The Living age ... / Volume 121, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0121 /moa/livn/livn0121/

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The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1556 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0121 /moa/livn/livn0121/

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The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1556 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. April 4, 1874 0121 1556
The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1556, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

z1~ (7, LITTELLS LIVING AGE. B PLURIBUS UNUM. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the chaff thrown away. ~ Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. FIFTH SERIES, VOLUME VI. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CXXI. APRIL, MAY, 7UNE. 4 1874. b BOSTON: LITTELL AND GAY. A ~ *0 n _ s2 7 AS L1~ N) 4 6 C TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CXXI. THE SIXTH QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE FIFTH SERIES APRIL, MAY, JUNE, 1874. EDINBURGH REVIEW. Libraries, Ancient and Modern, Dr. Schliemanns Trojan Antiquities, QUARTERLY REVIEW. Prosper M& im~e: His Letters and Works BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW. 259 515 131 David Livingstone, . . . 387 CONTEMPORART REVIEW. The Shield of Achilles 110 Letters from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I The Reply of Achilles to the Envoys of Agamemnon, . 687 Emanuel Deutsch 8oo FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW. Two Chapters on the Reign of Louis XIV. 67, 482 On Wordsworth 323 NEW QUARTERLY REVIEW. Animals in Fable and Art, . . . 451 BLACKWOODS MAGAZINE. International Vanities. Titles 3 Decorations, 340 Emblems, 726 Disorder in Dreamland,. 46, 102, 330, 495 The Story of Valentine; and his Brother, 78, 467, 559, ~ The Two Speransky, . . . . i6o Lord Stanhope and the Historians of Queen Annes Reign, . . . 195 Scepticism and Modern Poetry, . . 236 Alice Lorraine, . . 595, 6~8, 739, 789 Journal de A. M. Amp~re,...69S FRASERS MAGAZINE. Some Old-Fashioned Parsons, . . 6i 9 The Strivings of Ancient Greece for Union 707 GENTLEMANS MAGAZINE. Recollections of John Keais, . . . 574 CORNHILL MAGAZINE. Far from the Madding Crowd, 19, 299, 536 Dr. Johnsons Writings 91 The Courtier of Misfortune: A Bona partist Story, . . . 150, 227 A Rose in June, 168, 212, 353, 682, 715 The White Cat 462 The French Press 579 Impressions of Iceland 750 MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. The Prince Printers of Italy, . . 32 Mendelssohn 218, 424, 672 Spanish Life and Character in the Inte- rior During the Summer of 1873, 313 The Philology of Slang 367 Our First Great Novelist, 643 Dante 771 Ordered South 817 TEMPLE BAR. Chateaubriand and his Times, Chinese Domestic Life, Sir Peter Lely, Lamartine VICTORIA MAGAZINE. A Country Walk with the Poets, QUEEN. t~ -v Impulsive People, SPECTATOR. Colonel Chesneys Essays, Vouth versus Age Sir John Lubbock on the Bee, The New Constitution of Switzerland, The Domesday Book of Scotland, English Foreign Policy, . The Women and th~Universities,. The Old Scotch Mo~ rates, . ECONOMIST. The Illness of Prince Bismarck, The Reality of the Indian Famine, III 287 436 549 604 762 377 55 253 379 508 571 629 693 821 255 631 IV CONTENTS. SATURDAY REVIEW. The Princess Charlotte 248 Count Beusts Note 446 An Alsatian Experiment, . . . 696 PALL MALL GAZETTE. The Speakership Chinamen out of China,. Liberalism and Democracy, The Fiji Islands. The Whites, The Natives, The Blacks Popular Voting in Switzerland, Italian Affairs 6i 124 . 506 510 569 635 ~74 633 CHAMBERS JOURNAL. The Caspian Sea Explorations of a Naturalist, Archibald Constable, . A Homely Heroine, . About Retrievers; . . Prognostications by Leeches, Hissing Belgian 1-lusbandry, . Exotic English ALL THE YEAR ROUND. Childhood in Japan, . Peg-Legged Bob ACADEMY. Twinkling of the Stars, . 14 i88 242 282 297 382 444 503 638 126 812 703 INDEX TO VOLUME CXXI. ACHILLES, The Shield of . . Anne, Queen, Historians of her Reign, 195 Age versus Youth 253 Austria, Position of, at the Breaking Out of the War of 1870, . . . 446 Animals in Fable and Art, . . . 451 Alice Lorraine, . . 591, 6~8, 739, 789 Achilles, The Reply of, to Agamemnon, 687 Alsatian Experiment 696 Amp~re, A. M., Journal of . . . 698 BROWNING, Elizabeth Barrett, Letters from ii6 Belt, Thomas, Explorations of, in Cen- tral America i88 Bismarck, Illness of . . 255 Bee, The, Sir John Lubbock on 379 Beusts, Count, Note 446 Belgian Husbandry 503 CHESNEYS Essays, Colonel . Caspian Sea, The Chinamen out of China 124 Childhood in Japan 126 Courtier of Misfortune, The . ~ 227 Constable, Archibald . 242 Charlotte, The Princess . 248 Chateaubriand and his Times, 287 Chinese Domestic Life 436 Country Walk with the Poets, X . . 762 DISORDER in Dreamland, 46, 102, 330, 495 Decorations International Vanities, . 340 Democracy and Liberalism, 506 Domesday Book of Scotland, . Dante 77 Deutsch, Emanuel 8oo EMBLEMS International Vanities, 726 English Foreign Policy 629 Exotic English 638 FAR from the Madding Crowd, 19, 299, 536 Fiji Islands, The The Whites 510 The Natives, 569 The Blacks 635 French Press, The 579 Famine, Indian, Reality of 631 Fielding, Henry 643 GREECE, Ancient, The Strivings of, for Union 707 HOMELY Heroine, A Hissing Husbandry, Belgian, INTERNATIONAL Vanities. III. Titles, IV. Decorations, V. Emblems, Impulsive People Indian Famine, The Reality of Italian Affairs Iceland, Impressions of JOHNSONS, Dr., Writings of Japan, Childhood in Japan, Religion in . KEATS, John, Recollections of Louis XIV., The Reign of Libraries, Ancient and Modern, Lubbock, Sir John, on the Bee, Leeches, Prognostications by. Livingstone, David Liberalism and Democracy, Lely, Sir Peter . Lamartine M~rim~e, Prosper Mendelssohn 218, 424, Moderates, The Old Scotch NATURALIST, A, Explorations of Novelist, Our First Great OLD-FASHIONED Parsons, Some Order,d ~uth PRINCE Printers of Italy, The Press, The French Parsons, Some Old-Fashioned Poets, A Country Walk with the Peg-Legged Bob RosE in June, A . i68, 212, 353, 682, Retrievers, About Ritualism, . .. . SPEAKERSHIP, The . . Speransky, The two . Stanhope, Lord, and the Historians of Queen Annes Reign, Scepticism and Modern Poetry, V 282 444 503 3 340 726 377 631 633 750 91 126 768 174 67, 482 259 379 382 387 506 549 604 3 672 821 i88 643 619 817 32 579 619 762 812 715 297 703 195 236 VI Spanish Life and Character in the Inte rior 313 Shakespeares Games 320 Slang, The Philology of. . . . 367 Switzerland, The New Constitution of . Switzerland, Popular Voting in . Schliemanns Trojan Antiquities, . . 515 Scotland, The Domesday Book of . . 571 Slave Trade, The, at Zanzibar, . . 576 Stars, Twinkling of the . . . . 703 Scotch Moderates, The Old . . 821 INDEX. I TITLES International Vanities, . . 3 Trojan Antiquities, Dr. Schliemanns - 515 VALENTINE; and his Brother, the Story of . . . . 78, 467, 559, 615 WORDSWORTH 323 White Cat, The 402 Women, The, and the Universities, . 693 YOUTH versus Age, . . . . 253 POETRY. AcITILLES, The Shield of Amelia, To After Heine Achilles Reply to Agamemnon, Attainment April, In Brook Rhine, The . Chimpanzee, The . Couleur de Rose Dawn Darkness Epig~a Asleep Early Spring Easter Decorations, Easter Song Fishermans Summons, The Gradual Spring, . Good-Bye Horatian Lyrics Home-Sick In Memoriam, 1141 - 258 322 - 691 706 706 642 386 450 258 578 2 - 94 322 386 642 450 642 130 706 2 Love-Flowers, - Lighten Our Darkness, Life or Death? Mars 66 258 - 578 66 Only a Womans Hair, Plea, A - Parting Prayer Psyche, To Recollection, - Revenant, Sweet Marjoram, Tournament, A Twilight Dreams, - Tired The Thought of Her, The Tides, . Times Thoughts, - Winter Sunrise, Winter Sunset, 386 - 450 450 770 258 322 94 66 94 - 322 514 578 - 706 770 514 578 TAL~S;~. ALICE LORRAINE, . . 591, 6~8, 739, 789 Peg-Legged Bob 812 Courtier of Misfortune, The - . i5o, 227 Rose in June, A . i68, 212, 353, 682, 715 Disorder in Dreamland, 46, 102, 330, 495 Valentine; and his Brother, The Story of 78, 467, 559, 615 Far from the Madding Crowd, 19, 299, 536 White Cat, The 402 Homely Heroine, A . . . . 282 A

The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1556 1-64

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Eifth Series, 1 ~Nfri IF~F4~ Arnil A. 1R74 Fzom Beginning, Volume ~i, LiW .LUU?JI ~~1M ~ d.VI hi (V61. OfT. CON1TENTS. Blatkwoods Magazine, I. INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. III. Titles, II. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. By Thomas Hardy, author of Under the Greenwood Tree, A Pair of Blue Eyes, etc. Part IV., THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY, DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. Part IL, COLONEL CHESNEYS ESSAYS, THE CASPIAN SEA, . THE SPEAKERSHIP, POETRY ONLY A WOMANS HAIR, IN MEMORIAM Cornhill Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, BlackwoodXr Magazine, Spectator, . Chambers ~ournal, Pall Mall Gazette, . 2 EPIG2EA ASLEEP, .2 MISCELLANY, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTIO ~J. For EiOHT DOLLARS, remided directly to the Publishers, the LIvINo Ane wTh be punctually forwarded for a year,free ojj5ostage. But we do lint prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay commission for forwarding the money; nor when we cluh the LIVING Age with another periodical. An extra copy of Tua Lsvi~to AGE is sent grati~ to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances slsould be made by hank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these caii be procured, the n~ney should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order ot LITraLL & GAY. III. IV. V. VI. VII. .3 59 32 46 - 55 .2 64 2 ONLY A WOMAN~ S HAIR, ETC. ONLY A WOMANS HAIR. LATE judge beside an Indian river, My wifes great-uncle, frail and old, Minus his temper and his liver, Came home with stores of wealth untold. Wed named our eldest boy Ramchunder; Wed called our house The Mangostines; And, but for a domestic blunder, Should now enjoy his princely means. We laid down yards of Indian matting; Compounded jars of sangaree; The cook had turned, by constant patting, Our Dorset butter into ghee. We warmed the house from base to attics, Although the season was July: He brought a train of Asiatics, Whose faces made the children cry. My wife received him in a hurry, Her brow perplexed with household care; Shed been all day about the curry, With scarcely time to dress her hair. The children then were all paraded; H~ loudly blessed our little Ram; Each wore a tussah richly braided, And each performed a deep salaam. We closed the windows while at dinner; How hot the soup and chutney were! John punkahed well for a beginner; My wife wore roses in her hair. The pains wed taken were not wasted: He praised our sauce of capsicum; Said that such pepper hed not tasted Since with the Rifles at Dum-Dum. The curry! careful preparation, With glowing chilis round it stuck, Appeared; he sniffed his approbation, And trifled with a Bombay duck. The rice was dried to pure perfection; He filled his mouth a silence fell Then starting, with an interjection, Which I am too polite to tell He gasped, he wheezed, he coughed, he splut. tered; We loosed his stock, we gave him air, And with a stifled voice he muttered: Youve choked me with a filthy hair. Alas! it was no hair of minion; My wife confessed she dressed in haste, And while Maria combed her chignon, Herself had mixed the curry paste! They proved the will of Thule Crompton, By which we never got a groat; His thousands found their way to Brompton, For the Diseases of the Throat. Chambers JournaL IN MEMORIAM. O SUMMER sky, so blue and clear; O sparkling eyes, without a tear, And joyous hearts without a fear. O earth so sweet, and roses fair, And bright birds glistening through the air, Trilling soft music everywhere. O form I loved so true and well, Nought on this earth can break the spell That links me to thy narrow cell, Where lies thy quiet, peaceful breast, In childhoods hours Ive oft caressed Those loving lips Ive often pressed. O life is sweet when love is young, To cheer us as we urge along This toilsome path, this busy throng. I think of thee at morning light; I see thee in my dreams by night; Thou art my guardian angel bright. Ill love thee still while life shall last; Nor fame nor fortune eer can blast Thy radiance oer my memory cast. Chambers Journal. EPIGA~A ASLEEP. DY WILLIAM WHITMAN DAILEY. Aanuvus lies beneath the snows, While Winter waits her brief repose, And says, No fairer flower grows! Of sunny April days she dreams, Of robins notes and murmuring streams, And smiling in her sleep she seems. She thinks her rosy buds expand Beneath the touch of childhoods hand, And beauty breathes throughout the land. The arching elders bending oer The silent rivers sandy shore, Their golden tresses trim once more. The pussy-willows in their play ~Theii varnished caps have flung away, And hung their furs on every spray. The toads their cheery music chant, The squirrel seeks his summer haunt, And life revives in every plant. I must awake! I hear the bee! The butterfly I long to see! The buds are bursting on the tree ! Ah! blossom, thou art dreaming, dear, The wild wind~W~owl about thee here, The dirges of the dying year! Thy gentle eyes with tears are wet; In sweeter sleep these pains forget; Thy merry morning comes not yet! Providence, 1?. I. Transcript. INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. 3 From Blackwoods Magazine. earnestness. These sentiments are in. INTERNATIONAL VANITIES, deed so developed in many of the more NO. 111.TITLES, ancient publications that it is sometimes difficult to avoid feeling a sort of envy of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU says, in a such resolute conviction, of such persis- true but decidedly ill-tempered sentence, tent faith. The authors who believed in that kings have two main objects, to ex- Majesty believed in everything; they tend their power outside their frontiers, had no doubts ; they. went straight on- and to make it more absolute within wards to their end without a hesi- them. He might have added, with equal tation, without a flicker in their creed. reason, that another of their objects is to Even if they state that, because multiply and consolidate their titles ; in- mustard was made at Dijon, its name deed, if we are to admit the arguments of must necessarily be a corruption of Bossuet, this latter sort of action is oblig- moult me tarde, the old motto of the atory upon them they have no choice Dukes of Burgundy (who were always in about it. The Bishop of Meaux argues a hurry), there is a sincerity about the that kings, like the sun, have not re- affirmation which shows that they, at all ceived without a reason the brilliancy events, were quite certain of the fact. which surrounds them; it is necessary And so it was with all else they talked to the human race; they are bound, both about; no matter what they said, they for the peace and the decoration of the were always convinced of the truth of universe, to keep up a majesty, which is their own words. The result is, natu- but a ray of that of God. This opinion rally, that the modern reader somewhat may have been altogether in its place in mistrusts the asseverations of such un- Louis XIV.s chapel at Versailles (though reasoning writers, and that, if he wants to those who saw the German Emperor pray be as satisfied as they are, he is obliged every Sunday in that same chapel for the to take the trouble of verifying many of speedy capitulation of Paris are justified their assertions. Luckily the subject is in entertaining doubts as to its fitness amusing; what would be an ungrateful even there), but it certainly does not ex- labour in another case, becomes a pleas- press actual ideas; and though Fl~chier ant task in this one: though the early confirms it by asserting that reverence history of titles is so much scattered that for regal Majesty should be regarded as its elements have to be scraped together a sort of civil religion and of political from various outlying sources. They are worship, we seem, in these days, to have all disconnected; there is no unity in the grown altogether outside the state of story; it lies about in bits ; it does not mind in which such theories were re- appear to have been ever grouped into a garded as indisputable axioms. The whole. If this last impression be correct, books on the law of nations allude to if no history of titles has ever been com- them with veneration, but do not presume posed, there is a gap for an enthusiast to to discuss their mysteries or to penetrate fill i.~p ;.Jut it seems difficult to believe into their awe-inspiring recesses. It is that the ground has really been left un- rather in the treatises on ceremonial, in tilled: it is probable that books have the chronicles of two or three hundred been composed upon the question, but years ago in the older French, German, ,that they have left no footprints on the and Italian special dictionaries, and in sands of time, as is indeed the case, un- the earlier encyclop~dias that we find fortunately, with a good many books. disquisitions on the fundamental princi- And yet this is a world-wide subject, ples of Majesty, and on the titles with I which finds its application everywhere, which Majesty adorns itself. But, what- and which a nui~ber of learned men in ever be the sources of information on the many lands have regarded as possessing matter, they present the same invariable J qualities of the highest character. Even character of detailed reverence, of wilful now there are serious people who look at homage, of credulou~ and unsuspecting it with deep respect, and who will protest 4 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. with indignation against its being includ- ed amongst the vanities of nations. The only answer to be given to them is, that it would be of no use at all to be a native of a Protestant country unless one could enjoy the one advantage of Protestantism, which is to be absolutely free to hold and to defend any opinion whatever. T are entitled to do the same, hey Judging from what has happened since history has been organized, it seems reasonable to suppose that in early times kings invented themselves first, and then invented titles, in order to frame in and illuminate their glory. Menes, whom we must regard as ancient the most moder- ate computation of his date puts him 4000 years back was a title in himself, for his name signified the conductor ; and though we know nothing of the spe- cial personal denominations which were adopted by the founders of Babylon and Nineveh, we find their successors in pos- session of a fair share of honorific appel- lations, at the moment when their annals become accessible to our curiosity. The Kileh-Shargat cylinder, which is the old- est monument of Mesopotamian history yet discovered, has brought down to us the designations attributed to himself by the fifth known king of Assyria, who reigned about 1200 B.C. It indicates that the potentate in question already used in some abundance the figurative, emblem- atic, and descriptive epithets which have since acquired the name of titles. He calls himself Tiglath-pileser ; the illustrious chief; whom Asshur and Her- cules have exalted to the utmost wishes of his heart ; who has pursued after the enemies of Asshur, and has subjugated all the earth ; the son of Asshur-rish-ili the powerful king; the subduer of for- eign countries; he who has reduced all the lands of the Magian world ; and more in the same style. This was pretty good for thirty centuries ago, for a prince who seems to us, at this long distance, to have been a mere beginner in the art of self-laudation; but, as times passed on, the love of titles grew, and, seven hun- dred years after Tiglath, we find Xerxes saying on another slab: I am Xerxes the king; the great~king;. the king of kings; the king of the many-peopled countries; the supporter also of the great world ; the son of King Darius. Ti- granes the Armenian borrowed king of kings from Persia at a later period and held to it so eagerly, that, when he was beaten by Lucullus, he refused to answer a letter from the latter because it was addressed to him under the ordinary name of king, instead of hearing the plu- ral mention. But let it be remembered that it has turned out luckily for arch~- ologists that this appellation should have been cherished with such care and em- ployed so frequently; for, if the signs which represented it had not been con- stantly repeated in the Persepolis in- scriptions, Grotefend would have had no reason to suspect that they might perhaps express this much-loved title, and would not have been thereby led to the discov- ery of the key by which the cuneiform writing was deciphered. It was because Darius Hystaspes persisted in calling himself king of kings that the meaning of these arrow-headed records was found out. If more recent royal titles had served an equally useful purpose, they might, perhaps, have been omitted from the catalogue of the vanities of nations. Alas lit is just the contrary. That is why they are included here. It is, indeed, most terribly the contra- ry; for whereas Xerxes and Darius whom our schoolmasters taught us most wrongfully to regard as gorgeous speci- mens of pride contented themselves, in their retiring modesty, with half-a- dozen titles,, the monarchs of our own time require at least fifty each. In this respeo& , as in so many others, the world has got on marvellously since the fight at Salamis; the progress, indeed, has been so Vast, the subject has become so huge, that it is an audacious act to attempt to dissect it in an article: nothing but its outlines can be sketched in these few pages; developed at full length, it would fill a dozen foljos. And if, instead of limiting our attention to purely royal titles (which alone present a character of internationality), ~ve were to include per- sonal and local attributions too, we should need a goods station to store the volumes TITLES. But, notwithstanding this persistent duration and this universal applicability, it cannot be pretended that titles have been of much practical utility to their proprietors. From the Egyptian Menes that we were alluding to just now, who was lamentably eaten by a hippopotamus, down to those six Deys of Algiers who were successively elected and assassi- nated in the same afternoon by a sensitive population sixty years ago, there have been innumerable, and most varied evi- dences of the now undoubted axiom that the post of safety is a private station. And if titles have not saved the lives of their possessors in those disagreeable moments through which sovereigns, like common people, have sometimes had to pass, it does not seem to be very clear that they have been more successful in rendering their owners joyful or content- ed. The King of Yvetot is the only mon- arch in history whose happiness appears to have been incontestable; and it will be admitted, without discussion, that his position, especially as. described by B& ranger, was exceptiona, and cannot be quoted as an argument. And yet the vanity of the throne has always so vio- lently tempted human nature, that some of the best heads that men have owned have been carried away by the desire of sitting in ermine, with a cro~vn and scep- tre. Etre Bonaparte, et se faire Sire ii asj5 ire d descendre / mais non, il croit monter en s~galant aux rois: il aime mieux un titre quun nom. What can be added to such a phrase as this ? What words ~an paint with clearer truth the folly of the pride of reigning? Kings persist, however; they continue to distribute titles amongst their sub- jects, and to confer titles upon them- selves. The former constitute one of the most vigorous manifestations of local and individual pride; the latter present an aggressive fqrm of the vanity of na- tions. And yet~however alike the two classes of appellations may appear in this respect, there is an enormous dif- ference in their origin and in their appli- cation. No one can deny the validity of 5 we should be forced to write. Some of the world may invent hereafter in slight allusion to the latter is, however, their stead. inevitable in talking about the former, even if it only be to call attention to the erroneous disposition into which so many of us have fallen, since this century be- gan, of looking upon a title as a privilege granted by a sovereign, far more than as one of the essential attributes of the sov- ereign himself. If the monarch had no I titles, it would be difficult to conceive his bestowal of them on his subjects; it was because he wore golden spurs himself that, in those strange days of chivalry, any knight could confer his own grade. upon a deserving squire ; and, though the right of noblesse to ennoble has van- ished with the times of lance and shield, the principle that honour only can grant honour, that rank alone can bestow rank, has remained in force, and finds its ap- plication in the universal rule that the sovereign is the exclusive fountain of dis- tinction. Chivalry, with its communistic theory of equality in merit (as merit was understood in those days), shared the power with the monarch for a time, but he has seized it back again ;and ~vhat Blackstone said of England is true of all other countries now, The Constitution intrusts the Sovereign with the sole pow- er of conferring dignities and honours, in confidence that he will bestow them upon none but such as deserve them. Generally, in these days at least, he does distribute them reasonably; and it will be owned, even by democrats, that no- bility (which is implied by titles) is an in- stitution which fits in skilfully with hu- man weaknesses and instincts, and per- haps even with social necessities. It has generally been independent of forms of government; it exists in every monarchy (except Norway) and in most republics; it preceded and it outlived barbaric times ; honour, which, in its moral sense, was but an invention of the middle ages, came long after it ; and, though nations now profess to base their motives on jus- tice and on duty instead of honour, we may presume that titles will live down these theories in their turn, and will get on just as well with the new springs of action which the futux~ Radical chieftains 6 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. the former, because they only take effect nations may refuse it without his having within the kingdom of the sovereign who reason to complain. concedes them ; but the latter concern It was essential to begin by this defini- other sovereigns and other nations, who tion of the law (so far at least as there may, if they. think fit, dispute the titles is any law at all) which exists between which neighbouring rulers may assume.~ nations on this question of title-taking, And this right of approbation is all the for without it the position would have more indisputable because it is not limit- been difficult to follow out. But, with ed to mere honorific denominations. It this explanation before our eyes, we extends to a much larger field to the start from a clear ground; we see that, existence of foreign states as well ; for as De Martens says, if, in consequence every power reserves the right of recog- of the natural equality which exists be- nizing or of refusing to recognize another tween sovereign states, each of them can power, even though its material existence attribute to its chief such titles as it may may be so patent as to need no recogni- choose to confer upon him, other states tion even though, as Napoleon said of have the right to recognize those titles, the French Republic when he was nego- or to refuse to recognize them, or to tiating at Campo Formio, ~~it no more recognize them only conditionally. And needs recognition than the sun requires really this precautionary reserve becomes to be recognized. If, then, this latter very comprehensible when we look into right is, as we all well know, and as the the history of sovereign titles, and discov- authors on International Law take care er that it brings out the former vanities of to tell us in imposing phrases, inherent royalty with an unsparingness of precision to every independent government, it fol- which would probably humiliate the living lows that the refusal to recognize the members of the profession if they knew of titles which a foreign sovereign may attn- it. Let us hope that they are less well in- bute to himself is but a subsidiary con- formed than we are, and that they sleep sequence of itbut a result of the high- at night in peace under the soothing in- er right to disavow the sovereignty itself fluence of the conviction that their van- in virtue of which the titles have been as- ous denominations honestly belong to sumed. In principle, as Phillimore ob- them. serves, it is unquestionably competent Now w~can open out the books and to every sovereign to take any title of dig- apply ourselves to the study of the first nity or authority which it may please him principle of the science of royal appel- to adopt or the nation to confer upon lations, which is, of course, to divide him; and yet, as Vattel puts it, as it them solemnly into classes. These would be absurd in a little prince to take classes are, Titles of Dignity, which in- the name of king, and have himse If dude all the designations expressive of called Majesty, foreign nations may re- the monarchical position; Titles of Pos- ject this fancy, and will thereby conform session, which refer to territories and to sound reason and to their duty. And dominions; Titles of Relationship, of in another place he goes on to say, as Religion, and of Courtesy. And even a nation may confer upon her conductor this list, sufficient as it is, is not quite whatever degree of authority and what- complete ; for, subsidiarily, there are ever rights she may think proper, she is titles of incognito, and also the special equally at liberty in regard to the name, per~on~l or descriptive surnames which the title, and the honours with which she have been borne by so many chieftains may choose to decorate him. . . . But from Scipio the African down to the foreign nations are not bound to give present Red Prince of Prussia. way to the will of a sovereign who as- Titles of dignity are easy to compre- sumes a new title, or of a people who bend; they are made up exclusively of call their chief by what name they please. words which indicate a function ; they ap- If this title has in it nothing unreason- ply to any sort of titled situation ,provid- able or contrary to custom, it is alto- ed it be effective, and not simply honor- gether in harmony with the mutual duties ary; they are composed especially of the which bind nations together to grant to formulas by ~vhic~ each country habitually a sovereign or a conductor of a state the describes its headof Emperor, King, same title that is given to him by his and the various other epithets assumed people. But, if this title is contrary to by the chiefs of states. And yet, simple custom, if it implies attributes which do as this first category of royal substantives not belong to him whb affects it, foreign appears to be, it includes so many various TITLES. 7 designations of sovereignty that it would whole history of central Europe for four be difficult to compose an absolutely corn- centuries. But Elector has not enjoyed plete enumeration of all the shapes of the vitality of Kino the seven great rulership that the world has known. Pope Electorates that were created by the has stood first so long that we may put it Golden Bull in 1356, the seven lamps first once more, though it was not until of the Holy Roman Empire which, to the fifth century that it became the par- quote Voltaire once more, was neither ticular attribute of the Bishop of Rome, holy nor Roman have now dwindled who, so far, had been called Summps down to one little shadow of their former Pontifex: it appears to have been attrib- name. The Prince Bishops of Mayence, uted to him by the Concile of Toledo in Tr~ves, and Cologne, the Bavarian Duke, the year 400. Emperor and King are the Chiefs of Saxony, the Palatinate, and both older, especially the latter; but Em- Brandenburg, are represented now, alas, peror naturally heads the catalogue of by the Elector of Hesse Cassel! This is pride, for no other title has stood so high a fall indeed. That the emperor-makers in history, no other sound brings back to of the middle ages should (except the us as that one does the memory of Rome, bishops) have ended by becoming kings of Charlemagne, of Napoleon. And yet themselves, was natural enough in the this very title disappeared in Western times through which they passed; that Europe in 476, and remained unknown these great chieftains who had held he- from that time until the new conqueror reditarily between them the charges of revived it on Christmas-day 8oo. It ex- Arch-Chancellors of Germany, the Gauls, isted meanwhile in Constantinople, it is and Italy of Grand Steward, Grand true ; but that is no argument in the case, Equerry, Arch-Marshal, Arch-Chamber- for the schismatic Eastern Emperor lain, and Arch-Treasurer of the Empire never counted in the Catholic world. should have struggled higher still, ~vas And then we get to King, the universal but a consequence of their nature which King, which has lasted from all time with- was human, though Electoral; but that out even a change beyond that of literal the grand title of Elector, abandoned by translation from one language to another; the warrior-priests and warrior-princes the rank that has been so long-lived that who had bori~e it with savage pride for the Radicals must sometimes ask them- four hundred and fifty years, should be selves with perplexity how they are to picked up, appropriated, and retained by succeed in finally suppressing so tough the Landgrave of Hesse Cassel, is one an institution, and must wish for more of those absurd incongruities of history years like 1870, which proved again the which offend our reason and revolt our truth of Voltaires saying that offensive imagination. We get next to Duke, wars make kings, defensive wars make which ceased to be an independent soy- rebublics. It has indeed been immense- ereign title under Louis XII. in France, ly and persistently employed. Its origi- and disappeared in Germany (except in nator can scarcely have suspected, when Nassau) at the commencement of the he set the first example of it, that he was present century, with Palatine, Margrave, establishing the most durable of human Burgrave, Rhingrave, Wildgrave, and grades, and that, after him, the earth Altgrave. Landgrave alone, of all the old would behold more kings than the stars Teutonic titles, is still kept up by the we see on a frosty night. (Lest the ex- rulers of Hesse Homburg; and it is as actness of this comparison should be dis- well fhatit should be preserved, for it is puted, let it at once be observed that, in the most ancient of all the special Ger- our latitude, only 4200 stars are visible to man names. It was invented so long ago the naked eye, and that there have been as 1130, by Louis, third Count of Thurin- vastly more kings than that.) Hierarchi- gia, who adopted it in order to distinguish cally the next place belongs to Grand himself from the crowd of Counts around Duke, a designation which was first con- him. The idea was evidently admired by ceived at Moscow, but which was acclima- his colleagues; for Thierry, Count of tized in southern Europe in 1569, when Lower Alsace, appropriated the same de- Pius V. bestowed it on Cosmo de Medicis. nomination seven~ears afterwards, and But though Tuscany was the first land to Albert of Hapsburg, Count of Higher own it, Germany only has preserved it, Alsace, followed the example in ix86. the seven Grand Duchies still extant These were the three real Landgraves, being all beyond the Rhine. Then ap- the only ones that were recognized as pears Elector, a name frrll of memories of original by the Empire; all the others pride and strife, a name which tells the were imitations. Margrave was a more 8 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. modern title ; it was limited to the four rulers of the Marches of Brandenburg, Meissen, Baden, and Moravia. We may take Doge next, with its memories of Genoa and Venice ; and Protector, which Napoleon renewed from Cromwell when he formed the Confederation of the Rhine. Stadtholder and Viceroy wake up very different recollections: one car- ries us to the chilly shores of Holland, the other to the bright skies of Naples, India, and Peru. Voivode, like Palatine, was also a Viceroys title ; but the former was Sciavonic, the latter German. Czar we will look at by itself, and Hospodar is almost the only remaining title which is worth mentioning; for we need not ex- patiate on the Bans of the Eastern Marches, though the name exists still in Croatia. Sultan must be counted as Asiatic, far it was first adopted by Baja- zet; and with it comes the old name Ca- liph, which means substitute, and was originally attributed to the successors of Mahomet; but the Caliphates of Bagdad, Fez, Grenada, Egypt, Morocco, and Tu- nis, have all become successively extinct, and their rights are concentrated in the Sultan of Turkey, who is now sole Ca- liph, and thereby Commander of the Faithful. Of Shahs there is but one, though there are three Khans (Khiva, Khokand, and Boukhara), two Imauns (Yeman and Muscat), two Regents (Tri- poli and Tunis). Bey, or Beg, has now disappeared ; but that it was once a high- er name than Sultan is shown by the fact that it was preferred to the latter by Tho- grul, founder of the dynasty of the Se- leucides. Sheikh belongs particularly to the Governor of Madina, and is otherwise a mere village chieftains name. Pasha is now replaced in Egypt by Khedive. And there we may end the list, though it is very far from being exhausted. It may, however, be as well to allude to Emir, and to add that, striQtly, it is a descrip- tion, not a title: it is the name borne by the descendants of the Prophet, who are found in every class of Arab and Turkish society, particularly amongst the beggars. The peculiarity about their situation is, that to be an Emir because your father was one is considered to be very insuffi- cient evidence of your right to claim the rank; to be so in virtue of your mother is infinitely more conclusive ; but to be so on both sides, is altogether satisfac- tory. The one privilege of Emirs is, that they are the only people who can wear green turbans; and~as the Sultan al- though he is now Caliph is notof the blood of the Prophets, such of his Min- isters as are Ernirs courteously abstain from green in his presence, so as not to remind him of his inferiority. Emir has, however, been sometimes deviated from its true meaning, and has been ap- plied as a material title to l)eople in authority; for instance, Abd-el-Kader took it, though he was but a simple Sheikh. This enumeration of the best known amongst the titles of dignity is, however, of but small interest. That certain names should exist in certain countries as designations of their leader, is a fact which we may regard as historical or geographical or linguistic, according to our fancies : the real essence of the mat- ter is not there; it lies, from the point of view where we are placing ourselves here, in the degree of right which each sov- ereign has to bear and hold the title which he may select. The history of the assumption of new titles is a very large one : it includes a singular variety of ex- tc~nsions, augmentations, adaptations, and usurpations so many, indeed, that they cannot all be counted. History is full of battles which have been fought for titles and though we have grown so careless about them now that we allow monarchs to change their names pretty nearly as they please, the process was not so easy in former times. When Christina of Sweden had herself crowned King (not Queen) no serious objection was made, because the matter was regarded by the powers as local and exceptional ; just as nobody said a word when Madame de Gu6briant was appointed Ambassador of France, when the Countess of Pembroke served as Sheriff of Westmoreland, and when the Shah of Persia sent a feminine negotiator to make peace for him with the Grand Seigneur. But in cases of male nominations to new titles, govern- ment~ used to be less courteous and more exacting. It is only of late years that they have grox~n indifferent, luckily for the five empires and the five kingdoms which have sprung up this century, and which have consequently been received with a bland politeness which showed that they provoked no emotion (with the one exception of the first Napoleon). The last two great king-makings, in i8o6 and i8i~, wer~ effected by the masters of Europe, arid therefore could provoke no hostility ; but the isolated cases of Brazil, of Louis Philippe, of Napoleon III., of Italy and Mexico, were all of the very kind which used to cause bitter op TITLES. 