founders of the British constitution. Such, and
so harmless, were the lives of our venerated Friends, until the
demon of discord tempted them by a vision of the baleful hustings.

Since then we have remarked, with pain, a striking alteration in
their manner. They are bold, turbulent, and disputatious to an
almost incredible extent. If there is any row going on in the
parish, you are sure to find that a Quaker is at the bottom of it.
Is there to be a reform in the Police board--some broad-brimmed
apostle takes the chair. Are tithes obnoxious to a Chamber of
Commerce--the spokesman of the agitators is Obadiah. Indeed, we
are beginning to feel as shy of a quarrel with men of drab as we
formerly were with the militant individuals in scarlet. We are not
quite so confident as we used to be in their reliance upon moral
force, and sometimes fear the latent power which lurks in the
physical arm.

Of these champions, by far the most remarkable is Mr John Bright,
who, in the British House of Commons, represents the town of Durham.
The tenets of his peaceful and affirmative creed, are, to say the
least of it, in total antagonism to his character. Ever since he
made his first appearance in public, he has kept himself, and
every one around him, in perpetual hot-water. In the capacity of
Mr Cobden's bottle-holder, he has displayed considerable pluck,
for which we honour him; and he is not altogether unworthy to have
been included in that famous eulogy which was passed by the late
Premier--no doubt to the cordial satisfaction of his friends--upon
the Apostle of cotton and free-trade. The name of John is nearly as
conspicuous as that of Richard in the loyal annals of the League;
and we are pleased to observe, that, like his great generalissimo,
Mr Bright has preferred his claim for popular payment, and has,
in fact, managed to secure a few thousands in return for the
vast quantity of eloquence which he has poured into the pages of
Hansard. We are not of that old-fashioned school who object to
the remuneration of our reformers. On the contrary, we think that
patriotism, like every other trade, should be paid for; and with
such notable examples, as O'Connell in Ireland, and the Gamaliel of
Sir Robert in the south, we doubt not that the principle hereafter
will be acted upon in every case. The man who shall be fortunate
enough to lead a successful crusade against the established
churches, and to sweep away from these kingdoms all vestiges both
of the mitre and the Geneva gown, will doubtless, after sufficient
laudation by the then premier, of the talent and perseverance which
he has exhibited throughout the contest, receive from his liberated
country something of an adequate douceur. What precise pension is
due to him who shall deliver us from the thraldom of the hereditary
peerage, is a question which must be left to future political
arithmetic. In the mean time, there are several minor abuses which
may be swept away on more moderate scavenger wages; and one of
these which we fully expect to hear discussed in the ensuing session
of Parliament, is the existence of the Game laws.

Mr Bright, warned by former experience, has selected a grievance
for himself, and started early in his expedition against it. The
part of jackal may be played once, but it is not a profitable one;
and we can understand the disappointed feelings of the smaller
animal, when he is forced to stand by an-hungered, and behold the
gluttonous lion gorging himself with the choicest morsels of the
chase. It must be a sore thing for a patriot to see his brother
agitator pouching his tens and hundreds of thousands; whilst he, who
likewise has shouted in the cause, and bestowed as much of his sweet
breath as would have served to supply a furnace, must perforce be
contented with some stray pittances, doled hesitatingly out, and not
altogether given without grudging. No independent and thoroughgoing
citizen will consent, for a second time, to play so very subsidiary
a part; therefore he is right in breaking fresh ground, and becoming
the leader of a new movement. It may be that his old monopolising
ally shall become too plethoric for a second contest. Like the
desperate soldier who took a castle and was rewarded for it, he may
be inclined to rest beneath his laurels, count his pay, and leave
the future capture of fortalices to others who have less to lose. A
hundred thousand pounds carry along with them a sensation of ease
as well as dignity. After such a surfeit of Mammon, most men are
unwilling to work. They unbutton their waistcoats, eschew agitation,
eat, drink, are merry, and become fat.

Your lean Cassius, on the contrary, has all the pugnacity of a
terrier. He yelps at every body and every thing, is at perpetual
warfare with the whole of animated nature, and will not be
quieted even by dint of much kicking. The only chance you have of
relieving yourself from his everlasting yammering and impertinence,
is to throw him an unpicked bone, wherewith he will retreat in
double-quick time to the kennel. And of a truth the number of
excellent bones which are sacrificed to the terriers of this world,
is absolutely amazing. Society in general will do a great deal
for peace; and much money is doled out, far less for the sake of
charity, than as the price of a stipulated repose.

It remains, however, to be seen whether Mr Bright, under any
circumstances, will be quiet. We almost doubt it. In the course of
his stentorial and senatorial career, he has more than once, to
borrow a phrase from _Boxiana_, had his head put into chancery; and
some of his opponents, Mr Ferrand for example, have fists that smite
like sledge-hammers. But Friend John is a glutton in punishment; and
though with blackened eyes and battered lips, is nevertheless at his
post in time. The best pugilists in England do not know what to make
of him. He never will admit that he is beaten, nor does he seem to
know when he has enough. It is true that at every round he goes down
before some tremendous facer or cross-buttock, or haply performs the
part of Antaeus in consequence of the Cornish hug. No matter--up he
starts, and though rather unsteady on his pins, and generally groggy
in his demeanour, he squares away at his antagonist, until night
terminates the battle, and the drab flag, still flaunting defiance,
is visible beneath the glimpses of the maiden moon.

At present, Mr Bright's senatorial exertions appear to be directed
towards the abolition of the Game laws. Early in 1845, and before
the remarkable era of conversion which must ever render that year
a notorious one in the history of political consistency, he moved
for and obtained a select committee of the House to inquire into
the operation of these laws. Mr Bright's speech upon that occasion
was, in some respects, a sensible one. We have no wish to withhold
from him his proper meed of praise; and we shall add, that the
subject which he thus virtually undertook to expiscate, was one in
every way deserving of the attention of the legislature. Of all the
rights of property which are recognised by the English law, that of
the proprietor or occupier of the land to the _ferae naturae_ or game
upon it, is the least generally understood, and the worst defined.
It is fenced by, and founded upon, statutes which, in the course
of time, have undergone considerable modification and revision;
and the penalties attached to the infringement of it are, in our
candid opinion, unnecessarily harsh and severe. Further, there can
be no doubt, that in England the vice of poaching, next to that of
habitual drinking, has contributed most largely to fill the country
prisons. Instances are constantly occurring of ferocious assault,
and even murder, arising from the affrays between gamekeepers and
poachers; nor does it appear that the statutory penalties have had
the effect of deterring many of the lower orders from their violent
and predatory practices. On these points, we think an inquiry,
with a view to the settlement of the law on a humane and equitable
footing, was highly proper and commendable; nor should we have said
a single word in depreciation of the labours of Mr Bright, had he
confined himself within proper limits. Such, however, is not the
case.

An abridgement of, or rather extracts from, the voluminous evidence
which was taken before that select committee, has been published
by a certain Richard Griffiths Welford, Esq., barrister at law,
and member of the Royal Agricultural Society of England. With this
gentleman hitherto, it is our misfortune or our fault that we have
had no practical acquaintance; and judging from the tone, humour,
and temper of the text remarks which are scattered throughout the
volume, and the taste of the foot-notes appended, we do not see any
reason to covet exuberant intimacy for the future. The volume is
prefaced by a letter from Mr John Bright to the Tenant Farmers of
Great Britain, which is of so remarkable a nature that it justly
challenges some comment. The following extract is the commencement
of that address:-- "I am invited by my friend Mr Welford, the
compiler of the abstract of the evidence given before the committee
on the Game laws, to write a short address to you on the important
question which is treated of in this volume. I feel that an
apology is scarcely necessary for the liberty I am taking; the
deep interest I have long felt in the subject of the Game laws, my
strong conviction of its great importance to you as a class, and the
extensive correspondence in reference to it which I have maintained
with many of your respected body in almost every county of England
and Scotland, seem to entitle me to say a few words to you on this
occasion.

"From the perusal of this evidence--and it is but a small portion
of that which was offered to the committee--you will perceive
that, as capitalists and employers of labour, _you are neither
asserting your just rights, nor occupying your proper position_. By
long-continued custom, which has now obtained almost the force of
law, when you became tenants of a farm, you were not permitted to
enjoy the advantages which pertain to it so fully as is the case
with the occupiers of almost every other description of property.
A farmer becomes the tenant of certain lands, which are to be the
basis of his future operations, and the foundation of that degree
of prosperity to which he may attain. To secure success, it is
needful that capital should be invested, and industry and skill
exercised; and in proportion as these are largely employed, in order
to develop to the utmost extent the resources of the soil, will be
the amount of prosperity that will be secured. The capital, skill,
and industry, will depend upon the capacity of the farmer; but the
reward for their employment will depend in no small degree upon the
free and unfettered possession of the land--of its capabilities, of
all that it produces, and of all that is sustained upon its surface.
There is a mixture of feudalism and of commercial principles in your
mode of taking and occupying land, which is in almost all cases
obstructive, and in not a few utterly subversive, of improvement.
You take a farm on a yearly tenantry, or on a lease, with an
understanding, or a specific agreement, that the game shall be
reserved to the owner; that is, you grant to the landlord the right
to stock the farm--for which you are to pay him rent for permission
to cultivate, and for the full possession of its produce--with
pheasants, partridges, hares, and rabbits, to any extent that may
suit his caprice. There may be little game when you enter upon the
farm; but in general you reserve to yourselves no power to prevent
its increase, and it may and often does increase so, as to destroy
the possibility of profit in the cultivation of the farm. You
plough, and sow, and watch the growing crops with anxiety and hope;
you rise early, and eat the bread of carefulness; rent-day comes
twice a-year with its inexorable demand; and yet you are doomed
too frequently to see the fertility which Providence bestows and
your industry would secure, blighted and destroyed _by creatures
which would be deemed vermin_, but for the sanction which the law
and your customs give to their preservation, and which exist for
no advantage to you, and for no good to the public, but solely to
afford a few day's amusement in the year to the proprietors of the
soil. The seed you sow is eaten by the pheasants; your young growing
grain is bitten down by the hares and rabbits; and your ripening
crops are trampled and injured by a live stock which yields you
no return, and which you cannot kill and take to market. No other
class of capitalists are subjected to these disadvantages--no other
intelligent and independent class of your countrymen are burdened
with such impositions."

