



Produced by Jon Ingram, Leonard Johnson, the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team and The Internet Library of Early Journals;






                         BLACKWOOD'S

                          Edinburgh

                          MAGAZINE.



                          VOL. LVI.

                     JULY-DECEMBER, 1844.

                      [Illustration]


                           1844.


             *       *       *       *       *


                        BLACKWOOD'S

                      EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.


             *       *       *       *       *

             No. CCCXLV. JULY, 1844. VOL. LVI.

             *       *       *       *       *





                            CONTENTS.


      CAUSES OF THE INCREASE OF CRIME
      THE HEART OF THE BRUCE
      MEMORANDUMS OF A MONTH'S TOUR IN SICILY
      THE LAST OF THE KNIGHTS
      POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE. NO. I.
      MY FIRST LOVE.--A SKETCH IN NEW YORK
      HYDRO-BACCHUS
      MARTIN LUTHER.--AN ODE
      TRADITIONS AND TALES OF UPPER LUSATIA. NO. II. THE FAIRY TUTOR
      PORTUGAL
      MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN. PART XII.
      THE WEEK OF AN EMPEROR

             *       *       *       *       *




                         EDINBURGH:

         WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;
                 AND 22, PALL-MALL, LONDON.

      To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed.

       SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS THE UNITED KINGDOM.

             *       *       *       *       *

        PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.

             *       *       *       *       *




                        BLACKWOOD'S

                      EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

             *       *       *       *       *

            No. CCCXLV.   JULY, 1844.   VOL. LVI.

             *       *       *       *       *




CAUSES OF THE INCREASE OF CRIME.


If the past increase and present amount of crime in the British
islands be alone considered, it must afford grounds for the most
melancholy forebodings. When we recollect that since the year 1805,
that is, during a period of less than forty years, in the course of
which population has advanced about sixty-five _per cent_ in Great
Britain and Ireland, crime in England has increased seven hundred per
cent, in Ireland about eight hundred per cent, and in Scotland above
_three thousand six hundred per cent_;[1] it is difficult to say what
is destined to be the ultimate fate of a country in which the
progress of wickedness is so much more rapid than the increase of the
numbers of the people. Nor is the alarming nature of the prospect
diminished by the reflection, that this astonishing increase in human
depravity has taken place during a period of unexampled prosperity
and unprecedented progress, during which the produce of the national
industry had tripled, and the labours of the husbandman kept pace
with the vast increase in the population they were to feed--in which
the British empire carried its victorious arms into every quarter of
the globe, and colonies sprang up on all sides with unheard-of
rapidity--in which a hundred thousand emigrants came ultimately to
migrate every year from the parent state into the new regions
conquered by its arms, or discovered by its adventure. If this is the
progress of crime during the days of its prosperity, what is it
likely to become in those of its decline, when this prodigious vent
for superfluous numbers has come to be in a great measure closed, and
this unheard-of wealth and prosperity has ceased to gladden the land?

[Footnote 1: See No. 343, _Blackwood's Magazine_, p. 534, Vol. lv.]

To discover to what causes this extraordinary increase of crime is to
be ascribed, we must first examine the localities in which it has
principally arisen, and endeavour to ascertain whether it is to be
found chiefly in the agricultural, pastoral, or manufacturing
districts. We must then consider the condition of the labouring
classes, and the means provided to restrain them in the quarters
where the progress of crime has been most alarming; and inquire
whether the existing evils are insurmountable and unavoidable, or
have arisen from the supineness, the errors, and the selfishness of
man. The inquiry is one of the most interesting which can occupy the
thoughts of the far-seeing and humane; for it involves the temporal
and eternal welfare of millions of their fellow-creatures;--it may
well arrest the attention of the selfish, and divert for a few
minutes the profligate from their pursuits; for on it depends whether
the darling wealth of the former is to be preserved or destroyed, and
the exciting enjoyments of the other arrested or suffered to
continue.

To elucidate the first of these questions, we subjoin a table,
compiled from the Parliamentary returns, exhibiting the progress of
serious crime in the principal counties, agricultural pastoral, and
manufacturing, of the empire, during the last fifteen years. We are
unwilling to load our pages with figures, and are well aware how
distasteful they are to a large class of readers; and if those
results were as familiar to others as they are to ourselves, we
should be too happy to take them for granted, as they do first
principles in the House of Commons, and proceed at once to the means
of remedy. But the facts on this subject have been so often
misrepresented by party or prejudice, and are in themselves so
generally unknown, that it is indispensable to lay a foundation in
authentic information before proceeding further in the inquiry. The
greatest difficulty which those practically acquainted with the
subject experience in such an investigation, is to make people
believe their statements, even when founded on the most extensive
practical knowledge, or the more accurate statistical inquiry. There
is such a prodigious difference between the condition of mankind and
the progress of corruption in the agricultural or pastoral, and
manufacturing or densely peopled districts, that those accustomed to
the former will not believe any statements made regarding the latter.
They say they are incredible or exaggerated; that the persons who
make them are _tetes montees_; that their ideas are very vague, and
their suggestions utterly unworthy the consideration either of men of
sense or of government. With such deplorable illusions does ignorance
repel the suggestions of knowledge; theory, of experience;
selfishness, of philanthropy; cowardice, of resolution. Thus nothing
whatever is done to remedy or avert the existing evils: the districts
not endangered unite as one man to resist any attempt to form a
general system for the alleviation of misery or diminution of crime
in those that are, and the preponderance of the unendangered
districts in the legislature gives them the means of effectually
doing so. The evils in the endangered districts are such, that it is
universally felt they are beyond the reach of local remedy or
alleviation. Thus, between the two, nothing whatever is done to
arrest, or guard against, the existing or impending evils. Meanwhile,
destitution, profligacy, sensuality, and crime, advance with
unheard-of rapidity in the manufacturing districts, and the dangerous
classes there massed together combine every three or four years in
some general strike or alarming insurrection, which, while it lasts,
excites universal terror, and is succeeded, when suppressed, by the
same deplorable system of supineness, selfishness, and infatuation.

[Footnote 2: Table showing the number of committments for serious
crimes, and population, in the year 1841, in the under-mentioned
counties of Great Britain;--

  I.--PASTORAL.

  Names of Counties. Population    Commitments        Proportion of
                      in 1841.   for serious crime    committments
                                     in 1841.         to population.

  Cumberland,         178,038          151             1 in  1,194
  Derby,              272,217          277             1 in    964
  Anglesey,            50,891           13             1 in  3,900
  Carnarvon,           81,093           33             1 in  2,452
  Inverness-shire,     97,799          106             1 in    915
  Selkirkshire,         7,990            4             1 in  1,990
  Argyleshire,         97,371           96             1 in  1,010

        Total,        785,399          680             1 in  1,155


  II.-AGRICULTURAL AND MANUFACTURING.

                                   Commitments        Proportion of
                     Population  for serious crime    commitments
  Names of Counties.  in 1841.       in 1841.         to population.

  Shropshire,         239,048          416             1 in    574
  Kent,               548,337          962             1 in    569
  Norfolk,            412,664          666             1 in    518
  Essex,              344,979          647             1 in    533
  Northumberland,     250,278          226             1 in  1,106
  East Lothian,        35,886           38             1 in    994
  Perthshire,         137,390          116             1 in  1,181
  Aberdeenshire,      192,387           92             1 in  2,086

           Total,   2,160,969        3,163             1 in    682


  III.-MANUFACTURING AND MINING.

                                   Commitments        Proportion of
                     Population  for serious crime    commitments
  Names of Counties.  in 1841.       in 1841.         to population.

  Middlesex,        1,576,636        3,586             1 in    439
  Lancashire,       1,667,054        3,987             1 in    418
  Staffordshire,      510,504        1,059             1 in    482
  Yorkshire,        1,591,480        1,895             1 in    839
  Glamorganshire,     171,188          189             1 in    909
  Lanarkshire,        426,972          513             1 in    832
  Renfrewshire        155,072          505             1 in    306
  Forfarshire,        170,520          333             1 in    512

           Total,   6,269,426       12,067             1 in    476

  --PORTER'S _Parl. Tables_, 1841, 163; and _Census_ 1841.]

The table in the note exhibits the number of commitments for serious
offences, with the population of each, of eight counties--pastoral,
agricultural, and manufacturing--in Great Britain during the year
1841[2]. We take the returns for that year, both because it was the
year in which the census was taken, and because the succeeding year,
1842, being the year of the great outbreak in England, and violent
strike in Scotland, the figures, both in that and the succeeding
year, may be supposed to exhibit a more unfavourable result for the
manufacturing districts than a fair average of years. From this
table, it appears that the vast preponderance of crime is to be found
in the manufacturing or densely-peopled districts, and that the
proportion per cent of commitments which they exhibit, as compared
with the population, is generally three, often five times, what
appears in the purely agricultural and pastoral districts. The
comparative criminality of the agricultural, manufacturing, and
pastoral districts is not to be considered as accurately measured by
these returns, because so many of the agricultural counties,
especially in England, are overspread with towns and manufactories or
collieries. Thus Kent and Shropshire are justly classed with
agricultural counties, though part of the former is in fact a suburb
of London, and of the latter overspread with demoralizing coal mines.
The entire want of any police force in some of the greatest
manufacturing counties, as Lanarkshire, by permitting
nineteen-twentieths of the crime to go unpunished, exhibits a far
less amount of criminality than would be brought to light under a
more vigilant system. But still there is enough in this table to
attract serious and instructive attention. It appears that the
average of seven pastoral counties exhibits an average of 1
commitment for serious offences out of 1155 souls: of eight counties,
partly agricultural and partly manufacturing, of 1 in 682: and of
eight manufacturing and mining, of 1 in 476! And the difference
between individual counties is still more remarkable, especially when
counties purely agricultural or pastoral can be compared with those
for the most part manufacturing or mining. Thus the proportion of
commitment for serious crime in the pastoral counties of

  Anglesey, is       1 in 3900
  Carnarvon,         1 in 2452
  Selkirk,           1 in 1990
  Cumberland,        1 in 1194

In the purely agricultural counties of

  Aberdeenshire, is  1 in 2086
  East-Lothian,      1 in  994
  Northumberland,    1 in 1106
  Perthshire,        1 in 1181

While in the great manufacturing or mining counties of

  Lancashire, is     1 in  418
  Staffordshire,     1 in  482
  Middlesex,         1 in  439
  Yorkshire,         1 in  839
  Lanarkshire,       1 in  832[3]
  Renfrewshire,      1 in  306

[Footnote 3: Lanarkshire has no police except in Glasgow, or its
serious crime would be about 1 in 400, or 350.]

Further, the statistical returns of crime demonstrate, not only that
such is the present state of crime in the densely peopled and
manufacturing districts, compared to what obtains in the agricultural
or pastoral, but that the tendency of matters is still worse;[4] and
that, great as has been the increase of population during the last
thirty years in the manufacturing and densely peopled districts, the
progress of crime has been still greater and more alarming. From the
instructive and curious tables below, constructed from the criminal
returns given in _Porter's Parliamentary Tables_, and the returns of
the census taken in 1821, 1831, and 1841, it appears, that while in
some of the purely pastoral counties, such as Selkirk and Anglesey,
crime has remained during the last twenty years nearly stationary,
and in some of the purely agricultural, such as Perth and Aberdeen,
it has considerably _diminished_, in the agricultural and mining or
manufacturing, such as Shropshire and Kent, it has _doubled_ during
the same period: and in the manufacturing and mining districts, such
as Lancashire, Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and Renfrewshire, more than
_tripled_ in the same time. It appears, from the same authentic
sources of information, that the progress of crime during the last
twenty years has been much more rapid in the manufacturing and
densely peopled than in the simply densely peopled districts; for in
Middlesex, during the last twenty years, population has advanced
about fifty per cent, and serious crime has increased in nearly the
same proportion, having swelled from 2480 to 3514: whereas in
Lancashire, during the same period, population has advanced also
fifty per cent, but serious crime has considerably _more than
doubled_, having risen from 1716 to 3987.

[Footnote 4: Table, showing the comparative population, and
committals for serious crime, in the under-mentioned counties, in the
years 1821, 1831, and 1841.

  I.--PASTORAL

                       1821.             1831.             1841.
                   Pop.     Com.     Pop.     Com.     Pop.     Com.

  Cumberland,     156,124     66    169,681     74    178,038    151
  Derby,          213,333    105    237,070    202    272,217    277
  Anglesey,        43,325     10     48,325      8     50,891     13
  Carnarvon,       57,358     12     66,448     36     81,893     33
  Inverness,       90,157    ...     94,797     35     97,799    106
  Selkirk,          6,637    ...      6,833      2      7,990      4
  Argyle,          97,316    ...    100,973     41     97,321     96


  II.--AGRICULTURAL AND MANUFACTURING.

                       1821.             1831.             1841.
                   Pop.     Com.     Pop.     Com.     Pop.     Com.

  Shropshire,     266,153    159    222,938    228    239,048    416
  Kent,           426,916    492    479,155    640    548,337    962
  Norfolk,        344,368    356    390,054    549    412,664    666
  Essex,          289,424    303    317,507    607    344,979    647
  Northumberland, 198,965     70    222,912    108    250,278    226
  East Lothian,    35,127    ...     36,145     23     35,886     38
  Perthshire,     139,050    ...    142,894    140    137,390    116
  Aberdeenshire,  155,387    ...    177,657    161    192,387     92


  III.--MANUFACTURING AND MINING.

                        1821.             1831.             1841.
                     Pop.   Com.       Pop.   Com.       Pop.   Com.

  Middlesex,    1,144,531  2,480  1,358,330  3,514  1,576,636  3,586
  Lancashire,   1,052,859  1,716  1,336,854  2,352  1,667,054  3,987
  Staffordshire,  345,895    374    410,512    644    510,504  1,059
  Yorkshire,      801,274    757    976,350  1,270  1,154,111  1,895
  Glamorgan,      101,737     28    126,612    132    171,188    189
  Lanark,         244,387    ...    316,849    470    426,972    513
  Renfrew,        112,175    ...    133,443    205    155,072    505
  Forfar,         113,430    ...    139,666    124    l70,520    333

  --PORTER'S _Parl. Tables, and Census_ 1841.]

Here, then, we are at length on firm ground in point of fact. Several
writers of the liberal school who had a partiality for manufactures,
because their chief political supporters were to be found among that
class of society, have laboured hard to show that manufactures are
noways detrimental either to health or morals; and that the mortality
and crime of the manufacturing counties were in no respect greater
than those of the pastoral or agricultural districts. The common
sense of mankind has uniformly revolted against this absurdity, so
completely contrary to what experience every where tells in a
language not to be misunderstood; but it has now been completely
disproved by the Parliamentary returns. The criminal statistics have
exposed this fallacy as completely, in reference to the different
degrees of depravity in different parts of the empire, as the
registrar-general's returns have, in regard to the different degrees
of salubrity in employments, and mortality in rural districts and
manufacturing places. It now distinctly appears that crime is greatly
more prevalent in proportion to the numbers of the people in densely
peopled than thinly inhabited localities, and that it is making far
more rapid progress in the former situation than the latter.
Statistics are not to be despised when they thus, at once and
decisively, disprove errors so assiduously spread, maintained by
writers of such respectability, and supported by such large and
powerful bodies in the state.

Nor can it be urged with the slightest degree of foundation, that
this superior criminality of the manufacturing and densely peopled
districts is owing to a police force being more generally established
than in the agricultural or pastoral, and thus crime being more
thoroughly detected in the former situation than the latter. For, in
the first place, in several of the greatest manufacturing counties,
particularly Lanarkshire in Scotland, there is no police at all; and
the criminal establishment is just what it was forty years ago. In
the next place, a police force is the _consequence_ of a previous
vast accumulation or crime, and is never established till the risk to
life and insecurity to property had rendered it unbearable. Being
always established by the voluntary assessment of the inhabitants,
nothing can be more certain than that it never can be called into
existence but by such an increase of crime as has rendered it a
matter of necessity.

We are far, however, from having approached the whole truth, if we
have merely ascertained, upon authentic evidence, that crime is
greatly more prevalent in the manufacturing than the rural districts.
That will probably be generally conceded; and the preceding details
have been given merely to show the extent of the difference, and the
rapid steps which it is taking. It is more material to inquire what
are the causes of this superior profligacy of manufacturing to rural
districts; and whether it arises unavoidably from the nature of their
respective employments, or is in some degree within the reach of
human amendment or prevention.

It is usual for persons who are not practically acquainted with the
subject, to represent manufacturing occupations as necessarily and
inevitably hurtful to the human mind. The crowding together, it is
said, young persons, of different sexes and in great numbers, in the
hot atmosphere and damp occupations of factories or mines, is
necessarily destructive to morality, and ruinous to regularity of
habit. The passions are excited by proximity of situation or indecent
exposure; infant labour early emancipates the young from parental
control; domestic subordination, the true foundation for social
virtue, is destroyed; the young exposed to temptation before they
have acquired strength to resist it; and vice spreads the more
extensively from the very magnitude of the establishments on which
the manufacturing greatness of the country depends. Such views are
generally entertained by writers on the social state of the country;
and being implicitly adopted by the bulk of the community, the nation
has abandoned itself to a sort of despair on the subject, and
regarding manufacturing districts as the necessary and unavoidable
hotbed of crimes, strives only to prevent the spreading of the
contagion into the rural parts of the country.

There is certain degree of truth in these observations; but they are
much exaggerated, and it is not in these causes that the principal
sources of the profligacy of the manufacturing districts is to be
found.

The real cause of the demoralization of manufacturing towns is to be
found, not in the nature of the employment which the people there
receive, so much as in the manner in which they are brought together,
the unhappy prevalence of general strikes, and the prodigious
multitudes who are cast down by the ordinary vicissitudes of life, or
the profligacy of their parents, into a situation of want,
wretchedness, and despair.

Consider how, during the last half century, the people have been
brought together in the great manufacturing districts of England and
Scotland. So rapid has been the progress of manufacturing industry
during that period, that it has altogether out-stripped the powers of
population in the districts where it was going forward, and
occasioned a prodigious influx of persons from different and distant
quarters, who have migrated from their paternal homes, and settled in
the manufacturing districts, never to return.[5] Authentic evidence
proves, that not less than _two millions_ of persons have, in this
way, been transferred to the manufacturing counties of the north of
England within the last forty years, chiefly from the agricultural
counties of the south of that kingdom, or from Ireland. Not less than
three hundred and fifty thousand persons have, during the same
period, migrated into the two manufacturing counties of Lanark and
Renfrew alone, in Scotland, chiefly from the Scotch Highlands, or
north of Ireland. No such astonishing migration of the human species
in so short a time, and to settle on so small a space, is on record
in the whole annals of the world. It is unnecessary to say that the
increase is to be ascribed chiefly, if not entirely, to immigration;
for it is well known that such is the unhealthiness of manufacturing
towns, especially to young children, that, so far from being able to
add to their numbers, they are hardly ever able, without extraneous
addition, to maintain them.

[Footnote 5: Table showing the Population in 1801, 1891, and 1841, in
the under-mentioned counties of Great Britain.

                                                       Increase in
                       1801       1821         1841    forty years.

  Lancashire,         672,731   1,052,859   1,667,054     994,323
  Yorkshire, W.R.,    565,282     801,274   1,154,101     588,819
  Staffordshire,      233,153     343,895     510,504     277,351
  Nottingham,         140,350     186,873     249,910     109,560
  Warwick,            208,190     274,322     401,715     193,155
  Gloucester,         250,809     335,843     431,383     180,574

                    2,070,515   2,995,066   4,412,667   2,343,782


  Lanark,             146,699     244,387     434,972     288,273
  Renfrew,             78,056     112,175     155,072      77,016

                      224,755     356,562     590,044     365,289

  --_Census of_ 1841. Preface, p. 8 and 9.]

Various causes have combined to produce demoralization among the vast
crowd, thus suddenly attracted, by the alluring prospect of high
wages and steady employment, from the rural to the manufacturing
districts. In the first place, they acquired wealth before they had
learned how to use it, and that is, perhaps, the most general cause
of the rapid degeneracy of mankind. High wages flowed in upon them
before they had acquired the artificial wants in the gratification of
which they could be innocently spent. Thence the general recourse to
the grosser and sensual enjoyments, which are powerful alike on the
savage and the sage. Men who, in the wilds of Ireland or the
mountains of Scotland, were making three or four shillings a-week, or
in Sussex ten, suddenly found themselves, as cotton-spinners,
iron-moulders, colliers, or mechanics, in possession of from twenty
to thirty shillings. Meanwhile, their habits and inclinations had
undergone scarce any alteration; they had no taste for comfort in
dress, lodging, or furniture; and as to laying by money, the thing,
of course, was not for a moment thought of. Thus, this vast addition
to their incomes was spent almost exclusively on eating and drinking.
The extent to which gross sensual enjoyment was thus spread among
these first settlers in the regions of commercial opulence, is
incredible. It is an ascertained fact, that above a million a-year is
annually spent in Glasgow on ardent spirits;[6] and it has recently
been asserted by a respectable and intelligent operative in
Manchester, that, in that city, 750,000 _more_ is annually spent on
beer and spirits, than on the purchase of provisions. Is it
surprising that a large part of the progeny of a generation which has
embraced such habits, should be sunk in sensuality and profligacy,
and afford a never-failing supply for the prisons and transport
ships? It is the counterpart of the sudden corruption which
invariably overtakes northern conquerors, when they settle in the
regions of southern opulence.

[Footnote 6: ALISON _on Population_, ii. Appendix A.]

Another powerful cause which promotes the corruption of men, when
thus suddenly congregated together from different quarters in the
manufacturing districts, is, that the restraints of character,
relationship, and vicinity are, in a great measure, lost in the
crowd. Every body knows what powerful influence public opinion, or
the opinion of their relations, friends, and acquaintances, exercises
on all men in their native seats, or when living for any length of
time in one situation. It forms, in fact, next to religion, the most
powerful restraint on vice, and excitement to virtue, that exists in
the world. But when several hundred thousand of the working classes
are suddenly huddled together in densely peopled localities, this
invaluable check is wholly lost. Nay, what is worse, it is rolled
over to the other side; and forms an additional incentive to
licentiousness. The poor in these situations have no neighbours who
care for them, or even know their names; but they are surrounded by
multitudes who are willing to accompany them in the career of
sensuality. They are unknown alike to each other, and to any persons
of respectability or property in their vicinity. Philanthropy seeks
in vain for virtue amidst thousands and tens of thousands of unknown
names; charity itself is repelled by the hopelessness of all attempts
to relieve the stupendous mass of destitution which follows in the
train of such enormous accumulation of numbers. Every individual or
voluntary effort is overlooked amidst the prodigious multitude, as it
was in the Moscow campaign of Napoleon. Thus the most powerful
restraints on human conduct--character, relations, neighbourhood--are
lost upon mankind at the very time when their salutary influence is
most required to enable them to withstand the increasing temptations
arising from density of numbers and a vast increase of wages.
Multitudes remove responsibility without weakening passion. Isolation
ensures concealment without adding to resolution. This is the true
cause of the more rapid deterioration of the character of the poor
than the rich, when placed in such dense localities. The latter have
a neighbourhood to watch them, because their station renders them
conspicuous--the former have none. Witness the rapid and general
corruption of the higher ranks, when they get away from such
restraint, amidst the profligacy of New South Wales.

In the foremost rank of the causes which demoralize the urban and
mining population, we must place the frequency of those strikes which
unhappily have now become so common as to be of more frequent
occurrence than a wet season, even in our humid climate. During the
last twenty years there have been six great strikes: viz. in 1826,
1828, 1834, 1837, 1842, and 1844. All of these have kept multitudes
of the labouring poor idle for months together. Incalculable is the
demoralization thus produced upon the great mass of the working
classes. We speak not of the actual increase of commitments during
the continuance of a great strike, though that increase is so
considerable that it in general augments them in a single year from
thirty to fifty per cent.[7] We allude to the far more general and
lasting causes of demoralization which arise from the arraying of one
portion of the community in fierce hostility against another, the
wretchedness which is spread among multitudes by months of compulsory
idleness, and the not less ruinous effect of depriving them of
_occupation_ during such protracted periods. When we recollect that
such is the vehemence of party feeling produced by these disastrous
combinations, that it so far obliterates all sense of right and wrong
as generally to make their members countenance contumely and insult,
sometimes even robbery, fire-raising, and murder, committed on
innocent persons who are only striving to earn an honest livelihood
for themselves by hard labour, but in opposition to the strike; and
that it induces twenty and thirty thousand persons to yield implicit
obedience to the commands of an unknown committee, who have power to
force them to do what the Sultan Mahmoud, or the Committee of Public
Safety, never ventured to attempt--to abstain from labour, and endure
want and starvation for months together, for an object of which they
often in secret disapprove--it may be conceived how wide-spread and
fatal is the confusion of moral principle, and habits of idleness and
insubordination thus produced. Their effects invariably appear for a
course of years afterwards, in the increased roll of criminal
commitments, and the number of young persons of both sexes, who,
loosened by these protracted periods of idleness, never afterwards
regain habits of regularity and industry. Nor is the evil lessened by
the blind infatuation with which it is uniformly regarded by the
other classes of the community, and the obstinate resistance they
make to all measures calculated to arrest the violence of these
combinations, in consequence of the expense with which they would
probably be attended--a supineness which, by leaving the coast
constantly clear to the terrors of such associations, and promising
impunity to their crimes, operates as a continual bounty on their
recurrence.

[Footnote 7:

  Commitments:--
            Lanarkshire.   Lancashire.   Staffordshire.   Yorkshire.
  1836         451            2,265           686           1,252
  1837[8]      565            2,809           909           1,376
  1841         513            3,987         1,059           1,895
  1842[9]      696            4,497         1,485           2,598

  PORTER'S _Parl. Tables_, xi. 162.--_Parl. Paper of Crime_,
  1843, p. 53.]

[Footnote 8: Strike.]

[Footnote 9: Strike.]

Infant labour, unhappily now so frequent in all kinds of factories,
and the great prevalence of female workers, is another evil of a very
serious kind in the manufacturing districts. We do not propose to
enter into the question, recently so fiercely agitated in the
legislature, as to the practicability of substituting a compulsory
ten-hours' bill for the twelve hours' at present in operation.
Anxious to avoid all topics on which there is a difference of opinion
among able and patriotic men, we merely state this prevalence and
precocity of juvenile labour in the manufacturing and mining
districts as _a fact_ which all must deplore, and which is attended
with the most unhappy effects on the rising generation. The great
majority, probably nine-tenths, of all the workers in cotton-mills or
printfields, are females. We have heard much of the profligacy and
licentiousness which pervade such establishments; but though that may
be too true in some cases, it is far from being universal, or even
general; and there are numerous instances of female virtue being as
jealously guarded and effectually preserved in such establishments,
as in the most secluded rural districts. The real evils--and they
follow universally from such employment of juvenile females in great
numbers in laborious but lucrative employment--are the emancipation
of the young from parental control, the temptation held out to
idleness in the parents from the possibility of living on their
children, and the disqualifying the girls for performing all the
domestic duties of wives and mothers in after life.

These evils are real, general, and of ruinous consequence. When
children--from the age of nine or ten in some establishments, of
thirteen or fourteen in all--are able to earn wages varying from 3s.
6d. to 6s. a-week, they soon become in practice independent of
parental control. The strongest of all securities for filial
obedience--a sense of dependence--is destroyed. The children assert
the right of self-government, because they bear the burden of
self-maintenance. Nature, in the ordinary case, has effectually
guarded against this premature and fatal emancipation of the young,
by the protracted period of weakness during childhood and
adolescence, which precludes the possibility of serious labour being
undertaken before the age when a certain degree of mental firmness
has been acquired. But the steam-engine, amidst its other marvels,
has entirely destroyed, within the sphere of its influence, this
happy and necessary exemption of infancy from labour. Steam is the
moving power; it exerts the strength; the human machine is required
only to lift a web periodically, or damp a roller, or twirl a film
round the finger, to which the hands of infancy are as adequate as
those of mature age. Hence the general employment of children, and
especially girls, in such employments. They are equally serviceable
as men or women, and they are more docile, cheaper, and less given to
strikes. But as these children earn their own subsistence, they soon
become rebellious to parental authority, and exercise the freedom of
middle life as soon as they feel its passions, and before they have
acquired its self-control.

If the effect of such premature emancipation of the young is hurtful
to them, it is, if possible, still more pernicious to their parents.
Labour is generally irksome to man; it is seldom persevered in after
the period of its necessity has passed. When parents find that, by
sending three or four children out to the mills or into the mines,
they can get eighteen or twenty shillings a-week without doing any
thing themselves, they soon come to abridge the duration and cost of
education, in order to accelerate the arrival of the happy period
when they may live on their offspring, not their offspring on them.
Thus the purest and best affections of the heart are obliterated on
the very threshold of life. That best school of disinterestedness and
virtue, the _domestic hearth_, where generosity and self-control are
called forth in the parents, and gratitude and affection in the
children, from the very circumstance of the dependence of the latter
on the former, is destroyed. It is worse than destroyed, it is made
the parent of wickedness: it exists, but it exists only to nourish
the selfish and debasing passions. Children come to be looked on, not
as objects of affection, but as instruments of gain; not as forming
the first duty of life and calling forth its highest energies, but as
affording the first means of relaxing from labour, and permitting a
relapse into indolence and sensuality. The children are, practically
speaking, sold for slaves, and--oh! unutterable horror!--_the sellers
are their own parents_! Unbounded is the demoralization produced by
this monstrous perversion of the first principles of nature. Thence
it is that it is generally found, that all the beneficent provisions
of the legislature for the protection of infant labour are so
generally evaded, as to render it doubtful whether any law, how
stringent soever, could protect them. The reason is apparent. The
parents of the children are the chief violators of the law; for the
sake of profit they send them out, the instant they can work, to the
mills or the mines. Those whom nature has made their protectors, have
become their oppressors. The thirst for idleness, intoxication, or
sensuality, has turned the strongest of the generous, into the most
malignant of the selfish passions.

The habits acquired by such precocious employment of young women, are
not less destructive of their ultimate utility and respectability in
life. Habituated from their earliest years to one undeviating
mechanical employment, they acquire great skill in it, but grow up
utterly ignorant of any thing else. We speak not of ignorance of
reading or writing, but of ignorance in still more momentous
particulars, with reference to their usefulness in life as wives and
mothers. They can neither bake nor brew, wash nor iron, sew nor knit.
The finest London lady is not more utterly inefficient than they are,
for any other object but the one mechanical occupation to which they
have been habituated. They can neither darn a stocking nor sew on a
button. As to making porridge or washing a handkerchief, the thing is
out of the question. Their food is cooked out of doors by persons who
provide the lodging-houses in which they dwell--they are clothed from
head to foot, like fine ladies, by milliners and dressmakers. This is
not the result of fashion, caprice, or indolence, but of the entire
concentration of their faculties, mental and corporeal, from their
earliest years, in one limited mechanical object. They are unfit to
be any man's wife--still more unfit to be any child's mother. We hear
little of this from philanthropists or education-mongers; but it is,
nevertheless, not the least, because the most generally diffused,
evil connected with our manufacturing industry.

But by far the greatest cause of the mass of crime of the
manufacturing and mining districts of the country, is to be found in
the prodigious number of persons, especially in infancy, who are
reduced to a state of destitution, and precipitated into the very
lowest stations of life, in consequence of the numerous ills to which
all flesh--but especially all flesh in manufacturing communities--is
heir. Our limits preclude the possibility of entering into all the
branches of this immense subject; we shall content ourselves,
therefore, with referring to one, which seems of itself perfectly
sufficient to explain the increase of crime, which at first sight
appears so alarming. This is the immense proportion of _destitute
widows with families_, who in such circumstances find themselves
immovably fixed in places where they can neither bring up their
children decently, nor get away to other and less peopled localities.

From the admirable statistical returns of the condition of the
labouring poor in France, prepared for the _Bureau de l'Interieure_,
it appears that the number of widows in that country amounts to the
enormous number of 1,738,000.[10] This, out of a population now of
about 34,000,000, is as nearly as possible _one in twenty_ of the
entire population! Population is advancing much more rapidly in Great
Britain than France; for in the former country it is doubling in
about 60 years, in the latter in 106. It is certain, therefore, that
the proportion of widows must be greater in this country than in
France, especially in the manufacturing districts, where early
marriages, from the ready employment for young children, are so
frequent; and early deaths, from the unhealthiness of employment or
contagious disorders, are so common. But call the proportion the
same: let it be taken at a twentieth part of the existing population.
At this rate, the two millions of strangers who, during the last
forty years, have been thrown into the four northern counties of
Lancaster, York, Stafford, and Warwick, must contain at this moment
_a hundred thousand widows_. The usual average of a family is two and
a half children--call it two only. There will thus be found to be
200,000 children belonging to these 100,000 widows. It is hardly
necessary to say, that the great majority, probably four-fifths of
this immense body, must be in a state of destitution. We know in what
state the fatherless and widows are in their affliction, and who has
commanded us to visit them. On the most moderate calculation,
250,000, or an eighth of the whole population, must be in a state of
poverty and privation. And in Scotland, where, during the same period
of forty years, 350,000 strangers have been suddenly huddled together
on the banks of the Clyde, the proportion may be presumed to be the
same; or, in other words, _thirty thousand_ widows and orphans are
constantly there in a state deserving of pity, and requiring support,
hardly any of whom receive more from the parish funds than _a
shilling a-week_, even for the maintenance of a whole family.

The proportion of widows and orphans to the entire population, though
without doubt in some degree aggravated by the early marriages and
unhealthy employments incident to manufacturing districts, may be
supposed to be not materially different in one age, or part of the
country, from another. The widow and the orphan, as well as the poor,
will be always with us; but the peculiar circumstance which renders
their condition so deplorable in the dense and suddenly peopled
manufacturing districts is, that the poor have been brought together
in such prodigious numbers that all the ordinary means of providing
for the relief of such casualties fails; while the causes of
mortality among them are periodically so fearful, as to produce a
vast and sudden increase of the most destitute classes altogether
outstripping all possible means of local or voluntary relief. During
the late typhus fever in Glasgow, in the years 1836 and 1837, above
30,000 of the poor took the epidemic, of whom 3300 died.[11] In the
first eight months of 1843 alone, 32,000 persons in Glasgow were
seized with fever.[12] Out of 1000 families, at a subsequent period,
visited by the police, in conjunction with the visitors for the
distribution of the great fund raised by subscription in 1841, 680
were found to be widows, who, with their families, amounted to above
2000 persons all in the most abject state of wretchedness and
want.[13] On so vast a scale do the causes of human destruction and
demoralization act, when men are torn up from their native seats by
the irresistible magnet of commercial wealth, and congregated
together in masses, resembling rather the armies of Timour and
Napoleon than any thing else ever witnessed in the transactions of
men.

[Footnote 10: _Statistique de la France, publiee par le
Gouvernement_, viii. 371-4. A most splendid work.]

[Footnote 11: Fever patients, Glasgow, 1836, 37.

             Fever patients.    Died.
  1836, . .    10,092        .  1187
  1837, . .    21,800        .  2180
               ------           ----
               31,892           3367

--COWAN'S _Vital Statistics of Glasgow_, 1388, p 8, the work of a
most able and meritorious medical gentleman now no more.]

[Footnote 12: Dr Alison on the Epidemic of 1843, p. 67.]

[Footnote 13: Captain Millar's Report, 1841, p. 8.]

Here, then, is the great source of demoralization, destitution, and
crime in the manufacturing districts. It arises from the sudden
congregation of human beings in such fearful multitudes together,
that all the usual alleviations of human suffering, or modes of
providing for human indigence, entirely fail. We wonder at the rapid
increase of crime in the manufacturing districts, forgetting that a
squalid mass of two or three hundred thousand human beings are
constantly precipitated to the bottom of society in a few counties,
in such circumstances of destitution that recklessness and crime
arise naturally, it may almost be said unavoidably, amongst them. And
it is in the midst of such gigantic causes of evil--of causes arising
from the extraordinary and unparalleled influx of mankind into the
manufacturing districts during the last forty years, which can bear a
comparison to nothing but the collection of the host with which
Napoleon invaded Russia, or Timour and Genghis Khan desolated
Asia--that we are gravely told that it is to be arrested by education
and moral training; by infant schools and shortened hours of labour;
by multiplication of ministers and solitary imprisonment! All these
are very good things; each in its way is calculated to do a certain
amount of good; and their united action upon the whole will
doubtless, in process of time, produce some impression upon the
aspect of society, even in the densely peopled manufacturing
districts. As to their producing any immediate effect, or in any
sensible degree arresting the prodigious amount of misery,
destitution, and crime which pervades them, you might as well have
tried, by the schoolmaster, to arrest the horrors of the Moscow
retreat.

That the causes which have now been mentioned are the true sources of
the rapid progress of crime and general demoralization of our
manufacturing and mining districts, must be evident to all from this
circumstance, well known to all who are practically conversant with
the subject, but to a great degree unattended to by the majority of
men, and that is,--that the prodigious stream of depravity and
corruption which prevails, is far from being equally and generally
diffused through society, even in the densely peopled districts where
it is most alarming, but is in a great degree confined to the _very
lowest class_. It is from that lowest class that nine-tenths of the
crime, and nearly all the professional crime, which is felt as so
great an evil in society, flows. Doubtless in all classes there are
some wicked, many selfish and inhumane men; and a beneficent Deity,
in the final allotment of rewards and punishments, will take largely
into account both the opportunities of doing well which the better
classes have abused, and the almost invincible causes which so often
chain, as it were, the destitute to recklessness and crime. But
still, in examining the classes of society on which the greater part
of the crime comes, it will be found that at least three-fourths,
probably nine-tenths, comes from the very lowest and the most
destitute. It is incorrect to say crime is common among them; in
truth, among the young at least, a tendency to it is there all but
universal. If we examine who it is that compose this dismal
substratum, this hideous _black band of society_, we shall find that
it is not made up of any one class more than another--not of factory
workers more than labourers, carters, or miners--but is formed by an
aggregate of the most unfortunate or improvident of _all classes_,
who, variously struck down from better ways by disease, vice, or
sensuality, are now of necessity huddled together by tens of
thousands in the dens of poverty, and held by the firm bond of
necessity in the precincts of contagion and crime. Society in such
circumstances resembles the successive bands of which the imagination
of Dante has framed the infernal regions, which contain one
concentric circle of horrors and punishments within another, until,
when you arrive at the bottom, you find one uniform mass of crime,
blasphemy and suffering.

We are persuaded there is no person practically acquainted with the
causes of immorality and crime in the manufacturing districts, who
will not admit that these are the true ones; and that the others,
about which so much is said by theorists and philanthropists, though
not without influence, are nevertheless trifling in the balance. And
what we particularly call the public attention to is this--Suppose
all the remedies which theoretical writers or practical legislators
have put forth and recommended, as singly adequate to remove the
evils of the manufacturing classes, were to be in _united_ operation,
they would still leave these gigantic causes of evil untouched. Let
Lord Ashley obtain from a reluctant legislature his ten-hours' bill,
and Dr Chalmers have a clergyman established for every 700
inhabitants; let church extension be pushed till there is a chapel in
every village, and education till there is a school in every street;
let the separate system be universal in prisons, and every criminal
be entirely secluded from vicious contamination; still the great
fountains of evil will remain unclosed; still 300,000 widows and
orphans will exist in a few counties of England amidst a newly
collected and strange population, steeped in misery themselves, and
of necessity breeding up their children in habits of destitution and
depravity; still the poor will be deprived, from the suddenness of
their collection, and the density of their numbers, of any effective
control, either from private character or the opinion of
neighbourhood; still individual passion will be inflamed, and
individual responsibility lost amidst multitudes; still strikes will
spread their compulsory idleness amidst tens of thousands, and
periodically array the whole working classes under the banners of
sedition, despotism, and murder; still precocious female labour will
at once tempt parents into idleness in middle life, and disqualify
children, in youth, for household or domestic duties. We wish well to
the philanthropists: we are far from undervaluing either the
importance or the utility of their labours; but as we have hitherto
seen no diminution of crime whatever from their efforts, so we
anticipate a very slow and almost imperceptible improvement in
society from their exertions.

Strong, and in many respects just, pictures of the state of the
working classes in the manufacturing districts, have been lately put
forth, and the _Perils of the Nation_ have, with reason, been thought
to be seriously increased by them. Those writers, however, how
observant and benevolent soever, give a partial, and in many respects
fallacious view, of the _general_ aspect of society. After reading
their doleful accounts of the general wretchedness, profligacy, and
licentiousness of the working classes, the stranger is astonished, on
travelling through England, to behold green fields and smiling
cottages on all sides; to see in every village signs of increasing
comfort, in every town marks of augmented wealth, and the aspect of
poverty almost banished from the land. Nay, what is still more
gratifying, the returns of the sanatary condition of the whole
population, though still exhibiting a painful difference between the
health and chances of life in the rural and manufacturing districts,
present unequivocal proof of a general amelioration of the chances of
life, and, consequently, of the general wellbeing of the whole
community.

How are these opposite statements and appearances to be reconciled?
Both are true--the reconciliation is easy. The misery, recklessness,
and vice exist chiefly in one class--the industry, sobriety, and
comfort in another. Each observer tells truly what he sees in his own
circle of attention; he does not tell what, nevertheless, exists, and
exercises a powerful influence on society, of the good which exists
in the other classes. If the evils detailed in Lord Ashley's
speeches, and painted with so much force in the _Perils of the
Nation_, were universal, or even general, society could not hold
together for a week. But though these evils are great, sometimes
overwhelming in particular districts, they are far from being
general. Nothing effectual has yet been done to arrest them in the
localities or communities where they arise; but they do not spread
much beyond them. The person engaged in the factories are stated by
Lord Ashley to be between four and five hundred thousand: the
population of the British islands is above 27,000,000. It is in the
steadiness, industry, and good conduct of a large proportion of this
immense majority that the security is to be found. Observe that
industrious and well-doing majority; you would suppose there is no
danger:--observe the profligate and squalid minority; you would
suppose there is no hope.

At present about 60,000 persons are annually committed, in the
British islands, for serious offences[14] worthy of deliberate trial,
and above double that number for summary or police offences. A
hundred and eighty thousand persons annually fall under the lash of
the criminal law, and are committed for longer or shorter periods to
places of confinement for punishment. The number is prodigious--it is
frightful. Yet it is in all only about 1 in 120 of the population;
and from the great number who are repeatedly committed during the
same year, the individuals punished are not 1 in 200. Such as they
are, it may safely be affirmed that four-fifths of this 180,000 comes
out of two or three millions of the community. We are quite sure that
150,000 come from 3,000,000 of the lowest and most squalid of the
empire, and not 30,000 from the remaining 24,000,000 who live in
comparative comfort. This consideration is fitted both to encourage
hope and awaken shame--hope, as showing from how small a class in
society the greater part of the crime comes, and to how limited a
sphere the remedies require to be applied; shame, as demonstrating
how disgraceful has been the apathy, selfishness, and supineness in
the other more numerous and better classes, around whom the evil has
arisen, but who seldom interfere, except to RESIST all measures
calculated for its removal.

It is to this subject--the ease with which the extraordinary and
unprecedented increase of crime in the empire might be arrested by
proper means and the total inefficiency of all the remedies hitherto
attempted, from the want of practical knowledge on the part of those
at the head of affairs, and an entirely false view of human nature in
society generally, that we shall direct the attention of our readers
in a future Number.

[Footnote 14: Viz., in round numbers--

  England,    30,000
  Ireland,    26,000
  Scotland,    4,000
              60,000]




THE HEART OF THE BRUCE.

A BALLAD.


  It was upon an April morn
    While yet the frost lay hoar,
  We heard Lord James's bugle-horn
    Sound by the rocky shore.

  Then down we went, a hundred knights,
    All in our dark array,
  And flung our armour in the ships
    That rode within the bay.

  We spoke not as the shore grew less,
    But gazed in silence back,
  Where the long billows swept away
    The foam behind our track.

  And aye the purple hues decay'd
    Upon the fading hill,
  And but one heart in all that ship
    Was tranquil, cold, and still.

  The good Earl Douglas walk'd the deck,
    And oh, his brow was wan!
  Unlike the flush it used to wear
    When in the battle van.--

  "Come hither, come hither, my trusty knight,
    Sir Simon of the Lee;
  There is a freit lies near my soul
    I fain would tell to thee.

  "Thou knowest the words King Robert spoke
    Upon his dying day,
  How he bade me take his noble heart
    And carry it far away:

  "And lay it in the holy soil
    Where once the Saviour trod,
  Since he might not bear the blessed Cross,
    Nor strike one blow for God.

  "Last night as in my bed I lay,
    I dream'd a dreary dream:--
  Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand
    In the moonlight's quivering beam.

  "His robe was of the azure dye,
    Snow-white his scatter'd hairs,
  And even such a cross he bore
    As good Saint Andrew bears.

  "'Why go ye forth, Lord James,' he said,
    'With spear and belted brand?
  Why do ye take its dearest pledge
    From this our Scottish land?

  "'The sultry breeze of Galilee
    Creeps through its groves of palm,
  The olives on the Holy Mount
    Stand glittering in the calm.

  "'But 'tis not there that Scotland's heart
    Shall rest by God's decree,
  Till the great angel calls the dead
    To rise from earth and sea!

  "'Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede
    That heart shall pass once more
  In fiery fight against the foe,
    As it was wont of yore.

  "'And it shall pass beneath the Cross,
    And save King Robert's vow,
  But other hands shall bear it back,
    Not, James of Douglas, thou!'

  "Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray,
    Sir Simon of the Lee--
  For truer friend had never man
    Than thou hast been to me--

  "If ne'er upon the Holy Land
    'Tis mine in life to tread,
  Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth
    The relics of her dead."

  The tear was in Sir Simon's eye
    As he wrung the warrior's hand--
  "Betide me weal, betide me woe,
    I'll hold by thy command.

  "But if in battle front, Lord James,
    'Tis ours once more to ride,
  Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend,
    Shall cleave me from thy side!"

  And aye we sail'd, and aye we sail'd,
    Across the weary sea,
  Until one morn the coast of Spain
    Rose grimly on our lee.

  And as we rounded to the port,
    Beneath the watch-tower's wall,
  We heard the clash of the atabals,
    And the trumpet's wavering call.

  "Why sounds yon Eastern music here
    So wantonly and long,
  And whose the crowd of armed men
    That round yon standard throng?'

  "The Moors have come from Africa
    To spoil and waste and slay,
  And Pedro, King of Arragon,
    Must fight with them to-day."

  "Now shame it were," cried good Lord James,
    "Shall never be said of me,
   That I and mine have turn'd aside,
    From the Cross in jeopardie!

  "Have down, have down my merry men all--
    Have down unto the plain;
   We'll let the Scottish lion loose
    Within the fields of Spain!"--

  "Now welcome to me, noble lord,
    Thou and thy stalwart power;
   Dear is the sight of a Christian knight
    Who comes in such an hour!

  "Is it for bond or faith ye come,
    Or yet for golden fee?
  Or bring ye France's lilies here,
    Or the flower of Burgundie?'

  "God greet thee well, thou valiant King,
    Thee and thy belted peers--
  Sir James of Douglas am I call'd,
    And these are Scottish spears.

  "We do not fight for bond or plight,
    Nor yet for golden fee;
  But for the sake of our blessed Lord,
    That died Upon the tree.

  "We bring our great King Robert's heart
    Across the weltering wave,
  To lay it in the holy soil
    Hard by the Saviour's grave.

  "True pilgrims we, by land or sea,
    Where danger bars the way;
  And therefore are we here, Lord King,
    To ride with thee this day!"

  The King has bent his stately head,
    And the tears were in his eyne--
  "God's blessing on thee, noble knight,
    For this brave thought of thine!

  "I know thy name full well, Lord James,
    And honour'd may I be,
  That those who fought beside the Bruce
    Should fight this day for me!

  "Take thou the leading of the van,
    And charge the Moors amain;
  There is not such a lance as thine
    In all the host of Spain!"

  The Douglas turned towards us then,
    Oh, but his glance was high!--
  "There is not one of all my men
    But is as bold as I.

  "There is not one of all my knights
    But bears as true a spear--
  Then onwards! Scottish gentlemen,
    And think--King Robert's here!"

  The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew,
    The arrows flash'd like flame,
  As spur in side, and spear in rest,
    Against the foe we came.

  And many a bearded Saracen
    Went down, both horse and man;
  For through their ranks we rode like corn,
    So furiously we ran!

  But in behind our path they closed,
    Though fain to let us through,
  For they were forty thousand men,
    And we were wondrous few.

  We might not see a lance's length,
    So dense was their array,
  But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade
    Still held them hard at bay.

  "Make in! make in!" Lord Douglas cried,
    "Make in, my brethren dear!
  Sir William of St Clair is down,
    We may not leave him here!"

  But thicker, thicker, grew the swarm,
    And sharper shot the rain,
  And the horses rear'd amid the press,
    But they would not charge again.

  "Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James,
    "Thou kind and true St Clair!
  An' if I may not bring thee off,
    I'll die beside thee there!"

  Then in his stirrups up he stood,
    So lionlike and bold,
  And held the precious heart aloft
    All in its case of gold.

  He flung it from him, far ahead,
    And never spake he more,
  But--"Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart,
    As thou were wont of yore!"

  The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,
    And heavier still the stour,
  Till the spears of Spain came shivering in
    And swept away the Moor.

  "Now praised be God, the day is won!
    They fly o'er flood and fell--
  Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
    Good knight, that fought so well?"

  "Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said,
    "And leave the dead to me,
  For I must keep the dreariest watch
    That ever I shall dree!

  "There lies beside his master's heart
    The Douglas, stark and grim;
  And woe is me I should be here,
    Not side by side with him!

  "The world grows cold, my arm is old,
    And thin my lyart hair,
  And all that I loved best on earth
    Is stretch'd before me there.

  "O Bothwell banks! that bloom so bright,
    Beneath the sun of May,
  The heaviest cloud that ever blew
    Is bound for you this day.

  "And, Scotland, thou may'st veil thy head
    In sorrow and in pain;
  The sorest stroke upon thy brow
    Hath fallen this day in Spain!

  "We'll bear them back into our ship,
    We'll bear them o'er the sea,
  And lay them in the hallow'd earth,
    Within our own countrie.

  "And be thou strong of heart, Lord King,
    For this I tell thee sure,
  The sod that drank the Douglas' blood
    Shall never bear the Moor!"

  The King he lighted from his horse,
    He flung his brand away,
  And took the Douglas by the hand,
    So stately as he lay.

  "God give thee rest, thou valiant soul,
    That fought so well for Spain;
  I'd rather half my land were gone,
    So thou wert here again!"

  We bore the good Lord James away,
    And the priceless heart he bore,
  And heavily we steer'd our ship
    Towards the Scottish shore.

  No welcome greeted our return,
    Nor clang of martial tread,
  But all were dumb and hush'd as death
    Before the mighty dead.