9 position in other days, and yet not a word about titles; it is therefore worth telling was said about them, other than Cer- in some detail. tainly just as you please; we are all The original denominations of the quite content. The same calm silence Muscovite sovereign were Autocrat reigned when the empire of Germany (which was borrowed from the Greek shrivelled into Austria; when the chiefs Emperors), Great Lord, Grand Duke, of Saxony, Wurtemberg, and Bavaria put and Czar. This last designation was an on royal crowns ; when Baden and Hesse old one it was first given to Duke Darmstadt became Grand Duchies. No Wladimir, who died in 1125, and some of one raised a finger then, and it was con- his successors partially retained it ; but, sidered to be quite natural that the Con- all the same, the Russian rulers continued gress of Vienna should confirm those to becalled Grand Dukes till the sixteenth changes, should add Hanover to the list century. In 1547, Ivan II. was crowned of thrones, and Mecklenburg to the as Czar of Moscow, and that title was Duchies, and should bestow the title of retained until, after the conquest of Lit- King of Poland on the Czar. But notwith- tle Russia and Smolensk, they became standing this generous liberality of dis- Czars of All the Russias (Great, Little, position, the plenipotentiaries of Europe New, Black, Red, White, and Southern refused to grant the prayer of that insa- Russias). During the next century they tiable Elector of Hesse Cassel, who, not began to call themselves Imperator, in content with the new Electorate that he the Latin translations of the documents had invented ten years before, came up which they addressed to other powers. again respectfully and said, Please, The Emperor of Germany, Leopold I., gentlemen, do let me he a king too, like was, however, so offended by this assump- my neighbours. At Aix-la-Chapelle, in tion of a title which he considered to be October i8i8, they rejected his pitiful his personal monopoly, that he ~yrote to demand, and, at the same time, they once Peter, in 1687, to declare that he would more proclaimed the right of every power send back all letters containing this most to exercise supervision over the titles of reprehensibly presumptuous audacity. the others. This is how they answered Peter, however, persisted ; and in 1721, that lamentable Elector Les Cabinets after his victory at Pultava over Charles d6clarent que, attendu que la demande de XII., the title of Emperor of all the Rus- S. A. R. lElecteur de Hesse nest justi- sias ~vas officially conferred upon him by fi6e par aucun motif suffisant, il ny a rien the Russian Senate and the Holy Synod. qui puisse les engager ~ y satisfaire. Les Queen Anne of England immediately Cabinets prennent en m~me temps len- recognized the new appellation, and gagement de ne reconnaitre, ~ lavenir, called Peter by the name of Emperor, in aucun changement ni dans les titres des a letter which she wrote to him that year, souverains ni dans ceux des princes de with her excuses for an attack whicl had leurs maisons, sans en ~tre prd~lal5lement been made on the Russian envoy in Len- convenus entre eux. don. Prussia also, of course, acquiesced This example shows that, after all, the in the change, for her own royalty was line really is dra~vn somewhere even now too recent to allow her to make difficul- and that, notwithstanding the degenerat- ties with others. Sweden followed in ed principles of our epoch, it is not yet 1723; Venice in 1726; Denmark in possible for everybody to create himself 1732 ~T~key engaged in 1741 to give a king. But to obtain a clearer idea of the title of Empress to Elizabeth, who the trouble there was in former times to had just become Czarina ; even the Em- get leave to change a title, we must go peroi~ of Germany recognized the Russian back to the establishment of the king- empire in 1744. Finally the Courts of dom of Prussia, and still more, to the as- France and Spain consented, in 1745, sumption of the style of Emperor by the to treat Elizabeth as Empress, on condi- Czar of Russia. When Frederic III. tion of receiving a le/Ire rdversa/e, stipu- appointed himself king, he asked leave lating that the Imperial title should cause privately from the Emperor beforehand, no change in the ceremonial then exist- (how little that Emperor knew what a ing between the two Courts. But when serpent he was warming in his bosom !) Peter III. succeeded to Elizabeth in and consequently got recognized without January 1762, France wrote to him simply much trouble by the other powers. But as Majest6 Czarienne, and claimed an- the Russian story is far more compli- other rdverstzle before she would call him cated: it is the best ex~mple we possess Emperor. A curious correspondence of the contentions which once existed took place between the Russian ambas I0 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. sador at Versailles and the French Mm- to reject a new title, may also admit it ister of Foreign Affairs, but the Russian with the modifications and conditions Government gave way and granted the which may satisfy it. According to this rdversczle. The same difficulty arose principle, Peter the First and his succes- again six months later when Catherine sors, down to the Empress Elizabeth, took the place of Peter, for France then .have never been known in France other- claimed a third riversale. Catherine was wise than by the name of Czar. That not the woman to stand this sort of princess was the first to whom the king worry; but even she yielded somewhat granted the Imperial title; but on the to the spirit of the time, and authorized express condition that this title should in her Minister Gallitzin to communicate no way prejudice the ceremonial em- the following declaration to all the am- ployed between the two Courts. . . . The bassadors resident at St. Petersburg king, animated by the same sentiments The title of Imperial which Peter the towards the Empress Catherine, does not Great, of glorious memory, took, or hesitate to grant the title of Imperial rather renewed, for himself and his suc- . . . but if any pretension were ever cessors, has long been the property of raised contrary to the usages constantly both the Sovereigns and the Crown and followed as to rank and precedence be- monarchy of All the Russias. Her Im- tween the two Courts, from that moment penal Majesty considers that it would be the Crown of France, by a just recipro- contrary to the stability of this principle city, would resume the former style, and to renew the rdversales which xvere given would cease to give the Imperial title to when this title was first recognized. that of Russia. Charles III. of Spain Conformably with this sentiment, lien put in an analogous counter-declaration Imperial Majesty orders the Minister to at the same moment. and then the matter make this general declaration, that the dropped, after forty-one years of discus- title of Imperial having been once at- sion. tached to the crown and monarchy of We can now go on from titles of Dig- Russia, and perpetuated during several nity to titles of Possession, which com- years and successions, neither she nor prise, as their name indicates, the list of her successors forever can renew the all the states and territories which the rdversales; and, still less, keep up any sovereign may possess, including not correspondence with powers who refuse only his real possessions, but also his to recognize the Imperial title in the per- fictive or usurped ones. The conse- son of the Sovereigns of All the Russias, quence used to be, that monarchs made well as in their crown and monarchy. up such tremendous catalogues of the as And in order that this declaration m~ty lands they governed, and swelled them put an end, once for all, to any difficulties with so many countries that had never in a matter where none ought to exist, hen belonged to them at all, that their full Imperial Majesty, respecting the declara- length enl4meration became intermina- tion of Peter the Great, declares that the ble: in order, therefore to avoid pages title of Imperial shall introduce no of useless ~vniting, the chancelleries cun- chano~e in the ceremonial employed be- the Courts, which shall remain on ningly invented three sorts of titles of tween possession: the Grand Titre, the Moyen its former footing. Moscow, 21st Nov. Titre, and the Petit Titre. When the 1762. The French Court considered King of Sardinia, who was very rich in this declaration to be far too haughty; self-attributed dominions, was described so it put in the following counter declara- in all his detail as King of Cyprus, Si- tion, ~vhich expresses, in singularly clear cily, and Jerusalem; Duke, Prince, Mar- language, the theory then existing : quis, Count, Baron, and Seigneur of for- Titles are nothing by themselves. ty-seven other districts, the table was so They are only real provided they are lengthy that one can understand that it recognized ; and their value depends on was skipped over whenever etiquette al- the idea which is attached to them, and lowed the substitution of a somewhat on the extent which is accorded to them, shorter designation. The King of Naples by those who have the right to admit was in an an~ogou s condition, and he them, to reject them, or to limit them. also claimed to be Sovereign of Jerusa- Sovereigns cannot attribute titles to~ lem, as the English King professed to be themselves by their own choice ; the King of France. In treaties and official consent of their subj~ects does not suffice documents, all these pretended titles that of other powers is necessary; and were resolutely inscribed ; ambassadors every Crown being free to recognize or who were negotiating peace would have TITLES. II rather gone to war again than have con- sented to leave out one single ray of their masters glory: so, as it generally happened that two or more monarchs claimed the same title in the same docu- ment (almost every prince professing to be sovereign of all or part of the domin- ions of every other), it became usual to insert a clause of non prq/udicando, in order to stipulate that, no matter whAt were the titles claimed by anybody, no- body admitted them, and that they were simply left in for ornament and the satis- faction of the claimer. If Ghorrum Shah, the fifth Mogul Emperor of Delhi, had signed a treaty with a European state, and had described himself by his special denomination of Shah Jehan or King of the World which is the largest title of possession yet assumed by any sovereign the other side would have let him do it without asking for a rdversale, but they would have shielded their reserva- tion behind a non prcejudicando. The Titre Moyen, ~vhich grew to be generally used at the end of the eighteenth cen- tury, was made up of sub-dignities, omit- ting nearly all the territorial titles. The Petit Titre simply designates the sover- eign by the short appellation by which he is usually known, and which is al~vays the highest that he owns. Titles of Relationship do not imply family connection between the monarchs who employ them. Other people cannot say son or cousin to anybody but their own or their uncles child ; but sover- eigns use these words in a special mean- ing: they employ them to designate po- litical or religious situations, or to mark equalities or inequalities of rank. All Catholic princes give to the Pope the title of Holy Father, or Venerable Fa- ther, and denominate themselves his de- voted Sons ; in reply he calls them Ca- rissime or Dilectissime in Christo fili. Emperors and Empresses, Kings and Queens, ~vrite to each other as Fr~re and S~ur; reicrnino Grand Dukes, and that irrepressible Elector who lives at Cassel, also enjoy this fraternal privi- lege; but sovereigns who do not possess royal honours are only entitled to be called Cousins. Even Godfather and Godmother have been employed in Ger- many as forms of royal courtesy; they served there a good deal at one time, and not solely as mere formulas of politeness, but as political realities too ; for it was not at all unusual to see a town, particu- larly a Hanse town, included as an ~tre moral amongst the sponsors of a prince: Hamburg and Dantzic were several times God-mamma in this fashion. All this is a very droll shape of vanity, and there is a superb moral to be drawn from it; but there is so much more to say about other elements of the question, that we have no time to idle on the road, and are forced to rush on to the next category without stopping to learn a lesson of philosophy, or to consider what would be the effect in our day if Edinburgh or Southampton were to hold a royal baby at the font. Religious titles include the special ap- pellations of the Pope, and the distinctive adjectives which he has granted to cer- tain European monarchs. His own names have varied from time to time his present denomination of Holiness has been restricted to him only since the fourteenth century, before which period Bishops and then Kings possessed it. Louis le Debonnaire, and Bela, King of Hungary, were both called Your Holi~ ness. The same most inexact descrip- tion was applied to the Arian heretic Theodoric, who was called very pious and very holy, by the local Concile held at Rome in 501 ; and to the pagan Em- perors Valerian and Gallienus, who were styled very holy by St. Denis, Bishop of Alexandria. The Emperors of Con- stantinople, though not recognized in the West, were holy and holiness amongst thei rown people. And, stranger still than all, King Robert of France, the husband of Bertha and Constance, was called by the very name which the Pope bears now Saint Pare When Holi- ness was definitely adopted at Rome, the earlier denominations of Paternity, Beat- itude, Grandeur, and Apostolic Majesty, were all abandoned. The other titles of the Pope are older: in the ninth century he was called Vicar of St. Peter, and in the twelfth century he took his present appellation of Vicar of Jesus Christ. The 4enonination of Servant of the Ser- vants of God was first adopted by Greg- ory the Great. The religious epithets which have been bestowed by the Holy See on favoured kings are all modern. Very Christian belongs to France ; Cath- olic was conferred on Ferdinand for his conquest of the Moors ; Defender of the Faith was confirmed by Act of Parlia- ment (this is vastly comical) after the Pope had ~vithdr& ~rn his gift of it to Henry; Portugal possesses Very Faith- ful; Hungary has Apostolic Majesty; and the Sovereign of Poland was Ortho- dox. The strangest thing about these titles of religion is, not that they should 12 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. exist at all, but that existing m on- penal Majesty, and Francis Royal Maj- archs, who are so fiercely eager for orna- esty, this being the first occasion on mental names, should not use them. which these two titles appeared face to And yet it is so. The Queen of England face. Francis does not seem, however, and the Emperor of Austria are the only to have cared much about it, if we are to rulers who describe themselves by their judge, at least, by an answer which he religious titles the others simply allow made to a letter which he got from these denominations to be employed Charles, beginning with two entire pages towards them by foreign powers or, of imperial titles his reply commenced, more exactly, that is what Portugal still in studious contrast, by the simple sen- does, and what France, Spain, and Po- tence Francis, King of France, Bour- land used to do when they possessed geois of Paris. But the Majesty of kings. This is the one example which Charles and Francis was not copied exists of voluntary renunciation of an other sovereigns continued to be called honour amongst sovereigns. Highness, Magnitude, Celsitude, or Alti Titles of Courtesy form one of the tude (it should be observed that all these largest branches of the subject. The nouns express dimension); and when reverential salutations of Sire, Majesty, Catherine de Medicis tried to get herself Highness, Monseigneur, are all included made a Majesty, like her father-in-law, in this category. Each of them has a his- the Parliament of Orleans refused to au- tory to itself; each of them has its place thorize it. Henry III. introduced the marked out with scrupulous precision. plural words Their Majesties, on his re- Sire was for a long time synonymous i turn from Poland; and yet, notwithstand- with Seigneur, which itself was not a title in~~ this he was generally called Highness. but only the substantive which desig: Ferdinand and Isabella were simple nated the chieftain of a district; and as, Highnesses; and even Charles V., though in old times, every district had a chieftain Majesty as Emperor, was Serenity as point de terre sans Seigneur, said King of Spain. Philip II. ~vas the first the lawit followed that there were a Majesty in the Peninsula; but the Em- good many Sires and Seigneurs. The peror Maximilian never called him so, memory of some of them has come down and gave him nothing but Serenidad. to us. Who has not beard of the Sire de Sebastian of Portugal imitated Philip a Coucy and his motto? Ni Roi, ni Duc, few years afterwards, and adopted the ni Comte ne suis; je suis le Sire de new name; but his immediate successors Coucy. The Sires de Rohan, de Join- dropped back again to Highness. Henry ville, de Cr~quy, were others who left a VIII. was first called Majesty by Francis name in history. The application of this at the Field of the Cloth.of-Gold; he syllable to sovereigns alone is a very new liked the name and took it home with habit. Majesty is far older; it is indeed him. To his time the Sovereibn of Eng- the most ancient of all the list of cour- land had been Your Highness and Your teous titles, for it was originally assumed Grace. The result of all this ~vas that, as a personal adornment by Diocleti an. by the end of the sixteenth century, the Still it came into use amongst our rulers kings of Europe had crept successively at a relatively recent period, and, in the into Majesty; but though they all first instance, as a religious designation claimed it for themselves, they did not only, as is proved by a letter of the Em- all give it to each other. The Chancery peror Charles IV., who, in 1355, addressed ot th~ Empire was ~ as might have been Cardinal Colombier, Chief of the Sacred expected in the face of such an auda- College, as Your Majesty. But shortly cious invasion of its rights particularly afterwards, the Emperors, who to that obstinate about it, and refused to recog- time had been called Serenity and Grace, nize a Majesty in France till 1648, and in began to entitle themselves Majesty ; and any other Stat& till 1741 ; to that date it Louis XI. of France imitated their exam- xvent on calling all kings Serenities. pie, the King of Naples and the Duke of Even in the preliminaries of peace after Milan being the first foreign princes who the Thirty Years War, when the Em- recognized him by this name. Still it was peror was w~U beaten, he called himself not universally adopted; it was regarded His Sacred E~sarian Majesty, and de- as a new fashion, and it had some diffi- scribed the King of France, his conqueror, culty in making its way. In the treaty of~as simply the Most Serene Christian Cambrai (1529) Charles V. is, however, King. France was more generous than called Majesty at last; and in the treaty j this ; for she conceded Majesty to Den- of Crespy (1544) he is denominated Im- mark in 1700, and to the then newly in- TITLES. 3 vented King of Prussia in 1713. There is perhaps more vanity in this story of the growth of Majesty than in the his- tory of any other of the titles which kings have bestowed upon themselves. Next to Majesty comes Highness, which was originally invented towards the end of the Roman Empire, when Altitudo first appears down to the tenth century, how- ever, it was mainly employed by bishops, who, curiously enough, seem to have made a trial of nearly all the lay titles now in use. Three centuries later it had filtered into Italy, and was absorbed thence into Germany under the guise of Hoheit, and applied to sovereigns who were vassals of the Empire. When kings began to denominate themselves Majesty, Highness descended to princes and to sons and brothers of sovereigns. Philip II. at once appropriated it for his children, who were the first Highnesses in Spain ; indeed Spanish sovereigns seem to have regarded Highness as hav- ing suddenly become their personal prop- erty, as a title which they alone could confer on others for Philip II. offered it in 1590 to the Duke of Mantua, provid- ed the latter would make him a loan of 300,000 crowns; and when Philip V. went to Italy in 1702, hebestowed the rank on the Grand Duke of Tuscany and the Duke of Parma. This investiture did not, however, satisfy everybody, for there was a certain curd of Montferrat who refused to call the Duke of Mantua Alti- tudo, on the ground that the name be- longed to God alone; which argument he proved by quoting from his breviary the phrase, tu solus altissimus. While all this was going on, Gaston dOrleans, brother of Louis XIII., set the example of adding on Royal to Highness; the nephews and the nieces of Louis XIV. did the same ; and, encouraged by these examples, the Prince de Condd called himself Altesse S6r~nissime. The Duke of Vend6me, however, did not dare to do the same, although he was desperately inclined to try. Then Victor Amadeus II. of Savoy, the Grand Duke of Tus- cany, and the Duke of Lorraine, made themselves Royal Highnesses like the others ; and finally, Altesse, by itself, was abandoned by all princes of the blood, and was left to members of collat- eral branches. In 1736, the Duke of Holstein Gottorp became Celsitudo Re- gia, which ~vould be an excellent name for a new plant, but scarcely represents our present notion of a princely title. Since the beginning of ttiis century it has been usual to call all princes of the blood Imperial or Royal Highnesses; and yet, in 1815, Louis XVIII. gave only S6r~nis- sime to the Duke of Orleans: it was not till 1825 that the latter became Altesse Royale. The German Hoheit, although it is accepted as the equivalent of High- ness, has changed its character since i8i8, when the Congress of Aix-la-Cha- pelle decided that Hoheit should become an intermediate title between Altesse Royale and Altesse S6r6nissime. But notwithstanding this elaboration of its sense, Hoheit is invariably accompanied by the elevating adjective Kaiserliche or Kdnigliche when it is applied to princes of imperial or royal blood. The title of Hoheit alone was adopted in 1844 by the reigning princes of the old ducal families of Germany, such as the Saxon Duchies, Anhalt, Nassau, and Brunswick, in con- tradistinction to Durchlaucht, which from that date has become the appellation of the princes who are not issued from an- cient reio~nin g families, and of such sub- b ject princes as may receive the gift of it from their sovereign. The distinction between the two titles is real enough even the dictionaries seem to understand it, for they translate Durchlaucht simply Highness; while Hoheit is said by them to signify Highness, greatness, grandeur, sublimity, majesty, augustness, and eminence, which is a good deal for one word to imply, and for one prince to merit. A third form, Erlaucht, was granted by the Diet, in 1829, to the fam- ilies of the mediatized Counts, in contra- distinction to Serene Highness which it had accorded in 1825 to the fifty media- tized princes. The word Erlaucht has the reputation of being untranslatable; there are, however, people who say that it means Illustriness; perhaps the easiest way of rendering it into English would be to call it Earlship. We.~sh~ld be wrong to laugh too scorn- fully at these refinements of German shades of rank, for there is nowhere in the world a people which has subdivided titles as we English have. We do not think of counting up the forms which we have invented, because they seem quite natural to us from habit; but when we have verified the twenty-seven sorts of denominations which exist in the British peerage withoufincluding our special grades of baronet and knight we shall own, perhaps, that no other land can match our wild extravagance of signs of rank. Our system possesses another pe- culiarity also proper to ourselves alone: INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. 4 our House of Lords is the only senate in After this parenthesis about French the world which is composed exclusively and English titles, we can go back to of hereditary peers. In Spain, Prussia, Prince, which occupies a position by it- Austria, and the other German states, the self. It means first; and the conse- Upper House is made up of three sorts quence of its meaning has naturally been of members some of them are heredi- that there have been princes of all kinds, tary, some sit in virtue of the offices they from the Roman Princes of the Senate, hold, others are nominated by the soy- from the two adopted sons. of Augustus ereign. In Belgium, Holland, and~ Den- C~esar whom he appointed Princes of mark, the Senate is elected like the Lower the young men, from the Prince of the Chamber. Here, perhaps, our system has Apostles and the Princes of the Church, a certain merit ; but our profusion of to the Prince of Door-keepers (Princeps graduated differences of titles is of no apparitorum) who kept the gate of the possible use except to puzzle foreigners. French Parliament. In the early times We have, proportionately, almost as many of the French monarchy the bishops, of them as of family names, in which we dukes, and counts were all called Princes; are notoriously the best-provided people but there were no born princes then, for of the old continent, for in England only in those days relationship gave no rank, we have 40,000 of them, or a rough aver- even to the sons of kings. Under age of one name for every five hundred Charles VI. the title of Prince belonged individuals. We have carried this ador- only to kings and dukes, and to the ing love of variety of names and titles seigneurs of such lands as composed a even into our army, where we have principality. Christine de Pisan, in her created five kinds of rank altoo~ether irre- Cite des Dames, says: En diverses spective of military grades properly so seigneuries sont demeurantes plusieurs called; our army rank may be regimental puissantes dames., ~i comme baronesse (substantive), brevet, local, temporary, or et grand-terriennes, qui pourtant ne sont honorary, and we might almost add rela- appel~es Princesses, lequel nom de Prin- tiveto this absurd list, which no other cesse naffiert ~tre dit que des Emperi- nation can understand. In our navy, at ares, des Roynes, et des Duchesses, si ce all events, rank is rank; there our officers nest aux femmes de ceux qui, ~ cause de are in reality what they say they are. leurs terres, sont appel~s Prince par le The French have five tiers of nobility, like droit nom du lieu. It was only in the ourselves ; but each member of the five fifteenth century, under Charles VII. and categories puts simple Monsieur before Louis XI., that the position and preroga- his name, with no addition of courteous tives of members of the royal family flatteries like Grace, Most Honourable, were determined; it was then that the or Right Honourable with no Lady name Princes of the Blood was first in- Mary, Lord John, or Lady John. Even vented. Henry III. confirmed their before 1789 there were only eight sorts of status by an ordinance in 1576, and Louis nobility in France: I. The King; 2. XIV. defined their powers with precision Noblesse couronnie, which included solely~in his edict of 1711. Loyseau, who wrote the princes of the blood; 3. Noblesse de in the time of Henry IV., confirms the race, or noblesse deiz5~ie, .which was hered- modern date of royal princes when he itaril y transmitted from father to son; says, Il ny a pas longtems que les males 4. Noblesse 5ar leltres, which was con- I issus de nos rois se qualifient Prince en ferred by the king; ~. Noblesse dojJice, ~ertd de leur extraction. In Germany or de robe, which was obtained by ap- none but the members of sovereign pointment to certain judicial offices; houses are called Prinz; subjects who 6. Noblesse de clocker, which grew up in have been raised to princely rank are de- the provinces by holding the post of nominated Fiirst, the latter title being the mayor or eckevin; 7. Noblesse de cozelume, special desio~nation of principalities of which was transmitted by a mother to erection. Thus Prince Bismarck bears her children, even if their father were not upon his cards Fiirst von Bismack, noble ; 8. Noblesse bdlarde. There was Kanzler des Deutschen Reiches. He also a ninth sort, called noblesse deftnance, is not Print in Germany; and it may which was considered unworthy to be be added that~is rank of Fiirst is inferior included in the list, because it was to Duke (Herzog), which comes in be- bought for money. All this has disap- tween the two sorts of Princes. peared now; the noblesse de race alone Monseigneur, which once was copious- continues to existas a purely personal ly employed, is almost forgotten as a possession, unrecognized politically. I royal title; the last lay personage who TITLES. Is bore it was Prince Napoleon: it now Kings frequently assert that they hold belongs exclusively to prelates, who, their crown by the grace of God. since Richelieu adopted it, have ceased Originally this phrase had no connection to be addressed (as they used to be) as with the theory now known as Divine R~v~rendissime Pare en Dieu. On- Right; for the latter is altogether mod- ginally Monseigneur was an attribute of em, while the words in question were the Dauphin; but it was applied as a dis- employed by bishops in the fourth cen- tinctive appellation to nobody but the tury, and by certain monarchs from the Grand Dauphin, son of Louis XLV. tenth century, when some of them de- Padischah can hardly be omitted from the scribed themselves as holding power list, though in its Eastern sense it is by the grace of God and of the Holy rather a title of dignity than of courtesy. Apostolic See. The true meaning of In Europe, however, it became known in the statement was probably to indicate the latter character, as a formula of p0- the subservience of sovereigns to the liteness accorded by the Sultan to the Pope, who was then the generally ac- King of France, and, at a later period, to cepted king-maker. These were the days the Emperors of Austria and Russia. As when Silvester II. raised Hungary to a this has taken us back again to Turkey, kingdom in favour of Saint Stephen, the it will be as well to profit by the oppor- first sovereign of the house of Arpad; tunity and to mention, though it is not when Popes Eugene and Alexander III. quite in place, that Mahomet II. was the confirmed Alfonso in the rank of King of first Turkish monarch who was called by Portugal, which had been offered to him Europeans the Grand-Turk. The Sultan by his army; when Innocent II. invested of Cappadocia was spoken of by Monstre- Roger as King of Sicily. All this shows let as the Little-Turk; but though the distinctly that the grace of the Holy smaller Turk ~vas soon afterward ab- Apostolic See was a reality on earth sorbed by the larger, and though all coin- but it had nothing at all to do with droit parison between them was therefore at an divin, which is a very different insti- end, the superlative denomination con- stution, scarcely a couple of centuries tinued to exist as the property of the old. The Roman emperors never heard ruler of Constantinople. of it ; they held their place from the sol- Excellency, which at present is the diers or the people. Even in the twelfth property of Ministers, of Ambassadors, century, the legists of Bologna admitted and of everybody who goes to Naples, no other source of royalty than the vor formerly belonged to Kings along. Henryj ~o~uli: they said, By the regia law JXT. conferred it for the first time on an which constituted the empire, the people ambassador when he gave it to the Duke has transferred its own power to the de Nevers, his representative at Rome. prince. And yet the idea of a religious It was then generally adopted for foreign source of political authority would seem envoys, but Monarchies at first refused to have assumed a vague uncertain form it to the representatives of Republics, after Pepin set the example,.in 752, of Venice succeeded; however, in obtaining asking for the consecration of the Church. it for her diplomatic agents in 1636, after But the theory of Divine Right, in its much intriguing; and since that date it present sense, is altogether new. It has been universal. It is given, too, in seems, indeed, to have been invented in Germany, to Intimate and Actual Privy England j~i Charles II.s time, by Filmer; Councellors. to Field-Marshals, and to for he was the first to argue that heredi- some other functionaries. I tary monarchy, by order of prirnogeni- Eminence was reserved to Cardinals ture, is the only government in conform- by a Bull of Urban VIII., in 1630; till ity with the will of God that it is a di. that time they had been Most Illustrious vine institution that no contrary right and Most Reverend. The knights of can be invoked against a prince who pos- Malta called their Grand Master Emi- sesses po~ver Dei gratia. Bossuet nence S~r~nissime; the Ecclesiastical took up the idea with enthusiasm, and Electors of Germany were also Emi- I defended it with brilliancy. It was, in- nences. deed, natural that h~ should do so, for it In addition to these distinctive appel- just fitted in with the attitude of homage lations, there is a formula which is em- j which he assumed toward his royal mas- ployed by a good many sovereigns when ter; but even he could not give it dura- speaking of themselves, and which, bility; and it has so died out in our time, though not a title, belongs most evidently that it is almost surprising to see both to the family of royal designations. Guizot and Macaulay take the trouble to i6 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. seriously attack it. The former defined it with exactness when he said: This is the formula of a power from which the peo- ple must support everything, and which cannot disappear, however mad and in- capable it may be; of a power which pretends to be above all rights, to be im- prescriptible, and which would remain inviolable if all other rights were vio- lated. And yet this power so thorough, so independent of controlhas contrib- uted scarcely anything to royal titles. The details which have been given here of the origin of the present appellations borne by sovereigns, show that those ap- pellations. are, with scarcely an exception, anterior to Divine Right ; indeed, it would almost seem as if monarchs left off invent; ing new denominations for themselves when they woke up to the satisfying no- tion that they were the elect of Heaven. If so, they acted logically; for it would palpably be useless, and perhaps, indeed, irreverent, to continue to add adorning names to rulers whose sceptre has ceased to be bestowed upon them by human hands. So long as kings made them- selves, or so long as their subjects made them, the multiplication of fresh titles was but a natural consequence of the vanity of both. When kings imagined that they were direct delegates from on High, they respectfully suspended fur- ther earthly ornamentings of their office. No~v that they are relapsing to human origin once more, they will perhaps begin again to coin titles for themselves; and the day may come when Royal Highness will fade away and be replaced by Splen- did Brilliancy, inconceivable Superbness, or Extreme Enormity, and when kings will be deferentially addressed as your Stupendousness, your Vast Infinity, or your Supreme Excessiveness. If so, Sire and Majesty will, of course, descend to Dukes, Peers daughters will grow into Serene Princesses, and the lower classes generally will become Baronets. That is what is understood by progress.~~ Sobriquets which indicate a personal peculiarity constitute the last categoryof royal appellations; and really they have a special use in history, inasmuch as they generally transmit to us a tolerably exact idea of the moral or physical peculiarities of the sovereign to whom they were at- tributed. Of course no diplomatic writer who respects either his subject or him- self would condescend to class them amongst royal title~ ; but, in fact, they are infinitely more useful to us, practically, than the more serious appellations which the authors cherish. Children read with curious interest the names which tell them of the lono- hands of Artaxerxes, of the red beards of the Barbarossas, of the long hair of the Norwegian Harol d,of the short legs of Robert Courtecuisse, of the poverty of John Lackland. These details do not fade away they rest solidly in our memory; and humiliating as it may have been for kings to have received de- nominations so utterly unworthy of their grandeur, those names now serve as sign- posts in the history of their period. They remain and will go on remaining no- body will forget them; but the same can- not certainly be said of the other desig- nations which have been mentioned here. All Frenchmen, without exception, know that Henri Quatre was the Roi Vert- Galant, and can tell the reason why; but scarcely any of them are aware that he was the first king of France ~zria 6race de Dieu. This may be annoying to the learned enthusiasts who theorize about titles, but it is true and it is natural. There is nothing else to be added to the list, so far as sovereio-ns are con- cerned. The rough sketch 6f the subject which has been given here indicates the main outlines of the forms which it has assumed; people who are curious about this sort of pride can carry their study into further detail. Here there is no room for more extension about mon- archs ; for, in the short space still avail- able, we have to glance at another huge branch of this wide-spreading tree we have to enumerate some of the chief titles of kings children. Thus far we have looked at the parents only; we must turn our eyes now to the offspring for a moment. The eldest sons of sovereigns present three main categories of titles general, special, or local. The first class includes Pri~e Imperial, which is now borne in Austria, Germany, and Brazil; and Prince Royal, which is used in Bavaria, Greece, Denmark, Saxony, Wurtemberg, and Sweden. The second is or was com- posed of Dauphin and Czarewitch. The third is the most numerous; it com- prises, or has comprised, our Prince of Wales, Prince of Orange, Prince of the Asturias, Duke of Brabant, Don N. of Al- cantara (in P~-tugal), King of the Romans in the old German Empire, King of Rome in the first French Empire, Prince of Pied- mont. Their brothers and sisters are sep- arated in the same three fashions. rhe first division covers Austria, where they are Arch-Duchesses and Arch-Dukes, a TITLES. 