We pity the intelligence of the reader who does not behold in these
introductory paragraphs the symbol of the cloven foot. The sole
object of the volume, for which Mr Bright has the assurance to stand
as sponsor, is to sow the seeds of discord between the landowners
and the tenants of England, by representing the former to the
latter in the light of selfish monopolists, who, for the sake of
some little sport or yearly battue, or, it may be, from absolute
caprice, make havoc throughout the year, by proxy, of the farmers'
property, and increase their stock of game whenever they have an
opportunity, at his expense, and sometimes to his actual ruin.
Such is the tendency of this book, which is compiled for general
circulation; and which, we think, in many respects is calculated
to do a deal of harm. As a real treatise or commentary upon the
Game laws, it is worthless; as an attack upon the landed gentry, it
will doubtless be read in many quarters with extreme complacency.
Already, we observe, a portion of the press have made it a text-book
for strong political diatribes; and the influence of it will no
doubt be brought to bear upon the next general election. As we
ourselves happen to entertain what are called very liberal opinions
upon this subject of the Game laws, and as we maintain the principle
that in this, as in every other matter, the great interests and
rights of the community must be consulted, without reference to
class distinctions--as we wish to see the property of the rich and
the liberties of the poor respected--as we consider the union and
cordial co-operation between landlord and tenant the chief guarantee
which this country yet possesses against revolution, and the triumph
of insolent demagogues--our remarks upon the present subject may
not be ill-timed, or unworthy of the regard of those who think with
us, that, in spite of recent events, there yet may be something to
preserve.

But, first, let us consider who this gentleman is that comes
forward, unsolicited, to tender his advice, and to preach agitation
to the tenantry of Great Britain. He is one of those persons who
rose with the League--one of those unscrupulous and ubiquitous
orators who founded and reared their reputation upon an avowed
hostility to the agricultural interests of the country. Upon this
point there can be no mistake. John Bright, member for Durham, is
a child of the corn, or rather the potato revolution, as surely as
Anacharsis Clootz was the _enfant trouve_ of the Reign of Terror.
With the abstract merits of that question we have nothing to do at
present. It is quite sufficient for us to note the fact, that he,
in so far as his opportunities and his talents went, was amongst
the most clamorous of the opponents to the protection of British
agriculture; and that fact is a fair and legitimate ground for
suspicion of his motives, when we find him appearing in the new
part of an agricultural champion and agitator. It is not without
considerable mistrust that we behold this slippery personage in
the garb and character of Triptolemus. He does not act it well.
The effects of the billy-roller are still conspicuous upon his
gait--he walks ill on hobnails--and is clearly more conversant
with devil's-dust and remnants than with tares. Some faint
suspicion of this appears at times to haunt even his own complacent
imagination. He is not quite sure that the farmers--or, in the
elegant phraseology of the League, the hawbucks and chawbacons--whom
he used to denounce as a race of beings immeasurably inferior in
intellectual capacity to the ricketty victims of the factories,
will believe all at once in the cordiality and disinterestedness of
their adviser; and therefore he throws out for their edification
a specious bit of pleading, which, no doubt, will be read with
conflicting feelings by some of those who participated in the
late conversion. "You have been taught to consider me, and those
with whom I have acted, as your enemies. You will admit that we
have never deceived you--that we have never TAMELY SURRENDERED
that which we have taught you to rely upon as the basis of your
prosperity--that we have not pledged ourselves to a policy
you approved, and then abandoned it; and as you have found me
persevering in the promotion of measures, which many of you deemed
almost fatal to your interests, but which I thought essential to the
public good, so you will find me as resolute in the defence of those
rights, which your own or your country's interests alike require
that you should possess."

All this profession, however, we hope, will fail to persuade the
farmers that their late enemy has become their sudden friend; and
they will doubtless look with some suspicion upon the apocryphal
catalogue of grievances which Mr Bright has raked together, and,
with the aid of his associate, promulgated in the present volume. It
is not our intention at present to extract or go over the evidence
at large. We have read it minutely, and weighed it well. A great
part of it is utterly irrelevant, as bearing upon questions of
property and contract with which the legislature of no country could
interfere, and which even Mr Bright, though not over scrupulous in
his ideas of parliamentary appropriation, has disregarded in framing
the conclusions of the rejected report which he proposed for the
adoption of the committee. That portion, however, we shall not pass
over in silence. It is but right that the country at large should
see that this volume has been issued, not so much for the purpose
of obtaining a revision of the law, as of sowing discord amongst
the agriculturists themselves; and it is very remarkable that Mr
Bright, throughout the whole of his inflammatory address, _takes
no notice whatever of the Game laws_, or their prejudicial effect,
or their possible remedy by legislative enactment, but confines
himself to denunciation of the landlords as a class antagonistic
to the tenantry, and advice to the latter to combine against the
game-preserving habits of the gentry.

Now this question between landlord and tenant has nothing to do
with the Game laws. The man who purchases an estate, purchases it
with every thing upon it. He has, strictly speaking, as much right
to every wild animal which is bred or even lodges there--if he can
only catch or kill them--as he has to the trees, or the turf, or any
other natural produce. The law protects him in this right, in so
far, that by complying with certain statutory regulations--one of
which relates to revenue, and requires from him a qualification to
sport, and another prescribes a period or rotation for shooting--he
may, within his own boundaries, take every animal which he meets
with, and may also prevent any stranger from interfering with or
encroaching upon that privilege. We do not now speak of penalties
for which the intruder may be liable. That is a separate question;
at present we confine ourselves to the abstract question of right.

But neither game nor natural produce constitute that thing called
RENT, without which, since the days of forays have gone by, a
landowner cannot live. Accordingly, he proposes to let a certain
portion of his domains to a farmer, whose business is to cultivate
the soil, and to make it profitable. He does so; and unless a
distinct reservation is made to the contrary, the right to take
the game upon the farm so let, passes to the tenant, and can be
exercised by him irrespective of the wish of the landlord. If, on
the contrary, the landlord refuses to part with that right which is
primarily vested in his person, and which, of course, he is at full
liberty either to reserve or surrender, the proposing tenant must
take that circumstance into consideration in his offer of rent for
the farm. The game then becomes as much a matter of calculation as
the nature of the soil, the necessity of drainage, or the peculiar
climate of the farm. The tenant must be guided by the principles
of ordinary prudence, and make such a deduction from his offer as
he considers will compensate him for the loss which his crop may
sustain through the agency of the game. If he neglects to do this,
he has no reasonable ground for murmuring--if he does it, he is
perfectly safe. Such is the plain simple nature of the case, from
which one would think it difficult to extract any clamant grievance,
at least between the landlord and the tenant. No doubt the tenantry
of the country individually and generally may, if they please,
insist in all cases on a complete surrender of the game; and if
they do, it is far more than possible that their desire will be
universally complied with. But, then, they will have to pay higher
rents. The landlord is no gainer in respect of game, nay, he is a
direct loser; for the fact of his preservation and reserval of it
reduces the amount of rent which he otherwise would receive, and,
besides this, he is at much expense in preserving. Game is his hobby
which he insists upon retaining: he does so, and he actually pays
for it. Therefore, when a tenant states that he has lost so much in
a particular year in consequence of the game upon his farm, that
statement must be understood with a qualification. His crop may
indeed have suffered to a certain extent; but then he has been paid
for that deterioration already, the payment being the difference
of rent, fixed between him and the landlord for the occupation of
a game farm, less than what he would have offered for it had there
been no game there, or had the right to kill it been conceded.

"O but," says Mr Bright, or some other of the _soi-disant_ friends
of the farmer, "there is an immense competition for land, and
the farmers will not make bargains!" And whose fault is that? We
recollect certain apothegms rather popular a short while ago, about
buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market, and so
forth, and we have always understood that the real price of an
article is determined by the demand for it. If any farm is put up
to auction under certain conditions, there is no hardship whatever
in exacting the rent from the highest successful competitor.
The reservation of the right to kill game is as competent to
the proprietor as the fixing the rotation of the crops, or the
conditions against scourging the soil. The landlord, when he lets a
farm, does not by any means, as Mr Bright and his legal coadjutor
appear to suppose, abandon it altogether to the free use of the
tenant. He must of necessity make conditions, because he still
retains his primary interest in the soil; and if these were not
made, the land would in all probability be returned to him after
the expiry of the lease, utterly unprofitable and exhausted, it
being the clear interest of the tenant to take as much out of it
as possible during the currency of his occupation. Now all these
conditions are perfectly well known to the competing farmer, and if
he is not inclined to assent to them, he need not make an offer for
the land. Does Mr Bright mean to assert that the competition for
land is so great, that the tenant-farmers are absolutely offering
more than the subjects which they lease are worth? If so, the most
gullible person on the face of this very gullible earth would not
believe him. To aver that any body of men in this country, are
wilfully and avowedly carrying on a trade or profession at a certain
loss, is to utter an absurdity so gross as to be utterly unworth a
refutation. And if Mr Bright does not mean this, we shall thank him
to explain how the competition for land is a practical grievance to
the farmer.