  We laid the Earl in Douglas Kirk,
    The heart in fair Melrose;
  And woful men were we that day--
    God grant their souls repose!
                               W.E.A.




MEMORANDUMS OF A MONTH'S TOUR IN SICILY.

THE MUSEUM OF PALERMO.


The museum of Palermo is a small but very interesting collection of
statues and other sculpture, gathered chiefly, they say, from the
ancient temples of Sicily, with a few objects bestowed out of the
superfluities of Pompeii. In the lower room are some good
bas-reliefs, to which a story is attached. They were discovered
fifteen years ago at _Selinuntium_ by some young Englishmen, the
reward of four months' labour. Our guide, who had been also theirs,
had warned them not to stay after the month of June, when malaria
begins. They did stay. All (four) took the fever; one died of it in
Palermo, and the survivors were deprived by the government--that is,
by the king--of the spoils for which they had suffered so much and
worked so hard. No one is permitted to excavate without royal
license; _excavation_ is, like _Domitian's fish, res fisci_. Even Mr
Fagan, who was consul at Palermo, having made some interesting
underground discoveries, was deprived of them. We saw here a fine
Esculapius, in countenance and expression exceedingly like the _Ecce
Homo_ of Leonardo da Vinci, with all that god-like compassion which
the great painter had imparted without any sacrifice of dignity. He
holds a poppy-head, which we do not recollect on his statue or gems,
and the Epidaurian snake is at his side. Up-stairs we saw specimens
of fruits from Pompeii, barley, beans, the carob pod, pine kernels,
as well as bread, sponge, linen: and the sponge was obviously such,
and so was the linen. A bronze Hercules treading on the back of a
stag, which he has overtaken and subdued, is justly considered as one
of the most perfect bronzes discovered at Pompeii. A head of our
Saviour, by Corregio, is exquisite in conception, and such as none
but a person long familiar with the physiognomy of suffering could
have accomplished. These are exceptions rather than specimens. The
pictures, in general, are poor in interest; and a long gallery of
_casts_ of the _chef-d'oeuvres_ of antiquity possessed by the
capitals of Italy, Germany, England, and France, looks oddly here,
and shows the poverty of a country which had been to the predatory
proconsuls of Rome an inexhaustible repertory of the highest
treasures of art. A VERRES REDIVIVUS would now find little to carry
off but toys made of amber, lava snuff-boxes, and WODEHOUSE'S
MARSALA--one of which he certainly would not guess the _age_ of, and
the other of which he would not _drink_.


LUNATIC ASYLUM.

We saw nothing in this house or its arrangements to make us think it
superior, or very different from others we had visited elsewhere. The
making a lunatic asylum a show-place for strangers is to be censured;
indeed, we heard Esquirol observe, that nothing was so bad as the
admission of many persons to see the patients at all; for that,
although some few were better for the visits of friends, it was
injurious as a general rule to give even friends admittance, and that
it ought to be left discretionary with the physician, _when_ to
admit, and _whom_. Cleanliness, good fare, a garden, and the
suppression of all violence--these have become immutable canons for
the conduct of such institutions, and fortunately demand little more
than ordinary good feeling and intelligence in the superintendent.
But we could not fail to observe a sad want of suitable inducement to
_occupation_, which was apparent throughout this asylum. That not
above one in ten could read, may perhaps be thought a light matter,
for few can be the resources of insanity in books; yet we saw at
_Genoa_ a case where it had taken that turn, and as it is occupation
to read, with how much profit it matters not. Not one woman in four,
as usually occurs in insanity, could be induced to _dress according
to her sex_; they figured away in men's coats and hats! The
dining-room was hung with portraits of some merit, by one of the
lunatics; and we noticed that every face, if indeed all are
_portraits_, had some insanity in it. They have a dance every Sunday
evening. What an exhibition it must be!


MISCELLANEA

That the vegetation of Palermo excels that of Naples, partly depends
on the superior intelligence of the agriculturist, and partly upon
soil and climate: the fruits here are not only more advanced, but
finer in quality. We left a very meagre dessert of cherries beginning
to ripen at Naples; the very next day, a superabundance of very fine
and mature ones were to be had on all the stalls of Palermo. This
must be the result of industry and care in a great measure; for on
leaving that city, after a _sejour_ of three weeks, for Messina,
Catania, and Syracuse, although summer was much further advanced, we
relapsed into miserably meagre supplies of what we had eaten in
perfection in the capital; yet Syracuse and Catania are much warmer
than Palermo.

The vegetables here are of immense growth. The fennel root (and there
is no better test of your whereabouts in Italy) is nearly twice as
large as at Naples, and weighs, accordingly, nearly double. The
cauliflowers are quite colossal; and they have a blue cabbage so big
that your arms will scarcely embrace it. We question, however,
whether this hypertrophy of fruit or vegetables improves their
flavour; give us _English vegetables_--ay, and _English fruit_.
Though Smyrna's _fig_ is eaten throughout Europe, and Roman _brocoli_
be without a rival; though the _cherry_ and the Japan _medlar_
flourish only at Palermo, and the _cactus_ of Catania can be eaten
nowhere else; what country town in England is not better off on the
whole, if quality alone be considered? But we have one terrible
drawback; for _whom_ are these fruits of the earth produced? Our
_prices_ are enormous, and our supply scanty; could we _forget this_,
and the artichoke, the asparagus, the peas and beans of London and
Paris, are rarely elsewhere so fine. To our palates the _gooseberry_
and the _black currant_ are a sufficient indemnity to Britain for the
_grape_, merely regarded as a fruit to _eat. Pine-apples_, those
"illustrious foreigners," are so successfully _petted_ at home, that
they will scarcely condescend now to flourish out of England.
_Nectarines_ refuse to ripen, and _apricots_ to have any taste
elsewhere. Our _pears_ and _apples_ are better, and of more various
excellence, than any in the world. And we really prefer our very
figs, grown on a fine _prebendal_ wall in the close of _Winchester_,
or under _Pococke's_ window in a canon's garden at _chilly Oxford_.
Thus has the kitchen-garden refreshed our patriotism, and made us
half ashamed of our long forgetfulness of home. But there are good
things abroad too for poor men; the rich may live any where. An
enormous salad, crisp, cold, white, and of delicious flavour, for a
halfpenny; olive oil, for fourpence a pound, to dress it with; and
wine for fourpence a gallon to make it disagree with you;[15] fuel
for almost nothing, and bread for little, are not small advantages to
frugal housekeepers; but, when dispensed by a despotic government,
where one must read those revolting words _motu proprio_ at the head
of every edict, let us go back to our carrots and potatoes, our Peels
and our income-tax, our fogs and our frost. The country mouse came to
a right conclusion, and did not like the fragments of the feast with
the cat in the cupboard--

  Give me again my hollow tree,
  My crust of bread, and liberty."

[Footnote 15:

  ----_Lactuca_ innatat acri
  Post vinum stomacho.--HOR.]

Fish, though plentiful and various, is not fine in any part of the
_Mediterranean_; and as to _thunny_, one surfeit would put it out of
the bill of fare for life. On the whole, though at Palermo and Naples
the pauper starves not in the streets, the gourmand would be sadly at
a loss in his requisition of delicacies and variety. Inferior bread,
at a penny a pound, is here considered palatable by the sprinkling
over of the crust with a small rich seed (_jugulena_) which has a
flavour like the almond; it is also strewn, like our caraway seeds in
biscuits, _into_ the paste, and is largely cultivated for that single
use. The _capsici_, somewhat similar in flavour to the pea, are
detached from the radicles of a plant with a flower strikingly like
the potatoe, and is used for a similar purpose to the jugulena.

This island was the granary of Athens before it nourished Rome; and
wheat appears to have been first raised in Europe on the plains of
eastern Sicily. In Cicero's time it returned eightfold; and to this
day one grain yields its eightfold of increase; which, however, is by
a small fraction less than our own, as given by M'Culloch in his
"Dictionary of Commerce." We plucked some _siligo_, or bearded wheat,
near Palermo, the beard of which was eight inches long, the ear
contained sixty grains, eight being also in this instance the average
increase; how many grains, then, must perish in the ground!

In Palermo, English gunpowder is sold by British sailors at the high
price of from five to seven shillings per English pound; the "Polvere
_nostrale_" of the Sicilians only fetches 1s. 8d.; yet such is the
superiority of English gunpowder, that every one who has a passion
for popping at sparrows, and other _Italian sports_, (complimented by
the title of _La caccia_,) prefers the dear article. When they have
killed off all the robins, and there is not a twitter in _the whole
country_, they go to the river side and shoot _gudgeons_.

The Palermo donkey is the most obliging animal that ever wore long
ears, and will carry you cheerfully four or five miles an hour
without whip or other _encouragement_. The oxen, no longer white or
cream-, as in Tuscany, were originally importations from
Barbary, (to which country the Sicilians are likewise indebted for
the _mulberry_ and _silk-worm_.) Their colour is brown. They rival
the Umbrian breed in the herculean symmetry of their form, and in the
possession of horns of more than Umbrian dimensions, rising more
perpendicularly over the forehead than in that ancient race. The
lizards here are such beautiful creatures, that it is worth while to
bring one away, and, to _pervert_ a quotation, "UNIUS _Dominum sese
fecisse_ LACERTAE." Some are all green, some mottled like a mosaic
floor, others green and black on the upper side, and orange-
or red underneath. Of snakes, there is a _Coluber niger_ from four to
five feet in length, with a shining coat, and an eye not pleasant to
watch even through glass; yet the peasants here put them into their
Phrygian bonnets, and handle them with as much _sang-froid_ as one
would a walking-stick.

The coarse earthen vessels, pitchers, urns, &c., used by the
peasants, are of the most beautiful shapes, often that of the ancient
_amphora_; and at every cottage door by the road-side you meet with
this vestige of the ancient arts of the country.

The plague which visited Palermo in 1624 swept away 20,000
inhabitants; Messina, in 1743, lost 40,000. The cholera, in 1837,
destroyed 69,253 persons. The present population of the whole island
is 1,950,000; the female exceeds the male by about three per cent,
which is contrary to the general rule. It is said that nearly
one-half the children received into the foundling hospital of Palermo
die within the first year.

Formerly the barons of Sicily were rich and independent, like our
English gentlemen; but they say that, since 1812, the king's whole
pleasure and business, as before our _Magna Charta_ times, have been
to lower their importance. In that year a revolt was the consequence
of an income-tax even of two per cent, for they were yet unbroken to
the yoke; but now that he has saddled property with a deduction,
_said_ to be eventually equal to fifteen per cent, if not more; now
that he doubles the impost on the native sulphur, which is therefore
checked in its sale; now that he keeps an army of 80,000 men to play
at soldiers with; now that he constitutes himself the only referee
even in questions of commercial expediency, and _a fortiori_ in all
other cases, which he settles _arbitrarily_, or does not settle at
all; now that he sees so little the signs of the times, that he will
not let a professor go to a science-congress at Florence or Bologna
without an express permission, and so ignorant as to have _refused_
that permission for fear of a political bias; now that he diverts a
nation's wealth from works of charity or usefulness, to keep a set of
foreigners in his pay--they no doubt here remember in their prayers,
with becoming gratitude, "the holy alliance," or, as we would call
it, the _mutual insurance company of the kings of Europe_, of which
Castlereagh and Metternich were the honorary secretaries.

In the midst of all the gloomy despotism, beautiful even as
imagination can paint it, is Palermo beautiful! One eminent advantage
it possesses over Naples itself--its vicinity presents more "drives;"
and all the drives here might contest the name given to one of them,
which is called "_Giro delle Grazie_," (the Ring or Mall of the
Graces.) It has a _Marina_ of unrivaled beauty, to which the noblesse
and the citizens repair and form a promenade of elegant equipages. A
fine pavement for foot passengers is considerately raised three or
four feet above the carriage road; so that the walking population
have nothing to annoy them. The sea is immediately below both, and
you see the little rock-encircled bays animated with groups of those
sturdy fishermen with bare legs; which you admire in Claude and
Salvator, throwing before them, with admirable precision, their
_epervier_ net, whose fine wrought meshes sometimes hang, veil-like,
between you and the ruddy sunset, or plashing, as they fall nightly
into the smooth sea, contribute the pleasure of an agreeable sound to
the magic of the scenery. Some take the air on donkeys, which go at a
great rate; some are mounted on Spanish mules, all mixed together
freely amidst handsome and numerous equipages; and the whole is
backed by a fine row of houses opposite the sea, built after the
fashion of our terraces and crescents at watering-places. And
finally, that blue _aequor_, as it now deserves to be termed, studded
over with thunny boats and coasting craft with the haze latine sail,
that we should be sorry to trust in British hands, is walled in by
cliffs so bold, so rugged, and standing out so beautifully in relief,
that for a moment we cannot choose but envy the citizen of
_Panormus_. But we may not tarry even here; _we have more things_ to
see, and every day is getting hotter than the last.


JOURNEY TO SEGESTE.

Leaving Palermo early, we pass _Monreale_ in our way to the Doric
columns of _Segeste_, and find ourselves, before the heat of day has
reached its greatest intensity, at a considerable elevation above the
plain on which the capital stands, amidst mountains which, except in
the difference of their vegetation, remind us not a little of the
configuration of certain wild parts of the Highlands, where Ben
Croachin flings his dark shadow across Loch Awe. Indeed, we were
thinking of this old and favourite fishing haunt with much
complacency, when two men suddenly came forth from behind the bristly
aloes and the impenetrable cactus--ill-looking fellows were they;
but, moved by the kindest intentions for our safety, they offer to
conduct us through the remainder of the defile. This service our
hired attendant from Palermo declined, and we push on unmolested to
Partenico, our halting-place during the heat of the day. It is a town
of some extent, large enough to afford two fountains of a certain
pretension, but execrably dirty within. Twelve thousand inhabitants
has Partenico, and five churches. Out of its five locandas, who shall
declare the worst? Of that in which we had first taken refuge, (as,
in a snow-storm on the Alps, any _roof_ is Paradise,) we were obliged
to quit the shelter, and walk at _noon_, at _midsummer_, and in
_Sicily_, a good mile _up_ a main street, which, beginning in
habitations of the dimensions of our almshouses, ends in a few huts
intolerably revolting, about which troops of naked children defy
vermin, and encrust themselves in filth. At one door we could not
help observing that worst form of _scabies_, the _gale a grosses
bulles;_ so we had got, it appeared, from _Scylla_ into _Charybdis_,
and were in the very preserves of Sicilian _itch_, and we
prognosticate it will spread before the month expires wherever human
skin is to be found for its entertainment. Partenico lies in a
scorching plain full of malaria. Having passed the three stifling
hours of the day here, we proceed on our journey to _Alcamo_, a town
of considerable size, which looks remarkably well from the plain at
the distance of four miles--an impression immediately removed on
passing its high rampart gate. Glad to escape the miseries with which
it threatens the _detenu_, we pass out at the other end, and zigzag
down a hill of great beauty, and commanding such views of sea and
land as it would be quite absurd to write about. Already a double row
of aloe, planted at intervals, marks what is to be your course afar
off, and is a faithful guide till it lands you in a Sicilian plain.
This is the highest epithet with which any plain can be qualified.
This is indeed the month for Sicily. The goddess of flowers now wears
a morning dress of the newest spring fashion; beautifully _made up_
is that dress, nor has she worn it long enough for it to be sullied
ever so little, or to require the washing of a shower. A delicate
pink and a rich red are the colours which prevail in the tasteful
pattern of her voluminous drapery; and as she _advances_ on you with
a light and noiseless step, over a carpet which all the looms of
Paris or of Persia could not imitate, scattering bouquets of colours
the most happily contrasted, and impregnating the air with the most
grateful fragrance, we at once acknowledge her beautiful
impersonation in that "_monument of Grecian art_," the _Farnese
Flora_, of which we have brought the fresh recollection from the
museum of Naples.

The _Erba Bianca_ is a plant like southernwood, presenting a curious
hoar-frosted appearance as its leaves are stirred by the wind. The
_Rozzolo a vento_ is an ambitious plant, which grows beyond its
strength, snaps short upon its overburdened stalk, and is borne away
by any zephyr, however light. Large crops of _oats_ are already cut;
and oxen of the Barbary breed, brown and coal-black, are already
dragging the simple aboriginal plough over the land. Some of these
fine cattle (to whom we are strangers, as they are to us) stood
gazing at us in the plain, their white horns glancing in the sun;
others, recumbent and ruminating, exhibit antlers which, as we have
said before, surpass the Umbrian cattle in their elk-like length and
imposing majesty. Arrived at the bottom of our long hill, we pass a
beautiful stream called _Fiume freddo_, whose source we track across
the plain by banks crowned with _Cactus_ and _Tamarisk_. Looking back
with regret towards _Alcamo_, we see trains of mules, which still
transact the internal commerce of the country, with large packsaddles
on their backs; and when a halt takes place, these animals during
their drivers' dinner obtain their own ready-found meal, and browse
away on three courses of vegetables and a dessert.


SICILIAN INNS.

"A beautiful place this _Segeste_ must be! One could undergo any
thing to see it!" Such would be the probable exclamation of more than
one reader looking over some _landscape annual_, embellished with
perhaps _a view_ of the celebrated temple and its surrounding
scenery; but find yourself at any of the inexpressibly horrid inns of
_Alcamo_ or _Calatafrini_, (and these are the two principal stations
between Palermo and Segeste--one with its 12,000, the other with its
18,000 inhabitants;) let us walk you down the main street of either,
and if you don't wish yourself at Cheltenham, or some other
unclassical place which never had a Latin name, we are much mistaken!
The "_Relievo dei Cavalli_" at Alcamo offers no _relief_ for you! The
_Magpie_ may prate on her sign-post about _clean_ beds, for magpies
can be made to say any thing; but pray do not construe the "_Canova
Divina_" Divine Canova! _He_ never executed any thing for the _Red
Lion_ of Calatafrini, whose "Canova" is a low wine-shop, full of
wrangling Sicilian boors. Or will you place yourself under the
_Eagle's_ wing, seduced by its _nuovi mobili e buon servizio_? Oh, we
obtest those broken window-panes whether it be not _cruel_ to expose
_new furniture_ to such perils! For us we put up at the "_Temple of
Segeste_," attracted rather by its name than by any promise or decoy
it offers. Crabbe has given to the inns at Aldborough each its
character: here all are equal in immundicity, and all equally without
provisions. Some yellow beans lie soaking to soften them. There is
salt-cod from the north, moist and putrid. There is no milk; eggs are
few. The ham at the Pizzicarolo's is always bad, and the garlicked
sausage repulsive. Nothing is painted or white-washed, let alone
dusted, swept, or scoured. The walls have the appearance of having
been _pawed_ over by new relays of dirty fingers daily for ten years.
This is a very peculiar appearance at many nasty places _out_ of
Sicily, and we really do not know its _pathology_. You tread
loathingly an indescribable earthen floor, and your eye, on entering
the apartment, is arrested by a nameless production of the fictile
art, certainly not of _Etruscan_ form, which is invariably placed on
the _bolster_ of the truck-bed destined presently for your devoted
head. Oh! to do justice to a Sicilian _locanda_ is plainly out of
question, and the rest of our task may as well be sung as said, verse
and prose being alike incapable of the hopeless reality:--

    "Lodged for the night, O Muse! begin
  To sing the true Sicilian inn,
  Where the sad choice of six foul cells
  The least exacting traveller quells
  (Though crawling things, not yet in sight,
  Are waiting for the shadowy night,
  To issue forth when all is quiet,
  And on your feverish pulses riot;)
  Where one wood shutter scrapes the ground,
  By crusts, stale-bones, and garbage bound;
  Where unmolested spiders toil
  Behind the mirror's mildew'd foil;
  Where the cheap crucifix of lead
  Hangs o'er the iron tressel'd bed;
  Where the huge bolt will scarcely keep
  Its promise to confiding sleep,
  Till you have forced it to its goal
  In the bored brick-work's crumbling hole;
  Where, in loose flakes, the white-wash peeling
  From the bare joints of rotten ceiling,
  Give token sure of vermin's bower,
  And swarms of bugs that bide their hour!
  Though bands of fierce musquittos boom
  Their threatening bugles round the room,
  To bed! Ere wingless creatures crawl
  Across your path from yonder wall,
  And slipper'd feet unheeding tread
  We know not what! To bed! to bed!
  What can those horrid sounds portend?
  Some waylaid traveller near his end,
  From ghastly gash in mortal strife,
  Or blow of bandit's blood-stained knife?
  No! no! They're bawling to the _Virgin_,
  Like victim under hands of surgeon!
  From lamp-lit _daub_, proceeds the cry
  Of that unearthly litany!
  And now a train of mules goes by!

    "One wretch comes whooping up the street
  For whooping's sake! And now they beat
  Drum after drum for market mass,
  Each day's transactions on the _place!_
  All things that go, or stay, or come,
  They herald forth by tuck of drum.
  Day dawns! a tinkling tuneless bell,
  Whate'er it be, has news to tell.
  Then twenty more begin to strike
  In noisy discord, all alike;--
  Convents and churches, chapels, shrines,
  In quick succession break the lines.
  Till every gong in town, at last
  Its tongue hath loos'd, and sleep is past.
  So much for nights! New days begin,
  Which land you in another Inn.
  O! he that means to see _Girgenti_
  Or _Syracuse!_--needs patience plenty!"

Crossing a rustic bridge, we pass through a garden (for it is no
less, though man has had no spade in it) of pinks, marigolds,
cyclamens, and heart's-ease, &c. &c.; the moist meadow land below is
a perfect jungle of lofty grasses, all fragrant and in flower, gemmed
with the unevaporated morning dew, and colonized with the _Aphides,
Alticae_, and swarms of the most beautiful butterflies clinging to
their stalks. _Gramina laeta_ after Virgil's own heart, were these.
Their elegance and unusual variety were sufficient to throw a
botanist into a perfect HAY fever, and our own first paroxysm only
went off, when, after an hour's hard collecting, we came to a place
which demanded _another_ sort of enthusiasm; for THERE stood without
a veil the _Temple of Segeste_, with one or two glimpses of which we
had been already astonished at a distance, in all its Dorian majesty!
This almost unmutilated and glorious memorial of past ages here
reigns alone--the only building far or near visible in the whole
horizon; and what a position has its architect secured! In the midst
of hills on a bit of table-land, apparently made such by smoothing
down the summit of one of them, with a greensward in front, and set
off behind by a mountain background, stands this eternal monument of
the noblest of arts amidst the finest dispositions of nature. There
is another antiquity of the place also to be visited at Segeste--its
_theatre_; but we are too immediately below it to know any thing
about it at present, and must leave it in a parenthesis. To our left,
at the distance of eight miles, this hill country of harmonious and
graceful undulation ends in beetling cliffs, beneath which the sea,
now full in view, lies sparkling in the morning sunshine. We shall
never, never forget the impressions made upon us on first getting
sight of Segeste! _Paestum_ we had seen, and thought that it exhausted
all that was possible to a temple, or the site of a temple.
Awe-stricken had we surveyed those monuments of "immemorial
antiquity" in that baleful region of wild-eyed buffaloes and birds of
prey--temples to death in the midst of his undisputed domains! We had
fully adopted Forsyth's sentiment, and held Paestum to be probably the
most impressive monument on earth; but here at Segeste a nature less
austere, and more RIANTE in its wildness, lent a quite different
charm to a scene which could scarcely be represented by art, and for
which a reader could certainly not be _prepared_ by description. We
gave an antiquarian's devoutest worship to this venerable survivor of
2000 years, and of many empires--we _felt_ the vast masses of its
time-tried Doric, and even the wild flowers within its precincts, its
pink valerians; its _erba di vento_, its scented wallflower. The
whole scene kept our admiration long tasked, but untired. A smart
shower compelled us to seek shelter under the shoulder of one of the
grey entablatures: it soon passed away, leaving us a legacy of the
richest fragrance, while a number of wild birds of the hawk kind,
called "chaoli" from their shrill note, issued from their
hiding-places, and gave us wild music as they scudded by!

A few bits of wall scattered over the corn-fields are all that now
remains of the dwellings of the men who built this temple for their
city, and who, by its splendour, deluded the Athenians into a belief
of greater wealth than they possessed.

Our ascent to the theatre, the day after, proved to be a very steep
one, of half an hour on mule-back; in making which, we scared two of
those prodigious birds, the _ospreys_, who, having reconnoitred us,
forthwith began to wheel in larger and larger sweeps, and at last
made off for the sea. We found the interior of the theatre occupied
by an audience ready for our arrival; it consisted of innummerable
_hawks_, the chaoli just mentioned, which began to scream at our
intrusion. The ospreys soon returned, and were plainly only waiting
our departure to subside upon their solitary domain. We would not be
a soft-billed bird for something in this neighbourhood; no song would
save them from the hawks' supper. Having luxuriated on the 24th of
May for full four hours in this enchanting neighbourhood, we were
sorry to return to our inn--and such an inn! We departed abruptly,
and probably never to return; but we shall think of Segeste in Hyde
Park, or as we pass the candlestick Corinthians of Whitehall.
Thucydides[16] relates that a prevailing notion in his time was, that
the _Trojans_ after losing _Troy_ went first to _Sicily_, and founded
there Egesta and Eryx. Now, as on the same authority the first
_Greek_ colony was _Naxos_, also in Sicily, Greeks and Trojans
(strange coincidence!) must have _met again_ on new ground after the
_Iliad_ was all acted and done with, like a tale that is told.

[Footnote 16: _Vide_ THUCYDIDES, Book iv. chap. 15.]

On our return towards Palermo, one of our party having a touch of
ague, we crossed the street to the apothecary, (at Calatafrini, our
night's halt,) and smelling about his musty galenicals, amidst a
large supply of _malvas_ which were drying on his counter, the only
wholesome-looking thing amidst his stores, we asked if he had any
_quinine_. "_Sicuro!_" and he presented us with a white powder having
a slightly bitter taste, which, together with an ounce of green tea,
to be dispensed in pinches of five grains on extraordinary occasions,
comes, he says, from the East. On our observing that the quinine, if
such at all, was adulterated, and that this was too bad in a country
of malaria, where it was the poor man's only protection, he looked
angry; but we rose in the esteem of peasants in the shop, who said to
each other--"Ed ha ragione il Signor." Wanting a little _soda_, we
were presented with sub-carbonate of potash as the nearest approach
to it--a substitution which suggested to us a classical recollection
from Theocritus; namely, that in this same Sicily, 2000 years ago, a
Syracusan husband is rated by his dame for sending her _soda_ for her
washing in place of potash, the very converse of what our old
drug-vender intended to have washed our inside withal.

The Roman Catholic religion patronises painting oddly here; not a
cart but is adorned with some sacred subject. Every wretched vehicle
that totters under an unmerciful load, with one poor donkey to draw
six men, has its picture of _Souls in Purgatory_, who seem putting
their hands and heads out of the flames, and vainly calling on the
ruffians inside to _stop_. We read _Viva la Divina Providenza_, in
flaming characters on the front board of a carriole, while the whip
is goading the poor starved brute who drags it; for these barbarians
in the rear of European civilization, plainly are of opinion that a
cart with a sacred device shall not _break down_, though its owner
commit every species of cruelty.

The next day found us again installed at our old quarters in Palermo,
where, during our brief remaining stay, we visit a conchologist,
before which event we had no notion that Sicily was so rich in
shells. Two sides of a moderately large room are entirely devoted to
his collection. Here we saw a piece of wood nearly destroyed by the
_Teredo navalis_, or sailor's bore, who seems more active and
industrious here than elsewhere, and seldom allows himself to be
taken whole. Out of hundreds of specimens, three or four perfect ones
were all that this collector could ever manage to extract, the
molluscous wood-destroyer being very soft and fragile. His length is
about three inches, his thickness that of a small quill; he lodges in
a shell of extreme tenuity, and the secretion which he ejects is, it
seems, the agent which destroys the wood, and pushes on bit by bit
the winding tunnel. But his doings are nothing to the working of
another wafer-shelled bivalve, whose tiny habitations are so thickly
imbedded in the body of a nodule of _flint_ as to render its exterior
like a sieve, _diducit scopulos aceto_. What solvent can the chemist
prepare in his laboratory comparable to one which, while it dissolves
silex, neither harms the insect nor injures its shell. Amongst the
_fossils_ we notice cockles as big as ostrich eggs, clam-shells twice
the size of the largest of our Sussex coast, and those of oysters
which rival soup-plates. We had indeed once before met with them of
equal size in the lime-beds at _Corneto_. Judging by the _oysters_,
there must indeed have been _giants_ in those days. But this
collection was chiefly remarkable for its curious fossil remains of
_animals_ from _Monte Grifone_. In this same Monte Grifone, which we
went to visit, is one of the largest of the caves of bones of which
so many have been discovered--bones of various kinds, some of small,
some of very large animals, mixed together pell-mell, and
constituting a fossil paste of scarcely any thing besides. None of
the geologists, in attempting to explain these deposits, sufficiently
enter into the question of the origin of the enormous _quantity_, and
_close juxtaposition_, of such heterogeneous specimens.

By eight o'clock we are on board the _Palermo_ steamer, which is to
convey us hence to _Messina_. The baked deck, which has been
saturated with the sun's heat all day, is now cooling to a more
moderate warmth, and soothing would be the scene but for the noise of
women and children. Large liquid stars twinkle here and there, like
so many moons on a reduced scale, over the sea, and the night is
wholly delightful! A bell rings, which diminishes our numbers, and
somewhat clears our deck. The boats which carry off the last
loiterers are gone, shaking phosphorus from their gills, and leaving
a train of it in their tails; and the many-windowed Pharos of the
harbour has all its panes lit up, and twinkles after its own fashion.
Round the bay an interrupted crescent of flickering light is
reflected in the water, strongest in the middle, where the town is
thickest, and runs back; and far behind all lights comes the clear
outline of the darkly defined mountain rising over the city. Our own
lantern also is up, the authorities have disappeared, Monte Pelegrino
begins to change its position, we are in motion, and a mighty light
we are making under us, as our leviathan, turning round her head and
_snuffing_ the sea, begins to wind out of the harbour. A few minutes
more, and the luminous tracery of the receding town becomes more and
more indistinct; but the sky is _all stars_, and the water, save
where we break its smoothness, a perfect mirror. Wherever the paddles
play, there the sea foams up into yellow light and _gerbes_ of
amber- fireballs, caught up by the wheels, and flung off in
our track, to float past with incredible rapidity. Men are talking
the language of Babel in the cabin; there is amateur singing and a
guitar on deck--_Orion_ is on his dolphin--adieu, Palermo!


APPROACH TO MESSINA.

The Italian morning presents a beautiful sight on deck to eyes weary
and sore with night, as night passes on board steamers. We pass along
a coast obviously of singular conformation, and to a geologist, we
suppose, full of interest. We encounter a herd of classical dolphins
out a-pleasuring. We ask about a pretty little town perched just
above the sea, and called _Giocosa_. By its side lies
_Tyndaris_--classical enough if we spell it right. The snow on Etna
is as good as an inscription, and to be read at any distance; but
what a deception! they tell us it is thirty miles off, and it seems
to rise immediately from behind a ridge of hills close to the shore.
The snow cone rises in the midst of other cones, which would appear
equally high but for the difference of colour. _Patti_ is a
picturesque little _borgo_, on the hillside, celebrated in Sicily for
its manufacture of hardware. In the bay of _Melazzo_ are taken by far
the largest supplies of thunny in the whole Mediterranean. From the
embayed town so named you have the choice of a cross-road to Messina,
(twenty-four miles;) but who would abridge distance and miss the
celebrated straits towards which we are rapidly approaching, or lose
one hour on land and miss the novelties of volcanic islands, and the
first view of Scylla and Charybdis? It is but eight o'clock, but the
awning has been stretched over our heads an hour ago. As to
breakfast--the meal which is associated with that particular hour of
the four-and-twenty to all well regulated _minds_ and _stomachs_--it
consists here of thin _veneers_ of old mahogany- thunny,
varnished with oil, and relieved by an incongruous abomination of
capers and olives. The cold fowls are infamous. The wine were a
disgrace to the sorriest tapster between this and the Alps, and also
fiery, like every thing else in this district. Drink it, and doubt
not the old result--_de conviva Corybanta videbis_. (Oh, for muffins
and dry toast!) Never mind, we shall soon be at Messina. And now we
approach a point from which the lofty Calabrian coast opposite, and
the flinty wall of the formidable Scylla, first present themselves,
but still as distant objects. In another half hour we are just
opposite the redoubtable rock; and here we turn abruptly at right
angles to our hitherto course, and find ourselves _within_ the
straits, from either side of which the English and the French so
often tried the effect of cannon upon each other. It is now what it
used to be--fishing ground. The Romans got their finest muraena from
the whirlpools of _Charybdis_.[17] The shark (_cane di mare_)
abounding here, would make bathing dangerous were the water smooth;
but the rapid whirlpools through which our steam-boat dashes on
disdainfully, would, at the same time, make it impossible to any
thing but a fish. A passenger assured us he had once seen a man lost
in the Vistula, who, from being a great swimmer, trusted imprudently
to his strength, and was sucked down by a vortex of far less
impetuosity, he thought, than this through which we were moving. From
this point till we arrived at Messina, as every body was ripe for
bathing, the whole conversation turned naturally on the Messina
shark, and his trick of snapping at people's legs carelessly left by
the owners dangling over the boat's side. We steam up the straits to
our anchorage in about three-fourths of an hour. The approach is
fine, very fine. A certain Greek, (count, he called himself,) a great
traveller, and we afterwards found not a small adventurer, increases
the interest of the approach, by telling us that the hills before us,
bubbling up like blisters on chalcedony, have a considerable
resemblance, though inferior in character, to those which embellish
the Bosphorus and the first view of Constantinople. Inferior, no
doubt, in the imposing accessories of mosque and minaret, and of
cypresses as big as obelisks, which, rising thickly on the heights,
give to the city of Constantinople an altogether peculiar and
inimitable charm. Messina is beautifully land-locked. The only
possible winds that can affect its port are the north-west and
south-east. In summer it is said to enjoy more sea breeze than any
other place on the Mediterranean. Our Greek friend, however, says
that Constantinople is in this respect not only superior to Messina,
but to any other place in the seas of Europe. Pity that the fellows
are Turks! We did not find much to interest us within the walls of
Messina. There was, to be sure, a fine collection of Sicilian birds,
amongst which we were surprised to see several of very exotic shape
and plumage. One long-legged fellow, dressed in a dirty white
Austrian uniform, with large web-feet, on which he seemed to rest
with great complacency, particularly arrested our attention. He stood
as high as the _Venus di Medici_, but by no means so gracefully, and
thrust his thick carved beak unceremoniously in your face. His card
of address was _Phoenicopterus antiquorum_. The ancients ate him, and
he looked as if he would break your nose if you disputed with him. A
very large finch, which we have seen for sale about the streets here
and elsewhere in Sicily, rejoices in the imposing name of _Fringilla
cocco thraustis_. He wears his black cravat like a bird of
pretension, as he evidently is. The puffin (_Puffinus Anglorum_) also
frequents these rocks, though a very long way from the Isle of Wight.
No! Messina, though very fine, is not equal to _Palermo_, with its
unrivaled _Marina_, compared to which Messina is poorly off indeed,
in her straggling dirty commerce-doing quay. We went out to see a
little garden, which contains half a dozen zare-trees and as many
beautiful birds in cages. We are disappointed at the poverty of our
dessert in this region of fruitfulness--a few bad oranges, some
miserable cherries, and that abomination the green almond. We
observe, for the first time, to-day folks eating in the streets the
crude contents of a little oval pod, which contains one or two very
large peas, twice the size of any others. These are the true _cicer_,
the proper Italian pea. Little bundles of them are tied up for sale
at all the fruit stalls, and men are seen all the day long eating
these raw peas, and offering them to each other as sugar-plums.

[Footnote 17: "Virroni muraena datur, quo maxima venit Gurgite de
Siculo: nam dum se continet Auster, Contemnunt mediam tem eraria lina
Charybdim." JUVENAL, _Sat._ v. 99.]

In the Corso we see a kind of temporary theatre, the deal sides of
which are gaudily lined with Catania silk, and on its stage a whole
_dramatis personae_ of sacred puppets. It is lighted by tapers of very
taper dimensions, and its _stalle_ are to be let for a humble
consideration to the faithful or the curious. It turns out to be a
religious spectacle, supported on the voluntary system--but there is
something for your money. A vast quantity of light framework, to
which fireworks, chiefly of the detonating kind, are attached, are
already going off, and folk are watching till it be completed. Then
the evening's entertainment will begin, and a miser indeed must he
be, or beyond measure resourceless, who refuses halfpence for such
choice festivities. Desirous to make out the particular
representation, we get over the fence in order to examine the figures
of the drama on a nearer view. A smartly dressed saint in a court
suit, but whom mitre and crosier determine to be a bishop, kneels to
a figure in spangles, a virgin as fond of fine clothes as the Greek
Panageia; while on the other side, with one or two priests in his
train, is seen a crowd in civil costume. A paper cloud above,
surrounded by glories of glass and tinsel, is supported by two solid
cherubs equal to the occasion, and presents to the intelligent a
representation of--we know not what! Fire-works here divide the
public with the drum--to one or other all advertisement in Sicily is
committed. A sale of fish and flesh, theatric entertainments,
processions, and church invitations, are all by tuck of drum, or by
squib and cracker. How did they get on before the invention of
gunpowder? If a new coffeehouse is established, a couple of drums
start it advantageously, and beat like a recruiting party up and down
the street, to the dismay of all _Forestieri_. The drum tells you
when the thunny is at a discount, and _fire-works_ are let off at
_fish stalls_ when customers are slack.

An old tower, five miles off, is called the telegraph. People go
there for the panorama at the expense of three horses and two hours;
but you are repaid by two sea views, either of which had been
sufficient. Messina, its harbour, the straits, the opposite coast of
Calabria, Scylla, and _Rhegium_, (famed for its bergamot,) are on the
immediate shore, and a most striking chain of hills for the
background, which, at a greater distance, have for their background
the imposing range of the _Abruzzi_. The AEolian islands rise out of
the sea in the happiest positions for effect. _Stromboli_ on the
extreme right detaches his grey wreath of smoke, which seems as if it
proceeded out of the water, (for Stromboli is very low,) staining for
a moment the clear firmament, which rivals it in depth of colour.
Some of the volcanic group are so nearly on a level with the water,
that they look like the backs of so many leviathans at a halt. The
sea itself lies, a waveless mirror, smooth, shining, slippery, and
treacherous as a serpent's back--"miseri quibus intentata _nites_,"
say we.


JOURNEY TO TAORMINA.

We left Messina under a sky which no painter would or could attempt;
indeed, it would not have looked well on paper, or out of reality.
There are certain unusual, yet magnificent appearances in nature,
from which the artist conventionally abstains, not so much from the
impotence of art, as that the nearer his approach to success the
worse the picture. At one time the colours were like shot or clouded
silk, or the beautiful uncertainty of the Palamida of these shores,
or the matrix of opal; at another, the Pacific Ocean above, of which
the continuity is often for whole months _entire_, was broken into
gigantic continents and a Polynesia of rose- islands that no
ships might approach; while in this nether world the middle of the
Calabro-Sicilian strait was occupied by a condensation of vapour,
(one could never profane them by the term of _sea-mist_ or _fog_,)
the most subtile and attenuated which ever came from the realms of
cloud-compelling Jove. This fleecy tissue pursued its deliberate
progress from coast to coast, like a cortege of cobwebs carrying a
deputation from the power-looms of _Arachne_ in _Italy_ to the rival
silk-looms at Catania. We pass the dry beds of mountain torrents at
every half mile, ugly gashes on a smooth road; and requiring too much
caution to leave one's attention to be engaged by many objects
altogether new and beautiful. The rich yellow of the _Cactus_, and
the red of the _Pomegranate_, and the most tender of all vegetable
greens, that of the young _mulberry_, together with a sweet
wilderness of unfamiliar plants, are not to be perfectly enjoyed on a
fourfooted animal that stumbles, or on a road full of pitfalls. We
shall only say that the _Cynara cardunculus_, (a singularly fine
thistle or _wild artichoke_;) the prickly uncultivated _love-apple_,
(a beautiful variety of the _Solanum_,) of which the decoction is not
infrequently employed in nephritic complaints; the _Ferula_, sighing
for occupation all along the sea-shore, and shaking its scourge as
the wind blows; the _Rhododendron_, in full blossom, planted amongst
the shingles; the _Thapsia gargarica_, with its silver umbel, looking
at a short distance like mica, (an appearance caused by the shining
white fringe of the capsule encasing its seed,) and many other
strange and beautiful things, were the constant attendants of our
march. We counted six or seven varieties of the spurge,
(_Euphorbium_,) each on its milky stem, and in passing through the
villages had _Carnations_ as large as _Dahlias_ flung at us by
sunburnt urchins posted at their several doors. The sandy shore for
many miles is beautifully notched in upon by tiny bays like basins,
on which boats lie motionless and baking in the sun, or oscillate
under a picturesque rock, immersed up to its shoulders in a green
_hyaloid_, which reflects their forms from a depth of many fathoms.
On more open stretches of the shore, long-drawn ripples of waves of
tiny dimension are overrunning and treading on one another's heels
for miles a-head, and tapping the anchored boat "with gentle blow."
The long-horned oxen already spoken of, toil along the seaside road
like the horses on our canal banks, and tug the heavy felucca towards
Messina--a service, however, sometimes executed by men harnessed to
the towing-cord, who, as they go, offend the Sicilian muses by sounds
and by words that have little indeed of the [Greek: Doriz aoida]. The
gable ends of cottages often exhibit a very primitive windmill for
sawing wood within doors. It is a large wheel, to the spokes of which
flappers are adjusted, made of coarse matting, and so placed as to
profit by the ordinary sea breeze; and, while the _wind_ is thus
_sawing_ his planks for him, the carpenter, at his door, carries on
his craft. We pass below not a few fortresses abutting over the sea,
or perched on the mountain tops. Many of these are of English
construction, and date from the occupation of the island during the
French war: in a word, the whole of this Sicilian road is so
variously lovely, that if we did not know the _cornice_ between
_Nice_ and _Genoa_, we should say it was quite unrivaled, being at
once in lavish possession of all the grand, and most of the milder
elements of landscape composition. It is long since it became no
wonder to us that the greatest and in fact the only, real pastoral
poet should have been a Sicilian; but it is a marvel indeed, that,
having forgotten to bring his _Eclogues_ with us, we cannot, through
the whole of Sicily, find a copy of Theocitus for sale, though there
is a _Sicilian_ translation of him to be had at Palermo. As he
progresses thus delightfully, a long-wished for moment awaits the
traveller approaching towards _Giardini_--turning round a far
projecting neck of land, _Etna_ is at last before him! A
disappointment, however, on the whole is Etna himself, thus
introduced. He looks far below his stature, and seems so _near_, that
we would have wagered to get upon his shoulders and pull his ears,
and return to the little town to dine; the ascent also, to the eye,
seems any thing but steep; nor can you easily be brought to believe
that such an expedition is from Giardini a three days' affair,
except, indeed, that yonder belt of snow in the midst of this
roasting sunshine, has its own interpretation, and cannot be
mistaken. Alas! In the midst of all our flowers there was, as there
always is, the _amari aliquid_--it was occasioned here by the
_flies_. They had tasked our _improved_ capacity for bearing
annoyances ever since we first set foot in Sicily; but _here_ they
are perfectly incontrollable, stinging and buzzing at us without
mercy or truce, not to be driven off for a second, nor persuaded to
drown themselves on any consideration. Verily, the honey-pots of
Hybla itself seem to please these troublesome insects less than the
_flesh_-pots of Egypt.

The next day begins inauspiciously for our ascent to Taormina; but
the attendants of the excursion are already making a great noise,
without which nothing can be done in either of the two Sicilies. A
supply of shabby donkeys are brought and mounted, and, once astride,
we begin to ascend, the poor beasts tottering under our weight, and
by their constant stumbling affording us little inclination to look
about. It takes about three-fourths of an hour of this donkey-riding
to reach the old notched wall of the town. Two Taorminian citizens at
this moment issue from under its arch, in their way down, and
guessing what we are, offer some indifferent coins which do not suit
us, but enable us to enter into conversation. We demand and obtain a
_cicerone_, of whom we are glad to get rid after three hours'
infliction of his stupidity and endurance of his ignorance, without
acquiring one idea, Greek, Roman, Norman, or Saracen, out of all his
erudition. After going through the whole tour with such a fellow for
a Hermes, we come at last upon the far-famed theatre, where we did
not want him. Here, however, a very intelligent attendant, supported
by the king of Naples on a suitable pension of five baiocchi a-day,
takes us out of the hands of the Philistine, and with a plan of the
ground to aid us, proceeds to give an intelligible, and, as appears
to us, a true explanation of the different parts of the huge
construction, in the area of which we stand delighted. He directed
our attention to a large arched tunnel, under and at right angles to
the pulpita, and we did not want direction to the thirty-six niches
placed at equal distances all round the ellipse, and just over the
lowest range of the CUNEI. All niches were, no doubt, for statues;
but these might also have been, it pleases some to suppose, for the
reverberation of applause; and they quote something about
_"Resonantia Vasa"_ from Macrobius, adding, that such niches were
once probably lined with brass. Of bolder speculatists, some believe
the _kennel_ to have been made with a similar intention. Others hold
that it may have been a concealed way for introducing lions and
tigers to the arena! Now, what if it were a _drain_ for the waters,
which, in bad weather, soon collect to a formidable height in such a
situation? Whether for voice, or wild beasts, or drainage, or none of
these objects, there it is. As to the first, we cannot help being
sceptical. Did it ever occur to an audience to wish the noise they
make _greater_, and contrive expedients for _making it so?_

We are here high up amidst the mountains, where, we are to remember,
as the ancients came not to spend, like ourselves, an idle hour, but
to consume most of the day, _shelter_ would be wanted. Two large
lateral spaces, or as it were, side chambers, have received this
destination at the hands of the antiquary, and have been supposed
lobbies for foul weather or for shade at noon. We were made to notice
by our guide, what we should else have overlooked, how the main
passage described above communicates with several smaller ones in its
progress, and that a small stair was a subsequent contrivance or
afterthought meant to relieve, on emergency, the overcharged large
one; its workmanship and style showed it plainly to have been added
when the edifice had already become _an antiquity_. This altogether
peculiar and most interesting building has also suffered still later
interpolations: a Saracenic frieze runs round the wall; so that the
hands of three widely different nations have been busy on the
mountain theatre, which received its _first audience_ twenty-five
centuries ago! The view obtained from this spot has often been
celebrated, and deserves to be. Such mountains we had often seen
before; such a sky is the usual privilege of Sicily; these indented
_bays_, which break so beautifully the line of the coast, had been an
object of our daily admiration; the hoary side of the majestic Etna,
and Naxos with its castellated isthmus, might be seen from _other_
elevated situations; and the acuminated tops of Mola, with its
Saracenic tower, were commanded by neighbouring sites--Taormina
_alone_, and for its _own_ sake, was the great and paramount object
in our eyes, and possessed us wholly! We had been following _Lyell_
half the day in antediluvian remains; but what are the bones of
_Ichthyosauri_ or _Megalotheria_ to this gigantic skeleton of Doric
antiquity, round which lie scattered the sepulchres of its ancient
audiences, Greek, Roman, and Oriental--tombs which had become already
an object of speculation, and been rifled for arms, vases, or gold
rings, before Great Britain had made the first steps beyond painted
barbarism!

The eruptions of Etna have all been recorded. Thucydides mentions one
of them episodically in the Peloponesian war. From the cooled caldron
that simmers under all that snow, has proceeded all the lava that the
ancients worked into these their city walls. The houses of
Taurominium were built of and upon _lava_, which it requires a
thousand years to disintegrate. After dinner we walk to Naxos,
saluting the statue of the patron of a London parish, _St Pancras_,
on our way. He stands on the beach here, and claims, by inscription
on his pedestal, to have belonged to the apostolic times, St Peter
himself having, he says, appointed him to his bishopric. He is patron
of Taormina, where he has possessed himself of a Greek temple; and he
also protects the faithful of Giardini. Lucky in his _architects_ has
been St Pancras; for many of our readers are familiar with his very
elegant modern church in the New Road, modelled, if we have not
forgotten, on the Erechtheum, with its _Pandrosean Vestries_, its
upright tiles, and all the subordinate details of Athenian
architecture. We _met_ here the subject of many an ancient _bas
relief_ done into flesh and blood--a dozen men and boys tripping
along the road to the music of a bagpipe, one old _Silenus_ leading
the jocund throng, and the whole of them, as the music, such as it
was, inspired, leaping about and gesticulating with incredible
activity. It was a bacchanalian subject, which we had seen on many a
sarcophagus, only that the fellows here were not _quite_ naked, and
that we looked in vain for those nascent horns and tails by which the
children of Pan and Faunus ought to be identified. We always look out
for _natural history_. Walking in a narrow street, we saw a tortoise,
awake for the season, come crawling out to peep at the poultry; his
hybernation being over, he wants to be social, and the hens in
astonishment chuckle round him, and his tortoiseshell highness seems
pleased at their kind enquiries, and keeps bobbing his head in and
out of his _testudo_ in a very sentimental manner. Women who want his
shell for _combs_ do not frequent these parts, and so, unless a cart
pass over him as he returns home, he is in clover.

A bird frequents these parts with a blue chest, called _Passer
solitarius;_ he abounds in the rocky crevices. The notes of one,
which was shown to us in a cage, sounded sweetly; but, as he was
carnivorous, the weather was too hot for us to think of taking him
away. We saw two snakes put into the same box: the one, a viper,
presently killed the other, and much the larger of the two. Serpents,
then, like men, do _not_, as the _Satirist_ asserts, spare their
kind. We are disappointed at not finding any coins, nor any other
good _souvenirs_, to bring away with us. The height of Taormina is
sufficient to keep it from fever, which is very prevalent at Giardini
below. Its bay was once a great place for catching _mullet_ for the
Roman market. It seems to have been the _Torbay_ of Sicily. Some fish
love their ease, and rejoice not in turbulent waters. The _muraena_,
or lamprey, on the contrary, was sought in the very whirlpools of
_Charybdis_. The modern Roman, on his own side of Italy, has few
turbot, but very good ones are still taken off Ancona, in the
Adriatic, where the _spatium admirabile Rhombi_, as the reader will,
or ought to recollect, was taken and sent to Domitian at Albano by
_Procaccio_ or _Estafetta_. Juvenal complains that the Tyrrhene sea
was exhausted by the demand for fish, though there was no _Lent_ in
those times. If the Catholic clergy insist that there _was_, we beg
to object, that the keepers thereof were probably not in a condition
to compete with the _Apiciuses_ of the day, who bought fish for their
_bodies'_, and not for their SOULS' SAKE.


CATANIA.

Tum Catane nimium ardenti vicina Typhaeo.