17 title created by Frederic III. in 1453 ; vigorous a desire for them. Indeed it Russia, where Grand is substituted for may be urged that sovereigns increase Arch ; Prussia, Denmark, and the smaller the value of new titles in the eyes of their German States, where they simply add faithful subjects by the eagerness with Prince or Princess to their names. The which they claim them for themselves, second class is limited to the Infants of and that they thereby contribute to the Spain and if antiquity be a merit, it maintenance of the entire institution in really is a pity that this title should now an unweakening form. be temporarily suspended, for its a~e is All nations are absolutely alike in this great. Pelage, who lived in xxoo, tells one matter; they unanimously agree that us that before his time the name of In- variousness of rank and of titular dis- fant ~vas known in Aragon; and in a tinctions must be resolutely kept up. charter of 1174. Alfonso of Castile calls Monarchies and republics present no his daughter Infantissa. The third group real difference on the question; for, stretches into various geography and though the former monopolize the use of many dukedoms: it includes York, Clar- royal and noble appellations, the latter in. ence, Cumberland, Sussex, Kent, and contestably possess by far the largest Edinburgh ; Orleans, Montpensier, Ne~ share of general civil titles. We can mours, Chartres, Joinville, Bordeaux, and calculate without any serious effort the Aumale; Oporto, Beja, and Braganza; number of British subjects who possess Genoa, Carignan, and Savoy; Scania, a nobiliary designation; but the mind Dalecarlia, Upland, and Ostrogothland; recoils from the attempt to count up the Calabria and Rota; and, after them, the Honourables, the Generals, the Judges, Countships of Flanders and Hainault, and the Colonels who adorn the United and the Principality of Grand-Para in States. America supplies, indeed, so Brazil. There are a great many more singular an evidence of the effects of the besides, but it is scarcely necessary to love of titles in republics, that we are led recount them all. One addition that is on by it to suspect that radicalism, as perhaps worth making is, that there was soon as it becomes triumphant, will cre- a time when each son of the German ate a new nobility of its own in Europe Emperor was called Most Noble Pur- and to conclude, from that apparent prob- pIe-Born nobilissimus et purpuratus. ability, amongst other reasons, that it This sounds droll, because we are not ac- will really not be worth while to make customed to it; but, in reality, it is not the change, and that we may just as well one atom more absurd than the Royal continue as we are. But the seeming Dilection of three centuries ago, or the certainty that no modification of form of Serene Altitude of to-day. And yet, nu- government will exercise any effect on merous as princes titles are, they are the multiplicity of decorative appellations, nothing compared to those of the sover- renders that multiplicity still more un- eigns, their fathers; for even if we add worthy of our civilization. The thirst for the Hereditary Grand-Dukes and the dignities indicates a state of mind of Hereditary German Princes, and allow which no people have any reason to be largely for the unknown but possible ap- proud, either nationally or individually pellations of the sons of Asiatic poten- and though Transatlantic democrats and tates, and even of those of African and European royalists struggle after them American chiefs, we shall never get near with equal ~ppetite, that fact does not the total of the names which European diminish the childish folly of the longing. monarchs have bestowed upon them- And we cannot argue that our own re- selves. The fountains of honour really sponsibilitv is diminished because our seem to have comprehended honour, as rulers set us the example of running some people are said to understand after gilded toys. It is no justification charity, and to have retained the larger for our own vanity to urge that monarchs part of it for themselves. There is not cover themselves with sounding names; however, the slightest objection to be that we ftnd the same abundance of royal made to this way of dealing with the glo- epithets wherever we turn our eyes ; that ries of the earth, provided the fact be there is not a CourNn the Old World known and recognized. So long as glo- where titles do not exist not a Kino~ in ries are required and in the present Christianity, not a Pacha in Africab or condition of society there is not the Asia, not a naked Chief of negroes, who slightest indication of any diminution of does not call himself by an accumulated their necessity it wouh~ be folly to variety of ornamental denominations. complain because monarchs manifest so I In one land only is there an exception. LiVING AGE. VOL. U. 262 i8 INTERNATIONAL VANITIES. At J4~0 east there is a sovereign who stowed them in much variety on their considers that one description is suffi- subjects; and, indeed, have made up cient to express all his greatness, who amply by their liberality in that direction scorns all other designations as unworthy for their resolute restriction towards of his grandeur, who does not even con- themselves. Like the kings of Europe, descend to l)055C55 a family name. It is the Ten-o is and has never ceased to be but true that this rare monarch has behind (the Taicoon was nothing a Viceroy) him five-and-twenty centuries of h eredi - the fountain of honour to his people it is tary power ; it is true that he i~, in the i he who grants the sixteen degrees of rank eyes of his adoring people, Deity as well of which his nobility is composed. So King. But this extraordinary situation far, he is like any ordinary prince. But would have produced an absolutely con- he preserves his vast advantages over trary effect in Europe. If we had such Western sovereigns in the special faculty a sovereign here, his predecessors would which he alone possesses of conferring have invented new titles for themselves the rank of Dai-djo Dai-djin, which (it is as each century went by, and he would, asserted th-t there is no doubt about it) by this time, be proprietor of a collection used to deify its holder after death. It far surpassing all that the world has seen. will be recognized that no other potentate In Japan alone there exists a master who exercises any power analogous to this has held one unvarying rank since the time and it is easy to understand that Kcemp- of Nebuchadnezzar; who would regard as fer should have declared, in his odd old a degradation any addition to the single book about Japan, that this grade was so quality by which more than a hundred terrifically sacred that the Ten-o always and twenty of his fathers have been kept it for himself. This, however, is an known before him. The ruler of the em- error; the reality is that the Ten-o never pire of the Rising Sun may, however, be stooped to call himself a Dai-djo, because content with his solitary appellation, for that dignity was beneath him, and that it is far away the grandest which imperial the title has been several times be- pride has ever thought of. In old Japan- stowed. It was once more granted, three ese it is Soumela-Mik6to; but when years ago, to Sanjo, the actual prime Chinese characters were introduced into minister. It still remains at an inacces- Japan the Chinese equivalent crept into sible elevation above all other bracles use and the monarch became known as but, sad as it is to own it, it cannot be ten-o, which is the denomination he now denied that it has latterly become com- bears. The meaning of the two words is pletely human, and has lost its former identical that meaning is Heaven- remarkable privilege of god-making. Highest, and that is the one title of the It is certainly unsatisfactory to dis- sovereign of Japan. No one will deny cover, at the two ends of history, that that it surpasses all our vain attempts at Xerxes and the Ten-o offer indisputable glory, and that King, Prince, and Em- examples of voluntary abstention from peror are poor indeed by the side of this titular satisfactions ; while we Britons, superb invention. Mikado is not a title, like all other highly civilized populations, though we use it as if it ~vere ; it signifies have spent the last thousand years in in- Royal Gate, and ~s merely a descriptive venting, replacing, and renewing our indication, just like Sublime Porte, of royal adjectives and substantives. We which, singularly enough, it is a far~. hive a fond conviction that we offer an ex- Eastern repetition. In the mass of roy-. ample to the world; and so perhaps we alty, the Ten-o stands alone; alone he should, if the world consisted of nothing supplies to us the strange example of a else but docks, cheap carpets, coal, green rank which is itself and nothing else. fields and fair complexions ; but in this No other similar case exists ; and cer- particular element of royal titles, we tainly the value of our own miserably re- ought to frankly own that we are not a cent variegated grades and names shrinks model for other people; that Japan is far wofully when we see that the oldest, long-, more worth copying than we are ; and est, and sole unbroken line of kings that we ought to hope that, in her present which history has knowna line which eagerness ~o Europeanize herself, she began in 6co nc. has never changed will be ~vise enough to make an exception its title. But though the successive re- in this one detail, and th t her sovereign presentatives of this truly royal race will continue to afford to us this specta- have steadily i.~pudiated all additional cle of a ruler of thirty adoring millions dignities for themselves, they have be- who is simply Heaven-Highest. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. From The Corr.hill Magazine. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. CHAPTER IX. THE HOMESTEAD: A VISITOR: HALF- CONFIDENCES. BT daylight, the bower of Oaks new- found mistress, Bathsheba Everdene, presented itself as a hoary building, o~ the Jacobean stage of Classic Renais- sance as regards its architecture, and of a l)roportion which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had once been the manorial hall upon a small es- tate around it, now altogether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast tract of a non-resident landlord, which comprised several such modest demesnes. Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front, and above the roof pairs of chimneys were here and there linked by an arch, some gables and other unmanageable features still retain- ing traces of their Gothic extraction. Soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the house-leek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low sur- rounding buildings. A gravel walk lead- ino~ from the door to the road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss here it was a silver-green varietythe nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the width of only a foot or two in the cen- tre. This circumstance, and the gener- ally sleepy air of the whole prospect here, together with the animated and contrast- ing state of the reverse faqade, suggested to the imagination that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes the vital principle of the house had turned round inside its body to face the other way. Reversals of this kind, strange de- formities, tremendous paralyses, are otten seen to be inflicted by trade upon edifices either individual or in the aggregate as streets and towns which were originally planned for pleasure alone. Lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the main staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as bed-posts, being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their ccntury, the handrail as stout as a para- pet-top, and the stairs themselves contin- ually twisting round like a person trying to look over his shoulder. Going up, we find the floors above to have a very irreg- ular surface, rising to ridges, sinkin~ into valleys, and being at present uncarpeted, the face of the boards is shown to be 9 e-tten into innumerable vermiculations. Every window replies by a clang to the opening and shutting of every door, a tremble follows every bustling movement, and a creak accompanies a walker about the house, like a spirit, wherever he goes. In the room from which the conversa- tion proceeded, Bathsheba and her ser- vant companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered sitting upon the floor, and sorting a complication of l)apers, books, bottles, and rubbish spread out thereon remnants from the household stores of the late occupier. Liddy, the maltsters great-granddaughter, was about Bathshebas equal in age, and her face was a prominent advertisement of the light-hearted English country-girl. The beauty her features might have lacked in form was amply made up for by perfec- tion of hue, which at this winter time was the softened ruddiness on a surface of high rotundity that we meet with in a or a Gerard Douw, and like the presentations of those great colourists, it was a face which always kept on the nat- ural side of the boundary between come- liness and the ideal. Though elastic in bearing, she ~vas less daring than Bath- sheba, and occasionallk showed some earnestness, which consisted half of gen- uine feeling, and half of factitious man- nerliness superadded by way of duty. Through a partly-opened door, the noise of a scrubbing-brush led up to the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had a circular disc, fur- rowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at distant objects. To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy-pippin. Stop your scrubbing a moment, said Bathsheba through the door to her. J hear something. Maryann suspended the brush. The t?~ani~ of a horse was apparent, ap- proaching the front of the building. The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door. The door was tapped with the end of a whip or stick. What impertinence ! said Liddy in a low voice. To ride up the footpath like that Why did~t he stop at the gate ? Lord tis a gentleman I see the top of his hat. Be quiet said Bathsheba. The further expression of Liddys con- cern was continued by exhibition instead of relation. 20 FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. Why doesnt Mrs. Coggan go to the door? Bathsheba continued. Rat-tat-tat-tat, resounded more deci- sively from Bathshebas oak. Marva nn, you go ! said she, flutter- ing under the onset of a crowd of roman- tic possibilities. Oh, maam see, heres a mess The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann. Liddyyou must, said Bathsheba. Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress. There Mrs. Coggan is going! said Bathsheba, exhaling her relief in the form of a long breath, which had lain in her bosom a minute or more. The door opened, and a deep voice said Is Miss Everdene at home? ~ Ill see, sir, said Mrs. Coggan, and in a minute appeared in the room. Dear, dear, what a universe this world is! continued Mrs. Coggan (a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark according to the emotion involved: who could toss a pan- cake or twirl a iiiop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who appeared at this moment with hands shaggy with fragments of dough and arms encrusted with flour). I am never up to my elbows, Miss, in making a pudding hut one of two things happens either my nose must needs begin tickling, and I cant live without scratching it, or some- body knocks at the door. Heres Mr. Boldwood wanting to see you, Miss Ever- dene. A womans dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder in the one bein~ of the sa~~e nature with a mal- formation or wound in the other, Bath- sheba said at once I cant see him in this state. What- ever shall I do ? ~ Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farm-houses, so Liddy suo~ested Say youre a fright with dust, and cant come down.~~ Yes that sounds very well, said Mrs. Coggan, critically. Say I cant see him that will do. Mrs. Coggan went downstairs and re- turned the answer as requested, adding however, on her own responsibility, Miss is dusting bottles, sir, and is quite a object thats why tis. Oh, very we~ll, said the deep voice. indifferently. All I wanted to ask was if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin ? Nothing, sirbut we may know to- night. William Smallbury is gone to Casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and the other men be in- quiring about everywhere. The horses tramp then recommenced and retreated, and the door closed. Who is Mr. Boldwood? said Bath- sheba. A gentleman-farmer at Lower Weath- erbury. Married ? No, Miss. How old is he ? Forty, 1 should say very hand- some rather stern-looking and rich. What a bother this dusting is ! I am always in some unfortunate plight or other, Bathsheba said, complai ningly. Why should he inquire about Fanny? Oh, because, as she had no friends in her childhood, he took h~r and put her to school, and got her her place here under your uncle. Hes a very kind man that way, but Lord there! What? Never was such a hopeless man for a woman ! Hes been courted by sixes and sevens all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles round, have tried him. Jane Perkins worked at him for two months like a slave, and the two Miss Taylors spent a year upon him, and he cost Farmer Ivess daughter nights of tears and twenty pounds-worth of new clothes; but Lord the money might as well have been thrown out of the window.~~ A little boy came up at this moment and looked in upon them. This child was one of the Coggans (Smallburys and Coggans were as common among the families of this district as the Avons and Derwents among our rivers), and he arways had a loosened tooth or a cut finger to show to particular friends, which he did with a complacent air of being thereby elevated above the com- mon herd of afflictionless humanity to which exhibition people were expected to say, Poor child! with a dash of con- (xratulation as well as pity. b Ive got a pen~ne~!~~ said Master Co~gan mn~ scanning measure. Well who gave it you, Teddy ? said Liddy. Mis-terr Bold-wood ! He gave it to me for opening the gate. What did he say? He said, Where are you going, my FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. 21 little man? and I said. To Miss Ever- denes, please ; and he said, She is a staid woman, isnt she, my little man and I said, Yes. You naughty child! What did you say that for? Cause he gave me the penny! What a pucker everything is in! said Bathsheba discontentedly, when the child had gone. Get away, Maryann, or go on with your scrubbing, or do some- thing! You ought to be married by this time, and not here troubling me. Ay, mistress so I did. But what between the poor men I wont have, and the rich men who wont have me, I stand forlorn as a pelican in the wilderness. Ah, poor soul of me! Did anybody ever want to marry you, miss ? Liddv ventured to ask when they were again alone. Lots of em, I dare- say? Bathsheba paused as if about to refuse a reply, but the temptation to say yes, since it really was in her power, was irre- sistible by aspiring virginity, in spite of her spleen at having been published as old. A man wanted to once, she said, in a highly experienced tone, and the image of Gabriel Oak, as the farmer, rose be- fore her. How nice it must seem ! said Liddy, with the fixed features of mental realiza- tion. And you wouldnt have him? He wasnt quite good enough for me. How sweet to be able to disdain, when most of us are glad to say Thank you ! I seem I hear it. No, sir Im your better, or Kiss my foot, sir ; my face is for mouths of consequence. And did you love him, miss? Oh, no. But I rather liked him. Do you now? Of course not what footsteps are those I hear ? Liddy looked from a back window into the courtyard behind, which was now get- ting low-toned and dim with the earliest films of night. A crooked file of men was approaching the back door. The whole string of trailing individuals ad- vanced in the completest balance of in- tention, like the remarkable creatures known as Chain Salp~, which, distinctly organized in other respects, have one will common to a whole family. Some were, as usual, in snow-white smock-frocks of Russia duck, and some in whitey-brown ones of drabbet marked on the wrists, breasts~ backs, and sleeve~s with honey- comb-work. Two or three women in pat- tens brought up the rear. The Philistines are upon us, said Liddy, making her nose white against the glass. Oh, very well. Maryann ,go down and keep them in the kitchen till I am dressed, and then show them in to me in the hall. CHAPTER X. MISTRESS AND MEN. HALF-AN-HOUR later Bathsheba, in fin- ished dress, and followed by Liddy, en- tered the upper end of the old hall to find that her men had all deposited themselves on a long form and a settle at the lower extremity. She sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in her hand, and a canvas money-bag beside her. From this she poured a small heap of coin. Liddy took up her position at her elbow and began to sew, sometimes paus- ing and looking round, or, with the air of a privileged person, taking up one of the half sovereigns lying before her, and ad~ miringly surveying it as a work of art merely, strictly preventing her counte- nance from expressing any wish to pos- sess it as money. Now, before I begin, men,- said Bath- sheba, I have two matters to speak of. The first is that the bailiff is dismissed for thieving, and that I have formed a resolution to have no bailiff at all, but to manage everything with my own head and hands. The men breathed an audible breath of amazement. The next matter is, have you heard anything of Fanny? Have you done anything? I met Farmer Boldwood, said Jacob Smallbury, and I went with him and two of his rnen,~nd dragged Wood Pond, but we found nothing. And the new shepherd have been to Bucks Head, thinking she had gone there, but nobody had seen her, said Laban Tall. Hasnt William Smailbury been to Casterbridge? Yes, ,maam, but hes not yet come home. He promised to be back by six. It wants a quarte~h to six at present, said Bathsheba, looking at her watch. I daresay hell be in directly. Well, now then she looked~ into the book Joseph Poorgrass, are you there? 22 FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. Yes, sir maam I mane, said the person addressed. I am the personal name of Poorgrass a small matter who is nothing in his own eye. Perhaps it is different in the eye of other people but I dont say it; though public thought will out. What do you do on the farm? I does carting things all the year, and in seed time I shoots the rooks and spar- rows, and helps at pig-killing, sir. How much to you ? Please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where twas a bad one, sir maam I mane. Quite correct. Now here are ten shillings in addition as a small present, as I am a new comer. Bathsheba blushed slightly as she spoke at the sense of being generous in public, and Henery Fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, lifted his eyebrows and finbers to express amazement on a small scale. How much do I owe you that man in the corner whats your name? con- tinued Bathsheba. Matthew Moon, maam, said a singu- lar framework of clothes with nothing of any consequence inside them, which ad- vanced with the toes in no definite direc- tion forwards, but turned in or out as they chanced to swing. Matthew Mark, did you say ? speak out I shall not hurt you, enquired the young farmer, kindly. Matthew Moon, mem, said Henery Fray, correctingly from behind her chair, to which point he had edged himself. Matthew Moon, murmured Bath- sheba, turning her bright eyes to the book. Ten and two-pence halfpenny is the sum put down to you, I see? Yes, misess, said Matthew, as the rustle of wind among dead leaves. Here it is, and ten shillings. Now the next Andrew Candle, you are a new man, I hear. How came you to leave your last farm ? p- p- p- pl- p1- p1- p1- 1-1-1- 1- ease, maam, p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-please maam- pleasem-please m As a stammering man, mem, said Henery Fray in an under tone, and they turned him away because the only time he ever did speak plain he said his soul was his own, and other iniquities, to the squire. A can cuss, mem, as well as you or I, but a cant speak a common speech to save his life. Andrew Candje, heres yours finish thanking me in a day or two. Temper- ance Miller oh, heres another, Sober- ness, both women I suppose? Yesm. Here we be, a blieve, was echoed in shrill unison. What have you been doing? Tendino thrashing-machine, and wimbling haybonds, and saying Hoosh! to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds, and planting Early Flourballs and Thompsons Wonderfuls with a dibble. Yes I see. Are they satisfactory women? she enquired softly of Henery Fray. 0, mem dont ask me Yielding womenas scarlet a pair as ever was ! groaned Henery under his breath. Sit down. Who, mem? Sit down! Joseph Poorgrass, in the background, twitched, and his lips became dry with fear of some terrible consequences as he saw Bathsheba summarily speaking, and Henery slinking off to a corner. Now the next. Laban Tall. Youll stay on working for me? For you or anybody that pays me well, maam, replied the young married man. True the man must live! said a woman in the hack quarter, who had just entered with clicking pattens. What woman is that? Bathsheba asked. I be his lawful wife! continued the voice with greater prominence of manner and tone. This lady called herself five- and-twenty, looked thirty, passed as thirty-five, and ~vas forty. She was a woman who never, like some newly mar- ried, showed conjugal tenderness in pub- lic, perhaps because she had none to show. Oh, you are, said Bathsheba. Well, Laban, will you stay on? -. AiYes, hell stay, maam! said again the shrill tongue of Labans lawful wife. Well, he can speak for himself, I suppose? 0 Lord no, maam. A simple tool. Well enough, but a poor gawkhammer mortal, the wife replied. Heh-heh-heh ! laughed the married ~man with a hideous effort of appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly good-hu- moured und7~r ghastly snubs as a parlia- mentary candidate on the hustings. The names remaining were called in the same manner. Now I think I have done whh you, said Bathsheba, closing the book and FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. 23 shaking back a stray twine of hair. Has William Smalibtiry returned? No, maam. The new shepherd will want a man under him, suggested Henery Fray, try- ing to make himself official again by a sidexvay approach towards her chair. Oh he will. Who can he have? Young Cain Ball is a very good lad, Henery said, and Shepherd Oak dont mind his youth? he added, turning with an a smile to the shepherd, who had just appeared on the scene, and was now leaning against the doorpost with his arms folded. 0, 1 dont mind that, said Gabriel. How did Cain come by such a maine? asked Bathsheba. 0 you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a Scripture-read woman, made a mistake at his christening, thinking twas Abel killed Cain, and called en Cain, meaning Abel all the time. She didnt find it out till twas too late, and the chiel was handed back to his godmother. Tis very unfortunate for the boy. It is rather unfortunate. Yes. However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him Cainy. Ah, pore widow-woman she cried her heart out about it almost. She was brought up by a very heathen father and mother who never sent her to church or school, and it shows how the sins of the parents are visited upon the children, mem. Mr. Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not belong to your own family. Very well, then, Cainy Ball to be under shepherd. And you quite under- stand your duties ? you I mean, Ga- briel Oak. Ouite well I thank you, Miss Ever- dene, said Shepherd Oak from the door- post. If I dont Ill enquire. Gabriel was rather staggered by the remarkable coolness of her manner. Certainly no- body without previous information would ever have dreamt that Oak and the hand- some woman before whom he stood had ever been other than strangers. But per- haps her air was the inevitable result of the social rise which had advanced her from a cottage to a large house and fields. The case is not unexampled in high places. When, in the writings of the later poets, Jove and his family are found to have moved from their cramped quar- ters on the peak of Olympus into the wide sky above it, thefr words show a proportionate increase of arrogance and reserve. Footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character the qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of velocity. (All.) Heres Billy Smallbury come from Casterbridge. And whats the news ? said Bath- sheba, as William, after marching to the middle of the hall, took a handkerchief from his hat and wiped his forehead from its centre to its remoter boundaries. I should have been sooner, Miss, he said, if it hadnt been for the weather. He then stamped with each foot severely, and on looking down his boots were per- ceived to be clogged with snow. Come at last, is it? said Henery. Well, what about Fanny? said Bathsheba. Well, ma~ am, in round numbers, shes run away with the soldiers, said William. No ; not a steady girl like Fanny Ill tell ye all particulars. When I got to Casterbridge Barracks, they said, The iith Dragoon-Guards be gone away, and new troops have come. The Eleventh left last week for Melchester. The Route came from Government like a thief in the night, as is his nature to, and afore the Eleventh knew it almost, they were on the march. Gabriel had listened with interest. I saw them go, he said. Yes, continued William, they pranced down the street playing The Girl I Left Behind Me, so tis said, in glorious notes of triumph. Every looker- ons inside shook with the blows of the great drum to his deepest vitals, and there was not a dry eye throughout the town among the public-house people and the nameless women ! But theyre not gone to any war? No, maam; but they be done to take the places of them who may, which is very Jlos~ connected. And so I said to myself, Fannys young man was one of the regiment, and shes gone after him. There, maam, thats it in black and white. Did you find out his name? No; nobody knew it. I believe he was higher in rank than a private. Gabriel remained musing and said nothing, for he wa~in doubt. Well, we are not likely to know more to-night, at any rate, said Bathsheba. But one of you had better run across to Farmer Boldwoods and tell him that much. 24 FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. She then rose; but before retiring, ad- dressed a few words to them with a pret- ty dignity, to which her mourning dress added a soberness that was hardly to be found in the words themselves. Now mind, you have a mistress in- stead of a master. I dont yet know my powers or my talents in farming; but I shall do my best, and if you serve me well, so shall I serve you. Dont any un- fair ones among you (if there are any such, but I hope not) suppose that be- cause Im a woman I dont understand the difference between bad goings-on and good. (All.) Nom (Lyddy.) Excellent well said. I shall be up before you are awake; I shall be afield before you are up; and I shall have breakfasted before you are afield. In short I shall astonish you all. (All.) Yesm And so good-night. (All.) Goodnight, ma~ ~ Then this small thesmothete stepped from the table, and surged out of the hall, her black silk dress licking up a few straws and dragging them along with a scratching noise upon the floor. Liddy, elevating her feelings to the occasion from a sense of grandeur, floated off be- hind Bathsheba with a milder dignity not entirely free from travesty, and the door was closed. CHAPTER XI. MELCHESTER MOOR: SNOW: A MEETING. FOR dreariness, nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of the city of Melchester, at a later hour on this same snowy evening if that may be called a prospect of which the chief constituent was darkness. It was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causing any great sense of incongruity: when, xvith impressible persons, love becomes solici- tousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope: when the exercise of mem- ory does not stir feelings of regret at opportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipation does not prompt to enterprise. The scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river, behind which rose a high wall. On the right was a tract of land, partly meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a wide undulating heath. The changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this kind than amid woodland scenery. Still, to a close observer, they are just as percep- tible ; the difference is that their media of manifestation are less trite and famil- iar than such well-known ones as the bursting of the buds or the fall of the leaf. Many ~re not so stealthy and grad- ual as we may be apt to imagine in con- sidering the general torpidity of a moor or heath. Winter, in coming to the place under notice, advanced in some such well- marked stages as the following: The retreat of the snakes. The transformation of the ferns. The filling of the pools. A rising of fogs. The embrowning by frost. The collapse of the fungi. An obliteration by snow. This climax of the series had been reached to-night on Melchester Moor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were forms without features ; sugge~tive of anything, proclaiming nothing, and without more character than that of being the limit of something else the lowest layer of a firmament of snow. From this chaotic sky-full of crowding flakes the heath and moor momentarily received ad- ditional clothing, only to appear momen- tarily more naked thereby. The vast dome of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were the roof of a large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor; for the instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens and that encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without any intervening stratum of air at all. We turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics. They were flatness as regards the river, verticality as regards the wall behind it, and darkness as re- gards both. These features made up the mass. If anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall ; if anything could be gloomier than the wall, it was the river beneath. The indistinct summit of the faade was notched and pron~ed by chim- neys here and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong shapes of windows, though only in the upper part. Below, down to the waters edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projec- tion. An indescr~able succession of dull blows, perplexing in their regularity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffy atmosphere. It was a neighbouring clock striking ten. The bell was in the open air, and being overlaid with several FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. 25 inches of muffling snow, had lost its voice assignations and communications had for the time. probably been made across the river be- About this hour the snow abated: ten fore to-night. flakes fell where twenty had fallen, then Is it Sergeant Troy ? said the one had the room of ten. Not long after blurred spot in the snow, tremulously. a form moved by the brink of the river. By its outline upon the colourless back- ground. a close observer might have seen that it was small. This was all that was positively discoverable. Human it seemed. The shape xvent slowly along, but with- out much exertion, for the snow, though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep. At this time some words were spoken aloud : One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen yards. It was evident now that the windows high in the wall were being counted. The word Five represented the fifth win- dow from the end of the wall. Here the spot stopped, and dwindled small. The figure was stooping. Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the fifth window. It smacked against the wall at a point several yards from its mark. The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the execution of a woman. No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or squirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter imbecility as was shown here. Another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have become pim- pled with the adhering lumps of snow. At last a piece struck the fifth window. The river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth sort which races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any irregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small whirlpool. Nothing ~vas heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle and cluck of one of these invisible wheels together with a few small sounds which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man laughter caused by the flap- ping of the waters against trifling objects in other parts of the stream. The window was struck again in the same manner. Then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the window. This was followed by a voice from the same quarter. Whos there ? The tones were masculine, but not those of surprise. The high wall being that of a barrack, anc~ marriage being looked upon with disfavour in the army, This person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the other speaker so much a part of the, building, that one would have paid the wall was holding converse with the snow. Yes, came suspiciously from the shadow. What girl are you? 0, Frank dont you know me said the spot. Your wife, Fanny Robin. Fanny! .said the wall, in utter as- tonishment. Yes, said the girl, with a half-sup- pressed gasp of emotion. There was a tone in the woman which is not that of the wife, and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a hus- bands. The dialogue went on. How did you come here ? I asked which was your window. For- crive met b ~ did not expect you to-night. In- deed, I did not think you would come at all. It was a wonder you found me here. I am orderly to-morrow. Ydu said I was to dome. Well I said that you might. Yes, I mean that I might. You are glad to see me, Frank?~ 0 yes of course. Can you come, to me! My dear Fan, no! The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are closed, and I have no leave. We are all of us as good as in Melchester Gaol till to-mor- row morning. Then I shant see you till then! The words were in a faltering tone of disappointment. How did you get here from Weather- bury ? I walked some part of the way the rest by the carrier. I am surprised. Yes -~ so am I. And, Frank, when will it be ? What? That you promised. I dont quite recollect. 0. you do! Dont speak like that. It weighs me to the earth. It makes me say what ought to ~ said first by you. Never mind say it. 0, must I ?it is, when shall we be married, Frank? 0, I see. Wellyou have to get proper clothes. 26 FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. I have money. Will it be by banns or license ? Banns, I should think. And we live in two parishes. Dowe? Whatthen? My lodgings are in St. Marys, and this is not. So they will have to be pub- lished in both. Is that the law? Yes. 0, Frank you think the for- ward, I am afraid! Dont, dear Frank will you for I love you so. And you said lots of times you would marry me, andandIII ___ Dont cry, now ! It is foolish. If I said so, of course I will. And shah I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours? Yes. To-morrow? Not to-morrow. Well settle in a few days. You have the permission of the offi- cers? Nonotyet. 0 how is it? You said you almost had before you left Casterbridge. The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so sudden and unex- pected. Yes yes it is. It was wrbng of me to worry you. Ill go away now. Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twillss, in North Street? I dont like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women about, and they think me one. Quite so. Ill come to you, my dear. Good night. Good night, Frank good night ! And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spot moved away. When she passed the corner, a subdued exclamation was heard inside the wall. Ho ho Sergeant ho ho! An expostulation followed, but it was in- distinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was hardly dis- tinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools outside. CHAPTER XII. FARMERS: A RULE: AN EXCEPTION. THE first public evidence of Bath- shebas decision to be a farmer in her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following market -day in the corn-market at Casterbridge. The low though extensive hall, sup- ported by Tuscan pillars, and latterly dignified by the name of Corn-Exchange, was thronged with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditors face and concentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during delivery. The greater number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as walking- sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During conversations each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage bending it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, over- weighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semi-circle ; or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to half a dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the build- ing unobserved, and waited the fulfil- ment of their anticipations with a high- stretched neck and oblique eye. Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of her sex that the room contained. She was pret- tily and even daintily dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard after them as a romancc after sermons, was felt among them like a breeze among furnaces. It had re- quired a little determination far more than she had at first imagined to take up a position here, for at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly fixed there. Two or three only of the farmers were ~er~nally known to Bathsheba, and to these she had made her way. But if she was to be the practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba too had her sample~bags, and by degrees adopted the, professional pour into the hand hold~hg up the grains in her nar- row palm for inspection, in perfect Cas-~ terbridge manner. Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and in the keenly pointed corne-rs of her red mouth FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. 