Nevertheless, we are far from maintaining that the system of strict
game preservation is either wise or creditable, and we shall state
our arguments to the contrary hereafter. At present let us proceed
with Mr Welford.

About one-half, or even more, of this volume, is occupied with
evidence to prove that the preservation of game upon an estate is
more or less detrimental to the crops. Who denies it? Pheasants,
though they may feed a great deal upon wild seeds and insects,
are unquestionably fond of corn--so are partridges; and hares
and rabbits have too good taste to avoid a field of clover or of
turnips. And shall this--says Mr Bright, having recourse to a late
rhetoric--shall this be permitted in a Christian or a civilised
country? Are there not thousands of poor to whom that grain, wasted
upon mere vermin, would be precious? Are our aristocracy so selfish
as to prefer the encouragement of brute animals to the lives of
their fellow men? &c. &c; to all of which eloquent bursts the pious
Mr Welford subjoins his ditto and Amen. For our own part, we can
see no reason why hares, and pheasants, and partridges, should not
be fed as well as Quakers. While living they are undoubtedly more
graceful creatures, when dead they are infinitely more valuable.
When removed from this scene of transitory trouble, Mr Bright,
except in an Owhyhean market, would fetch a less price than an
ordinary rabbit. Our taste may be peculiar, but we would far rather
see half-a-dozen pretty leverets at play in a pasture field of an
evening, than as many hulking members of the Anti-Corn-Law League
performing a ponderous saraband. Vermin indeed! Did Mr Bright ever
see a Red-deer? We shrewdly suspect not; and if, peradventure, he
were to fall in with the monarch of the wilderness in the rutting
season, somewhere about the back of Schehallion or the skirts of
the moor of Rannoch, there would be a yell loud enough to startle
the cattle on a thousand hills, and a rapid disparition of the
drab- integuments into the bosom of a treacherous peat-bog.
But a Red-deer, too, will eat corn, and often of a moonlight night
his antlers may be seen waving in the crofts of the upland tenant;
therefore, according to Mr Bright, he too is vermin, and must be
exterminated accordingly.

And this brings us to Mr Welford's grand remedy, which is abundantly
apparent from the notes and commentaries interspersed throughout the
volume. This gentleman, in the plenitude of his consideration for
the well-being of his country, is deliberately of opinion that game
should be exterminated altogether! Here is a bloody-minded fellow
for you with a vengeance!

    "What! all my pretty chickens and their dam!
     Did you say all?"

What! shall not a single hare, or pheasant, or partridge, or
plover, or even a solitary grouse, be spared from the swoop of
this destroying kite? Not one. Richard Griffiths Welford, Esquire,
Barrister-at-law, has undertaken to rouse the nation from its
deadly trance. Yet a few years, and no more shall the crow of the
gorcock be heard on the purple heath, or the belling of the deer
in the forest, or the call of the landrail in the field. No longer
shall we watch at evening the roe gliding from the thicket, or the
hare dancing across the lawn. They have committed a crime in a
free-tradeland--battened incontinently upon corn and turnips--and,
therefore, they must all die! Grain, although our ports are to be
opened, has now become a sacred thing, and is henceforward to be
dedicated to the use of man alone. Therefore we are not without
apprehension that the sparrows must die too, and the thrushes and
blackbirds--for they make sad havoc in our dear utilitarian's
garden--and the larks, and the rooks, and the pigeons. Voiceless now
must be our groves in the green livery of spring. There shall be no
more chirping, or twittering, or philandering among the branches--no
cooing or amorous dalliance, or pairing on the once happy eve of
St Valentine. All the _fauna_ of Britain--all the melodists of the
woods--must die! In one vast pie must they be baked, covered in
with a monumental crust of triumphant flour, through which their
little claws may appear supplicantly peering upwards, as if to
implore some mercy for the surviving stragglers of their race.
But stragglers there cannot be many. Timber, according to our
patriotic Welford, is, "next to game, the farmer's chief enemy!"
What miserable idiots our infatuated ancestors must have been! They
thought that by planting they were conferring a boon upon their
country; and in Scotland in particular they strove most anxiously to
redeem the national reproach. But they were utterly wrong: Welford
has said it. Timber is a nuisance--a sort of vegetable vermin, we
suppose--so down must go Dodona and her oaks; and the pride of the
forests be laid for ever low. Nothing in all broad England--and
we fear also with us--must hereafter overtop the fields of wheat
except the hedgerows! Timber is inimical to the farmer; therefore,
free be the winds to blow from the German ocean to the Atlantic,
without encountering the resistance of a single forest--no more
tossing of the branches or swaying of the stems--or any thing save
the steeples, fast falling in an age of reason into decay, the bulk
of some monstrous workhouse, as dingy and cheerless as a prison, and
the pert myriads of chimney-stalks of the League belching forth, in
the face of heaven, their columns of smoke and of pollution! Happy
England, when these things shall come to pass, and not a tree or a
bush be left as a shelter for the universal vermin! No--not quite
universal, for a respite will doubtless be given to the persecuted
races of the badger, the hedgehog, the polecat, the weasel, and the
stoat. All these are egg-eaters or game-consumers, and so long as
they keep to the hedgerows and assist in the work of extermination,
they will not only be spared but encouraged. Let them, however,
beware. So soon as the last egg of the last English partridge is
sucked, and the last of the rabbits turned over in convulsive
throes, with the teeth of a fierce little devil inextricably
fastened in its jugular--so soon as the rage of hunger drives the
present Pariahs of the preserve to the hen-roost--human forbearance
is at an end, and their fate also is sealed. The hen-harrier and
the sparrowhawk, so long as they quarter the fields, pounce upon
the imprudent robin, or strike down the lark while caroling upon
the verge of the cloud, will be considered in our new state of
society, as sacred animals as the Ibis. But let them, after having
fulfilled their mission, deviate from the integrity of their ways,
and come down upon a single ginger-pile, peeping his dirty way over
the shards of a midden, towards his scrauching and be-draggled
mother--and the race will be instantly proscribed. A few years more,
and, according to the system of Messrs Bright and Welford, not a
single wild animal--could we not also get rid of the insects?--will
be found within the confines of Great Britain, except the gulls who
live principally upon fish; and possibly, should there be a scarcity
of herring, it may be advisable to exterminate them also.

Here is a pretty state of matters! First, there is to be no more
sporting. That, of course, in the eyes of Messrs Bright and Welford,
who know as much about shooting as they do of trigonometry, is a
very minor consideration; but even there we take leave to dissent.
Gouty and frail as we are, we have yet a strong natural appetite for
the moors, and we shall wrestle to the last for our privilege with
the sturdiest broadbrim in Quakerdom. Our boys shall be bred as we
were, with their foot upon the heather, in the manliest and most
exhilarating of all pastimes; and that because we wish to see them
brought up as Christians and gentlemen, not as puzzle-pated sceptics
or narrow-minded utilitarian theorists. We desire to see them
attain their full development, both of mind and body--to acquire a
kindly and a keen relish for nature--to love their sovereign and
their country--to despise all chicanery and deceit--and to know
and respect the high-minded peasantry and poor of their native
land. We have no idea that they shall be confined in their exercise
or their sports to the public highway. We do not look upon this
earth or island as made solely to produce corn for the supply of
Mr Bright and his forced population. We wish that the youth of our
country should be taught that God has created other beings besides
the master and the mechanic--that the beasts of the field and the
fowls of the air have a value in their Maker's eye, and that man
has a commisson to use them, but not to exterminate and destroy.
"My opinion is," says Mr Bright, speaking with a slight disregard
to grammar, of the sporting propensities of the landed gentry--"my
opinion is, that there are other pursuits which it will better
become them to follow, and which it will be a thousand times better
for the country if they turn their attention to them." For Mr
Bright's opinion, we have not the smallest shadow of respect. We can
well believe that, personally, he has not the slightest inclination
to participate in the sports of the field. We cannot for a moment
imagine him in connexion with a hunting-field, or toiling over
moor or mountain in pursuit of his game, or up to his waist in a
roaring river with a twenty-pound salmon on his line, making its
direct way for the cataract. In all and each of these situations we
are convinced that he would be utterly misplaced. We can conceive
him, and no doubt he is, much at home in the superintendence of the
gloomy factory--in the centre of a hecatomb of pale human beings,
who toil on day and night in that close and stifling atmosphere, as
ceaselessly and almost as mechanically as the wheels which drone and
whistle and clank above and around them--in the midst of his stores
of calico, and cotton, and corduroy--in the midnight councils of the
grasping League, or the front of a degraded hustings. But from none
of these situations whatever, has he any right to dictate to the
gentlemen of Britain what they should do, or what they should leave
undone. He has neither an eye for nature, nor a heart to participate
in rural amusements. And a very nice place an English manor-house
would be under his peculiar superintendence and the operation of the
new regime! In the morning we should meet, ladies and gentlemen, in
the breakfast-room, all devoutly intent upon the active demolition
of the muffins. Tea and coffee there are in abundance--but not good,
for the first has the flavour of the hedges, and the second reminds
us villanously of Hunt's roasted corn. There are eggs, however, and
on the sideboard rest a large round of beef, with a thick margin
of rancid yellow fat, and a ham which is literal hog's-lard. There
are no fish. The trouting stream has been turned from its natural
course to move machinery, and now rolls to the shrinking sea, not
in native silver, but in alternate currents of indigo, ochre, or
cochineal, according to the hue most in request for the moment at
the neighbouring dye-work. In vain you look about for grouse-pie,
cold partridge, snipe, or pheasant. You might as well ask for a
limb of the ichthyosaurus as for a wing of these perished animals.
Deuce a creature is there in the room except bipeds, and they are
all of the manufacturing breed. You recollect the days of old,
when your entry into the breakfast-room used to be affectionately
welcomed by terrier, setter, and spaniel, and you wonder what has
become of these ancient inmates of the family. On inquiry you are
informed, that--being non-productive animals, and mere consumers of
food which ought to be reserved for the use of man alone--they have
one and all of them been put to death: and your host points rather
complacently to the effigy of old Ponto, who has been stuffed by
way of a specimen of an extinct species, and who now glares at you
with glassy eyes from beneath the shelter of the mahogany sideboard.
Tired of the conversation, which is principally directed towards
the working of the new tariff, the last improvement in printed
calicoes, and the prices of some kind of stock which appears to
fluctuate as unaccountably as the barometer, you rise from table
and move towards the window in hopes of a pleasant prospect. You
have it. The old park, which used to contain some of the finest
trees in Britain--oaks of the Boscobel order, and elms that were
the boast of the country--is now as bare as the palm of your hand,
and broken up into potato allotments. The shrubbery and flower
parterres, with their elegant terrace vases and light wire fences,
have disappeared. There is not a bush beyond a few barberries,
evidently intended for detestable jam, nor a flower, except some
chamomiles, which may be infused into a medicinal beverage, and a
dozen great stringy coarse-looking rhubarbs, enough to give you the
dyspepsia, if you merely imagine them in a tart. At the bottom
of the <DW72> lies the stream whereof we have spoken already, not
sinuous or fringed with alders as of yore; but straight as an arrow,
and fashioned into the semblance of a canal. It is spanned on the
part which is directly in front of the windows, by a bridge on the
skew principle, the property of a railway company; and at the moment
you are gazing on the landscape in a sort of admiring trance, an
enormous train of coal and coke waggons comes rushing by, and a
great blast of smoke and steam rolling past the house, obscures for
a moment the utilitarian beauty of the scene. That dissipated, you
observe on the other side of the canal several staring red brick
buildings, with huge chimney-stalks stinking in the fresh, frosty
morning air. These are the factories of your host, the source of
his enviable wealth; and yonder dirty village which you see about
half a mile to the right, with its squab Unitarian lecture room,
is the abode of his honest artisans. Nevertheless, you see nobody
stirring about. How should you? The whole population is comfortably
housed, for the next twelve hours at least, within brick, and
assisting the machinery to do its work. No idleness now in England.
Had you, indeed, risen about five or six in the morning, when the
clatter of a sullen bell roused you from your dreams of Jemima, you
might have seen some scores of lanterns meandering like glow-worms
along the miry road which leads from the village to the factories,
until absorbed within their early jaws. That is the appointed time
for the daily emigration, and until all the taskwork is done, no
straggling whatever is permitted. The furthest object in view is a
parallelogram Bastile on the summit of a hill, once wooded to the
top, and well known to the rustics as the place where the fullest
nuts and the richest May-flowers might be gathered, but now in
turnips, and you are told that the edifice is the Union Workhouse.