After a pleasant drive of twenty miles, we find ourselves at
_Aci-Reale_, where a street, called "Galatea," reminds us
unexpectedly of a very classical place called Dean's Yard, where we
once had doings with _Acis_, as he figures in Ovid's _Metamorphoses_.
We were here in luck, and, having purchased some fine coins of
several of the tyrants of Sicily from the apothecary, proceeded on
our way to Catania. In half an hour we reach the basaltic Isles of
the Cyclops, and the Castle of Acis, whom the peasants hereabouts
tell you was their king, when Sicily was under the Saracenic yoke.
The river _Lecatia_, now lost, is supposed formerly to have issued
hereabouts, in the port of Ulysses. Our next move placed us amidst
the silk-slops of Catania. We have hardly been five minutes in the
town, when offers abound to conduct us up AEtna, in whom, as so much
national wealth, the inhabitants seem to take as much interest as in
her useful and productive silk-looms. Standing fearless on the
pavement of lava that buried their ancient city, they point up with
complacency to its fountains above. The mischievous exploits of AEtna,
in past times, are in every mouth, and children learn their AEtnean
catechism as soon as they are breeched. AEtna here is all in all.
Churches are constructed out of his quarried _viscera_--great men lie
in tombs, of which the stones once ran liquid down his flames--snuff
is taken out of lava boxes--and devotion carves the crucifix on lava,
and numbers its beads on a lava rosary--nay, the apothecary's mortar
was sent him down from the great mortar-battery above, and the
village _belle_ wears fire-proof bracelets that were once too hot to
be meddled with. Go to the museum, and you will call it a museum of
AEtnean products. Nodulated, porous, condensed, streaked, spotted,
clouded, granulated lava, here assumes the colour, rivals the
compactness, sustains the polish, of jasper, of agate, and of marble;
indeed it sometimes surpasses, in beautiful veinage, the finest and
rarest Marmorean specimens. You would hardly distinguish some of it,
worked into jazza or vase, from _rosso antico_ itself. A very old and
rusty armoury may, as here, be seen any where; but a row of
formidable shark skulls, taken along the coast, and some in the very
port of Catania, are rarities on which the _ciceroni_ like to
prelect, being furnished with many a story of bathers curtailed by
them, and secure a large portion of attention, especially if you were
just thinking of a dip. A rather fine collection of bronzes has been
made from excavations in the neighbourhood, which, indeed, must
always promise to reward research. A figure of Mercury, two and a
half feet high, and so exactly similar to that of John of Bologna,
that his one seemed an absolute plagiarism, particularly attracted
our attention on that account. The great Italian artist, however, had
been dead one hundred and fifty years before this bronze was dug up.
Next in importance to the bronzes, we esteem the collection of
Sicilian, or Graeco-Sicilian vases, though inferior in number and
selectness to those of the Vatican, or Museo-Borbonico. There is also
some ancient sculpture, and some pretty mosaic. Of this composition
is a bathfloor, where a family of Cupids, in the centre of the
pavement, welcome you with a _utere feliciter_, (may it do you good.)
Round the border, a circle of the personified _"months"_ is
artistically chained together, each bearing his _Greek_ name, for
fear of a mistake--names not half so good as Sheridan's translation
of the Revolutionary calendar--snowy, flowy, blowy--showery, flowery,
bowery--moppy, croppy, poppy--breezy, sneezy, freezy. In Catania, we
find no lack of coins, nor of sharp-eyed dealers, who know pretty
generally their value throughout Europe; but, in order to be quite
sure of the price _current,_ ask double what they take from one
another, and judge, by your abatement of it, of the state of the
market elsewhere. Now mind, sir, when they present you the most
impudent forgeries, you are not to get into a passion; but, glancing
from the object to the vender, quietly insinuate your want of
_absolute_ conviction in a _"che vi pare di questa moneta."_ He now
looks at it again, and takes a squint at _you;_ and supposing you
smell a rat, probably replies that certainly he _bought_ it for
_genuine;_ but you _have suggested a doubt,_ and the piece really
begins, even to _him_, to look suspicious, _"anzi a me."_ You reply
coolly, and put it down--"That was just what I was thinking;" and so
the affair passes quietly off. And now you _may_, if you happen to be
tender-hearted, say something compassionate to the poor innocent who
has been _taken in_, and proceed to ask him about another; and when
you see any thing you long to pocket, enquire what can he afford to
let a _brother collector_ (give him a step in rank) have _it_ for;
and so go on feeling your way, and never "putting your arm so far out
that you cannot comfortably draw it back again." He will probably ask
you if you know Mr B---- or C----, (English collectors,) with whom he
has had dealings, calling them "_stimabili signori;_" and, of course,
you have no doubt of it, though you never heard of them before. It is
also always conciliative to congratulate him on the possession of
such and such rare and "_belle cose;_" and if you thus contrive to
get into his good graces, he will deal with you at _fair prices_, and
perhaps amuse you with an account of such tricks as he is not ashamed
to have practised on _blockheads_, who will buy at any cost if the
die is fine. Indeed, it has passed into an aphorism among these
_mezzo-galantuomini_, as their countrymen call them, that a fine coin
is always worth _what you can get for it._

We heard the celebrated organ of St Benedict, which has been praising
God in tremendous hallelujahs ever since it was put up, and a hundred
years have only matured the richness of its tones. Its voice was
gushing out as we entered the church, and filling nave and aisle with
a diapason of all that was soft and soothing, as if a choir of
Guido's angels had broke out in harmony.

A stream of fresh water issues under the old town-wall, and an
immense mass of incumbent lava, of at least ninety feet high, impends
just above its source, the water struggling through a mass of rock
once liquefied by fire, in as limpid a rill as if it came from
limestone, and so excellent in quality that no other is used in
Catania. Women with buckets were ascending and descending to fetch
supplies out of the lava of the dead city below, for the use of the
living town above. Moreover, this is the only point in Catania where
the accident of a bit of wall arresting for some time the progress of
the lava current, has left the level of the old town to be rigidly
ascertained.

Here, as at _Aci-Reale_, balconies at windows, for the most part
supported by brackets, terminating in human heads, give a rich,
though rather a heavy, appearance to the street. Much amber is found
and worked at Catania. It has been lately discovered in a fossil
state, and in contiguity with fossil wood; but we were quite
_electrified_ at the price of certain little scent-bottles, and other
articles made of this production. You see it in all its possible
varieties of colour, opacity, or transparency. The green opalized
kind is the most prized, and four pounds was demanded for a pair of
pendants of this colour for earrings. Besides the yellow sort, which
is common every where, we see the ruby red, which is very rare: some
varieties are freckled, and some of the sort which afforded subjects
for Martial, and for more than one of the Greek anthologists, with
insects in its matrix. _This_ kind, they say, is found exclusively on
the coast of Catania. There are such pieces the size of a hand, but
it is generally in much smaller bits. Amber lies under, or is formed
_upon_ the sand, and abounds most near the _embouchure_ of a small
river in this neighbourhood. Many beautiful shells, fossils, and
other objects of natural history, appear in the dealers' trays; and
polished knife-handles of Sicilian _agate_ may be had at five dollars
a dozen.




THE LAST OF THE KNIGHTS.

DON JOHN AND THE HERETICS OF FLANDERS.


It would almost seem as though chivalry were one of the errors of
Popery; so completely did the spirit of the ancient orders of
knighthood evaporate at the Reformation! The blind enthusiasm of
ignorance having engendered superstitions of every kind and colour,
the blow struck at the altar of the master idol proved fatal to all.

In Elizabeth's time, the forms and sentiment of chivalry were kept up
by an effort. The parts enacted by Sidney and Raleigh, appear studied
rather than instinctive. At all events, the gallant Sir Philip was
the last of English knights, as he was the first of his time.
Thenceforward, the valour of the country assumed a character more
professional.

But a fact thus familiar to us of England, is more remarkable of the
rest of Europe. The infallibility of Rome once assailed, every faith
was shaken. Loyalty was lessened, chivalry became extinct; expiring
in France with Henri IV. and the League--in Portugal with Don
Sebastian of Braganza--and in Spain with Charles V., exterminated
root and branch by the pen of Cervantes.

One of the most brilliant effervescences, however, of those crumbling
institutions, is connected with Spanish history, in the person of Don
John of Austria;--a prince who, if consecrated by legitimacy to the
annals of the throne, would have glorified the historical page by a
thousand heroic incidents. But the sacrament of his baptism being
unhappily unpreceded by that of a marriage, he has bequeathed us one
of those anomalous existences--one of those incomplete destinies,
which embitter our admiration with disappointment and regret.

On both sides of royal blood, Don John was born with qualifications
to adorn a throne. It is true that when his infant son was entrusted
by Charles V. to the charge of the master of his household, Don
Quexada, the emperor simply described him as the offspring of a lady
of Ratisbon, named Barbara Blomberg. But the Infanta Clara Eugenia
was confidentially informed by her father Philip II., and
confidentially informed her satellite La Cuea, that her uncle was
"every way of imperial lineage;" and but that he was the offspring of
a crime, Don John had doubtless been seated on one of those thrones
to which his legitimate brother Philip imparted so little
distinction.

Forced by the will of Charles V. to recognize the consanguinity of
Don John, and treat him with brotherly regard, one of the objects of
the hateful life of the father of Don Carlos seems to have been to
thwart the ambitious instincts of his brilliant Faulconbridge. For in
the boiling veins of the young prince abided the whole soul of
Charles V.,--valour, restlessness, ambition; and his romantic life
and mysterious death bear alike the tincture of his parentage.

That was indeed the age of the romance of royalty! Mary at
Holyrood,--Elizabeth at Kenilworth--Carlos at the feet of his
mother-in-law,--the Bearnais at the gates of Paris,--have engraved
their type in the book of universal memory. But Don John escapes
notice--a solitary star outshone by dazzling constellations.
Commemorated by no medals, flattered by no historiographer, sung by
no inspired "godson," anointed by neither pope nor primate, his nook
in the temple of fame is out of sight, and forgotten.

Even his master feat, the gaining of the battle of Lepanto, brings
chiefly to our recollection that the author of Don Quixote lost his
hand in the action; and in the trivial page before us, we dare not
call our hero by the name of "Don Juan," (by which he is known in
Spanish history,) lest he be mistaken for the popular libertine! And
thus, the last of the knights has been stripped of his name by the
hero of the "Festin de Pierre," and of his honours by Cervantes, as
by Philip II. of a throne.--

Hard fate for one described by all the writers of his time as a model
of manly grace and Christian virtue! How charming is the account
given by the old Spanish writers of the noble youth, extricated from
his convent to be introduced on the high-road to a princely cavalier,
surrounded by his retinue, whom he is first desired to salute as a
brother, and then required to worship, as the king of Spain! We are
told of his joy on discovering his filial relationship to the great
emperor, so long the object of his admiration. We are told of his
deeds of prowess against the Turks at Lepanto, at Tunis against the
Moor. We are told of the proposition of Gregory XIII. that he should
be rewarded with the crown of Barbary, and of the desire of the
revolted nobility of Belgium, to raise him to their tottering throne;
nay, we are even assured that "la couronne d'Hibernie" was offered to
his acceptance. And finally, we are told of his untimely death and
glorious funeral--mourned by all the knighthood of the land! But we
hear and forget. Some mysterious counter-charm has stripped his
laurels of their verdure. Even the lesser incidents of the life of
Don John are replete with the interest of romance. When appointed by
Philip II. governor of the Netherlands, in order that he might deal
with the heretics of the Christian faith as with the faithful of
Mahomet, such deadly vengeance was vowed against his person by the
Protestant party headed by Horn and the Prince of Orange, that it was
judged necessary for his highness to perform his journey in disguise.
Attired as a Moorish slave, he reached Luxembourg as the attendant of
Ottavio Gonzaga, brother of Prince Amalfi, at the very moment the
troops of the king of Spain were butchering eight thousand citizens
in his revolted city of Antwerp!--

The arrival of the new governor afforded the signal for more pacific
measures. The dispositions of Don John were humane--his manners
frank. Aware that the Belgian provinces were exhausted by ten years
of civil war, and that the pay of the Spanish troops he had to lead
against them was so miserably in arrear as to compel them to acts of
atrocious spoliation, the hero of Lepanto appears to have done his
best to stop the effusion of blood; and, notwithstanding the
counteraction of the Prince of Orange, the following spring, peace
and an amnesty were proclaimed. The treaty signed at Marche, (known
by the name of the Perpetual Edict,) promised as much tranquillity as
was compatible with the indignation of a country which had seen the
blood of its best and noblest poured forth, and the lives and
property of its citizens sacrificed without mercy or calculation.

But, though welcomed to Brussels by the acclamations of the people
and the submission of the States, Don John appears to have been fully
sensible that his head was within the jaws of the lion. The blood of
Egmont had not yet sunk into the earth; the echoes of the edicts of
Alva yet lingered in the air; and the very stones of Brussels
appeared to rise up and testify against a brother of Philip II.!

Right thankful, therefore, was the young prince when an excuse was
afforded for establishing himself in a more tenable position, by an
incident which must again be accounted among the romantic adventures
of his life. For the sudden journey of the fascinating Margaret of
Valois to the springs of Spa, on pretence of indisposition, was
generally attributed to a design against the heart of the hero of
Lepanto.

A prince so remarkable for his gallantry of knighthood, could do no
less than wait upon the sister of the French king, on her passage
through Namur; and, once established in the citadel of that
stronghold of the royalists, he quitted it no more. In process of
time, a camp was formed in the environs, and fortresses erected on
the banks of the Meuse under the inspection of Don John; nor was it
at first easy to determine whether his measures were actuated by
mistrust of the Protestants, or devotion to the worst and most
Catholic of wives of the best and most Huguenot of kings.

The blame of posterity, enlightened by the journal of Queen
Margaret's proceedings in Belgium, (bequeathed for our edification by
the alienated queen of Henri IV.,) has accused Don John of blindness,
in the right-loyal reception bestowed on her, and the absolute
liberty accorded her during her residence at Spa, where she was
opening a road for the arrival of her brother the Duke of Alencon. It
is admitted, indeed, that her attack upon his heart met with defeat.
But the young governor is said to have made up in chivalrous
courtesies for the disappointment of her tender projects; and
Margaret, if she did not find a lover at Namur, found the most
assiduous of knights.

Many, indeed, believe that his attentions to the French princess were
as much a feint as her own illness; and that he was as completely
absorbed in keeping at bay his heretic subjects, as her highness by
the desire of converting them into the subjects of France. It was
only those admitted into the confidence of Don John who possessed the
clue to the mystery.

Ottavio Gonzaga, on his return from a mission to Madrid with which he
had been charged by Don John, was the first to acquaint him with the
suspicions to which the sojourn of Margaret had given rise.

"I own I expected to find your highness in better cheer," said he,
when the first compliments had been exchanged. "Such marvels have
been recounted in Spain of your fetes and jousts of honour, that I
had prepared myself to hear of nothing at headquarters but the silken
pastimes of a court."

"Instead of which," cried Don John, "you find me, as usual, in my
steel jerkin, with no milder music at command than the trumpets of my
camp; my sole duty, the strengthening of yonder lines," continued he,
(pointing from a window of the citadel, near which they were
standing, commanding the confluence of the Sambre and Meuse,) "and my
utmost diversion, an occasional charge against the boars in yonder
forest of Marlagne!"

"I cannot but suppose it more than _occasional_," rejoined Gonzaga;
"for I must pay your highness the ill compliment of avowing, that you
appear more worn by fatigue and weather at this moment, and in this
sunless clime, than at the height of your glorious labours in the
Mediterranean! Namur has already ploughed more wrinkles on your brow
than Barbary or Lepanto."

"Say rather in my _heart_!" cried the impetuous prince. "Since you
quitted me, six months ago, my dear Gonzaga, I have known nothing but
cares! To you I have no scruple in avowing, that my position in this
country is hateful. So long accustomed to war against a barbarous
enemy, I could almost fancy myself as much a Moor at heart, as I
appeared in visage, when in your service on my way to Luxembourg,
whenever I find my sword uplifted against a Christian breast!--Civil
war, Ottavio, is a hideous and repugnant thing!"--

"The report is true, then, that your highness has become warmly
attached to the people of these rebel provinces?" demanded Gonzaga,
not choosing to declare the rumour prevalent in Spain, that an
opportunity had been afforded to the prince by the Barlaimont
faction, of converting his viceroyalty into the sway of absolute
sovereignty.

"So much the reverse, that the evil impression they made on me at my
arrival, has increased a hundred-fold! I abhor them yet more and
more. Flemings or Brabancons, Hainaulters or Walloons, Catholic or
Calvinist, the whole tribe is my aversion; and despite our best
endeavours to conceal it, I am convinced the feeling is reciprocal!"

"If your highness was equally candid in your avowals to the Queen of
Navarre," observed Gonzaga gravely,--"I can scarcely wonder at the
hopes she is said to entertain of having won over the governor of
Mons to the French interest, during her transit through Flanders."

"Ay, indeed? Is such her boast?" cried the prince, laughing. "It may
indeed be so!--for never saw I a woman less scrupulous in the choice
or use of arms to fight her battles. But, trust me, whatever her
majesty may have accomplished, is through no aiding or abetting of
mine."

"Yet surely the devoted attentions paid her by your highness"--

"My highness made them _appear_ devoted in proportion to his
consciousness of their hollowness! But I promise you, my dear
Ottavio, there is no tenderer leaning in my heart towards Margaret de
Valois, than towards the most thicklipped of the divinities who
competed for our smiles at Tunis."

Gonzaga shrugged his shoulders. He was convinced that, for once, Don
John was sinking the friend in the prince. His prolonged absence had
perhaps discharged him from his post as confidant.

"Trust me," cried the young soldier, discerning his misgivings--"I am
as sincere in all this as becomes our friendship. But that God has
gifted me with a happy temperament, I should scarcely support the
disgusts of my present calling. It is much, my dear Gonzaga, to
inherit as a birthright the brand of such an ignominy as mine. But as
long as I trusted to conquer a happier destiny--to carve out for
myself fortunes as glorious as those to which my blood all but
entitles me--I bore my cross without repining. It was this ardent
hope of distinction that lent vigour to my arm in battle--that taught
prudence to my mind in council. I was resolved that even the
base-born of Charles V. should die a king!"--

Gonzaga listened in startled silence. To hear the young viceroy thus
bold in the avowal of sentiments, which of late he had been hearing
imputed to him at the Escurial as the direst of crimes, filled him
with amazement.

"But these hopes have expired!" resumed Don John. "The harshness with
which, on my return triumphant from Barbary, my brother refused to
ratify the propositions of the Vatican in my favour, convinced me
that I have nothing to expect from Philip beyond the perpetual
servitude of a satellite of the King of Spain."

Gonzaga glanced mechanically round the chamber at the emission of
these treasonable words. But there was nothing in its rude stone
walls to harbour an eavesdropper.

"Nor is this all!" cried his noble friend. "My discovery of the
unbrotherly sentiments of Philip has tended to enlighten me towards
the hatefulness of his policy. The reserve of his nature--the
harshness of his soul--the austerity of his bigotry--chill me to the
marrow!--The Holy Inquisition deserves, in my estimation, a name the
very antithesis of holy."

"I _beseech_ your highness!" cried Ottavio Gonzaga--clasping his
hands together in an irrepressible panic.

"Never fear, man! There be neither spies nor inquisitors in our camp;
and if there _were_, both they and you must even hear me out!" cried
Don John. "There is some comfort in discharging one's heart of
matters that have long lain so heavy on it; and I swear to you,
Gonzaga, that, instead of feeling surprised to find my cheeks so
lank, and my eyes so hollow, you would rather be amazed to find an
ounce of flesh upon my bones, did you know how careful are my days,
and how sleepless my nights, under the perpetual harassments of civil
war!--The haughty burgesses of Ghent, whom I could hate from my soul
but that they are townsmen of my illustrious father, the low-minded
Walloons, the morose Brugeois, the artful Brabancons--all the varied
tribes, in short, of the old Burgundian duchy, seem to vie with each
other which shall succeed best in thwarting and humiliating me. And
for what do I bear it? What honour or profit shall I reap on my
patience? What thanks derive for having wasted my best days and best
energies, in bruising with my iron heel the head of the serpent of
heresy? Why, even that Philip, for some toy of a mass neglected or an
ave forgotten, will perchance give me over to the tender questioning
of his grand inquisitor, as the shortest possible answer to my
pretensions to a crown,--while the arrogant nobility of Spain, when
roused from their apathy towards me by tidings of another Lepanto, a
fresh Tunis, will exclaim with modified gratification--'_There_ spoke
the blood of Charles the Fifth! Not so ill fought for a bastard!'"

Perceiving that the feelings of his highness were chafed, the
courtier, as in vocation bound, assured him he underrated the loyalty
towards him of his fellow countrymen of the Peninsula; and that his
services as governor of the Low Countries were fully appreciated.

"So fully, that I should be little surprised to learn the axe was
already sharpened that is to take off my head!" cried Don John, with
a scornful laugh. "And such being the exact state of my feelings and
opinions, my trusty Gonzaga, I ask you whether I am likely to have
proved a suitable Petrarch for so accomplished a Laura as the sister
of Henry III?"--

"I confess myself disappointed," replied the crafty Italian.--"I was
in hopes that your highness had found recreation as well as glory in
Belgium. During my sojourn at the court of Philip, I supported with
patience the somewhat ceremonious gravity of the Escurial, in the
belief that your highness was enjoying meanwhile those festal
enlivenments, which none more fully understand how to organize and
adorn."

"If such an expectation really availed to _enliven_ the Escurial,"
cried Don John recklessly, "your friendship must indeed possess
miraculous properties! However, you may judge with your own eyes the
pleasantness of my position; and every day that improves your
acquaintance with the ill blood and ill condition of this accursed
army of the royalists, ill-paid, ill-disciplined, and
ill-intentioned, will inspire you with stronger yearnings after our
days of the Mediterranean, where I was master of myself and of my
men."

"And all this was manifested to Margaret, and all this will serve to
comfort the venomous heart of the queen mother!"--ejaculated Gonzaga,
shrugging his shoulders.

"Not a syllable, not a circumstance! The Queen of Navarre was far too
much engrossed by the manoeuvres of her own bright eyes, to take heed
of those of my camp."

"Your highness is perhaps less well aware than might be desirable, of
how many things a woman's eyes are capable of doing, at one and the
same time!"--retorted the Italian.

"I only wish," cried Don John impatiently, "that instead of having
occasion to read me those Jeremiads, you had been here to witness the
friendship you so strangely exaggerate! A ball, an excursion on the
Meuse, a boar hunt in the forest of Marlagne, constitute the pastimes
you are pleased to magnify into an imperial ovation."

"Much may be confided amid the splendour of a ball-room,--much in one
poor half hour of a greenwood rendezvous!"--persisted the provoking
Ottavio.

"Ay--_much_ indeed!" responded Don John, with a sigh so deep that it
startled by its significance the attention of his brother in arms.
"But not to such a woman as the Queen of Henri the Bearnais!"
returned the Prince. "By our Lady of Liesse! I wish no worse to that
heretic prince, than to have placed his honour in the keeping of the
_gente Margot_."

Fain would Gonzaga have pursued the conversation, which had taken a
turn that promised wonders for the interest of the despatches he had
undertaken to forward to the Escurial, in elucidation of the designs
and sentiments of Don John,--towards whom his allegiance was as the
kisses of Judas! But the imperial scion, (who, when he pleased, could
assume the unapproachability of the blood royal,) made it apparent
that he was no longer in a mood to be questioned. Having proposed to
the new-comer (to whom, as an experienced commander, he destined the
colonelship of his cavalry,) that they should proceed to a survey of
the fortifications at Bouge, they mounted their horses, and, escorted
by Nignio di Zuniga, the Spanish aide-de-camp of the prince,
proceeded to the camp.

The affectionate deference testified towards the young governor by
all classes, the moment he made his appearance in public, appeared to
Gonzaga strangely in contradiction with the declarations of Don John
that he was no favourite in Belgium. The Italian forgot that the Duke
of Arschot, the Counts of Mansfeld and Barlaimont, while doffing
their caps to the representative of the King of Spain, had as much
right to behold in him the devoted friend of Don John of Austria, as
_he_ to regard _them_ as the faithful vassals of his government.

A fair country is the country of Namur!--The confluent streams--the
impending rocks--the spreading forests of its environs, comprehend
the finest features of landscape; nor could Ottavio Gonzaga feel
surprised that his prince should find as much more pleasure in those
breesy plains than in the narrow streets of Brussels, as he found
security and strength.

On the rocks overhanging the Meuse, at some distance from the town,
stands the village of Bouge, fortified by Don John; to attain which
by land, hamlets and thickets were to be traversed; and it was
pleasant to see the Walloon peasant children run forth from the
cottages to salute the royal train, making their heavy Flemish
chargers swerve aside and perform their lumbering cabrioles far more
deftly than the cannonading of the rebels, to which they were almost
accustomed.

As they cut across a meadow formed by the windings of the Meuse, they
saw at a distance a group formed, like most groups congregated just
then in the district, of soldiers and peasants; to which the
attention of the prince being directed, Nignio di Zuniga, his
aide-de-camp, was dispatched to ascertain the cause of the gathering.

"A nothing, if it please your highness!" was the reply of the
Spaniard--galloping back, hat in hand, with its plumes streaming in
the breeze;--that the Prince's train, which had halted, might resume
its pace.

"But a nothing of what sort?" persisted Don John, who appreciated the
trivialties of life very differently from those by whom he was
surrounded.

"A village grievance!--An old woman roaring her lungs out for a cow
which has been carried off by our troopers!"--grumbled the
aide-de-camp, with less respect than was usual to him.

"And call you that a _nothing_?"--exclaimed his master. "By our lady
of Liesse, it is an act of cruelty and oppression--a thing calculated
to make us hateful in the eyes of the village!--And many villages, my
good Nignio, represent districts, and many districts provinces, and
provinces a country; and by an accumulation of such resentments as
the indignation of this old crone, will the King of Spain and the
Catholic faith be driven out of Flanders!--See to it! I want no
further attendance of you this morning! Let the cow be restored
before sunset, and the marauders punished."

"But if, as will likely prove the case, the beast is no longer in its
skin?"--demanded the aide-de-camp. "If the cow should have been
already eaten, in a score of messes of pottage?"

"Let her have compensation."

"The money chest at headquarters, if it please your highness, is all
but empty," replied Nignio, glancing with a smile towards
Gonzaga,--as though they were accustomed to jest together over the
reckless openness of heart and hand of their young chief.

"Then, by the blessed shrine of St Jago, give the fellows at least
the strappado," cried Don John, out of all patience. "Since
restitution may not be, be the retribution all the heavier."

"It is ever thus," cried he, addressing himself to Gonzaga, as the
aide-de-camp resumed his plumed beaver, and galloped off with an
imprecation between his lips, at having so rustic a duty on his
hands, instead of accompanying the parade of his royal master. "It
goes against my conscience to decree the chastisement of these
fellows. For i' faith, they that fight, must feed; and hunger, that
eats through stone walls, is apt to have a nibble at honesty. My
royal brother, or those who have the distribution of his graces, is
so much more liberal of edicts and anathemas than of orders on the
treasury of Spain, that money and rations are evermore wanting. If
these Protestants persist in their stand against us, I shall have to
go forth to all the Catholic cities of the empire, preaching, like
Peter the hermit, to obtain contributions from the pious!"

"His Majesty is perhaps of opinion," observed Gonzaga, "that rebels
and heretics ought to supply the maintenance of the troops sent to
reduce them to submission."

"A curious mode of engaging their affections towards either the creed
or prince from which they have revolted!" cried Don John. "But you
say true, Ottavio. Such are precisely the instructions of my royal
brother; whom the Almighty soften with a more Christian spirit in his
upholding of the doctrines of Christianity!--I am bidden to regard
myself as in a conquered country. I am bidden to feel myself as I may
have felt at Modon or Lepanto. It may not be, it may not be!--These
people were the loyal subjects of my forefathers. These people are
the faithful followers of Christ."

"Let us trust that the old woman may get back her cow, and your
highness's tender conscience stand absolved,"--observed Gonzaga with
a smile of ill-repressed derision. "I fear, indeed, that the Court of
the Escurial is unprepared with sympathy for such grievances."

"Gonzaga!"--exclaimed Don John, suddenly reining up his horse, and
looking his companion full in the face, "these are black and bitter
times; and apt to make kings, princes, nobles, ay, and even prelates,
forget that they are men; or rather that there be men in the world
beside themselves."--Then allowing his charger to resume its
caracolling, to give time to his startled friend to recover from the
glow of consciousness burning on his cheek,--he resumed with a less
stern inflexion. "It is the vexation of this conviction that hath
brought my face to the meagreness and sallow tint that accused the
scorching sun of Barbary. I love the rush of battle. The clash of
swords or roaring of artillery is music to me. There is joy in
contending, life for life, with a traitor, and marshaling the fierce
battalions on the field. But the battle done, let the sword be
sheathed! The struggle over, let the blood sink into the earth, and
the deadly smoke disperse, and give to view once more the peace of
heaven!--The petty aggravations of daily strife,--the cold-blooded
oppressions of conquest,--the contest with the peasant for his morsel
of bread, or with his chaste wife for her fidelity,--are so revolting
to my conscience of good and evil, that as the Lord liveth there are
moments when I am tempted to resign for ever the music I love so well
of drum and trumpet, and betake myself, like my royal father, to some
drowsy monastery, to listen to the end of my days to the snuffling of
Capuchins!"

Scarce could Ottavio Gonzaga, so recently emancipated from the
Escurial, refrain from making the sign of the cross at this heinous
declaration!--But he contained himself.--It was his object to work
his way still further into the confidence of his royal companion.

"The chief pleasure I derived from the visit of the French princess
to Namur," resumed Don John, "was the respite it afforded from the
contemplation of such miseries and such aggressions. I was sick at
heart of groans and murmurs,--weary of the adjustment of grievances.
To behold a woman's face, whereof the eyes were not red with weeping,
was _something_!"--

"And the eyes of the fair Queen of Navarre are said to be of the
brightest!" observed Gonzaga with a sneer.

"As God judgeth my soul, I noted not their hue or brightness!"
exclaimed Don John. "Her voice was a woman's--her bearing a
woman's--her tastes a woman's. And it brought back the memory of
better days to hear the silken robes of her train rustling around me,
instead of the customary clang of mail; and merry laughs instead of
perpetual moans, or the rude oaths of my Walloons!"

An incredulous smile played on the handsome features of the
Italian.--

"Have out your laugh!" cried Don John. "You had not thought to see
the lion of Lepanto converted into so mere a lap-dog!--Is it not so?"

"As little so as I can admit without the disrespect of denial to your
highness,"--replied Gonzaga, with a low obeisance. "My smile was
occasioned by wonder that one so little skilled in feigning as the
royal lion of Lepanto, should even hazard the attempt. There, at
least--and there alone--is Don John of Austria certain of defeat!"

"I might, perhaps, waste more time in persuading you that the air of
Flanders hath not taught me lying as well as compassion," replied the
Infant; "but that yonder green mound is our first redoubt. The lines
of Bouge are before you."

Professional discussion now usurped the place of friendly
intercourse. On the arrival of the prince, the drums of headquarters
beat to arms; and a moment afterwards, Don John was surrounded by his
officers; exhibiting, in the issuing of his orders of the day, the
able promptitude of one of the first commanders of his time, tempered
by the dignified courtesy of a prince of the blood.

Even Ottavio Gonzaga was too much engrossed by the tactical debates
carrying on around him, to have further thought of the mysteries into
which he was resolved to penetrate.

It was not till the decline of day, that the prince and his _etat
major_ returned to Namur; invitations having been frankly given by
Don John to a score of his officers, to an entertainment in honour of
the return of his friend.

Amid the jovialty of such an entertainment, Gonzaga entertained
little doubt of learning the truth. The rough railleries of such men
were not likely to respect so slight a circumvallation as the honour
of female reputation; and the glowing vintage of the Moselle and
Rhine would bring forth the secret among the bubbles of their flowing
tides. And, in truth, scarcely were the salvers withdrawn, when the
potations of these mailed carousers produced deep oaths and
uproarious laughter; amid which was toasted the name of Margaret,
with the enthusiasm due to one of the originators of the massacre of
St Bartholomew, from the most Catholic captains of the founder of the
Inquisition of Spain.

The admiration due to her beauty, was, however, couched in terms
scarcely warranted on the lips of men of honour, even by such
frailties as Margaret's; and, to the surprise of Gonzaga, no
restraint was imposed by the presence of her imputed lover. It seemed
an established thing, that the name of Margaret was a matter of
indifference in the ears of Don John!

That very night, therefore, (the banquet being of short continuance
as there was to be a field-day at daybreak, under the reviewal of the
prince,) Ottavio Gonzaga, more than ever to seek in his conjectures,
resolved to address himself for further information to Nignio; to
whom he had brought confidential letters from his family in Spain,
and who was an ancient brother in arms.

Having made out without much difficulty, the chamber occupied by the
Spanish captain, in a tower of the citadel overlooking the valley of
the Sambre, there was some excuse for preventing his early rest with
a view to the morrow's exercises, in the plea of news from Madrid.

But as the Italian anticipated, ere he had half disburdened his
budget of Escurial gossip, Nignio de Zuniga had his own grievances to
confide. Uppermost in his mind, was the irritation of having been
employed that morning in a cow-hunt; and from execrations on the name
of the old woman, enriched with all the blasphemies of a trooper's
vocabulary,--it was no difficult matter to glide to the general
misdemeanours and malefactions of the sex. For Gabriel Nignio was a
man of iron,--bred in camps, with as little of the milk of human
kindness in his nature as his royal master King Philip; and it was
his devout conviction, that no petticoat should be allowed within ten
leagues of any Christian encampment,--and that women were inflicted
upon this nether earth, solely for the abasement and contamination of
the nobler sex.

"As if that accursed Frenchwoman, and the nest of jays, her maids of
honour, were not enough for the penance of an unhappy sinner for the
space of a calendar year!"--cried he, still harping upon the old
woman.

"The visit of Queen Margaret must indeed have put you to some trouble
and confusion," observed Gonzaga carelessly. "From as much as is
_apparent_ of your householding, I can scarce imagine how you managed
to bestow so courtly a dame here in honour; or with what pastimes you
managed to entertain her."

"The sequins of Lepanto and piastres of his holiness were not yet
quite exhausted," replied Nignio. "Even the Namurrois came down
handsomely. The sister of two French kings, and sister-in-law of the
Duke of Lorraine, was a person for even the thick-skulled Walloons to
respect. It was not _money_ that was wanting--it was patience. O,
these Parisians! Make me monkey-keeper, blessed Virgin, to the beast
garden of the Escurial; but spare me for the rest of my days the
honour of being seneschal to the finikin household of a queen on her
travels!"

Impossible to forbear a laugh at the fervent hatred depicted in the
warworn features of the Castilian captain, "I' faith, my clear
Nignio," said Gonzaga, "for the squire of so gallant a knight as Don
John of Austria, your notions are rather those of Mahound or
Termagaunt! What would his highness say, were he to hear you thus
bitter against his Dulcinea?"

"_His_ Dulcinea!"--ejaculated the aide-de-camp with a air of disgust.
"God grant it! For a princess of Valois blood, reared under the
teaching of a Medici, had at least the recommendations of nobility
and orthodoxy in her favour."

"As was the case when Anna di Mendoca effected the conquest over his
boyish affections, so generously pardoned by his royal brother!--But
after such proof of the hereditary aspirings of Don John, it would be
difficult to persuade me of his highness's derogation."

"Would _I_ could say as much!"--exclaimed Nignio, with a groan. "But
such a cow-hunt as mine of this morning, might convince the
scepticism of St Thomas!"

"What, in the name of the whole calendar, have the affections of the
prince in common with your exploit?" said Gonzaga. "Would you have me
infer that the son of Charles V. is enamoured of a dairy wench?"--

"Of _worse_! of a daughter of the Amalekites!"--cried
Nignio--stretching out his widely booted legs, as though it were a
relief to him to have disburthened himself of his mystery.

"I have not the honour of understanding you," replied the
Italian,--no further versed in Scripture history than was the
pleasure of his almoner.

"You are his highness's _friend_, Gonzaga!" resumed the Spanish
captain. "Even among his countrymen, none so near his heart! I have
therefore no scruple in acquainting you with a matter, wherein, from
the first, I determined to seek your counteraction. Though seemingly
but a straw thrown up into the air, I infer from it a most evil
predilection on the part of Don John;--fatal to himself, to us, his
friends, and to the country he represents in Belgium."

"Nay, now you are serious indeed!" cried his companion, delighted to
come to the point. "I was in hopes it was some mere matter of a pair
of rosy lips and a flaunting top-knot!"

"At the time Queen Margaret visited Namur," began the aide-de-camp--

"I knew it!" interrupted Gonzaga, "I was as prepared for it as for
the opening of a fairy legend--'On a time their lived a king and
queen'--"

"Will _you_ tell the story, then, or shall I?"--cried Nignio,
impatient of his interruption.

"_Yourself_, my pearl of squires! granting me in the first place your
pardon for my ill manners."--

"When Margaret de Valois visited Namur," resumed Nignio, "the best
diversions we had to offer to so fair and pious a princess were,
first a _Te Deum_ in the cathedral for her safe journey; next, an
entertainment of dancing and music at the town hall--and a gallant
affair it was, as far as silver draperies, and garlands of roses, and
a blaze of light that seemed to threaten the conflagration of the
city, may be taken in praise. The queen had brought with her, as with
_malice prepense_, six of the loveliest ladies of honour gracing the
court of the Louvre"--

"I _knew_ it!"--again interrupted Gonzaga;--and again did Nignio
gravely enquire of him whether (since so well informed) he would be
pleased to finish the history in his own way?

"Your pardon! your pardon!" cried the Italian, laying his finger on
his lips. "Henceforward I am mute as a carp of the Meuse."

"It afforded, therefore, some mortification to this astutious
princess,--this daughter of Herodias, with more than all her mother's
cunning and cruelty in her soul,--to perceive that the Spanish
warriors, who on that occasion beheld for the first time the
assembled nobility of Brabant and Namur, were more struck by the
Teutonic charms of these fair-haired daughters of the north, (so
antipodal to all we are accustomed to see in our sunburned
provinces,) than by the mannered graces of her pleasure-worn Parisian
belles."--

"Certain it is," observed Gonzaga, (despite his recent pledge,) "that
there is no greater contrast than between our wild-eyed, glowing
Andalusians, and the slow-footed, blue-eyed daughters of these
northern mists, whose smiles are as moonshine to sunshine!"

"After excess of sunshine, people sometimes prefer the calmer and
milder radiance of the lesser light. And I promise you that, at this
moment, if there be pillows sleepless yonder in the camp for the sake
of the costly fragile toys called womankind, those jackasses of
lovelorn lads have cause to regret the sojourn of Queen Margaret in
Belgium, only as having brought forth from their castles in the
Ardennes or the froggeries of the Low Country, the indigenous
divinities that I would were at this moment at the bottom of their
muddy moats, or of the Sambre flowing under yonder window!"--

"It is one of these Brabancon belles, then, who"--

Gabriel Nignio de Zuniga half rose from his chair, as a signal for
breaking off the communication he was not allowed to pursue in his
own way.--Taking counsel of himself, however, he judged that the
shorter way was to tell his tale in a shorter manner, so as to set
further molestation at defiance.

"In one word," resumed he, with a vivacity of utterance foreign to
his Spanish habits of grandiloquence, "at that ball, there appeared
among the dancers of the Coranto, exhibited before the tent of state
of Queen Margaret, a young girl whose tender years seemed to render
the exhibition almost an indiscretion; and whose aerial figure
appeared to make her sojourn there, or any other spot on earth a
matter of wonder. Her dress was simple, her fair hair streamed on her
shoulders. It was one of the angels of your immortal Titian, _minus_
the wings! Such was, at least, the description given me by Don John,
to enable me to ascertain among the Namurrois her name and lineage,
for the satisfaction (he said) of the queen, whose attention had been
fascinated by her beauty."

"And you proceeded, I doubt not, on your errand with all the grace
and good-will I saw you put into your commission of this
morning?"--cried Gonzaga, laughing.

"And nearly the same result!--My answer to the enquiry of his
highness was _verbatim_ the same; that the matter was not worth
asking after. This white rose of the Meuse was not so much as of a
chapteral-house. Some piece of provincial obscurity that had issued
from the shade, to fill a place in the royal Coranto, in consequence
of the indisposition of one of the noble daughters of the house of
Croy. Still, as in the matter of the cow-hunt, his highness had the
malice to persist! And next day, instead of allowing me to attend him
in his barging with the royal Cleopatra of this confounded Cydnus of
Brabant, I was dispatched into all quarters of Namur to seek out a
pretty child with silken hair and laughing eyes, whom some silly
grandam had snatched out of its nursery to parade at a royal
fete.--Holy St Laurence! how my soul grilled within my skin!--I did,
as you may suppose, as much of his highness's pleasure as squared
with my own; and had the satisfaction of informing him, on his
return, that the bird had fled."--

"And there was an end of the matter?"--

"I hoped so! But I am not precisely the confessor his highness is
likely to select when love constitutes the sin. At all events, the
bustle of Margaret's departure for Spa, the care of the royal escort,
and the payment of all that decency required us to take upon
ourselves of the cost of our hospitality, engrossed my time and
thoughts. But the first time the Infant beset me, (as he has
doubtless done yourself,) with his chapter of lamentations over the
sufferings of Belgium,--the lawlessness of the camp--the former
loyalty of the provinces--the tenderness of conscience of the
heretics,--and the eligibility of forbearance and peace,--I saw as
plain as though the word were inscribed by the burning finger of
Satan, that the turkois eyes and flaxen ringlets were the text of all
this snivelling humanity!'

"Blessings on the tender consciences of the heretics, who were
burning Antwerp and Ghent, and plundering the religious houses and
putting their priests to the sword!" ejaculated Gonzaga.

"The exigencies of the hour, however, left little leisure to Don John
for the nursing of his infant passion; and a few weeks past, I
entertained hopes that, Queen Margaret being safe back at her Louvre,
the heart of the Prince was safe back in its place; more especially
when he one day proposed to me an exploit savouring more of his days
of Lepanto than I had expected at his hands again. Distracted by the
false intelligence wherewith we were perpetually misled by the
Brabancon scouts, Don John determined on a sortie in disguise,
towards the intrenchments of the enemy, betwixt the Sambre and Dyle.
Rumour of the reinforcements of English troops dispatched to the
heretics by Queen Elizabeth at the instance of the diet of Worms,
rendered him anxious; and bent upon ascertaining the exact
cantonments of Colonel Norris and his Scottish companies, we set
forward before daybreak towards the forest of Marlagne, as for a
hunting expedition; then exchanging our dresses for the simple suits
of civilians at the house of the verderer, made our way across the
Sambre towards Gembloux."

"A mad project!--But such were ever the delight of our
Quixote!"--cried Gonzaga.

"In this instance, all prospered. We crossed the country without
obstacle, mounted on two powerful Mecklenburgers; and before noon,
were deep in Brabant. The very rashness of the undertaking seemed to
restore to Don John his forgotten hilarity of old! He was like a
truant schoolboy, that has cheated his pedagogue of a day's
bird-nesting; and eyes more discerning than those of the stultified
natives of these sluggish provinces, had been puzzled to detect under
the huge patch that blinded him of an eye, and the slashed sleeve of
his sad- suit that showed him wounded of an arm, the gallant
host of Queen Margaret! 'My soul comes back into me with this gallop
across the breezy plain, unencumbered by the trampling of a guard!'
cried the Prince. 'There is the making in me yet of another Lepanto!
But two provinces remain faithful to our standard: his highness of
Orange and the Archduke having filched, one by one, from their
allegiance the hearts of these pious Netherlanders; who can no better
prove their fear of God than by ceasing to honour the king he hath
been pleased to set over them. Nevertheless, with Luxembourg and
Namur for our vantage-ground, and under the blessing of his holiness,
the banner under which I conquered the infidel, shall, sooner or
later, float victorious under this northern sky!'

"Such was the tenour of his discourse as we entered a wood, halfway
through which, the itinerary I had consulted informed me we had to
cross a branch of the Dyle. But on reaching the ferry-house of this
unfrequented track, we found only two sumpter-mules tied to a tree
near the hovel, and a boat chained to its stump beside the stream. In
answer to our shouts, no vestige of a ferryman appeared; and behold
the boat-chain was locked, and the current too deep and strong for
fording.

"Where there is smoke there is fire! No boat without a boatman!"
cried the Prince; and leaping from his horse, which he gave me to
hold, and renewing his vociferations, he was about to enter the
ferry-house, when, just as he reached the wooden porch, a young girl,
holding her finger to her lips in token of silence, appeared on the
threshold!"

"She of the turkois eyes and flaxen ringlets, for a hundred
pistoles!"--cried Gonzaga. "Such then was the bird's nest that made
him so mad a truant!"

"As she retreated into the house," resumed Nignio, without noticing
the interruption, "his highness followed, hat in hand, with the
deference due to a gouvernante of Flanders. But as the house was
little better than a shed of boards, by drawing a trifle nearer the
porch, not a syllable of their mutual explanation escaped me.

"'Are you a follower of Don John?'--was the first demand of the
damsel. 'Do you belong to the party of the States?'--the next; to
both which questions, a negative was easily returned. After listening
to the plea, fluently set forth by the prince, that he was simply a
Zealand burgess, travelling on his own errand, and sorely in fear of
falling in (God wot) with either Protestants or <DW7>s, the damsel
appeared to hail the arrival of so congenial an ally as a blessing;
acquainted him with a rash frankness of speech worthy of his own,
that she was journeying from the Ardennes towards the frontier of
Brabant, where her father was in high command; that the duenna her
companion, outwearied by the exercise, was taking her siesta within;
for that her pacing nag, having cast a shoe on reaching the wood, the
ferryman had undertaken to conduct to the nearest smithy the
venerable chaplain and serving-man constituting her escort.

"'Half a league from hence,' said she, 'my father's people are in
waiting to escort me during the rest of my journey.'

"'Yet surely, gentle lady,' observed the prince, 'considering the
military occupation of the province, your present protection is
somewhat of the weakest?'--

"'It was expressly so devised by my father,' replied the open-hearted
girl. 'The Spanish cavaliers are men of honour, who war not against
women and almoners. A more powerful attendance were more likely to
provoke animosity. Feebleness is sometimes the best security.'

"'_Home_ is a woman's only security in times like these!'--cried the
prince with animation.

"'And therefore to my home am I recalled,' rejoined the young girl,
with a heavy sigh. 'Since my mother's death, I have been residing
with her sister in the Ardennes. But my good aunt having had the
weakness to give way to my instances, and carry me to Namur last
summer, to take part in the entertainments offered to the Queen of
Navarre, my father has taken offence at both of us; and I am sent for
home to be submitted to sterner keeping.'

"You will believe that, ere all this was mutually explained, more
time had elapsed than I take in the telling it; and I could perceive
by the voices of the speakers that they had taken seats, and were
awaiting, without much impatience, the return of the ferryman. The
compassion of the silly child was excited by the severe accident
which the stranger described as the origin of his fractures and
contusions; nor need I tell you that the persuasive voice and
deportment of Don John are calculated to make even a more experienced
one than this pretty Ulrica forget his unseemly aspect and indigent
apparel."

"And all this time the careful gouvernante snored within, and the
obsequious aide-de-camp held at the door the bridles of the
Mecklenburgers"--

"Precisely. Nor found I the time hang much heavier than the prince;
for at first mistrustful, like yourself, that the reconnaissance into
which he had beguiled me was a mere pretext, I was not sorry to
ascertain, sigh by sigh, and word by word, the grounds on which he
stood with the enemy. And you should have heard how artfully he
contrived to lead her back to the fetes of Namur; asking, as with the
curiosity of a bumpkin, the whole details of the royal
entertainments! No small mind had I to rush in and chuck the hussy
into the torrent before me, when I heard the little fiend burst forth
into the most genuine and enthusiastic praises of the royal giver of
the feast,--'So young, so handsome, so affable, so courteous, so
passing the kingliness of kings.' She admitted, moreover, that it was
her frantic desire of beholding face to face the hero of Lepanto,
which had produced the concession on the part of her kinswoman so
severely visited by her father.

"'But surely,' pleaded this thoughtless prattler, 'one may admire the
noble deportment of a <DW7>, and perceive the native goodness
beaming in his eyes, without peril of salvation? This whole morning
hath my father's chaplain (who will be here anon) been giving
scripture warrant that I have no right to importune heaven with my
prayers for the conversion of Don John:--Yet, as my good aunt justly
observes, the great grandson of Mary of Burgundy has his pedestal
firm in our hearts, beyond reach of overthrow from all the
preachments of the Reformers'"--

"And you did not fling the bridles to the devil, and rush in to the
rescue of the unguarded soldier thus mischievously assailed?"--cried
Gonzaga.

"It needed not! The old lady could not sleep for ever; and I had the
comfort to hear her rouse herself, and suitably reprehend the want of
dignity of her charge in such strange familiarity with strangers. To
which the pretty Ulrica replied, 'That it was no fault of hers if
people wanted to convert a child into a woman!' A moment afterwards
and the ferryman and cortege arrived together; and a more glorious
figure of fun than the chaplain of the heretic general hath seldom
bestridden a pacing nag! However, I was too glad of his arrival to be
exceptious; and the whole party were speedily embarked in the ferry,
taking their turn as the first arrived at the spot, which we twain
abided, watching the punt across the stream, which, in consequence of
the strength of the current, it was indispensable to float down some
hundred yards, in order to reach the opposite shore.

"Hat in hand stood the prince, his eyes fixed upon the precious
freight, and those of Ulrica fixed in return upon her new and
pleasant acquaintance; when, Jesu Maria!--as every thing that is evil
ordained it,--behold, the newly-shod palfrey of the pretty
Brabanconne, irritated, perhaps, by the clumsy veterinaryship of a
village smithy, began suddenly to rear and plunge, and set at
defiance the old dunderhead by whom it was held!--The ass of a
ferryman, in his eagerness to lend his aid, let go his oar into the
stream; and between the awkwardness of some and the rashness of
others, in a moment the whole party were carried round by the eddy of
the Dyle!--The next, and Ulrica was struggling in the waters"--

"And the next, in the arms of the prince, who had plunged in to her
rescue!"--

"You know him too well not to foresee all that follows. Take for
granted, therefore, the tedious hours spent at the ferry-house, in
restoring to consciousness the exhausted women, half-dead with cold
and fright. Under the unguarded excitement of mind produced by such
an incident, I expected indeed every moment the self-betrayal of my
companion; but _that_ evil we escaped. And when, late in the evening,
the party was sufficiently recovered to proceed, I was agreeably
surprised to find that Don John was alive to the danger of escorting
the fair Ulrica even so far as the hamlet, where her father's people
were in waiting."