27 when, with parted lips, she somewhat de- fiantly turned up her face to argue a point with a tall man, suggested that there was depth enough in that lithe slip of humanity for alarming potentialities of exploit, and daring enough to carry them out. But her eyes had a softness in- variably a softness which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness as they were, it lowered an expres~ion that might have been piercing to simple clearness. Strange to say of a female in full blo6m and vigour, she always allowed her inter- locutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers. In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there xvas an elasticity in her firm- ness which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a nafvet~ in her cheapening which saved it from meanness. Those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the greater part) were continually asking each other Who is she ? The reply would be Farmer Everdenes niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned away the baily, and swears shell do everything herself. The other man would then shake his head. Yes, tis a pity shes so headstrong, the first would say. But we ought to be proud of her hereshe lightens up the old place. Tis such a shapely maid, however, that shell soon get picked up. It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had the beauty of her face and movements. However, the in- terest was general, and this Saturdays ddbz~t in the forum, whatever it may have been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably a tri- umph to her as the maiden. Indeed, the sensation was so pronounced that her in- stinct on two or three occasions was to merely walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a little sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices alto- gether. The numerOus evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into greater relief by a marked exception. Women seem to have eyes in their ribbons for such matters as these. Bathsheba, with- out looking xvi thin a right angle of him, was conscious of a klack sheep among the flock. It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable minority on either side, the case would have been most nat- ural. If nobody had regarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently such cases had occurred. If everybody, this man included, she would have taken it as a matter of course ,people had done so before. ButAhe exception, add- ed to its smallness, made the mystery just as when the difference between the state of an insignificant fleece and the state of all around it, rather than any novelty in the states themselves, arrested the attention of Gideon. She soon knew thus much of the recu- sants appearance. He was a gentle- manly man, with full and distinctly, out- lined Roman features, the prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze- like richness of tone. He xvas erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour. One characteristic pre-eminently marked him dignity. Apparently he. had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age at which a mans aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen years Or so; and, artificially, a womans does likewise. Thirty-five and fifty were his limits of va- riation he might have been either, or anywhere between the two. It may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and generous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty they may discern by the way. Probably, as with persons playing whist for love, the con- sciousness of a certain immunity under any circumstances from that worst pos- sible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly speculative. Bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a married man. When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting for her be- side tl~ yellow gig in which they had driven to town. The horse was put in, and on they trotted Bathshebas sugar, tea, and drapery parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some inde- scribable manner, as well by their colour and shape, as by their general linea- ments, that they were that young lady- farmers property, and the grocers and drapers no more. Ive been ti~ough it, Liddy, and it is over. I shant Thind it again, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there; but this morning it was as bad as being married eyes everywhere ! I knowed it would be, Liddy said. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. Men be such a terrible class of society between the two rather cruelly used to look at a body. I and rather reserved. But there was one man who had more 0 dear no, missI cant change to sense than to waste his time upon me. between the two The information was put in this form Thats most likely. that Liddy might not for a moment sup- Well, yes, so it is. I am convinced it pose her mistress was at all piqued. A is most likely. You may take my word, very good-looking man, she continued, miss, that thats whats the matter with upright; about forty, I should think, him. Do you know at all who he could be? Liddy couldnt think. CHAPTER XIII. Cant you guess at all ? said Bath- SORTES SANcTORUM: THE VALENTINE. sheba with some disappointment. I havent a notion; besides, tis no IT was Sunday afternoon in the farm- difference, since he took less notice of house, on the thirteenth of February. you than any of the rest. Now, if hed Dinner being over, B athsheba, for want taken more, it would have mattered a of a better companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy Bathsheba was suffering from the re- I pile was dreary in winter-time before the verse feeling just then, and they bowled candles were lighted and the shutters along in silence. A low carriage, bowling closed; the atmosphere of the place along still more rapidly behind a horse seemed as old as the walls; every nook of unimpeachable breed, overtook and behind the furniture had a temperature passed them. of its own, for the fiie was not kindled, in Why, there he is ! she said. this part of th~ house early in the day Liddy looked. That! Thats Farmer and Bathshebas new piano, which was Boldwood of course tis the man you an old one in other annals, looked partic- couldnt see the other day when he ularly sloping and out of level on the called. warped floor before night threw a shade 0, Farmer Boldwood, murmured over its less prominent angles and hid Bathsheba, and looked at him as he out- the unpleasantness. Liddy, like a little stripped them. The farmer had never brook, though shallow, was always rip- turned his head once, but with eyes fixed pling; her presence had not so much on the most advanced point along the weight as to task thought, and yet enough road, passed as unconsciously and ab- to exercise it. stractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms On the table lay an old quarto Bible, were thin air. bound in leather. Liddy looking at it Hes an interesting man dont you said, think so? she remarked. Did you ever find out, Miss, who 0 yes, very. Everybody owns it, you are going to marry by means of the replied Liddy. Bible and Key? I wonder why he is so wrapt up and Dont be so foolish, Liddy. As if indifferent, and seemingly so far away such things could be. from all he sees around~him. Well, theres a good deal in it all the It is said but not known for certain same. that he met with some bitter disap- Nonsense, child. pointment when he was a young man and 4~Arw1 it makes your heart beat fear- merry. A woman jilted him, they say. fully. Some believe in it; some dont; People always say thatand we I do. know very well women scarcely ever jilt Very well, lets try it, said Bath- men; tis the men who jilt us. I expect sheba, bounding from her seat ~vith that it is simply his nature to be so reserved. i total disregard of consistency which can Simply his nature I expect so, miss be indulged in towards a dependent, and nothing else in the world. entering into the spirit of divination at Still, tis more romantic to think he once. Go and get the front door key. has been served cruelly, poor thing! Liddy fetched it. I wish it wasnt Perhaps, after all, he has. Sunday, she s~d, on returning. Per- Depend upon it he has. 0, yes, haps tis wrong. miss, he has. I feel he must have. Whats right week days is right Sun- However, we are very apt to think ex- days, replied her companion in a tone tremes of people. L~ shouldnt wonder which was a proof in itself. after all if it wasnt a little of both just The book was opened the leaves, FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. 29 drab with age, being quite worn away at much-read verses by the fore-fingers of unpractised readers in former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to the vision. The spe- cial verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly thrilled and abashed her. It ~vas Wisdom in th p ab- stract.facing Folly in the concre te.Foily in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention, and placed the key on the Book. A rusty patch immediately upon the verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the purpose. Now keep steady, and be silent, said Bath sheba. The verse was repeated ; the Book turned round; Bathsheba blushed guilt ilv. Who did you try ? said Liddy curi- ously. I shall not tell you. Did you notice Mr. Boldwoods doings in church this morning, miss? Liddy continued, adumbrating by the re- mark the (rack her thoughts had taken. No, indeed, said Bathsheba, with serene indifference. His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss. I know it. And you did not see his goings on? Certainly I did not, I tell you. Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively. This move was unexpected, and pro- portionally disconcerting. What did he do? Bathsheba said perforce. Didnt turn his head to look at you once all the service. Why should he ? again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look. I didnt ask him to. 0 no. But everybody else was no- ticing you; and it was odd he didnt. There, tis like him. Rich and gentle- manly, what does he care Bathsheba dropped into a silence in- tended to express that she had opinions on the matter too abstruse for Liddys comprehension, rather than that she had nothing to say. Dear me I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday, she exclaimed at length. Valentine ! who for, miss ? said Liddy. Farmer Boldwood? It was the single itrame among all possi- ble wrong ones that just at this moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right. Well, no. It is only fog little Teddy Coggan. I have promised him some- thing, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Liddy, you may as well bring me my desk and Ill direct it at once. Bathsheba took from her desk a gor- geously illuminated and embossed design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous market-day at the chief stationers in Casterbridbe In the cen- tre was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion than any generalities by a printer could possibly be. Here is a place for writing, said Bathsheba. What shall I put? Something of this sort, I should think, returned Liddy promptly: The rose is red, The violet blue, Carnations sweet, And so are you. Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child like him, said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small though legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped her pen for the direction. What fun it ~vouldbe to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and how he would wonder! said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eyebrows, and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought of the moral and social magni- tude of the man contemplated. Bathsheba paused to rezard the idea at full length. Boldwoods had begun to be a troublesome image a species of Dan- iel in her kingdom who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and com- mon sense said that he might just as well fotIo~suit with the rest, and afford her the official glance of admiration which cost nothing at all. She was far from being seriously concerned about his non- conformity. Still, it was faintly depress- ing that the most dignified and valuable man in the parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like Liddy should talk about it. So Liddys idea was at first rather har~ssing than piquant. No, I won - do that. He wouldnt see any humour in it. I-Ied worry to death, said the per- sistent Liddy. Really, I dont care particularly to send it to Teddy, remarked her mis- 30 tress. Hes rather a naughty child sometimes. Yes that he is. Lets toss, as men do, said Bath- sheba, idly. Now then, head, Bold- ~vood; tail, Teddy. No, we wont toss money on a Sunday, that would be tempt- in~ the devil indeed. Toss this hymn book; there can~t be no sinfulness in that, miss. Very well. Open, Boldwood shut, Teddy; no, its more likely to fall open. Open, Teddy shut, Boldwood. The book xvent fluttering in the air and came down shut. Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with off-hand serenity directed the missive to Bold- wood. Now light a candle, Liddy. Which seal shall we use ? Here~ s a unicorn s head theres nothing in that. Whats this ?two dovesno. It ought to be something extraordinary, ought it not, Lidd? Heres one with a motto I re- member it is some funny one, but I cant read it. Well try this, and if it doesnt do well have another. A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at the hot wax to discover the words. Capital! she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolicsomely. Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and clerk too. Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and read The same evening the letter was sent~ and was duly sorted in Casterbridge post- office that night, to be returned to Weath- erbury again in the morning. So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done. Of love as a spectacle Bath- sheba had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively she knew nothing. CHAPTER XIV. EFFECT OF THE LETTER: SUNRISE. AT dusk, on the evening of St. Valen- tines Day, Boldwood sat down to supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs. Upon the mantel-shelf before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread eagle, and upon the eagles wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent. Here the bachelors gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large r~l seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye; and as. he eat and drank he still read in fancy the words thereon, although they were too remote for his sight, ~Thxrr~ me, The pert injunction was like those crystal substances, which, colourless themselves, assume the tone of objects about them. Here, in the quiet of Bold- woods parlour, where everything, that was not grave was extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a Puritan Sunday lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed their tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity, imbibed from their acces- sories now. Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Boldwood had felt the spheri- cal completeness of his existence here- tofore to be slowly spreading into an abnormal distortion in the particular di- rection of an ideal passion. The dis- turbance was as the first floating weed to Columbus the contemptibly little sug- gesting possibilities of the infinitely great. The letter must have had an origin and a motive. That the latter was of the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all, Boldwoocl, of course, did not know. And such an explanation did not strike him as a possibility even. It is foreign to a mystified condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the very dissimilar processes of approving a course suggested by circumstance, and striking out a course from inner impulse and intention purely, would look the same in the result. The vast difference between startino a train of events, and directing into a ~articular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the person confounded by the issue. When Boldwood went to bed, he pla~ed~he valentine in the corner of the looking-glass. He was conscious of its presence, even when his back was turned upon it. It ~vas the first time in Bold- xvoods life that such an event had oc- curred. The same fascination that caused him to think it an act which had a delib- erate motive prevented him from regard- ing~it as an impertinence. He looked again at the di~ection. The mysterious influences of ni~t invested the writing with the presence of the unknown writer. Somebodys some womans hand had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name : her unrevealed eyes liad watched every curve as she formed it: FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. 3 her brain had seen him in imagination the while. Why should she have im- agined him ? Her mouth were the lips red or pale, plump or creased ?had curved itself to a certain expression as the pen xvent on the corners had moved with all their natural tremulousness what had been the expression? The vision of the ~voman writing, a~ a supplement to the words written, had no individuality. She was a misty shape, and well she might be considering that her original was at that moment hound asleep ~nd oblivious of all love and let- ter-writing under the sky. Whenever Boldwood dozed she took a form, and comparatively ceased to be a vision when he awoke there was the letterjus- tifying the dream. The moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary kind. His win- dow only admitted a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen had that re- versed direction which snow gives, coin- ing upward and lighting up his ceiling in a phenomenal way, casting shadows in strange places, and putting lights where shadows had used to be. The substance of the epistle had occu- pied him but little in comparison with the fact of its arrival. He suddenly won- dered if anything more might be found in the envelope than what he had with- drawn. He jumped out of bed in the weird light: took the letter, pulled out the flimsy sheet, shook the envelope searched it. Nothing more was there. Boldwood looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding day, at the insistent red seal: Marry me, he said aloud. The solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter, and stuck it in the frame of the glass. In doing so he caught sight of his reflected features, wan in expression, and insubstantial in form. He saw how closely compressed was his mouth, and that his eyes were wide- spread and vacant. Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed. Then the dawn drew on. The full po~ver of the clear heaven was not equal to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when Boidwood arose and dressed himself. He descended the stairs and went out towards the gate of a field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked around. It was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of the year, and the sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward and murky to the east, where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease on Weatherbury Upper Farm, and ap- parently resting upon the ridge, the only half of the sun yet visible burnt incandes- cent and rayless, like a red and flame- less fire shining over a white hearth- stqne. The whole effect resembled a sunset as childhood resembles age. In other directions,~the fields and sky were so much of one colour by the snow, that it was difficult in a hasty glance to tell whereabouts the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too, that before-mentioned l)reternatural inversion of light and shade which attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in the sky is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. Over the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like tarnished brass. Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and glazed the sur- face of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light with the polish of marble how, in some portions of the slope, with- ered grass-bents, encased in icicles, bris- tled through the smooth wan coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass, and how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short permanency. A half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted him. Boldwood turned back into the road. It was the mail-cart a crazy, two-wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind. The driver held out a letter. Boldwood seized it and 6pened it, expect- ing another anonymous one. So greatly are peoples ideas of probability a mere sense that precedent will repeat itself, that they often do not stop to think whether the fact of an event having once occurred is not in many cases the very circ~m~ance which makes its repetition unlikely. I dont think it is for you, sir, said the man, when he saw Boldwoods action. Though there is no name, I think it is for your shepherd. Boidwood looked then at the address: To the New S/zey5herd, Wea/herbzry Farm, ~Near Gasterbridge. Oh what a mistake it is not mine. Nor is it for my shepherd. It is for Miss Everdenes. You had better take it on to himGabriel Oakand say I opened it in, mistake. 32 THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. At this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a fi~ure was vis- ible, like thc black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame. Then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to place, carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the same rays. A small figure on all fours followed behind. The tall form was that of Gabriek Oak the small one that of George; the articles in course of transit were hurdles. Wait, said Boldwood. Thats the man on the hill. Ill take the letter to him myself. To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to another man. It was an opportunity. Exhibiting a face preg- nant with intention, he entered the snowy field. Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. Th eglow stretched down in this direction now, and touched the distant roof of Warrens Malthouse whither the shepherd was apparently bent. Boldwood followed at a distance. From Macmillans Magazine. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. THE rivalries and jealousies of the Italian States, their struggles for liberty, and their individual feuds, have been a common theme with historians of the Middle Ages. But however deplorable may have been the effect of such a continual state of civil war upon the general welfare of the country, it has not been altogether barren of good results. The rulers of the various Italian States were indeed always striving to outshine each other in the splendour and mag- nificence of their Courts, but they cher- ished at the same time a far nobler emu- lation. They soon perceived that genius of any kind was the brightest ornament which they could obtain for their respec- tive Courts, and that, by the protection which they vied with one another in affording to literature and art, they se- cured celebrity at the time, and a lasting renown for the future. They were, there- fore, at all times careful to cherish and kindle the smouldering fire of that native genius which was the special heritage of Italy, and which she preserved through all the rude vicissitudes of external con- quest and internal warfare. In Italy first appeared that dawn of light, destined in its meridian splendour to dissipate the dense ignorance into which Europe generally was plunged. The earliest efforts of her language, half a century before Dante wrote the poem which so largely contributed to form it, were protected and fostered at the Court of Frederick II. King of Sicily. To touch only upon great. examples In 1316 we find Dante entertained at the Court of the Scaligeri at Verona, and the princely hospitality of his host is immor- talized in that portion of the Divina Commedia which, as a further proof of Dantes gratitude, was dedicated to Can Grande della Scala Il Gran Loin- bardo, as the poet calls him. Similar hospitality was shown to Dante during the last years of his life by Guido da Polenta, Lord of Ravenna; and Pe- trarch, following closely upon the foot- steps of Dante, was sought after and honoured by all the princes of Italy, as we have recently shown in these pages. Nor did the princes only extend their favour to what may be called the crea- tive genius of the thirteenth century they were also foremost in promoting that research among the long-lost classics which was the distinguishing mark of the next century. This research, first begun by Petrarch and Boccaccio, and pursued with infinite labour in circumstances of great difficulty, received in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries very general encouragement. The Pontiffs in Rome, the Medici in Florence, the Visconti, afterwards suc- ceeded by the Sforza, at Milan, the Arra- gon kings of Naples, the Houses of Gon- zaga in Mantua, and of Este in Ferrara, the Dukes of Urbino all promoted this revival of learning. They sent emissa- ries to all parts of the world for the pur- pose of collecting manuscripts, and no journey was accounted too dangerous or too protracted to obtain them. Pre- e?~ii~ntly, Lorenzo de Medici spared neither trouble nor expense in his re- searches. He sent to explore both Eu- rope and Asia for Greek and Latin man- uscripts, which, when brought to him, he purchased at any price ; and twice, ~vith a lnagnificence worthy of his name, did he despatch the celebrated Giovanni L~scari to the Sultan Bajazet, in order that under th Imperial protection he might carry lus researches through Greece. Two hundred manuscripts, of which eighty were new discoveries, were the result of these journeys.* * Tiraboschi, Storia della Letteratura Itallana. vol. vi. p. 537. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 33 On the discovery of the twelve come- dies of Plautus in 1429, for up till that time only eight were supposed to exist copies of the manuscript had immediately to be made for the several Houses of Visconti, of Este, and of the Medici. It is further related as a proof of the esteem in which these treasures of classical learn- ing were held by the princes, that a man- uscript of Livys Annals, sent by Cosmo de Medici to Alfonso, King of Naples, sufficed to appease a quarrel between them; though the king was counselled by his physicians to examine it carefully lest Cosmo should have introduced poison between the leaves.* But none of the princes of this time deserves so much praise as an encourager of learning as Nicholas V. (Thomas Sar- zana), who became Pope in 1447. He founded the Vatican Library, and left it at his death enriched with 5,000 volumes, a treasure far exceeding that of any other collection in Europe. Every scholar who needed maintenance, found it at the Court of Rome, and the works of several Greek authors were translated into Latin, by order of Pope Nicholas V.t Almost all the works of the classical authors were either found in Italy or else- where by Italians, and the enthusiasm which had been shown in collecting manu- scripts next took the form of bestowing them in those magnificent libraries which are among the great wonders of Italy. Niccolo Niccoli, a Florentine of eminent learning, first conceived the idea, and founded the first public library in the convent of the S. Spirito at Florence, of which Boccaccios private collection of books was the germ, he having left them as a legacy to that convent. From this eventually sprang the famous Medicean library, only one among many of the princely libraries of Italy. The fall of the Eastern Empire towards the middle of this century compelled the Greeks in considerable numbers to seek a refuge in Italy, when they further dis- closed those immortal monuments of their language which the Crusades had been the first means of revealing to the European mind. Thus a new and still more powerful stimulus was given to the general desire for information. This thirst was very partially relieved while the fountain of learning continued to trickle out, drop by drop, through the difficult and costly channels of copies and * Tiraboschi, Storia della Letteratura Italiana vol. vi. p. 126. I Hallam, Lit. of Eurole, vol. ~. p. 143. LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 263 transcriptions. But the wonderful dis- covery of Gutenberg suddenly opened the spring, and diffused the long-pent-up waters of learning over the civilized world. Printing could not have been invented at a more propitious moment for the per- fecting of this wondrous art. The espe- cial circumstances of the age caused it to be universally appreciat~d, and it seemed to crown the joint labours of the princes and learned men with a success which, in their wildest dreams, they could not have expected to attain. Although Germany must fairly claim the honour of this great invention, it has never been questioned that Italy was the first to follow in her footsteps ; and it is worthy of notice how quickly she adopted and succeeded in appropriating to her- self the invention of another country. This was only natural. Abundantly rich in her own talents, she had no cause to envy a foreign discovery, and at that moment of supreme activity of mind she did not hesitate to adopt the new invention, al- though it did not originate with her. On the contrary, nursed and cherished in the centre of art and learning, printing soon reached its highest perfection. The rude wooden movable characters, Gutenbergs great discovery and improve- ment on the still ruder engraved blocks of wood, from which the so-called block- books were printed, and which was the earliest form of the art * were now dis carded for types cut by the artist-hand of a Francia; men of profound erudition and cultivated talents were employed to select and revise the manuscripts about to be printed ; while princes were willing to devote much of their wealth, and even to sacrifice a portion of their territories, to this new and wonderful method for the diffusion of knowledge. Thus when Aldo Manuzio, who may be rightly~ca~ed the father of Italian typog- raphy, first set up his printing-press in Venice, it was Alberto Pio, Prince of Carpi, who defrayed the costs whose family name of Pio Aldo was permitted to bear, on account of the great affection and intimacy which existed between them, and by it the princes of Italy will al- ways be associated with the first great printer of their country. Before proceedi~ to speak of Aldo, whose life and works are more generally known, some few words should be said * Hallam, Lit. of Euro~iie, vol. i. p. iso. This mode of printing from blocks of wood has been practised in China from time immemorial THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 34 about Ls patron, whose remarkable tal- ents ~nd singular excellence, while they deserved a better fate in his lifetime, have been allowed to remain too long in obscurity after his death. Tiraboschi * the great historian of Italian literature, first brought them to the light. Till that time no one had ever written any account of the life of the Alberto Pio. He was the son of Leonello, Prince of Carpi, a small principality, now only a town in the present Duchy of Modena. His mother was the sister of Pico della Mirandola, the accomplished friend of Lorenzo de Medici. It had been arranged that Al- berto Pio, and his brother Leonello, should divide the principality with Gi- berto and his brothers, the descendants of another branch of the same family. This division of authority, especially when the state to be governed was of small dimensions, caused, as may easily be imagined, fierce and continual dissen- sions, and the estates of the Pio family were the scene of perpetual warfare. As usual, the Emperor of Germany was ap- pealed to, and, as usual, no good result ensued. The neighbouring Dukes of Ferrara also strove more than once to appease the quarrel in Carpi. the truces were always of short duration, un- til in the year 1500, Giberto, in order to revenge himself on his cousin Alberto, sold his rights over the principality of Carpi to the Duke of Ferrara, receiving in exchange a few towns belonging to the dukedom. Thus did Ercole, Duke of Ferrara, first obtain a hold over the principality of Carpi, and his successor, Alfonso, was not slow to avail himself of this sem- blance of a right. By the payment of 100,000 forms to the Emperor Charles V., he obtained from him in 1552 the in- vestiture of the principality, in defiance of a former decree of the Emperor Maxi- milian, which upheld the rights of Alberto Pio and anulled the cession made by Giberto to the Dukes of Ferrara. The Prince of Carpi, when thus robbed of his dominions, retired to the Court of Fran- cis the First, and found his best consola- tion in those literary pursuits which in his brighter days he had so liberally pro- tected. Passing by the further political vicissi- tudes of Carpi before its final absorption into the Duchy of Ferrara, which have but a remote bearing on the subject of this paper, we will now look upon her * Sioria, vol. vii. PP. 236, 283, ci seq. Prince from a literary point of view. Our admiration for the eminence which he ob- tained, both in the cultivated use of his own mind and in his endeavours to pro- mote it in others, is increased by the con- sideration of the perpetual state troubles by which he was harassed. From his ear- liest years, at the age of four, he was the pupil of Aldo Manuzio,* and for nine years he enjoyed the advantage of so dis- tinguished a tutor, whereby he acquired a permanent taste for literature. The gratitude which the young prince felt on this account to Aldo, lasted through life, and showed itself on every occasion. Aldo, on the other hand, had the highest esteem for his young pupil, and paid a striking tribute to his zeal for learning in dedicating to him the first volume of his magnificent edition of Aristotle of 1495, called Editio Princeps.~ In this dedi- cation, Manuzio addresses Alberto Pio as the patron of all learned men, his own patron more especially; adverts to his enthusiasm for collecting Greek books, thus following in the footsteps of his learned uocle, Pico della Mirandola; and dwells upon the fair promise of his early years, so admirably spent in the improve- ment of his own mind and in endeavour- ing to promote the revival of learning, since he had for many years been inde- fatigable in collecting Latin, Greek, and Hebrew manuscripts, while he enter- tained with a princely magnificence the most learned men he could find, to cor- rect and explain them4 Of a similar nature is the eulogium of Federigo Asolano, who also dedicated to the Prince of Carpi the second volume of the works of Galen. But Aldo Manuzio was more especially bound to express his sense of obligation to Alberto Pio, for, together with his uncle, Pico della Miran- dola, this prince had formed a design which may well entitle them to be called th~ Prince Printers of Italy. Their scheme was to publish an entire set of new and correct editions of Latin and Greek authors, in order the better to pro- mote the study of the two languages. The greatest printer of the age, Aldo Manuzio, was chosen to execute their project, which Erasmus, in his Prov- erbs, afterwards printed by Aldo, right- ly terms o i~e of princely ma,,nificence for it inclu~d the restoration of litera * Manni, Vila di A ido Pio Meenuzio, p. 9. 1 This edition of Aristotle was in five vols., the first bearing date 495, the last 1498. HALLAM, Lit. of Eurc~5e, vol. 1 pp. 224, 225. ~1rauosci1, Vii. p. 29!. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 35 ture fast falling to decay; the disinter- In order to compress the contents of ment of that which had lain concealed these folios into the 8vo size which he for ages the supply of what was defi- invented, and which has since become so cient; the correction, by careful compar- common a form of volume, he caused to ison, of manuscripts which appeared er- be engraved that peculiar kind of type, roneous.* 1which for a long time bore the name of For this purpose Alberto Pio, although the Aldine Type, and which we now according to R6nouard he was then only term Italic) twelve years old, and his uncle, Pico della It was originally copied from the hand- Mirandola, wished to set up a magnificent writing of Petrarch in the manuscript of printing-press in Carpi for Aldo Manuzio, the Canzoniere, and the characters to giving him absolute possession of one of which Aldo owes so much of his fame, his castles in which to carry on the work, I and which may justly claim our admira- and even as a further mark of honour in- tion for the grace and taste of their forms, vesting him with the goverment of a part are supposed, with good reason, to have of his territory. An Academy of Arts been cut by no less a hand than that of and Sciences was to be included in the the great artist Francesco Raibolini, or scheme, in order that these might flour- Il Francia. ish in his dominions, and Carpi be the From the beginningof the inventionof centre whence the Aldine editions should printing, the types were for the most part emanate. Unhappily, so splendid a de- engraved by either goldsmiths, coiners, sign was frustrated by the political dis- or engravers of some kind or another, turbances already alluded to, and Aldo and the chief masters in the art were al- had to betake himself to Venice, where ways chosen for this purpose. It is well he set up, in 1488,t his famous printing- known that Francia was unrivalled in press, the cost of which was defrayed by his goldsmith work; that the medals and the two princes, Alberto Pio and Pico money stamped with coins of his engrav- della Mirandola, who by no means aban- ing were equal to those of the famous doned that part of the project because Caradosso of Milan, and that when they could not have the glory of executing employed to paint the Altar-piece of the it in their own dominions. On the con- Bentivoglio Chapel, he signed hi~ work trary, they gave large sums of money for Franciscus Francia, Aurifex, as if to this purpose, and throughout the various denote that he was by profession a gold- vicissitudes of the life of Aldo these two smith, and not an artist.* princes, despite their own political The first time that this type was em- troubles, continued to befriend him. The ployed was in the edition of Virgil pub- printing-press thus established at Venice: lished by Aldo in 1501, and he is careful had a marvellous success. Before twenty to acknowledge his obligation to the ~ crip- years elapsed there was scarcely a Greek great artist in the followino ins or Latin author whose works had not is- tion sued from it in one of those beautiful edi- In Grammatoglypt~ Laudem tions now so rare and so eagerly coveted. Qui graiis dedit Aldus, in latinis The full merit of these editions can Dat nunc Grammata scalpta d~daleis only be rightly appreciated when we con- Francisci manibus Bononiensis4 sider that the manuscripts from which they were printed were often Imperfect, It is only much to be lamented that Aldotlid4not continue to act in accord- mutilated, and half effaced the copies of ance with this acknowledgment. Far the same author not always agreeing to- from doing so, he obtained from the Gov- gether, and demanding as much patience, eminent of Venice a monopoly for the wisdom, and sagacity on the part of the use of these types during a period of ten critic as manual dexterity on the part of printer. years, and three successive Popes the Alexartder VI., Julius II., and Leo X. Hitherto books had been usually print- laboured to secure Aldo this monopoly, ed in folio, but Manuzio was first in- while it was forbidden to Francia to cut spired with the idea of publishing them in a smaller and more convenient form. * Lanti, S/aria Pi/to~ca deli Italia, vol. v. p. 20. t Rtnouard, A nnales des Aide, vol. i. p. r6~. There * Maffei, S/aria delia Left. I/al. vol. i. p. 242. has been some doubt as to whether this Francisci was t Manni, Vita di A ida Pio Mansezio, p. 52. There the same person as the famous Francis, but Sir Antonio have been various opinions as to the exact date of this Panizzi, in a beautiful little treatise (from whence this event, but Manni founds his assertion on Aldos Preface information has been drawn) entitled Chi era Fran to Aristotle, dated s495, in which Aldo affirms that he cesco da Bologna, and privately printed in s556, has been seven years engaged in the difficult and proves this point to the satisfaction of all his readers. ciatly undertaking of printing. See also Blade, L of Caxton, vol. ii. p. 24. 36 THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. types for any one else, and to all, save Aldo, was their use forbidden. In all the history of monopolies and privileges one more odious than this could hardly be found. Even admitting, as it is com- monly urged, that Aldo first invented the characters to which he gave his name, the mere fact of their having been exe- cuted by another hand ought to have re- strained him from demanding, and the Government from according, so unjust and so exclusive a monopoly. In the rare and beautiful edition of Petrarch ~vhich Francia published at Bologna, where he set up his printing-press after his separation from Aldo, is to be found, on the title-page, his lament that he had lost both the glory and the profit which he would have derived from the charac- ters cut by his own hand, had not both fallen to the share of Aldo Manuzio. The rival printers of Soncino, near Cre- mona, who first printed the Hebrew char- acters, and who, although they afterwards set up their printing-presses throughout Italy, always preserved the name of their native town till it became a family name, declared also, without hesitation, that Aldo had usurped from Francesco da Bo- logna the honour of the invention and the design of the characters.