Breakfast over, you begin to consider how you shall fill up the
dreary vacuum which still yawns between you and dinner. Of course
you cannot shoot, unless you are inclined to take a day at the ducks
and geese, which would be rather an expensive amusement. You covet
a ride, and propose a scamper across the country. Our dear sir, it
is as much as your life is worth! What with canals and viaducts,
and railways and hedgerows, you could not get over a mile without
either being plunged into water, or knocked down by tow ropes, or
run into by locomotives, or pitched from embankments, or impaled
alive, or slain by a stroke of electricity from some telegraphic
conductor! Recollect that we are not now living in the days of
steeple-chasing. Then as to horses, are you not aware that our
host keeps only two--and fine sleek, sturdy Flanders brutes they
are--for the purpose of conveying Mrs Bobbins and her progeny to the
meeting-house? There is no earthly occasion for any more expensive
stud. The railway station is just a quarter of a mile from the door,
and Eclipse himself could never match our new locomotives for speed.
But you may have a drive if you please, and welcome. Where shall we
go to? There used to be a fine waterfall at an easy distance, with
rocks, and turf, and wildflowers, and all that sort of thing; and
though the season is a little advanced, we might still make shift
under the hazels and the hollies; could we not invite the ladies
to accompany us, and extemporise a pic-nic? Our excellent friend!
that waterfall exists no longer. It was a mere useless waste; has
been blown up with gun-cotton; and the glen below it turned into a
reservoir for the supply of a manufacturing town. The hazels are
all down, and the hollies pounded into birdlime. And that fine old
baronial residence, where there were such exquisite Claudes and
Ruysdaels? Oh! that estate was bought by Mr Smalt the eminent dyer,
from the trustees of the late Lord--the old mansion has been pulled
down, a cottage _ornee_ built in its place, and the pictures were
long ago transferred to the National Gallery. And is there nothing
at all worth seeing in the county? Oh yes! There is Tweel's new
process for making silk out of sow's ears, and Bottomson's clothing
mills, where you see raw wool put into one end of the machinery,
and issue from the other in the shape of ready-made breeches. Then
a Socialist lecture on the sin and consequences of matrimony will
be delivered in the market-town at two o'clock precisely, by Miss
Lewdlaw--quite a lady, I assure you--whom you will afterwards meet
at dinner. Or you may, if you please, attend the meeting of the
Society for the Propagation of a Natural Religion, at which the
Rev. Mr Scampson will preside; or you may go down to the factories,
or any where else you please, except the village, for there is a
great deal of typhus fever in it, and we are a little apprehensive
for the children! You decline these tempting offers, and resolve to
spend the morning in the house. Is there a billiard room? How can
you possibly suppose it? Time, sir, is money; and money is not to
be made by knocking about ivory balls. But there is the library if
you should like to study, and plenty material within it. Delighted
at the prospect of passing some congenial though solitary hours, you
enter the apartment, and, disregarding the models upon the table,
which are intended to elucidate the silk and sow's-ear process,
you ransack the book-shelves for some of your ancient favourites.
But in vain you will search either for Shakspeare or Scott, Milton
or Fielding, Jeremy Taylor or Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine: all
these are proscribed antiquities. Instead of these you will find
Essays by Hampden, junior, and Ethics by Thistlewood, senior,
Paine's Age of Reason, Jeremy Bentham's Treatises, Infanticide
Vindicated, by Herod Virginius Cackell, Esq., Member of the Literary
Institute of Owenstown, Cobden's Speeches, Wheal's Exposition of
the Billy-roller, Grubb's Practical Deist, Welford's Influences of
the Game Laws, and much more such profitable reading. What would
you not give for a volume by Willison Glass! Disgusted with this
literary miscellany, you chuck the Practical Deist into the fire,
and walk up-stairs to rejoin the ladies. You find them in the
drawing-room hard at work upon cross-stitch and pincushions for
the great Bazar which is shortly to be opened under the auspices
of the Anti-Christian League, and you feel for a moment like an
intruder. But Emily Bobbins, a nice girl, who will have thirty
thousand pounds when her venerated sire is conveyed to the Mausoleum
of the Bobbinses, and who has at this present moment a very pretty
face, trips up and asks you for a contribution to her yearly album.
Yearly?--the phrase is an odd one, and you crave explanation.
The blooming virgin informs you that she edits an annual volume,
popular in certain circles, for the Society for the Abolition of
all Criminal Punishment, she being a corresponding Member; and she
presents you with last year's compilation. You open the work, and
find some literary _bijouterie_ by the disciples of the earnest
school, poems on the go-a-head principle, and tales under such
captivating titles as the Virtuous Poacher, Theresa, or the Heroine
of the Workhouse, and Walter Truck, an Easy Way with the Mechanic.
There are also sundry political fragments by the deep-thinkers of
the age, from which you discover that Regicide is the simplest cure
for "Flunkeyism, Baseness, and Unveracity," and that the soundest
philosophers of the world are two gentlemen, rejoicing in the
exotic names of Sauerteig and Teufelsdroeckh. You, being a believer
in the Book of Common Prayer, decline to add your contribution
to the Miscellany, and make the best of your way from the house
for a stroll upon the public highway. For some hours you meander
through the mud, between rows of stiff hedges; not a stage-coach,
nor even a buggy is to be seen. You sigh for the old green lanes
and shady places which have now disappeared for ever, and you begin
to doubt whether, after all, regenerated England is the happiest
country of the universe. It appears an absolute desert. At a turn
of a road you come in sight of a solitary venerable crow--the sole
surviving specimen of his race still extant in the county--whose
life is rendered bitter by a system of unceasing persecution. He
mistakes you for Mr Richard Griffiths Welford, and, with a caw of
terror, takes flight across a Zahara of Swedish turnips. On your
way home you meet with three miserable children who are picking the
few unwithered leaves from the hedges. You cross-question them,
and ascertain that they receive a salary of twopence a-day from
the owner of the truck-shop at the factory, in return for their
botanical collections. You think of China, with a strong conviction
of the propriety of becoming a Mandarin.