"And where he had been inevitably recognized!"--

"The certainty of falling in with the troopers of Horn, rendered it
expedient for us to return to Namur with only half the object of his
highness accomplished. But the babble of the old chaplain had
acquainted us with nearly all we wanted to know,-- namely, the number
and disposal of the Statists, and the position taken up by the
English auxiliaries."

"And this second parting from Ulrica?"--

"Was a parting as between friends for life! The first had been the
laughing farewell of pleasant acquaintance. But now, ere she bade
adieu to the gallant preserver of her life, she shred a tress of her
silken hair, still wet with the waters of the Dyle, which she
entreated him to keep for her sake. In return, he placed upon her
finger the ruby presented to him by the Doge of Venice, bearing the
arms of the republic engraved on the setting; telling her that chance
had enabled him to confer an obligation on the governor of the
Netherlands; and that, in any strait or peril, that signet,
dispatched in his name to Don John of Austria, would command his
protection."

"As I live, a choice romance!--almost worthy the pages of our
matchless Boccaccio!" cried the Italian. "A thousand pities but that
the whole batch of Orangeists had been carried down the
Dyle!--However, the enemy's lines lie between them. They will meet no
more. The Calvinist colonel has doubtless his daughter under lock and
key; and his highness has too much work cut out for him by his
rebels, to have time for peeping through the keyhole.--So now,
good-night.--For love-tales are apt to beget drowsiness; and i'faith
we must be a-foot by break of day."

And having betaken himself to the chamber provided for him, Ottavio
Gonzaga lost not an hour or a syllable, in transcribing all he had
learned from the Spanish aide-de-camp; that the state of mind and
feeling of the young viceroy might be speedily laid open to the full
and uncongenial investigation of his royal brother of the Escurial.


Part II.

A fortnight afterwards, was fought that famous battle of Gembloux,
which added a new branch to the laurels of Don John of Austria; and
constitutes a link of the radiant chain of military glories which
binds the admiration of Europe to the soil of one of the obscurest of
its countries!--Gembloux, Ramillies, Nivelle, Waterloo, lie within
the circuit of a morning's journey, as well as within the circle of
eternal renown.

By this brilliant triumph of the royalists, six thousand men-at-arms,
their standards, banners, and artillery, were lost to the States. The
cavalry of Spain, under the command of Ottavio Gonzaga, performed
prodigies of valour; and the vanguard, under that of Gaspardo Nignio,
equally distinguished itself. But the heat of the action fell upon
the main body of the army, which had marched from Namur under the
command of Don John; being composed of the Italian reinforcements
dispatched to him from Parma by desire of the Pope, under the command
of his nephew, Prince Alexander Farnese.

It was noticed, however, with surprise, that when the generals of the
States--the Archduke Matthias, and Prince of Orange--retreated in
dismay to Antwerp, Don John, instead of pursuing his advantage with
the energy of his usual habits, seemed to derive little satisfaction
or encouragement from his victory. It might be, that the difficulty
of controlling the predatory habits of the German and Burgundian
troops wearied his patience; for scarce a day passed but there issued
some new proclamation, reproving the atrocious rapacity and lawless
desperation of the army. But neither Gonzaga nor Nignio had much
opportunity of judging of the real cause of his cheerlessness; for,
independent of the engrossing duties of their several commands, the
leisure of Don John was entirely bestowed upon his nephew, Alexander
Farnese, who, only a few years his junior in age, was almost a
brother in affection.

To him alone were confided the growing cares of his charge--the
increasing perplexities of his mind. To both princes, the name of
Ulrica had become, by frequent repetition, a sacred word; and though
Don John had the comfort of knowing that her father, the Count de
Cergny, was unengaged in the action of Gembloux, his highness had
reason to fear that the regiment of Hainaulters under his command,
constituted the garrison of one or other of the frontier fortresses
of Brabant, to which it was now his duty to direct the conquering
arms of his captains.

The army of the States having taken refuge within the walls of
Antwerp, the royalists, instead of marching straight to Brussels,
according to general expectation, effected in the first instance the
reduction of Tirlemont, Louvain, D'Arschot, Sichem, and
Diest,--Nivelle, the capital of Walloon Brabant, next succumbed to
their arms--Maubeuge, Chimay, Barlaimont;--and, after a severe
struggle, the new and beautiful town of Philippeville.

But these heroic feats were not accomplished without a tremendous
carnage, and deeds of violence at which the soul sickened. At Sichem,
the indignation of the Burgundians against a body of French troops
which, after the battle of Gembloux, had pledged itself never again
to bear arms against Spain, caused them to have a hundred soldiers
strangled by night, and their bodies flung into the moat at the foot
of the citadel; after which the town was given up by Prince Alexander
to pillage and spoliation! Terrified by such an example, Diest and
Leeuw hastened to capitulate. And still, at every fresh conquest, and
while receiving day after day, and week after week, the submission of
fortresses, and capitulation of vanquished chiefs, the anxious
expectation entertained by Don John of an appeal to his clemency
accompanying the Venetian ring, was again and again disappointed!--

At times, his anxieties on Ulrica's account saddened him into utter
despondency. He felt convinced that mischance had overtaken her. All
his endeavours to ascertain the position of the Count de Cergny
having availed him nothing, he trusted that the family must be shut
up in Antwerp, with the Prince of Orange and Archduke; but when every
night, ere he retired to a soldier's rugged pillow, and pressed his
lips to that long fair tress which seemed to ensure the blessings of
an angel of purity and peace, the hopes entertained by Don John of
tidings of the gentle Ulrica became slighter and still more slight.

He did not the more refrain from issuing such orders and exacting
such interference on the part of Alexander Farnese, as promised to
secure protection and respect to the families of all such officers of
the insurgent army as might, in any time or place, fall into the
hands of the royalists.

To Alexander, indeed, to whom his noble kinsman was scarcely less
endeared by his chivalrous qualities than the ties of blood, and who
was fully aware of the motive of these instructions, the charge was
almost superfluous. So earnest were, from the first, his orders to
his Italian captains to pursue in all directions their enquiries
after the Count de Cergny and his family, that it had become a matter
of course to preface their accounts of the day's movements
with--"_No_ intelligence, may it please your highness, of the Count
de Cergny!"

The siege of Limbourg, however, now wholly absorbed his attention;
for it was a stronghold on which the utmost faith was pinned by the
military science of the States. But a breach having been made in the
walls by the Spanish artillery under the command of Nicolo di Cesi,
the cavalry, commanded in person by the Prince Alexander, and the
Walloons under Nignio di Zuniga, speedily forced an entrance; when,
in spite of the stanch resistance of the governor, the garrison laid
down their arms, and the greater portion of the inhabitants took the
oath of fealty to the king.

Of all his conquests, this was the least expected and most desirable;
in devout conviction of which, the Prince of Parma commanded a _Te
Deum_ to be sung in the churches, and hastened to render thanks to
the God of Battles for an event by which further carnage was spared
to either host.

Escorted by his _etat major_, he had proceeded to the cathedral to
join in the august solemnization; when, lo! just as he quitted the
church, a way-worn and heated cavalier approached, bearing
despatches; in whom the prince recognised a faithful attendant of his
household, named Paolo Rinaldo, whom he had recently sent with
instructions to Camille Du Mont, the general charged with the
reduction of the frontier fortresses of Brabant.

"Be their blood upon their head!" was the spontaneous ejaculation of
the prince, after perusing the despatch. Then, turning to the
officers by whom he was escorted, he explained, in a few words, that
the fortress of Dalem, which had replied to the propositions to
surrender of Du Mont only by the scornful voice of its cannon, had
been taken by storm by the Burgundians, and its garrison put to the
sword.

"Time that some such example taught a lesson to these braggarts of
Brabant!"--responded Nignio, who stood at the right hand of Prince
Alexander. "The nasal twang of their chaplains seems of late to have
overmastered, in their ears, the eloquence of the ordnance of Spain!
Yet, i'faith, they might be expected to find somewhat more unction in
the preachments of our musketeers than the homilies of either Luther
or Calvin!"

He spoke unheeded of the prince; for Alexander was now engaged apart
in a colloquy with his faithful Rinaldo, who had respectfully placed
in his hands a ring of great cost and beauty.

"Seeing the jewel enchased with the arms of the Venetian republic,
may it please your highness," said the soldier, "I judged it better
to remit it to your royal keeping."

"And from whose was it plundered?" cried the prince, with a sudden
flush of emotion.

"From hands that resisted not!" replied Rinaldo gravely. "I took it
from the finger of the dead!"

"And when, and where?"--exclaimed the prince, drawing him still
further apart, and motioning to his train to resume their march to
the States' house of Limbourg.

"The tale is long and grievous, may it please your highness!" said
Rinaldo. "To comprise it in the fewest words, know that, after seeing
the governor of Dalem cut down in a brave and obstinate defence of
the banner of the States floating from the walls of his citadel, I
did my utmost to induce the Baron de Cevray, whose Burgundians
carried the place, to proclaim quarter. For these fellows of
Hainaulters, (who, to do them justice, had fought like dragons,)
having lost their head, were powerless; and of what use hacking to
pieces an exhausted carcass?--But our troops were too much
exasperated by the insolent resistance and defiance they had
experienced, to hear of mercy; and soon the conduits ran blood, and
shrieks and groans rent the air more cruelly than the previous roar
of the artillery. In accordance, however, with the instructions I
have ever received from your highness, I pushed my way into all
quarters, opposing what authority I might to the brutality of the
troopers."

"Quick, quick!"--cried Prince Alexander in anxious haste--"Let me not
suppose that the wearer of this ring fell the victim of such an
hour?"--

It was in passing the open doors of the church that my ears were
assailed with cries of female distresses:--nor could I doubt that
even _that_ sanctuary (held sacred by our troops of Spain!) had been
invaded by the impiety of the German or Burgundian legions!--As
usual, the chief ladies of the town had placed themselves under the
protection of the high altar. But there, even there, had they been
seized by sacrilegious hands!--The fame of the rare beauty of the
daughter of the governor of Dalem, had attracted, among the rest, two
daring ruffians of the regiment of Cevray."

"You sacrificed them, I trust in GOD, on the spot?"--demanded the
prince, trembling with emotion. "You dealt upon them the vengeance
due?"

"Alas! sir, the vengeance they were mutually dealing, had already
cruelly injured the helpless object of the contest! Snatched from the
arms of the Burgundian soldiers by the fierce arm of a German
musketeer, a deadly blow, aimed at the ruffian against whom she was
wildly but vainly defending herself; had lighted on one of the
fairest of human forms! Cloven to the bone, the blood of this
innocent being, scarce past the age of childhood, was streaming on
her assailants; and when, rushing in, I proclaimed, in the name of
God and of your highness, quarter and peace, it was an insensible
body I rescued from the grasp of pollution!"

"Unhappy Ulrica!" faltered the prince, "and oh! my more unhappy
kinsman!"

"Not altogether hopeless," resumed Rinaldo; "and apprized, by the
sorrowful ejaculations of her female companions when relieved from
their personal fears, of the high condition of the victim, I bore the
insensible lady to the hospital of Dalem; and the utmost skill of our
surgeons was employed upon her wounds. Better had it been
spared!--The dying girl was roused only to the endurance of more
exquisite torture; and while murmuring a petition for 'mercy--mercy
to her _father_!' that proved her still unconscious of her family
misfortunes, she attempted in vain to take from her finger the ring I
have had the honour to deliver to your highness:--faltering with her
last breath, 'for _his_ sake, Don John will perhaps show mercy to my
poor old father!'"--

Prince Alexander averted his head as he listened to these mournful
details.

"She is at rest, then?"--said he, after a pause.

"Before nightfall, sir, she was released."--

"Return in all haste to Dalem, Rinaldo," rejoined the prince, "and
complete your work of mercy, by seeing all honours of interment that
the times admit, bestowed on the daughter of the Comte de Cergny!"

Weary and exhausted as he was, not a murmur escaped the lips of the
faithful Rinaldo as he mounted his horse, and hastened to the
discharge of his new duty. For though habituated by the details of
that cruel and desolating warfare to spectacles of horror--the
youth--the beauty--the innocence--the agonies of Ulrica, had touched
him to the heart; nor was the tress of her fair hair worn next the
heart of Don John of Austria, more fondly treasured, than the one
this rude soldier had shorn from the brow of death, in the ward of a
public hospital, albeit its silken gloss was tinged with blood!--

Scarcely a month had elapsed after the storming of Dalem, when a
terrible rumour went forth in the camp of Bouge, (where Don John had
intrenched his division of the royalist army,) that the governor of
the Netherlands was attacked by fatal indisposition!--For some weeks
past, indeed, his strength and spirit had been declining. When at the
village of Rymenam on the Dyle, near Mechlin, (not far from the ferry
of the wood,) he suffered himself to be surprised by the English
troops under Horn, and the Scotch under Robert Stuart, the unusual
circumstance of the defeat of so able a general was universally
attributed to prostration of bodily strength.

When it was soon afterwards intimated to the army that he had ceded
the command to his nephew, Prince Alexander Farnese, regret for the
origin of his secession superseded every other consideration.

For the word had gone forth that he was to die!--In the full vigour
of his manhood and energy of his soul, a fatal blow had reached Don
John of Austria!--

A vague but horrible accusation of poison was generally
prevalent!--For his leniency towards the Protestants had engendered a
suspicion of heresy, and the orthodoxy of Philip II. was known to be
remorseless; and the agency of Ottavio Gonzaga at hand!--

But the kinsman who loved and attended him knew better. From the
moment Prince Alexander beheld the ring of Ulrica glittering on his
wasted hand, he entertained no hope of his recovery; and every time
he issued from the tent of Don John, and noted the groups of veterans
praying on their knees for the restoration of the son of their
emperor, and heard the younger soldiers calling aloud in loyal
affection upon the name of the hero of Lepanto, tears came into his
eyes as he passed on to the discharge of his duties. For he knew that
their intercessions were in vain--that the hours of the sufferer were
numbered. In a moment of respite from his sufferings, the sacraments
of the church were administered to the dying prince; having received
which with becoming humility, he summoned around him the captains of
the camp, and exhorted them to zeal in the service of Spain, and
fidelity to his noble successor in command.

It was the 1st of October, the anniversary of the action of Lepanto,
and on a glorious autumnal day of golden sunshine, that, towards
evening, he ordered the curtains of his tent to be drawn aside, that
he might contemplate for the last time the creation of God!--

Raising his head proudly from a soldier's pillow, he uttered in
hoarse but distinct accents his last request, that his body might be
borne to Spain, and buried at the feet of his father. For his eyes
were fixed upon the glories of the orb of day, and his mind upon the
glories of the memory of one of the greatest of kings.

But that pious wish reflected the last flash of human reason in his
troubled mind. His eyes became suddenly inflamed with fever, his
words incoherent, his looks haggard. Having caused them to sound the
trumpets at the entrance of his tent, as for an onset, he ranged his
battalions for an imaginary field of battle, and disposed his
manoeuvres, and gave the word to charge against the enemy.[18] Then,
sinking back upon his pillow, he breathed in subdued accents, "Let me
at least avenge her innocent blood. Why, why could I not save thee,
my Ulrica!"--

[Footnote 18: The foregoing details are strictly historical.]

It was thus he died. When Nignio de Zuniga (cursing in his heart with
a fourfold curse the heretics whom he chose to consider the murderers
of his master) stooped down to lay his callous hand on the heart of
the hero, the pulses of life were still!--

There was but one cry throughout the camp--there was but one thought
among his captains:--"Let the bravest knight of Christendom be laid
nobly in the grave!" Attired in the suit of mail in which he had
fought at Lepanto, the body was placed on a bier, and borne forth
from his tent on the shoulders of the officers of his household.
Then, having been saluted by the respect of the whole army, it was
transmitted from post to post through the camp, on those of the
colonels of the regiments of all nations constituting the forces of
Spain.--And which of them was to surmise, that upon the heart of the
dead lay the love-token of a heretic?--A double line of troops,
infantry and cavalry in alternation, formed a road of honour from the
camp of Bouge to the gates of the city of Namur. And when the people
saw, borne upon his bier amid the deferential silence of those iron
soldiers, bareheaded and with their looks towards the earth, the
gallant soldier so untimely stricken, arrayed in his armour of glory
and with a crown upon his head, after the manner of the princes of
Burgundy, and on his finger the ruby ring of the Doge of Venice, they
thought upon his knightly qualities--his courtesy, generosity, and
valour--till all memory of his illustrious parentage became effaced.
They forgot the prince in the man,--"and behold all Israel mourned
for Jonathan!"

A regiment of infantry, trailing their halberts, led the march, till
they reached Namur, where the precious deposit was remitted by the
royalist generals, Mansfeldt, Villefranche, and La Cros, to the hands
of the chief magistrates of Namur. By these it was bourne in state to
the cathedral of St Alban; and during the celebration of a solemn
mass, deposited at the foot of the high altar till the pleasure of
Philip II. should be known concerning the fulfilment of the last
request of Don John.

It was by Ottavio Gonzaga the tidings of his death were conveyed to
Spain. It was by Ottavio Gonzaga the king intimated, in return, his
permission that the conqueror of Lepanto should share the sepulture
of Charles V., and all that now remains to Namur in memory of one of
the last of Christian knights, the Maccabeus of the Turkish hosts,
who expired in its service and at its gates, is an inscription placed
on its high altar by the piety of Alexander Farnese, intimating that
it afforded a temporary resting place to the remains of DON JOHN of
AUSTRIA.[19]

[Footnote 19: Thus far the courtesies of fiction. But for those who
prefer historical fact, it may be interesting to learn the authentic
details of the interment of one whose posthumous destinies seemed to
share the incompleteness of his baffled life. In order to avoid the
contestations arising from the transit of a corpse through a foreign
state, Nignio di Zuniga (who was charged by Philip with the duty of
conveying it to Spain, under sanction of a passport from Henri III.)
caused it to be _dismembered_, and the parts packed in three budgets,
(_bougettes_,) and laid upon packhorses!--On arriving in Spain, the
parts were _readjusted with wires!--"On remplit le corps de bourre_,"
says the old chronicler from which these details are derived, "_et
ainsi la structure en aiant ete comme retablie, on le revetit de ses
armes, et le fit voir au roi, tout debout apuye sur son baton de
general, de sorte qu'il semblait encore vivant. L'aspect d'un mort si
illustre ayant excite quelques larmes, on le porta a l'Escurial dans
l'Eglise de St Laurens auprez de son pere_."

Such is the account given in a curious old history (supplementary to
those of D'Avila and Strada) of the wars of the Prince of Parma,
published at Amsterdam early in the succeeding century. But a still
greater insult has been offered to the memory of one of the last of
Christian knights, in Casimir Delavigne's fine play of "Don Juan
d'Autriche," where he is represented as affianced to a Jewess!]




POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE.

No. I.


It may be as well to state at the outset, that we have not the most
distant intention of laying before the public the whole mass of
poetry that flowed from the prolific pen of Goethe, betwixt the days
of his student life at Leipsic and those of his final courtly
residence at Weimar. It is of no use preserving the whole wardrobe of
the dead; we do enough if we possess ourselves of his
valuables--articles of sterling bullion that will at any time command
their price in the market--as to worn-out and threadbare
personalities, the sooner they are got rid of the better. Far be it
from us, however, to depreciate or detract from the merit of any of
Goethe's productions. Few men have written so voluminously, and still
fewer have written so well. But the curse of a most fluent pen, and
of a numerous auditory, to whom his words were oracles, was upon him;
and seventy volumes, more or less, which Cotta issued from his
wareroom, are for the library of the Germans now, and for the
selection of judicious editors hereafter. A long time must elapse
after an author's death, before we can pronounce with perfect
certainty what belongs to the trunk-maker, and what pertains to
posterity. Happy the man--if not in his own generation, yet most
assuredly in the time to come--whose natural hesitation or
fastidiousness has prompted him to weigh his words maturely, before
launching them forth into the great ocean of literature, in the midst
of which is a Maelstrom of tenfold absorbing power!

From the minor poems, therefore, of Goethe, we propose, in the
present series, to select such as are most esteemed by competent
judges, including, of course, ourselves. We shall not follow the
example of dear old Eckermann, nor preface our specimens by any
critical remarks upon the scope and tendency of the great German's
genius; neither shall we divide his works, as characteristic of his
intellectual progress, into eras or into epochs; still less shall we
attempt to institute a regular comparison between his merits and
those of Schiller, whose finest productions (most worthily
translated) have already enriched the pages of this Magazine. We are
doubtless ready at all times to back our favourite against the field,
and to maintain his intellectual superiority even against his
greatest and most formidable rival. We know that he is the showiest,
and we feel convinced that he is the better horse of the two; but
talking is worse than useless when the course is cleared, and the
start about to commence.

Come forward, then, before the British public, O many-sided,
ambidextrous Goethe, as thine own Thomas Carlyle might, or could, or
would, or should have termed thee, and let us hear how the
mellifluous Teutonic verse will sound when adapted to another tongue.
And, first of all--for we yearn to know it--tell us how thy
inspiration came? A plain answer, of course, we cannot expect--that
were impossible from a German; but such explanation as we can draw
from metaphor and oracular response, seems to be conveyed in that
favourite and elaborate preface to the poems, which accordingly we
may term the


INTRODUCTION.

  The morning came. Its footsteps scared away
    The gentle sleep that hover'd lightly o'er me;
  I left my quiet cot to greet the day
    And gaily climb'd the mountain-side before me.
  The sweet young flowers! how fresh were they and tender,
    Brimful with dew upon the sparkling lea;
  The young day open'd in exulting splendour,
    And all around seem'd glad to gladden me.

  And, as I mounted, o'er the meadow ground
    A white and filmy essence 'gan to hover;
  It sail'd and shifted till it hemm'd me round,
    Then rose above my head, and floated over.
  No more I saw the beauteous scene unfolded--
    It lay beneath a melancholy shroud;
  And soon was I, as if in vapour moulded,
    Alone, within the twilight of the cloud.

  At once, as though the sun were struggling through,
    Within the mist a sudden radiance started;
  Here sunk the vapour, but to rise anew,
    There on the peak and upland forest parted.
  O, how I panted for the first clear gleaming,
    That after darkness must be doubly bright!
  It came not, but a glory round me beaming,
    And I stood blinded by the gush of light.

  A moment, and I felt enforced to look,
    By some strange impulse of the heart's emotion;
  But more than one quick glance I scarce could brook,
    For all was burning like a molten ocean.
  There, in the glorious clouds that seem'd to bear her,
    A form angelic hover'd in the air;
  Ne'er did my eyes behold vision fairer,
    And still she gazed upon me, floating there.

  "Do'st thou not know me?" and her voice was soft
    As truthful love, and holy calm it sounded.
  "Know'st thou not me, who many a time and oft,
    Pour'd balsam in thy hurts when sorest wounded?
  Ah well thou knowest her, to whom for ever
    Thy heart in union pants to be allied!
  Have I not seen the tears--the wild endeavour
    That even in boyhood brought thee to my side?"

  "Yes! I have felt thy influence oft," I cried,
    And sank on earth before her, half-adoring;
  "Thou brought'st me rest when Passion's lava tide
    Through my young veins like liquid fire was pouring.
  And thou hast fann'd, as with celestial pinions,
    In summer's heat my parch'd and fever'd brow;
  Gav'st me the choicest gifts of earth's dominions,
    And, save through thee, I seek no fortune now.

  "I name thee not, but I have heard thee named,
    And heard thee styled their own ere now by many;
  All eyes believe at thee their glance is aim'd,
    Though thine effulgence is too great for any.
  Ah! I had many comrades whilst I wander'd--
    I know thee now, and stand almost alone:
  I veil thy light, too precious to be squander'd,
    And share the inward joy I feel with none."

  Smiling, she said--"Thou see'st 'twas wise from thee
    To keep the fuller, greater revelation:
  Scarce art thou from grotesque delusions free,
    Scarce master of thy childish first sensation;
  Yet deem'st thyself so far above thy brothers,
    That thou hast won the right to scorn them! Cease.
  Who made the yawning gulf 'twixt thee and others?
    Know--know thyself--live with the world in peace."

  "Forgive me!" I exclaim'd, "I meant no ill,
    Else should in vain my eyes be disenchanted;
  Within my blood there stirs a genial will--
    I know the worth of all that thou hast granted.
  That boon I hold in trust for others merely,
    Nor shall I let it rust within the ground;
  Why sought I out the pathway so sincerely,
    If not to guide my brothers to the bound?"

  And as I spoke, upon her radiant face
    Pass'd a sweet smile, like breath across a mirror;
  And in her eyes' bright meaning I could trace
    What I had answer'd well and what in error,
  She smiled, and then my heart regain'd its lightness,
    And bounded in my breast with rapture high:
  Then durst I pass within her zone of brightness,
    And gaze upon her with unquailing eye.

  Straightway she stretch'd her hand among the thin
    And watery haze that round her presence hover'd;
  Slowly it coil'd and shrunk her grasp within,
    And lo! the landscape lay once more uncover'd--
  Again mine eye could scan the sparkling meadow,
    I look'd to heaven, and all was clear and bright;
  I saw her hold a veil without a shadow,
    That undulated round her in the light.

  "I know thee!--all thy weakness, all that yet
    Of good within thee lives and glows, I've measured;"
  She said--her voice I never may forget--
    "Accept the gift that long for thee was treasured.
  Oh! happy he, thrice-bless'd in earth and heaven,
    Who takes this gift with soul serene and true,
  The veil of song, by Truth's own fingers given,
    Enwoven of sunshine and the morning dew.

  "Wave but this veil on high, whene'er beneath
    The noonday fervour thou and thine are glowing,
  And fragrance of all flowers around shall breathe,
    And the cool winds of eve come freshly blowing.
  Earth's cares shall cease for thee, and all its riot;
    Where gloom'd the grave, a starry couch be seen;
  The waves of life shall sink in halcyon quiet;
    The days be lovely fair, the nights serene."

  Come then, my friends, and whether 'neath the load
    Of heavy griefs ye struggle on, or whether
  Your better destiny shall strew the road
    With flowers, and golden fruits that cannot wither,
  United let us move, still forwards striving;
    So while we live shall joy our days illume,
  And in our children's hearts our love surviving
    Shall gladden them, when we are in the tomb.

This is a noble metaphysical and metaphorical poem, but purely German
of its kind. It has been imitated, not to say travestied, at least
fifty times, by crazy students and purblind professors--each of whom,
in turn, has had an interview with the goddess of nature upon a
hill-side. For our own part, we confess that we have no great
predilection for such mysterious intercourse, and would rather draw
our inspiration from tangible objects, than dally with a visionary
Egeria. But the fault is both common and national.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next specimen we shall offer is the far-famed _Bride of Corinth_.
Mrs Austin says of this poem very happily--"An awful and undefined
horror breathes throughout it. In the slow measured rhythm of the
verse, and the pathetic simplicity of the diction, there is a
solemnity and a stirring spell, which chains the feelings like a deep
mysterious strain of music." Owing to the peculiar structure and
difficulty of the verse, this poem has hitherto been supposed
incapable of translation. Dr Anster, who alone has rendered it into
English, found it necessary to depart from the original structure;
and we confess that it was not without much labour, and after
repeated efforts, that we succeeded in vanquishing the obstacle of
the double rhymes. If the German scholar should perceive, that in
three stanzas some slight liberties have been taken with the
original, we trust that he will perceive the reason, and at least
give us credit for general fidelity and close adherence to the text.


THE BRIDE OF CORINTH.

  I.

  A youth to Corinth, whilst the city slumber'd,
    Came from Athens: though a stranger there,
  Soon among its townsmen to be number'd,
    For a bride awaits him, young and fair:
      From their childhood's years
      They were plighted feres,
    So contracted by their parents' care.

  II.

  But may not his welcome there be hinder'd?
    Dearly must he buy it, would he speed.
  He is still a heathen with his kindred,
    She and her's wash'd in the Christian creed.
      When new faiths are born,
      Love and troth are torn
    Rudely from the heart, howe'er it bleed.

  III.

  All the house is hush'd. To rest retreated
    Father, daughters--not the mother quite;
  She the guest with cordial welcome greeted,
    Led him to a room with tapers bright;
      Wine and food she brought
      Ere of them he thought,
    Then departed with a fair good-night.

  IV.

  But he felt no hunger, and unheeded
    Left the wine, and eager for the rest
  Which his limbs, forspent with travel, needed,
    On the couch he laid him, still undress'd.
      There he sleeps--when lo!
      Onwards gliding slow,
    At the door appears a wondrous guest.

  V.

  By the waning lamp's uncertain gleaming
    There he sees a youthful maiden stand,
  Robed in white, of still and gentle seeming,
    On her brow a black and golden band.
        When she meets his eyes,
        With a quick surprise
    Starting, she uplifts a pallid hand.

  VI.

  "Is a stranger here, and nothing told me?
    Am I then forgotten even in name?
  Ah! 'tis thus within my cell they hold me,
    And I now am cover'd o'er with shame!
        Pillow still thy head
        There upon thy bed,
    I will leave thee quickly as I came."

  VII.

  "Maiden--darling! Stay, O stay!" and, leaping
    From the couch, before her stands the boy:
  "Ceres--Bacchus, here their gifts are heaping,
    And thou bringest Amor's gentle joy!
        Why with terror pale?
        Sweet one, let us hail
    These bright gods--their festive gifts employ."

  VIII.

  "Oh, no--no! Young stranger, come not nigh me;
    Joy is not for me, nor festive cheer.
  Ah! such bliss may ne'er be tasted by me,
    Since my mother, in fantastic fear,
        By long sickness bow'd,
        To heaven's service vow'd
    Me, and all the hopes that warm'd me here.

  IX.

  "They have left our hearth, and left it lonely--
    The old gods, that bright and jocund train.
  One, unseen, in heaven, is worshipp'd only,
    And upon the cross a Saviour slain;
        Sacrifice is here,
        Not of lamb nor steer,
    But of human woe and human pain."

  X.

  And he asks, and all her words cloth ponder--
    "Can it be, that, in this silent spot,
  I behold thee, thou surpassing wonder!
    My sweet bride, so strangely to me brought?
        Be mine only now--
        See, our parents' vow
    Heaven's good blessing hath for us besought."

  XI.

  "No! thou gentle heart," she cried in anguish;
    "'Tis not mine, but 'tis my sister's place;
  When in lonely cell I weep and languish,
    Think, oh think of me in her embrace!
        I think but of thee--
        Pining drearily,
    Soon beneath the earth to hide my face!"

  XII.

  "Nay! I swear by yonder flame which burneth,
    Fann'd by Hymen, lost thou shalt not be;
  Droop not thus, for my sweet bride returneth
    To my father's mansion back with me!
        Dearest! tarry here!
        Taste the bridal cheer,
    For our spousal spread so wondrously!"

  XIII.

  Then with word and sign their troth they plighted.
    Golden was the chain she bade him wear;
  But the cup he offer'd her she slighted,
    Silver, wrought with cunning past compare.
        "That is not for me;
        All I ask of thee
    Is one little ringlet of thy hair."

  XIV.

  Dully boom'd the midnight hour unhallow'd,
    And then first her eyes began to shine;
  Eagerly with pallid lips she swallow'd
    Hasty draughts of purple-tinctured wine;
        But the wheaten bread,
        As in shuddering dread,
    Put she always by with loathing sign.

  XV.

  And she gave the youth the cup: he drain'd it,
    With impetuous haste he drain'd it dry;
  Love was in his fever'd heart, and pain'd it,
    Till it ached for joys she must deny.
        But the maiden's fears
        Stay'd him, till in tears
    On the bed he sank, with sobbing cry.

  XVI.

  And she leans above him--"Dear one, still thee!
    Ah, how sad am I to see thee so!
  But, alas! these limbs of mine would chill thee:
    Love, they mantle not with passion's glow;
        Thou wouldst be afraid,
        Didst thou find the maid
    Thou hast chosen, cold as ice or snow."

  XVII.

  Round her waist his eager arms he bended,
    Dashing from his eyes the blinding tear:
  "Wert thou even from the grave ascended,
    Come unto my heart, and warm thee here!"
        Sweet the long embrace--
        "Raise that pallid face;
    None but thou and are watching, dear!"

  XVIII.

  Was it love that brought the maiden thither,
    To the chamber of the stranger guest?
  Love's bright fire should kindle, and not wither;
    Love's sweet thrill should soothe, not torture, rest.
        His impassion'd mood
        Warms her torpid blood,
    Yet there beats no heart within her breast.

  XIX.

  Meanwhile goes the mother, softly creeping,
    Through the house, on needful cares intent,
  Hears a murmur, and, while all are sleeping,
    Wonders at the sounds, and what they meant.
        Who was whispering so?--
        Voices soft and low,
    In mysterious converse strangely blent.

  XX.

  Straightway by the door herself she stations,
    There to be assured what was amiss;
  And she hears love's fiery protestations,
    Words of ardour and endearing bliss:
        "Hark, the cock! 'Tis light!
        But to-morrow night
    Thou wilt come again?"--and kiss on kiss.

  XXI.

  Quick the latch she raises, and, with features
    Anger-flush'd, into the chamber hies.
  "Are there in my house such shameless creatures,
    Minions to the stranger's will?" she cries.
        By the dying light,
        Who is't meets her sight?
    God! 'tis her own daughter she espies!

  XXII.

  And the youth in terror sought to cover,
    With her own light veil, the maiden's head,
  Clasp'd her close; but, gliding from her lover,
    Back the vestment from her brow she spread,
        And her form upright,
        As with ghostly might,
    Long and slowly rises from the bed.

  XXIII.

  "Mother! mother! wherefore thus deprive me
    Of such joy as I this night have known?
  Wherefore from these warm embraces drive me?
    Was I waken'd up to meet thy frown?
        Did it not suffice
        That, in virgin guise,
    To an early grave you brought me down?

  XXIV.

  "Fearful is the weird that forced me hither,
    From the dark-heap'd chamber where I lay;
  Powerless are your drowsy anthems, neither
    Can your priests prevail, howe'er they pray.
        Salt nor lymph can cool
        Where the pulse is full;
    Love must still burn on, though wrapp'd in clay.

  XXV.

  "To this youth my early troth was plighted,
    Whilst yet Venus ruled within the land;
  Mother! and that vow ye falsely slighted,
    At your new and gloomy faith's command.
        But no God will hear,
        If a mother swear
    Pure from love to keep her daughter's hand.

  XXVI.

  "Nightly from my narrow chamber driven,
    Come I to fulfil my destined part,
  Him to seek for whom my troth was given,
    And to draw the life blood from his heart.
        He hath served my will;
        More I yet must kill,
    For another prey I now depart.

  XXVII.

  "Fair young man! thy thread of life is broken,
    Human skill can bring no aid to thee.
  There thou hast my chain--a ghastly token--
    And this lock of thine I take with me.
        Soon must thou decay,
        Soon wilt thou be gray,
    Dark although to-night thy tresses be.

  XXVIII.

  "Mother! hear, oh hear my last entreaty!
    Let the funeral pile arise once more;
  Open up my wretched tomb for pity,
    And in flames our souls to peace restore.
        When the ashes glow,
        When the fire-sparks flow,
    To the ancient gods aloft we soar."

       *       *       *       *       *

After this most powerful and original ballad, let us turn to
something more genial. The three following poems are exquisite
specimens of the varied genius of our author; and we hardly know
whether to prefer the plaintive beauty of the first, or the light and
sportive brilliancy of the other twain.


FIRST LOVE.

  Oh, who will bring me back the day,
    So beautiful, so bright!
  Those days when love first bore my heart
    Aloft on pinions light?
  Oh, who will bring me but an hour
    Of that delightful time,
  And wake in me again the power
    That fired my golden prime?

  I nurse my wound in solitude,
    I sigh the livelong day,
  And mourn the joys, in wayward mood,
   That now are pass'd away.
  Oh, who will bring me back the days
    Of that delightful time,
  And wake in me again the blaze
    That fired my golden prime?

WHO'LL BUY A CUPID?

  Of all the wares so pretty
  That come into the city,
  There's none are so delicious,
  There's none are half so precious,
  As those which we are binging.
  O, listen to our singing!
  Young loves to sell! young loves to sell!
  My pretty loves who'll buy?

  First look you at the oldest,
  The wantonest, the boldest!
  So loosely goes he hopping,
  From tree and thicket dropping,
  Then flies aloft as sprightly--
  We dare but praise him lightly!
  The fickle rogue! Young loves to sell!
  My pretty loves who'll buy?

  Now see this little creature--
  How modest seems his feature!
  He nestles so demurely,
  You'd think him safer surely;
  And yet for all his shyness,
  There's danger in his slyness!
  The cunning rogue! Young loves to sell!
  My pretty loves who'll buy?

  Oh come and see this lovelet,
  This little turtle-dovelet!
  The maidens that are neatest,
  The tenderest and sweetest,
  Should buy it to amuse 'em,
  And nurse it in their bosom.
  The little pet! Young loves to sell!
  My pretty loves who'll buy?

  We need not bid you buy them,
  They're here, if you will try them.
  They like to change their cages;
  But for their proving sages
  No warrant will we utter--
  They all have wings to flutter.
  The pretty birds! Young loves to sell!
  Such beauties! Come and buy!

       *       *       *       *       *

  SECOND LIFE.

  After life's departing sigh,
  To the spots I loved most dearly,
  In the sunshine and the shadow,
  By the fountain welling clearly,
  Through the wood and o'er the meadow,
  Flit I like a butterfly.

  There a gentle pair I spy.
  Round the maiden's tresses flying,
  From her chaplet I discover
  All that I had lost in dying,
  Still with her and with her lover.
  Who so happy then as I?

  For she smiles with laughing eye;
  And his lips to hers he presses,
  Vows of passion interchanging,
  Stifling her with sweet caresses,
  O'er her budding beauties ranging;
  And around the twain I fly.

  And she sees me fluttering nigh;
  And beneath his ardour trembling,
  Starts she up--then off I hover.
  "Look there, dearest!" Thus dissembling,
  Speaks the maiden to her lover--
  "Come and catch that butterfly!"

       *       *       *       *       *

In the days of his boyhood, and of Monk Lewis, Sir Walter Scott
translated the Erl King, and since then it has been a kind of
assay-piece for aspiring German students to thump and hammer at will.
We have heard it sung so often at the piano by soft-voiced maidens,
and hirsute musicians, before whose roaring the bull of Phalaris
might be dumb, that we have been accustomed to associate it with
stiff white cravats, green tea, and a superabundance of lemonade. But
to do full justice to its unearthly fascination, one ought to hear it
chanted by night in a lonely glade of the Schwartzwald or Spessart
forest, with the wind moaning as an accompaniment, and the ghostly
shadows of the branches flitting in the moonlight across the path.


THE ERL KING.

  Who rides so late through the grisly night?
  'Tis a father and child, and he grasps him tight;
  He wraps him close in his mantle's fold,
  And shelters the boy from the biting cold.

  "My son, why thus to my arm dost cling?"
  "Father, dost thou not see the Erlie-king?
  The king with his crown and long black train!"
  "My son, 'tis a streak of the misty rain! "

  "Come hither, thou darling! come, go with me!
  Fair games know I that I'll play with thee;
  Many bright flowers my kingdoms hold!
  My mother has many a robe of gold!"

  "O father, dear father and dost thou not hear
  What the Erlie-king whispers so low in mine ear?"
  "Calm thee, my boy, 'tis only the breeze
  Rustling the dry leaves beneath the trees!"

  "Wilt thou go, bonny boy! wilt thou go with me?
  My daughters shall wait on thee daintilie;
  My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep,
  And rock thee, and kiss thee, and sing thee to sleep!"

  "O father, dear father! and dost thou not mark
  Erlie-king's daughters move by in the dark?"
  "I see it, my child; but it is not they,
  'Tis the old willow nodding its head so grey!"

  "I love thee! thy beauty charms me quite;
  And if thou refusest, I'll take thee by might!"
  "O father, dear father! he's grasping me--
  My heart is as cold as cold can be!"

  The father rides swiftly--with terror he gasps--
  The sobbing child in his arms he clasps;
  He reaches the castle with spurring and dread;
  But, alack! in his arms the child lay dead!

       *       *       *       *       *

Who has not heard of Mignon?--sweet, delicate little Mignon?--the
woman-child, in whose miniature, rather than portrait, it is easy to
trace the original of fairy Fenella? We would that we could
adequately translate the song, which in its native German is so
exquisitely plaintive, that few can listen to it without tears. This
poem, it is almost needless to say, is anterior in date to Byron's
Bride of Abyos


  MIGNON.

  Know'st thou the land where the pale citron grows,
  And the gold orange through dark foliage glows?
  A soft wind flutters from the deep blue sky,
  The myrtle blooms, and towers the laurel high.
  Know'st thou it well?
                        O there with thee!
  O that I might, my own beloved one, flee!

  Know'st thou the house? On pillars rest its beams,
  Bright is its hall, in light one chamber gleams,
  And marble statues stand, and look on me--
  What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee?
  Know'st thou it well?
                        O there with thee!
  O that I might, my loved protector, flee!

  Know'st thou the track that o'er the mountain goes,
  Where the mule threads its way through mist and snows,
  Where dwelt in caves the dragon's ancient brood,
  Topples the crag, and o'er it roars the flood.
  Know'st thou it well?
                        O come with me!
  There lies our road--oh father, let us flee!

       *       *       *       *       *

In order duly to appreciate the next ballad, you must fancy yourself
(if you cannot realize it) stretched on the grass, by the margin of a
mighty river of the south, rushing from or through an Italian lake,
whose opposite shore you cannot descry for the thick purple haze of
heat that hangs over its glassy surface. If you lie there for an hour
or so, gazing into the depths of the blue unfathomable sky, till the
fanning of the warm wind and the murmur of the water combine to throw
you into a trance, you will be able to enjoy


THE FISHER.

  The water rush'd and bubbled by--
    An angler near it lay,
  And watch'd his quill, with tranquil eye,
    Upon the current play.
  And as he sits in wasteful dream,
    He sees the flood unclose,
  And from the middle of the stream
    A river-maiden rose.

  She sang to him with witching wile,
    "My brood why wilt thou snare,
  With human craft and human guile,
    To die in scorching air?
  Ah! didst thou know how happy we
    Who dwell in waters clear,
  Thou wouldst come down at once to me,
    And rest for ever here.

  "The sun and ladye-moon they lave
    Their tresses in the main,
  And breathing freshness from the wave,
    Come doubly bright again.
  The deep blue sky, so moist and clear,
    Hath it for thee no lure?
  Does thine own face not woo thee down
    Unto our waters pure?"

  The water rush'd and bubbled by--
    It lapp'd his naked feet;
  He thrill'd as though he felt the touch
    Of maiden kisses sweet.
  She spoke to him, she sang to him--
    Resistless was her strain--
  Half-drawn, he sank beneath the wave,
    And ne'er was seen again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our next extract smacks of the Troubadours, and would have better
suited good old King Rene of Provence than a Paladin of the days of
Charlemagne. Goethe has neither the eye of Wouverman nor Borgognone,
and sketches but an indifferent battle-piece. Homer was a stark
moss-trooper, and so was Scott; but the Germans want the cry of "boot
and saddle" consumedly. However, the following is excellent in its
way.


THE MINSTREL.

  "What sounds are those without, along
    The drawbridge sweetly stealing?
  Within our hall I'd have that song,
    That minstrel measure, pealing."
  Then forth the little foot-page hied;
  When he came back, the king he cried,
    "Bring in the aged minstrel!"

  "Good-even to you, lordlings all;
    Fair ladies all, good-even.
  Lo, star on star within this hall
    I see a radiant heaven.
  In hall so bright with noble light,
  'Tis not for thee to feast thy sight,
    Old man, look not around thee!"

  He closed his eyne, he struck his lyre
    In tones with passion laden,
  Till every gallant's eye shot fire,
    And down look'd every maiden.
  The king, enraptured with his strain,
  Held out to him a golden chain,
    In guerdon of his harping.

  "The golden chain give not to me,
    For noble's breast its glance is,
  Who meets and beats thy enemy
    Amid the shock of lances.
  Or give it to thy chancellere--
  Let him its golden burden bear,
    Among his other burdens.

  "I sing as sings the bird, whose note
    The leafy bough is heard on.
  The song that falters from my throat
    For me is ample guerdon.
  Yet I'd ask one thing, an I might,
  A draught of brave wine, sparkling bright
    Within a golden beaker!"

  The cup was brought. He drain'd its lees,
    "O draught that warms me cheerly!
  Blest is the house where gifts like these
    Are counted trifles merely.
  Lo, when you prosper, think on me,
  And thank your God as heartily
    As for this draught I thank you!"

       *       *       *       *       *

We intend to close the present Number with a very graceful, though
simple ditty, which Goethe may possibly have altered from the
Morlachian, but which is at all events worthy of his genius.
Previously, however, in case any of the ladies should like something
sentimental, we beg leave to present them with as nice a little
_chansonette_ as ever was transcribed into an album.

THE VIOLET.

  A violet blossom'd on the lea,
    Half hidden from the eye,
  As fair a flower as you might see;
    When there came tripping by
  A shepherd maiden fair and young,
    Lightly, lightly o'er the lea;
  Care she knew not, and she sung
      Merrily!

  "O were I but the fairest flower
    That blossoms on the lea;
  If only for one little hour,
    That she might gather me--
  Clasp me in her bonny breast!"
    Thought the little flower.
  "O that in it I might rest
      But an hour!"

  Lack-a-day! Up came the lass,
    Heeded not the violet;
  Trod it down into the grass;
    Though it died, 'twas happy yet.
  "Trodden down although I lie,
    Yet my death is very sweet--
  For I cannot choose but die
      At her feet!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA.

  What is yon so white beside the greenwood?
  Is it snow, or flight of cygnets resting?
  Were it snow, ere now it had been melted;
  Were it swans, ere now the flock had left us.
  Neither snow nor swans are resting yonder,
  'Tis the glittering tents of Asan Aga.
  Faint he lies from wounds in stormy battle;
  There his mother and his sisters seek him,
  But his wife hangs back for shame, and comes not.

  When the anguish of his hurts was over,
  To his faithful wife he sent this message--
  "Longer 'neath my roof thou shalt not tarry,
  Neither in my court nor in my household."

  When the lady heard this cruel sentence,
  'Reft of sense she stood, and rack'd with anguish:
  In the court she heard the horses stamping,
  And in fear that it was Asan coming,
  Fled towards the tower, to leap and perish.

  Then in terror ran her little daughters,
  Calling after her, and weeping sorely,
  "These are not the steeds of Father Asan;
  'Tis thy brother Pintorovich coming!"

  And the wife of Asan turn'd to meet him;
  Sobbing, threw her arms around her brother.
  "See the wrongs, O brother, of thy sister!
  These five babes I bore, and must I leave them?"

  Silently the brother from his girdle
  Draws the ready deed of separation,
  Wrapp'd within a crimson silken cover.
  She is free to seek her mother's dwelling--
  Free to join in wedlock with another.

  When the woful lady saw the writing,
  Kiss'd she both her boys upon the forehead,
  Kiss'd on both the cheeks her sobbing daughters;
  But she cannot tear herself for pity
  From the infant smiling in the cradle!

  Rudely did her brother tear her from it,
  Deftly lifted her upon a courser,
  And in haste, towards his father's dwelling,
  Spurr'd he onward with the woful lady.

  Short the space; seven days, but barely seven--
  Little space I ween--by many nobles
  Was the lady--still in weeds of mourning--
  Was the lady courted in espousal.

  Far the noblest was Imoski's cadi;
  And the dame in tears besought her brother--
  "I adjure thee, by the life thou bearest,
  Give me not a second time in marriage,
  That my heart may not be rent asunder
  If again I see my darling children!"

  Little reck'd the brother of her bidding,
  Fix'd to wed her to Imoski's cadi.
  But the gentle lady still entreats him--
  "Send at least a letter, O my brother!
  To Imoski's cadi, thus imploring--
  I, the youthful widow, greet thee fairly,
  And entreat thee, by this selfsame token,
  When thou comest hither with thy bridesmen,
  Bring a heavy veil, that I may shroud me
  As we pass along by Asan's dwelling,
  So I may not see my darling orphans."

  Scarcely had the cadi read the letter,
  When he call'd together all his bridesmen,
  Boune himself to bring the lady homewards,
  And he brought the veil as she entreated.

  Jocundly they reach'd the princely mansion,
  Jocundly they bore her thence in triumph;
  But when they drew near to Asan's dwelling,
  Then the children recognized their mother,
  And they cried, "Come back unto thy chamber--
  Share the meal this evening with thy children;"
  And she turn'd her to the lordly bridegroom--
  "Pray thee, let the bridesmen and their horses
  Halt a little by the once-loved dwelling,
  Till I give these presents to my children."

  And they halted by the once-loved dwelling,
  And she gave the weeping children presents,
  Gave each boy a cap with gold embroider'd,
  Gave each girl a long and costly garment,
  And with tears she left a tiny mantle
  For the helpless baby in the cradle.

  These things mark'd the father, Asan Aga,
  And in sorrow call'd he to his children--
  "Turn again to me, ye poor deserted;
  Hard as steel is now your mother's bosom;
  Shut so fast, it cannot throb with pity!"

  Thus he spoke; and when the lady heard him,
  Pale as death she dropp'd upon the pavement,
  And the life fled from her wretched bosom
  As she saw her children turning from her.




MY FIRST LOVE.

A SKETCH IN NEW YORK.


"Margaret, where are you?" cried a silver-toned voice from a passage
outside the drawing-room in which I had just seated myself. The next
instant a lovely face appeared at the door, its owner tripped into
the room, made a comical curtsy, and ran up to her sister.

"It is really too bad, Margaret; pa' frets and bustles about, nearly
runs over me upon the stairs, and then goes down the street as if
'Change were on fire. Ma' yawns, and will not hear of our going
shopping, and grumbles about money--always money--that horrid money!
Ah! dear Margaret, our shopping excursion is at an end for to-day!"

Sister Margaret, to whom this lamentation was addressed, was
reclining on the sofa, her left hand supporting her head, her right
holding the third volume of a novel. She looked up with a languishing
and die-away expression--

"Poor Staunton will be in despair," said her sister. "This is at
least his tenth turn up and down the Battery. Last night he was a
perfect picture of misery. I could not have had the heart to refuse
to dance with him. How could you be so cruel, Margaret?"

"Alas!" replied Margaret with a deep sigh, "how could I help it?
Mamma was behind me, and kept pushing me with her elbow. Mamma is
sometimes very ill-bred." And another sigh burst from the overcharged
heart of the sentimental fair one.

"Well," rejoined her sister, "I don't know why she so terribly
dislikes poor Staunton; but to say the truth, our gallopade lost
nothing by his absence. He is as stiff as a Dutch doll when he
dances. Even our Louisianian backwoodsman here, acquits himself much
more creditably."

And the malicious girl gave me such an arch look, that I could not be
angry with the equivocal sort of compliment paid to myself.