* They further added that no one was to be com- pared with Francia for skill in engraving, not only Latin and Greek, but also He- brew characters. It must, however, also in fairness be stated that R6nouard does his best to justify Aldo from this accusation, by as- serting that the inscription in the Virgil is-an all-sufficient acknowledgment of the artists share in the invention of the run- ning characters4 Be this as it may, it would still seem much to be regretted that even the semblance ot so great a blot should rest on the character of a man who, like Aldo Manuzio, spent his whole life in efforts to contribute to the prog- ress of the human mind and the advance- ment of civilization. - It is indeed difficult to form an idea of the enthusiasm with which Aldo laboured to place once more before mankii~d those grand productions of ancient classical literature which had so long been allowed to remain in obscurity. If he discovered a manuscript which had not yet been printed, he never ceased in his efforts till he had gained possession of it, regardless of trouble and expense. While he thus promoted the interests of learned men, * Familiarly called caratteri corsivi. t A nnaies des Aide, vol. iii. p. 22. they in return gave him their best assist- ance. From all sides contributions of manuscripts flowed in, some for sale, and some sent gratuitously as gifts. From 1501 to 1505 the Aldine Press was in the fullest activity, publishing all the principal classical and Italian au- thors in that smaller form of which the Virgil of 1501 had been the first sample. The transition from the cumbersome and expensive folios to these cheap and port- able editions was so great a ste p in the progress of printing, that it appeared only second in importance to the discov- ery of the art itself. Nor does the reputation of Aldo rest only on his printing, or even on his editorial labours, the Greek and Latin dissertations, prefaces, and criticisms with which he illustrated the books which issued from the press he left behind him also some original works, chiefly of an instructive kind, of considerable merit. His first work was a Latin Grammar written to take the place of the old scho- lastic Doctrinale of Alexandri da Villa Dei, written in barbarous and meaningless rhymes, which had been the torment of his youth. This was followed by a Greek Grammar, a Greek and Latin Dictionary, and other works, whose names cannot be inserted in this paper for want of space. PART II. SOME writers have affirmed that Aldo Manuzio first invented the Greek types. This, however, R6nouard declares to be only so far true that up to the time of Aldo, whenever a Greek passage occurred in a book, it was left blank to be filled up with the pen, because few of the printing establishments were furnished with Greek types. But Greek books, many of them of importance, were known to be printed ~ef~r~ that time, such as the Grammar of ILascaris at Milan in 1476, a Homer at Florence in 1488, and others besides. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that Aldo was the first to introduce a great improvement in the existing Greek types, which were badly shaped and rudely cut, whereas he had new ones formed after the pattern of the best manuscripts. Moreover, Greek books, which had been printed sloWII and at rare intervals, now issued from the great Venetian Press with astonishing speed. When Aldo had amply furnished himself with Greek and Latin types,* his next step was to * A contemporary writer affirms that Aldo had silver types cast for his favourite editions. Another declares THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 37 adopt a peculiar device whereby his Erasmus, many of whose works he books might be distinguished all over the printed, makes allusion in his epitaph world. He chose wits singialar sagacity upon the printer: the mark of the Dolphin and Anchor Here I lie, Theodoric of Alost. well known to all, and which, adopted by English printers * and publishers, is still I employed to adorn many of the choicest The sacred anchor remains, emblem dearest to editions of our books. Be my youth. Thou, 0 Christ, I pray, my sacred anchor The Dolphin was chosen because of the speed with which the fish is saki almost to leap through the waves, while The dolphin and anchor were indeed the Anchor, on the contrary, represents more or less imitated by many printers stability and repose. By these emblems of this century at Paris, Basle, Cologne, Aldo meant to imply. that, in order to Rome, Parma, & c. & c. John Crespin, of labour to any purpose, the scheme of Geneva, placed them at the foot of a work must be carefully and maturely Greek Testament, with the initials J. C. ~veighed, and then executed with rapid- and the following lines : ityt It is said that two Emperors, Titus Les agit~s en mer, Christ, seule anchre sacr~e avid Domitian, made use of the same em- Asseure, et en tout temps seule sauve et recr~e. blem, and that Aldo was presented by a These printers, for the most part, adopted member of his Academy (Ii Bembo), with the device after the death of Aldo, but a silver medal of the time of Titus, bear- during his lifetime he suffered most ino the stamp of the Dolphin and An- annoyance from the printers at Lyons, chor. Although he had for some time who imitated his editions without scruple, entertained the idea of employing this and even copied his prefaces. device, it was only used for the first time These frequent piracies at last com- in 1502, for a small 8vo Dante, and all pelled Manuzio to draw up a formal re- the books which subsequently issued monstrance, in which he pointed out the from his press bear this celebrated em- typographical errors and general incor- blem. As might have been expected, rectness of the fraudulent editions. But there were many counterfeit dolphins even this the Lyonese printers turned to and anchors employed by printers, who, account, for they quickly extracted the disregarding the monopolies granted to erroneous sheets, which they replaced Aldo, sought by the aid of this stamp, I with new ones, corrected according to and by imitating his types, to pass off Aldos remonstrance, and thus their fraud their books as productions of the cele- was doubly secured. brated Aldine Press. Among these were It is now time to speak of the Acad- the Giunti of Florence, of whom Frances- Aldi Neacademia, formed co dAsola, a partner and relation of Aldo, emy, the in his Preface to the by Aldo in Venice for the especial pur- bitterly complains pose of presiding over the editions of the Titus Livius of 1518. He discovered classics, and ensuring their excellence their fraud by the fact of the dolphins and correctness. All the learned men mouth being turned to the left, and not of Italy of that time esteemed it an. to the right, as in the Aldine stamp. honour to belong to this Academy.t Theodoric Martens, a Belgian printer, The name of Erasmus is also enrolled who died at Alost, in i534 stamped his h among t e list of members. His Ada- editions with a double anchor; to which gia,~ as4 has been already stated, were printed at the Aldine Press, and Aldo that the Pope promised Panlo Manuzio a set of types announces, in the preface, that he had in the same precious metal, Argentei typi ; bet R6 nouard casts doubt upon this, declaring that the ex- purposely delayed the printing of many pense of casting types in silver would have been too, classical editions in order to publish great. Nor would they have been sufficiently durable. immediatel On the same account, he refuses to believe that silver y this most excellent work. types were employed to print a Bible at Cambridge, by Erasmus, on the other hand, observes, itt Field, in s6~6. A an. des A ide, iii. 1~ * As, for example, William Pickering, of London, the same book, that If some tutelary with the inscrintion Aidi Discip. Angiva. Hisf~~~ deity had promoted the views of Aldo, tion of the Bitish Poets is in the small Svo. the learned would shortly have been in which Aldo had invented. The mark which he adopted for his books was the later and more finished impres- sion of the Dolphin and Anchor, struck in the time of * Hic Theodorictis jacto prognatus Alosto. Paolo Manuzio, and technically termed LAncore . . . . . . grassa. The original stamp of the Aldine Press, as Anchora sacra manet, not~ gratissima puhi. employed by the great Aldo, appears in the books of Christe, precor, nuoc 515 anchora sacra Mr. Basil Montago Pickerin~,..the present publisher. t For a list of members see Rdnouard, A an. des t Annales des Aide, vol. iii. p. 97. Aide, vol. iii. pp. 3638. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. possession not only of all the Greek and Latin authors, but even of the Hebrew and Chaldee, insomuch that nothing could have been wanting in this respect to their wishes. * It is sad, however, to relate that this friendship between Aldo and Erasmus, which had been founded on mutual esteem, did not last. It was even ex- changed for a dislike almost approaching to hatred, and difficult to account for. Whereas it had been the pride of Eras- mus to assist in the correction of the great Venetian Press, he afterwards in- dignantly disclaimed having undertaken the correction of any but his own works, and is careful to explain that he never received from Aldo the wages of a cor- rector of the press. Some affirm that the Italian manner of living appeared to Erasmus frugal and parsimonious when compared with the good cheer of Ger- many or of his native country, and that he left Venice on that account. But a more probable solution would seem to be that as his opinions inclined towards those of Luther and his party, they be- came distasteful to Aldo, who had every reason to attach himself to the cause of the Popes, to whom he owed three suc- cessive monopolies. It is certain that, after the quarrel, whenever Aldo or his successors printed a book for Erasmus, they inserted the contemptuous designa- tion of Transalpinus quidam homo in the title, instead of the name of the au- thor, as if to signify his complete dis- grace at the Court of Rome. Moreover, the Prince of Carpi, who had supplied the funds for establishing the Aldine Press, was strongly opposed to the views of Erasmus, and even xvent so far as to refute them in a work of much erudition. When Luther first began to declare his opinions, the eyes of the world were fastened on Erasmus as one of the most learned men of the age, to see which side he would embrace. While the Luther- ans, in spite of the protestation of Eras- mus, declared that he held their opinion, he was an object of interest to two parties in the Church of Rome: the one headed by Leo X., Clement VIII., and Cardinal Sadoleto, who tried by praise and flat- tery to keep him within the pale of the faith and to induce him to lay down those opinions which led him to be suspected and on the other hand, those who thought it their duty to protest openly against him, to point out his errors and mistakes, * Roscoes L of Leo K., vol. i. p. s68. in order that others might not make ship- wreck of their faith upon the same rocks which had wrought his ruin. Foremost among these was Alberto Pio, Prince of Carpi. Erasmus, to whom the char- acter and learning of this Prince were well known, and who had besides seen him often in Venice, remonstrated with him for the harshness of his language, to which Alberto replied in a learned trea.. tise, dated May 12, 1526, pointing out to Erasmus the dangerous nature of his opinions, so little removed from those of Luther, at the same time praising both his genius and learning. Erasmus defended himself against this attack, and the controversy continued. Theology had always been the favourite study of the literary prin6e of Carpi, and he now undertook an elaborate work, sin- gularly free from the scholasticism of the age, eloquent in style, and full of erudi- tion, in which he examines and com- pares the works of Erasmus and of Luther. This work he printed at Paris, where he had taken refuge after the sack of Rome, by the troops of Charles V. It was in the press when he died (1531), and was published in Paris that same year.* These few frabments are all that can be collected of the history of a prince who has perhaps, literally, the most right to be called a Prince Printer of Italy, his name appearing in conjunction with that of the first Venetian Printer on the title-page of each one of those splen- did volumes of Venetian typography as they issued from his press. His tutor and friend, the great Manuzio, whom he had been the means of so largely benefit- ing, and who in return, had spent his whole life in executing the vast literary designs of the prince, had pre-deceased him by some years. Aldo died in, 1515, at the age of 66, before he could accomplish his cherished project of printing a Bible in tli~ee~.languages, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. One page only was executed of this great undertaking, but the beauty of the characters of all three languages, in each of which Aldo was an equally good scholar, is sufficient to show what a noble work the first Polyglot Bible would have been had he lived to execute his design.~ Aldo was by his own especial wish * Alberti Pu ~rporunm comitis Illustrissimi et Viri longe doctissimi pr~ter prxfalionem et opens con- clusionem, tres et Viginti iibri in iocos lucubrationuni vaniarum D. Erasmi Roterodami quos censet ab eo recognoscendos et retractandos. TIR. S/oria, vii. 295. t For fac-iimile of page see R~nouard, A nesales, iii. 44. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 39 buried at Carpi, in the Church of San Paterniano. But the reputation of the Aldine Press, which he had founded, was not destined to expire with him, nor was the patron- age of the princes of Italy only exer- cised in Carpi. Paolo Manuzio, the third son of Aldo il vecchio, and the only one who fol- lowed the profession which his father had rendered so famous, was but three years old at the death of Aldo. The work of the Aldine Press was not, however, sus- pended on that account, but, still bearing the name of its illustrious founder, was maintained by Andrea Torresano dAsola, the father-in-law of Aldo il vecchio, with whom he had entered into partnership on marrying his daughter, and who had as- sisted him in his pecuniary difficulties. Andrea was himself ~n adept in the art of printing, and, some years previous to his entering into this partnership, had purchased the printing establishment of Nicholas Jenson, another Venetian print- er of some reputation, which thus became incorporated into the Aldine Printing House. The operations of this great firm were thereby still further extended, and were carried on by Andrea dAsola and his two sons, Francesco and Fe- derigo, during the minority of Paolo Manuzio. The books printed during this period are marked In ~dibus Aldi et Andre~ soceri. vecchio. In 1546 the stamp underwent a still greater change, the anchor having, to use an heraldic term, two cherubs for supporters on either side, and the words Aldi Filii substituted for the single name, which, divided in two, Al-Dvs, was formerly placed on either side the anchor.* In the year 1571, th~ Emperor Maxi- milian II. conferred upon Paolo a patent of nobility, with the right to add the Ea- gle of the Empire to his coat of arms, which was the same as the mark of his press. But Paolo died before he could make use of this new device, and the only books which bear it were printed after his death by his son. Paolo Manuzio, being now sole propri- etor of the firm, applied himself diligently to follow his fathers footsteps, and gave himself up entirely to literary and typo- graphical labours. The editions which he issued from his press were universally famed for their beauty and correctness, and for the erudition of their notes and prefaces. His edition of Cicero of 1540 was considered the best and most impor- tant of any classical author yet pub- lished4 The Aldi Neacademia, which his father had founded, and which had existed but a few years, was replaced in Paolos time by a great Accademia Veneziana, also called Della Fama, from its emblem a representation of Fame with the motto Jo volo al ciel per riposarmi in Dio. It was founded in 1556 at the cost of Federigo Badoaro, a Venetian senator, and about a hundred of the most distinguished literary and scientific men of Italy belonged to it, with Bernardo Tasso, father of the poet, as president. It was intended for the general encouragement of the arts and sciences, with the special objects of cor- recting the numerous mistakes of the old books on philosophy and theology, add- ing ~nn~tations and dissertations, and translating them into various languages. The printing was entrusted to the Aldine firm, and Paolo Manuzio was chosen as corr~ctor of the press. He was, besides, appointed to fill the chair of eloquence in the Academy. In a short time many books were issued, which, for the beauty of their type, the quality of their paper, and the ac curacy~~of their corrections, ob- tained a great rep~ation for this Academy. But, unhappily, the brilliant expectations to which this institution had given rise, The stamp of the Press was preserved unchanged, with the addition of the pe- culiar mark of the Torresania. tower with the letters A. T. till the death of Andrea in 1529, when the establishment ceased to work for afew years. It was re-opened in 1533, by the young Paolo Manuzio, who, although only twenty-one, inspired confidence both by his name and the diligence with which he had applied himself to his studies. In i540 the partnership with his uncles, the Torresani, was dissolved. They Went to Paris, ~vhere they set up, a few years later, a printing establishment, while Paolo, with the advice and assistance of his fathers learned friends, conducted the Aldine firm at Venice. The books which now issued from this press bore either the inscription Apud Aldi Filios or In ~edibus Pauli Manutii. A new and more careful stamp of the dolphin and anchor was struck, which is termed by Italian booksellers ~ LAncora grassa, ~ For these various forms, see R~nouard, A tmsles, to distinguish it from that of Aldo ii ~ Li. o/Eur~e, vol. i. p. 3~5. 40 were dashed to the ground by the bank- ruptcy of its founder, and the Acca- demia della Fama was as short-lived as the Aldi Neacademia had been. It struggled on for a few months after this catastrophe, until its complete collapse, after an existence of but four years, and thirty years went by before another Ve- netian Academy could be established. Still, the manner in which Paolo Manu- zio, during his brief connection with this institution, had discharged his functions, won for him a great reputation, so that when after its collapse he travelled through Italy for the purpose of visiting the fine libraries which it was the pride and glory of the princes to collect, it was the endeavour of each and all to retain him in their principality. The Senate of Bologna offered him a large sum to carry on his printing in their city, and the Car- dinal Ippolito dEste tried in the same way to retain him in Ferrara, but the hon- our of an Aldine establishment was re- served for the Imperial city. In the year 1539, the Cardinal Marcello Cervini and Alessandro Farnese had formed the de- sign of setting up a printing-press in Rome for the purpose of printing the manuscripts of the Vatican. Antonio Blado Asolano, the printer selected to execute the design, previous to going to Rome, went to Venice to implore the as- sistance of the Aldine Press in the prep- aration of types, paper and other requi- sites for the undertaking. The Venetian firm gladly lent their powerful assistance, and beautiful editions of Greek and Latin authors soon issued from the Blado Press, of which the most remarkable was a Homer with the commentaries of Eus- tathius, published in 1542. But it was the age of Luther, and the presses of the Holy See were required for other purposes than that of reproducing ancient classical authors. Pius IV. therefore summoned no less a person than the great Venetian printer to estab- lish a branch of the Aldine Press at Rome, for the purpose of printing the works of the Fathers of the Church, and other ec- clesiastical writers, in order to oppose some barrier to the flood of new opinions which was rapidly overspreading the world. At the cost of Pius IV., who, be- sides an annual salary of five hundred scudi, paid in advance the whole expense of the transfer of himself and family, Ii Manuzio opened his printing-house in the Campidoglio, the very palace of the Ro- man people, and the books printed there bear the stamp of Apud Paulum Ma- nutium in ~edibus Populi Romani, 1561. It would seem as if so classical a resi- dence and so important an employment must have fixed Paolo Manuzio for ever in Rome. But nevertheless, from various reasons (and no satisfactory one has yet been discovered), either because his gains were not in proportion to his Ia- bours, or because the climate was not suited to his health, after the lapse of nine years he left Rome and returned to Venice. Yet he was never able, after his sojourn in Rome, to settle again. He went both to Genoa and Milan, and in 1573 once more to Rome, for the purpose of visit- ing a daughter whom he had left in a con- vent there. Gregory XIII. then occupied the papal chair, but like his predecessor, he knew too well the value of a man of so great a literary reputation as Paolo to let him escape out of his hands. Gregory offered him an annual stipend, with en- tire liberty to attend to his own puruits, if he would once more conduct the Al- dine Press at Rome. Paolo agreed, but his second sojourn in Rome was shorter even than the first ; not, however, this time from any inconstancy on his part, but because death overtook him early in the following year (r574). Although Paolo Manuzio was inferior to his father, in that he only maintained what Aldo had cre- ated, he was equal to him as a printer and editor. Some writers say that his taste as a critic was not so faultless as that of Aldo 11 vecchio, but his works place him among the most polished writ- ers, both in Latin and Italian, of his age. His most famous Latin treatises are the two upon the Roman Laws and Polity.* In his letters Manuzio carefully copied the style of Cicero, whose letters he also commented on. The literary men of his time even went so far as to say that iCwa~s difficult to decide whether Manu- zio owed most to Cicero or Cicero to Manuzio. But while Hallam places him among those writers of the latter part of the sixteenth century who were conspic- uous for their purity of style, he blames him for too close an imitation of Cicero, which causes the reader soon to weary of his writings, however correct and pol- ished they mai~ be. Paolo Manuzio also wrote and pub ished various small trea- tises in elegant and beautiful Italian. * De Legibus Romanorum, and Dc ~ Hallam, Lit. of Earoj~e, i. $23. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 4 He made a careful study of Roman an- tiquities, and was the first to discover on an ancient marble the Roman Calendar, which he puhlished in 1555, with an ex- planation, and a short treatise on the an- cient manner of counting the days. Like all eminent men he had his detract- ors, such as Gabriello Barn, who accused him of being a plagiarist, but the accu~- tion was entirely without foundation.* At the same time Tiraboschi blames Paolo for his discontent, and for his re- peated complaints of the indifference shown by the princes of his time to the progress of literature. The short sketch of the life of Manuzio just given is sufficient to prove the injustice of these complaints, and Tiraboschi shows that at the time when they were made (1595) there was not a province in Italy without a prince whose pride and glory it was to cherish and protect literature and learning, and who has not left behind him the recol- lection of his munificent protection of science and art. But Manuzio was often hindered in his great labours by ill-health and weakness of eyes; and this may perhaps account for that peevish and querulous disposition which led him to find fault with the times in which he lived. He left four children, but only one son called Aldo, after his illustrious grand- father was destined to maintain the family reputation. Aldo il giovane, so called to distin- ouish him from the founder of the fain- fly, seemed destined to fulfil the brilliant expectations suggested by his name, by publishing, at the age of eleven, a small collection of choice Latin and Italian authors, together with a treatise upon the two languages ; ~ and, this was followed in three years time, by a more learned and more considerable treatise upon Latin orthography4 That his father must largely have as- sisted him in these two works can admit of little doubt; indeed, R6nouard sug- gests that it was probably the work of Paolo himself with some few contribu- tions from his son, and that the father published the book in the name of Aldo in order to give him a brilliant start on his literary career. His after reputation did not at any rate keep pace with so remarkable a begin- * See Tiraboschi, vii. 211. t Eleganze insieme con Ia copia della lingua Toscana e Romana, scelte da Aldo Maniftio, 1558. $ Orthographi~ Ratio ab Aldo Manuejo. Ann des Aide, vol. iii. j3. 176. ning, and the success which he did achieve was due more to his name than to his individual efforts. He profited by his residence at Rome during his fathers lifetime to augment his collection of an- cient inscriptions, by studying the monu- ments themselves instead of the accounts of them in books. He was thus able con- siderably to improve his work on Latin orthography, of which he published a new edition in 1566. This work, the fruit of great research, is even now con- sulted by those who wish to write or re- print Latin books.* Paolo Manuzio entrusted his son with the management of the Aldine Press at Venice, himself conducting the branch which he had transferred to Rome. The Venetian Press, under the super- intendence of Aldo il giovane, did not so much produce new works as reprints of those editions on which its reputation was already founded. From 1540 to 1575 it was chiefly occupied upon the works of Cicero; and the most celebrat- ed work of Aldo il giovane was his com- mentary upon the works of this author, in ten volumes. Five of these it must, however, be stated, were the work of Paolo, and only the latter five were added by his son. In 1572 the young Aldo married Fran- cesca Lucrezia, a daughter of a branch of that same Giunti family of printers who had been the early rivals of the Aldine Press. His career at Venice does not seem to have been very distinguished, al- though, perhaps more as a tribute to his name than his merits, he was made Sec- retary to the Venetian Senate, and other marks of distinction were conferred upon him. Yet he was not loyal to a city which had honoured himself and his fam- ily, or to an institution which had immor- talized his name. In the hope of greater gains ~nd4a more extended reputation, he accepted the post of Professor of Latin ~Eloquence at Bologna, in the room of the learned Sigonius; and he left Venice (i~8~) never to return, having previously made over the famous press which bore his name to Niccolo Manassi. Aldo ii giovane had a full share of that princely favour which his father and grandfather had enjoyed. His Life of Cosimo de Medici rocured him the fa- vour of Francesco; his descendant, the then reigning duke, who placed him in the chair of belles le/tres at Pisa, through which he became a member of the Flor * A nnnles des Aide, vol. iii. p. 178. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 42 entine Academy. At the same time he was offered a similar position at Rome, vacant by the death of the famous Latin scholar Muretus. This he at first re- fused, but it was kept open in the hope that he would one day accept it, which at last he determined to do. Yielding to the entreaties of Pope Sixtus V., he transferred himself and his vast library the result of the united labours of his father and grandfatherto Rome in the year i~88. He fulfilled the duties of the Professors chair during the lifetime of this Pope, and at his death in 1590, his successor, Clement VIII., gave Aldo, in addition to this post of honour, the more lucrative position of superintendent cf the Vatican Printing Press. This re- sponsible office he only held during five years, dying it is commonly supposed, of a surfeit in 1597. Such was the un- satisfactory end of an unsatisfactory life, which by no means fulfilled the brilliant promise of its early years. Dazzled by the glory of a premature reputation, Aldo neglected the profession which his father and grandfather had raised to so much honour and instead of being, like them, the first printer of his age, filled an in- ferior place among literary men. It would seem also that he possessed more learning than taste in employing his knowledge, and that, while gifted with a retentive memory, he was by no means in other respects a genius. His works are those of a learned man, well acquaint- ed with his subjects, but written in a dry, repulsive style. One of those supposed to be the most interesting is the Life of Castruccio Castracani, the usurper who became Lord of Lucca. The life of this singular individual had already been written by Macchiavelli in Italian, and by Tegrimi in Latin but Aldo, dissatis- fied with both these biographies, made a journey to Lucca for the purpose of con- sulting the public archives and family documents. With their assistance he published at Rome a new life of this ex- traordinary soldier of fortune, entitled, Le Attioni di Castruccio Castracani degli Antelminelli, Signore di Lucca. It is praised by De Thou, and a new edi- tion was published at Pisa as lately as 1820. Aldo il giovane left no surviving chil- dren, and with him the family became ex- tinct ; while the Press which will for- ever bear their name, passed into other hands. He died moreover, without a ~vill, and the splendid library of 8o,ooo volumes, which it had taken three gen erations to collect, was divided among his creditors. Angelo Rocca wrote an epitaph upon the three Manuzii, in which, however, he shows an undue partiality for Aldo il giovane.* The annals of the Aldine Family have been given the place of prominence in this paper, and pursued as closely as its brief limit will allow, because they illus- trate not only the progress and perfect- ing of the typographical art in Italy in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but also the princely favour and patron- age to which that art was in its in- fancy so much indebted. The circum- stances also in which the Manuzii were placed, and the nature of their labours, give their history an interest which does not perhaps belong to that of any other. printer. Nor are similar circumstances likely to occur again. Never again, as in the case of Aldo il vecchio, will it fall to the lot of any printer to exhume and res- cue from destruction the ancient clas- sics nor will it again be the privilege of any prince to lend his countenance and supply the funds requisite for so arduous and so glorious a task. Reddo Diem is the apt motto placed by Manni on the title-page of his life of Aldo Pio Manuzio, and it is not easy to determine whether the Venetian printer deserves most the gratitude of posterity for the light of knowledge which his dis- coveries shed upon the world, or for the preservation of that knowledge by an art which he brought to perfection and which seems to render a future dark era impos- sible. But although these two achieve- ments may fairly give him the claim to be considered the chief printer of Italy, it must be admitted that in point of time others had preceded him. It is common- ly supposed that the first Italian press was set up by two Germans, Sweinheim and Pannartz, in the monastery of Subi- aco~ then inhabited by German monks in the Roman Campagna. They first printed the works of Donatus, followed by those of Lactantius and the De Civitate Dei of St. Augustine. From Subiaco the monastery was trans- ferred to Rome, where it was under the patronage of the Popes, Paul II. and Six- tus V., who conferred the Episcopate of Aleria, in ~2ersica, on the corrector of * Aldus Manutius senior, moritura Latina Gr~caque restituit mortua ferme typis. Paulus restituit calarno monumenta Quiritum Utque alter Cicero scripta diserta dedit. Aldus dum luvenis miratur avumque patremque Films stciueuepos, at avus atque Pater. R~nouard, A an. des A ide, vol. iii. p. zoS. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 43 their press, Giannandrea dei Bussi, a man paratively untried area of Oriental litera- of great learning, but at that time in the ture, and the restoration of the Greek very depths of poverty. Another bishop, and Roman languages was speedily fol- Giannantonio Campano, bishop of Ter- lowed by the study of the Eastern ramo, corrected the proofs of a rival tongues, which, although necessary to printing-house, that of Udalrico Gallo at the better knowledge of the sacred writ- Rome.* ings, had been for a long time neglected. Before the time of Aldo, Venice had The first Hebrew book ever printed is her printing-presses, one set up in I4~9 supposed to have been the Pentateuch, by Giovanni da Spira and Vendelino printed at Bologna in 1482, prior even to his brother, another that of Niccolo Jen- those issued by the famous Hebrew press son, which, as has been already seen, at Soncino, already alluded to, which was was purchased by Andrea dAsola, the established in 1484. In the next century father-in-law of Aldo. the Hebrew language was studied to a In this same year books were also considerable extent for controversial pur- printed in Milan, which may boast of hay- poses, on the one side by the German ing printed the first Greek book, the Protestants, and on the other by the Grammar of Lascaris, of Constantinople, champions of the Roman faith. It was in 1476, by Dionigi da Paravisino. the favourite language of the great Bel- Florence was celebrated for the family larmine, himself a considerable Hebrew of the Giunti, who attained a great repu- scholar. tation in their own city, and also estab- The Syriac and Chaldee, closely related lished branches of their firm at Venice to Hebrew, were studied for the same and Lyons. Luc-Antonio Giunta and theological purposes, also the Arabic, by Filippo his brother were the first printers far the most fertile in books. The first in this family, and like the Manuzii, of Arabic press was set up at Fano by the whom they were often the not very scru- Venetian Giorgio, at the cost of Pope Ju- pulous rivals, they published a great lius II. It was the first press with On- number of editions of the classics. Of ental types established in Europe, and these, the most celebrated was an edition although no book was issued from it dur- of Plutarchs Lives in Greek, first pub- ing the life-time of that Pope, one year lished in that language by Filippo Gi- after his death (in i~i6~ there appeared unta; while Bernardo, his son, published the first attempts at a polyglot Bible in a the celebrated edition of Boccaccios Psalter printed in foar languages, He- Decamerone. ~ The Giunti maintained brew, Greek, Arabic, and Chaldee, of their printing reputation through several which a Dominican, Agostino Giustiniani, generations, and their rivalries with the was the editor.* Aldine firm were finally extinguished by This instance of good-will, which in the marriage of the grand-daughter of the midst of his devouring ambition Luc-Antonio Giunta with the grandson Pope Julius II. manifested to literature of Aldo il vecchio, in 1572. The family and art, would have been more highly did not become extinct till the middle of esteemed, had not his immediate succes- the next century. sor, Leo X., the worthy son of Il Mag- The art of printing spread in Italy with nifico, opened another Augustan age for surprising rapidity, not only in the large literature and learning in Italy. And yet cities among which it was soon the ex- an eminent literary historian observes, ception to find one without a press, but that altl~ugh these times are generally also in the smaller towns, and even vil- distinguished as the age Qf Leo the Tenth, lages. Books were printed in St. Orso, I cannot perceive why the Italians have near Vincenza; Polliano, near Verona ; agreed to restrict to the Court of this Pieve di Sacco, Nonantola, and Scandi- Pontiff that literary glory which was corn- ano, in the duchies of Modena and Reg- mon to all Italy. It is not my intention gio; so that it may be fairly said that if to detract a single particle from the Italy did not invent the art, she did her praises due to Leo X. for the services utmost to propagate it with rapidity. rendered by him to the cause of litera- Moreover, the influence of printing ture. I shall only ~emark that the great- was not confined to the field, however en part of the Itali d~ princes of this pe- vast and fruitful, of classical learning. nod might with equal right pretend to It also penetrated into the wide and corn- the same honour; so that there is no particular reason for conferring on Leo Tiraboschi, Sz~oria, vir 162, z66, i68. t R~nouard, A nnales, iii. ~. * Gingudn4 vol. vii. p. z.~. THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 44 the superiority over all the rest. * Still, the patronage of the Holy See, which was accorded to the earliest beginnings of printing in Italy, was exercised with a continual munificence worthy of especial consideration. The Popes lost no oppor- tunity of protecting and furthering the progress of an art whose manifold im- portance to the Holy See became daily more apparent. Leo X. has been blamed, and not with- out reason, for cultivating the classics to the neglect of sacred literature. Th~ two opposite historians of the Council of Trent (Fra Paolo Sarpi, and Pallavicino) seem to agree upon this point.t A further witness to the devotion of this Pope to classical study and litera- ture, appears in his edition of the first five books of Tacitus, purchased for five hundred scudi from the Abbey of Cor- vey, in Westphalia, and printed and pub- lished at Rome in a new and costly edi- tion at his own private expense, with the monopoly secured for ten years under pain of excommunication. The edition of Plato dedicated to him by Aldo Manu- zio was also secured to the Venetian printer in a similar manner. On the other hand, instances may be urged of the encouragement afforded by him to many learned men who devoted themselves to the study of the sacred writings. On being informed that Pa- gnini, a learned ecclesiastic then in Rome, had undertaken to translate the Bible from the original Hebrew, Leo requested to be allowed the inspection of this work. He also ordered that the whole should be transcribed at his own expense, and gave directions that it should be immedi- ately printed.4 Tesco Ambrogio of Pa- via, who is said to have understood no less than eighteen different languages, was employed by this Pope to translate the liturgy of the Eastern clergy from the Chaldee into Latin, and was also appoint- ed by him to a chair at the University of Bologna, where he delivered instruction in the Syriac and Chaldee languages. Moreover, the great Cardinal Ximenes dedicated his Complutensian Polyglot Bible to Leo, as an acknowledgment of the encouragement which he had afforded to Oriental learning. Leo the Tenth died in 1382. It was during the brief Pontifi- cate of his immediate successors, nine of whom filled the Papal chair in an interval of sixty-three years, that the Manuzii (Paolo and his son Aldo) were summoned to establish a branch of their printing press in Rome. It was the glory of Sixtus V., elected Pope in 1585, to securely establish the Vatican printing-press. T.his press was principally intended for early Chirstian literature, and the dedication to him of the works of Gregory the Great, by Pie- tro da Tossignano, sets forth that infinite praise is due to Sixtus V., both for the idea and the execution of so magnificent a scheme as the publication of the Holy Fathers of the Church, whereby a great and solid advantage is obtained for the Catholic Faith. The splendid editions of the Vulgate and of the Septuagint, and many other works of great value, were the fruit of this last scheme of Sixtus V. After the death of Aldo il giovane, the regulation of this press, which had been placed under his charge by Clement VIII., and upon which forty thousand scudi had been already expended, was confided to Domenico Borso. This expense does not appear so extraordinary when it is re- membered that this press was furnished not only with Greek and Latin, but also with Hebrew and other Oriental charac- ters, with paper of great value, and every other requisite for the perfection of this art. Above all, the most learned men of the age were paid high salaries to super- vise and correct the editions which issued from it. Many of the Cardinals imitated the ex- ample of the Popes. Even before Sixtus V. had conceived or executed his vast scheme, another, almost equally magnifi- cent, had been carried into effect by Car- dinal Ferdinando de Medici. In 1580 he opened a printing-press in Rome, with Oriental types, to be entirely devoted to the ~publication of books in Eastern lan- ~u~es, for the purpose of propagating the Roman faith among the people of the East, and bringing them into the fold of the Roman Church. Gregory XIII. placed under his care the two Patriarch- ates of Alexandria and Antioch, and de- clared him also Protector of Ethiopia, thus committing the salvation of those far-off countries to his charge. The Cardhjal did not neglect his trust, but a ch ~d learned and expert trav- ellers throughout Syria, 19ersia, Ethiopia, ~ Roscoes Leo ~ke Ten~k (from Andres, Dell on- and other Oriental provinces, in search of gine dogni Let/ertetura), manuscripts, which they brought to Rome t See their judgmen~Sarpi, Slonia, ~ ~ to be printed. First there issued front Pallavicino, Conc. di Trento, lib. i. cap. ii. p. ~s. $ Roscocs Ljfe u/Leo A., vol. ii. p. 401. his Oriental press an Arabic and Chaldaic THE PRINCE PRINTERS OF ITALY. 