At dinner you are seated betwixt Miss Lewdlaw and the Rev. Mr
Scampson. The appearance of the lady convinces you that she has
excellent reasons for her deep-rooted hatred of matrimony--for
what serpent (in his senses) would have tempted that dropsical
Eve? The gentleman is a bold, sensual-lipped, pimply individual,
attired in a rusty suit of black, the very picture of a brutal
Boanerges. He snorts during his repast, clutches with his huge red
fingers, whereof the nails are absolute ebony, at every dish within
his reach, and is constantly shouting for a dram. The dinner is a
plentiful one, but ill-cooked and worse served; and the wines are
simply execrable. Very drearily lags the time until the ladies
rise to retire, a movement which is greeted by Mr Scampson with
a coarse joke and a vulgar chuckle. Then begin the sweets of the
evening. Old Bobbins draws your especial attention to his curious
old free-trade port, at eighteen shillings the dozen; and very
curious, upon practical examination, you will find it. After three
glasses, you begin to suspect that you have swallowed a live crab
unawares, and you gladly second Mr Scampson in his motion for
something hot. The conversation then becomes political, and, to a
certain extent, religious. Bobbins, who has a brother in Parliament,
is vehement in his support of the Twenty Hours' Labour Bill, and
insists upon the necessity of a measure for effectually coercing
apprentices. Bugsley, his opposite neighbour, can talk of nothing
but stock and yarn. But Scampson, in right of his calling, takes
the lion's share of the conversation. He denounces the Church,
not yet dis-established--hopes to see the day when every Bishop
upon the Bench shall be brought to the block--and stigmatises the
Universities as the nests of bigotry and intolerance. With many
oaths, he declares his conviction that Robespierre was a sensible
fellow--and as he waxes more furious over each successive tumbler,
you wisely think that there may be some danger in contradicting so
virulent a champion, and steal from the room at the first convenient
opportunity. In the drawing-room you find Miss Lewdlaw descanting
upon her favourite theories. She is expounding to Emily Bobbins her
rights as a socialist and a woman, and illustrating her lecture by
some quotations from the works of Aurora Dudevant. The sweet girl,
evidently under the magnetic influence of her preceptress, regards
you with a humid eye and flushed cheek as you enter; but having no
fancy to approach the charmed circle of the Lewdlaw, you keep at
the other end of the room, and amuse yourself with an illustrated
copy of Jack Sheppard. In a short time, Bobbins, Bugsley, and
Scampson, the last partially inebriated, make their appearance; and
an animated erotic dialogue ensues between the gentleman in dubious
orders, and the disciple of Mary Wolstonecraft. You begin to feel
uncomfortable, and as Bugsley is now snoring, and Bobbins attempting
to convince his helpmate of the propriety of more brandy and water,
you desert the drawing-room, bolt up-stairs, pack your portmanteau,
and go to bed with a firm resolution to start next morning by the
earliest train; and as soon as possible to ascertain whether Jemima
will consent to accompany you to Canada or Australia, or some other
uncivilised part of the world where trees grow, waters run, and
animals exist as nature has decreed, and where the creed of the
socialist and jargon of the factory are fortunately detested or
unknown.

Such, gentle reader, is the England which the patriots of the Bright
school are desirous to behold; and such it may become if we meekly
and basely yield to revolutionary innovations, and conciliate every
demagogue by adopting his favourite nostrum. We have certainly been
digressing a good deal further than is our wont; but we trust you
will not altogether disapprove of our expedition to the new Utopia.
We hope that your present, and a great many future Christmasses may
be spent more pleasantly; and that, in your day at least, peace may
never be effected at the expense of a virtual solitude. Let us now
consider what alterations may properly and humanely be made upon the
present existing Game laws.

On the whole, we are inclined to agree with the resolutions adopted
by the committee. These appear to recognise the principle of a
qualified right of property in game, and that this property is now
vested in the _occupier_ of the soil. By this rule which may if
necessary be declared by enactment, the tenant has at all times
the power to secure the game to himself, unless he chooses to part
with that right by special bargain. It is of course inconsistent
with this qualified right of property, that any person should
kill game upon lands which he is not privileged to enter; and the
committee are therefore of opinion, that the violation of that
right should still continue to be visited with legal penalties. But
they think--and in this we most cordially agree with them--that
considerable alteration should be made in the present penal code,
and that, in particular, cumulative penalties for poaching should
be abolished. It is monstrous that such penalties, to which the
poorer classes in this country are most peculiarly liable, should
be any longer allowed to exist, while the offence which these are
intended to punish is in every proper sense a single one. We are
inclined to get rid of every difficulty on this head by an immediate
discontinuance of the certificates. The amount of revenue drawn from
these is really insignificant, and in many cases it must stand in
the way of a fair exercise of his privilege by the humbler occupant
of the soil. If a poor upland crofter, who rents an acre or two from
a humane landlord, and who has laid out part of it in a garden,
should chance to see, of a clear frosty night, a hare insinuate
herself through the fence, and demolish his winter greens--it is
absolute tyranny to maintain, that he may not reach down the old
rusty fowling-piece from the chimney, take a steady vizzy at puss,
and tumble her over in the very act of her delinquency, without
having previously paid over for the use of her gracious Majesty
some four pounds odds; or otherwise to be liable in a penalty
of twenty pounds, with the pleasant alternative of six months'
imprisonment! In such a case as this the man is not sporting; he
is merely protecting his own, is fairly entitled to convert his
enemy into wholesome soup, and should be allowed to do so with a
conscience void of offence towards God or man. We must have no state
restrictions or qualifications to a right of property which may be
enjoyed by the smallest cotter, and no protective laws to debar him
from the exercise of his principle. And therefore it is that we
advocate the immediate abolition of the certificate.

What the remaining penalty should be is matter for serious
consideration. It appears evident that the common law of redress
is not sufficient. Game is at best but a qualified property; for
your interest in it ceases the moment that it leaves your land;
but still you _have_ an interest, may be a considerable pecuniary
loser by its infringement, and therefore you are entitled to demand
an adequate protection. But then it is hardly possible, when we
consider what human nature with all its powerful instincts is, to
look upon poaching in precisely the same light with theft. By no
process of mental ratiocination can you make a sheep out of a hare.
You did not buy the creature, it is doubtful whether you bred it,
and in five minutes more it may be your neighbour's property, and
that of its own accord. You cannot even reclaim it, though born in
your private hutch. Now this is obviously a very slippery kind of
property; and the poor man--who knows these facts quite as well
as the rich, and who is moreover cursed with a craving stomach, a
large family, and a strong appetite for roast--is by no means to be
considered, morally or equitably, in the same light with the ruffian
who commits a burglary for the sake of your money, or carries away
your sheep from the fold. It ought to be, if it is not, a principle
in British law, that the temptation should be considered before
adjudging upon the particular offence. The schoolboy--whose natural
propensity for fruit has been roused by the sight of some far too
tempting pippins, and who, in consequence, has undertaken the
hazard of a midnight foray--is, if detected in the act, subjected to
no further penalty than a pecuniary mulct or a thrashing, especially
if his parents belong to the more respectable classes of society.
And yet this is a theft as decided and more inexcusable, than if the
nameless progeny of a vagrant should, hunger-urged, filch a turnip
or two from a field, and be pounced upon by some heartless farmer,
who considers that he is discharging every heavenly and earthly duty
if he pays his rent and taxes with unscrupulous punctuality. It is
a crying injustice that any trifling piccadillo on the part of the
poor or their children, should be treated with greater severity than
is used in the case of the rich. This is neither an equitable nor a
Christian rule. We have no right to subject the lowest of the human
family to a contamination from which we would shrink to expose the
highest; and the true sense of justice and of charity, which, after
all, we believe to be deeply implanted in the British heart, will,
we trust, before long, spare us the continual repetition of class
Pariahs of infant years brought forward in small courts of justice
for no other apparent reason than to prove, that our laws care more
leniently for the rich than they do for the offspring of the poor.

While, therefore, we consider it just that game should be protected
otherwise than by the law of trespass, we would not have the
penalty made, in isolated cases, a harsh one. A trespass in pursuit
of game should, we think, be punished in the first instance by a
fine, not so high as to leave the labourer no other alternative
than the jail, or so low as to make the payment of it a matter of
no importance. Let Giles, who has intromitted with a pheasant, be
mulcted in a week's wages, and let him, at the same time, distinctly
understand the nature and the end of the career in which he has
made the incipient step. Show him that an offence, however venial,
becomes materially aggravated by repetition; for it then assumes
the character of a daring and wilful defiance of the laws of the
realm. For the second of offence mulct him still, but higher, and
let the warning be more solemnly repeated. These penalties might be
inflicted by a single justice of the peace. But if Giles offends
a third time, his case becomes far more serious, and he should be
remitted to a higher tribunal. It is now almost clear that he has
become a confirmed poacher, and determined breaker of the laws--it
is more than likely that money is his object. Leniency has been
tried without success, and it is now necessary to show him that the
law will not be braved with impunity. Three months' imprisonment,
with hard labour, should be inflicted for the purpose of reclaiming
him; and if, after emerging from prison, he should again offend, let
him forthwith be removed from the country.

Some squeamish people may object to our last proposal as severe.
We do not think it so. The original nature of the offence has
become entirely changed; for it must be allowed on all hands,
that habitual breach of the laws is a very different thing from
a casual effraction. It would be cruelty to transport an urchin
for the first handkerchief he has stolen; but after his fourth
offence, that punishment becomes an actual mercy. Nor should the
moral effect produced by the residence of a determined poacher in
any neighbourhood be overlooked. A poacher can rarely carry on
his illicit trade without assistance: he entices boys by offering
them a share in his gains, introduces them to the beer and the gin
shop, and thus they are corrupted for life. It is sheer nonsense to
say that poaching does not lead to other crimes. It leads in the
first instance to idleness, which we know to be the parent of all
crime; and it rapidly wears away all finer sense of the distinction
between _meum_ and _tuum_. From poacher the transition to smuggler
is rapid and easy, and your smuggler is usually a desperado. With
all deference to Mr Welford, his conclusion, that poaching should be
prevented by the entire extermination of game, is a most pitiable
instance of calm imperturbable imbecility. He might just as well say
that the only means of preventing theft is the total destruction of
property, and the true remedy for murder the annihilation of the
human race.