"That is very unkind, Arthurine," said Margaret, her checks glowing
with anger at this attack upon the graces of her admirer.

"Don't be angry, sister," cried Arthurine, running up to her,
throwing her arms round her neck, and kissing and soothing her till
she began to smile. They formed a pretty group. Arthurine especially,
as she skipped up to her sister, scarce touching the carpet with her
tiny feet, looked like a fairy or a nymph. She was certainly a lovely
creature, slender and flexible as a reed, with a waist one could
easily have spanned with one's ten fingers; feet and hands on the
very smallest scale, and of the most beautiful mould; features
exquisitely regular; a complexion of lilies and roses; a small
graceful head, adorned with a profusion of golden hair; and then
large round clear blue eyes, full of mischief and fascination. She
was, as the French say, _a croquer_.

"Heigho!" sighed the sentimental Margaret. "To think of this vulgar,
selfish man intruding himself between me and such a noble creature as
Staunton! It is really heart-breaking."

"Not quite so bad as that!" said Arthurine. "Moreland, as you know,
has a good five hundred thousand dollars; and Staunton has nothing,
or at most a couple of thousand dollars a-year--a mere feather in the
balance against such a golden weight."

"Love despises gold," murmured Margaret.

"Nonsense!" replied her sister; "I would not even despise silver, if
it were in sufficient quantity. Only think of the balls and parties,
the fetes and pic-nics! Saratoga in the summer--perhaps even London
or Paris! The mere thought of it makes my mouth water."

"Talk not of such joys, to be bought at such a price!" cried
Margaret, quoting probably from some of her favourite novels.

"Well, don't make yourself unhappy now," said Arthurine. "Moreland
will not be here till tea-time; and there are six long hours to that.
If we had only a few new novels to pass the time! I cannot imagine
why Cooper is so lazy. Only one book in a year! What if you were to
begin to write, sister? I have no doubt you would succeed as well as
Mrs Mitchell. Bulwer is so fantastical; and even Walter Scott is
getting dull."

"Alas, Howard!" sighed Margaret, looking to me for sympathy with her
sorrows.

"Patience, dear Margaret," said I. "If possible, I will help you to
get rid of the old fellow. At any rate, I will try."

Rat-tat-tat at the house door. Arthurine put up her finger to enjoin
silence, and listened. Another loud knock. "A visit!" exclaimed she
with sparkling eyes. "Ha! ladies; I hear the rustle of their gowns."
And as she spoke the door opened, and the Misses Pearce came swimming
into the room, in all the splendour of violet- silks, covered
with feathers, lace, and embroideries, and bringing with them an
atmosphere of perfume.

The man who has the good fortune to see our New York belles in their
morning or home attire, must have a heart made of quartz or granite
if he resists their attractions. Their graceful forms, their
intellectual and somewhat languishing expression of countenance,
their bright and beaming eyes, their slender figures, which make one
inclined to seize and hold them lest the wind should blow them away,
their beautifully delicate hands and feet, compose a sum of
attraction perfectly irresistible. The Boston ladies are perhaps
better informed, and their features are usually more regular; but
they have something Yankeeish about them, which I could never fancy,
and, moreover, they are dreadful blue-stockings. The fair
Philadelphians are rounder, more elastic, more Hebe-like, and
unapproachable in the article of small-talk; but it is amongst the
beauties of New York that romance writers should seek for their
Julias and Alices. I am certain that if Cooper had made their
acquaintance whilst writing his books, he would have torn up his
manuscripts, and painted his heroines after a less wooden fashion. He
can only have seen them on the Battery or in Broadway, where they are
so buried and enveloped in finery that it is impossible to guess what
they are really like. The two young ladies who had just entered the
room, were shining examples of that system of over-dressing. They
seemed to have put on at one time the three or four dresses worn in
the course of the day by a London or Paris fashionable.

It was now all over with my _tete-a-tete_. I could only be _de trop_
in the gossip of the four ladies, and I accordingly took my leave. As
I passed before the parlour door on my way out, it was opened, and
Mrs Bowsends beckoned me in. I entered, and found her husband also
there.

"Are you going away already, my dear Howard?" said the lady.

"There are visitors up stairs."

"Ah, Howard!" said Mrs Bowsends.

"The workies[20] have carried the day," growled her husband.

[Footnote 20: The slang term applied to the mechanics and labourers,
a numerous and (at elections especially) a most important class in
New York and Philadelphia.]

"That horrid Staunton!" interrupted his better half. "Only think
now'--

"Our side lost--completely floored. But you've heard of it, I
suppose, Mister Howard?"

I turned from one to the other in astonished perplexity, not knowing
to which I ought to listen first.

"I don't know how it is," whined the lady, "but that Mr Staunton
becomes every day more odious to me. Only think now, of his having
the effrontery to persist in running after Margaret! Hardly two
thousand a-year "--

"Old Hickory is preparing to leave Hermitage already.[21] Bank shares
have fallen half per cent in consequence," snarled her husband.

[Footnote 21: The name of General Jackson's country-house and
estate.]

They were ringing the changes on poor Staunton and the new president.

"He ought to remember the difference of our positions," said Mrs B.,
drawing herself up with much dignity.

"Certainly, certainly!" said I.

"And the governor's election is also going desperate bad," said Mr
Bowsends.

"And then Margaret, to think of her infatuation! Certainly she is a
good, gentle creature; but five hundred thousand dollars!" This was
Mrs Bowsends.

"By no means to be despised," said I.

The five hundred thousand dollars touched a responsive chord in the
heart of the papa.

"Five hundred thousand," repeated he. "Yes, certainly; but what's the
use of that? All nonsense. Those girls would ruin a Croesus."

"You need not talk, I'm sure," retorted mamma. "Think of all your
bets and electioneering."

"You understand nothing about that," replied her husband angrily.
"Interests of the country--congress--public good--must be supported.
Who would do it if we"--

"Did not bet," thought I.

"You are a friend of the family," said Mrs Bowsends, "and I hope you
will"--

"Apropos," interrupted her loving husband. "How has your cotton crop
turned out? You might consign it to me. How many bales?"

"A hundred; and a few dozen hogsheads of tobacco."

"Some six thousand dollars per annum," muttered the papa musingly;
"hm, hm."

"As to that," said I negligently, "I have sufficient capital in my
hands to increase the one hundred bales to two hundred another year."

"Two hundred! two hundred!" The man's eyes glistened approvingly.
"That might do. Not so bad. Well, Arthurine is a good girl. We'll
see, my dear Mr Howard--we'll see. Yes, yes--come here every
evening--whenever you like. You know Arthurine is always glad to see
you."

"And Mr and Mrs Bowsends?" asked I.

"Are most delighted," replied the couple, smiling graciously.

I bowed, agreeably surprised, and took my departure. I was
nevertheless not over well pleased with a part of Mr Bowsends' last
speech. It looked rather too much as if my affectionate father-in-law
that was to be, wished to balance his lost bets with my cotton bales;
and, as I thought of it, my gorge rose at the selfishness of my
species, and more especially at the stupid impudent egotism of
Bowsends and the thousands who resemble him. To all such, even their
children are nothing but so many bales of goods, to be bartered,
bought, and sold. And this man belongs to the _haut-ton_ of New York!
Five-and-twenty years ago he went about with a tailor's measure in
his pocket--now a leader on 'Change, and member of twenty committees
and directorships.

But then Arthurine, with her seventeen summers and her lovely face,
the most extravagant little doll in the whole city, and that is not
saying a little, but the most elegant, charming--a perfect sylph! It
was now about eleven months since I had first become acquainted with
the bewitching creature; and, from the very first day, I had been her
vassal, her slave, bound by chains as adamantine as those of Armida.
She had just left the French boarding-school at St John's. That, by
the by, is one of the means by which our mushroom aristocracy pushes
itself upwards. A couple of pretty daughters, brought up at a
fashionable school, are sure to attract a swarm of young <DW2>s and
danglers about them; and the glory of the daughters is reflected upon
the papa and mamma. And this little sorceress knew right well how to
work her incantations. Every heart was at her feet; but not one out
of her twenty or more adorers could boast that he had received a
smile or a look more than his fellows. I was the only one who had
perhaps obtained a sort of passive preference. I was allowed to
escort her in her rides, walks, and drives; to be her regular partner
when no other dancer offered, and suchlike enviable privileges. She
flirted and fluttered about me, and hung familiarly on my arm, as she
tripped along Broadway or the Battery by my side. In addition to all
these little marks of preference, it fell to my share of duty to
supply her with the newest novels, to furnish her with English
Keepsakes and American Tokens and Souvenirs, and to provide the last
fashionable songs and quadrilles. All this had cost me no small sum;
but I consoled myself with the reflection, that my presents were made
to the prettiest girl in New York, and that sooner or later she must
reward my assiduities. Twice had fortune smiled upon me; in one
instance, when we were standing on the bridge at Niagara, looking
down on the foaming waters, and I was obliged to put my arm round her
waist, for fear she should become dizzy and fall in--in doing which,
by the by, I very nearly fell in myself. A similar thing occurred on
a visit we made to the Trenton falls. That was all I had got for my
pains, however, during the eleven months that I had trifled away in
New York--months that had served to lighten my purse pretty
considerably. It is the fashion in our southern states to choose our
wives from amongst the beauties of the north. I had been bitten by
the mania, and had come to New York upon this important business; but
having been there nearly a year, it was high time to make an end of
matters, if I did not wish to be put on the shelf as stale goods.

This last reflection occurred to me very strongly as I was walking
from the Bowsends' house towards Wall Street, when suddenly I caught
sight of my fellow-sufferer Staunton. The Yankee's dolorous
countenance almost made me smile. Up he came, with the double object
of informing me that the weather was very fine, and of offering me a
bite at his pigtail tobacco. I could not help expressing my
astonishment that so sensitive and delicate a creature as Margaret
should tolerate such a habit in the man of her choice.

"Pshaw!" replied the simpleton. "Moreland chews also."

"Yes, but he has got five hundred thousand dollars, and that sweetens
the poison."

"Ah!" sighed Staunton.

"Keep up your courage, man; Bowsends is rich."

The Yankee shook his head.

"Two hundred thousand, they say; but to-morrow he may not have a
farthing. You know our New Yorkers. Nothing but bets, elections,
shares, railways, banks. His expenses are enormous; and, if he once
got his daughters off his hands, he would perhaps fail next week."

"And be so much the richer next year," replied I.

"Do you think so?" said the Yankee, musingly.

"Of course it would be so. Mean time you can marry the languishing
Margaret, and do like many others of your fellow citizens; go out
with a basket on your arm to the Greenwich market, and whilst your
delicate wife is enjoying her morning slumber, buy the potatoes and
salted mackerel for breakfast. In return for that, she will perhaps
condescend to pour you out a cup of bohea. Famous thing that bohea!
capital antidote to the dyspepsia!"

"You are spiteful," said poor Staunton.

"And you foolish," I retorted. "To a young barrister like you, there
are hundreds of houses open."

"And to you also."

"Certainly."

"And then I have this advantage--the girl likes me."

"I am liked by the papa and the mamma, and the girl too."

"Have you got five hundred thousand dollars?"

"No."

"Poor Howard!" cried Staunton, laughing.

"Go to the devil!" replied I, laughing also.

We had been chatting in this manner for nearly a quarter of an hour,
when a coach drove out of Greenwich Street, in which I saw a face
that I thought I knew. One of the Philadelphia steamers had just
arrived. I stepped forward.

"Stop!" cried a well-known voice.

"Stop!" cried I, hastening to the coach door.

It was Richards, my school and college friend, and my neighbour,
after the fashion of the southern states; for he lived only about a
hundred and seventy miles from me. I said good-by to poor simple
Staunton, got into the coach, and we rattled off through Broadway to
the American hotel.

"For heaven's sake, George!" exclaimed my friend, as soon as we were
installed in a room, "tell me what you are doing here. Have you quite
forgotten house, land, and friends? You have been eleven months
away."

"True," replied I; "making love--and not a step further advanced than
the first."

"The report is true, then, that you have been harpooned by the
Bowsends? Poor fellow! I am sorry for you. Just tell me what you mean
to do with the dressed-up doll when you get her? A young lady who has
not enough patience even to read her novels from beginning to end,
and who, before she was twelve years old, had Tom Moore and Byron,
_Don Juan_ perhaps excepted, by heart. A damsel who has geography and
the globes, astronomy and Cuvier, Raphael's cartoons and Rossini's
operas, at her finger-ends; but who, as true as I am alive, does not
know whether a mutton chop is cut off a pig or a cow--who would boil
tea and cauliflowers in the same manner, and has some vague idea that
eggs are the principal ingredient in a gooseberry pie."

"I want her for my wife, not for my cook," retorted I, rather
nettled.

"Who does not know," continued Richards, "whether dirty linen ought
to be boiled or baked."

"But she sings like St Cecilia, plays divinely, and dances like a
fairy."

"Yes, all that will do you a deal of good. I know the family; both
father and mother are the most contemptible people breathing."

"Stop there!" cried I; "they are not one iota better or worse than
their neighbours."

"You are right."

"Well, then, leave them in peace. I have promised to drink tea there
at six o'clock. If you will come, I will take you with me."

"Know then already, man. I will go, on one condition; that you leave
New York with me in three days."

"If my marriage is not settled," replied I.

"D----d fool!" muttered Richards between his teeth.

Six o'clock struck as we entered the drawing-room of my future
mother-in-law. The good lady almost frightened me as I went in, by
her very extraordinary appearance in a tremendous grey gauze turban,
fire-new, just arrived by the Henri Quatre packet-ship from Havre,
and that gave her exactly the look of one of our Mississippi
night-owls. Richards seemed a little startled; and Moreland, who was
already there, could not take his eyes off this remarkable
head-dress. Miss Margaret was costumed in pale green silk, her hair
flattened upon each side of her forehead _a la Marguerite_, (see the
_Journal des Modes,_) and looking like Jephtha's daughter, pale and
resigned, but rather more lackadaisical, with a sort of
"though-absent-not-forgot" look about her, inexpressibly sentimental
and interesting. The contrast was certainly rather strong between old
Moreland, who sat there, red-faced, thickset, and clumsy, and the
airy slender Staunton, who, for fear of spoiling his figure, lived
upon oysters and macaroon, and drank water with a rose leaf in it.

I had brought the languishing beauty above described, Scott's _Tales
of my Grandfather_, which had just appeared.

"Ah! Walter Scott!" exclaimed she, in her pretty melting tones. Then,
after a moment's pause, "The vulgar man has not a word to say for
himself;" said she to me, in a low tone.

"Wait a little," replied I; "he'll improve. It is no doubt his modest
timidity that keeps his lips closed."

Margaret gave me a furious look.

"Heartless mocker!" she exclaimed.

Meanwhile Richards had got into conversation with Bowsends. The
unlucky dog, who did not know that his host was a violent Adams-ite,
and had lost a good five thousand dollars in bets and subscriptions
to influence the voices of the sovereign people at the recent
election, had fallen on the sore subject. He began by informing his
host that Old Hickory would shortly leave the Hermitage to assume his
duties as president.

"The blood-thirsty backwoodsman, half horse, half alligator"
interrupted Mr Bowsends.

"Costs you dear, his election," said Moreland laughing.

"Smokes out of a tobacco pipe like a vulgar German," ejaculated Mrs
Bowsends.

"Not so very vulgar for that," said blundering Moreland; "tobacco has
quite another taste out of a pipe."

I gave him a tremendous dig in the back with my elbow.

"Do you smoke out of a tobacco pipe, Mr Moreland?" enquired Margaret
in her flute-like tones.

Moreland stared; he had a vague idea that he had got himself into a
scrape, but his straightforward honesty prevented him from
prevaricating, and he blurted out--"Sometimes, miss."

I thought the sensitive creature would have swooned away at this
admission; and I had just laid my arm over the back of her chair to
support her, when Arthurine entered the room. She gave a quick glance
to me; it was too late to draw back my arm. She did not seem to
notice any thing, saluted the company gaily and easily, tripped up to
Moreland, wished him good evening--asked after his bets, his ships,
his old dog Tom--chattered, in short, full ten minutes in a breath.
Before Moreland knew what she was about, she had taken one of his
hands in both of hers. But they were old acquaintances, and he might
easily have been her grandfather. Meanwhile Margaret had somewhat
recovered from the shock.

"He smokes out of a pipe!" lisped she to Arthurine, in a tone of
melancholy resignation.

"Old Hickory is very popular in Pennsylvania," said Richards,
resuming the conversation that had been interrupted, and perfectly
unconscious, as Moreland would have said, of the shoals he was
sailing amongst. "A Bedford County farmer has just sent him a present
of a cask of Monongahela."

"I envy him that present," cried Moreland. "A glass of genuine
Monongahela is worth any money."

This second shock was far too violent to be resisted by Margaret's
delicate nerves. She sank back in her chair, half fainting, half
hysterical. Her maids were called in, and with their help she managed
to leave the room.

"Have you brought her a book?" said Arthurine to me.

"Yes, one of Walter Scott's."

"Oh! then she will soon be well again," rejoined the affectionate
sister, apparently by no means alarmed.

Now that this nervous beauty was gone, the conversation became much
more lively. Captain Moreland was a jovial sailor, who had made ten
voyages to China, fifteen to Constantinople, twenty to St Petersburg,
and innumerable ones to Liverpool and through his exertions had
amassed the large fortune which he was now enjoying. He was a
merry-hearted man, with excellent sound sense on all points except
one--that one being the fair sex, with which he was about as well
acquainted as an alligator with a camera-obscure. The attentions paid
to him by Arthurine seemed to please the old bachelor uncommonly.
There was a mixture of kindness, malice, and fascination in her
manner, which was really enchanting; even the matter-of-fact Richards
could not take his eyes off her.

"That is certainly a charming girl!" whispered he to me.

"Did not I tell you so?" said I. "Only observe with what sweetness
she gives in to the old man's humours and fancies!"

The hours passed like minutes. Supper was long over, and we rose to
depart; when I shook hands with Arthurine, she pressed mine gently. I
was in the ninety-ninth heaven.

"Now, boys," cried worthy Moreland, as soon as we were in the
streets, "it would really be a pity to part so early on so joyous an
evening. What do you say? Will you come to my house, and knock the
necks off half a dozen bottles?"

We agreed to this proposal; and, taking the old seaman between us,
steered in the direction of his cabin, as he called his magnificent
and well-furnished house.

"What a delightful family those Bowsends are!" exclaimed Moreland, as
soon as we were comfortably seated beside a blazing fire, with the
Lafitte and East India Madeira sparkling on the table beside us. "And
what charming girls! 'You're getting oldish,' says I to myself the
other day, 'but you're still fresh and active, sound as a dolphin.
Better get married.' Margaret pleased me uncommonly, so I"--

"Yes, my dear Moreland," interrupted I, "but are you sure that you
please her?"

"Pshaw! Five times a hundred thousand dollars! I tell you what, my
lad, that's not to be met with every day."

"Fifty years old," replied I.

"Certainly, fifty years old, but stout and healthy; none of your
spindle-shanked dandies--your Stauntons"--

But Staunton smokes cigars, and not Dutch pipes."

"I give that up. For Miss Margaret's sake, I'll burn my nose and
mouth with those damned stumps of cigars."

"Drinks no whisky," continued I. "He is president of a temperance
society."

"The devil fly away with him!" growled Moreland; "I wouldn't give up
my whisky for all the girls in the world."

"If you don't, she'll always be fainting away," replied I, laughing.

"Ah! It's because I talked of the Monongahela that she began with her
hystericals, and went away for all the evening! That's where the wind
sits, is it? Well, you may depend I ain't to be done out of my grog
at any rate."

And he backed his assertion with an oath, swallowing off the contents
of his glass by way of a clincher. We sat joking and chatting till
past midnight during which time I flattered myself that I gave
evidence of considerable diplomatic talents. As we were returning
home, however, Richards doubted whether I had not driven the old boy
rather too hard

"No matter," replied I, "if I have only succeeded in ridding poor
Margaret of him."

Cool, calculating Richards shook his head.

"I don't know what may come of it," said he; "but I do not think you
are likely to find much gratitude for your interference."

The next day was taken up in arranging matters of business consequent
on the arrival of Richards. At least ten times I tried to go and see
Arthurine, but was always prevented by something or other; and it was
past tea-time when I at last got to the Bowsends' house. I found
Margaret in the drawing-room, deep in a new novel.

"Where is Arthurine?" I enquired.

"At the theatre, with mamma and Mr Moreland," was the answer.

"At the theatre!" repeated I in astonishment. They were playing Tom
and Jerry, a favourite piece with the enlightened Kentuckians. I had
seen the first scene or two at the New Orleans theatre, and had had
quite enough of it.

"That really _is_ sacrificing herself!" said I, considerably out of
humour.

"The noble girl!" exclaimed Margaret. "Mr Moreland came to tea, and
urged us so much to go"--

"That she could not help going, to be bored and disgusted for a
couple of hours."

"She went for my sake," said Margaret sentimentally. "Mamma would
have one of us go."

"Yes, that is it," thought I. Jealousy would have been ridiculous. He
fifty years old, she seventeen. I left the house, and went to find
Richards.

"What! Back so early?" cried he.

"She is gone to the theatre with her mamma and Moreland."

Richards shook his head.

"You put a wasp's nest into the old fellow's brain-pan yesterday,"
said he. "Take care you do not get stung yourself."

"I should like to see how she looks by his side," said I.

"Well, I will go with you. The sooner you are cured the better. But
only for ten minutes."

There was certainly no temptation to remain longer in that atmosphere
of whisky and tobacco fumes. It was at the Bowery theatre. The light
swam as though seen through a thick fog; and a perfect shower of
orange and apple peel, and even less agreeable things, rained down
from the galleries. Tom and Jerry were in all their glory. I looked
round the boxes, and soon saw the charming Arthurine, apparently
perfectly comfortable, chatting with old Moreland as gravely, and
looking as demure and self-possessed, as if she had been a married
woman of thirty.

"That is a prudent young lady," said Richards; "she has an eye to the
dollars, and would marry Old Hickory himself, spite of whisky and
tobacco pipe, if he had more money, and were to ask her."

I said nothing.

"If you weren't such an infatuated fool," continued my plain-spoken
friend, I would say to you, let her take her own way, and the day
after to-morrow we will leave New York."

"One week more," said I, with an uneasy feeling about the heart.

At seven the next evening I entered what had been my Elysium, but was
now, little by little, becoming my Tartarus. Again I found Margaret
alone over a romance. "And Arthurine?" enquired I, in a voice that
might perhaps have been steadier.

"She is gone with mamma and Mr Moreland to hear Miss Fanny Wright."

"To hear Miss Fanny Wright! the atheist, the revolutionist! What a
mad fancy! Who would ever have dreamed of such a thing!"

This Miss Fanny Wright was a famous lecturess, of the Owenite school,
who was shunned like a pestilence by the fashionable world of New
York.

"Mr Moreland," answered Margaret, "said so much about her eloquence
that Arthurine's curiosity was roused."

"Indeed!" replied I.

"Oh! you do not know what a noble girl she is. For her sister she
would sacrifice her life. My only hope is in her."

I snatched up my hat, and hurried out of the house.

The next morning I got up, restless and uneasy; and eleven o'clock
had scarcely struck when I reached the Bowsends' house. This time
both sisters were at home; and as I entered the drawing-room,
Arthurine advanced to meet me with a beautiful smile upon her face.
There was nevertheless a something in the expression of her
countenance that made me start. I pressed her hand. She looked
tenderly at me.

"I hope you have been amusing yourself these last two days," said I
after a moment's pause.

"Novelty has a certain charm," replied Arthurine. "Yet I certainly
never expected to become a disciple of Miss Fanny Wright," added she,
laughing.

"Really! I should have thought the transition from Tom and Jerry
rather an easy one."

"A little more respect for Tom and Jerry, whom _we_ patronize--that
is to say, Mr Moreland and our high mightiness," replied Arthurine,
trying, as I fancied, to conceal a certain confusion of manner under
a laugh.

"I should scarcely have thought my Arthurine would have become a
party to such a conspiracy against good taste," replied I gravely.

"_My_ Arthurine!" repeated she, laying a strong accent on the pronoun
possessive. "Only see what rights and privileges the gentleman is
usurping! We live in a free country, I believe?"

There was a mixture of jest and earnest in her charming countenance.
I looked enquiringly at her.

"Do you know," cried she, "I have taken quite a fancy to Moreland? He
is so good-natured, such a sterling character, and his roughness
wears off when one knows him well."

"And moreover," added I, "he has five hundred thousand dollars."

"Which are by no means the least of his recommendations. Only think
of the balls, Howard! I hope you will come to them. And then
Saratoga; next year London and Paris. Oh! it will be delightful."

"What, so far gone already?" said I, sarcastically.

"And poor Margaret is saved!" added she, throwing her arms round her
sister's neck, and kissing and caressing her. I hardly knew whether
to laugh or to cry.

"Then, I suppose, I may congratulate you?" said I, forcing a laugh,
and looking, I have no doubt, very like a fool.

You may so," replied Arthurine. "This morning Mr Moreland begged
permission to transfer his addresses from Margaret to your very
humble servant."

"And you?"--

"We naturally, in consideration of the petitioner's many amiable
qualities, have promised to take the request into our serious
consideration. For decorum's sake, you know, one must deliberate a
couple of days or so."

"Are you in jest or earnest, Arthurine?"

"Quite in earnest, Howard."

"Farewell, then!"

  "'Fare-thee-well! and if for ever Still for ever fare-thee-well!'"

said Arthurine, in a half-laughing, half-sighing tone. The next
instant I had left the room.

On the stairs I met the beturbaned Mrs Bowsends, who led the way
mysteriously into the parlour.

"You have seen Arthurine?" said she. "What a dear, darling child!--is
she not? Oh! that girl is our joy and consolation. And Mr
Moreland--the charming Mr Moreland! Now that things are arranged so
delightfully, we can let Margaret have her own way a little."

"What I have heard is true, then?" said I.

"Yes; as an old friend I do not mind telling you--though it must
still remain a secret for a short time. Mr Moreland has made a formal
proposal to Arthurine."

I do not know what reply I made, before flinging myself out of the
room and house, and running down the street as if I had just escaped
from a lunatic asylum.

"Richards," cried I to my friend, "shall we start tomorrow?"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Richards. "So you are cured of the New York
fever? Start! Yes, by all means, before you get a relapse. You must
come with me to Virginia for a couple of months."

"I will so," was my answer.

As we were going down to the steam-boat on the following morning,
Staunton overtook us, breathless with speed and delight.

"Wish me joy!" cried he. "I am accepted!"

"And I jilted!" replied I with a laugh. "But I am not such a fool as
to make myself unhappy about a woman."

Light words enough, but my heart was heavy as I spoke them. Five
minutes later, we were on our way to Virginia.

       *       *       *       *       *




HYDRO-BACCHUS.


  Great Homer sings how once of old
  The Thracian women met to hold
  To "Bacchus, ever young and fair,"
  Mysterious rites with solemn care.
  For now the summer's glowing face
  Had look'd upon the hills of Thrace;
  And laden vines foretold the pride
  Of foaming vats at Autumn tide.
  There, while the gladsome Evoee shout
  Through Nysa's knolls rang wildly out,
  While cymbal clang, and blare of horn,
  O'er the broad Hellespont were borne;
  The sounds, careering far and near,
  Struck sudden on Lycurgus' ear--
  Edonia's grim black-bearded lord,
  Who still the Bacchic rites abhorr'd,
  And cursed the god whose power divine
  Lent heaven's own fire to generous wine.
  Ere yet th' inspired devotees
  Had half performed their mysteries,
  Furious he rush'd amidst the band,
  And whirled an ox-goad in his hand.
  Full many a dame on earth lay low
  Beneath the tyrant's savage blow;
  The rest, far scattering in affright,
  Sought refuge from his rage in flight.

  But the fell king enjoy'd not long
  The triumph of his impious wrong:
  The vengeance of the god soon found him,
  And in a rocky dungeon bound him.
  There, sightless, chain'd, in woful tones
  He pour'd his unavailing groans,
  Mingled with all the blasts that shriek
  Round Athos' thunder-riven peak.
  O Thracian king! how vain the ire
  That urged thee 'gainst the Bacchic choir
  The god avenged his votaries well--
  Stern was the doom that thee befell;
  And on the Bacchus-hating herd
  Still rests the curse thy guilt incurr'd.
  For the same spells that in those days
  Were wont the Bacchanals to craze--
  The maniac orgies, the rash vow,
  Have fall'n on thy disciples now.
  Though deepest silence dwells alone,
  Parnassus, on thy double cone;
  To mystic cry, through fell and brake,
  No more Cithaeron's echoes wake;
  No longer glisten, white and fleet,
  O'er the dark lawns of Taygete,
  The Spartan virgin's bounding feet:
  Yet Frenzy still has power to roll
  Her portents o'er the prostrate soul.
  Though water-nymphs must twine the spell
  Which once the wine-god threw so well--
  Changed are the orgies now, 'tis true,
  Save in the madness of the crew.
  Bacchus his votaries led of yore
  Through woodland glades and mountains hoar;
  While flung the Maenad to the air
  The golden masses of her hair,
  And floated free the skin of fawn,
  From her bare shoulder backward borne.
  Wild Nature, spreading all her charms,
  Welcomed her children to her arms;
  Laugh'd the huge oaks, and shook with glee,
  In answer to their revelry;
  Kind Night would cast her softest dew
  Where'er their roving footsteps flew;
  So bright the joyous fountains gush'd,
  So proud the swelling rivers rush'd,
  That mother Earth they well might deem,
  With honey, wine, and milk, for them
  Most bounteously had fed the stream.
  The pale moon, wheeling overhead,
  Her looks of love upon them shed,
  And pouring forth her floods of light,
  With all the landscape blest their sight.
  Through foliage thick the moonshine fell,
  Checker'd upon the grassy dell;
  Beyond, it show'd the distant spires
  Of skyish hills, the world's grey sires;
  More brightly beam'd, where far away,
  Around his clustering islands, lay,
  Adown some opening vale descried,
  The vast Aegean's waveless tide.
  What wonder then, if Reason's power
  Fail'd in each reeling mind that hour,
  When their enraptured spirits woke
  To Nature's liberty, and broke
  The artificial chain that bound them,
  With the broad sky above, and the free winds around them!
  From Nature's overflowing soul,
  That sweet delirium on them stole;
  She held the cup, and bade them share
  In draughts of joy too deep to bear.

  Not such the scenes that to the eyes
  Of water-Bacchanals arise;
  Whene'er the day of festival
  Summons the Pledged t' attend its call--
  In long procession to appear,
  And show the world how good they are.
  Not theirs the wild-wood wanderings,
  The voices of the winds and springs:
  But seek them where the smoke-fog brown
  Incumbent broods o'er London town;
  'Mid Finsbury Square ruralities
  Of mangy grass, and scrofulous trees;
  'Mid all the sounds that consecrate
  Thy street, melodious Bishopsgate!
  Not by the mountain grot and pine,
  Haunts of the Heliconian Nine:
  But where the town-bred Muses squall
  Love-verses in an annual;
  Such muses as inspire the grunt
  Of Barry Cornwall, and Leigh Hunt.
  Their hands no ivy'd thyrsus bear,
  No Evoee floats upon the air:
  But flags of painted calico
  Flutter aloft with gaudy show;
  And round then rises, long and loud,
  The laughter of the gibing crowd.

  O sacred Temp'rance! mine were shame
  If I could wish to brand thy name.
  But though these dullards boast thy grace,
  Thou in their orgies hast no place.
  Thou still disdain'st such sorry lot,
  As even below the soaking sot.
  Great was high Duty's power of old
  The empire o'er man's heart to hold;
  To urge the soul, or check its course,
  Obedient to her guiding force.
  These own not her control, but draw
  New sanction for the moral law,
  And by a stringent compact bind
  The independence of the mind--
  As morals had gregarious grown,
  And Virtue could not stand alone.
  What need they rules against abusing?
  They find th' offence all in the using.
  Denounce the gifts which bounteous Heaven
  To cheer the heart of man has given;
  And think their foolish pledge a band
  More potent far than God's command.
  On this new plan they cleverly
  Work morals by machinery;
  Keeping men virtuous by a tether,
  Like gangs of <DW64>s chain'd together.

  Then, Temperance, if thus it be,
  They know no further need of thee.
  This pledge usurps thy ancient throne--
  Alas! thy occupation's gone!
  From earth thou may'st unheeded rise,
  And like Astraea--seek the skies.




MARTIN LUTHER.

AN ODE.


  Who sits upon the Pontiff's throne?
    On Peter's holy chair
  Who sways the keys? At such a time
  When dullest ears may hear the chime
  Of coming thunders--when dark skies
  Are writ with crimson prophecies,
    A wise man should be there;
  A godly man, whose life might be
  The living logic of the sea;
  One quick to know, and keen to feel--
  A fervid man, and full of zeal,
    Should sit in Peter's chair.

  Alas! no fervid man is there,
    No earnest, honest heart;
  One who, though dress'd in priestly guise,
  Looks on the world with worldling's eyes;
  One who can trim the courtier's smile,
  Or weave the diplomatic wile,
    But knows no deeper art;
  One who can dally with fair forms,
  Whom a well-pointed period warms--
  No man is he to hold the helm
  Where rude winds blow, and wild waves whelm,
    And creaking timbers start.

  In vain did Julius pile sublime
   The vast and various dome,
  That makes the kingly pyramid's pride,
  And the huge Flavian wonder, hide
  Their heads in shame--these gilded stones
  (O heaven!) were very blood and bones
    Of those whom Christ did come
  To save--vile grin of slaves who sold
  Celestial rights for earthy gold,
  Marketing grace with merchant's measure,
  To prank with Europe's pillaged treasure
    The pride of purple Rome.

  The measure of her sins is full,
    The scarlet-vested whore!
  Thy murderous and lecherous race
  Have sat too long i' the holy place;
  The knife shall lop what no drug cures,
  Nor Heaven permits, nor earth endures,
    The monstrous mockery more.
  Behold! I swear it, saith the Lord:
  Mine elect warrior girds the sword--
  A nameless man, a miner's son,
  Shall tame thy pride, thou haughty one,
    And pale the painted whore!

  Earth's mighty men are nought. I chose
    Poor fishermen before
  To preach my gospel to the poor;
  A pauper boy from door to door
  That piped his hymn. By his strong word
  The startled world shall now be stirr'd,
    As with a lion's roar!
  A lonely monk that loved to dwell
  With peaceful host in silent cell;
  This man shall shake the Pontiff's throne:
  Him Kings and emperors shall own,
    And stout hearts wince before

  The eye profound and front sublime
    Where speculation reigns.
  He to the learned seats shall climb,
  On Science' watch-tower stand sublime;
  The arid doctrine shall inspire
    Of wiry teachers with swift fire;
  And, piled with cumbrous pains,
  Proud palaces of sounding lies
  Lay prostrate with a breath. The wise
  Shall listen to his word; the youth
  Shall eager seize the new-born truth
    Where prudent age refrains.

  Lo! when the venal pomp proceeds
    From echoing town to town!
  The clam'rous preacher and his train,
  Organ and bell with sound inane,
  The crimson cross, the book, the keys,
  The flag that spreads before the breeze,
    The triple-belted crown!
  It wends its way; and straw is sold--
  Yea! deadly drugs for heavy gold,
  To feeble hearts whose pulse is fear;
  And though some smile, and many sneer,
    There's none will dare to frown.

  None dares but one--the race is rare--
    One free and honest man:
  Truth is a dangerous thing to say
  Amid the lies that haunt the day;
  But He hath lent it voice; and, lo!
  From heart to heart the fire shall go,
    Instinctive without plan;
  Proud bishops with a lordly train,
    Fierce cardinals with high disdain,
  Sleek chamberlains with smooth discourse,
  And wrangling doctors all shall force,
    In vain, one honest man.

  In vain the foolish Pope shall fret,
    It is a sober thing.
  Thou sounding trifler, cease to rave,
  Loudly to damn, and loudly save,
  And sweep with mimic thunders' swell
  Armies of honest souls to hell!
    The time on whirring wing
  Hath fled when this prevail'd. O, Heaven!
  One hour, one little hour, is given,
  If thou could'st but repent. But no!
  To ruin thou shalt headlong go,
    A doom'd and blasted thing.

  Thy parchment ban comes forth; and lo!
    Men heed it not, thou fool!
  Nay, from the learned city's gate,
  In solemn show, in pomp of state,
  The watchmen of the truth come forth,
  The burghers old of sterling worth,
    And students of the school:
  And he who should have felt thy ban
  Walks like a prophet in the van;
  He hath a calm indignant look,
  Beneath his arm he bears a book,
    And in his hand the Bull.

  He halts; and in the middle space
    Bids pile a blazing fire.
  The flame ascends with crackling glee;
  Then, with firm step advancing, He
  Gives to the wild fire's wasting rule
  The false Decretals, and the Bull,
    While thus he vents his ire:--
  "Because the Holy One o' the Lord
  Thou vexed hast with impious word,
  Therefore the Lord shall thee consume,
  And thou shalt share the Devil's doom
    In everlasting fire!"

  He said; and rose the echo round
    "In everlasting fire!"
  The hearts of men were free; one word
  Their inner depths of soul had stirr'd;
  Erect before their God they stood
  A truth-shod Christian brotherhood,
    And wing'd with high desire.
  And ever with the circling flame
  Uprose anew the blithe acclaim:--
  "The righteous Lord shall thee consume,
  And thou shalt share the Devil's doom
    In everlasting fire!"

  Thus the brave German men; and we
    Shall echo back the cry;
  The burning of that parchment scroll
  Annull'd the bond that sold the soul
  Of man to man; each brother now
  Only to one great Lord will bow,
    One Father-God on high.
  And though with fits of lingering life
  The wounded foe prolong the strife,
  On Luther's deed we build our hope,
  Our steady faith--the fond old Pope
    Is dying, and shall die.




TRADITIONS AND TALES OF UPPER LUSATIA.

No. II

THE FAIRY TUTOR.

Discreet Reader!

You have seen--and 'tis no longer ago than YESTERDAY!--you must well
remember the picture--which showed you from the rough yet
delicate--the humorous yet sympathetic and picturesque--the original
yet insinuating pencil of a shrewd and hearty Lusatian
mountaineer--the aerial, brilliant, sensitive, subtle, fascinating,
enigmatical, outwardly--mirth-given, inwardly--sorrow-touched,
congregated folk numberless--of the Fairies Proper!--showed them at
the urgency of a rare and strange need--clung, in DEPENDENCY, to one
fair, kind, good and happily-born Daughter of Man!--And what
wonder?--The once glorious, but now forlorn spirits, leaning for one
fate-burthened instant their trust upon the spirits ineffably
favoured!--What wonder! that often as the revolution of ages brings
on the appointed hour, the rebellious and outcast children of heaven
must sue--to their keen emergency--help--oh! speak up to the height
of the want, of the succour! and call it _a lent ray of grace_, from
the rebellious and REDEEMED children of the earth!--And see, where,
in the serene eyes of the soft Christian maiden, the hallowing
influence shines!--Auspiciously begun, the awed though aspiring Rite,
the still, the multitudinous, the mystical, prospers!--_Gratefully_,
as for the boon inexpressibly worth--_easily_, as of their own
transcending power--_promptly_, as though fearing that a benefit
received could wax cold, the joyful Elves crown upon the bright hair
of their graciously natured, but humanly and womanly weak
benefactress--the wedded felicity of pure love!

And the imaginary curtain has dropped! Lo, where it rises again,
discovering to view our stage, greatly changed, and, a little
perhaps, our actors!--Once more, attaching to the HUMAN DRAMA,
slight, as though it were structured of cloud, of air, the same light
and radiant MACHINERY! Once more, only that They, whom you lately saw
tranquil, earnest even to pathos--"now are frolic"--enough and to
spare!--Once more--THE FAIRIES.

And see, too--where, centring in herself interest and action of the
rapidly shifting scenery--ever again a beautiful granddaughter of Eve
steps--free and fearless, and bouyant and bounding--our fancy-laid
boards!--Ah! but how much unresembling the sweet maid!--_Outwardly_,
for lofty-piled is the roof that ceils over the superb head of the
modern Amazon, Swanhilda--more unlike _within_. Instead of the clear
truth, the soul's gentle purity, the "plain and holy Innocence" of
the poor fairy-beloved mountain child--SHE, in whose person and
fortunes you are invited--for the next fifty minutes--to forget your
own--harbours, fondly harbours, ill housemates of her virginal
breast! a small, resolute, well-armed and well confederated garrison
of unwomanly faults. Pride is there!--The iron-hard and the
iron-cold! There Scorn--edging repulse with insult!--and envenoming
insult with despair!--leaps up, in eager answer to the beseeching
sighs, tears, and groans of earth-bent Adoration. And there is the
indulged Insolency of a domineering--and as you will precipitately
augur--an _indomitable_ Will! And there is exuberant SELF-POWER,
that, from the innermost mind, oozing up, out, distilling,
circulating along nerve and vein, effects a magical metamorphosis!
turns the nymph into a squire of arms; usurping even the clamorous
and blood-sprinkled joy of man--the tempestuous and terrible CHASE,
which, in the bosom of peace, imaging war, shows in the rougher lord
of creation himself, as harsh, wild, and turbulent! Oh, how much
other than yon sweet lily of the high Lusatian valleys, the
shade-loving Flower, the good Maud--herself looked upon with love by
the glad eyes of men, women, children, Fairies, and Angels! oh, other
indeed! And yet, have you, in this thickly clustered enumeration of
unamiable qualities, implicitly heard the CALL which must fasten,
which has fastened, upon the gentle Maud's _haughty_ antithesis--the
serviceable regard, and--the FAVOUR, even of THE FAIRIES.

The FAVOUR!!

Hear, impatient spectator, the simple plot and its brief process. You
are, after a fashion, informed with what studious, persevering, and
unmerciful violation of all gentle decorum and feminine pity, the
lovely marble-souled tyranness has, in the course of the last three
or four years, turned back from her beetle-browed castle-gate, one by
one, as they showed themselves there--a hundred, all worthily
born--otherwise more and less meritorious--petitioners for that
whip-and-javelin-bearing hand. You are NOW to know, that upon this
very morning, an embassy from the willow-wearers all--or, to speak
indeed more germanely to the matter, of the BASKET-BEARERS[22],
waited upon their beautiful enemy with an ultimatum and manifesto in
one, importing first a requisition to surrender; then, in case of
refusal to capitulate, the announcement that HYMEN having found in
CUPID an inefficient ally, he was about associating with himself, in
league offensive, the god MARS, with intent of carrying the
Maiden-fortress by storm, and reducing the aforesaid wild occupants
of the stronghold into captivity--whereunto she made answer--

  ----our castle's strength
  Will laugh a siege to scorn--

herself laughing outrageously to scorn the senders and the sent This
crowning of wrong upon wrong will the Fairies, in the first place,
wreak and right.

[Footnote 22: To German ears--to SEND A BASKET--is to REFUSE A
PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.]

But further, later upon the same unlucky day, the Kingdom of Elves,
being in full council assembled in the broad light of the sun, upon
the fair greensward; ere the very numerous, but not widely sitting
diet had yet well opened its proceedings--"tramp, tramp, across the
land," came, flying at full speed, boar-spear in hand, our madcap
huntress; and without other note of preparation sounded than their
own thunder, her iron-grey's hoofs were in the thick of the sage
assembly, causing an indecorous trepidation, combined with
devastation dire to persons and--wearing apparel.

This wrong, in the second place, the Fairies will wreak and right.

And all transgression and injury, under one procedure, which
is--_summary_; as, from the character of the judges and executioners,
into whose hands the sinner has fallen, you would expect;
sufficiently prankish too. With one sleight of their magical hand
they turn the impoverished heiress of ill-possessed acres forth upon
the highway, doomed to earn, with strenuous manual industry, her
livelihood; until, from the winnings of her handicraft, she is
moreover able to make good, as far as this was liable to pecuniary
assessment, the damage sustained under foot of her fiery barb by the
Fairy realm; comfort with handsome presents the rejected suitors; and
until, thoroughly tame, she yields into her softened and opened
bosom, now rid of its intemperate inmates, an entrance to the once
debarred and contemned visitant--LOVE.

As to the way and style of the Fairy operations that carry out this
drift, comparing the Two Tales, you will see, that omitting, as a
matter that is related merely, not presented, that misadventure under
the oak-tree--there is, in the chamber of Swanhilda, but a Fairy
delegation active, whilst under the Sun's hill whole Elfdom is in
presence; in that resplendent hollow, wearing their own lovely
shapes; within the German castle-walls, in apt masquerade. There they
were grave. Here, we have already said, that they are merry. There
their office was to feel and to think. Here, if there be any trust in
apparitions, they drink, and what is more critical for an Elfin
lip--they eat!

Lastly, to end the comparisons for our well-bred, well-dressed, and
right courtly cavalier, who transacted between the Fairy Queen and
the stonemason's daughter, him you shall presently see turned into a
sort of Elfin cupbearer or court butler; not without fairy grace of
person and of mind assuredly; not without a due innate sense of the
beautiful, as his perfumed name (SWEETFLOWER) at the outset warns
you; and, as the proximity of his function to her Majesty's
person--for we do not here fall in with any thing like mention of a
king--would suggest, independently of the delicately responsible part
borne by him in the action, the chief stress of which you will find
incumbent upon his capable shoulders.

Such, in respect of the subject, is, thrice courteous and intelligent
reader, the second piece of art, which we are glad to have the
opportunity of placing before you, from our clever friend Ernst
Willkomm's apparently right fertile easel. The second, answering to
the first, LIKE and UNLIKE, you perceive, as two companion pictures
should be.

But it would be worse than useless to tell you that which you have
seen and that which you will see, unless, from the juxtaposition of
the two fables, there followed--a moral. They have, as we apprehend,
a moral--_i.e._ one moral, and that a grave one, in common between
them.

Hitherto we have superficially compared THE FAIRIES' SABBATH and the
FAIRY TUTOR. We now wish to develope a profounder analogy connecting
them. We have compared them, as if ESTHETICALLY; we would now compare
them MYTHOLOGICALLY--for, in our understanding, there lies at the
very foundation of both tales A MYTHOLOGICAL ROOT--by whomsoever set,
whether by Ernst Willkomm to-day, or by the population of the
Lusatian mountains--three, six, ten centuries ago; or, in unreckoned
antiquity, by the common Ancestors of the believers, who, in still
unmeasured antiquity, brought the superstition of the Fairies out of
central Asia to remote occidental Europe.

This ROOT we are bold to think is--"A DEEPLY SEATED ATTRACTION,
ALLYING THE FAIRY MIND TO THE PURITY AND INTEGRITY OF THE MORAL WILL
IN THE MIND OF MEN." And first for the Tale which presently concerns
us:--THE FAIRY TUTOR.

SWEETFLOWER will beguile us into believing that the interposition of
the Fairies in our Baroness's domestic arrangements, grows up, if one
shall so hazardously speak, from TWO seeds, each bearing two
branches--namely, from two wrongs, the one hitting, the other
striking from, themselves--BOTH which wrongs they will AVENGE and
AMEND. We take up a strenuous theory; and we deny--and we
defy--SWEETFLOWER. Nay, more! Should our excellent friend, ERNST
WILLKOMM, be found taking part, real or apparent, with SWEETFLOWER,
we defy and we deny Ernst Willkomm. For in this mixed case of the
Fairy wrong, we distinguish, first, INJURIES which shall be
retaliated, and, as far as may be, compensated; and secondly, a
SHREW, who is to be turned _into_ a WIFE, being previously turned
_out of_ a shrew.

We dare to believe that this last-mentioned end is the thing
uppermost, and undermost, and middlemost in the mind of the Fairies;
is, in fact, the true and _the sole final cause_ of all their
proceedings.

Or that the _moral heart_ of the poem--that root in the human breast
and will, from which every true poem springs heavenward--is here the
zeal of the spirits for _morally reforming Swanhilda_; is, therefore,
that deep-seated attraction, which, as we have averred, essentially
allies the inclination of the Fairies to the moral conscience in our
own kind.

One end, therefore, grounds the whole story, although two and more
are proposed by _Sweetflower_. It is one that _satisfies_ the moral
reason in man; for it is no less than to cleanse and heal the will,
wounded with error, of a human creature. That other, which he
displays, with mock emphasis, of restitution to the downtrodden
fairyhood, is an exotic, fair and slight bud, grafted into the
sturdier indigenous stock. For let us fix but a steady look upon the
thing itself, and what is there before us? a whim, a trick of the
fancy, tickling the fancy. We are amused with a quaint calamity--a
panic of caps and cloaks. We laugh--we cannot help it--as the pigmy
assembly flies a thousand ways at once--grave councillors and
all--throwing terrified somersets--hiding under stones, roots--diving
into coney-burrows--"any where--any where"--vanishing out of
harm's--if not out of dismay's--reach. In a tale of the Fairies, THE
FANCY rules:--and the interest of such a misfortune, definite and not
infinite, is congenial to the spirit of the gay faculty which hovers
over, lives upon surfaces, and which flees abysses; which thence,
likewise, in the moral sphere, is equal to apprehending resentment of
a personal wrong, and a judicial assessment of damages--but NOT A
DISINTERESTED MORAL END.

What is our conclusion then? plainly that the dolorous overthrow of
the fairy divan is no better than an invention--the device of an
esthetical artist. We hold that Ernst Willkomm has _gratuitously_
bestowed upon us the disastrous catastrophe; that he has done this,
knowing the obligation which lies upon Fancy within her own chosen
domain to _create_, because--there, Fancy listens and reads. The
adroit Fairy delineator must wile over and reconcile the most
sportive, capricious, and self-willed spirit of our understanding, to
accept a purpose foreign to that spirit's habitual sympathies--a
purpose solemn and austere--THE MORAL PURPOSE OF RESCUING A
SIN-ENTANGLED HUMAN SOUL.

Or, if Ernst Willkomm shall guarantee to us, that the reminiscences
of his people have furnished him with the materials of this tale; if
he is, as we must needs hope, who have freely dealt with you to
believe that he is--honest: honest both as to the general character,
and the particular facts of his representations--if, in short, the
Lusatian Highlanders do, sitting by the bench and the stove, aver and
protest that the said Swanhilda did overturn both council-board and
councillors--then we say, upon this occasion, that which we must all,
hundreds of times, declare--namely, that _The Genius of Tradition_ is
the foremost of artists; and further, that in this instance _an
unwilled fiction_, determined by a necessity of the human bosom, has
risen up _to mantle seriousness with grace_, as a free woodbine
enclasps with her slender-gadding twines, and bedecks with her sweet
bright blossoms, a towering giant of the grove.