45 Grammar, the works of Avicenna and Euclid, then the four Gospels, first in Hebrew, and afterwards in a Latin ver- sion, of which 3,000 copies were printed. He had also intended to print the Bible in six of the principal Eastern languages, in order that these, joined to the four already printed, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Chaldee, might make altogethei a Bible in ten languages, the grammar and dictionary of each tongue also forming part of the work. But the simultaneous death of Pope Gregory XIII., and of his o~vn brother Francesco de Medici, whom he succeeded as Grand Duke of Tuscany, prevented the accomplishment of this de- sign. His Oriental press, however, con- tinued to work for many years. In fact, most of the books in Oriental types pub- lished at Rome in the beginning of the seventeenth century contain the imprint Ex Typographia Medicea linguarum externarum. These types were after- wards transported to Florence, and are still preserved in the Palazzo Vecchio. Thus it may be said that both the Pon- tiffs and Cardinals of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries made use of their power no less than of their treasure in furthering the interests of science. In- deed, the dedications of the infinite num- ber of books printed in this century, the letters of the learned men of the age, and all the various monuments of Papal mag- nificence which still exist in Rome, bear witness to this fact. The two other princely houses which vied the nearest with Rome in munificence were those of Este and of the Medici. It would be difficult to decide which of these two carried off the palm in the opin- ions of contemporary writers. To Cosi- mo de Medici Florence and all Tuscany, of which he was the Grand Duke, are in- debted for the enthusiasm with which during his reign the arts were cultivated, and the perfection to which they were brought. The favour of this prince was also extended to printing, and at his own cost he sent for Arnaldo Arlenio, a Ger- man printer, established him in Florence, and associated him with Torrentino, whose beautiful editions date from 1548. Torrentinos editions cease with the year 1563, and it is supposed that the wars in which Tuscany was then involved caused him and his associate to seek a more peaceful retreat in Mondovi, where the Duke Emmanuel Philibert is said to have entered into partnership with them. He at any rate assibned them a provision of twenty scudi a month for three years, a fact of which Arlenio re- minds him in a petition for the mainte- nance of his partnership with the heirs of Ii Torrentino, and the payment of the promised provision, which, by some mis- take, they had as yet not received. The Duke acceded to their request in a decree issued at Turin, March 15, 1571.* The Duke of Ferrara did not suffer himself to be eclipsed by the magnificent patronage of the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Alfonso II. dEste also opened a printing- press in Ferrara for the special purpose of printing works hitherto unedited, and manuscripts which he had acquired by diligent search. So many famous printing-houses, es- tablished in every part of Italy, contrib- uted to the general cultivation of litera- ture. The multiplication of good copies of books rendered them accessible, not only to the princes themselves, but also to private individuals ; while, numberless new libraries were formed, and the fa- mous old ones increased. It would have been impossible in these few pages to do more than indicate how powerful was the assistance ac- corded by the princes to the art of printing during the first two centuries after its introduction into Italy. But enough has perhaps been said to prove that her potentates were fully aware of the great advantages to be derived from so wonderful an invention; more espe- cially as it seemed to come as a re~vard for their incessant labours to promote the interests of literature, science, and art. Not only did the stores of classical learn- ing thereby revealed to them repay their efforts, but the Pontiffs found also a re- turn for their liberality in the spiritual weapons with which printing supplied them, out of the armoury of the early Fathers. Such were some of the first effects pro- duc~d iA Italy by an art whose influence was scarcely less great over the other countries of Europe, although productive of different results. Printitig reached its highest perfection shortly after its intro- duction into Italy. In point of rapidity of execution no doubt the quantity of printed matter issued in the present time is in~measurably greater. But, on the other hand, as to~he quality of typogra- phy, there can be no comparison between the ephemeral productions of these days and those marvellous works, of which one alone would suffice to establish the repu- tation both of printer and editor. * Note to Tiraboschi, vii. ai8. 46 DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. The earlyItalian editions are not only sought for and prized on account of their rarity, but also on account of their un- rivalled beauty, the excellent quality of their paper, the brilliancy of their type, the largeness of their margins, and the careful attention bestowed on every typo- graphical detail. Nor then, as now, were some extravagantly-luxurious editions issued side by side with others of start- ling inferiority, with bad paper and worse ink. The great printers of those days the Aldi of Italy, the Elzevirs of Leyden, the Estiennes of Paris printed for the general benefit of all readers. It is true that their publications were often dearer than the common productions of some inferior contemporary printer, but then these great printing-houses issued no bad editions all were good, carefully ex- ecuted, correct, and in good taste. So much for the manual labour which be- longs to the printer; but if we turn to the intellectual share of the work which fell to the lot of the editor, there is still more to excite our admiration in the sagacity and erudition displayed in se- lecting the works most fitted for publica- tion, and in arranging for their issue in the best possible manner. Looking back on those early days of printing, on the reverence with which the new discovery was employed, and thegrand end which it subserved, we experience a feeling of regret that familiarity with its use should have placed in unworthy hands, and di- verted often to unworthy purposes, per- hap~ the greatest discovery man was ever permitted to make. It is a very striking circumstance, says Mr. Hallam, that the high-minded inventors of this great art tried, at the very outset, so bold a flight as the print- ing of an entire Bibie,* and executed it with astonishing success. It was Mi- nerva leaping on earth in her divine strength and radiant armour, ready at the moment of her nativity to subdue and destroy her enemies. . . . We may see in imagination this venerable and splendid volume leading up the crowded myriads of its followers, and imploring, as it were, a blessing on the new art by dedicating its first fruits to the service of Heaven. In Italy, also, as we have seen, printing was never employed except in the service of erudition, or, higher still, in that of Divine revelation. Thus contemplated, the art of printing seems raised above the ordinary level and bustle of common life, and surrounded by the same kind of dignified repose which especially belongs to the great libraries of Italythos~ store-houses of accumu- lated science, the result of years of labour on the part of her learned men, and costly expenditure on the part of her princes. There may have been many political and social evils connected with the divi- sion of Italy into a variety of States, each more or less despotically governed, but it must be owned that the emulation caused by that very fact stimulated a number of individual efforts whereby the treasuries of classical learning were secured to the world, literature and the arts were cher- ished and protected, and the graver sciences promoted in the same manner. The rise and rapid progress of typography in Italy may also be traced to the same source. Italy has long sighed for unity and liberty, and, within the last few years, both these wishes have been ac- complished. Great things are also ex- pected from a form of government which seems to realize the wishes of her great- est sons. No longer Son le terre dItalia tutte piene di tiranni. No longer does Rome Vedova, sola, e dl e notte chiama: Cesare mio, perch~ non maccompagna ? * C~sar, in the person of a native monarch, sits firmly in the no longer empty saddle, and upon a free country now devolves the duty of cherishing the genius which may spring out of her inexhaustible soil; yet must she never forget the debt which she owes to those princes by whose fostering care the great art of printing was uphold- en during its early struggles for existence in Italy. CATHERINE MARY PHILLIMORE. ,~- 4 * Purg. c. vi. From Blackwoods Magazine. DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. PART II. MISS FUL~Q RD fretted herself a good deal about t~ is rumour of Lieutenant Hardinges approaching removal from Wetton. She feared that his departure * Commonly called the Mazarin Bible, the edition at any early date would give the death- being unknown until fou~i about the middle of the last blow to her hopes, which were now never century in Cardinal Mazarins library at Paris. Hal- over-lively. Lydia Tarraway, who re- lam, Lit. of Euroj5e, i. ~53. DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 47 turned home the day after the dinner- to lose you soon, said Miss Fulford to party, did not write very speedily, and so the Lieutenant, as they danced together left Gertrude much tormented by sus- on one of the evenings. It cost a pain- pense. She owned to herself now that ful effort to say this with any appearance she had given her affections to Har- of indifference while her heart was flut- dinge; and the prospect of his going tering and thumping like a flying beetle away, never probably to be seen by her trying to steer himself along a wall. again, was almost more than she could Lose me! echoed Hardinge. I bear. When she did meet Lydia, the i.n- think not. Who says ~o? Its very kind formation which that young lady had to of you to express regret. give was not comforting. Lydias brother Her heart shook and drummed worse Phil had been to stay for a few days at I than ever as this answer caused a renais- Plymouth, and had been commissioned to sance of hope. She could not get on find out from some military acquaintances with her quest but by putting great force whether there was a regulation such as on herself. Oh, I understood that is, her militia friend had mentioned. The I heard some one say that you had only youth, not knowing how anxiously Ger- come for a fixed time, and would have to trude waited for his reply, did not hurry go away soon: of course it isnt cor- to fulfil his errand, and thus it was some rect. days before Lydia told her that the rule There is a fixed time when I must re- about recruiting was certainly as the join my regiment; but it isnt soon. Ive militia officer had stated. Lydia, it is to three or four months more of this work be feared, was not without some little to do. feeling of satisfaction at her friends dis- Only three or four months ? in- appointment. She had herself conde- quired Gertrude, with an emotion which scended to think of fascinating Hardinge, Hardinge did not perceive. and ol course it wouldnt be pleasant to Well, three or four months make a see a man who was insensible to her at- pretty good spell. It will secure me what tractions fall a victim to her neighbours. remains of the winter amusements, give Miss Tarraway, however, by no means me a chance of some trout-fishing, and intended to waste in despair because this get me off the spring drills. By that romance had come to nought ThouTh time, you know, it will be high time for some years off the guilt and ignominy of me to go in; I feel myself getting rusty old-maidenhood, she knew, nevertheless, as it is. Thus answered that insensible that a good many shining hours had been young man. There was only one ray of allowed to slip away unimproved, and she comfort (if comfort it could be called) in was not in the least disposed to daIly what he said. The man seemed perfectly with flowers from which no honey was to heart-whole: there was no sign of a be gathered. With an eye to building rival. her cell, she had been, since her visit to One can suppose how, with this trouble Colkatton, investigating the Church in- upon her, Gertrude chafed inwardly at terest of Mr. Norcotts family, and ex- the Admirals attentions. But, as I have amining herself whether she could be before hinted, it was not her nature to content to settle down as the lad) of a let others see much of what she felt ; so, rector or vicar, and whether a young man spite of the chagrin that was fretting her, who painted in oils could be a help meet she p~y~l her part with some spirit, re- for her. She saw with some little regret plied without weariness to the Admirals that Gertrude was unhappy; but then, remarks, and even found herself able to why could not Gertrude do as other peo- take a few observations of the affairs of pIe had been obliged to dogive up ro- her friends. mantic fancies, and turn her thoughts to I am to have the honour this qua- designs that were practicable ? drille, am I not? said Admiral Taut- The evening parties which Hardinge brace, coming in from the tea-room. had mentioned in his leave-takino at Col- They wanted me to sit ddwn to a rub- katton duly took place. He was fairly ber and there would have been plenty attentive to Gertrude; but Admiral Taut- of time, as you we~ engaged for so many brace, who was likewise a guest, was so dances; but I said to myself If it marked in his devotion, that if quantity~ should detain me only two minutes from could have made up for kind, the love- the side of a certain fair lady that I .know sick lady would have been amply com- after she is disengaged, it would be a pensated. dearly bought amusement; so I saun I am sorry to hear that we are likely tered patiently about the rooms, and now 48 DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. have been refreshing with a cup of tea. Will you come and do likewise ? It is very hard upon us fellows who have passed our youth to have these whirligig dances come into fashion. I could foot a hornpipe ~vhen I was a middy, and steer a craft through a country-dance as well as any pilot going, hands across, you know, down the middle and up again, lots of life in that and now I can man- age to walk through a quadrille; but old timbers would never stand twirling at that pace. Everything getting too fast, by George, I say! dancing on shore like teetotums, and sending hulls through the water with steam: all a mistake, depend on it; we shall have to come back to reasonable, sensible ways. But the waltz is very delightful, I as- sure you, with a partner, who, as you say, knows how to steer a craft. Then I shall say no more on that head, except to regret that when I passed as able to knot, reef, and steer, the art of navigating a maelstrom was not consid- ered a necessary part of education. Our friend Miss Tarraway is not dancing so much as usual to-night. No indeed. As Mr. Norcott does not dance, Lydia and he appear to be en- joying each others company in the sit- ting-down way. Happy curate! she has given up her waltzes to talk to him. Hardinge came to see Gertrude to her carriage; but though she was glad to lean on his arm for only a minute or two, she was too well assured of his indiffer- ence, after the tone in which he had spoken of his departure, to go home with a lightened heart because he came to bid her good-night. Her spirit, which had endured so well while she was under the eyes of others, gave way as soon as she was alone, and the poor girl wept tears of poignant mortification. She felt certain that she must love the young officer for- ever, and could never love any one else and she began to contemplate a heroic martyrdom, and to think about the rose i the bud, and Patience on a monu- ment, and so on. Poor soul! proud science never taught her to stray into the doctrines of womans rights~ but there did arise in her breast a little rebellious feeling against the restrictions to which her sex was subject. For when the idea of a martyrdom and smiling at grief be- gan to look less captivating on further acquaintance, she asked herself who could say that, if the netion of falling in love with her once were suggested to Hardinge, he wouldnt do it ; and yet she might not do anything at all to make him understand how acceptable his affection would be. She had heard and read of shrewd ob- servers who had penetrated secrets like hers, and by a word of well-timed ex- hortation or explanation had made every- thing smooth, and put two people in the way of making each other happy. Was there nobody to act the part of the kind fairy? Anon she would lose all patience with her beloved for being so obtuse and impassible, and then blame herself for blaming him, be overcome with tender- ness, and cry again as if her heart would break. Mr. Benjamin Saunders, as he rode home on the evening before mentioned, did not feel that his visit to Colkatton had been very efficacious indeed he felt subdued and discouraged to a degree with which his sanguine nature was not familiar. By the time he got home he had decided that there were difficulties in his way, unlike what he had ever before en- countered in paying his addresses, and that he was a donkey for ever thinking of a thing so hard of achievement. This was very like giving up the idea alto- gether; and when he began to think of the many quarters in which his atten- tions would be acceptable, he felt already consoled to some extent, and able to put aside his chagrin. He was kind and affable to his mother that evening, told her all about the grate, and what he pro- posed to do with it, and entered into two or three business matters so as quite to delight the poor old lady, who could not help expressing her satisfaction ; which having done at some length, she unfortu- nately reverted to his flippant mention of Miss Fulford the night before, and pro- ceeded to point out the folly of it. It may sound very free and inde- pendent, my son, said she, but I never kn~Wed any good to come of it. Gentry folks may bend theirselves to we, but us mustnt never presume nothing with them. Well they know the difference betwixt us, and never forgets it. Chay- ney is chayney, and crockery is crock- ery. His mortification returned when the young man found himself alone at night. He asked hjmself what could ever have set him on ~uch a quest, and wondered how the deuce a sharp fellow like him, who could be so successful on his own level should have invited such humiliation. And then he remembered that it was his dream that had tempted him; and, his DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 49 mind once turned again to the dream, he to show that the condescension was great couldnt help going over all its scenes, and exceptional. With all their broad which came up now as vividly as when base, the members could not produce a they were first l)resented. Once more he decent field of cricketers ; and in order realized the blissful feelings produced by to insure play they were compelled to in- the vision, and felt his whole nature vite young men of all grades, down to stirred by the touch of the old peer, and mechanics and labourers, to join the the sight of his coronet. After all, could sport, although these were not members. I be so wrong? inquired Benjamin of Now Benjamin, after his year at Ply- himself; that dream meant somethimig mouth, where he learned to play cricket Ill be hanged if it didnt! There was if he did not acquire much book-lore, was no promise that all this jolly catch of fish frequently honoured by an invitation to was to be had without a little trouble and play with the club, which he highly patience, or perhaps without a little dis- prized; and once or twice when Wetton appointment, only that it is to be had; played Muggytown or Slushton, he had and by George! its worth putting up been of the eleven, having some reputa- with something for. His ambition re- tion as a bowler, which reputation was vived, you see, as he reflected on the set against another reputation which he dream, and with it came a sense of shame bore of being a forward and not particu- at being so easily downcast. He had larly agreeable young person. Hitherto probably begun rashly and injudiciously; he had been quite proud of this left- he would now set to work with more handed alliance with the club; but now forethought. A moderate amount of ru- when he began to cast about for a lift up mination showed him that his main diffi- the social ladder, he felt that the full culty arose from his inferior station in rights of membership must form the first life; and he was painfully impressed by rung for him to mount by; accordingly his mothers remark about chayney and he began to think over the possible crockery. But then, although there was means of feaching this dignity. His no denying that crockery is crockery, it fathers friend, and his own early precep- was equally undeniable that crockery tor, the schoolmaster, had a son of about might by clever alchemy be transmuted Benjamins age. This son had been to chayney. In brief, he perceived that wrought into a good mathematician, and the first step towards the attainment of sent to Cambrmdg~, where he came out as his object must be social advancement a senior op. Before taking orders, for himself. This would have been dif- which was his destination, he had come ficult to most men in his position; but, home to spend a little time with his fain- as we have seen, he ~vas bold and prompt. ily; and the club, unsolicited, had shown He did not let a day pass before he put its sense of the credit which he had an iron in the fire, as he called it. brought to Wetton by electing him a mem- Wetton boasted of a club, such as ber. Now this young Coryton (or Carry- clubs in those days were. The Wetton ten as they were commonly called, partly Association played cricket and made ex- from ignorant corruption of the name, cursions (sometimes giving picnics) in and partly from the frequency of carrying the summer; in winter it played cards ten in the old gentlemans instructions) once a-week and supped. Its meetings was a sort of link between Benjamin and were held at the hotel. In order that it the club. They had played in the Wet- might be kept going at all, it had to be ton glttes together, stolen apples in established on a somewhat broad basis. concert, been, under a common sentence, The auctioneer, appraiser, and land-sur- wellnigh flayed (for old Carryten gener- veyor (one and the same person) was a ally left his mark upon offenders, and member, so was the cashier of the bank, didnt spare his own flesh), and were still so was the teacher of music and church great friends. Ben was not aware of organist, so was the young man who having reflected credit on his native place came originally to lecture at the Wetton except by his appearance and general Institution, and then remained to in- style; but in every other respect he struct youthful Wetton in Euclid trio~- might aspire to thejlub as well as Cory- onometry, the use of the Gunters chain, ton. He thought, too, it would only be and geology. But for all that, it claimed reasonable of his friend to propose him, to be a vei-y blue-blooded society indeed ; and so he asked him to do him that fa- and if, like other orders of that kind, it your. Coryton, although he could do any- occasionally admitted a somewhat doubt- thing with figures and quantities short of ful candidate from necessity, it took care squaring the circle, was very much Ben- LiVING AGE. VOL. VI. 264 DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 50 jamins inferior in point of assurance. Well, then, Ben, he is likely to be He would have preferred at most times expanded and raised to the nth power of not to put himself forward in the affairs graciousness to-morrow evening, when of the club ; but, elected as he had been, the tradesmens club are going to pre- and that very recently, he saw a peculiar sent him with a snuff-box; catch him impropriety in attempting to introduce after that, and hell be cleared of frac- another member from his own stratum of tions and surds, and prepared to be dealt society. Thus he was made excessively with by any process that you like. uncomfortable by Benjamins iequest, Im a member of that club, responded and hardly knew how to answer it. Ben, and can go if I like. (He didnt Look here, Ben, he said, after some like, though.) hesitation ; dont fancy, old chap, that Then go by all means. I shant be I wouldnt be delighted to have you a there, because I dont belong to em. member, because I would, and you ought But you, being homologous, should at- to know that I would; but you know I tend and do him honour; when hes ra- doubt if my bringing you forward would diant, extract his opinion, and obtain his be the best means to insure success. goodwill. Your chance of election would be much All right, said Ben; and he went to better if your name were put up by one give notice that he would be at supper. of the older members. But Tom Coryton went to meet his father, Perhaps so; but who, except your- who would be then just on his way home self, is likely to do it for me? Why, from the schoolhouse, to talk to him about dash it, Tom, yourre as good a member this embarrassing matter. Tom was in as any of em, and have just as much high favour after having taken so good a right to propose a candidate. degree, as maybe supposed: the old gen- Let that be granted, answered the tleman~ countenance brightened at the dif- siTht of him; he got a favourable hearing senior op ; still, proposing is a ferent thing from electing. Say that I for his little trouble, and was, moreover, enter your name, I must have a coef- gratified by his parents entire approval ficient, a seconder, you know, and who I of the manner in which he had met Mr. will he be? If they take offence, and Saunderss request. look upon me as an irrational quantity Right, Thomas, right: everywhere presuming on the favour they have shown but here you are Mr. Coryton, the Bach- me, we shall never make the proposal elor of Arts, and high-class mathemati- binomial: that is, my boy, we shall not cian; and here, too, I hope, my son, get the two names necessary for candida- youll some day hold up your head x~ith ture, far less shall we command the se- the best of em. But just now people ries that will secure election. wont forget that your old father is the The impetuous Benjamin could not writing-master, and theyd look down help seeing some reason in this, but he upon you for that if you were the head of did not choose at once to acknowledge it, a coll5ge. Wait a little; youll be acler- and he vented his vexation as if he had gyman before long, and I shall be out of still to complain of Corytons indispo- your way. Then theyll forget about your sition to help him. By George! he origin, and be ready enough to recognize said, flinging away his cigar impatiently, you. it seems a fellow might just as well be Dont talk that way, father, please, without a friend as have one. eri~reated Tom. I dont want to be any- That is as much as to say that to thing grander than you and mother, and have and not to have is the same thing, I dont wish for any worship or any sta- which is absurd. Given your friend, he tion where you cant be a witness, and is a unit, and valuable in his degree ; but where we shant all be on the same level, the problem is to find a multiplier that I just as we are now. shall make you friends of the body of j Youll feel otherwise by-and-by, per- the club, and I dont, at this moment, haps, my son, answered old Carryten, see my way to the solution of it. What who was nevertheless touched by Tom s do you say to consulting my father? honest fee g. But about Ben Saun- Father 11 tell us what we had best do, ders, now; I would lend him a hand for and will help an old scholar if he can. his old fathers sake, if I knew how. Ill Humph, replied Benjamin; of think about it. Pity that Ben isnt pleas. course Ive no objection to consulting anter. He wishes for peoples good opin- the old gent, if r can only get him in a ion, Im sure, but he doesnt go quite the favourable humour. way to get it. Ill think it over, Tom, Ill DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 5 think it over, my son. And Tom knew very well that his fathers interest was gained for his friend. It was a fortunate thing for young Saunders that he was induced to attend the tradesmens meeting. A very unfa- vourable impression would have been given if, on this first meeting of the soci- ety after his fathers death, and on this opportunity of doing honour to his o~ld schoolmaster and his fathers friend, he had absented himself, as he certainly had intended to do; for he thought that now when he was resolved to move on a high- er level, the less he had to do with the old low level the better which, I am afraid, was no proof of his fitness for so- cial promotion. At all events, there he was, and nobody had a right to suppose that he didnt come with all his heart. The members, all in their simple way, evinced sympathy with him, and he was asked to be one of the half-dozen picked members who stood out to receive old Carryten, the guest of the evening. Ben was rather pleased that he had came. He couldnt help being friendly when every- body was so cordial; and I fancy that he made himself very agreeable, pulling out a cigar when they were all taking their pipes, and damning the infernal punch, ~vhich he said was made with British rum and rotten lemons not being consid- ered ill breeding, but rather a proof of familiarity with the beau monde. The presentation of the snuff-box was done by the president, a jolly old hard- ware man, who, in tendering the gift and proposing old Carrytens health ,~didnt try to he a hit fine, but spoke up just as he would on any ordinary night; and, prompted by a full and honest heart, was very effective. We are wishful, said the chairman in the course of his ad- dress, of showing our regard and es- teem for a gentleman, an old friend, who has been amongst us now moren thirty year ay, more n thirty year (for the time shoots away). There isnt but one or two in the room besides me can mind his coming, but every one in the roomll say twas a fortinate thing he did come. To the older ones he has proved an hon- est and kind friend, and the younger have learned to respect him as an in- structor so well as to love him as a friend, for there isnt one under thirty but have passed under his hand. (Great applause and drumming on the table at this last remark, Mr. Saunders contributing liber- ally to the noise.) Thewse that cried loudest wasnt, I believe, always they that got beat the hardest, though, perhaps, they wanted it the most. (Mr. Saunders silenced. Cheers from quarters that had been quiet before.) Well, as I was say- ing, young and old have good reason to respect and valley him, independent of what we as a body feel. But it is as the clerk of this club that we are now regard- ing of him a club that has been pros- pering for more than twenty year, and a club that, I may safely say, never would have prospered, nor never would have lasted to this day at all, if it hadnt been for the good management, and good sense, and good feeling of our friend what I am speaking of. Mr. Carryten, sir, in the name of the club, which feels greatly beholden to you, I request you to accept of this box, a trifle in itself, but a weighty matter if you take account of all the hearty good-will that we give long with it. May you live many, many years, sir, to make use of this small present, and may every new year find you in- creased in prosperity and in public esti- mation. The speaker then made a graceful allusion to the honours acquired by Mr. Tom Coryton, and drank to the health and prosperity of Mr. Coryton and family. Old Carrytens hand trembled a good deal as he received the box, and he spent some time looking over it and admiring it, and then expressing his admiration of some of its workmanship, and of the gra- cious inscription, to those who sat next him, while the whole company hemmed and blew their noses and fidgeted until he should get on his legs, which he was in no particular hurry to do. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew. That was true enough; but then he wasnt always severe and stern, and he wasnt always stern when he was severe. I have kt~wn him sometimes, when tak- ing the rind off a young gentlemans loins (for, bless you, we were not squeamish about a little excoriation in those days), convulse his pupils the subject of his discipline excepted with irresistible jokes. And, when he was clear of the school altogether, it was astonishing what good company he could be, what fun there was in h~, what capital stories he could tell. a a fair tenor voice, too, though it had begun to crack by this time, and was commonly asked for a song or two on festive occasions. He was cer- tainly not liable in a gener~ 1 way to be overcome by his feelings; but somehow, DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 52 on this occasion he not only postponed as long as he could the acknow~eclgment of the flattering gift, hut when he did get up, he took refuge at first in a little fun. ~ said he, I have been in the habit of giving boxes for many ears, but never till this year has a box like this been given to me. This brightened the whole company again in a moment,; there was scarcely a pair of ears among them that didnt tingle at the ]eu des~rit. The laughter was loud, and the applause very hearty. The merriment had a composing effect on the speaker, who, being quite in his element, spoke of his early acquaint- ance with Wetton, and told one or two of his very best stories, with voice imita- tions, about some of the local characters. Though this was very effective, and de- lighted his audience, he knew very well that he was only postponing the dreaded response to the genial old hardware- mans gracious personalities. It had to be made, however, and as soon as he got on that subject, it was evident that he would, even in the presence of his old scholars, betray a weakness most deroga- tory to the character which he had hith- erto maintained among them. He made two or three acknowledgments, very feebly, and in a somewhat broken voice; took a pinch of snuff and a sip of punch; went at it again; got out one or two sen- tences with great gulps in them; and at last old Carryten broke down utterly and ignominiously, subsided into his seat and covered his eyes with his hands, while the table rang with plaudits, Kentish fire,. the jingling of glasses, and finally a very boisterous performance of the chorus, For he is a jolly good fellow. Poor old Carryten perhaps if more kindness had come his way before, more expression of feeling might have come out of him But how could that have been, I should like to know? To all of my generation, and to all our mothers, who saw our welts and bruises, he was the very impersona- tion of cane and rod. He has cut the buttons from my jacket aforetime, and~ sent me to my seat with my shirt stick- ing to my back. All admitted that he would drive knowledge into any mind whatever capable of receiving it, and 1 suspect that Magas compositors have been indebted to him for the legible MSS. of more than one contributor; but it has taken a long life to raise in my mind a suspicion even that any feeling softer than fear and obedience would have been acceptable from his scholars. And yet, when I come now to think of that night at the tradesmens club, and the old fel- lows emotion it strikes me that he may have had a sense of a hard and laborious life devoted to duty according to his lights, with mighty small material reward, and with only the consciousness that he was useful in his generation to support him ; also, that deep down in his breast under the stony and scarifying strata, lay a yearning for an encouraging word or two,, for some small appreciation of the devotion which kept him like a mill-horse forever at his grinding labour. Well, everybody was affected, and, for- tunately for Mr. Saunders, it was his al-, lotted duty to break the awkward silence by rising to propose the health of Mrs. Coryton. The subduing influence of the recent scene kept him within bounds, and he made his little speech very nicely, and was rewarded by a glance out of old Corytons eyes such as he had never before seen proceeding from those or- gans. They finished the evening very merrily: the schoolmaster wrung every- bodys hand at parting; and when Saun- ders offered his company on the walk home it was graciously accepted. In that auspicious quarter of an hour the young man opened his mind. I dont think, said the old gentle- man, that it would be well for either you or Tom, Benjamin, that he should be your proposer, and he gave reasons for this opinion similar to those which Tom had given. But, added he, per- haps if Tom cant manage it, I can. I assure you we both desire to serve you, he an old friend, I an old scholar; and, provided you obtain your wish, I dont suppose you mind exactly by what agency the thing is worked. Leave it to me. And now, good night: I hope the evening has been as pleasant to you as it has been to me. Ben knew that old Carryten wouldn~t ~all~ in that way unless he saw his way pretty clearly to attainment; but how he was to pass a not quite eli~ible friend into a society of which he wasnt himself a member wasnt quite apparent. He went to sleep, however, veiy tranquilly upon the assurance which he had re- ceived, but before doing so, had very much fortified his resolution to realize the dream We will n~ follow old Carryten through his negotiations on Benjamins behalf. There might be some amusement in doing so, but it would carry us too far from the trunk-line of our story. His mode of operating was this. There were DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 53 in Wetton, as there are in most places, Benjamin Saunders had his foot on the certain gentlemen who managed to parti- ladder. cipate in the amusements and indulgences This step achieved, our hero of the that were tobe had there, without being dream followed it up by dissociating him- as remarkable for prompt payment as self more and more from the business, for prompt fruition. Such as these, one except the office part thereof, and by being may be sure, were in the club, and were seen now and then out with the harriers its most regular attendants; and they on a good-looking horse. Through his were also in the books of a good many exhibitions of himself on the outside of. tradesmen, whom to reconcile to the sys- this same horse arose a little adventure, tem of small profits and slow returns was which he looked upon as arranged by the a feat which they all achieved with more good genius who had sent him the dream, or less brilliancy, though sometimes at but which did not seem so fortunate to the the imminent risk of being taken by the other actors in it as it did to him. He insolent foe. Now, the schoolmaster, was out on the road one afternoon, when from his long intimacy with Saunderss he met a drayman who was conveying two affairs, knew pretty well who they were huge logs of timber to his building-yard. that stood indebted to the estate. He The logs were lashed on to a rest formed knew also that some of the debtors were by timbers, which were supported by the of the free-and-easy class which I have axles of two pairs of immense wheels, just mentioned. He contrived to let such as the reader has often seen used a few of them know