We agree also with the committee, that some distinction must
be made between cases of simple poaching, and those which are
perpetrated by armed and daring gangs. To these banditti almost
every instance of assault and murder connected with poaching is
traceable, and the sooner such fellows are shipped off to hunt
kangaroos in Australia the better. But we think that such penalties
as we have indicated above, would in most cases act as a practical
detention from this offence, and would certainly remove all ground
for complaint against the unnecessary severity of the law.

With regard to the destruction of crops by game, especially when
caused by the preserves of a neighbouring proprietor, the committee
seems to have been rather at a loss to deal. And there is certainly
a good deal of difficulty in the matter. For on the one hand, the
game, while committing the depredation, is clearly not the property
of the preserver, and may of course be killed by the party to whose
ground it passes: on the other hand, it usually returns to the
preserve after all the damage has been done. This seems to be one
of the few instances in which the law can afford no remedy. The
neighbouring farmer may indeed either shoot in person, or let the
right of shooting to another; and in most cases he has the power to
do so--for if his own landlord is also a preserver, it is not likely
that the damage will be aggravated--and he has taken his farm in the
full knowledge of the consequences of game preservation. Still there
must always remain an evil, however partial, and this leads us to
address a few words to the general body of the game-preservers.

Gentlemen, some of you are not altogether without fault in this
matter. You have given a handle to accusations, which your
enemies--and they are the enemies also of the true interests of the
country--have been eager and zealous in using. You have pushed your
privileges too far, and, if you do not take care, you will raise a
storm which it may be very difficult to allay. What, in the name of
common sense, is the use of this excessive preserving? You are not
blamed, nor are you blamable, for reserving the right of sporting
in your own properties to yourselves; but why make your game such
utterly sacred animals? Why encourage their over-increase to such a
degree as must naturally injure yourselves by curtailing your rent;
and which, undoubtedly, whatever be his bargain, must irritate the
farmer, and lessen that harmony and good-will which ought to exist
betwixt you both? Is it for sport you do these things? If so, your
definition of sport must be naturally different from ours. The
natural instinct of the hunter, which is implanted in the heart
of man, is in some respects a noble one. He does not, even in a
savage state, pursue his game, like a wild beast of prey, merely
for the sake of his appetite--he has a joy in the strong excitement
and varied incidents of the chase. The wild Indian and the Norman
disciple of St Hubert, alike considered it a science; and so it
is even now to us who follow our pastime upon the mountains, and
who must learn to be as wary and alert as the creatures which we
seek to kill. The mere skill of the marksman has little to do with
the real enjoyment of sport. That may be as well exhibited upon a
target as upon a living object, and surely there is no pleasure
at all in the mere wanton destruction of life. The true sportsman
takes delight in the sagacity and steadiness of his dogs--in seeking
for the different wild animals each in its peculiar haunt--and his
relish is all the keener for the difficulty and uncertainty of his
pursuit. Such at least is our idea of sport, and we should know
something about it, having carried a gun almost as long as we can
remember. But it is possible we may be getting antiquated in our
notions. Two months ago we took occasion to make some remarks upon
the modern murders on the moors, and we are glad to observe that our
humane doctrine has been received with almost general acquiescence.
We must now look to the doings at the Manor House, at which, Heaven
be praised, we never have assisted; but the bruit thereof has gone
abroad, and we believe the tidings to be true.

We have heard of game preserved over many thousands of acres, not
waste, but yellow corn-land, with many an intervening belt of
noble wood and copse, until the ground seems actually alive with
the number of its animal occupants. The large, squat, sleek hares
lie couched in every furrow; each thistle-tuft has its lurking
rabbit; and ceaseless at evening is the crow of the purple-necked
pheasant from the gorse. The crops ripen, and are gathered in,
not so plentifully as the richness of the land would warrant, but
still strong and heavy. The partridges are now seen running in the
stubble-fields, or sunning themselves on some pleasant bank, so
secure that they hardly will take the trouble to fly away as you
approach, but generally slip through a hedge, and lie down upon the
other side. And no wonder; for not only has no gun been fired over
the whole extensive domain, though the autumn is now well advanced;
but a cordon of gamekeepers extends along the whole skirts of the
estate, and neither lurcher nor poacher can manage to effect an
entrance. Within ten minutes after they had set foot within the
guarded territory, the first would be sprawling upon his back in the
agonies of death, and the second on his way to the nearest justice
of peace, with two pairs of knuckles uncomfortably lodged within
the innermost folds of his neckcloth. The proprietor, a middle-aged
gentleman of sedentary habits, does not, in all probability, care
much about sporting. If he does, he rents a moor in Scotland,
where he amuses himself until well on in October, and then feels
less disposed for a tamer and a heavier sport. But in November he
expects, after his ancient hospitable fashion, to have a select
party at the manor-house, and he is desirous of affording them
amusement. They arrive, to the number, perhaps, of a dozen males,
some of then persons of an elevated rank, or of high political
connexion. There is considerable commotion on the estate. The staff
of upper and under keepers assemble with a large train of beaters
before the baronial gateway. They bring with them neither pointers
nor setters--these old companions of the sportsman are useless in
a battue; but there are some retrievers in the leash, and a few
well-broken spaniels. It is quite a scene for Landseer--that antique
portico, with the group before it, and the gay and sloping uplands
illuminated by a clear winter's sun. The guests sally forth, all
mirth and spirits, and the whole party proceed to an appointed
cover. Then begins the massacre. There is a shouting and rustling of
beaters: at every step the gorgeous pheasant whirs from the bush, or
the partridge glances slopingly through the trees, or the woodcock
wings his way on scared and noiseless pinion. Rabbits by the hundred
are scudding distractedly from one pile of brushwood to another.
Loud cries of "Mark!" are heard on every side, and at each shout
there is the explosion of a fowling-piece. No time now to stop and
load. The keeper behind you is always ready with a spare gun. How
he manages to cram in the powder and shot so quickly is an absolute
matter of marvel; for you let fly at every thing, and have lost all
regard to the ordinary calculations of distance. You had better take
care of yourself, however, for you are getting into a thicket, and
neither Sir Robert, who is on your right, nor the Marquis, who is
your left-hand neighbour, are remarkable for extra caution, and the
Baronet, in particular, is short-sighted. We don't quite like the
appearance of that hare which is doubling back. You had better try
to stop her before she reaches that vista in the wood. Bang!--you
miss, and, at the same moment, a charge of number five, from the
weapon of the Vavasour, takes effect upon the corduroys of your
thigh, and, though the wound is but skin-deep, makes you dance an
extempore fandango.

And so you go on from cover to cover, for five successive hours,
through this rural poultry-yard, slaying, and, what is worse,
wounding without slaying, beyond all ordinary calculation. You
have had a good day's amusement, have you? Our dear sir, in the
estimation of any sensible man or thorough sportsman, you might as
well have been amusing yourself with a ride in the heart of Falkirk
Tryst, or assisting at one of those German Jagds, where the deer
are driven into inclosures, and shot down to the music of lute,
harp, cymbal, dulcimer, sackbut, and psaltery. In fact, between
ourselves, it is not a thing to boast of, and the amusement is, to
say the least of it, an expensive one. For the sake of giving you,
and the Marquis, and Sir Robert, and a few more, two or three days'
sport, your host has sacrificed a great part of the legitimate
rental of his estate--has maintained, from one end of the year to
the other, all those personages in fustian and moleskin--and has,
moreover, made his tenantry sulky. Do you think the price paid is in
any way compensated by the value received? Of course not. You are a
man of sense, and therefore, for the future, we trust that you will
set your face decidedly against the battue system: shoot yourself,
as a gentleman ought to do--or, if you do not care about it, give
permission to your own tenantry to do so. Rely upon it, they will
not abuse the privilege.

The fact is, there never should be more than two coveys in one
field, or half-a-dozen hares in each moderate slip of plantation.
That, believe us, with the accession you will derive from your
neighbours, is quite sufficient to keep you in exercise during the
season, and to supply your table with game. No tenant whatever will
object to find food for such a stock. If you want more exciting
sport, come north next August, and we shall take you to a moor which
is preserved by a single shepherd's herd, where you may kill your
twenty brace a-day for a month, and have a chance of a red-deer
into the bargain. But, if you will not leave the south, do not, we
beseech you, turn yourself into a hen-wife, and become ridiculous
as a hatcher of pheasants' eggs. The thing, we are told, has been
done by gentlemen of small property, for the purpose of getting up
an appearance of game: it would be quite as sane a proceeding to
improve the beauty of a prospect by erecting cast-iron trees. Above
all things, whatever you do, remember that you are the denizen of a
free country, where individual rights, however sacred in themselves,
must not be extended to the injury of those around you.