It will perhaps be objected, that the moral purity and goodness that
are so powerful to draw to themselves the regard and care of the
spiritual people, are wanting in the character of the over-bold
Swanhilda. We have said that her _faults_ are the CALL to the Fairies
for help and reformation: but we may likewise guess that Virtue and
Truth first won their love. It must be recollected that the faults
which are extirpated from the breast of our heroine, are not such as,
in our natural understanding of humanity, dishonour or sully. Taken
away, the character may stand clear. It is quite possible that this
gone, there shall be left behind a kind, good, affectionate,
generous, noble nature.

We are free, or, more properly speaking, we are bound to believe,
that thus the Fairies left Swanhilda.

As for Maud, we know--for she was told--that the Fairies loved her
for herself ere they needed her aid. Hanging as it were upon that
wondrous power to help which dwelt within her--her simple
goodness--may we not say that the Fairies discover an ENFORCED
attraction, when they afterwards approach the maiden for their own
succour and salvation; as they do, a FREE attraction, when, in the
person of Swanhilda, they disinterestedly attach themselves to
reforming a fault for the welfare and happiness of her whom it
aggrieves?

       *       *       *       *       *

We will now proceed, as in our former communication, to adduce
instances from other quarters, confirming the fairy delineations
offered by our tale; or which may tend generally to bring out its
mythological and literary character.

Two points would suggest themselves to us in the tale of the Fairy
Tutor, as chiefly provoking comparison. The first is:--_The affirmed
Presidency of the Fairies over human morals_, viewed as _a Shape of
the Interest_ which they take in the uprightness and purity of the
human will.

The second is:--

_The Manner and Style of their operations_: or, THE FAIRY WAYS. In
which we chiefly distinguish--1, The active presence of the Sprites
in a human habitation. 2, Their masquerading. 3, Their dispatch of
human victuals. 4, The liability of Elfin limbs to human casualties.
5, The personality of that saucy Puck, our tiny ambassador elf.

We are at once tempted and restrained by the richness of
illustration, which presents itself under all these heads. The
necessity of limitation is, however, imperious. This, and a wish for
simplicity, dispose us to throw all under one more comprehensive
title.

Perhaps the reader has not entirely forgotten that in the remarks
introductory to THE FAIRIES' SABBATH, having launched the
question--what is a Fairy?--we offered him in the way of answer,
_eight_ elements of the Fairy Nature. Has he quite forgotten that for
one of these--it was the third--we represented the Spirit under
examination, as ONE WHICH AT ONCE SEEKS AND SHUNS MANKIND?

The cursory treatment of this Elfin criterion will now compendiously
place before the reader, as much illustration of the two above-given
heads as we dare impose upon him.

The popular Traditions of entire Western Europe variously attest for
all the kinds of the Fairies, and for some orders of Spirits
partaking of the Fairy character, the singularly composed, and almost
self-contradictory traits of a _seeking_ implicated and attempered
with a _shunning_; of a shunning with a seeking. The inclination of
our Quest will be to evidences of the _seeking_. The shunning will,
it need not be doubted, take good care of itself.

The attraction of the Fairy Species towards our own is,

  1. Recognised--in their GENERIC DESIGNATIONS.
  2. Apparent--in their GOOD NEIGHBOURHOOD with us.
  3. IN THEIR FREQUENTING AND ESTABLISHING THEMSELVES in the places of
     our habitual occupancy and resort.
  4. IN THEIR CALLING OR CARRYING US into the places of their Occupancy
     and Resort; whether to return _hither_, or to remain
     _there_.
  5. BY THEIR ALIGHTING UPON THE PATH, worn already with some blithe or
     some weary steps, OF A HUMAN DESTINY;--as friendly, or as unfriendly
     Genii.

We collect the proofs: and--

1. Of their GENERIC APPELLATIVES, a Word!

One is tempted to say that THE NATIONS, as if conscious of the kindly
disposition inhering in the spiritual existences toward ourselves,
have simultaneously agreed in conferring upon them titles of
endearment and affection. The brothers Grimm write--"In Scotland they
[The Fairies] are called _The Good People, Good Neighbours, Men of
Peace;_ in Wales--_The Family, The Blessing of their Mothers, The
Dear Ladies;_ in the old Norse, and to this day in the Faroe islands,
_Huldufolk_ (_The Gracious People;_) in Norway, _Huldre_;[23] and, in
conformity with these denominations, discover a striving to be in the
proximity of men, and to keep up a good understanding with them."[24]

[Footnote 23: May we for HULDRE read HULDREFOLK; and understand the
_following_, or the _Folk_ of HULDRE? Huldre _means_ the Gracious
Lady: she is a sort of Danish and Norwegian Fairy-Queen.--See GRIMM'S
_German Mythology_, p. 168. First edition.]

[Footnote 24: The Brothers GRIMM: _Introduction to the Irish Fairy
Tales_.]

2. THIS GOOD NEIGHBOURHOOD, to which these last words point, is
interestingly depicted by the Traditions.

In Scotland and Germany the Fairies plant their habitation
_adjoining_ that of man--"_under the threshold_"--and in such
attached Fairies an alliance is unfolded with us of a most
extraordinary kind. "The closest connexion" (_id est_, of the Fairy
species with our own) "is expressed," say the Brothers Grimm, "by the
tradition, agreeably to which the family of the Fairies ORDERED
ITSELF ENTIRELY AFTER THE HUMAN to which it belonged; and OF WHICH IT
WAS AS IF A COPY. These domestic Fairies _kept their marriages upon
the same day_ as the Human Beings; _their children were born upon the
same day_; and _upon the same day they wailed for their dead._"[25]

[Footnote 25: The Brothers GRIMM: _Introduction to the Irish Fairy
Tales._]

Two artlessly sweet breathings of Elfin Table, from the Helvetian
Dales,[26] lately revived to your fancy the sinless--blissful years,
when gods with men set fellowing steps upon one and the same fragrant
and unpolluted sward, until transgression, exiling those to their own
celestial abodes, left these lonely--a nearer, dearer, BARBARIAN
Golden Age--wherein the kindly Dwarf nation stand representing the
great deities of Olympus.

[Footnote 26: See _The Dwarfs upon the Maple-Tree_, and _The Dwarfs
upon the Crag-Stone_, in the former paper.]

The healthful pure air fans restoration again to us. We lay before
you--


GERMAN TRADITIONS

No. CXLIX _The Dwarfs' Feet_.

"In old times the men dwelt in the valley, and round about them, in
caves and clefts of the rock, the Dwarfs, _in amity and good
neighbourhood_ with the people, for whom they performed by night many
a heavy labour. When the country folk, betimes in the morning, came
with wains and implements, and wondered that all was ready done, the
Dwarfs were hiding in the bushes, and laughed out loud. Frequently
the peasants were angry when they saw their yet hardly ripe corn
lying reaped upon the field; but when presently after hail and storm
came on, and they could well know that probably not a stalk should
have escaped perishing, they were then heartily thankful to the
provident Dwarfs. At last, however, the inhabitants, by their sin,
fooled away the grace and favour of the Dwarfs. These fled, and since
then has no eye ever again beheld them. The cause was this
following:--A herdsman had upon the mountain an excellent
cherry-tree. One summer, as the fruit grew ripe, it befell that the
tree was, for three following nights, picked, and the fruit carried,
and fairly spread out in the loft, in which the herdsman had use to
keep his cherries. The people said in the village, that doth no one
other than the honest dwarflings--they come tripping along by night,
in long mantles, with covered feet, softly as birds, and perform
diligently for men the work of the day. Already often have they been
privily watched, but one may not interrupt them, only let them, come
and go at their listing. By such speeches was the herdsman made
curious, and would fain have wist wherefore the Dwarfs hid so
carefully their feet, and whether these were otherwise shapen than
men's feet. When, therefore, the next year, summer again came, and
the season that the Dwarfs did stealthily pluck the cherries, and
bear them into the garner, the herdsman took a sackful of ashes,
which he strewed round about the tree. The next morning, with
daybreak, he hied to the spot; the tree was regularly gotten, and he
saw beneath in the ashes the print of many geese's feet. Thereat the
herdsman fell a-laughing, and made game, that the mystery of the
Dwarfs was bewrayed; but these presently after brake down and laid
waste their houses, and fled deeper away into their mountain. They
harbour ill-will toward men, and withhold from them their help. That
herdsman which had betrayed the Dwarfs turned sickly and half-witted,
and so continued until his dying day!"

There! Plucked amidst the lap of the Alps from its own hardily-nursed
wild-brier, by the same tenderly-diligent hand[27] that brought home
to us those other half-disclosed twin-buds of Helvetian tradition,
you behold a third, like pure, more expanded blossom. Twine the
three, young poet! into one soft-hued and "odorous chaplet," ready
and meet for binding the smooth clear forehead of a Swiss Maud!--or
fix it amidst the silken curls of thine own dove-eyed, innocent,
nature-loving--Ellen or Margaret.

[Footnote 27: Of Professor Wyes.]

These old-young things--bequests, as they look to be--from the
loving, singing childhood of the earth, may lawfully make children,
lovers, and songsters of us all; and _will_, if we are _fond_, and
hearken to them.

In that same "hallowed and gracious time," lying YON-SIDE our
chronologies,

  "When the world and love were young,
  And truth on every shepherd's tongue,"

the men and the Dwarfs had unbroken intercourse of _borrowing and
lending_. Many traditions touch the matter. Here is one resting upon
it.


No. CLIV. _The Dwarfs near Dardesheim_.

"Dardesheim is a little town betwixt Halberstadt and Brunswick. Close
to the north-east side, a spring of the clearest water flows, which
is called the Smansborn,[28] and wells from a hill wherein formerly
the Dwarfs dwelled. When the ancient inhabitants of the place needed
a holiday dress, or any rare utensil for a marriage, they betook them
to this Dwarf's Hill, knocked thrice, and with a well audible voice,
told their occasion, adding--

  'Early a-morrow, ere sun-light,
  At the hill's door, lieth all aright.'

[Footnote 28: For LESSMANSBORN, _i.e._ LESSMANN'S WELL.]

The Dwarfs held themselves for well requited if somewhat of the
festival meats were set for them by the hill. Afterward gradually did
bickerings interrupt the good understanding that was betwixt the
Dwarfs' nation and the country folk. At the beginning for a short
season; but, in the end, the Dwarfs departed away; because the flouts
and gibes of many boors grew intolerable to them, as likewise their
ingratitude for kindnesses done. Thenceforth none seeth or heareth
any Dwarfs more."

In _Auvergne_, Miss Costello has just now learned, how the men and
the Fairies anciently lived upon the friendliest footing, nigh one
another: how the _knowledge_ and _commodious use_ of the _Healing
Springs_ was owed by the former to these Good Neighbours: how, of
yore, the powerful sprites, by rending athwart a huge rocky mound,
opened an _innocuous channel_ for _the torrent_, which used with its
overflow to lay desolate arable ground and pasturage: how they were
looked upon as being, in a general sense, _the protectors_ against
harm of the country: and, in fine, how the two orders of neighbours
lived in long and happy communion of kind offices with one another;
until, upon one unfortunate day, the ill-renowned freebooter,
Aymerigot Marcel, with his ruffianly men-at-arms, having approached,
by stealth, from his near-lying hold, stormed the romantically seated
rock-mansion of the bountiful pigmies: who, scared, and in anger,
forsook the land. Ever since the foul outrage, only a straggler may,
now and then, be seen at a distance.

Thus, too, the late _Brillat-Savarin_, from a sprightly, acute,
brilliant Belles-letteriste, turned, for an hour, honest antiquary,
lets us know how, upon the southern bank of the Rhone, flowing out
from Switzerland, in the narrowly-bounded and, when he first quitted
it, yet hidden valley of his birth:--The FAIRIES--elderly, not
beautiful, but benevolent unmarried ladies--kept, while time was,
open school in THE GROTTO, which was their habitation, for the young
girls of the vicinity, whom they taught--SEWING.


3. We go on to exemplifying--ELFIN _Frequentation of, and Settlement
with,_ MAN.

The Fairies are drawn into the houses and to the haunts of men by
manifold occasions and impulses. They halt on a journey. They
celebrate marriages. They use the implements of handicraft. They
purchase at the Tavern--from the Shambles, or in open Market. They
_steal_ from oven and field. They go through a house, blessing the
rooms, the marriage-bed--and stand beside the unconscious cradle.
They give dreams. They take part in the evening mirth. They pray in
the churches. They seem to work in the mines. Drawn by magical
constraint into the garden, they invite themselves within doors. They
dance in the churchyard.[29] They make themselves the wives and the
paramours of men; or the serviceable hobgoblin fixes himself, like a
cat, in the house--once and for ever.

We present traditions for illustrating some of these points, as they
offer themselves to us.

[Footnote 29:

  "Part fenced by man, part by the ragged steep
  That curbs a foaming brook, a GRAVE-YARD lies;
  The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep!
  Where MOONLIT FAYS, far seen by credulous eyes,
  ENTER, IN DANCE!"

WORDSWORTH.--_Sonnet upon an_ ABANDONED _Cemetery._]


THEY HALT ON A JOURNEY.

No. XXXV. _The Count of Hoia_.

"There did appear once to a count of Hoia, a little mauling in the
night, and, as the count was alarmed, said to him he should have no
fear: he had a word to sue unto him, and begged that he should not be
denied. The count answered, if it were a thing possible to do, and
should be never burthensome to him and his, he will gladly do it. The
manling said--'There be some that desire to come to thee this ensuing
night, into thy house, and to make their stopping. Wouldst thou so
long lend them kitchen and hall, and bid thy domestics that they go
to bed, and none look after their ways and works, neither any know
thereof, save only thou? They will show them, therefore, grateful.
Thou and thy line shall have cause of joy, and in the very least
matter shall none hurt happen unto thee, neither to any that belong
to thee.' Whereunto the count assented. Accordingly, upon the
following night, they came like a cavalcade, marching over the
drawbridge to the house; one and all--tiny folk, such as they use to
describe the hill manlings. They cooked in the kitchen, fell too, and
rested, and nothing seemed otherwise than as if a great repast were
in preparing. Thereafter, nigh unto morn, as they will again depart,
comes the little manling a second time to the count, and after
conning him thanks, handed him a _sword_, a _salamander cloth_, and a
_golden ring_, in which was RED LION set above--advertising him,
withal, that he and his posterity shall well keep these three pieces,
and so long as they had them all together, should it go with fair
accordance and well in the county; but so soon as they shall be
parted from one another, shall it be a sign that nothing good
impendeth for the county. Accordingly, the red lion ever after, when
any of the stem is near the point of dying, hath been seen to wax
wan.

"Howsoever, at the time that Count Job and his brothers were minors,
and Francis of Halle governor in the country, two of the
pieces--viz., the Sword and the Salamander Cloth, were taken away;
but the Ring remained with the lordship unto an end. Whither it
afterwards went is not known."


THEY HOLD A WEDDING.

No.XXXI. _The Small People's Wedding Feast._

"The small people of the Eulenberg in Saxony would once hold a
marriage, and for this purpose slipped in, in the night, through the
keyhole and the window-chinks into the Hall, and came leaping down
upon the smooth floor, like peas tumbled out upon the
threshing-floor. The old Count, who slept in the high canopy bed in
the Hall, awoke, and marvelled at the number of tiny companions; one
of whom, in the garb of a herald, now approached him, and in well-set
phrase, courteously prayed him to bear part in their festivity. 'Yet
one thing,' he added, 'we beg of you. Ye shall alone be present; none
of your court shall be bold to gaze upon our mirth--yea, not so much
as with a glance.' The old Count answered pleasantly--'Since ye have
once for all waked me up, I will e'en make one among you.' Hereupon
was a little wifikin led up to him, little torch-bearers took their
station, and a music of crickets struck up. The Count had much ado to
save losing his little partner in the dance; she capered about so
nimbly, and ended with whirling him round and round, until hardly
might he have his breath again. But, in the midst of the jocund
measure, all stood suddenly still; the music ceased, and the whole
throng hurried to the cracks in the doors, mouse-holes, and
hiding-places of all sorts. The newly-married couple only, the
heralds, and the dancers, looked upward towards an orifice that was
in the hall ceiling, and there descried the visage of the old
Countess, who was curiously prying down upon the mirthful doings.
Herewith they made their obeisance to the Count; and the same which
had bidden him, again stepping forward, thanked him for his
hospitality. 'But,' continued he, 'because our pleasure and our
wedding hath been in such sort interrupted, that yet another eye of
man hath looked thereon, henceforward shall your house number never
more than seven Eulenbergs.' Thereupon, they pressed fast forth, one
upon another. Presently all was quiet, and the old Count once again
alone in the dark Hall. The curse hath come true to this hour, so as
ever one of the six living knights of Eulenberg hath died ere the
seventh was born."


THEY JOIN THE EVENING MIRTH.

No. xxxix. _The Hill-Manling at the Dance_.

"Old folks veritable declared, that some years ago, at Glass, in
Dorf, an hour from the Wunderberg, and an hour from the town of
Salzburg, a wedding was kept, to which, towards evening, a
Hill-Manling came out of the Wunderberg. He exhorted all the guests
to be in honour, gleesome, and merry, and requested leave to join the
dancers, which was not refused him. He danced accordingly, with
modest maidens, one and another; evermore, three dances with each,
and that with a singular featness; insomuch that the wedding guests
looked on with admiration and pleasure. The dance over, he made his
thanks, and bestowed upon either of the young married people three
pieces of money that were of an unknown coinage; whereof each was
held to be worth four kreuzers; and therewithal _admonished them to
dwell in peace and concord, live Christianly, and piously walking, to
bring up their children in all goodness_. These coins they should put
amongst their money, and constantly remember him--so should they
seldom fall into hardship. _But they must not therewithal grow
arrogant, but, of their superfluity, succour their neighbours_.

"This Hill-Manling stayed with them into the night, and took of every
one to drink and to eat what they proffered; but from every one only
a little. He then paid his courtesy, and desired that one of the
wedding guests might take him over the river Salzbach toward the
mountain. Now, there was at the marriage a boatman, by name John
Standl, who was presently ready, and they went down together to the
ferry. During the passage, the ferryman asked his meed. The
Hill-Manling tendered him, in all humility, three pennies. The
waterman scorned at such mean hire; but the Manling gave him for
answer--'He must not vex himself, but safely store up the three
pennies; for, so doing, he should never suffer default of his
having--_if only he did restrain presumptousness_--at the same time
he gave the boatman a little pebble, saying the words--'If thou shalt
hang this about thy neck, thou shalt not possibly perish in the
water.' Which was proved in that same year. Finally, _he persuaded
him to a godly and humble manner of life_, and went swiftly away."


ANOTHER OF THE SAME.

No. CCCVI. _The Three Maidens from the Mere._

"At Epfenbach, nigh Sinzheim, within men's memory, three wondrously
beautiful damsels, attired in white, visited, with every evening, the
village spinning-room. They brought along with them ever new songs
and tunes, and new pretty tales and games. Moreover, their distaffs
and spindles had something peculiar, and no spinster might so finely
and nimbly spin the thread. But upon the stroke of eleven, they
arose; packed up their spinning gear, and for no prayers might be
moved to delay for an instant more. None wist whence they came, nor
whither they went. Only they called them, The Maidens from the Mere;
or, The Sisters of the Lake. The lads were glad to see them there,
and were taken with love of them; but most of all, the schoolmaster's
son. He might never have enough of hearkening and talking to them,
and nothing grieved him more than that every night they went so early
away. The thought suddenly crossed him, and he set the village clock
an hour back; and, in the evening, with continual talking and
sporting, not a soul perceived the delay of the hour. When the clock
struck eleven--but it was properly twelve--the three damsels arose,
put up their distaffs and things, and departed. Upon the following
morrow, certain persons went by the Mere; they heard a wailing, and
saw three bloody spots above upon the surface of the water. Since
that season, the sisters came never again to the room. The
schoolmaster's son pined, and died shortly thereafter."


AN ELFIN IS BOUND, IN UNLAWFUL CHAINS, TO A HUMAN LOVER.

No. LXX. _The Bushel, the Ring, and the Goblet._

"In the duchy of Lorraine, when it belonged, as it long did, to
Germany, the last count of Orgewiler ruled betwixt Nanzig and
Luenstadt.[30] He had no male heir of his blood, and upon his
deathbed, shared his lands amongst his three daughters and
sons-in-law. Simon of Bestein had married the eldest daughter, the
lord of Crony the second, and a German Rhinegrave the youngest.
Beside the lordships, he also distributed to his heirs three
presents; to the eldest daughter a BUSHEL, to the middle one a
DRINKING-CUP, and to the third a jewel, which was a RING, with an
admonition that they and their descendants should carefully hoard up
these pieces, so should their houses be constantly fortunate."

[Footnote 30: LUNEVILLE.]

The tradition, how the things came into the possession of the count,
the Marshal of Bassenstein,[31] great-grandson of Simon, does himself
relate thus:--[32]

[Footnote 31: BASSOMPIERRE.]

[Footnote 32: _Memoires du Marechal de_ BASSOMPIERRE: Cologne, 1666.
Vol. I. PP. 4-6. The Marshal died in 1646.]

"The count was married: but he had beside a secret amour with a
marvellous beautiful woman, which came weekly to him every Monday,
into a summer-house in the garden. This commerce remained long
concealed from his wife. When he withdrew from her side, he pretended
to her, that he went, by night, into the Forest, to the Stand.

"But when a few years had thus passed, the countess took a suspicion,
and was minded to learn the right truth. One summer morning early,
she slipped after him, and came to the summer bower. She there saw
her husband, sleeping in the arms of a wondrous fair female; but
because they both slept so sweetly, she would not awaken them; but
she took her veil from her head, and spread it over the feet of both,
where they lay asleep.

"When the beautiful paramour awoke, and perceived the veil, she gave
a loud cry, began pitifully to wail, and said:--

"'Henceforwards, my beloved, we see one another never more. Now must
I tarry at a hundred leagues' distance away, and severed from thee.'

"Therewith she did 1eave the count, but presented him first with
those afore-named three gifts for his three daughters, which they
should never let go from them.

"The House of Bassenstein, for long years, had a toll, to draw in
fruit, from the town of Spinal,[33] whereto this Bushel was
constantly used."

[Footnote 33: EPINAL.]


THE HOUSEHOLD SPIRIT DOES HOUSEHOLD SERVICE IN A MILL.

No. LXXIII. _The Kobold in the Mill._

"Two students did once fare afoot from Rintel. They purposed putting
up for the night in a village; but for as much as there did a violent
rain fall, and the darkness grew upon them, so as they might no
further forward, they went up to a near-lying mill, knocked, and
begged a night's quarters. The miller was, at the first, deaf, but
yielded, at the last, to their instant entreaty, opened the door, and
brought them into a room. They were hungry and thirsty both; and
because there stood upon a table a dish with food, and a mug of beer,
they begged the miller for them, being both ready and willing to pay;
but the miller denied them--would not give them even a morsel of
bread, and only the hard bench for their night's bed.

"'The meat and the drink,' said he, 'belong to the Household Spirit.
If ye love your lives, leave them both untouched. But else have ye no
harm to fear. If there chance a little din in the night, be ye but
still and sleep.'

"The two students laid themselves down to sleep; but after the space
of an hour or the like, hunger did assail the one so vehemently that
he stood up and sought after the dish. The other, a Master of Arts,
warned him to leave to the Devil what was the Devil's due; but he
answered, 'I have a better right than the Devil to it'--seated
himself at the table, and ate to his heart's content, so that little
was left of the cookery. After that, he laid hold of the can, took a
good Pomeranian pull, and having thus somewhat appeased his desire,
he laid himself again down to his companion; but when, after a time,
thirst anew tormented him, he again rose up, and pulled a second so
hearty draught, that he left the Household Spirit only the bottoms.
After he had thus cheered and comforted himself, he lay down and fell
asleep.

"All remained quiet on to midnight; but hardly was this well by, when
the Kobold came banging in with so loud coil,[34] that both sleepers
awoke in great fright. He bounced a few times to and fro about the
room, then seated himself as if to enjoy his supper at the table, and
they could plainly hear how he pulled the dish to him. Immediately he
set it, as though in ill humour, hard down again, laid hold of the
can, pressed up the lid, but straightway let it clap sharply to
again. He now fell to his work; he wiped the table, next the legs of
the table, carefully down, and then swept, as with a besom, the door
diligently. When this was done, he returned to visit once more the
dish and the beercan, if his luck might be any better this turn, but
once more pushed both angrily away. Thereupon he proceeded in his
labour, came to the benches, washed, scoured, rubbed them, below and
above. When he came to the place where the two students lay, he
passed them over, and worked on beyond their feet. When this was
done, he began upon the bench a second time above their heads; and,
for the second time likewise, passed over the visitants. But the
third time, when he came to them, he stroked gently the one which had
nothing tasted, over the hair and along the whole body, without any
whit hurting him; but the other he griped by the feet, dragged him
two or three times round the room upon the floor, till at the last he
left him lying, and ran behind the stove, whence he laughed him
loudly to scorn. The student crawled back to the bench; but in a
quarter of an hour the Kobold began his work anew, sweeping,
cleaning, wiping. The two lay there quaking with fear:--the one he
felt quite softly over, when he came to him; but the other he flung
again upon the ground, and again broke out, at the back of the stove,
into a flouting horse-laugh.

[Footnote 34: Exactly so, the hairy THRESHING Goblin of Milton--at
_going out_, again:--

               "Till, cropful, out o' door HE FLINGS."
  He, too, is paid for his work, with
               ----"_his_ CREAM-BOWL, duly set."

"The students now no longer chose to lie upon the bench, rose, and
set up, before the closed and locked door, a loud outcry; but none
took any heed to it. They were at length resolved to lay themselves
down close together upon the flat floor; but the Kobold left them not
in peace. He began, for the third time, his game:--came and lugged
the guilty one about, laughed, and scoffed him. He was now fairly mad
with rage, drew his sword, thrust and cut into the corner whence the
laugh rang, and challenged the Kobold with bravadoes, to come on. He
then sat down, his weapon in his hand, upon the bench, to await what
should further befall; but the noise ceased, and all remained still.

"The miller upbraided them upon the morrow, for that they had not
conformed themselves to his admonishing, neither had left the
victuals untouched. It was as much as their two lives were worth."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three heads only of the ATTRACTION, above imputed to the Fairies
towards our own kind, have been here imperfectly brought out; and
already the narrowness of our limits warns us--with a sigh given to
the traditions crowding upon us from all countries, and which we
perforce leave unused--to bring these preliminary remarks to a close.

_Still_, something has been gained for illustrating our Tale. The
Hill-Manling at the dance diligently warns against PRIDE--the rank
ROOT evil which the Fairies will weed out from the bosom of our
heroine, whilst throughout a marked feature of the Fairy ways--"THE
ACTIVE PRESENCE OF THE SPIRITS IN A HUMAN HABITATION" has forced
itself upon us, in diverse, and some, perhaps, unexpected forms.

And _still_, our fuller examples, coming to us wholly from the
Collection of the Two Brothers, and expressing the habitudes of
_various_ WIGHTS and ELVES, may furnish, for comparison with Ernst
Willkomm's Upper Lusatian, an EXTRA Lusatian picture of the TEUTONIC
FAIRYHOOD.


THE FAIRY TUTOR.

"In days of yore there lived, alone in her castle, a maiden named
Swanhilda. She was the only child of a proud father, lately deceased.
Her mother she had lost when she was but a child; so that the
education of the daughter had fallen wholly into the hands of the
father.

"During the lifetime even of the old knight, many suitors had offered
themselves for Swanhilda; but she seemed to be insensible to every
tender emotion, and dismissed with disdainful haughtiness the whole
body of wooers. Meanwhile she hunted the stag and the board, and
performed squire's service for her gradually declining parent. This
manner of life was so entirely to the taste of the maiden,
notwithstanding that in delicacy of frame, and in bewitching
gracefulness of figure, she gave place to none of her sex, that when
at length her father died, she took upon herself the management of
the castle, and lived aloof in pride and independence, in the very
fashion of an Amazon. Maugre the many refusals which Swanhilda had
already distributed on every side, there still flocked to her loving
knights, eager to wed; but, like their predecessors, they were all
sent drooping home again. The young nobility could at last bear this
treatment no longer; and they, one and all, resolved either to
constrain the supercilious damsel to wedlock, or to make her smart
for a refusal. An embassy was dispatched, charged with notifying this
resolution to the mistress of the castle. Swanhilda heard the
speakers quietly to the end; but her answer was tuned as before, or
indeed rang harsher and more offensive than ever. Turning her back
upon the embassy, she left them to depart, scorned and ashamed.

"In the night following the day upon which this happened, Swanhilda
was disturbed out of her sleep by a noise which seemed to her to
ascend from her chamber floor; but let her strain her eyes as she
might, she could for a long while discern nothing. At length she
observed, in the middle of the room, a straying sparkle of light,
that threw itself over and over like a tumbler, tittering, at the
same time, like a human being. Swanhilda for a while kept herself
quiet; but as the luminous antic ceased not practising his
harlequinade, she peevishly exclaimed--'What buffoon is carrying on
his fooleries here? I desire to be left in peace.' The light vanished
instantly, and Swanhilda already had congratulated herself upon
gaining her point, when suddenly a loud shrilly sound was heard--the
floor of the apartment gave way, and from the gap there arose a table
set out with the choicest viands. It rested upon a lucid body of air,
upon which the tiny attendants skipped with great agility to and fro,
waiting upon seated guests. At first Swanhilda was so amazed that her
breath forsook her; but becoming by degrees somewhat collected, she
observed, to her extreme astonishment, that an effigy of herself sat
at the strange table, in the midst of the numerous train of suitors,
whom she had so haughtily dismissed. The attendants presented to the
young knights the daintiest dishes, the savour of which came
sweetly-smelling enough to the nostrils of the proud damsel. As
often, however, as the knights were helped to meat and drink, the
figure of Swanhilda at the board was presented by an ill-favoured
Dwarf, who stood as her servant behind her, with an empty basket,
whereat the suitor's broke out into wild laughter. She also soon
became aware, that as many courses were served up to the guests as
she had heretofore dispensed refusals, and the amount of these was
certainly not small.

"Swanhilda, weary of the absurd phantasmagoria, was going to speak
again; but to her horror she discovered that the power of speech had
left her. She had for some time been struck with a kind of whispering
and tittering about her. In order to make out whence this proceeded,
she leaned out of her bed, and, peering between the silk curtains,
perceived two smart diminutive cupbearers, in garments of blue, with
green aprons, and small yellow caps. She had scarcely got sight of
the little gentlemen when their whispering took the character of
audible words; and the dumb Swanhilda was enabled to overhear the
following discourse:

"'But, I pri'thee, tell me, Sweetflower, how this show shall end?'
said one of the two cupbearers,--'thou art, we know, the confidant of
our queen, and, certes, canst disclose to me somewhat of her plans?'

"'That can I, my small-witted Monsieur Silverfine,' answered
Sweetflower. 'Know, therefore, that this sweet and lovely to behold
brute of a girl, is now beginning to suffer the castigation due to
her innumerable offences. Swanhilda has sinned against all maidenly
modesty, has borne herself proud and overbearing towards honourable
gentlemen, and, besides, has most seriously offended our queen.'

"'How so?' enquired Silverfine.

"'By storming on her Barbary steed, like the devil himself, through
the thick of our States' Assembly, pounding the arms and legs of I
don't know how many of our sapient representatives. What makes the
matter worse is, that this happened at the very opening of the diet,
and whilst the grand prelusive symphony of the whole hidden people
was in full burst. We were sitting by hundreds of thousands upon
blades, stalks, and leaves; some of us still actively busied
arranging comfortable seats for the older people in the blue
harebells. For this we had stripped the skins of sixty thousand red
field spiders, and wrought them into canopies and hangings. All our
talented performers had tuned their instruments, scraped, fluted,
twanged, jingled, and shawmed to their hearts' content, and had
resined their fiddlesticks upon the freshest of dewdrops. All at
once, tearing out of the wood, with your leave, or without your
leave, comes this monster of a girl, plump upon upper house and lower
house together. Ah, lack-a-daisy! what a massacre it was! The first
hoof struck a thousand of our prime orators dead upon the spot, the
other three hoofs scattered the Imperial diet in all directions, and,
what is worse than all, tore to pieces a multitude of our exquisite
caps. Our queen was almost frantic at the breach of the peace--she
stamped with her foot, and cried out, "LIGHTNING!" and what that
means we all pretty well know. Just at this time, too, she received
information of the maiden's arrogant behaviour towards her suitors,
and on the instant she determined to put the sinner to her prayers.
We began by devouring every thing clean up, giving her the pleasure
of looking on.'

"'Silly, absurd creatures!' _thought_ Swanhilda, as the little butler
advanced to the table to put on some fresh wine. During his absence
she had time to note how perhaps a dozen other Fairies drew up
through the floor whole pailfuls of wine and smoking meats, which
were conveyed immediately to the table, and there consumed as if by
the wind. She was heartily longing for the day to dawn, that the sun
might dissipate her dream, when the sprightly little speaker came to
his place again.

"'Now we can gossip a little longer,' said Sweetflower. 'My guests
are provided for, and between this and cock-crow--when house and
cellar will be emptied--there's some time yet.'

"Swanhilda uttered (_mentally_) a prodigious imprecation, and turned
herself so violently in the bed, that the little gentlemen were
absolutely terrified.

"'I verily believe we are going to have an earthquake!' said
Silverfine.

"'No such thing!' answered Sweetflower. 'The amiable young lady in
bed there has seen the sport perhaps, and is very likely not
altogether pleased with it.'

"'Don't you think she would speak, if she saw all this wastefulness
going on?' asked Silverfine.

"'Yes, if she could!' chuckled Sweetflower. 'But our queen has been
cruel enough to strike her dumb, whilst she looks upon this
heartbreaking spectacle. If she once wakes, she won't be troubled
again with sleep before cock-crow.'

"'A pretty business!' _thought_ Swanhilda, once more tossing herself
passionately about in her bed.

"'Quite right!' said Sweetflower triumphantly. 'The imp of a girl has
waked up.'

"'Insolent wretches!' said Swanhilda (internally.) 'Brute and imp to
me! Oh, if I could only speak!'

"'Why, the whole fun of the thing is,' said Sweetflower, almost
bursting with laughter, 'just that that wish won't be gratified. Does
the fool of a woman think that she is to trample down our orchestra
with impunity, to put our States' Assembly to flight, and to crush
our very selves into a jelly!'

"'And the unbidden guests divine my very thoughts!' _thought_
Swanhilda. 'Upon my life, it looks as if a spice of omniscience had
really crept under their caps!'

"'Why, of course!' answered Sweetflower.

"'Then will I think no more!' _resolved_ Swanhilda.

"'And there, my prudent damsel, you show a good discretion,' returned
Sweetflower, saluting her with an ironical bow.

"'How will it be, then, with our caps?' enquired Silverfine. 'Are
they to be repaired?'

"'Oh, certainly,' returned Sweetflower; 'and that will cost our
Amazon here more than all. Indeed, the conditions of her punishment
are, to make good the caps, to pledge her troth to one of her
despised suitors, to compensate the rest with magnificent gifts, and,
for the future, never to mount hunter more, but to amble upon a
gentle palfrey, as a lady should. And, till all this is done, am I to
have the teaching of her.'

"'Pretty conditions truly!' thought Swanhilda. 'I would rather die
than keep them.'

"'Just as you please, most worthy madam,' answered Sweetflower; 'but
you'll think better of it yet, perhaps.'

"'It will fall heavy enough upon her,' said Silverfine, 'seeing that
we have it in command to seize upon all the lady's treasures.'

"'Capital, capital!' shouted Sweetflower. 'That's peppering the
punishment truly! For now must this haughty man-hating creature go
about begging, catching and carrying fish to market, and so
submitting herself to the scorn and laughter of all her former
lovers, till her trade makes her rich again. Nothing but luck in
fishing will our queen vouchsafe the audacious madam. Three years are
allowed her. But, in the interim, she must starve and famish like a
white mouse learning to dance.'

"At this moment a monstrous burst of laughter roared from the table.
The guests sang aloud--

  "'The last flagon we end,
  Swanhilda shall mend;
  Huzza, knights, and drink
  To the last dollar's chink!'

"As the song ceased, the table descended, the floor closed up, and
stillness was in the room again, as when the lady had first retired
to her couch. The cock crew, and Swanhilda fell into a deep sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

"When it left her, the sun already shone high and bright, and played
on her silken bed-curtains. She rubbed her eyes, and seeing every
thing about her in its usual state, she concluded that what had
happened was nothing worse than a feverish dream. She now arose,
began dressing herself, and would have allayed her waking thirst, but
she could find neither glass nor water-pitcher. She called angrily to
her waiting-woman.

"'How come you to forget water, blockhead?' she exclaimed; 'get some
quickly, and then--Breakfast!'

"The attendant departed, shaking her head; for she knew well enough
that every thing had been put in order as usual on the evening
before. She very quickly returned, frightened out of her wits, and
hardly able to speak.

"'Oh my lady! my lady! my lady!' she stammered out.

"'Well, where is the water?'

"'Gone! all drained and dried up! Tub, brook, well--all empty and
dry!'

"'Is it possible?' said Swanhilda. 'Your eyes have surely deceived
you! But never mind--bring up my breakfast. A ham and two Pomeranian
geese-breasts.'

"'Alack! gracious lady!' answered the girl, sobbing, 'every thing in
the house is gone too! The wine-casks lie in pieces on the cellar
floor; the stalls are empty; your favourite horse is away--hay and
corn rotted through. It is shocking!'

"Swanhilda dismissed her, and broke out at first into words wild and
vehement. She checked them; but tears of disappointment and bitter
rage forced their way in spite of her. A visit to her cellar,
store-rooms, and granaries, convinced her of the horrible
transformation which a night had effected in every thing that
belonged to her. She found nothing every where but mould and
sickly-smelling mildew; and was too soon aware that the hideous
images of the night were nothing less than frightful realities. Her
hardened heart stood proof; and since the whole region for leagues
round was turned into a blighted brown heath, she at one resolved to
die of hunger. Ere noon her few servants had deserted the castle, and
Swanhilda herself hungered till her bowels growled again.

"This laudable self-castigation she persevered in for three days
long, when her hunger had increased to such a pitch that she could no
longer remain quiet in the castle. In a state of half consciousness,
she staggered down to the lake, known far and wide by the name of the
Castle mere. Here, on the glassy surface, basked the liveliest
fishes. Swanhilda for a while watched in silence the disport of the
happy creatures, then snatched up a hazel wand lying at her feet,
round the end of which a worm had coiled, and, half maddened by the
joyance of the finny tribe, struck with it into the water. A greedy
fish snapped at the switch. The famishing Swanhilda clutched
hungeringly at it, but found in her hand a piece of offensive
carrion, and nothing more; whilst around, from every side, there rang
such a clatter of commingled mockery and laughter, that Swanhilda
vented a terrible imprecation, and shed once more--a scorching tear.

"'Oh! we shall soon have you tame enough!' said a voice straight
before her, and she recognized it at once for the speaker of that
miserable night. Looking about her, she perceived a moss-rose that
luxuriated upon the rock. In one of the expanded buds sat a little
kicking fellow, with green apron, sky-blue vest, and yellow bonnet.
He was laughing right into the face of the angry miss; and, quaffing
off one little flower-cup after another, filled them bravely again,
and jingled with his tiny bunch of keys, as if he had been grand
butler to the universe.

"'A flavour like a nosegay!' said the malicious rogue. 'Wilt hob-nob
with me, maiden? What do you say? Are we adepts at sacking a house?
'Twill give thee trouble to fill thy cellars again as we found them.
Take heart, girl. If you will come to, and take kindly to your
angling, and do the thing that's handsome by your wooers, you shall
have an eatable dinner yet up at the castle.'

"'Infamous pigmy!' exclaimed Swanhilda, lashing with her rod, as she
spoke, at the little rose. The small buffeteer meanwhile had leaped
down, and, in the turning of a hand, had perched himself upon the
lady's nose, where he drummed an animating march with his heels.

"'Thy nose, I do protest, is excellently soft, thou wicked witch!'
said the rascal. 'If thou wilt now try thy hand at fishing for the
town market, thou shalt be entertained the while with the finest band
of music in the world. Be good and pretty, and take up thy
angling-rod. Trumpets and drums, flutes and clarinets, shall all
strike up together.'

"Swanhilda tried hard to shake the jocular tormentor off, but he kept
his place on the bridge as if he had grown to it. She made a snatch
at him, and he bit her finger.

"'Hark'e, my damsel!' quoth Sweetflower; 'if you are so unmannerly,
'tis time for a lesson. You smarted too little when you were a young
one. We must make all that good now;' and forthwith he settled
himself properly upon her nose, dangling a leg on either side, like a
cavalier in saddle. 'Come, my pretty, be industrious,' continued he;
'get to work, and follow good counsel.' And then he whistled a blithe
and gamesome tune.

"Swanhilda, not heedlessly to prolong her own vexation, dipped the
rod into the water, and immediately saw another gleaming fish
wriggling at its end. A basket, delicately woven of flowers, stood
beside her, half filled with clear water. The fish dropped into it of
themselves. The wee companion beat meanwhile with his feet upon the
wings of the lady's nose, played ten instruments or more at once, and
extemporized a light rambling rhyme, wherein arch gibes and playful
derision of her present forlorn estate were not unmingled with
auguries of a friendlier future.

"'There, you see! where's the distress?' said the urchin, laughing.
'The basket is as full as it can hold. Off with you to the town, and
when your fish are once sold, you may make yourself--some
water-gruel.' With these words the elf leaped into the fish-basket,
crept out again on the other side, plucked a king-cup, took seat in
it, and gave the word--'Forwards!' The flower, on the instant,
displayed its petals. There appeared sail and rudder to the small and
delicate ship, which at once took motion, and sailed gaily through
the air.

"'A prosperous market to you, Swanhilda!' cried Sweetflower, 'behave
discreetly now, and do your tutor justice!'

"Swanhilda, perforce, resigned herself to her destiny. She took her
basket, and carried it home, intending to disguise herself as
completely as possible before making for the town. But all her
clothes lay crumbling into dust. Needs must she then, harassed by
hunger and thirst, begin her weary walk, equipped, as she was, in her
velvet riding-habit.

"Without fatigue, surprised at her celerity--she was in the
market-place. The eyes of all naturally took the direction of the
well-born fisherwoman. Still pity held the tongue of scorn in thrall,
and Swanhilda saw her basket speedily emptied. Once more within her
castle walls, she beheld a running spring in the courtyard, and near
it an earthen pitcher. She filled--drank--and carried the remainder
to the hall, where she found a small fire burning, a pipkin, and a
loaf. She submissively cooked herself a meagre pottage of bread and
water, appeased the cravings of nature, and fell into a sound sleep.

"Morning came, and she awoke with thirst burning afresh. She hastened
to the spring, but fountain and pitcher were no loner there. In their
stead a hoarse laugh greeted her; and in the next instant she
perceived the tiny butler, astride upon a cork, galloping before her
across the courtyard, and addressing his pupil with another snatch of
his derisive song.

"The courage of Swanhilda surmounted her wrath, and she carried her
fish-basket to the lake. It was soon filled, and she again on her way
to market. An amazing multitude of people were already in motion
here, who presently thronged about the market-woman. The basket was
nearly emptied, when two of her old suitors approached. Swanhilda was
confounded, and a blush of deep shame inflamed her countenance.
Curiosity and the pleasure of malice spurred them to accost her; but
the sometime-haughty damsel cast her eyes upon the ground, and in
answer tendered her fish for sale. The knights bought; mixing,
however, ungentle gibes with their good coin. Swanhilda, at the
moment, caught sight of her tutor peeping from a daisy--saluting her
with his little cap, and nodding approbation.

"'I would you were in the kingdom of pepper!' thought Swanhilda, and
in the next instant the fairy was running upon her nose and cheeks,
most unmercifully stamping, and tickling her with a little hair till
she sneezed again.

"'Stay, stay, I must teach thee courtesy, if I can. What! a profane
swearer too! Wish me in the kingdom of pepper! We'll have pepper
growing on thy soft cheeks here. There, there--is that pepper? Thou
art rouged, my lady, ready for a ball!'

"Swanhilda turned upon her homeward way, the adhesive Elf still
tripping ceaselessly about her face, and bore her infliction with a
virtuous patience. In her court and hall she found, as before, the
spring, the bread, and the fire. As before, she satisfied hunger and
thirst, and slept--the sweeter already for her punishment and pain.

"And so passed day after day. The tricky Elf became a less severe,
still trusty schoolmaster. The profits of her trading, under fairy
guardianship, were great to marvelling; and it must be owned that her
aversion to angling craft did not increase in proportion. As time ran
on, she had encountered all her discarded knights, now singly and now
in companies. A year and a half elapsed, and left the relation
between suitors and maiden as at the beginning. At length a chivalric
and gentle knight, noble in person as in birth, ventured to accost
her, loving and reverently as in her brighter days of yore. Abashed,
overcome with shame, the maiden was at the mercy of the light-winged,
blithe, and watchful god, who seized his hour to enthrone himself
upon her heart. She bought the fairy caps and mantles--she made
honourable satisfaction to the knights, and to him whose generous
constancy had won her heart, she gave a willing and a softened hand.

"Upon her wedding day, the QUIET PEOPLE did not fail to adorn the
festival with their radiant presence; albeit the merry creatures
played a strange cross-game on the occasion. The blissful day over,
and the happy bride and bridegroom withdrawing from the banquet and
the dance, the well-pleased chirping, able little tutor hopped before
them, and led them to the hymeneal bower with floral flute, and
gratulatory song!"




PORTUGAL.[35]

[Footnote 35: _Memoirs of the Marquis of Pombal_. By J. SMITH, Esq.,
Private Secretary to the Marquis of Saldanha. Two vols.]


The connexion of Portugal with England has been continued for so long
a period, and the fortunes of Portugal have risen and fallen so
constantly in the exact degree of her more intimate or more relaxed
alliance with England that a knowledge of her interests, her habits,
and her history, becomes an especial accomplishment of the English
statesman. The two countries have an additional tie, in the
similitude of their early pursuits, their original character for
enterprise, and their mutual services. Portugal, like England, with a
narrow territory, but that territory largely open to the sea, was
maritime from her beginning; like England, her early power was
derived from the discovery of remote countries; like England, she
threw her force into colonization, at an era when all other nations
of Europe were wasting their strength in unnecessary wars; like
England, without desiring to enlarge her territory, she has preserved
her independence; and, so sustain the similitude to its full extent,
like England, she founded an immense colony in the western world,
with which, after severing the link of government, she retains the
link of a common language, policy, literature, and religion.

The growth of the great European powers at length overshadowed the
prosperity of Portugal, and the usurpation of her government by Spain
sank her into a temporary depression. But the native gallantry of the
nation at length shook off the yoke; and a new effort commenced for
her restoration to the place which she was entitled to maintain in
the world. It is remarkable that, at such periods in the history of
nations, some eminent individual comes forward, as if designated for
the especial office of a national guide. Such an individual was the
Marquis of Pombal, the virtual sovereign of Portugal for twenty-seven
years--a man of talent, intrepidity, and virtue. His services were
the crush of faction and the birth of public spirit, the fall of the
Jesuits and the peace of his country. His inscription should be, "The
Restorer of his Country."

The Marquis of Pombal was born on the 13th of May 1699, at Soure, a
Portuguese village near the town of Pombal. His father, Manoel
Carvalho, was a country gentleman of moderate fortune, of the rank of
_fidalgo de provincia_--a distinction which gave him the privileges
attached to nobility, though not to the title of a grandee, that
honour not descending below dukes, marquises, and counts. His mother
was Theresa de Mendonca, a woman of family. He had two brothers,
Francis and Paul. His own names were Sebastian Joseph, to which was
added that of Mello, from his maternal ancestor.

Having, like the sons of Portuguese gentlemen in general, studied for
a period in the university of Coimbra, he entered the army as a
private, according to the custom of the country, and rose to the rank
of corporal, which he held until circumstances, and an introduction
to Cardinal Motta, who was subsequently prime-minister, induced him
to devote himself to the study of history, politics, and law. The
cardinal, struck with his ability, strongly advised him to persevere
in those pursuits, appointed him, in 1733, member of the Royal
Academy of History, and shortly after, the king proposed that he
should write the history of certain of the Portuguese monarchs; but
this design was laid aside, and Pombal remained unemployed for six
years, until, in 1739, he was sent by the cardinal to London, as
Portuguese minister. He retained his office until 1745; yet it is
remarkable, and an evidence of the difficulty of acquiring a new
language, that Pombal, though thus living six active years in the
country, was never able to acquire the English language. It must,
however, be recollected, that at this period French was the universal
language of diplomacy, the language of the court circles, and the
polished language of all the travelled ranks of England. The
writings, too, of the French historians, wits, and politicians, were
the study of every man who pretended to good-breeding, and the only
study of most; so that, to a stranger, the acquisition of the
vernacular tongue could be scarcely more than a matter of curiosity.
Times, however, are changed; and the diplomatist who should now come
to this country without a knowledge of the language, would be
despised for his ignorance of an essential knowledge, and had better
remain at home. Soon after his return, he was employed in a
negotiation to reconcile the courts of Rome and Vienna on an
ecclesiastical claim. His reputation had already reached Vienna; and
it is surmised that Maria Theresa, the empress, had desired his
appointment as ambassador. His embassy was successful. At Vienna,
Pombal, who was a widower, married the Countess Ernestein Daun, by
whom he had two sons and three daughters. Pombal was destined to be a
favourite at courts from his handsome exterior. He was above the
middle size, finely formed, and with a remarkably intellectual
countenance; his manners graceful, and his language animated and
elegant. His reputation at Vienna was so high, that on a vacancy in
the Foreign office at Lisbon, Pombal was recalled to take the
portfolio in 1750. Don John, the king, died shortly after, and Don
Joseph, at the age of thirty-five, ascended the throne, appointing
Pombal virtually his prime-minister--a rank which he held, unshaken
and unrivaled, for the extraordinary period of twenty-seven years.

The six years of unemployed and private life, which the great
minister had spent in the practical study of his country, were of the
most memorable service to his future administration. His six years'
residence in England added practical knowledge to theoretical; and
with the whole machinery of a free, active, and popular government in
constant operation before his eyes, he returned to take the
government of a dilapidated country. The power of the priesthood,
exercised in the most fearful shape of tyranny; the power of the
crown, at once feeble and arbitrary; the power of opinion, wholly
extinguished; and the power of the people, perverted into the
instrument of their own oppression--were the elements of evil with
which the minister had to deal; and he dealt with them vigorously,
sincerely, and successfully.

The most horrible tribunal of irresponsible power, combined with the
most remorseless priestcraft, was the Inquisition; for it not merely
punished men for obeying their own consciences, but tried them in
defiance of every principle of enquiry. It not only made a law
contradictory of every other law, but it established a tribunal
subversive of every mode by which the innocent could be defended. It
was a murderer on principle. Pombal's first act was a bold and noble
effort to reduce this tribunal within the limits of national safety.
By a decree of 1751, it was ordered that thenceforth no judicial
burnings should take place without the consent and approval of the
government, taking to itself the right of enquiry and examination,
and confirming or reversing the sentence according to its own
judgment. This measure decided at once the originality and the
boldness of the minister: for it was the first effort of the kind in
a Popish kingdom; and it was made against the whole power of Rome,
the restless intrigues of the Jesuits, and the inveterate
superstition of the people.