that the books of in a similar way. Benjamin stopped the the estate were likely soon to be put in drayman, to whom he had something to the hands of a man of business, with a say; but his steed fidgeted so at the view of clearing off all old scores and neighbourhood of the tall wheels that it starting afresh under the new owners. was a difficult matter to converse, and a He likewise hinted at Mr. Benjamin good deal of time was lost through the Saunderss ambition to be elected a mem- animal edging away, and then being her of the worshipful society known as forced up again. While this little scene the Wetton Club; whereat these exclu- was going on, a lady on horseback hove sive aristocrats laughed scornfully, asked in sight, as the Admiral would have said, if he didnt wish he might get it (which and came on at a canter towards the dray. was then considered a smart form of When she was near enough to be distin- speech), and remarked, that though the guished, the youth saw that it was Miss club had got deuced low, yet, byJupiter! Fulford; upon which recognition he it hadnt quite come down to that yet. coloured very much, ceased to attend to The better part of their nature, however, the man, and patting and soothing his prevailed, when they perceived that to horse, tried to make it stand quiet while do Saunders a kindness might secure for the young lady passed. But the rapid the doer of it exemption from the pres- approach of another horse is not calcu- sure that was to be apprehended; and lated to make a horse already restive re- two or three of these genial fellows, after main motionless. He plunged and sidled putting aside the crabbed air with which more and more, but did not prevent him they first pretended to meet the propo- from showing the efforts he was making sal, entered heartily into the design, and to subdue these capers, nor from raising even vied with each other in showing his hat as the young lady passed. their zeal for it. These were really the Whether Miss Fulford knew him or not ruling members of the club, who were was not clear; but she had reined in her there continually, fussing and complain- horse to a walk as she came up to the ing and managing. They knew how to unsightly vehicle, and, keeping to the beat about and get promises not to op- side opposite to Benjamin and his gyra- pose; also how to bring on the election tions, slightly inclined her head in ac- at a favourable time. In short, they car-! knowledgment of his salute; then ned in their man; and though a good thanks to the steadiness of the beast many independent members raged and which carried her, which did little more stormed afterwards, yet, as the rules had than prick his ear~ she got clear of the in a fashion been complied ~vith, they obstruction, and st tched into a canter were given to understand that it was their again. So far well; but her groom, who own fault that they didnt attend and had not slackened his pace, and who at- black-ball. It ended in growling only, tempted to dash past, was not destined and the growling died ~away, and Mr. to be so successful. The grooms horse DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 54 shied wildly at the wheels, and, upon a sight of the house showed this to he being pressed, made a sharp wheel with impossible. There were fellows drinking his fore legs in the air, which brought the all over the place, and a decent sitting- rider off upon the top rail of a gate, room was not to be had. Saunders said across which he fell heavily, while the that he would have been quite ready to animal galloped off. By the time Saun- stay, but then Miss Fulford would have ders and the carter got up to him, he had had to ride home alone; and, through the fallen to the ground. The man could delay caused by the accident, it was get- speak to them in gasps, but he w~s evi- ting late, and would be dusk before she dently severely shaken, and in great pain, could reach Colkatton. There was noth- Several of his ribs, he said, were broken. ing for it but that Benjamin should at- Now, it was a question what was to be tend her. If he would have taken the done; for, after they had supported him grooms place, and followed her at a dis- into a sitting posture against the gate, tance, the arrangement might have been and picked up his hat and replaced it very well; but there was no chance of upon his head, he said he could not sit that. Benjamin thought that he would upon Saunderss horse if he were lifted be able to lift her on to her horse ; but thereon. Then the drayman said he she, too quick for him, xvent to the stock knew of no better plan than to make a and swung herself into the saddle in a bed of some hay which he carried with moment, earning a commendation from him for his horses, spread it on the logs, the ostler, who said, as he drew his hand and let the poor fellow be stretched upon across his upper lip after letting go her it till they could reach a wayside inn reins, Yew be a lightsome on e,Miss; about half a mile on. While ihey were darned if yew bant. Yew oft to be in by very slow motions raisins him to this Powells trewp, yew did. ive a seed rude bed (for he was in great agony, and heavier maidens that they thought woth could hardly bear to ke touched), Miss puttin into pantalewus. But it is a Fulford, xvho had missed her attendant question whether this panegyric was not and turned to see what had become of due entirely to the fear she was in of Ben- him, rode up. jamin touching even the sole of her boot. Hell go home safe enough, Miss ; he She had an instinctive perception that he wont come to no hurt, feebly moaned was a person to be kept at a considerable the poor man, in reply to her alarmed distance. Ben, however, by this time Good heavens, Corder! what is this? quite understood the necessity of greatly Dear me, never mind the horse ; are restraining himself, and intended this you much hurt? time to make an impression by extreme Feared I be, Miss. deference, curbing his vivacious fancy. Then Mr. Saunders explained the man- And when he got a chance of saying any- ner of the accident, and what they pro- thing at all, he said nothing that any one posed to do, to which, as no alternative could object to ; but his chances were presented itself, she was fain to assent. exceedingly limited, for Miss Fulford He also said that he would ride forward kept at something more than a canter to the little inn, send a more comfortable whenever the ground permitted it; and conveyance if he could get one, and order in a very short time they were in the a bed to be prepared for the sufferer. outskirts - of Wetton, and at the door Permitting him to do so, Miss Fulford of Mr. Pound the Apothecary and Sur- said she would remain with the dray. A ~ed~. That practitioner himself im- little way on; Saunders met a farmer re- mediately appeared at the door of turning in his tax-cart from town, and his pharmacy, and received directions, made him promise to turn back and bring first, to go himself to see her servant up the. injured groom when he should immediately; second, to send for a car- meet the dray. He then pricked on to riage for herself; third, to let one of his the inn, called out the landlady, and told men lead her horse to Colkatton ; fourth, her to prepare a bed. It was some time to afford Miss Fulford the shelter of his before the tax-cart came up, for Corder house till the carriage should be ready. could not bear to be driven at more than On the app ~rance of Pounds man she a slow walk. They lifted the patient lighted off h horse, thanked Mr. Saun- carefully out, and promised to have him ders very impressively for the great as tenderly undressed and put to bed till trouble he had been at on her account, a doctor should arrive. Miss Fulfords said she. would not detain him another intention had been to remain at the inn minute, and disappeared into the house. till a carriage could be sent for her; but Thus, you see, she shook off her cavalier COLONEL CHESNEY S ESSAYS. almost as soon as they were among the houses: Pound, the most prudent of pestle-drivers, would be sure to make no remark concerning her being so escorted: and so the whole annoying adventure would be at an end, with no gossiping body cognizant of it. But Gertrude reck- oned without her host. Owing to the pace at which she had travelled, there was still plenty of light in the sky when she reached Wetton, and there was a pair of eyes in the window of the house opposite to Pounds, ~vhich in a moment perceived all the circumstances of the arrival. Old Mrs. Yeo, the owner of the house, was infirm and purblind: she could seldom go to church, and she could not see to read; so she received a visit once or twice a-week from the vicar or his curate, who read to her and oave her ghostly advice and comfort. Thus Mr. Norcott was with her at this time, but the eyes I spoke of didnt belong to him then. Moreover, Mrs. Yeo was aunt I believe I ought to say grand-aunt to Miss Lydia Tarraway, and that young lady it was, who, having accidentally called in to see how her dear old aunty did, was the owner of the eyes in ques- tion. It was with the greatest difficulty that she suppressed an exclamation which would have been highly inopportune while the reading was going on. What can Gertrude Fulford be about? said Lydia to herself. She perceived the manner of Saunderss dismissal, and guessed that the occurrence must have heen accidental; at the same time she considered it only her duty to regard it as stranoe. Her feeling towards Ger- trude ~vas friendly rather than otherwise. She had quite retired from the Hardinge contest, since it was ascertained that the Lieutenants days in Wetton were num- bered, and that Norcott had an uncle, a hishop, and a cousin, in the House of Commons; for there would be many ri- vals in this quest also, and fine exercise for Lydias talents. She did not imagine that there was the smallest chance of Gertrudes obtaining Hardinges regard; but then why was Gertrude so. silly and so vain as to fancy that she could capti- vate a man who was probably pre- engaged, aiid at any rate not going to lose his heart in Wetton ? It must have been impatience at her friends manifest folly, or else I know not what it was, that made Lydia feel quite a complacent glow when she saw the riders together at Pounds gate, and mace her resolve with the severity of a censor that the matter might be the means of conveyitig a lesson against overweening pretensions. When Mr. Norcott escorted her home in the dusk of the evening, she told him what she had seen. From The Spectator. COLONEL CHESNEYS ESSAYS.* AMONG modern essayists, Colonel Charles Chesney is entitled to a high rank, because he not only possesses a power of clear statement, but what many of the so-called brilliant writers lack, he is remarkable for accurate knowledge and sound judgment. Sometimes, indeed, he strains a point a little too far, in his anxiety to reach that judicial impartial- ity which, if it tempers the ardours of composition, is an error on the right side. Order, lucidity, vigour, are the salient qualities of his style, as a thirst for truth, habits of exact investigation, and a trained, dispassionate faculty, which en- ables him to form sound conclusions, are the qualities of his well-balanced mind. The essays collected and published in this volume are not only of a nature to interest the military, but the general reader. Whether he carries us into the camps, or along the track of the Grand Army on Muscovite soil, guided by the accomplished De Fezensac, or throws a light on Suchets Spanish compaigns, while sketching the career of Henry von Brandt; whether he draws a picture of Cornwallis, or renders the exploits of Chinese Gordon intelligible not his easiest task or whether he finds a theme in recent American warfare, Col- onel Chesney is always entertaining and instructive. But we call especial atten- tion to the four essays which relate to the American war, not only because they are ~vell4done, but for the reason stated in the authors preface, namely, that the military excellence displayed during the mighty struggle has been unduly de- preciated by comparison with the late events on the Continent; and, indeed, we may add, unduly depreciated from the very first, notably by soldiers who should haveknown better than to surrender at discretion their judgment to their politi- cal prejudices. ~ lonel Chesney was al * Essays in Military Biogra~~ky. By Charles corn- wallis Chesney, Colonel in the Army, and Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Engineers. Reprinted chiefly from the Ediabargk Review. London: Longman~ and Co. 55 COLONEL CHESNEY S ESSAYS. ways an exception, and in his preface he has the courage to repeat some striking truths which the vulgar, no matter what their rank, and the ignorant, no matter whether professional or not, have gen- erally disregarded. Thus, measured by: actual fighting, the most seasoned sol- diers of Europe are but as conscripts compared with the survivors of tha~t con- flict; while the conditions of war on a grand scale, says our author, were il- lustrated to the full as much in the con- test in America, as in those more recent- ly waged on the Continent. He justly points out that in the art of feeding and supplying an army in the field, the Amer- icans displayed quite as much ability as any Continental power; that as regards courage, the actual fighting was far more stubborn ; and that if the organ- ization and discipline were inferior, coin- pared with European models, yet consid- ering that the armies on both sides were improvised, under the very stress of col- lision, they were certainly the best troops built up from nothing which have been seen in modern days. Colonel Chesney rightly says the actions were inconclusive, chiefly because the beaten side would not break up, but retired in good order, keeping a bold front to the victor. In order to pursue there must be some one to run away, and to the credit of Amer- icans, the ordinary conditions of. Euro- pean warfare in this respect were usually absent from the great battles fought across the Atlantic. It may be added that the nature of the country favoured the exhibition of what Colonel Chesney calls an inherited quality, enabled infantry to resist horsemen, and check a whole army until fresh arrangements could be made by the conquerors. There was, doubtless, a deficiency of cavalry, but even Seidlitz himself, had he been there with his squadrons, would have been puzzled how to use them in an American forest. The battles were relatively in- conclusive, because the troops on both sides were good, and the country abounded in natural obstacles, and be- cause rapid movements were impossible in the face even of slight resistance. Yet the greater actions were quite as decisive as all but the e~ceptional fights in Europe. Fort Donelson and the much-criticised Pittsburg Landing really cleared an im- mense tract of country. Grant took Vicksburg when he defeated Pemberton on the Big Black; he saved Tennessee when he won Missi~nary Ridge. Meade, in one of the best fought battles of the whole war, Gettysburg, decisively freed the North from invasion, and forced the Confederates thenceforth to stand on the defensive. Against the troops they pos- sessed and the country on which they fought, Napoleon himself could not have won anything like an Austerlitz, still less a Waterloo. The strange disposition to carp at American Generals must be mainly the fruit of a very imperfect study of their campaigns and the conditions under which they were fought. It is all the more remarkable, because America pos- sessed what England did not, a first-rate military school. Whence could you hope to get good Captains, if not from West Point? We also had excellent establish- ments in our Artillery and Engineers, but the untrained and uneducated Infan- try and Cavalry monopolized all the com- mands, and laughed to scorn scientific soldiership. And iut of the genuine Military Academy on the Hudson caine really educafed soldiers, although so many of them, absorbed in commercial and industrial pursuits, or engaged in obscure duties, lived comparatively unknown. When the war broke out they came to the front as natural leaders, and with one ex- ception, they alone did anything great or decisive. It was West Point, divided against itself, which fought the cam- paigns, and we say they are worthy of being compared with any ~campaigns of modern times. Men of transcendent genius, since the very dawn of recorded history, have been so few that they may be counted on the fingers. But among those who stand in the second rank, Lee, Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan must find a place ; and of these four, beyond ques- tion, the man who approached most near- ly to the highest genius, the man who showed the profoundest insight into strategy, was General Sherman. There were many bright strokes in that pro- longed war, but the brightest, the most Napoleonic, the greatest, as well as the truest conceptions, were the march through Geor~ia, and subsequently from the Savannah to Cape Fear River. And they were purely Shermans own inspi- rations, or rather, to speak correctly, in- vehtions, and he obtained permission to execute both ~ly after considerable hesi- tation at head-quarters. If Marlborough deserves credit for marching through a peaceful country to the Danube; if Na- poleon is exalted because, crossing t~me Alps, he suddenly placed an army on the Ticino and Po, then also is Sherman en- COLONEL CHESNEY S ESSAYS. 57 titled to renown for having the brain to conceive and the boldness to execute a great march through a hostile country, which deaLt the deadliest blow struck at the Confederacy. It must, as a stroke of supreme generalship, take rank among the finest recorded in military history. In saying this, we do not intend to underrate the military qualities of Grar~t, and still less of Lee. There are now, as there were in the early years of the war, many who refuse to credit Grant with in- tellectual ability or military genius. Cer- tainly Colonel Chesney is not of the num- ber. Although, as we think, he is too severe on the General when treating of the Virginian campaign, he speaks in no equivocal terms respecting the enterprise against Vicksburg. The time came, he says, when, pursuing one great object steadfastly, he was to win it at last, by a display of resource such as the most bril- liant or scientific of modern Generals could not surpass. Sherr~an was a competent judge, and in his famous letter to Grant, in March, 1864, he frankly writes, My only points of doubt were in your knowledge of grand strategy and of books of science and history, but I con- fess your common-sense seems to have supplied all these. Of the men of books of science and history, some, at least, still entertain doubts which the great soldier who saw his comrade at work flung away forever, certainly after Vicks- burg. What is genius, at least of the highly practical sort, but the soundest common-sense, set in motion and re- duced to fact by that infinite capacity for taking pains of late so much talked about? No mistakes made by Grant in the overland advance upon Richmond can blot out or seriously diminish his credit among competent men. It would almost seem that some critics are angry with him for perceiving that the sound- est strategy was to operate directly against Lees army, wherever it could be found, the strategy he announced to Sherman on April 4, 1864, conveying plans which gave the latter General in- finite satisfaction, and made him ex- claim, That we are all now to act on a common plan, converging on a common centre, looks like enlightened war. No doubt the method of carrying it out is open to sharp criticism, and that the man~uvres ~f Sherman compare fa- vourably with the bloody fighting which preceded the manc~uvring of Grant. Yet here we should do well~to remember the words of Colonel Chesney, when speak- ing of the charge of wasting his army by pressing it on against unfair odds of position. He says, A little more of success in the results, and we should have heard nothing but praise. After all, he gained his point, which was to break up Lees army, if possible ; if not, to force it hack into Richmond, and hold on until the Confederacy was vanquished. He did this, partly by fighting bloody battles, and partly by outfianking his ad- versary. Lee met with his match, en- countered a foe who could stand up to him, frustrate his tactics, and march round him; but naturally the force act- ing on the defensive, a line which the Confederate was soon obliged to ad opt, lost the fewer men, yet could ill afford to lose those. We never could understand the statement that Grant changed his line of operations, since, outfianking his opponent, he still went direct upon Rich- mond. He shifted his immediate base several times, but how and when did he shift his line of operations? As to the allegation that he might have moved, in the first instance, from the Rapidan to the James by water, and not by land, we have always thought the criticism did not sufficiently appreciate the political and physical conditions of the campaign. It certainly was, as we well remember, origi- nally advanced in this country solely by political opponents of the North, desirous of detracting from the reputation of a General who had driven Lee into Rich- mond, and who held him. there. But we have not the space required to state even the pros and cons upon a question pos- sessing, how ever, almost wholly a specu- lative interest. We are bound to say that Colonel Chesney throws upon Presi- dent Lincoln all blame for the adoption of the impracticable plan, which, how- ever, ended in the capture of Richmond. When G~ne ral Badeau finds leisure to compt~te that Military History of Gen- eral Grant which he began so many years ago, we shall have sounder materials for a judgment than any we now possess. The subject is so vast, that we can only touch slightly on a few salient points, and refer the reader to Colonel Chesney~ suggestive essays, if he has neither time nor inclination for a deeper study of military operation~~uite as instructive as any which have occurred since Napo- leons career as a soldier came to its abrupt close. We can only regret that our able military essayist has not given us his estimate of Sherman, whose vol- ume of despatches furnishes a tempting THE CASPIAN SEA. 58 theme exactly suited to Colonel Chesneys first form the greater part of the western gifts. But we are glad to see his weighty I basin the rocky plains extend eastwards protest against the vulgar error that in thedirection of Tartary; and the sa- American Generals are inferior to their line occupy a considerable space between European brothers in arms. That the the Volga and the Ural. As a general troops raised from nothing were long in- rule, they all merit the title of desert; ferior in organization and discipline is and when the locusts arrive3 which is true; but we doubt whether at the end very frequently, there 4oes not remain a of the war many, if any, European armies single blade of grass, and the reeds grow- have surpassed in these respects, the ing near the marshes are eaten to the soldiers whom Grant and Sherman led very level of the water. It may be imag- back to Washington in May, 1865. med how miserable is the scene in the depth of winter, when the great plain is ______________ concealed under a veil of snow, which the icy wind raises in whirlwinds; but even in the joyous season of summer there is From Chambers Journal, nothing pleasing in the broad extent of THE CASPIAN SEA. white and red sand, with a patch here and THE late successful march of a Rus- there of spurge or mugwort shewing their sian army from Khiva has directed atten- dark leaves. Sometimes the traveller tion to the extensive wildernesses which crosses with difficulty a deep ravine ~vorn border the shores of the Caspian Sea. by the torrents of rain, then skirts a That great inland sea of salt water with marsh, with its waters glancing through a no outlet to the ocean, but the reservoir forest of reeds. In the distance, a clump of the Volga and other rivers, is one of of willows narks a saline spring: the the geographical wonders of the world. breeze blowing over the burning steppe By geologists it is considered to be the raises a cloud of dust. The remains of chief remnant of a vast sheet of water dried-up plants rush along by thousands, which once stretched across Europe from curiously rolled into balls by the wind, the Euxine to the northern Polar Ocean. seeming to pursue each other, and leaping The changes to produce this result ~vere up many yards in height, as if they were caused by no great convulsion, but took living beings. At the end of each stage place slowly and imperceptibly. In the the carriage stops before a miserable present day, armies toil over solitudes cabin, half-buried in the sand, where a dreary and saline, once the bottom of a human figure appears ; but rarely are the sea more vast than the Mediterranean. tents of the Kalmucks or Kirghiz tribes Humboldt has described under the seen, and hundreds of leagues may be name of the concavity of the Caspian traversed without a trace of man. basin, that enormous extent of land, as The largest of these steppes exceeds large as France, which the Caspian would five hundred miles. The coasts of the even now cover, if its level were equal to Caspian to the north are flat, and the that of the Black Sea; but it is, in fact, banks of sand render navigation almost eighty-five feet lower. The low plains impossible, where the mighty streams of around Astrakhan have nothing pictur- the Volga, the Terek, the Ural, and the esque about them ; they cannot be com- Emba, ceaselessly labour to fill up the pared to the southern shore of Mazande- a itself. To the south, the Caspian ran, where the shadowy palm-tree waves diviPes itself into two basins; a peninsula its branches, and the green hills and blue almost meeting the opposite coast. Ac- distances of Demavend present such cording to local tradition, it was possible beautiful landscapes : nor to the Caucasus to walk across from Baku to Tartary mountains, raising above the waters their thus the depth of the water varies much, plains of verdure, where the defile of in some places not exceeding eight or Derbend, guarded by its city, built like nine feet; and its greatest depth is a few an amphitheatre, or a pyramid of gigan- hundred feet. At recurring periods of tic blocks of stone, charms the eye ; but seven years, it increases about three feet, it is in the northern plains, ~vith their and then dim~~ishes for the next seven. desolation and uniformity, that the work The saltness of the water also is very un- of the ocean may be clearly read by the equal : where the rivers pour in the fresh geolo,,ist. stream it is possible to drink it ; in other The Russians divide these steppes ac- places it is charged with salt, a fact which cording to the nature of the soil, into the has given rise to much discussion. sandy, the rocky, and the saline: the From the salt part of the sea, narrow THE CASPIAN SEA. 59 canals run into the land, which, being in naphtha are most abundant; about four- time evaporated by the heat of the desert,, teen miles from Baku are the hot springs, become real m~agazines of salt. Some of which were called the eternal fires, and the more ancient bays present a number were for centuries worshipped in the tem- of basins with every degree of saline con- pie of the Persian sect of Guebres ; but the centration. One is still receiving water city is now deserted. A stray spark xviii from the sea, and has only deposited on at most places set fire to the gas which its banks a very thin layer of salt; in a issues from the ground, and during stormy second, the ground is concealed by a nights a in antle of light hangs its phos- thick crust of rose crystals, like a marble phorescent folds on the sides of the moun- pavement; a third is one compact mass tains. The labourer dare not dig too of salt, where a little pool of water shines i large a hole, or the naphtha would flow in here and there; and another has lost all such quantities that it cannot be stopped. the water by evaporation, and the strata Even in the midst of the sea, it boils on of salt is already partially covered by the surface of the waves, and spreads a sand. rainbow-like film; a burningtorch thrown In all this, it will be perceived there is on the water creates an immense confia- a resemblance between the Caspian and gration. What riches are buried beneath the Dead Sea. The ~vaters of both es- these shores Every year, more than cape only by evaporation, and each is dis- fifteen hundred tons of liquid naphtha are tin guished by its intense saline proper- pumped up, but the torrents of gas freely ties, as xvell as by salt on its margin, escape into the air, some charcoal-burners Of the thousand bays and lagoons stor- alone making use of it. ing the salt of the Caspian, none is more In some parts of the coast, the indenta- remarkable than that of Karaboghaz, an tions have a most remarkable form, re- inland sea which probably once united sembling in a striking manner the fords the Sea of Hyrcania with the Sea of Aral. of Norway; the islands and peninsulas It covers an immense space of ground, extend a long way into the sea, forming xvhilst the canal connecting it with the chains interrupted by the water, which Caspian is never deeper than seven yards, has worked its way through the rock. and the current runs at a speed of three The thousands of canals which separate knots an hour. All the navigators of the them are an unexplored labyrinth even to Sea, and the wandering Turkomans, are the fishermen, and the most exact map struck xvith the steady unrestrained flow can give little idea of this mingled scene of this salt water rolling through black of islands, channels, and bays. They do reefs, and fancy an abyss must swallow not possess the wild grandeur of Nor- up the water, and lead it by subterranean way; the height is not great, and there paths to the Persian Gulf. But science are ugly banks of sand; neither are the can explain it very satisfactorily. In this shores bordered by precipitous rocks, basin, exposed to high winds and intense down which flow mighty cascades; and heat, evaporation goes on very rapidly; the horizon is closed by the level plain the immense marsh over which it flows of the steppes instead of the glaciers of keeps the salt, and concentrates it, only the Scandinavian Alps still they are restoring to the atmosphere the water not inferior in geological interest. The brought by the Caspian current. Already Russians have steamers on the Caspian no animal can live in it ; the seals which sailing regularly between Astrakhan and used to visit its shores come no longer; Petr~lal~, on which a great variety of the shores are deprived of vegetation, character may be seen, half Asiatic, half Layers of salt cover the bottom, and the European. sounding line comes up coated with salt Had Russia known how to profit by the crystals. It is believed that the Kara- i immense commercial advantages of the boghaz daily receives three hundred and Caspian Sea, the regions around it would fifty thousand tons of salt more than is not be in their present depopulated con- consumed in the Russian empire in six dition. In the whole world there is months. After violent tempests, its ex- probably not a sea more admirably placed tent is soon diminished, its banks are for the commer o~ of the world than the transformed into immense fields of salt, Russian Mediterm~ nean. Situated in the and its appearance is that of a marsh only. centre of a continent, it bathes the shores Not more singular are the volcanic of Europe and Asia, extends its bays on forces at work under the soil at Baku, the plains of the north, whilst in the and even recently, an i4land has suddenly south it reflects the vegetation of the risen near the shore. The springs of tropics, and unites two worlds, which the 6o THE CASPIAN SEA. Caucasus tries in vain to separate by its giant walls of rock and ice. It seems destined to become the great commercial road of Europe when a railway is made through Southern Russia to Rostow, Stravapol, Derbent, Baku, and by the southern shore into Afghanistan, Cabool, Lahore, to Calcutta; but many years must elapse before there can be so great a change in the wild hordes who dwell around it as to make this practicable. Astrakhan is usually spoken of as a towa on the northern shore of the Caspi- an, at the mouth of the Volga. It is in reality situated on an island formed by a branch of that river. It cannot be said to be in a thriving condition. We learn that the cost of living in Astrakhan is so little that twenty pounds a year affords sufficient for the maintenance of a poor family. The people are contented with black bread and fruits ; a large water- melon can be bought for a penny; and cucumbers, either fresh or pickled in salt, are eaten with bread. Salt fish dried in the sun forms the food for the winter season ; it is first steeped in water, and then boiled, or if caviare is eaten, it is spread like butter on the bread. But it has great disadvantages as a residence~ it is dusty in summer, windy in autumn, frozen up in winter, and knee-deep in mud in spring. No trees enliven the prospect, no pleasant fountains, and no pavements on the roads; forming a great contrast to Tiflis. The islands are the abode of great numbers of wild-fowl; pelicans fish on the margin of the streams, and the wild osprey hovers over the water, ready to seize on its prey. The most interesting sight in the neighbourhood is perhaps that of a Tartar settlement of Kalmucks. General Kos- tenkoff, who is placed in charge of them, has taken great pains to improve them having studied their language, written a grammar, and translated the Bible into their tongue. At present they are Bud- dhists, and probably possess the only idol temple left in Russia in Europe. This Sir Arthur Cunynghame was permitted to visit, as is mentioned in his work, Travels in the Eastern caucasus. The priest lives in a tent similar to those in- habited by the tribe, but better furnished with mats and Persian carpets. At the back of the tent, folding-doors open, and disclose a small cupboard, which contains a small ugly wooden doll in a long silk cloak. This is worshipped many times a day, and offerings of 4rick-tea and beans are made to it; whilst a silver lotus-flower hangs in front. Beyond is the temple, built in pagoda-form, and gaily painted. Five boys, forming the choir, squatted in the ante-room, dressed in gaudy yellow calico ; the lama or priest wore a painted brass crown on his head, holding in his hand a pair of brass cymbals, and several men were playing on trumpets, flageolets, sea-shells, and drums, making a most discordant noise. On a table in the centre, seven -gods were placed, each having a small um- brella, a silver pot of silver lotus-flowers, a little cup of beans, and one of tea; cu- rious silk flags were arranged round the table, and an embroidered canopy covered the whole. At one end of the temple, six more gilt gods each occupied his niche, dressed in yellow coats, and with the same offerings; whilst a lamp was kept constantly burning, and perfume was freely burnt. The curious invention of the prayer-wheel stood on each side of the door; they are wooden drums, about a foot in diameter, and are made to re- volve by a leathern strap and crank. The prayers are carved round them, and each turn says four prayers: thus a vast amount of devotion is gone through with- out much labour. None but the lamas understand their books, and the people have entirely lost the clue to their reli- gion, not knowing what they do. But they pay their contribution, and worship, bowing their heads to the ground.~ About a hundred have become Christians, but this race is fast dying out. There are considerable fishings in the Caspian; the principal fish caught being the sturgeon, from the roe of which is made the famous caviare of the Russians. There is a trade carried on among the Tartars and Circassians around the Cas- - pian Sea of working beautiful ornaments in gold and silver. At Koorbaki, the in- habitants used to call themselves Franks, antar~ supposed to be the descendants of some workmen whom the Genoese re- public sent out to utilize the metals found in the mines. They taught their art to the natives, and were shut up in the mountains during the advance of the Turks and Tartars, but still retain the beauty of their designs and perfection of workmanship. Shamyl turned their skill to good accoun~n the making of guns; for whilst Europe was still fighting with the smooth-bore, his army were using ex- cellent rifled firearms. They also coined money for him, imitating any foreign coins that came to hand and seemed con- venient in size. The best workmanship THE SPEAKERSHIP. 