To say the truth, we have observed with great pain, that a far too
exclusive spirit has of late manifested itself in certain high
places, and among persons whom we regard too much to be wholly
indifferent to their conduct. This very summer the public press
has been indignant in its denunciation of the Dukes of Atholl and
Leeds--the one having, as it is alleged, attempted to shut up a
servitude road through Glen Tilt, and the other established a
cordon for many miles around the skirts of Ben-na-Mac-Dhui, our
highest Scottish mountain. We are not fully acquainted with the
particulars; but from what we have heard, it would appear that this
wholesale exclusion from a vast tract of territory is intended to
secure the solitude of two deer-forests. Now, we are not going to
argue the matter upon legal grounds--although, knowing something of
law, we have a shrewd suspicion that both noble lords are in utter
misconception of their rights, and are usurping a sovereignty which
is not to be found in their charters, and which was never claimed or
exercised even by the Scottish Kings. But the churlishness of the
step is undeniable, and we cannot but hope that it has proceeded far
more on thoughtlessness than from intention. The day has been, when
any clansman, or even any stranger, might have taken a deer from
the forest, tree from the hill, or a salmon from the river, without
leave asked or obtained: and though that state of society has long
since passed away, we never till now have heard that the free air
of the mountains, and their heather ranges, are not open to him
who seeks them. Is it indeed come to this, that in bonny Scotland,
the tourist, the botanist, or the painter, are to be debarred from
visiting the loveliest spots which nature ever planted in the heart
of a wilderness, on pretence that they disturb the deer! In a few
years we suppose Ben Lomond will be preserved, and the summit of Ben
Nevis remain as unvisited by the foot of the traveller as the icy
peak of the Jungfrau. Not so, assuredly, would have acted the race
of Tullibardine of yore. Royal were their hunting gatherings, and
magnificent the driving of the Tinchel; but over all their large
territory of Atholl, the stranger might have wandered unquestioned,
except to know if he required hospitality. It is not now the gate
which is shut, but the moor; and that not against the depredator,
but against the peaceful wayfaring man. Nor can we as sportsmen
admit even the relevancy of the reasons which have been assigned for
this wholesale exclusion. We are convinced, that in each season not
above thirty or forty tourists essay the ascent of Ben-na-Mac-Dhui,
and of that number, in all probability, not one has either met
or startled a red deer. Very few men would venture to strike out
a devious path for themselves over the mountains near Loch Aven,
which, in fact, constitute the wildest district of the island.
The Quaker tragedy of Helvellyn might easily be re-enacted amidst
the dreary solitudes of Cairn Gorm, and months elapse before your
friends are put in possession of some questionable bones. Nothing
but enthusiasm will carry a man through the intricacies of Glen
Lui, the property of Lord Fife, to whom it was granted at no very
distant period of time out of the forfeited Mar estates, and which
is presently rented by the Duke of Leeds; and nothing more absurd
can be supposed, than that the entry of a single wanderer into that
immense domain, can have the effect of scaring the deer from the
limits of so large a range. This is an absurd and an empty excuse,
as every deer-stalker must know. A stag is not so easily frightened,
nor will he fly the country from terror at the apparition of the
Cockney. Depend upon it, the latter will be a good deal the more
startled of the two. With open mouth and large gooseberry eyes,
he will stand gazing upon the vision of the Antlered Monarch; the
sketch-book and pencil-case drop from his tremulous hands, and
he stands aghast in apprehension of a charge of horning, against
which he has no defence save a cane camp-stool, folded up into the
semblance of a yellow walking-stick. Not so the Red-deer. For a few
moments he will regard the Doudney-clad wanderer of the wilds, not
in fear but in surprise; and then, snuffing the air which conveys
to his nostrils an unaccustomed flavour of bergamot and lavender,
he will trot away over the shoulder of the hill, move further up
the nearest corrie, and in a quarter of an hour will be lying down
amidst his hinds in the thick brackens that border the course of the
lonely burn.

We could say a great deal more upon this subject; but we hope that
expansion is unnecessary. Throughout all Europe the right of passage
over waste and uncultivated land, where there never were and never
can be inclosures, appears to be universally conceded. What would
his Grace of Leeds say, if he were told that the Bernese Alps were
shut up, and the liberty of crossing them denied, because some Swiss
seigneur had taken it into his head to establish a chamois preserve?
The idea of preserving deer in the way now attempted is completely
modern, and we hope will be immediately abandoned. It must not,
for the sake of our country, be said, that in Scotland, not only
the inclosures, but the wilds and the mountains are shut out from
the foot of man; and that, where no highway exists, he is debarred
from the privilege of the heather. Whatever may be the abstract
legal rights of the aristocracy, we protest against the policy and
propriety of a system which would leave Ben Cruachan to the eagles,
and render Loch Ericht and Loch Aven as inaccessible as those mighty
lakes which are said to exist in Central Africa, somewhere about the
sources of the Niger.




INDEX TO VOL. LX.


  Abd-el-Kader, sketches of, 348.

  Adelaide, Queen, anecdote of, 584.

  Advice to an intending Serialist, 590.

  Affghanistan, sketch of the recent history of, 540.

  Agave Americana, the, 266.

  Agriculture in Mexico, 266.

  Aird, Thomas, a summer day by, 277.

  Aire, siege of, 529.

  Algeria, 534.

  America, effects of the discovery of, 261.

  Americans and Aborigines, the, a tale of the short war--Part
        Last, 45.

  Anhalt, Prince of, 529.

  Annals and antiquities of London, 673.

  Anti-corn-law league, the, 250.

  Arabs, sketches of the, 341.

  Army, the, 129
    --present defects in, and their improvement, 131
    --punishments, 133
    --rewards, 136
    --sale of commissions, 137
    --education, 138
    --dress, 142.

  Arras, siege of, 527.

  Ascherson, Herr, 101.


  Badger, habits of the, 497.

  Barrados, General, defeat of, 274.

  Barrett, Miss, poems by, 488.

  Bautzen, battle of, 579.

  Ben Douda, an Arab chief, 341.

  Bethune, capture of, 528.

  Blanco, General, 2.

  Blidah, town of, 339.

  Bocca di Cattaro, the, 431.

  Bona, town of, 344.

  Boston, town of, 474.

  Bouchain, siege of, 537.

  Bright, Mr, on the game laws, 757.

  British Association, remarks on the, 640.

  Burnes, Sir Alexander, murder of, 553.

  Bustamente, president of Mexico, 274.


  Cabanero, General, 302.

  Cabellos' life of Cabrera, 295.

  Cabrera, sketch of the career of, 293.

  Callao, fort of, 3.

  Canada, sketches of, 464.

  Carbunculo of Peru, the, 193.

  Carlist war, sketches of the, 293.

  Carnicer, Colonel, 293, 294.

  Carnival in Peru, the, 9.

  Castel Fuerte, viceroy of Peru, 7.

  Cathedral of Mexico, the, 269.

  Cattaro, town of, 431.

  Cerro de Parco, silver mines of, 182.

  Change on Change, 492.

  Charles Russell, the gentleman commoner, Chap. I., 145
    --Chap. II., 309.

  Chili, war of, with Peru, 2.

  Christina of Spain, notices of, 741.

  Coco-tree of Peru, the, 189.

  Columbus, from Schiller, 333.

  Commissions, sale of, in the army, 137.

  Conde, Prince of, 704.

  Conde's Daughter, the, 496.

  Condor, the, 3.

  Cookery and Civilisation, 238.

  Cordilleras of Peru, the, 181.

  Corn-law repeal, on the, 249.

  Cortes, armour of, 270
    --conquest of Mexico by, 272.

  Coursing, passion for, in Peru, 15.

  Creoles of Peru, the, 8.

  Criminal law, on the, 721.


  Dance, the, from Schiller, 480.

  Dead Rose, a, by E. B. Barrett, 491.

  Death of Zumalacarregui, the, 56.

  Dedomenicis, Signor, 103.

  Dejazet the actress, 413.

  Denmark, sketches of, 645.

  Diseases of Peru, the, 179, 181.

  Ditmarschers, the, 646.

  Dost Mohammed, sketch of the life of, 540.

  Douay, siege of, 525.

  Drama, the romantic, 161.

  Dramatic mysteries in Peru, 187.

  Dress of the army, the, 143.

  Dudevant, Madame, 423.

  Dumas, Alexander, notices of, 417.


  Earthquakes in Lima, 13.

  Education of the soldier, on the, 138.

  Elinor Travis, a tale, Chap. II., 83.
    --Chapter the Last, 444.

  England in the new world, 464.

  English Hexameters, letters on,
    --Letter I., 19
    --Letter II., 327
    --Letter III., 477.

  English Poor laws, operation of the, 555.

  Epic poem, on the, 163.

  Espartero, General, 301.

  Espinoza, Major, anecdote of, 303.

  Esteller, death of, 303.

  Eugene, Prince, 34, 698.


  Fergusson's notes of a professional life, review of, 129.

  Fishes of Peru, the, 18.

  Flogging in the army, on, 133.

  France, state of criminal procedure in, 721.

  Free trade, on, 249.

  Frieslanders, the, 651.

  From Schiller, 333.


  Game laws, on the, 754.

  Gaming, prevalence of, in Mexico, 267.

  Germany, state of criminal law in, 721.

  Ghent, capture of, by Marlborough, 23.

  Girardin, M., 420.

  Gomez, General, 299.

  Guano deposits in Peru, the, 17.

  Gutzkow's Paris, review of, 411.


  Hanging bridges of Peru, the, 182.

  Hector in the garden, by Elizabeth B. Barrett, 493.

  Heron, habits of the, 397.

  Hexameters, English, letters on
    --Letter I., 19.
    --Letter II., 327.
    --Letter III., 477.

  Hidalgos, insurrection of, in Mexico, 272.

  Highland wild sports, 389.

  Historical romance, on the, 162.

  Hochelaga, or England in the New World, review of, 464.

  Holsche, Lieutenant, anecdotes of, 587, 588.

  Holstein, sketches of, 645.

  Honour to the Plough, 613.

  Horses of Algeria, the, 345
    --of Peru, 11.

  How I became a Yeoman--Chap. I., 358
    --Chap. II., 362
    --Chap. III., 366
    --Chap. IV., 371.
    --Chap. V., 374.

  How to build a house and live in it--No. II., 349.

  Howden, Lord, death of Zumalacarregui by, 56.

  Hydropathy, on, 376.


  Ignazio, 102.

  Imprisonment as a punishment, on, 722.

  Indians of Peru, the, 183, 185.

  Inns of Peru, the, 181.

  Inquisition in Peru, the, 7.

  Isabella of Spain, marriage of, 740.