Having achieved this great work of humanity, the minister's next
attention was directed to the defences of the kingdom. He found all
the fortresses in a state of decay, he appropriated an annual revenue
of L.7000 for their reparation; he established a national manufactory
of gunpowder, it having been previously supplied by contract, and
being of course supplied of the worst quality at the highest rate. He
established regulations for the fisheries, he broke up iniquitous
contracts, he attempted to establish a sugar refinery, and directed
the attention of the people largely to the cultivation of silk. His
next reformation was that of the police. The disorders of the late
reign had covered the highways with robbers. Pombal instituted a
police so effective, and proceeded with such determined justice
against all disturbers of the peace, that the roads grew suddenly
safe, and the streets of Lisbon became proverbial for security, at a
time when every capital of Europe was infested with robbers and
assassins, and when even the state of London was so hazardous, as to
be mentioned in the king's speech in 1753 as a scandal to the
country. The next reform was in the collection of the revenue. An
immense portion of the taxes had hitherto gone into the pockets of
the collectors. Pombal appointed twenty-eight receivers for the
various provinces, abolished at a stroke a host of inferior officers,
made the promisers responsible for the receivers, and restored the
revenue to a healthy condition. Commerce next engaged his attention;
he established a company to trade to the East and China, the old
sources of Portuguese wealth. In the western dominions of Portugal,
commerce had hitherto languished. He established a great company for
the Brazil trade. But his still higher praise was his humanity.
Though acting in the midst of a nation overrun with the most violent
follies and prejudices of Popery, he laboured to correct the abuses
of the convents; and, among the rest, their habit of retaining as
nuns the daughters of the Brazilian Portuguese who had been sent over
for their education. By a wise and humane decree, issued in 1765, the
Indians, and a large portion of Brazil, were declared free.
Expedients were adopted to civilize them, and privileges were granted
to the Portuguese who should contract marriage among them. Of course
those great objects were not achieved without encountering serious
difficulties. The pride of the idle aristocracy, the sleepless
intriguing of the Jesuits, the ignorant enthusiasm of the people, and
the sluggish supremacy of the priests, were all up in arms against
him. But his principle was pure, his knowledge sound, and his
resolution decided. Above all, he had, in the person of the king, a
man of strong mind, convinced of the necessities of change, and
determined to sustain the minister. The reforms soon vindicated
themselves by the public prosperity; and Pombal exercised all the
powers of a despotic sovereign, in the benevolent spirit of a
regenerator of his country.

But a tremendous physical calamity was now about to put to the test
at once the fortitude of this great minister, and the resources of
Portugal.

On the morning of All-Saints' day, the 1st of November 1755, Lisbon
was almost torn up from the foundations by the most terrible
earthquake on European record. As it was a high Romish festival, the
population were crowding to the churches, which were lighted up in
honour of the day. About a quarter before ten the first shock was
felt, which lasted the extraordinary length of six or seven minutes;
then followed an interval of about five minutes, after which the
shock was renewed, lasting about three minutes. The concussions were
so violent in both instances that nearly all the solid buildings were
dashed to the ground, and the principal part of the city almost
wholly ruined. The terror of the population, rushing through the
falling streets, gathered in the churches, or madly attempting to
escape into the fields, may be imagined; but the whole scene of
horror, death, and ruin, exceeds all description. The ground split
into chasms, into which the people were plunged in their fright.
Crowds fled to the water; but the Tagus, agitated like the land,
suddenly rose to an extraordinary height, burst upon the land, and
swept away all within its reach. It was said to have risen to the
height of five-and-twenty or thirty feet above its usual level, and
to have sunk again as much below it. And this phenomenon occurred
four times.

The despatch from the British consul stated, that the especial force
of the earthquake seemed to be directly under the city; for while
Lisbon was lifted from the ground, as if by the explosion of a
gunpowder mine, the damage either above or below was not so
considerable. One of the principal quays, to which it was said that
many people had crowded for safety, was plunged under the Tagus, and
totally disappeared. Ships were carried down by the shock on the
river, dashes to pieces against each other, or flung upon the shore.
To complete the catastrophe, fires broke out in the ruins, which
spread over the face of the city, burned for five or six days, and
reduced all the goods and property of the people to ashes. For forty
days the shocks continued with more or less violence, but they had
now nothing left to destroy. The people were thus kept in a constant
state of alarm, and forced to encamp in the open fields, though it
was now winter. The royal family were encamped in the gardens of the
palace; and, as in all the elements of society had been shaken
together, Lisbon and its vicinity became the place of gathering for
banditti from all quarters in the kingdom. A number of Spanish
deserters made their way to the city, and robberies and murders of
the most desperate kind were constantly perpetrated.

During this awful period, the whole weight of government fell upon
the shoulders of the minister; and he bore it well. He adopted the
most active measures for provisioning the city, for repressing
plunder and violence, and for enabling the population to support
themselves during this period of suffering. It was calculated that
seven millions sterling could scarcely repair the damage of the city;
and that not less than eighty thousand lives had been lost, either
crushed by the earth or swallowed up by the waters. Some conception
of the native mortality may be formed from that of the English: of
the comparatively small number of whom, resident at that time in
Lisbon, no less than twenty-eight men and fifty women were among the
sufferers.

The royal family were at the palace of Belem when this tremendous
calamity occurred. Pombal instantly hastened there. He found every
one in consternation. "What is to be done," exclaimed the king, as he
entered "to meet this infliction of divine justice?" The calm and
resolute answer of Pombal was--"Bury the dead, and feed the living."
This sentence is still recorded, with honour, in the memory of
Portugal.

The minister then threw himself into his carriage, and returned to
the ruins. For several days his only habitation was his carriage; and
from it he continued to issue regulations for the public security.
Those regulations amounted to the remarkable number of two hundred;
and embraced all the topics of police, provisions, and the burial of
the sufferers. Among those regulations was the singular, but
sagacious one, of prohibiting all persons from leaving the city
without a passport. By this, those who had robbed the people, or
plundered the church plate, were prevented from escaping to the
country and hiding their plunder, and consequently were obliged to
abandon, or to restore it. But every shape of public duty was met by
this vigorous and intelligent minister. He provided for the cure of
the wounded, the habitancy of the houseless, the provision of the
destitute. He brought troops from the provinces for the protection of
the capital, he forced the idlers to work, he collected the inmates
of the ruined religious houses, he removed the ruins of the streets,
buried the dead, and restored the services of the national religion.

Another task subsequently awaited him--the rebuilding of the city. He
began boldly; and all that Lisbon now has of beauty is due to the
taste and energy of Pombal. He built noble squares. He did more: he
built the more important fabric of public sewers in the new streets,
and he laid out a public garden for the popular recreation. But he
found, as Wren found, even in England, the infinite difficulty of
opposing private interest, even in public objects; and Lisbon lost
the opportunity of being the most picturesque and stately of European
cities. One project, which would have been at once of the highest
beauty and of the highest benefit--a terrace along the shore of the
Tagus from Santa Apollonia to Belem, a distance of nearly six miles,
which would have formed the finest promenade in the world--he was
either forced to give up or to delay, until its execution was
hopeless. It was never even begun.

The vigour of Pombal's administration raised bitter enemies to him
among those who had lived on the abuses of government, or the plunder
of the people. The Jesuits hated alike the king and his minister.
They even declared the earthquake to have been a divine judgment for
the sins of the administration. But they were rash enough, in the
intemperance of their zeal, to threaten a repetition of the
earthquake at the same time next year. When the destined day came,
Pombal planted strong guards at the city gates, to prevent the panic
of the people in rushing into the country. The earthquake did not
fulfil the promise; and the people first laughed at themselves, and
then at the Jesuits. The laugh had important results in time.

There are few things more remarkable in diplomatic history, than the
long connexion of Portugal with England. It arose naturally from the
commerce of the two nations--Portugal, already the most adventurous
of nations, and England, growing in commercial enterprise. The
advantages were mutual. In the year 1367, we have a Portuguese treaty
stipulating for protection to the Portuguese traders in England. In
1382, a royal order of Richard II. permits the Portuguese ambassador
to bring his baggage into England free of duty--perhaps one of the
earliest instances of a custom which marked the progress of
civilization, and which has since been generally adopted throughout
all civilized nations. A decree of Henry IV., in 1405, exonerates the
Portuguese resident in England, and their ships, from being made
responsible for the debts contracted by their ambassadors. In 1656,
the important privilege was conceded to the English in Portugal, of
being exempted from the native jurisdiction, and being tried by a
judge appointed by England. This, in our days, might be an
inadmissible privilege; but two centuries ago, in the disturbed
condition of the Portuguese laws and general society, it might have
been necessary for the simple protection of the strangers.

The theories of domestic manufactures and free trade have lately
occupied so large a portion of public interest, that it is curious to
see in what light they were regarded by a statesman so far in advance
of his age as Pombal. The minister's theory is in striking
contradiction to his practice. He evidently approved of monopoly and
prohibitions, but he exercised neither the one nor the other--nature
and necessity were too strong against him. We are, however, to
recollect, that the language of complaint was popular in Portugal, as
it always will be in a poor country, and that the minister who would
be popular must adopt the language of complaint. In an eloquent and
almost impassioned memoir by Pombal, he mourns over the poverty of
his country, and hastily imputes it to the predominance of English
commerce. He tells us that, in the middle of the eighteenth century,
Portugal scarcely produced any thing towards her own support. Two
thirds of her physical necessities were supplied from England. He
complains that England had become mistress of the entire commerce of
Portugal, and in fact that the Portuguese trade was only an English
trade; that the English were the furnishers and retailers of all the
necessaries of life throughout the country, and that the Portuguese
had nothing to do but look on; that Cromwell, by the treaty which
allowed the supply of Portugal with English cloths to the amount of
two million sterling, had utterly impoverished the country; and in
short, that the weakness and incapacity of Portugal, as an European
state, were wholly owing, to her being destitute of trade, and that
the destitution was wholly owing to her being overwhelmed by English
commodities.

We are not about to enter into detail upon this subject, but it is to
be remembered, that Portugal obtained the cloth, even if she paid for
it, cheaper from England than she could have done from any other
country in Europe; that she had no means of making the cloth for
herself, and that, after all, man must be clothed. Portugal, without
flocks or fire, without coals or capital, could never have
manufactured cloth enough to cover the tenth part of her population,
at ten times the expense. This has occurred in later days, and in
more opulent countries. We remember, in the reign of the Emperor
Paul, when he was frantic enough to declare war against England, a
pair of broadcloth pantaloons costing seven guineas in St Peterburg.
This would have been severe work for the purse of a Portuguese
peasant a hundred years ago. The plain fact of domestic manufactures
being this, that no folly can be more foolish than to attempt to form
them where the means and the country do not give them a natural
superiority. For example, coals and iron are essential to the product
of all works in metal. France has neither. How can she, therefore,
contest the superiority of our hardware? She contests it simply by
doing without it, and by putting up with the most intolerable cutlery
that the world has ever seen. If, where manufactures are already
established, however ineffectual, it may become a question with the
government whether some privations must not be submitted to by the
people in general, rather than precipitate those unlucky manufactures
into ruin; there can be no question whatever on the subject where
manufactures have not been hitherto established. Let the people go to
the best market, let no attempt be made to force nature, and let no
money be wasted on the worst article got by the worst means. One
thing, however, is quite clear with respect to Portugal, that, by the
English alliance, she has gained what is worth all the manufactures
of Europe--independence. When, in 1640, she threw off the Spanish
usurpation, and placed the Braganza family on the national throne,
she threw herself on the protection of England; and that protection
never has failed her to this hour. In the Spanish invasion of
Portugal in 1762, England sent her ten thousand men, and the first
officer of his day, Count La Lippe, who, notwithstanding his German
name, was an Englishman born, and had commenced his service in the
Guards. The Spaniards were beaten in all directions, and Portugal was
included in the treaty of Fontainbleau in 1763. The deliverance of
Portugal in the Peninsular war is too recent to be forgotten, and too
memorable to be spoken of here as it deserves. And to understand the
full value of this assistance, we are to recollect, that Portugal is
one of the smallest kingdoms of Europe, and at the same time the most
exposed; that its whole land frontier is open to Spain, and its whole
sea frontier is open to France; that its chief produce is wine and
oranges, and that England is incomparably its best customer for both.

Pombal, in his memoir, imputes a portion of the poverty of Portugal
to her possession of the gold mines of Brazil. This is one of the
paradoxes of the last century; but nations are only aggregates of
men, and what makes an individual rich, cannot make a nation poor.
The true secret is this--that while the possession of the gold mines
induced an indolent government to rely upon them for the expenses of
the state, that reliance led them to abandon sources of profit in the
agriculture and commerce of the country, which were of ten times the
value. This was equally the case in Spain. The first influx from the
mines of Peru, enabled the government to disregard the revenues
arising from the industry of the people. In consequence of the want
of encouragement from the government, the agriculture and commerce of
Spain sank rapidly into the lowest condition, whilst the government
indolently lived on the produce of the mines. But the more gold and
silver exist in circulation, the less becomes their value. Within
half a century, the imports from the Spanish and Portuguese mines,
had reduced the value of the precious metals by one half; and those
imports thus became inadequate to the ordinary expenses of
government. Greater efforts were then made to obtain them from the
mines. Still, as the more that was obtained the less was the general
value, the operation became more profitless still; and at length both
Spain and Portugal were reduced to borrow money, which they had no
means to pay--in other words, were bankrupt. And this is the true
solution of the problem--why have the gold and silver mines of the
Peninsula left them the poorest nations of Europe? Yet this was
contrary to the operation of new wealth. The discovery of the mines
of the New World appears to have been a part of that providential
plan, by which a general impulse was communicated to Europe in the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Europe was preparing for a new
vigour of religion, politics, commerce, and civilization. Nothing
stimulates national effort of every kind with so much power and
rapidity, as a new general accession of wealth, or, as the political
economist would pronounce it, a rise of wages, whether industrial or
intellectual; and this rise was effected by the new influx of the
mines. If Peru and Mexico had belonged to England, she would have
converted their treasures into new canals and high-roads, new
harbours, new encouragements to agriculture, new excitements to
public education, new enterprises of commerce, or the colonization of
new countries in the productive regions of the globe; and thus she
would at once have increased her natural opulence, and saved herself
from suffering under the depreciation of the precious metals, or more
partially, by her active employment of them, have almost wholly
prevented that depreciation. But the Peninsula, relying wholly on its
imported wealth, and neglecting its infinitely more important
national riches, was exactly in the condition of an individual, who
spends the principal of his property, which is continually sinking
until it is extinguished altogether.

Another source of Peninsular poverty existed in its religion. The
perpetual holidays of Popery made even the working portion of the
people habitually idle. Where labour is prohibited for nearly a
fourth of the year by the intervention of holidays, and thus idleness
is turned into a sacred merit, the nation must prepare for beggary.
But Popery goes further still. The establishment of huge communities
of sanctified idlers, monks and nuns by the ten thousand, in every
province and almost in every town, gave a sacred sanction to
idleness--gave a means of escaping work to all who preferred the
lounging and useless life of the convent to regular labour, and even
provided the means of living to multitudes of vagabonds, who were
content to eat their bread, and drink their soup, daily at the
convent gates, rather than to make any honest decent effort to
maintain themselves. Every country must be poor in which a large
portion of the public property goes to the unproductive classes. The
soldiery, the monks, the state annuitants, the crowds of domestics,
dependent on the families of the grandees, all are necessarily
unproductive. The money which they receive is simply consumed. It
makes no return. Thus poverty became universal; and nothing but the
singular fertility of the peopled districts of Spain and Portugal,
and the fortune of having a climate which requires but few of the
comforts essential in a severer temperature, could have saved them
both from being the most pauperized of all nations, or even from
perishing altogether, and leaving the land a desert behind them. It
strangely illustrates these positions, that, in 1754, the Portuguese
treasury was so utterly emptied, that the monarch was compelled to
borrow 400,000 crusadoes (L.40,000) from a private company, for the
common expenses of his court.

Wholly and justly disclaiming the imputation which would pronounce
Portugal a dependent on England, it is impossible to turn a page of
her history without seeing the measureless importance of her English
connexion. Every genuine source of her power and opulence has either
originated with, or been sustained by, her great ally. Among the
first of these has been the wine trade. In the year 1756--the year
following that tremendous calamity which had sunk Lisbon into
ruins--the wine-growers in the three provinces of Beira, Minho, and
Tras-os-Montes, represented that they were on the verge of ruin. The
adulteration of the Portuguese wines by the low traders had destroyed
their character in Europe, and the object of the representation was
to reinstate that character. Pombal immediately took up their cause;
and, in the course of the same year, was formed the celebrated Oporto
Wine Company, with a capital of L120,000. The declared principles of
the establishment were, to preserve the quality of the wines, to
secure the growers by fixing a regular price, and to protect them
from the combinations of dealers. The company had the privilege of
purchasing all the wines grown within a particular district at a
fixed price, for a certain period after the vintage. When that period
had expired, the growers were at liberty to sell the wines which
remained unpurchased in whatever market they pleased. Monopolies, in
the advanced and prosperous career of commercial countries, generally
sink into abuse; but they are, in most instances, absolutely
necessary to the infant growth of national traffic. All the commerce
of Europe has commenced by companies. In the early state of European
trade, individuals were too poor for those large enterprises which
require a large outlay, and whose prospects, however promising, are
distant. What one cannot do, must be done by a combination of many,
if it is to be done at all. Though when individual capital, by the
very action of that monopoly, becomes powerful enough for those
enterprises, then the time is at hand when the combination may be
dissolved with impunity. The Oporto Wine Company had no sooner come
into existence, than its benefits were felt in every branch of
Portuguese revenue. It restored and extended the cultivation of the
vine, which is the staple of Portugal. It has been abolished in the
revolutionary changes of late years. But the question, whether the
country is yet fit to bear the abolition, is settled by the fact,
that the wine-growers are complaining of ruin, and that the necessity
of the case is now urging the formation of the company once more.

The decision of Pombal's character was never more strongly shown than
on this occasion. The traders into whose hands the Portuguese wines
had fallen, and who had enjoyed an illegal monopoly for so many
years, raised tumults, and serious insurrection was threatened. At
Oporto, the mob plundered the director's house, and seized on the
chief magistrate. The military were attacked, and the government was
endangered. The minister instantly ordered fresh troops to Oporto;
arrests took place; seventeen persons were executed; five-and-twenty
sent to the galleys; eighty-six banished, and others subjected to
various periods of imprisonment. The riots were extinguished. In a
striking memoir, written by Pombal after his retirement from office,
he gives a brief statement of the origin of this company--a topic at
all times interesting to the English public, and which is about to
derive a new interest from its practical revival in Portugal. We
quote a fragment.

"The unceasing and urgent works which the calamitous earthquake of
November 1st, 1755, had rendered indispensable, were still vigorously
pursued, when, in the following year, one Mestre Frei Joao de
Mansilla presented himself at the Giunta at Belem, on the part of the
principal husbandmen of Upper Douro, and of the respectable
inhabitants of Oporto, in a state of utter consternation.

"In the popular outcry of the time, the English were represented as
making themselves the sole managers of every thing. The fact being,
that, as they were the only men who had any money, they were almost
the sole purchasers in the Portuguese markets. But the English here
complained of were the low traffickers, who, in conjunction with the
Lisbon and Oporto vintners, bought and managed the wines at their
discretion. It was represented to the king, that, by those means, the
price of wine had been reduced to 7200 rios a pipe, or less, until
the expense of cultivation was more than the value of the produce;
that those purchasers required one or two years' credit; that the
price did not pay for the hoeing of the land, which was consequently
deserted; that all the principal families of one district had been
reduced to poverty, so much so as to be obliged to sell their knives
and forks; that the poor people had not a drop of oil for their
salad, so that they were obliged, even in Lent, to season their
vegetables with the fat of hogs." The memoir mentions even gross vice
as a consequence of their extreme poverty.

We quote this passage to show to what extremities a people may be
reduced by individual mismanagement, and what important changes may
be produced by the activity of an intelligent directing power. The
king's letters-patent of 1756, establishing the company, provided at
once for the purity of the wine, its extended sale in England, and
the solvency of the wine provinces. It is only one among a thousand
instances of the hazards in which Popery involves all regular
government, to find the Jesuits inflaming the populace against this
most salutary and successful act of the king. At confession, they
prompted the people to believe "that the wines of the company were
not fit for the celebration of mass." (For the priests drink wine in
the communion, though the people receive only the bread.) To give
practical example to their precept, they dispersed narratives of a
great popular insurrection which had occurred in 1661; and both
incentives resulted in the riots in Oporto, which it required all the
vigour of Pombal to put down.

But the country and Europe was now to acknowledge the services of the
great minister on a still higher scale. The extinction of the Jesuits
was the work of his bold and sagacious mind. The history of this
event is among the most memorable features of a century finishing
with the fall of the French monarchy.

The passion of Rome for territory has been always conspicuous, and
always unsuccessful. Perpetually disturbing the Italian princes in
the projects of usurpation, it has scarcely ever advanced beyond the
original bounds fixed for it by Charlemagne. Its spirit of intrigue,
transfused into its most powerful order the Jesuits, was employed for
the similar purpose of acquiring territorial dominion. But Europe was
already divided among powerful nations. Those nations were governed
by jealous authorities, powerful kings for their leaders, and
powerful armies for their defence. All was full; there was no room
for the contention of a tribe of ecclesiastics, although the most
daring, subtle, and unscrupulous of the countless slaves and soldiers
of Rome. The world of America was open. There a mighty power might
grow up unseen by the eye of Europe. A population of unlimited
multitudes might find space in the vast plains; commerce in the
endless rivers; defence in the chains of mountains; and wealth in the
rocks and sands of a region teeming with the precious metals. The
enterprise was commenced under the pretext of converting the Indians
of Paraguay. Within a few years the Jesuits formed an independent
republic, numbering thirty-one towns, with a population of a hundred
thousand souls. To render their power complete, they prohibited all
communication between the natives and the Spaniards and Portuguese,
forbidding them to learn the language of either country, and
implanting in the mind of the Indians an implacable hatred of both
Spain and Portugal. At length both courts became alarmed, and orders
were sent out to extinguish the usurpation. Negotiations were in the
mean time opened between Spain and Portugal relative to an exchange
of territory, and troops were ordered to effect the exchange.
Measures of this rank were unexpected by the Jesuits. They had
reckoned upon the proverbial tardiness of the Peninsular councils;
but they were determined not to relinquish their prize without a
struggle. They accordingly armed the natives, and prepared for a
civil war.

The Indians, unwarlike as they have always been, now headed by their
Jesuit captains, outmanoeuvred the invaders. The expedition failed;
and the baffled invasion ended in a disgraceful treaty. The
expedition was renewed in the next year, 1755, and again baffled. The
Portuguese government of the Brazils now made renewed efforts, and in
1756 obtained some advantages; but they were still as far as ever
from final success, and the war, fruitless as it was, had begun to
drain heavily the finances of the mother country. It had already cost
the treasury of Lisbon a sum equal to three millions sterling. But
the minister at the head of the Portuguese government was of a
different character from the race who had, for the last hundred
years, wielded the ministerial sceptres of Spain and Portugal. His
clear and daring spirit at once saw where the evil lay, and defied
the difficulties that lay between him and its cure. He determined to
extinguish the order of the Jesuits at a blow. The boldness of this
determination can be estimated only by a knowledge of the time. In
the middle of the eighteenth century, the Jesuits were the
ecclesiastical masters of Europe. They were the confessors of the
chief monarchs of the Continent; the heads of the chief seminaries
for national education; the principal professors in all the
universities;--and this influence, vast as it was by its extent and
variety, was rendered more powerful by the strict discipline, the
unhesitating obedience, and the systematic activity of their order.
All the Jesuits existing acknowledged one head, the general of their
order, whose constant residence was at Rome. But their influence,
powerful as it was by their open operation on society, derived
perhaps a superior power from its secret exertions. Its name was
legion--its numbers amounted to thousands--it took every shape of
society, from the highest to the lowest. It was the noble and the
peasant--the man of learning and the man of trade--the lawyer and the
monk--the soldier and the sailor--nay, it was said, that such was the
extraordinary pliancy of its principle of disguise, the Jesuit was
suffered to assume the tenets of Protestantism, and even to act as a
Protestant pastor, for the purpose of more complete deception. The
good of the church was the plea which purified all imposture; the
power of Rome was the principle on which this tremendous system of
artifice was constructed; and the reduction of all modes of human
opinion to the one sullen superstition of the Vatican, was the
triumph for which those armies of subtle enthusiasm and fraudulent
sanctity were prepared to live and die.

The first act of Pombal was to remove the king's confessor, the
Jesuit Moreira. The education of the younger branches of the royal
family was in the hands of Jesuits. Pombal procured a royal order
that no Jesuit should approach the court, without obtaining the
express permission of the king. He lost no time in repeating the
assault. Within a month, on the 8th of October 1767, he sent
instructions to the Portuguese ambassador at Rome, to demand a
private audience, and lay before the pope the misdemeanours of the
order.

Those instructions charged the Jesuits with the most atrocious
personal profligacy, with a design to master all public power, to
gather opulence dangerous to the state, and actually to plot against
the authority of the crowns of Europe. He announced, that the king of
Portugal had commanded all the Jesuit confessors of the prince and
princesses to withdraw to their own convents; and this important
manifesto closed by soliciting the interposition of the papal see to
prevent the ruin, by purifying an order which had given scandal to
Christianity, by offences against the public and private peace of
society, equally unexampled, habitual, and abominable. In 1758, the
representation to the pope was renewed, with additional proofs that
the order had determined to usurp every function, and thwart every
act of the civil government; that the confessors of the royal family,
though dismissed, continued to conspire; that they resisted the
formation of royal institutions for the renewal of the national
commerce; and that they excited the people to dangerous tumults, in
defiance of the royal authority.

Their intrigues comprehended every object by which influence was to
be obtained, or money was to be made. The "Great Wine Company," on
which the chief commerce of Portugal, and almost the existence of its
northern provinces depended, was a peculiar object of their
hostility, for reasons which we can scarcely apprehend, except they
were general jealousy of all lay power, and hostility to all the
works of Pombal. They assailed it from their pulpits; and one of
their popular preachers made himself conspicuous by impiously
exclaiming, "that whoever joined that company, would have no part in
the company of Jesus Christ."

The intrigues of this dangerous and powerful society had long before
been represented to the popes, and had drawn down upon them those
remonstrances by which the habitual dexterity of Rome at once saves
appearances, and suffers the continuance of the delinquency. The
Jesuits were too useful to be restrained; yet their crimes were too
palpable to be passed over. In consequence, the complaints of the
monarchs of Spain and Portugal were answered by bulls issued from
time to time, equally formal and ineffective. Yet even from these
documents may be ascertained the singularly gross, worldly, and
illegitimate pursuits of an order, professing itself to be supremely
religious, and the prime sustainer of the "faith of the gospel." The
bull of Benedict the XIV., issued in 1741, prohibited from "trade and
commerce, all worldly dominion, and the _purchase_ and _sale_ of
converted Indians." The bull extended the prohibition generally to
the monkish orders, to avoid branding the Jesuits especially. But a
bull of more direct reprehension was published at the close of the
year, expressly against the Jesuits in their missions in the east and
west. The language of this document amounts to a catalogue of the
most atrocious offences against society, humanity, and morals. By
this bull, "all men, and especially _Jesuits_," are prohibited, under
penalty of excommunication, from "making slaves of the Indians; from
selling and bartering them; from separating them from their wives and
children; from robbing them of their property; from transporting them
from their native soil," &c.

Nothing but the strongest necessity, and the most ample evidence,
would ever have drawn this condemnation from Rome, whether sincere or
insincere. But the urgencies of the case became more evident from day
to day. In 1758, the condemnation was followed by the practical
measure of appointing Cardinal Saldanha visitor and reformer of the
Jesuits in Portugal, and the Portuguese settlements in the east and
west.

Within two months of this appointment the following decree was
issued:--"For just reasons known to us, and which concern especially
the service of God and the public welfare, we suspend from the power
of confessing and preaching, in the whole extent of our patriarchate,
the fathers of the Society of Jesus, from this moment, and until
further notice." Saldanha had been just raised to the patriarchate.

We have given some observations on this subject, from its peculiar
importance to the British empire at this moment. The order of the
Jesuits, extinguished in the middle of the last century by the
unanimous demand of Europe, charged with every crime which could make
a great association obnoxious to mankind, and exhibiting the most
atrocious violations of the common rules of human morality, has,
within this last quarter of a century, been revived by the papacy,
with the express declaration, that its revival is for the exclusive
purpose of giving new effect to the doctrines, the discipline, and
the power of Rome. The law which forbids the admission of Jesuits
into England, has shared the fate of all laws feebly administered;
and Jesuits are active by hundreds or by thousands in every portion
of the empire. They have restored the whole original system,
sustained by all their habitual passion for power, and urging their
way, with all their ancient subtlety, through all ranks of
Protestantism.

The courage and intelligence of Pombal placed him in the foremost
rank of Europe, when the demand was the boldest and most essential
service which a great minister could offer to his country; he broke
the power of Jesuitism. But an order so numerous--for even within the
life of its half-frenzied founder it amounted to 19,000--so
vindictive, and flung from so lofty a rank of influence, could not
perish without some desperate attempts to revenge its ruin. The life
of Pombal was so constantly in danger, that the king actually
assigned him a body guard. But the king himself was exposed to one of
the most remarkable plots of regicide on record--the memorable Aveiro
and Tavora conspiracy.

On the night of the 3d of September 1758, as the king was returning
to the palace at night in a cabriolet, attended only by his valet,
two men on horseback, and armed with blunderbusses, rode up to the
carriage, and leveled their weapons at the monarch. One of them
missed fire, the other failed of its effect. The royal postilion, in
alarm, rushed forward, when two men, similarly waiting in the road,
galloped after the carriage, and both fired their blunderbusses into
it behind. The cabriolet was riddled with slugs, and the king was
wounded in several places. By an extraordinary presence of mind, Don
Joseph, instead of ordering the postilion to gallop onward, directed
him instantly to turn back, and, to avoid alarming the palace, carry
him direct to the house of the court surgeon. By this fortunate
order, he escaped the other groups of the conspirators, who were
stationed further on the road, and under whose repeated discharges he
would probably have fallen.

The public alarm and indignation on the knowledge of this desperate
atrocity were unbounded. There seemed to be but one man in the
kingdom who preserved his composure, and that one was Pombal.
Exhibiting scarcely even the natural perturbation at an event which
had threatened almost a national convulsion, he suffered the whole to
become a matter of doubt, and allowed the king's retirement from the
public eye to be considered as merely the effect of accident. The
public despatch of Mr Hay, the British envoy at Lisbon, alludes to
it, chiefly as assigning a reason for the delay of a court
mourning--the order for this etiquette, on the death of the Spanish
queen, not having been put in execution. The envoy mentions that it
had been impeded by the king's illness,--"it being the custom of the
court to put on _gala_ when any of the royal family are blooded. When
I went to court to enquire after his majesty's health, I was there
informed that the king, on Sunday night the 3d instant, passing
through a gallery to go to the queen's apartment, had the misfortune
to fall and bruise his right arm; he had been blooded eight different
times; and, as his majesty is a fat bulky man, to prevent any humours
fixing there, his physicians have advised that he should not use his
arm, but abstain from business for some time. In consequence, the
queen was declared regent during Don Joseph's illness."

This was the public version of the event. But appended to the
despatch was a postscript, in _cipher_, stating the reality of the
transaction. Pombal's sagacity, and his self control, perhaps a still
rarer quality among the possessors of power, were exhibited in the
strongest light on this occasion. For three months not a single step
appeared to be taken to punish, or even to detect the assassins. The
subject was allowed to die away; when, on the 9th of December, all
Portugal was startled by a royal decree, declaring the crime, and
offering rewards for the seizure of the assassins. Some days
afterwards Lisbon heard, with astonishment, an order for the arrest
of the Duke of Aveira, one of the first nobles, and master of the
royal household; the arrest of the whole family of the Marquis of
Tavora, himself, his two sons, his four brothers, and his two
sons-in-law. Other nobles were also seized; and the Jesuits were
forbidden to be seen out of their houses.

The three months of Pombal's apparent inaction had been incessantly
employed in researches into the plot. Extreme caution was evidently
necessary, where the criminals were among the highest officials and
nobles, seconded by the restless and formidable machinations of the
Jesuits. When his proofs were complete, he crushed the conspirators
at a single grasp. His singular inactivity had disarmed them; and
nothing but the most consummate composure could have prevented their
flying from justice. On the 12th of January 1759, they were found
guilty; and on the 13th they were put to death, to the number of
nine, with the Marchioness of Tavora, in the square of Belem. The
scaffold and the bodies were burned, and the ashes thrown into the
sea.

Those were melancholy acts; the works of melancholy times. But as no
human crime can be so fatal to the security of a state as regicide,
no imputation can fall on the memory of a great minister, compelled
to exercise justice in its severity, for the protection of all orders
of the kingdom. In our more enlightened period, we must rejoice that
those dreadful displays of judicial power have passed away; and that
laws are capable of being administered without the tortures, or the
waste of life, which agonize the feelings of society. Yet, while
blood for blood continued to be the code; while the sole prevention
of crime was sought for in the security of judgment; and while even
the zeal of justice against guilt was measured by the terrible
intensity of the punishment--we must charge the horror of such
sweeping executions to the ignorance of the age, much more than to
the vengeance of power.

This tragedy was long the subject of European memory; and all the
extravagance of popular credulity was let loose ill discovering the
causes of the conspiracy. It was said, in the despatches of the
English minister, that the Marquis of Tavora, who had been Portuguese
minister in the East, was irritated by the royal attentions to his
son's wife. Ambition was the supposed ground of the Duke of Aveira's
perfidy. The old Marchioness of Tavora, who had been once the
handsomest woman at court, and was singularly vein and haughty, was
presumed to have received some personal offence, by the rejection of
the family claim to a dukedom. All is wrapped in the obscurity
natural to transactions in which individuals of rank are involved in
the highest order of crime. It was the natural policy of the minister
to avoid extending the charges by explaining the origin of the crime.
The connexions of the traitors were still many and powerful; and
further disclosures might have produced only further attempts at the
assassination of the minister or the king.

It was now determined to act with vigour against the Jesuits, who
were distinctly charged with assisting, if not originating, the
treason. A succession of decrees were issued, depriving them of their
privileges and possessions; and finally, on the 5th of October 1759,
the cardinal patriarch Saldanha issued the famous mandate, by which
the whole society was expelled from the Portuguese dominions. Those
in the country were transported to Civita Vecchia; those in the
colonies were also conveyed to the Papal territory; and thus, by the
intrepidity, wisdom, and civil courage of one man, the realm was
relieved from the presence of the most powerful and most dangerous
body which had ever disturbed the peace of society.

Portugal having thus the honour of taking the lead, Rome herself at
length followed; and, on the accession of the celebrated Ganganelli,
Clement XIV., a resolution was adopted to suppress the Jesuits in
every part of the world. On the 21st of July 1773, the memorable bull
"Dominus ac Redemptor," was published, and the order was at an end.
The announcement was received in Lisbon with natural rejoicing. _Te
Deum_ was sung, and the popular triumph was unbounded and universal.

We now hasten to the close of this distinguished minister's career.
His frame, though naturally vigorous, began to feel the effects of
his incessant labour, and an apoplectic tendency threatened to
shorten a life so essential to the progress of Portugal; for that
whole life was one of _temperate_ and _progressive_ reform. His first
application was to the finances; he found the Portuguese exchequer on
the verge of bankruptcy. A third of the taxes was embezzled in the
collection. In 1761, his new system was adopted, by which the
finances were restored; and every week a balance-sheet of the whole
national expenditure was presented to the king. His next reform was
the royal household, where all unnecessary expenses--and they were
numerous--were abolished. Another curious reform will be longer
remembered in Portugal. The nation had hitherto used _only_ the
_knife_ at dinner! Pombal introduced the _fork_. He brought this
novel addition to the table with him from England in 1745!

The nobility were remarkably ignorant. Pombal formed the "College of
Nobles" for their express education. There they were taught every
thing suitable to their rank. The only prohibition being, "that they
should _not converse in Latin_," the old pedantic custom of the
monks. The nobles were directed to converse in English, French,
Italian, or their native tongue; Pombal declaring, that the custom of
speaking Latin was only "to teach them to barbarize."

Another custom, though of a more private order, attracted the notice
of this rational and almost universal improver. It had been adopted
as a habit by the widows of the nobility, to spend the first years of
their widowhood in the most miserable seclusion; they shut up their
windows, retired to some gloomy chamber, slept on the floor, and,
suffering all kinds of voluntary and absurd mortifications, forbade
the approach of the world. As the custom was attended with danger to
health, and often with death, besides its general melancholy
influence on society, the minister publicly "enacted," that every
part of it should be abolished; and, moreover, that the widows should
always remove to another house; or, where this was not practicable,
that they "should _not_ close the shutters, nor '_mourn_' for more
than a week, nor remain at home for more than a month, nor sleep on
the ground." Doubtless, tens of thousands thanked him, and thank him
still, for this war against a popular, but most vexatious, absurdity.

His next reform was the army. After the peace of 1763, he fixed it at
30,000 men, whom he equipped effectually, and brought into practical
discipline.

A succession of laws, made for the promotion of European and colonial
trade, next opened the resources of Portugal to an extent unknown
before. Pombal next abolished the "Index Expurgitorius"--an
extraordinary achievement, not merely beyond his age, but against the
whole superstitious spirit of his age. He was not content with
abolishing the restraint; he attempted to _restore_ the PRESS in
Portugal. Hitherto nearly all Portuguese books had been printed in
foreign counties. He established a "Royal Press," and gave its
superintendence to Pagliarini, a Roman printer, who had been
expatriated for printing works against the Jesuits. Such, in value
and extent, were the acts which Portugal owed to this indefatigable
and powerful mind, that when, in 1766, he suffered a paralytic
stroke, the king and the people were alike thrown into consternation.

At length Don Joseph, the king, and faithful friend of Pombal, died,
after a reign of twenty-seven years of honour and usefulness. Pombal
requested to resign, and the Donna Maria accepted the resignation,
and conferred various marks of honour upon him. He now retired to his
country-seat, where Wraxall saw him in 1772, and thus describes his
appearance. "At this time he had attained his seventy-third year, but
age seemed to have diminished neither the freshness nor the activity
of his faculties. In his person he was very tall and slender, his
face long, pale, and meagre, but full of intelligence."

But Pombal had been too magnanimous for the court and nobles; and the
loss of his power as minister produced a succession of intrigues
against him, by the relatives of the Tavora family, and doubtless
also by the ecclesiastical influence, which has always been at once
so powerful and so prejudicial in Portugal. He was insulted by a
trial, at which, however, the only sentence inflicted was an order to
retire twenty leagues from the court. The Queen was, at that time,
probably suffering under the first access of that derangement, which,
in a few years after, utterly incapacitated her, and condemned the
remainder of her life to melancholy and total solitude. But the last
praise is not given to the great minister, while his personal
disinterestedness is forgotten. One of the final acts of his life was
to present to the throne a statement of his public income, when it
appeared that, during the twenty-seven years of his administration,
he had received no public emolument but his salary as secretary of
state, and about L.100 a-year for another office. But he was rich;
for, as his two brothers remained unmarried, their incomes were
joined with his own. He lived, held in high respect and estimation by
the European courts, to the great age of eighty-three, dying on the
5th of May without pain. A long inscription, yet in which the
panegyric did not exceed the justice, was placed on his tomb. Yet a
single sentence might have established his claim to the perpetual
gratitude of his country and mankind--

  "Here lies the man who banished the
  Jesuits from Portugal."

Mr Smith's volume is intelligently written, and does much credit to
his research and skill.




MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.

PART XII.


  Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
  Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
  Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
  Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
  And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
  Have I not in the pitched battle heard
  Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"

SHAKSPEARE.

Elnathan was a man of many cares, and every kind of wisdom, but
one--the wisdom of knowing when he had wealth enough. He evidently
loved accumulation; and the result was, that every hour of his
existence was one of terror. Half the brokers and chief traders in
France were already in prison; and yet he carried on the perilous
game of commerce. He was known to be immensely opulent; and he must
have regarded the day which passed over his head, without seeing his
strong boxes put under the government seal, and himself thrown into
some _oubliette_, as a sort of miracle. But he was now assailed by a
new alarm. War with England began to be rumoured among the bearded
brethren of the synagogue; and Elnathan had ships on every sea, from
Peru to Japan. Like Shakspeare's princely merchant--

  "His mind was tossing on the ocean,
  There where his argosies with portly sail,
  Like signiors, and rich burghers of the flood.
  Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
  Did overpower the petty traffickers,
  As they flew by them with their woven wings."

The first shot fired would inevitably pour out the whole naval force
of England, and his argosies would put their helms about, and steer
for Portsmouth, Plymouth, and every port but a French one. If this
formidable intelligence had awakened the haughtiness of the French
government to a sense of public peril, what effect must it not have
in the counting-house of a man whose existence was trade? While I was
on my pillow, luxuriating in dreams of French fetes, Paul and
Virginia carried off to the clouds, and Parisian _belles_ dancing
cotillons in the bowers and pavilions of a Mahometan paradise,
Elnathan spent the night at his desk, surrounded by his bustling
generation of clerks, writing to correspondents at every point of the
compass, and preparing insurances with the great London
establishments; which I was to carry with me, though unacquainted
with the transaction on which so many millions of francs hung
trembling.

His morning face showed me, that whatever had been his occupation
before I met him at the breakfast-table, it had been a most uneasy
one. His powerful and rather handsome physiognomy had shrunk to half
the size; his lips were livid, and his hand shook to a degree which
made me ask, whether the news from Robespierre was unfavourable. But
his assurance that all still went on well in that delicate quarter,
restored my tranquility, which was beginning to give way; and my only
stipulation now was, that I should have an hour or two to spend at
Vincennes before I took my final departure. The Jew was all
astonishment; his long visage elongated at the very sound; he shook
his locks, lifted up his large hands, and fixed his wide eyes on me
with a look of mingled alarm and wonder, which would have been
ludicrous if it had not been perfectly sincere.

"In the name of common sense, do you remember in what a country, and
in what times, we live? Oh, those Englishmen! always thinking that
they are in England. My young friend, you are clearly not fit for
France, and the sooner you get out of it the better."

I still remonstrated. "Do you forget yesterday?" he exclaimed. "Can
you forget the man before whom we both stood? A moment's hesitation
on your part to set out, would breed suspicion in that most
suspicious brain of all mankind. Life is here as uncertain as in a
field of battle. Begone the instant your passports arrive, and never
behind you.--For my part, I constantly feel as if my head were in the
lion's jaws. Rejoice in your escape."

But I was still unconvinced, and explained "that my only motive was,
to relieve my friends in the fortress from the alarm which they had
evidently felt for my fate, and to relieve myself from the charge of
ingratitude, which would inevitably attach to me if I left Paris
without seeing them."

Never was man more perplexed with a stubborn subject. He represented
to me the imminent hazard of straying a hair's-breadth to the right
or left of the orders of Robespierre! "I was actually under
surveillance, and he was responsible for me. To leave his roof; even
for five minutes, until I left it for my journey, might forfeit the
lives of both before evening."

I still remonstrated; and pronounced the opinion, perhaps too
flattering a one, of the dictator, that "he could not condescend to
forbid a mere matter of civility, which still left me entirely at his
service." The Jew at last, in despair, rushed from the room, leaving
me to the unpleasing consciousness that I had distressed an honest
and even a friendly man.

Two hours thus elapsed, when a _chaise de poste_ drew up at the door,
with an officer of the police in front, and from it came Varnhorst
and the doctor, both probably expecting a summons to the scaffold;
but the Prussian bearing his lot with the composure of a man
accustomed to face death, and the doctor evidently in measureless
consternation, colourless and convulsed with fear. His rapture was
equally unbounded when Elnathan, ushering them both into the
apartment where I sat--

  Chewing the cud of sweet and bitter
  thought"--

explained, that finding me determined on my point, he had adopted the
old proverb--of bringing Mahomet to the mountain, if he could not
bring the mountain to Mahomet; had procured an order for their
attendance in Paris, through his influence with the chief of the
police, and now hoped to have the honour of their company at dinner.
This was, certainly, a desirable exchange for the Place de Greve; and
we sat down to a sumptuous table, where we enjoyed ourselves with the
zest which danger escaped gives to luxurious security.

All went on well. The doctor was surprised to find in the frowning
banker, who had repulsed him so sternly from his desk, the hospitable
entertainer; and Varhorst's honest and manly friendship was gratified
by the approach of my release from a scene of perpetual danger.

I had some remembrances to give to my friends in Prussia; and at
length, sending away the doctor to display his connoisseurship on
Elnathan's costly collection of pictures, Varnhorst was left to my
questioning. My first question naturally was, "What had involved him
in the ill-luck of the Austrians."

"The soldier's temptation every where," was the answer; "having
nothing to do at home, and expecting something to do abroad. When the
Prussian army once crossed the Rhine, I should have had no better
employment than to mount guard, escort the court dowagers to the
balls, and finish the year and my life together, by dying of _ennui_.
In this critical moment, when I was in doubt whether I should turn
Tartar, or monk of La Trappe, Clairfait sent to offer me the command
of a division. I closed with it at once, went to the king, obtained
his leave, put spurs to my horse, and reached the Austrian camp
before the courier."

I could not help expressing my envy at a profession in which all the
honours of earth lay at the feet of a successful soldier! He smiled,
and pointed to the police-officer, who was then sulkily pacing in
front of the house.

"You see," said he, "the first specimen of my honours. Yet, from the
moment of my arrival within the Austrian lines, I could have
predicted our misfortune. Clairfait was, at least, as long-sighted as
myself; and nothing could exceed his despondency but his indignation.
His noble heart was half broken by the narrowness of his resources
for defending the country, and the boundless folly by which the war
council of Vienna expected to make up for the weakness of their
battalions by the absurdity of their plans. 'I write for regiments,'
the gallant fellow used to say; 'and they send me regulations! I tell
them that we have not troops enough for an advanced guard; and they
send me the plan of a pitched battle! I tell then that the French
have raised their army in front of me to a hundred thousand strong;
and they promise me reinforcements next year.' After all, his chief
perplexity arose from their orders--every despatch regularly
contradicting the one that came before.

"Something in the style," said I, "of Voltaire's caricature of the
Austrian courier in the Turkish war, with three packs strapped on his
shoulders, inscribed, 'Orders'--'Counter-orders'--and 'Disorders.'

"Just a case in point. Voltaire would have been exactly the historian
for our campaign. What an incomparable tale he would have made of it!
Every thing that was done was preposterous. We were actually beaten
before we fought; we were ruined at Vienna before a shot was fired at
Jemappes. The Netherlands were lost, not by powder and ball, but by
pen and ink; and the consequence of our "march to Paris" is, that one
half of the army is now scattered from Holland to the Rhine, and the
other half is, like myself, within French walls."

I enquired how Clairfait bore his change of fortune.

"Like a man superior to fortune. I never saw him exhibit higher
ability than in his dispositions for our last battle. He has become a
magnificent tactician. But Alexander the Great himself could not
fight without troops: and such was our exact condition.

"Dumourier, at the head of a hundred thousand men, had turned short
from the Prussian retreat, and flung himself upon the Netherlands.
How many troops do you think the wisdom of the Aulic Council had
provided to protect the provinces? Scarcely more than a third of the
number, and those scattered over a frontier of a hundred miles; in a
country, too, where every Man spoke French, where every man was half
Republican already, where the people had actually begun a revolution,
and where we had scarcely a friend, a fortress in repair, or
ammunition enough for _feu de joie_. The French, of course, burst in
like an inundation, sweeping every thing before them. I was at dinner
with Clairfait and his staff on the day when the intelligence
arrived. The map was laid upon the table, and we had a kind of debate
on the course which the Frenchman would take. That evening completed
my opinion of him as a general. He took the clearest view among all
our conjectures, as the event proved, so far as the enemy's movements
were concerned; though I still retain my own idea of an original
error in the choice of our field of battle. Before the twilight fell,
we mounted our horses, and rode to the spot where Clairfait had
already made up his mind to meet the French. It was certainly a
capital position for defence--a range of heights not too high for
guns, surmounted by a central plateau; the very position for a
battery and a brigade; but the very worst that could be taken against
the new enemy whom we had to oppose."

"Yet, what could an army of French recruits be expected to do against
a disciplined force so strongly posted?" was my question.

"My answer to that point," said Varnhorst, "must be a quotation from
my old master of tactics. If the purpose of a general is simply to
defend himself, let him keep his troops on heights; if his purpose is
simply to make an artillery fight, let him keep behind his guns; but
if it is his purpose to beat the enemy, he must leave himself able to
follow them--and this he can do only on a plain. In the end, after
beating the enemy in a dozen attempts to carry our batteries, but
without the power of striking a blow in retaliation, we saw them
carried all at once, and were totally driven from the field."

"So much for bravery and discipline against bravery and enthusiasm,"
said I. "Yet the enemy's loss must have been tremendous. Every
assault must have torn their columns to pieces." Even this attempt at
reconciling him to his ill fortune failed.

"Yes," was the cool reply; "but they could afford it, which was more
than we could do. Remember the maxim, my young friend, when you shall
come to be a general, that the only security for gaining battles is,
to have good troops, and a good many of them.--The French recruits
fought like recruits, without knowing whether the enemy were before
or behind them; but they fought, and when they were beaten they
fought again. While we were fixed on our heights, they were formed
into column once more, and marched gallantly up to the mouth of our
guns. Then, we had but 18,000 men to the Frenchman's 60,000. Such
odds are too great. Whether our great king would have fought at all
with such odds against him, may be a question; but there can be none,
whether he would have fixed himself where he could not manoeuvre. The
Frenchman attacked us on flanks and centre, just when and where he
pleased; there stood we, mowing down his masses from our fourteen
redoubts, and waiting to be attacked again. To do him justice, he
fought stoutly; and to do us justice, we fought sturdily. But still
we were losing men; the affair looked unpromising from the first half
hour; and I pronounced that, if Dumourier had but perseverance
enough, he must carry the field."

I made some passing remark on the singular hazard of bringing untried
troops against the proverbial discipline of a German army, and the
probability that the age of the wild armies of peasantry in Europe
would be renewed, by the evidence of its success.

"Right," said Varnhorst. "The thing that struck me most was, the new
character of the whole engagement. It was Republicanism in the field;
a bold riot, a mob battle. Nor will it be the last of its kind. Our
whole line was once attacked by the French demi-brigades, coming to
the charge, with a general chorus of the _Marseillaise_ hymn. The
effect was magnificent, as we heard it pealing over the field through
all the roar of cannon and musketry. The attack was defeated. It was
renewed, under a chorus in honour of their general, and 'Vive
Dumourier' was chanted by 50,000 voices, as they advanced against our
batteries. This charge broke in upon our position, and took five of
our fourteen redoubts. Even Clairfait now acknowledged that all was
lost; two-thirds of our men were _hors de combat_, and orders were
given for a retreat. My turn now came to act, and I moved forward
with my small brigade of cavalry--but I was not more lucky than the
rest."

I pressed to hear the particulars, but his mind was still overwhelmed
with a sense of military calamity, always the most reluctant topic to
a brave and honest soldier; and he simply said--"the whole was a
_melee_. Our rear was threatened in force by a column which had
stormed the heights under a young _brave_, whom I had observed,
during the day, exposing himself gallantly to all the risks of the
field. To stop the progress of the enemy on this point was essential;
for the safety of the whole army was compromised. We charged them,
checked them, but found the brigade involved in a force of ten times
our number; fought our way out again with heavy loss; and after all,
a shot, which brought my charger to the ground, left me wounded and
bruised in the hands of the French. I was taken up insensible, was
carried to the tent of the young commander of the column, whom I
found to be a Duc de Chartres, the son of the late Duke of Orleans.
His kindness to his prisoner was equal to his gallantry in the field.
Few and hurried as our interviews were, while his army remained in
its position he gave me the idea of a mind of great promise, and
destined for great things, unless the chances of war should stop his
career. But, though a Republican soldier, to my surprise he was no
Republican. His enquiries into the state of popular opinion in
Europe, showed at once his sagacity, and the turn which his thoughts,
young as he was, were already taking.--But the diadem is trampled
under foot in France for ever; and with cannon-shot in his front
every day of his life, and the guillotine in his rear, who can answer
for the history of any man for twenty-four hours together?"

My time in Paris had now come to a close. All my enquiries for the
fate of Lafontaine had been fruitless; and I dreaded the still more
anxious enquiries to which I should be subjected on my arrival; but I
had at least the intelligence to give, that I had not left him in the
fangs of the jailers of St Lazare. I took leave of my bold and
open-hearted Prussian friend with a regret, which I had scarcely
expected to feel for one with whom I had been thrown into contact
simply by the rough chances of campaigning; but I had the
gratification of procuring for him, through the mysterious interest
of Elnathan, an order for his transmission to Berlin in the first
exchange of prisoners. This promise seemed to compensate all the
services which he had rendered to me. "I shall see the Rhine again,"
said he, "which is much more than I ever expected since the day of
our misfortune. "I shall see the Rhine again!--and thanks to you for
it." He pressed my hand with honest gratitude.

The carriage which was to convey me to Calais was now at the door.
Still, one thought as uppermost in his mind; it was, that I should
give due credit to the bravery of the Austrian general and his army.
"If I have spoken of the engagement at all," said he, "it was merely
to put you in possession of the facts. You return to England; you
will of course hear the battle which lost the Netherlands discussed
in various versions. The opinion of England decides the opinion of
Europe. Tell, then, your countrymen, in vindication of Clairfait and
his troops, that after holding his ground for nine hours against
three times his force, he retreated with the steadiness of a movement
on parade, without leaving behind him a single gun, colour, or
prisoner. Tell them, too, that he was defeated only through the
marvellous negligence of a government which left him to fight battles
without brigades, defend fortresses without guns, and protect
insurgent provinces with a fugitive army."

My answer was--"You may rely upon my fighting your battles over the
London dinner-tables, as perseveringly, if not as much against odds,
as you fought it in the field. But the fortune of war is proverbial,
and I hope yet to pour out a libation to you as Generalissimo
Varnsdorf, the restorer of the Austrian laurels."

"Well, Marston, may you be a true prophet! But read that letter from
Guiscard; our long-headed friend not merely crops our German laurels,
but threatens to root up the tree." He handed me a letter from the
Prussian philosopher: it was a curious _catalogue raisonne_ of the
_im_probabilities of success in the general war of Europe against the
Republic; concluding with the words, so characteristic of his solemn
and reflective views of man and the affairs of man--

"War is the original propensity of human nature, and civilization is
the great promoter of war. The more civilized all nations become, the
more they fight. The most civilized continent of the world has spent
the fourth of its modern existence in war. Every man of common sense,
of course, abhors its waste of life, of treasure, and of time. Still
the propensity is so strong, that it continues the most prodigal
sacrifice of them all. I think that we are entering on a period, when
war, more than ever, will be the business of nations. I should not be
surprised if the mania of turning nations into beggars, and the
population into the dust of the field, should last for half a
century; until the whole existing generation are in their graves, and
a new generation shall take their places, astonished at the fondness
of their fathers for bankruptcy and bloodshed." After some sharp
censures of the unpurposed conduct of the German cabinets, he
finished by saying--"If the French continue to fight as they have
just fought, Jemappes will be the beginning of a new era. In the
history of the world, every great change of human supremacy has been
the result of a change in the principles of war; and the nation which
has been the first to adopt that change, has led the triumph for its
time. France has now found out a new element in war--the force of
multitude, the charge of the masses; and she will conquer, until the
kings of Europe follow her example, and call their nations to the
field. Till then she will be invincible, but then her conquests will
vanish; and the world, exhausted by carnage, will be quiet for a
while. But the wolfish spirit of human nature will again hunger for
prey; some new system of havoc will be discovered by some great
genius, who ought to be cursed to the lowest depths of human memory;
but who will be exalted to the most rapturous heights of human
praise. Then again, when one half of the earth is turned into a field
of battle, and the other into a cemetery, mankind will cry out for
peace; and again, when refreshed, will rush into still more ruinous
war:--thus all things run in a circle. But France has found out the
secret for this age, and--_vae victis!_--the pestilence will be tame
to the triumph of her frenzy, her rapine, and her revenge."

"Exactly what I should have expected from Guiscard," was my remark;
"he is always making bold attempts to tear up the surface of the
time, and look into what is growing below."

"Well, well," replied my honest fellow soldier, "I never perplex my
brain with those things. I dare say your philosophers may be right;
at least once in a hundred years. But take my word for it, that
musket and bayonet will be useful matters still; and that discipline
and my old master Frederick, will be as good as Dumourier and
desperation, when we shall have brigade for brigade."

The postillions cracked their whips, the little Norman horses tore
their way over the rough pavement; the sovereign people scattered off
on every side, to save their lives and limbs; and the plan of St
Denis, rich with golden corn, and tracked by lines of stately trees,
opened far and wide before me. From the first ascent I gave a
_parting_ glance at Paris--it was mingled of rejoicing and regret.
What hours of interest, of novelty, and of terror, had I not passed
within the circuit of those walls! Yet, how the eye cheats
reality!--that city of imprisonment and frantic liberty, of royal
sorrow and of popular exultation, now looked a vast circle of calm
and stately beauty. How delusive is distance in every thing! Across
that plain, luxuriant with harvest, surrounded with those soft hills,
and glittering in the purple of this glorious evening, it looked a
paradise. I knew it--a pendemonium!

I speeded on--every thing was animated and animating in my journey.
It was the finest season of the year; the roads were good; the
prospects--as I swept down valley and rushed round hill, with the
insolent speed of a government _employe_, leaving all meaner
vehicles, travellers, and the whole workday world behind--seemed to
be to redeem the character of French landscape. But how much of its
colouring was my own! Was _I_ not _free?_ was I not _returning to
England?_ was I not approaching scenes, and forms, and the realities
of those recollections, which, even in the field of battle, and at
the foot of the scaffold, had alternately cheered and pained,
delighted and distressed me?--yet which, even with all their
anxieties, were dearer than the most gilded hopes of ambition. Was I
not about to meet the gay smile and poignant vivacity of Mariamne?
was I not about to wander in the shades of my paternal castle? to see
those relatives who were to shape so large a share of my future
happiness; to meet in public life the eminent public men, with whose
renown the courts and even the camps of Europe were already ringing:
and last, proudest, and most profound feeling of all--was I not to
venture near the shrine on which I had placed my idol; to offer her
the solemn and distant homage of the heart; perhaps to hear of her
from day to day; perhaps to see her noble beauty; perhaps even to
_hear_ that voice, of which the simplest accents sank to my
soul.--But I must not attempt to describe sensations which are in
their nature indescribable; which dispose the spirit of man to
silence; and which, in their true intensity, suffer but one faculty
to exist, absorbing all the rest in deep sleep and delicious reverie.

I drove with the haste of a courier to London; and after having
deposited my despatches with one of the under-secretaries of the
Foreign office, I flew to Mordecai's den in the city. London appeared
to me more crowded than ever; the streets longer, and buildings
dingier; and the whole, seen after the smokeless and light-
towns of the Continent, looked an enormous manufactory, where men
wore themselves out in perpetual blackness and bustle, to make their
bread, and die. But my heart beat quickly as I reached the door of
that dingiest of all its dwellings, where the lord of hundreds of
thousands of pounds burrowed himself on the eyes of mankind.

I knocked, but was long unanswered; at last a meagre clerk, evidently
of the "fallen people," and who seemed dug up from the depths of the
dungeon, gave me the intelligence that "his master and family had
left England." The answer was like an icebolt through my frame. This
was the moment to which I had looked forward with, I shall not say
what emotions. I could scarcely define them; but they had a share of
every strong, every faithful, and every touching remembrance of my
nature. My disappointment was a pang. My head grey dizzy, I reeled;
and asked leave to enter the gloomy door, and rest for a moment. But
this the guardian of the den was too cautious to allow, and I should
have probably fainted in the street, but for the appearance of an
ancient Rebecca, the wife of the clerk, who, feeling the compassion
which belongs to the sex in all instances, and exerting the authority
which is so generally claimed by the better-halves of men, pushed her
husband back, and led the way into the old cobwebbed parlour where I
had so often been. A glass of water, the sole hospitality of the
house, revived me; and after some enquiries alike fruitless with the
past, I was about to take my leave, when the clerk, in his removal of
some papers, not to be trusted within reach of a stranger, dropped a
letter from the bundle, on which was my name. From the variety of
addresses it had evidently travelled far, and had been returned from
half the post-offices of the Continent. It was two months' old, but
its news was to me most interesting. It was from Mordecai; and after
alluding to some pecuniary transactions with his foreign brethren,
always the first topic, he hurried on in his usual abrupt
strain:--"Mariamne has insisted on my leaving England for a while.
This is perplexing; as the war must produce a new loan, and London
is, after all, the only place where those affairs can be transacted
without trouble.--My child is well, and yet she looks pallid from
time to time, and sheds tears when she thinks herself unobserved. All
this may pass away, but it makes me uneasy; and, as she has evidently
made up her mind to travel, I have only to give way--for, with all
her caprices, she is my child, my only child, and my beloved child!

"I have heard a good deal of your proceedings from my correspondent
and kinsman in Paris. You have acquitted yourself well, and it shall
not be unknown in the quarter where it may be of most service to
you.--I have been stopped by Mariamne's singing in the next room, and
her voice has almost unmanned me; she is melancholy of late, and her
only music now is taken from those ancestral hymns which our nation
regard as the songs of the Captivity. Her tones at this moment are
singularly touching, and I have been forced to lay down my pen, for
she has melted me to tears. Yet her colour has not altogether faded
lately, and I think sometimes that her eyes look brighter than ever!
Heaven help me, if I should lose her. I should then be alone in the
world.

"You may rely on my intelligence--a war is _inevitable_. You may also
rely on my conjecture--that it will be the most desperate war which
Europe has yet seen. One that will break up _foundations_, as well as
break down superstructures; not a war of politics but of principles;
not a war for conquest but for ruin. All the treasuries of Europe
will be bankrupt within a twelvemonth of its commencement; unless
England shall become their banker. This will be the harvest of the
men of money.--It is unfortunate that your money is all lodged for
your commission; otherwise, in the course of a few operations, you
might make cent per cent, which I propose to do. _Apropos_ of
commissions. I had nearly omitted, in my own family anxieties, to
mention the object for which I began my letter. I have _failed_ in
arranging the affair of your commission! This was not for want of
zeal. But the prospect of a war has deranged and inflamed every
thing. The young nobility have actually besieged the Horse-guards.
All the weight of the aristocracy has pressed upon the minister, and
minor influence has been driven from the field. The spirit is too
gallant a one to be blamed;--and yet--are there not a hundred other
pursuits, in which an intelligent and active mind, like your own,
might follow on the way to fortune? You have seen enough of
campaigning to know, that it is not all a flourish of trumpets. Has
the world but one gate, and that the Horse-guards? If my personal
judgment were to be asked, I should feel no regret for a
disappointment which may have come only to turn your knowledge and
ability to purposes not less suitable to an ambitious spirit, nor
less likely to produce a powerful impression on the world--the only
thing, after all, worth living for! You may laugh at this language
from a man of my country and my trade. But even _I_ have my ambition;
and you may yet discover it to be not less bold than if I carried the
lamp of Gideon, or wielded the sword of the Maccabee.--I must stop
again; my poor restless child is coming into the room at this moment,
complaining of the chill, in one of the finest days of summer. She
says that this villa has grown sunless, airless, and comfortless.
Finding that I am writing to you, she sends her best wishes; and bids
me ask, what is the fashionable colour for mantles in Paris, and also
what is become of that 'wandering creature,' Lafontaine, if you
should happen to recollect such a personage."

"P.S.--My daughter insists on our setting out from Brighton
to-morrow, and crossing the Channel the day after. She has a whim for
revisiting Switzerland; and in the mean time begs that if, during our
absence, _you_ should have a whim for sea air and solitude, you may
make of the villa any use you please.--Yours sincerely,

"J.V. MORDECAI."


After reading this strange and broken letter, I was almost glad that
I had not seen Mariamne. Lafontaine was in her heart still, in spite
of absence. At this I did not wonder, for the heart of woman, when
once struck, is almost incapable of change: but the suspense was
killing her; and I had no doubt that her loss would sink even her
strong-headed parent to the grave. Yet, what tidings had I to give?
Whether her young soldier was shot in the attempt to escape from St
Lazare, or thrown into some of those hideous dungeons, where so many
thousands were dying in misery from day to day, was entirely beyond
my power to tell. It was better that she should be roving over the
bright hills, and breathing the fresh breezes of Switzerland, than
listening to my hopeless conjectures at home; trying to reconcile
herself to all the chances which passion is so painfully ingenious in
creating, and dying, like a flower in all its beauty, on the spot
where it had grown.

But the letter contained nothing of the _one_ name, for which my
first glance had looked over every line with breathless anxiety.
There was not a syllable of Clotilde! The father's cares had absorbed
all other thoughts; and the letter was to me a blank in that
knowledge for which I panted, as the hart pants for the fountains.
Still, I was not dead to the calls of friendship; and that night's
mail carried a long epistle to Mordecai, detailing my escapes, and
the services of his kindred in France; and for Mariamne's ear, all
that I could conceive cheering in my hopes of that "wandering
creature, Lafontaine."

But I was forced to think of sterner subjects. I had arrived in
England at a time of the most extraordinary public excitement. Every
man felt that some great trial of England and of Europe was at hand;
but none could distinctly define either its nature or its cause.
France, which had then begun to pour out her furious declamations
against this country, was, of course, generally looked to as the
quarter from which the storm was to come; but the higher minds
evidently contemplated hazards nearer home. Affiliated societies,
corresponding clubs, and all the revolutionary apparatus, from whose
crush and clamour I had so lately emerged, met the ear and the eye on
all occasions; and the fiery ferocity of French rebellion was nearly
rivalled by the grave insolence of English "Rights of Man." But I am
not about to write the history of a time of national fever. The
republicanism, which Cicero and Plutarch instil into us all at our
schools, had been extinguished in me by the squalid realities of
France. I had seen the dissecting-room, and was cured of my love for
the science. My spirit, too, required rest. I could have exclaimed
with all the sincerity, and with all the weariness too, of the
poet:--

  Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
  Some boundless contiguity of shade,
  Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
  Of unsuccessful or successful war,
  Might never reach me more!"

But, perhaps fortunately for my understanding, if not for my life, I
was not suffered to take refuge in the wilderness. London was around
me; rich and beggared, splendid and sullen, idle and busy London. I
was floating on those waves of human being, in which the struggler
must make for the shore, or sink. I was in the centre of that huge
whispering gallery, where every sound of earth was echoed and
re-echoed with new power; and where it was impossible to dream. My
days were now spent in communication with the offices of government,
and a large portion of my nights in carrying on those
correspondences, which, though seldom known in the routine of Downing
Street, form the essential part of its intercourse with the
continental cabinets. But a period of suspense still remained.
Parliament had been already summoned for the 13th of December. Up to
nearly the last moment, the cabinet had been kept in uncertainty as
to the actual intents of France. There had been declamation in
abundance in the French legislature and the journals; but with this
unsubstantial evidence the cabinet could not meet the country.
Couriers were sent in all directions; boats were stationed along the
coast to bring the first intelligence of actual hostilities suddenly;
every conceivable expedient was adopted; but all in vain. The day of
opening the Session was within twenty-four hours. After lingering
hour by hour, in expectancy of the arrival of despatches from our
ambassador at the Hague, I offered to cross the sea in the first
fishing-boat which I could find, and ascertain the facts. My offer
was accepted; and in the twilight of a winter's morning, and in the
midst of a snow-storm, I was making my shivering way homeward through
the wretched lanes which, dark as pitch and narrow as footpaths, then
led to the centre of the diplomatic world; when, in my haste, I had
nearly overset a meagre figure, which, half-blinded by the storm, was
tottering towards the Foreign office. After a growl, in the most
angry jargon, the man recognized me; he was the clerk whom I had seen
at Mordecai's house. He had, but an hour before, received, by one of
the private couriers of the firm, a letter, with orders to deliver it
with all expedition. He put it into my hand: it was not from
Mordecai, but from Elnathan, and was simply in these words:--"My
kinsman and your friend has desired me to forward to you the first
intelligence of hostilities. I send you a copy of the bulletin which
will be issued at noon this day. It is yet unknown; but I have it
from a source on which you may perfectly rely. Of this make what use
you think advantageous. Your well-wisher."

With what pangs the great money-trafficker must have consigned to my
use a piece of intelligence which must have been a mine of wealth to
any one who carried it first to the Stock Exchange, I could easily
conjecture. But I saw in it the powerful pressure of Mordecai, which
none of his tribe seemed even to have the means of resisting. My
sensations were singular enough as I traced my way up the dark and
lumbering staircase of the Foreign office; with the consciousness
that, if I had chosen to turn my steps in another direction, I might
before night be master of thousands, or of hundreds of thousands. But
it is only due to the sense of honour which had been impressed on me,
even in the riot and roughness of my Eton days, to say, that I did
not hesitate for a moment Sending one of the attendants to arouse the
chief clerk, I stood waiting his arrival with the bulletin unopened
in my hands. The official had gone to his house in the country, and
might not return for some hours. My perplexity increased. Every
moment might supersede the value of my priority. At length a
twinkling light through the chinks of one of the dilapidated doors,
told me that there was some one within, from whom I might, at least,
ask when and how ministers were to be approached. The door was
opened, and, to my surprise, I found that the occupant of the chamber
was one of the most influential members of administration. My name
and purpose were easily given; and I was received as I believe few
are in the habit of being received by the disposers of high things in
high places. The fire had sunk to embers, the lamp was dull, and the
hearer was half frozen and half asleep. Yet no sooner had he cast his
eyes upon the mysterious paper which I gave into his grasp, than all
his faculties were in full activity.

"This," said he, "is the most important paper that has reached this
country since the taking of the Bastile. THE SCHELDT IS OPENED! This
involves an attack on Holland; the defence of our ally is a matter of
treaty, and we must arm without delay. The war is begun, but where it
shall end"--he paused, and fixing his eyes above, with a solemnity of
expression which I had not expected in the stern and hard-lined
countenance, "or who shall live to see its close--who shall tell?"

"We have been waiting," said he, "for this intelligence from week to
week, with the fullest expectation that it would come; and yet, when
it has come, it strikes like a thunderclap. This is the third night
that I have sat in this hovel, at this table, unable to go to rest,
and looking for the despatch from hour to hour.--You see, sir, that
our life is at least not the bed of roses for which the world is so
apt to give us credit. It is like the life of my own hills--the
higher the sheiling stands, the more it gets of the blast."

I do not give the name of this remarkable man. He was a Scot, and
possessed of all the best characteristics of his country. I had heard
him in Parliament, where he was the most powerful second of the most
powerful first that England had seen. But if all men were inferior to
the prime minister in majesty and fulness of conception, the man to
whom I now listened had no superior in readiness of retort, in
aptness of illustration--that mixture of sport and satire, of easy
jest and subtle sarcasm, which forms the happiest talent for the
miscellaneous uses of debate. If Pitt moved forward like the armed
man of chivalry, or rather like the main body of the battle--for
never man was more entitled to the appellation of a "host in
himself"--never were front, flanks, and rear of the host covered by a
more rapid, quick-witted, and indefatigable auxiliary. He was a man
of family, and brought with him into public life, not the manners of
a menial of office, but the bearing of a gentleman. Birth and blood
were in his bold and manly countenance; and I could have felt no
difficulty in conceiving him, if his course had followed his nature,
the chieftain on his hills, at the head of his gallant retainers,
pursuing the wild sports of his romantic region; or in some foreign
land, gathering the laurels which the Scotch soldier has so often and
so proudly added to the honours of the empire.

He was perfectly familiar with the great question of the time, and
saw the full bearings of my intelligence with admirable sagacity;
pointed out the inevitable results of suffering France to take upon
herself the arbitration of Europe, and gave new and powerful views of
the higher relation in which England was to stand, as the general
protectress of the Continent. "This bulletin," said he, "announces
the fact, that a French squadron has actually sailed up the Scheldt
to attack Antwerp. Yet it was not ten years since France protested
against the same act by Austria, as a violation of the rights of
Holland. The new aggression is, therefore, not simply a solitary
violence, but a vast fraud; not merely the breach of an individual
treaty, but a declaration that no treaty is henceforth to be held as
binding; it is more than an act of rapine; it is an universal
dissolution of the principles by which society is held together. In
what times are we about to live?"

My reply was--"That it depended on the spirit of England herself,
whether the conflict was to be followed by honour or by shame; that
she had a glorious career before her, if she had magnanimity
sufficient to take the part marked out for her by circumstances; and
that, with the championship of the world in her hands, even defeat
would be a triumph."

He now turned the conversation to myself; spoke with more than
official civility of my services, and peculiarly of the immediate
one; and asked in what branch of diplomacy I desired advancement?

My answer was prompt. "In none. I desired promotion but in one
way--the army." I then briefly stated the accidental loss of my
original appointment, and received, before I left the chamber, a note
for the secretary at war, recommending me, in the strongest terms,
for a commission in the Guards.--The world was now before me, and the
world in the most vivid, various, and dazzling shape; in the boldest
development of grandeur, terror, and wild vicissitude, which it
exhibited for a thousand years--ENGLAND WAS AT WAR!

There is no sight on earth more singular, or more awful, than a great
nation going to war. I saw the scene in its highest point of view, by
seeing it in England. Its perfect freedom, its infinite, and often
conflicting, variety of opinion--its passionate excitement, and its
stupendous power, gave the summons to hostilities a character of
interest, of grandeur, and of indefinite but vast purposes,
unexampled in any other time, or in any other country. When one of
the old monarchies commenced war, the operation, however large and
formidable, was simple. A monarch resolved, a council sat, less to
guide than to echo his resolution; an army marched, invaded the
enemy's territory, fought a battle--perhaps a dubious one--rested on
its arms; and while _Te Deum_ was sung in both capitals alike for the
"victory" of neither, the ministers of both were constructing an
armistice, a negotiation, and a peace--each and all to be null and
void on the first opportunity.

But the war of England was a war of the nation--a war of wrath and
indignation--a war of the dangers of civilized society entrusted to a
single championship--a great effort of human nature to discharge, in
the shape of blood, a disease which was sapping the vitals of Europe;
or in a still higher, and therefore a more faithful view, the
gathering of a tempest, which, after sweeping France in its fury, was
to restore the exhausted soil and blasted vegetation of monarchy
throughout the Continent; and in whose highest, England, serene and
undismayed, was to

  "Ride in the whirlwind, and direct the storm."

I must acknowledge, that I looked upon the coming conflict with a
strange sense of mingled alarm and rejoicing. For the latter feeling,
perhaps I ought to make some apology; but I was young, ardent, and
ambitious. My place in life was unfixed; standing in that unhappy
middle position, in which stands a man of birth too high to suffer
his adoption of the humbler means of existence, and yet of resources
too inadequate to sustain him without action--nay, bold and
indefatigable exertion. I, at the moment, felt a very inferior degree
of compunction at the crisis which offered to give me at least a
chance of being seen, known, and understood among men. I felt like a
man whose ship was stranded, and who saw the storm lifting the surges
that were to lift him along with them; or like the traveller in an
earthquake, who saw the cleft in the ground swallowing up the river
which had hitherto presented an impassable obstacle--cities and
mountains might sink before the concussion had done its irresistible
will, but, at all events, it had cleared his way.

In thoughts like these, rash and unconnected as they were, I spent
many a restless day, and still more restless night. I often sprang
from a pillow which, if I had lived in the days of witchcraft, I
should have thought spelled to refuse me sleep; and walking for
hours, endeavoured to reduce into shape the speculations which filled
my mind with splendours and catastrophes worthy of oriental dreams.
Why did I not then pursue the career in which I had begun the world?
Why not devote myself to diplomacy, in which I had hitherto received
honour? Why not enter into Parliament, which opened all the secrets
of power? For this I had two reasons. The first--and, let me confess,
the most imperious--was, that my pride had been deeply hurt by the
loss of my commission. I felt that I had not only been deprived of a
noble profession, accidental as was the loss; but that I had
subjected myself to the trivial, but stinging remarks, which never
fail to find an obnoxious cause for every failure. While this cloud
hung over me, I was determined never to return to my father's house.
Good-natured as the friends of my family might be, I was fully aware
of the style in which misfortune is treated in the idleness of
country life; and the Honourable Mr Marston's loss of his rank in his
Majesty's guards, or his preference of a more pacific promotion, was
too tempting a topic to lose any of its stimulants by the popular
ignorance of the true transaction. My next reason was, that my mind
was harassed and wearied by disappointment, until I should not have
regreted to terminate the struggle in the first field of battle. The
only woman whom I loved, and whom, in the strange frenzy of passion,
I solemnly believed to be the only woman on earth deserving to be so
loved, had wholly disappeared, and was, by this time, probably
wedded. The only woman whom I regarded as a friend, was in another
country, probably dying. If I could have returned to Mortimer
Castle--which I had already determined to be impossible--I should
have found only a callous, perhaps a contemptuous, head of the
family, angry at my return to burden him. Even Vincent--my old and
kind-hearted friend Vincent--had been a soldier; and though I was
sure of never receiving a reproach from his wise and gentle lips, was
I equally sure that I could escape the flash, or the sorrow, of his
eye?

In thoughts like these, and they were dangerous ones, I made many a
solitary rush out into the wild winds and beating snows of the
winter, which had set in early and been remarkably severe; walking
bareheaded in the most lonely places of the suburbs, stripping my
bosom to the blast, and longing for its tenfold chill to assuage the
fever which burned within me. I had also found the old delay at the
Horse-guards. The feelings of this period make me look with infinite
compassion on the unhappy beings who take their lives into their own
hands, and who extinguish all their earthly anxieties at a plunge.
But I had imbibed principles of a firmer substance, and but upon one
occasion, and one alone, felt tempted to an act of despair.

Taking my lonely dinner in a tavern of the suburbs, the waiter handed
me a newspaper, which he had rescued for my behoof from the hands of
a group, eager, as all the world then was, for French intelligence.
My eye rambled into the fashionable column; and the first paragraph,
headed "Marriage in high life," announced that, on the morrow, were
to be solemnized the nuptials of Clotilde, Countess de Tourville,
with the Marquis de Montrecour, colonel of the French Mousquetaires,
&c. The paper dropped from my hands. I rushed out of the house; and,
scarcely knowing where I went, I hurried on, until I found myself out
of the sight or sound of mortal. The night was pitch-dark; there was
no lamp near; the wind roared; and it was only by the flash of the
foam that I discovered the broad sheet of water before me. I had
strayed into Hyde Park, and was on the bank of the Serpentine. With
what ease might I not finish all! It was another step. Life was a
burden--thought was a torment--the light of day a loathing. But the
paroxysm soon gave way. Impressions of the duty and the trials of
human nature, made in earlier years, revived within me with a
singular freshness and force. Tears gushed from my eyes, fast and
flowing; and, with a long-forgotten prayer for patience and humility,
I turned from the place of temptation. As I reached the streets once
more, I heard the trumpets of the Life Guards, and the band of a
battalion returning to their quarters. The infantry were the
Coldstream. They had been lining the streets for the king's
procession to open the sitting of Parliament. This was the 13th of
December--the memorable day to which every heart in Europe was more
or less vibrating; yet which I had totally forgotten. What is man but
an electrical machine after all? The sound and sight of soldiership
restored me to the full vividness of my nature. The machine required
only to be touched, to shoot out its latent sparks; and with a new
spirit and a new determination kindling through every fibre, I
hastened to be present at that debate which was to be the judgment of
nations.

My official intercourse with ministers had given me some privileges,
and I obtained a seat under the gallery--that part of the House of
Commons which is occasionally allotted to strangers of a certain
rank. The House was crowded, and every countenance was pictured with
interest and solemn anxiety. Grey, Sheridan, and other distinguished
names of party, had already taken their seats; but the great heads of
Government and Opposition were still absent. At length a buzz among
the crowd who filled the floor,--and the name of Fox repeated in
every tone of congratulation, announced the pre-eminent orator of
England. I now saw Fox for the first time; and I was instantly struck
with the incomparable similitude of all that I saw of him to all that
I had conceived from his character and his style. In the broad bold
forehead, the strong sense--in the relaxed mouth, the self-indulgent
and reckless enjoyment--in the quick, small eye under those
magnificent black brows, the man of sagacity, of sarcasm, and of
humour; and in the grand contour of a countenance and head, which
might have been sculptured to take its place among the sages and
sovereigns of antiquity, the living proof of those extraordinary
powers, which could have been checked in their ascent to the highest
elevation of public life, only by prejudices and passions not less
extraordinary. As he advanced up the House, he recognized every one
on both sides, and spoke or smiled to nearly all. He stopped once or
twice in his way, and was surrounded by a circle with whom, as I
could judge from their laughter, he exchanged some pleasantry of the
hour. When at length he arrived at the seat which had been reserved
for him, he threw himself upon it with the easy look of comfort of a
man who had reached home--gave nod to Windham, held out a finger to
Grey, warmly shook hands with Sheridan; and then, opening his
well-known blue and buff costume, threw himself back into the bench,
and laughingly gasped for air.

But another movement of the crowd at the bar announced another
arrival, and Pitt entered the House. His look and movement were
equally characteristic with those of his great rival. He looked to
neither the right nor the left; replied to the salutations of his
friends by the slightest possible bow; neither spoke nor smiled; but,
slowly advancing, took his seat in total silence. The Speaker,
hitherto occupied with some routine business, now read the King's
speech, and, calling on "Mr Pitt," the minister rose. I have for that
rising but one description--the one which filled my memory at the
moment, from the noblest poet of the world.

          "Deep on his front engraven,
  Deliberation sat, and public care.
                  Sage he stood,
  With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear
  The weight of mightiest monarchies. His look
  Drew audience and attention, still as night,
  Or summer's noontide air."




THE WEEK OF AN EMPEROR


The week ending the 8th of June, was the most brilliant that ever
occupied and captivated the fashionable world of a metropolis of two
millions of souls, the head of an empire of two hundred millions. The
recollection runs us out of breath. Every hour was a new summons to a
new _fete_, a new fantasy, or a new exhibition of the handsomest man
of the forty-two millions of Russia proper. The toilettes of the
whole _beau monde_ were in activity from sunny morn to dewy eve; and
from dewy eve to waxlighted midnight. A parade of the Guards, by
which the world was tempted into rising at ten o'clock; a _dejeuner a
la fourchette_, by which it was surprised into _dining_ at three,
(_more majorum;_) an opera, by which those whose hour for going out
is eleven, were forced into their carriages at nine; a concert at
Hanover Square, finished by a ball and supper at Buckingham
palace;--all were among those brilliant perversions of the habits of
high life which make the week one brilliant tumult; but which never
could have been revolutionized but by an emperor in the flower of his
age. Wherever he moved, he was followed by a host of the fair and
fashionable. The showy equipages of the nobility were in perpetual
motion. The parks were a whirlwind of horsemen and horsewomen. The
streets were a levy _en masse_ of the peerage. The opera-house was a
gilded "black hole of Calcutta." The front of Buckingham palace was a
scene of loyalty, dangerous to life and limb; men, careful of either,
gave their shillings for a glimpse through a telescope; and
shortsighted ladies fainted, that they might be carried into houses
which gave then a full view. Mivart's, the retreat of princes, had
the bustle of a Bond Street hotel. Ashburnham House was in a state of
siege. And Buckingham palace, with its guards, cavalcades, musterings
of the multitude, and thundering of brass bands, seemed to be the
focus of a national revolution. But it was within the palace that the
grand display existed. The gilt candelabra, the gold plate, the maids
of honour, all fresh as tares in June; and the ladies in waiting, all
Junos and Minervas, all jewelled, and none under forty-five,
enraptured the mortal eye, to a degree unrivalled in the
recollections of the oldest courtier, and unrecorded in the annals of
queenly hospitality.

But we must descend to the world again; we must, as the poet said,

  "Bridle in our struggling muse with pain,
  That longs to launch into a nobler strain."

We bid farewell to a description of the indescribable.

During this week, but one question was asked by the universal world
of St James's--"What was the cause of the Czar's coming?"

Every one answered in his own style. The tourists--a race who cannot
live without rambling through the same continental roads, which they
libel for their roughness every year; the same hotels, which they
libel for their discomforts; and the same _table-d'hotes_, which they
libel as the perfection of bad cookery, and barefaced
_chicane_--pronounced that the love of travel was the imperial
impulse. The politicians of the clubs--who, having nothing to do for
themselves, manage the affairs of all nations, and can discover high
treason in the manipulation of a toothpick, and symptoms of war in a
waltz--were of opinion, that the Czar had come either to construct an
European league against the marriage of little Queen Isabella, or to
beat up for recruits for the "holy" hostilities of Morocco. With the
fashionable world, the decision was, that he had come to see Ascot
races, and the Duke of Devonshire's gardens, before the sun withered,
or St Swithin washed them away. The John Bull world--as wise at least
as any of their betters, who love a holiday, and think Whitsuntide
the happiest period of the year for that reason, and Greenwich hill
the finest spot in creation--were convinced that his Majesty's visit
was merely that of a good-humoured and active gentleman, glad to
escape from the troubles of royalty and the heaviness of home, and
take a week's ramble among the oddities of England. "Who shall
decide," says Pope, "when doctors disagree?" Perhaps the nearest way
of reaching the truth is, to take all the reasons together, and try
how far they may be made to agree. What can be more probable than
that the fineness of the finest season within memory, the occurrence
of a moment of leisure in the life of a monarch ruling a fifth of the
habitable globe, roused the curiosity of an intelligent mind,
excited, like that of his great ancestor Peter, by a wish to see the
national improvements of the great country of engineering,
shipbuilding, and tunnelling; perhaps with Ascot races--the most
showy exhibition of the most beautiful horses in the world--to wind
up the display, might tempt a man of vigorous frame and active
spirit, to gallop across Europe, and give seven brief days to
England!

An additional conjecture has been proposed by the papers presumed to
be best informed in cabinet secrets; that this rapid journey has had
for its distinct purpose the expression of the Imperial scorn for the
miserable folly and malignant coxcombry of the pamphlet on the French
navy; which has excited so much contempt in England, and so much
boasting in France, and so much surprise and ridicule every where
else in Europe. Nothing could be more in consonance with a manly
character, than to show how little it shared the conceptions of a
coxcomb; and no more direct mode could be adopted than the visit, to
prove his willingness to be on the best terms with her government and
her people. We readily receive this conjecture, because it impresses
a higher character on the whole transaction; it belongs to an
advanced spirit of royal intercourse, and it constitutes an important
pledge for that European peace, which is the greatest benefaction
capable of being conferred by kings.

The Emperor may be said to have come direct from St Petersburg, as
his stops on the road were only momentary. He reached Berlin from his
capital with courier's speed, in four days and six hours, on Sunday
fortnight last. His arrival was so unexpected, that the Russian
ambassador in Prussia was taken by surprise. He travelled through
Germany incognito, and on Thursday night, the 30th, arrived at the
Hague. Next day, at two o'clock, he embarked at Rotterdam for
England. Here, two steamers had been prepared for his embarkation.
The steamers anchored for the night at Helvoetsluys. At three in the
following morning, they continued the passage, arriving at Woolwich
at ten. The Russian ambassador and officers of the garrison prepared
to receive him; but on his intimating his particular wish to land in
private, the customary honours were dispensed with. Shortly after
ten, the Emperor landed. He was dressed in the Russian costume,
covered with an ample and richly-furred cloak. After a stay of a few
minutes, he entered Baron Brunow's carriage with Count Orloff, and
drove to the Russian embassy. The remainder of the day was given to
rest after his fatigue.

On the next morning, Sunday, Prince Albert paid a visit to the
Emperor. They met on the grand staircase, and embraced each other
cordially in the foreign style. The Prince proposed that the Emperor
should remove to the apartments which were provided for him in the
palace--an offer which was politely declined. At eleven, the Emperor
attended divine service at the chapel of the Russian embassy in
Welbeck Street. At half-past one, Prince Albert arrived to conduct
him to the palace. He wore a scarlet uniform, with the riband and
badge of the Garter. The Queen received the Emperor in the grand
hall. A _dejeuner_ was soon afterwards served. The remainder of the
day was spent in visits to the Queen-Dowager and the Royal Family.
One visit of peculiar interest was paid. The Emperor drove to Apsley
House, to visit the Duke of Wellington. The Duke received him in the
hall, and conducted him to the grand saloon on the first floor. The
meeting on both sides was most cordial. The Emperor conversed much
and cheerfully with the illustrious Duke, and complimented him highly
on the beauty of his pictures, and the magnificence of his mansion.
But even emperors are but men, and the Czar, fatigued with his round
of driving, on his return to the embassy fell asleep, and slumbered
till dinner-time, though his Royal Highness of Cambridge and the
Monarch of Saxony called to visit him. At a quarter to eight o'clock,
three of the royal carriages arrived, for the purpose of conveying
the Emperor and his suite to Buckingham palace.

On Monday, the Emperor rose at seven. After breakfast he drove to
Mortimer's, the celebrated jeweller's, where he remained for an hour,
and is _said_ to have purchased L.5000 worth of jewellery. He then
drove to the Zoological gardens and the Regent's park. In the course
of the drive, he visited Sir Robert Peel, and the families of some of
our ambassadors in Russia. At three o'clock, he gave a _dejeuner_ to
the Duke of Devonshire, who had also been an ambassador in Russia.
Dover Street was crowded with the carriages of the nobility, who came
to put down their names in the visiting-book.

At five, a guard of honour of the First Life-Guards came to escort
him to the railway, on his visit to Windsor; but on his observing its
arrival, he expressed a wish to decline the honour, for the purpose
of avoiding all parade. The Queen's carriages had arrived, and the
Emperor and his suite drove off through streets crowded with
horsemen. On arriving at the railway station, the Emperor examined
the electrical telegraph, and, entering the saloon carriage, the
train set off, and arrived at Slough, a distance of nearly twenty
miles, in the astonishingly brief time of twenty-five minutes.

At the station, the Emperor was met by Prince Albert, and conveyed to
the castle.

The banquet took place in the Waterloo chamber, a vast hall hung with
portraits of the principal sovereigns and statesmen of Europe, to
paint which, the late Sir Thomas Laurence had been sent on a special
mission at the close of the war in 1815. Sir Thomas's conception of
form and likeness was admirable, but his colouring was cold and thin.
His "Waterloo Gallery" forms a melancholy contrast with the depth and
richness of the adjoining "Vandyk Chamber;" but his likenesses are
complete. The banquet was royally splendid. The table was covered
with gold plate and chased ornaments of remarkable beauty--the whole
lighted by rows of gold candelabra. The King of Saxony, the Duke of
Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, Lord Aberdeen, and the chief noblemen of
the household, were present at the entertainment.


TUESDAY.

This was the day of Ascot races. The road from Windsor to the course
passes through a couple of miles of the rich quiet scenery which
peculiarly belongs to England. The course itself is a file open
plain, commanding an extensive view. Some rumours, doubting the visit
of the royal party, excited a double interest in the first sight of
the cavalcade, preceded by the royal yeomen, galloping up to the
stand. They were received with shouts. The Emperor, the King of
Saxony, and Prince Albert, were in the leading carriage. They were
attired simply as private gentlemen, in blue frock-coats. The Duke of
Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, and the household, followed in the royal
carriages. The view of the Stand at this period was striking, and the
royal and noble personages were repeatedly cheered. An announcement
was conveyed to the people, that the Emperor had determined to give
L.500 a-year to the course. The Czarewitch had already given L.200 at
Newmarket. The announcement was received with renewed cheering. All
kings are fond of horses; and the monarch of the most numerous and
active cavalry in the world, may be allowed to be a connoisseur in
their strength, swiftness, and perseverance, by a superior right. The
Emperor can call out 80,000 Cossacks at a sound of his trumpet. He
exhibited an evident interest in the races. The horses were saddled
before the race in front of the grand stand, and brought up to it
after the race, for the purpose of weighing the jockeys. He had a
full opportunity of inspection; but not content with this, when the
winner of the gold vase, the mare Alice Hawthorn, was brought up to
the stand, he descended, and examined this beautiful animal with the
closeness and critical eye of a judge.

On Wednesday, the pageant in which emperors most delight was
exhibited--a review of the royal guards. There are so few troops in
England, as the Prince de Joinville has "the happiness" to observe,
that a review on the continental scale of tens of thousands, is out
of the question. Yet, to the eye which can discern the excellence of
soldiership, and the completeness of soldierly equipment, the few in
line before the Emperor on this day, were enough to gratify the
intelligent eye which this active monarch turns upon every thing. The
infantry were--the second battalion of the grenadier guards, the
second battalion of the Coldstream guards, the second battalion of
the fusilier guards, and the forty-seventh regiment. The cavalry
were--two troops of the royal horse guards, (blue,) the first
regiment of the life guards, and the seventeenth lancers. The
artillery were--detachments of the royal horse artillery, and the
field artillery.

A vast multitude from London by the trains, and from the adjoining
country, formed a line parallel to the troops; and nothing could
exceed the universal animation and cheering when the Emperor, the
King of Saxony, and the numerous and glittering staff, entered the
field, and came down the line.

After the usual salutes, and marching past the centre, where the
royal carriages had taken their stand, the evolutions began. They
were few and simple, but of that order which is most effective in the
field. The formation of the line from the sections; the general
advance of the line; the halt, and a running fire along the whole
front; the breaking up of the line into squares; the squares firing,
then deploying into line, and marching to the rear. The Queen, with
the royal children, left the ground before the firing began, The
review was over at half-past two. The appearance of the troops was
admirable; the manoeuvres were completely successful; and the
fineness of the day gave all the advantages of sun and landscape to
this most brilliant spectacle.

But the most characteristic portion of the display consisted in the
commanding-officers who attended, to give this unusual mark of
respect to the Emperor.

Wellington, the "conqueror of a hundred fights," rode at the head of
the grenadier guards, as their colonel Lord Combermere, general of
the cavalry in the Peninsula, rode at the head of his regiment, the
first life guards. The Marquis of Anglesey, general of the cavalry at
Waterloo, rode at the head of his regiment, the royal horse guards.
Sir George Murray, quartermaster-general in the Peninsula, rode at
the head of the artillery, as master-general of the ordnance. His
royal highness the Duke of Cambridge rode at the head of his
regiment, the Coldstream. His royal highness Prince Albert rode at
the head of his regiment, the Scotch fusiliers. General Sir William
Anson rode at the head of his regiment, the forty-seventh.
Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin rode at the head of the seventeenth
lancers, the colonel of the regiment, Prince George of Cambridge,
being in the Ionian Islands. Thus, three field-marshals, and four
generals, passed in review before the illustrious guests of her
Majesty. The Emperor expressed himself highly gratified; as every eye
accustomed to troops must have been, by the admirable precision of
the movements, and the fine appearance of the men. A striking
instance of the value of railways for military operations, was
connected with this review. The forty-seventh regiment, quartered in
Gosport, was brought to Windsor in the morning, and sent back in the
evening of the review day; the journey, altogether, was about 140
miles! Such are the miracles of machinery in our days. This was
certainly an extraordinary performance, when we recollect that it was
the conveyance of about 700 men; and shows what might be done in case
of any demand for the actual services of the troops. But even this
exploit will be eclipsed within a few days, by the opening of the
direct line from London to Newcastle, which will convey troops, or
any thing, 300 miles in twelve hours. The next step will be to reach
Edinburgh in a day!

The Emperor was observed to pay marked attention to the troops of the
line, the forty-seventh and the lancers; observing, as it is said,
"your household troops are noble fellows; but what I wished
particularly to see, were the troops with which you gained your
victories in India and China." A speech of this kind was worthy of
the sagacity of a man who knew where the true strength of a national
army lies, and who probably, besides, has often had his glance turned
to the dashing services of our soldiery in Asia. The household troops
of every nation are select men, and the most showy which the country
can supply. Thus they are nearly of equal excellence. The infantry of
ours, it is true, have been always "fighting regiments"--the first in
every expedition, and distinguished for the gallantry of their
conduct in every field. The cavalry, though seldomer sent on foreign
service, exhibited pre-eminent bravery in the Peninsula, and their
charges at Waterloo were irresistible. But it is of the marching
regiments that the actual "army" consists, and their character forms
the character of the national arms.

In the evening the Emperor and the King of Saxony dined with her
Majesty at Windsor.


THURSDAY.

The royal party again drove to the Ascot course, and were received
with the usual acclamations. The Emperor and King were in plain
clothes, without decorations of any kind; Prince Albert wore the
Windsor uniform. The cheers were loud for Wellington.

The gold cup, value three hundred guineas, was the principal prize.
Eight horses ran, and the cup was won by a colt of Lord Albemarle's.
His lordship is lucky, at least on the turf. He won the cup at Ascot
last year.


FRIDAY.

The royal party came to London by the railway. The Emperor spent the
chief part of the day in paying visits, in the Russian ambassador's
private carriage, to his personal friends--chiefly the families of
those noblemen who had been ambassadors to Russia.


SATURDAY.

The Emperor, the King, and Prince Albert, went to the Duke of
Devonshire's _dejeuner_ at Chiswick. The Duke's mansion and gardens
are proverbial as evidences of his taste, magnificence, and princely
expenditure. All the nobility in London at this period were present.
The royal party were received with distinguished attention by the
noble host, and his hospitality was exhibited in a style worthy of
his guests and himself. While the suite of _salons_ were thrown open
for the general company, the royal party were received in a _salon_
which had been decorated as a Turkish tent. Bands of the guards
played in the gardens, a quadille band played in the ball-room, and
the fineness of the weather gave the last charm to a _fete_ prepared
with equal elegance and splendour. We doubt whether Europe can
exhibit any open air festivity that can compete with a _dejeuner_ at
Chiswick. The gardens of some of the continental palaces are larger,
but they want the finish of the English garden. Their statues and
decorations are sometimes fine; but they want the perfect and
exquisite neatness which gives an especial charm to English
horticulture. The verdure of the lawns, the richness and variety of
the flowers, and the general taste displayed, in even the most minute
and least ornamental features, render the English garden wholly
superior, in fitness and in beauty, to the gardens of the continental
sovereigns and nobility.

In the evening, the Queen and her guests went to the Italian opera.
The house was greatly, and even hazardously crowded. It is said that,
in some instances, forty guineas was paid for a box. But whether this
may be an exaggeration or not, the sum would have been well worth
paying, to escape the tremendous pressure in the pit. After all, the
majority of the spectators were disappointed in their principal
object, the view of the royal party. They all sat far back in the
box, and thus, to three-fourths of the house, were completely
invisible. In this privacy, for which it is not easy to account, and
which it would have been so much wiser to have avoided, the audience
were long kept in doubt whether the national anthem was to be sung.
At last, a stentorian voice from the gallery called for it. A general
response was made by the multitude; the curtain rose, and God save
the Queen was sung with acclamation. The ice thus broken, it was
followed by the Russian national anthem, a firm, rich, and bold
composition. The Emperor was said to have shed tears at the
unexpected sound of that noble chorus, which brought back the
recollection of his country at so vast a distance from home. But if
these anthems had not been thus accidentally performed, the royal
party would have lost a much finer display than any thing which they
could have seen on the stage--the rising of the whole audience in the
boxes--all the fashionable world in _gala_, in its youth, beauty, and
ornament, seen at full sight, while the chorus was on the stage.


SUNDAY.

On this day at two o'clock, the Emperor, after taking leave of the
Queen and the principal members of the Royal family, embarked at
Woolwich in the government steamer, the Black Eagle, commanded for
the time by the Earl of Hardwicke. The vessel dropped down the river
under the usual salutes from the batteries at Woolwich; the day was
serene, and the Black Eagle cut the water with a keel as smooth as it
was rapid. The Emperor entered into the habits of the sailor with as
much ease as he had done into those of the soldier. He conversed
good-humouredly with the officers and men, admired the discipline and
appearance of the marines, who had been sent as his escort, was
peculiarly obliging to Lord Hardwicke and Lieutenant Peel, (a son of
the premier,) and ordered his dinner on deck, that he might enjoy the
scenery on the banks of the Thames. The medals of some of the marines
who had served in Syria, attracted his attention, and he enquired
into the nature of their services. He next expressed a wish to see
the manual exercise performed, which of course was done; and his
majesty, taking a musket, went through the Russian manual exercise.
On his arrival on the Dutch coast, the King of Holland came out to
meet him in a steamer; and on his landing, the British crew parted
with him with three cheers. The Imperial munificence was large to a
degree which we regret; for it would be much more gratifying to the
national feelings to receive those distinguished strangers, without
suffering the cravers for subscriptions to intrude themselves into
their presence.

On the Emperor's landing in Holland, he reviewed a large body of
Dutch troops, and had intended to proceed up the Rhine, and enjoy the
landscape of its lovely shores at his leisure. But for him there is
no leisure; and his project was broken up by the anxious intelligence
of the illness of one of his daughters by a premature confinement. He
immediately changed his route, and set off at full speed for St





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, No.
CCCXLV. July, 1844. Vol. LVI., by Various

*** 