  Iturbide, rise and fall of, 273.


  Jalapa, city of, 265.

  Jamaica, Metcalfe's government of, 662.

  Janin, Jules, 421.

  Jesuits, expulsion of the, from Peru, 6.

  Jews in Algiers, the, 344.

  Juan Fernandez, island of, 3.

  Juan Santos, insurrection of, 190.


  Kabyles, the, 345.

  Kennedy's Algeria, review of, 334.

  Kingston, town of, 470.

  Kleist, General, 579.

  Kohl in Denmark and the Marshes, review of, 645.

  Kulm, battle of, 581.


  Lal, Mohan, Life of Dost Mahommed by, 539.

  Last recollections of Napoleon, 110.

  Late and present Ministry, the, 249.

  Lays and legends of the Thames, 729.

  Law, the, and its punishments, 721.

  Letters and impressions from Paris, 411.

  Letters on English Hexameters
    --Letter I., 19.
    --Letter II., 327.
    --Letter III., 477.

  Life at the water cure, review of, 376.

  Lille, siege and citadel of, 22.

  Lima, town of, 5.

  Lodge, A., the Minstrel's Curse, by, 177.

  London, annals and antiquities of, 673.

  London Bridge, 730.

  Louis XIV., character of, 517
    --contrasted with William III., 522.

  Louis Philippe and the Spanish marriages, 742.

  Lowe, Sir Hudson, 122, 126.

  Luigia de Medici, 614.

  Lutzen, battle of, 578.


  Maconochie, Captain, on punishment, 725.

  Malplaquet, battle of, 33.

  Man's requirements, by Elizabeth B. Barrett, 489.

  Marey, General, 340.

  Market of Lima, the, 12.

  Marlborough's Dispatches, 1708, 1709, 22
    --1710, 1711, 517
    --1711, 1712, 690
    --his death and character, 702.

  Marshall's Military Miscellany, review of, 129.

  Maude's Spinning, by E. B. Barrett, 490.

  Medeah, town of, 340.

  Mesmeric mountebanks, 223.

  Metcalfe, Lord, government of Jamaica by, 662.

  Mexico, its history and people, 261
    --valley and city of, 269.

  Mildred, a tale--Part I., chapter I., 709
    --chapter II., 713
    --chapter III., 718.

  Military Education in Prussia, 573.

  Mine, forest, and cordillera, the, 172.

  Minstrel's Curse the, from Uhland, 177.

  Mohan Lal in Affghanistan, 539.

  Monasteries of Spain, state of, when suppressed, 295.

  Mons, siege of, 31.

  Montalban, siege of, 305.

  Montenegro, visit to the Vladika of, 428.

  Montesquieu, Marshal, 525.

  Montholon's Napoleon, review of, 110.

  Montpensier, Duke of, 751.

  Montreal, town of, 470.

  More Rogues in Outline--the sick antiquary, 101
    --Signor Dedomenicis, 103
    --Scaling a coin, 107.

  Moreau, death of, 580.

  Morella, capture of, by Cabrera, 301.

  Morellos, insurrection of, 272.

  Moriamur pro Rege Nostro--Chap. I., 194
    --Chap. II., 201
    --Chap. III., 210
    --Chap. IV., 216
    --Conclusion, 221.

  Morning and other poems, review of, 62.

  Mules of Peru, the, 12.

  Museum of Mexico, the, 270.

  My College Friends--No. IV., Charles Russell, the gentleman commoner
    --Chap. I., 145
    --Chap. II., 309.


  Napoleon and Louis XIV., parallel between, 520
    --last recollections of, 110.

  <DW64> carnival in Peru, the, 17.

  <DW64>s of Peru, the, 9.

  Niagara, Falls of, 471.

  Nogueras, General, 297.

  North America, features of, 262.

  New Scottish Plays and Poems, 62.

  New Sentimental Journey, a--At Moulins, 481
    --Clermont, 484
    --on a stone, 606
    --the Philosopher, 608
    --a Shandrydan, 611.

  Newspapers, on, 629.


  Odysseus, from Schiller, 333.

  Ogilvy's Highland Minstrelsy, review of, 62.

  Old Ignazio, 102.

  Opera in Paris, state of the, 415.

  Operation of the English Poor-laws, 555.

  Orizaba, mountain of, 265.


  Palace of Mexico, the, 269.

  Pardinas, General, defeat and death of, 303.

  Paredes, General, 275.

  Paris, letters and impressions from, 411.

  Peel, Sir Robert, policy of, 249
    --his financial system, 252.

  Pellicer, Colonel, cruelties of, 306.

  Perote, town of, 265.

  Peru, 1
    --the mine, forest, and cordillera, 179.

  Poaching in the Highlands, 403.

  Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Barrett
    --a woman's shortcomings, 488
    --a man's requirements, 489
    --Maude's spinning, 490
    --a dead rose, 491
    --change on change, 492
    --a reed, ib.
    --Hector in the garden, 493.

  Poetry--The minstrel's curse, 177
    --a summer day, by Thomas Aird, 277
    --Columbus, &c., from Schiller, 333
    --the Dance, from Schiller, 480
    --poems by Miss Barrett, 488
    --honour to the plough, 613
    --London Bridge, 730
    --Song for the million, 733
    --Thames Tunnel, 736
    --St Magnus', Kirkwall, 753.

  Poor-Law, operation of the, 555.

  Prussian military memoirs, 572.

  Puebla, city of, 268.

  Pulque, manufacture of, 266.

  Puna of Peru, the, 186.

  Punishment, state of, under the English law, 722
    --objects of, 724.

  Punishments in the army, 134
    --of the law, 721.


  Quebec, city of, 465.

  Quesnoy, capture of, 694.

  Quinte, bay of, 470.


  Rachel the actress, 413.

  Rahden's wanderings of a soldier, review of, 572.

  Raven, anecdotes of the, 402.

  Recent royal marriages, on 740.

  Red deer, habits of the, 408.

  Reed, a, by Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, 492.

  Reichenbach, count, anecdote of, 577, 584.

  Requiera, Padre, 15.

  Rewards for the army, on, 136.

  Roads of Peru, the, 80.

  Robbers of Mexico, the, 267
    --of Peru, 14.

  Romantic drama, the, 161.

  Russell minstry, the, 257.


  St John's wild sports of the Highlands, review of, 389.

  St John's, town of, 464.

  St Juan D'Ulloa, fort of, 265.

  St Magnus', Kirkwall, 753.

  St Marie's Algeria, review of, 334.

  St Venant, capture of, 529.

  Salcedo silver mine, the, 184.

  San Jose silver mine, 185.

  Sand, George, 423.

  Santa Anna, rise of, 273.

  Santa Cruz, protector of Peru, 2.

  Santos, Juan, 190.

  Scaling a coin, 107.

  Schiller, translations from, 333, 480.

  Scorpion eaters among the Arabs, 342.

  Scottish plays and poems, 62.

  Seal, habits of the, 401.

  Segura, destruction of the town of, 304.

  Serialist, advice to an intending, 590.

  Shark, combat with a, 3.

  Short enlistments, advantages of, 132.

  Shujah, Shah, sketches of, 541.

  Sick antiquary, the, 101.

  Signor Dedomenicis, 103.

  Silver mines of Mexico, the, 271
    --of Peru, 182.

  Smith, Hannibal, letter to, 590.

  Smith's antiquarian ramble in the streets of London, review of, 673.

  Solitary confinement, on, 725.

  Song for the million, 733.

  South America, features of, 262.

  Soyer's cookery, review of, 238.

  Spanish marriage, on the, 631-740.

  Steffens, Professor, anecdote of, 577.

  Storms of Peru, the, 182.

  Summer day, a, by Thomas Aird, 277.

  Superstitions of Mexico, the, 275.

  Surville, defence of Tournay by, 29.

  Swan, wild, habits of the, 398.


  Thames, Lays and Legends of the, 729
    --tunnel, 735.

  Things in general, 625.

  Tournay, siege of, 28.

  Tower of London, the, 732.

  Tschudi's Peru, review of, 1, 179.

  Tupac Amaru, 191.

  Turenne, Marshal, 704.


  Uhland, the minstrel's curse by, 177.

  United States, sketches of the, 471.

  Utrecht, peace of, 693.


  Valparaiso, town of, 3.

  Vampire bat of Peru, the, 192.

  Vandamme, General, 581.

  Vera Cruz, town of, 263.

  Vigo, General, death of, 304.

  Villars, Marshal, 33, 526.

  Visit to the Vladika of Montenegro, a, 428.

  Von Rahden's wanderings of a soldier, review of, 575.


  Water cure, the, 376.

  Waterloo, Napoleon on, 123.

  Welford's evidence on the game laws, 757.

  West Indies, recent history of the, 662.

  White's Earl of Gowrie, &c., review of, 62.

  Wild Sports and Natural History of the Highlands, 389.

  Wild swan, habits of the, 398.

  William III., parallel between, and Louis XIV., 522.

  Woman's shortcomings, by E. B. Barrett, 488.

  Woods of Peru, the, 192.


  Yanez, colonel, death of, 268.

  Yca, province of, 17.

  Yussuf, an Arab leader, 347


  Zettinie, city of, 439

  Zumalacarregui, death of, 56.

_Edinburgh: Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes, Paul's Work, Canongate._

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as
printed.

Mismatched quotes are not fixed if it's not sufficiently clear where
the missing quote should be placed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the
transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Page 727: "that a  ower should reside somewhere" ... the transcriber
has added the missing "p" in "power".

Page 734: "All the sevants' hall combined," ... the transcriber has
added "r" to read "servants'".





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol.
60, No. 374, December, 1846, by Various

*** 