6i in daggers and arms of all kinds sold at privilege is for such speech as shall be Tiflis, is sent there from these mountains used with judgment and sobriety. to the Armenian shopkeepers. Wherefore, Mr. Speaker, her Majestys The Kalmucks have at various times pleasure is that if you perceive any idle offered to colonize these regions, and in heads which will not stick to hazard their the last century about five hundred thou- own estates, which will meddle with re- sand settled near the Volga, but their forming the Church and transforming the freedom was taken away; so in 1771 Commonwealth, and exhibit any bills to their Khan set out on his return to Tar- such purpose, that y~u receive them not, tary with all his people, bafiled the al~my till they be showed and considered by sent in pursuit, and reached the borders those whom it is fitter should consider of China in about eight months. They of such things and can better judge of have been replaced by a few wandering them. The Lord Keeper conveyed to and degraded tribes; and the Tcherkess- Mr. Speaker an equally ungracious grant es are also abandoning their mountains of security for the persons of members by thousands, rather than suffer the Rus- with the caveat . that, under colour of sian standard to float over them. What this privilege, no mans ill-doings or not has happened on the western side of the performin~ of duties be covered and pro- Caspian Sea is also going forward on the tected; and of free access to her Majes- eastern ; as the Muscovites advance to- ty so that it be upon urgent and weighty wards Khiva, they conquer a desert ; causes, and at times convenient, and without waiting for the barrier of steel when her Majesty may be at leisure from drawn around them, the nomad Turko- other ifl~portant causes of the realm mans have prudently taken flight. Der- a privilege, in short, of approaching the bend and Baku no longer offer their for- maiden Queen when she had nothing bet- mer splendour; and where the Argonauts ter to do. The warning not to be too went in search of the Golden Fleece, and free of speech was soon followed by a ~vhere theologians have placed the earthly blow. A week after Coke, ~as Speaker, Paradise, nothing is to be found but arid received this Royal admonition, a bill and frightful wastes. having meanwhile been offered in the Commons against recus ants, her Majesty sent for him, reminded him of her com- mand delivered throucrh the Lord Keeper, and said the House must not meddle with From The Pall Mall Gazette. matters of State or causes ecclesiastical. THE SPEAKERSHIP. Returning to his place, he informed the THE Royal authority for the appoint- House that the Queen was highly offend- ment of a Speaker was received by the ed, and had charged him on his allegiance Commons at the first meeting of the new not to read any such bill, so the bill Parliament on Thursday, and no oppo- dropped. The freedom of speech claimed sition was offered to Mr. Brands re-elec- by the Speaker did not always count for tion. On Friday the Speaker elect pre- much, even after the Hanoverian succes- sented himself before the Lords Coin- sion, for in 1719 Mr. Shippen, repre- missioners at the bar of the House of senting the Cornish borough of Saltash, Lords to submit himself with all humil- was sent to the Tower for saying, that a ity for the Royal approbation, receiving paragraph in the Kings Speech seemed from the Lord Chancellor in reply her calefflat~d for the meridian of Germany Majestys assurance of his sufficiency rather than for Great Britain, and that it and her full approval and confirmation of was a misfortune that the King was a his appointment. Then the Speaker stranger to our language and Constitu- humbly claimed on behalf of the Coin- tion. mons all their ancient and undoubted Close on 500 years have passed since rights and privileges. A formal assent the name of Sir Thomas Hungerford was was not always mere matter of course. recorded in 1377 the first Speaker to When Coke made this claim before Eliz- whom the title was expressly given. The abeth of imperious memory, the Lord first who was for i~ally presented for Royal Keeper (Sir John Puckering) took her approval was Si~~ John Busby, in 1394. Majestys instructions and replied, Priv- Sir John Tiptoft, when chosen in 1406, ilege of speech is granted, but you must made excuse by reason of his faith, but know what privilege you have, not to his plea was not accepted; and he Justi- speak every one ~vhat.he listeth, or what fled his choice, for we read ( Gurdons comes into his brain to utter; but your History of Parliament ) that while he 62 THE SPEAKERSHIP. was Speaker he took more upon him, and spoke more boldly and freely to King and to Lords, than any before him; whose example being followed, the King and Lords put a check to it as a novelty in the 13th Henry IV., when Thomas Chaucer, as Speaker, desired freedom as usual. It was Sir John Tiptoft who si~ned and sealed the deed of entailing the Crown, no;nine tofius comrnunitatis. During the Civil War and the Conven- tion Parliaments, before the return of Charles II., and after the flight of James II., Speakers were, of course, elected by the Commons alone. Again, during the first illness of George III., in 1789, a new Speaker, Mr. Grenville, was appointed to fill up a death vacancy, and the Royal leave and approval were necessarily dis- pensed with. These seem to be the only exceptions, however, since 1394, to the rule of seeking licence from the Crown to elect a speaker, and afterwards present- ing him for approval. Charles II. refused to confirm, in 1678, the election of Sir Edward Seymour, who had previously served in the same office, and had made himself obnoxious to the King. The re- sult was a serious difference between King and Commons, and a short proroga- tion, but afterwards the Commons gave way, and chose Mr. Serjeant Gregory. This is the only instance in which the Royal confirmation of the Commons choice has been refused. Between the reigns of Henry VII I. and Charles II. the Speaker was usually a lawyer. More than thirty lawyers served during this period. Of these some, like More and Rich, afterwards became Lord Chancel- lors; some, like Popham and Coke, were appointed Lord Chief Justices of Eng- land. Three were Recorders of London Sir Robert Sheffield, ancestor of the Dukes of Buckingham of an extinct crea- tion, who was chosen Speaker in 1510; Mr. Serjeant Crook, in i6oi ; and Sir Heneage Finch, in 1626. Cordele, in 1558, was Master of the Rolls when chosen Speaker, and Mr. Serjeant Philips, elected Speaker in 1603, was made Mas- ter of the Rolls, but still sat as Speaker. In Elizabeths reign, Richard Onslow, Popham, and Coke held the office of So- licitor-General when elected Speaker. Sir Harbottle Grimstone, the first Speaker after the Restoration, afterwards became Master of the Rolls, as did Sir John Tre- vor, who was twice Speaker, and was expelled from the House in 1695 for taking a bribe of a tl~usand guineas from the City of London for promoting the passing of a local bill. He himself, while in the chair, was forced to put the ques- tion that he had been guilty of a high crime and misdemeanour in accepting this bribe, and declared that the ayes ~ had it. The unutterable ignominy of the moment, says Macaulay, left its mark even on the callous heart and brazen forehead of Trevor. Had he returned to the House on the following day, he would have h~d to put the question on a motion for his own expulsion. He therefore pleaded illness, and shut himself up in his bed-room. Wharton soon brought down a Royal message authorizing the Commons to elect another Speaker. A physical as well as a moral defect prevented Sir John Trevor from officially exercising one important duty devolving on a Speaker. He squinted, and thus members in different parts of the House sometimes claimed with equal confidence that they had caught his eye. A more difficult duty pertaining to the Speaker- ship has always been that of preserving order. Sir Spencer Compton, who was Speaker from i 715, to 1727 was once asked to keep the House quiet by a member who said, Surely I have a right to be heard -! Sir Spencers unfeeling answer was, No, sir! You have a right to speak, but the House have a right to judge whether they will hear you. Hatsell, however, in his Precedents, gravely dis- sents from this opinion, and believes it to be the Speakers undoubted duty to keep the House quiet, that members may be heard. In an earlier instance, record- ed by Sir Simonds DEwes, the Speaker did his duty properly. One Serjeant Heales, in a speech made in i6oi, said, The Queen bath as much right to all our lands and goods as to the revenues of her Crown. At this amazing instance of legal subserviency all the House hemmed and laughed and talked. It is oiTh oP the earliest recorded attempts to put down the parliamentary bore or ut- terer of extreme opinions. Well, quoth the undaunted Serjeant Heale, all your hemming shall not put me out of countenance I But then Mr. Speaker, for the greater civility of debate, stood up and said, It is a great disorder that this should be used, for it is the ancient use of every ni~ n to be silent when any one speaketh;~nd he that is speaking should be suffered to deliver his mind without interruption. So the Serjeant proceeded, as Sir Simonds tells us, and when he had spoken a. little while, the House hemmed again, and so he sat THE SPEAKERSHIP. 63 down. Humming was another unpar- liamentary sound which the Speaker was once called on to reprove. I move, said Sir William Wheeler, for candles, and also that humming be forborne, which is not parliamentary, nor ever used but at ovations and in schools. Tl~s species of interruption has given place to the louder Oh ! prolonged at times into something like a groan, and requiring a dexterous management of voice not to be achieved by all members. Another and still more disagreeable sound has happily been put down by the authority of successive Speakers. Hiss- ing used to be not uncommon, for in 1604 we find a grave member justly de- nouncing it as not only interrupting and hindering speech, but a thing derogat- ing from the dignity, not becoming the gravity, and crossing and abating the honour and privileges of the House. In our own day a solitary hiss lake at night and at a time of great excitement is the sole and rare relic of this undigni- fied old custom. Sleep as a refuge from parliamentary boredom has been recog- nized as beyond the Speakers jurisdic- tion ever since Alderman Atkins moved that such scandalous members as slept, and minded not the business of the House, should be put out; and Harry Martin, the Regicide, who was the scandalous member thus pointed at, stood up and said, Mr. Speaker has been moved to turn out the nodders. I desire the noddees may also be turned out. Speakers of old must have bad to deal with unruly members indeed. The Com- mons journals record in 1640 an order that whoever does not take his place, or moves out of it to the disturbance of a member speaking, Mr. Speaker shall pre- sent his name, and the House shall pro- ceed against him. Another order in the following year was directed against whispering during business of impor- tance, and in i66i all members who climb over seats were to pay twelve pence to the serjeant. After the Resto- ration the House of Commons was spe- cially remarkable for its indecorum, and Pepys in his Diary tells how in i66r Sir Allan Brodrick and Sir Allen Apsley did come drunk the other day into the House, and did both speak for half an hour together, and could not either be pulled or bid to sit down and hold their peace, to the great contempt of the Kings servants and cause, which I am grieved at with all my heart. Elsewhere in his Diary there is much to convict the Parliament of his day of hard drinking and roystering manners, in keeping with the times, but such as must have severe- ly tasked a Speakers authority. Marvel dryly describes the pretty ridiculous figure the House cut when they were taken by Sir Thomas Clifford,. after pre- senting an address Speaker, mace and all into the royal cellars, to drink his Majestys health. The Hull patriots stern reprobation was perhaps uncalled for here, as in the Royal precincts mem- bers were surely out of school. We have seen how the Speaker was expected to interpose in cases of verbal disorder. But more serious quarrels were not wanting within the House. Blows were sometimes exchanged there, and we read in Auchitell Grey that two members, Trelawney and Ash, having called each other rebel and Papist, the Speaker, at the wish of the House, invited both mem- bers to dinner, engaging them meanwhile to proceed no further with their quarrel. The cry of Agree, agree, is an an- cient cry which still survives, though Sir Jonathan Trelawney declared (when Sir J. Trevor was in the chair) that such a cry savoured to him like club law. But the Speakers temper was more sore- ly tried than by this comparatively harm- less exclamation. If any man have a privilege to be disorderly, let me know it, said the Speaker in 1675, with marked sarcasm. There must have been din- ner bells even in the time of Speaker Lenthall, who was elected in 1640 and again in 1654, for we find him kelling members ~vho rushed out of the House with one accord for their dinner that they were unworthy to sit in so great and wise an assembly if they so ran forth. When certain members rose to follow the Speaker into the Lords before the Royal message had been properly delivered, Sir ~d~rd Seymour said The bur- gesses of Newcastle and Leicester are in great haste to be gone, as if they ~vent to get places at a show or play. This Speaker was free in his reproofs, and once charged a member with staying up so late at night, that he was unable to be in his place in a morning. It is not true, retorted the angry member, that I sat up late last~ight; I hope you will speak truth while ~you are in the chair. Even so lately as the end of the last cen- tury the Speaker was often in conflict with members, and unseemly scenes oc- curred. Happily the Speakers authority is unquestioned now, and his dignity is 64 THE SPEAKERSHIP. amply maintained, even without the ad- ened countenance as God has given you ventitious aid referred to by the friend should be shrouded in a bush of horse- who, upon Addingtons appointment as hair. Speaker, regretted that such an enlight SELF-KNOWLEDGE. In one of his poems, Burns ventilates a wholesome wish: 0 wad some Power the giftie gie us, To see oursei a as ithers see us. The difficulty is, how the thing is to be done~ Seeing ourselves as others see us is no easy matter. In the first place, owing to the com- plaisance and timidity of mankind, there is usually a great difficulty in knowing what others really thipk of us. The rules of good breeding are completely antagonistic to it. The world wears a mask not from bad mo- tives, but to make things pleasant. How to see behind the mask, is the point for con- sideration. Great acuteness and vigilance, also great candour towards ones self, are in- dispensable in acquiring self-knowledge by such means. Then, we are beset by no end of notions of our own sufficiency. How, except by some tremendously severe self-searching and consciousness of human infirmity, can we get at the truth regarding ourselves? There is a possibility of our going on in great errors almost to the end of life, where not roused to a sense of them by some inlet of criticism from others. Obviously, there are large numbers who go on recklessly in the commission of criminal actions, who never seriously think what they are about, and are only for the first time brought to their senses in humiliating penal solitude. It is there they see them- selves as others see them, though it may be rather late in the day. In ordinary affairs, one might be the better of even knowing whether any of his personal manners are dis- agreeable, whether he speaks too much or too loudly, whether he is thought to be too silent or too communicative; or, if a lady, whether she is not dressing too gaily for her years, and so forth. DRAWING INFERENCES. At one time the seventeenth century a common standard of religious belief was a belief in witches. If you denied witchcraft, you denied everything, and ran a fair chance of being burnt at the stake. A writer in the British Quarterly Re- view, iii. 139, gives some instances of this vicious, and we might now say exploded,. standard of belief. The learned Joseph Glanvill wrote a book of philosophical con- giderations touching the being of witches, with a view to the confutation of infidelity! That great man, Sir Thomas I3rowne, said: For my own part, I have ever believed, and now do believe that there are witches. They that doubt of these do not only deny them, but spirits, and are obliquely and upon con- science not only infidel but atheistic. Cud- worth held that those who disbelieved witch- craft can hardly escape the suspicion of some hankering towards atheism. Talking of Sir Thomas Browne, that great man, as the reviewer calls him, made as notable a mistake regarding the end of the worldas he did about witches. He says: We whose generations are ordained in this setting part of time. The setting part of time ! Why, the world, on th~ contrary, is still merely in its infancy. A large part of. it is not yet discovered, and a still larger portion has not got out of a state of primeval barbarism. SouRcEs OF TROUBLE. It may be doubted if anything which requires constant keeping and care be worth the trouble. Fine house- furniture, fine pictures, and finery of various kinds, are all apt to be sources of vexation. Much plate in a house is a still greater tor- ment, for it leads to a constant apl)rehension of thieves. In this way, a man gets tyrannized over by a great many things which, in his sim- plicity, he imagined would give him nothing but pleasure. 1)ouglas Jerrold, I think, points this out in some of his writings. IN A General Sketch of the History of Persia is the following : Fat-h Aly Sl~.h ~vas himself a poet; and his Laureate was an old chief named Fat-h Aly Kh& n, whose ancestors had been for several genera- tions the Governors of Kashan. It is related that one day the ShTh gave him some of his verses to read, and asked for his opinion of them. May my soul be your sacrifice, said the Laureate, they are bosh. The insulted sovereign exclaimed, He is an ass take him to the stables. And the order was literally obeyed. After a short time his Majesty sent foNhim again, and read some more of his verses. The poet walked off without a word. Where are you going? cried the Shfih. Just back again to the stables, cried the undaunted Laureate.

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The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1557 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. April 11, 1874 0121 1557
The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1557 65-128

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 1557. April 11, 1874. Volume VI. CONTENTS. I. Two CHAPTERS ON THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. By James Cotter Morison, II. THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. Part IV. III. DR. JOHNSONS WRITINGS IV. DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. Part III.,. V. THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. By W. E. Gladstone VI. LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWN. ING TO THE AUTHOR OF ORION ON LITERARY AND GENERAL TOPICS. Part III., VII. CHINAMEN OUT OF CHINA VIII. CHILDHOOD IN JAPAN POETRY. A TOURNAMENT, . . . . 66 MARS, LOYE.FLOWERS. ByF. W. Bourdillon, . 661 Fortnightly Review, Blackwoods Magazine, Corn/zill Magazine, Blackzooods Magazine,. Conteml5orary Review, Contemporary Review,. Pall Mall Gazette, All The Year Round, MISCELLANY PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. -4 TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to tke Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of j~ostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay commission or forwarding the money; nor when we club the LIVING Age with another periodical. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE iS sent gratis to any one gettlflg up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be s~kde by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of tbese can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LSTTELL & GAY. 78 91 102 110 116 124 126 66 iz8 66 A TOURNAMENT. RAMBAUD OF VAQUIERAS. ILL tell you of our tournament, without cir- cumlocution, What warriors bravest shone therein, and did most execution, Of who stood up, and who fell down, Ill say the simple truth; To magnify in love or war, trust me, Im~ not the youth. The Lord of Baux began the frayI err, it was his horse A giant beast that overthrew whatever crossed his course: He backed against a noble count, and hurled him to the ground, And then, disabled with his kicks, fell twenty horses round l Among the crowd your Dragonel conspicuous appeared, As under him his fiery barb most furious plunged and reared, Twixt steed and rider to the last uncertain was the fray, For while the rider bit the dust, the former ran away. Count Beausire was released the next from his unruly steed, And thus enabled one to mount more meet for martial deed. Then Barral of Marseilles, good knight, a fine career did make, Till, by a knight still better, he was flung into a brake. Across the lists Mondragons lord I saw most boldly prance, And overthrow a knight, himself, without breaking his lance; A squire, whose steed was skin and bone, it was that dealt the blow; Mondragon calmly raised himself, and sought a safer foe. Mevallions lord dashed bravely on, completely clad in mail The barb that bore him was a trifle larger than a quail; His spear struck Nicholas on the helm; good Nicholas laughed amain; To him the shock was such as might have dealt a drop of rain. The Prince of Orange boldly charged three warriors in a row, Because his horse would plunge that way, whether he would or no; They fled, but if from man or horse to him it mattered nought, Since, chasing like a victor, he himself a victor thought. Translated by John Rutherford. A TOURNAMENT, ETC. LOVE-FLOWERS. OH! who was watching when Love came by, When Love came here in the glad spring hours? The scarf was torn from his laughing eye, And he wore instead a wreath of flowers. The wreath of flowers his head went round And about his eyes, as the scarf had been; But in vain the flowery band was bound, For he peeped the flowers and leaves be- tween. He wore no quiver, he wore no bow, And innocent looked as a blinded boy; With flowers about him, above, below, The spirit he seemed of spring and joy. But here and there he let fall a flower, The cruel, the bright little blinded god; And watching, I saw that hour by hour These blooms took root in the green spring sod. And-whoso plucks the flowers that grow From the blooms Love flung from his wreaths above, Though sweetest-seeming of blossoms they blow, His heart shall he hot with the madness of love. - F. W. BOURDILLON. MARS. THE wild wind wails across the wintry waste, The mallard whirls, shrill-crooning, from the sedge, The willows bending, shiver in the blast, That heraldeth the birth of boisterous March. Hardy, yet tremulous, the violets blue Peep from their sheltering green; the bur- nished blooms Of crocuses slow venture from the mould, And quavering bells of snow-drops, pure and white, Ring1nu~c on their stems, breeze-melodies, Of rustling petals, subtle elfin-tunes, Felt but not heard. Brave robinet gives way, Sweet winter-minstrel, to springs darling thrush. Pinkblush the almond-trees, with tender bloom, As glows the cheek of bashful white-veiled bride, Touched by her bridegrooms kiss. The helmed furz~ On yonder common, is a-yellowing With countless golden crests; grey rabbits run In blithesome troop, from out the covert-side, And sport them in the sunshine. Once again The magic touch of Nature wakens Earth! All The Year Round. THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. From The Fortnightly Review. TWO CHAPTERS ON THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. CHAPTER L 16611679. THE reign of Louis XIV. was the cul- minating epoch in the history of ~he French Monarchy. What the age of Pericles was in the history of the Athe- nian Democracy, what the age of the Scipios was in the history of the Roman Republic, that was the reign of Louis XIV. in the history of the old Monarchy of France. The type of polity which that Monarchy embodied, the principles of government on which it reposed, or brought into play, in this reign attain their supreme expression and develop- ment. Before Louis XIV., the French Monarchy has evidently not attained its full stature ; it is thwarted and limited by other forces in the State. After him, though unresisted from without, it mani- fests symptoms of decay from within. It rapidly declines; and totally disappears seventy-seven years after his death. But it is not only the most conspicuous reign in the history of France it is the most conspicuous reign in the history of Monarchy in general. Of the very many kings whom histcry mentions, who have striven to exalt the monarchical princi- ple, none of them achieved a success re- motely comparable to his. His two great predecessors in kingly ambition, Charles V. and Philip II., remained far behind him in this respect. They may have ruled over wider dominions, b.ut they never attained the exceptional position of power and prestige which he enjoyed for more than half a century. They never were obeyed so submissively at home, nor so dreaded, and even respected, abroad. For Louis XIV. carried off that last re- ward o[ complete success, that he for a time silenced even envy, and turned it into admiration. We who can examine with cold scrutiny the make and compo- sition of this Colossus of a French Mon- archy ; who can perceive how much the brass and clay in it exceeded the gold; whG know how it afterwards fell with a resouncting ruin, the last echoes of which have scarcely died away, have difficulty in realizing the fascination it exercised upon contemporaries who wit- nessed its first setting up. Louis XIV.s reign was the very triumph of common- place greatness, of external magnificence and success, such as the vulgar among mankind can best and most sincerely ap- preciate. Had he been a great and pro- found ruler, had he considered with un- selfish meditation the real interests, of France, had he with wise insight dis- cerned. and followed the remote lines of progress along which the future of Eu- rope was destined to move, it is lament- ably probable that he would have been misunderstood in his lifetime and calum- niated after his death. Louis XIV. was exposed to no such misconception. His qualities were on the surface, visible and comprehensible to all; and although none of them were brilliant, he had sev- eral which have a peculiarly impressive effect when displayed in an exalted sta- tion. He ~vas indefatigably industrious; worked on an average eight hours a day for fifty-four years ; had great tenacity of will ; that kind of solid judgment which comes of slowness of brain, and withal a most majestic port and great dignity of manners. He had also as much kindli- ness of nature as the very great can be expected to have; his temper was under severe control; and, in his earlier years at least, he had a moral apprehensiveness greater than the limitations of his intel- lect would have led one to expect. His conduct towards Moli~re was throughout truly noble, and the more so that he never intellectually appreciated Moli~res real greatne~s. But he must have had great original fineness of tact, though it was in the end nearly extinguished by adulation and incense. His court was an extraor- dinary creation, and the greatest thing he achieved. He made it the microcosm of all that was most brilliant and prominent in France. Every order of merit was in- vited there, and i~ceived courteous wel- come. To no circumstance did he so much owe his enduring popularity. By its means he impressed into his service that galaxy of great writers, the first and the last classic authors of France, whose 68 THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. calm and serene lustre will forever illu- mine the epoch of his existence. It may even be admitted that his share inthat lustre was not so accidental and unde- served as certain king-haters have sup- posed. That subtle critic, M. Ste. Beuve, thinks he can trace a marked rise even in Bossuets style from the moment he be- come a courtier of Louis XIV. The king brought men together, placed them in a position where they were induced and urged to bring their talents to a focus. His Court was alternately a high-bred gala and a stately university. If we con- trast his life with those of his predeces- sor and successor, with the dreary exist- ence of Louis XIII. and the crapulous life-long debauch of Louis XV., we be- come sensible that the Fourteenth Louis was distinguished in no common degree and when we further reflect that much of his home and all of his foreign policy was precisely ad4ted to flatter, in its deepest self-love, the national spirit of France, it will not be quite impossible to under- stand the long-continued reverberation of his fame. But Louis XIVs reign has better titles than the adulations of courtiers and the eulogies of wits and poets to the attention of posterity. It marks one of the most memorable epochs in the annals of man- kind. It stretches across history like a great mountain-range, separating ancient France from the France of modern times. On the farther slope are Catholicism and feudalism in their various stages of splen- dour and decay the France of crusade and chivalry, of St. Louis and Bayard. On the hither side are free-thought, in- dustry, and centralization the France of Voltaire, Turgot, and Condorcet. When Louis came to the throne, the Thirty Years War still wanted six years of its end, and the heat of theological strife was at its intensest glow. When he died, the religious temperature had cooled nearly to freezing-point, and a new vegetation of science and positive inquiry was overspreading the world. This amounts to saying that his reign covers the greatest epoch of mental transition through which the uman mind h4s hitherto passed, excepting the transition we are witnessing in the day which now is. We need but recall the names of the writers and thinkers who arose during Louis XIV.s reign, and shed their semi- nal ideas broadcast upon the air, to real- ize how full a period it was, both of birth and decay; of the passing away of the old and the uprising of the new forms of thought. To mention only the greatest; the following are among the chiefs who helped to transform the mental fab- ric of Europe in the age of Louis XIV.: Descartes, Newton, Leibnitz, Locke, Boyle. Under these leaders, the first firm irreversible advance was made out of the dim twilight of theology into the clear dawn of positive and demonstrative science. Inferior to these founders of modern knowledge, but holding a high rank as contributors to the mental activ- ity of the age, were Pascal, Malebranche, Spinoza, and Bayle. The result of their efforts was such a stride foiward as has no parallel in the history of the human mind. One of the most curious and sig- nificant proofs of it was the spontaneous extinction of the belief in witchcraft among the cultivated classes of Europe, as our English historian of Rationalism has so judiciously pointed out. The superstition was not much attacked, and it was vigorously defended, yet it died a natural and quiet death from the changed moral climate of the world. But the chief interest which the reign of Louis XIV. offers to the student of history has yet to be mentioned. It was the great turning-point in the history of the French people. The triumph of the Mo~ar~ical principle was so complete under him, independence and self-reliance were so effectually crushed, both in local- ities and individuals, that a permanent bent was given to the national mind a habit of looking to the Government for all action and initiative permanently es- tablished. Before the reign of Louis it was a question which might fairly be considered unde~ded, whether the coun- try would be able or not, willing or not, to co-operate with its rulers in the work of the Government and the reform of abuses. On more than one occasion such co-operation did not seem entirely im THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. 69 possible or improbable. The admirable empire of Spain had entered that phase wisdom and moderation shown by the of rapid and virulent decay which has Tiers-Etat in the States-General of 1614, scarcely a parallel in the history of civ- the divers efforts of the Parliament of ilized nations; and which even the trials Paris to check extravagant expenditure, and horrors of the Thirty Years War do the vigorous struggles of the provincial not suffice to explain. Spain was suc- assemblies to preserve some relic of their cumbing to the clerical cancer of Jesuit- local liberties, seemed to promise ,that ism and the Inquisition, from which she France would continue to advance under j has never recovered. Her power and the leadership indeed of the Monarchy, prestige were at an end, and her voice yet still retaining in large measure the had lost nearly all weight in the councils bright, free, in dependent spirit of old of Europe. Gaul, the Gaul of Rabelais, Montaigne, Germany was in a still worse condition, and Joinville. After the reign of Louis although from a less ignoble cause. She XIV. such co-operation of the ruler and had been exposed to the whole fury of the ruled became impossible. The Gov- that most savage of all wars, and desola- eminent of France had become a machine tion unequalled since the days of Attila depending upon the action of a single had visited her thriving to~vns, farm s,and spring. Spontaneity in the population at villages. It is a moderate computation large was extinct, and whatever there was which estimates her loss of human be- to do must be done by the central author- ings at three-quarters of the previous ity. As long as the Government could population. The destruction of property correct abuses it was well; if it ceased to of all kinds was greater, especially under be equal to this task, they must go un- the head of horses and farm-stock. It corrected. When at last the reform of has been reckoned that cows had disap- secular and gigantic abuses presented peared to the extent of eighty-two per itself with imperious urgency, the alter- cent., goats at eighty-three per cent., and native before the Monarchy was either to horses eighty-five per cent., while the carry the reform with a high hand or per- race of sheep had entirely vanished. ish in the failure to do so. We know Two hundred years after the war Ger- how signal the failure was, and could not many had not recovered from the losses help being, under the circumstances; she then sustained.* and through having placed the Monarchy Italy was the geographical expression between these alternatives, it is no para- she was destined to be down to the pres- dox to say that Louis XIV. was one of ent generation. the most direct ancestors of the Great England, since the death of the great Revolution. Elizabeth, had been withdrawn from Eu- Nothing but special conditions in the ropean politics. First, through the inca- politics both of Europe and of France, pacity and perverseness of her Stuart can explain this singular importance and kings. Secondly, through the dark cloud prominence of Louis XIV.s reign. And of ~he4Civil War, behind which she lay we find that both France and Europe hidden from the gaze and even compre- were indeed in an exceptional position hension of Continental statesmen. Just when he ascended the throne. The Con- recently, indeed, that cloud had been tinent of Europe, from one end to the rent asunder, and revealed the astonish- other, was still bleeding and prostrate ing spectacle of the great Cromwell from the effects of the Thirty Years War seated on the throne of the Plantagenets when the young Louis, in the sixteenth and Tudors, and wielding their sceptre year of his age, was anointed king at with a power ~nd dignity to which the Rheims. Although France had suffered mightiest o em had never attained. terribly in that awful struggle, she had probably suffered less than any of the * Bilder ans der Deutschen Vergangenheit, von Gustav Freytag, vol. iii. ch. vi. Herr Freytag gives combatants, unless Sweden. abundant evidence of the moderation of these astonish The great and so recently all-powerful ing estimates. 70 THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. But the great Protector died in 1659, two years before Louis took the reins of gov- ernment into his own hands. Sweden, under the capricious Christina, and her successor Charles X., seemed fully occupied with her immediate neigh- bours, Poland and Denmark. She also had suffered some changes in her domes- tic policy, which considerably reduced her capacity for foreign intervention and influence. The small but heroic republic of Hol- land was doubtless stronger and more illustrious than at any former period. But her strength was confined to one ele- ment; peace, commerce, and coloniza- tion were the objects of her policy; and she seemed to be threatened by no possi- ble enemy but her jealous rival for mari- time supremacy, Great Britain. Such were the apparent guarantees of future peace, in the exhaustion or do- mestic preoccupation of the various Eu- ropean countries. The gates of the Temple of Janus could be shut, it would seem, with the profit and consent of all. No; there was one power in a position to open them. That was France. The part played by France in the latter period of the war had been truly grand and noble. Taking up the interrupted work of the great Gustavus, she gave the finishing blow to the three great ene- mies of humanity and progress Austria, Spain, and the Church; and her diplo- macy in the Cabinet had admirably se- cured her triumphs in the field. The treaties of Munster and of the Pyrenees placed her in the highest position of mor- al prestige. She gained largely in terri- tory; but her sacrifices had been great, and her gains were obtained at the ex- pense of the hated Spaniard and Aus- trian. The leadership of the Continent devolved upon her. The peace of West- ern and Central Europe was in her keep- ing. Painful as was the condition of her overtaxed rural population, she was in relative opulence, as compared with her exhausted neighbours. The place vaca- ted by the Empire and Spain, of general tyrant and browbeater of Europe, was open to her to fill if her young King were so minded. The world had not long to wait before it was made fully aware of his intentions. But this is not all. It happened by a remarkable coinci- dence that precisely at this moment, when the condition of Europe was such that an aggressive polity on the part of France could be only with difficulty re sisted by her neighbours, that the power and prerogatives of the French Crown attained an expansion and pre-eminence which they had never enjoyed in the previous history of the country. The schemes and hopes of Philip the Fair, of Louis XI., of Henry IV., and of Riche- lieu had been realized at last ; and their efforts to throw off the insolent coercion of the great feudal lords had been crowned with complete success. The Monarchy could hardly have conjectured how strong it had become, but for the abortive resistance and hostility it met with in the Fronde. The minority of a king in France had been from time im- memorial a signal for the nobles to take the field in avowed enmity to the princi- ple of national unity and centralization represented by the Monarchy. The king is a minor, let us be major, was a current saying of the nobles. Never before had they had so fair a prospect of success ; for never before had they had the alliance of the magistrates and civil- ians, of the Parliament, and other sover- eign courts, who were indeed the chief civil servants of the Administration. These long-docile instruments of the Crown, which had indeed created them expressly as a counterpoise to feudal vio- lence, were on this occasion the leaders in the resistance to the scandalous inca- pacity (to say the least) of the Regent and her minister, Mazarin, a great di- plomatist but an incompetent adminis- trator. The mob of Paris, rendered fu- rious by capricious taxation, and the unwonted dearness of food and necessa- ries, rose in insurrection, and was led by one of the ablest demagogues on record, the Cardinal de Retz. Princes of the blood and the most powerful nobles joined the movement ; the two greatest generals in France or in the world, Cond6 an~l iurenne, offered it their swords. The Government, represented by Ann of Austria, was perhaps the feeblest ever called upon to meet such a crisis. Yet so strong was the Monarchical principle, that nobles, bourgeoisie, and populace, all combined, were unable to make per- manent head against it. Indeed, the event clearly proved that nothing hut the MoTnarchy was able to govern France, imperfect as i~ government might be. The nobles, in this their last effort to re- store feudal anarchy, had shown them- selves once more fierce, greedy, and blind, without a single political quality in them. And the men of the Robe were but little better; they were contending for their THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. 7 own narrow interests. The populace was as ignorant as it was miserable, and quite incapable of producing leaders of its own. All the passions of a revolution were there, but the light of intellectual princi- ples to direct them was wanting. Not yet could the crushed millions see how their galling fetters could be smitten off. The anguish of another century .was needed for the elaboration of ideas which could give vision to the passions of re- volt. And so the Fronde perished for lack of knowledge. The flames of insur- rection which had shot up, forked and menacing, fell back underground, where they smouldered for four generations yet to come. The kingly power soared, sin- gle and supreme, over its prostrate foes. Long before Louis XIV. had shown any aptitude or disposition for authority, he was the object of adulation as cringing as was ever offered to a Roman emperor. When he returned from his consecration at Rheims, the Rector of the University of Paris, at the head of his professorial staff, addressed th~ young King in these words: We are so dazzled by the new splendour which surrounds your Majesty, that we are not ashamed to ap- pear dumbfounded at the aspect of a light so brilliant and so extraordinary; and at the foot of an engraving of the same date, he is in so many words called a demi-god. It is evident that ample materials had been prepared for what the vulgar con- sider a gre4t reign. Abundant opportu- nity for an insolent and aggressive for- eign policy, owing to the condition of Europe. Security from remonstrance or check at home, owing to the condition of France. The temple is prepared for the deity; the priests stand by, ready to offer victims ow the smoking altar; the in- cense is burning in anticipation of his advent. On the death of Mazarin, in i66i, he entered into his own. Louis XIV. never forgot the trials and humiliations to which he and his mother had been subjected during the troubles of the Fronde. It has often been re- marked, that rulers born in the purple have seldom shown much efficiency, un- less they have been exposed to excep- tional, and as it were artificial probations, during their youth. During the first eleven years of Louiss reign, incompara- bly the most creditable to him, we can trace unmistakably the influence of the wisdom and experie~ce acquired in that period of anxiety and defeat. He then learned the value of money, and the su preme benefits of a full exchequer. He also acquired a thorough dread of subjec- tion to ministers and favourites - a dread so deep, that it implied a con- sciousness of probable weakness on that side. As he went on in life, he to a great extent forgot both these valuable lessons, but their influence ~vas never entirely ef- faced. To the astonIshment of the cour- tiers, and even of his mother, he an- nounced his intention of governing inde- pendently, and of looking after every- thing him self. They openly doubted his perseverance. You do not know him, said Mazarin. He will begin rather late, .but he will go farther than most. There is enough stuff in him to make four kings and an honest man besides. His first measures were dictated less by great energy of initiative than by abso- lute necessity. The finances had fallen into such a chaos of jobbery and confu- sion, that the very existence of the Gov- ernment depended upon a prompt and trenchant reform. It was Louiss rare good fortune to find beside him one of the most able and vigorous administra- tors who have ever lived Colbert. He had the merit not a small one in that ageof letting this great Minister in- vent and carry out the most daring and beneficial measures of reform, of which he assumed all the credit to himself. The first step was a vigorous attack on the gang of financial plunderers who, with Fouquet at their head, simply em- bezzled the bulk of the State revenues. The money-lenders not only obtained the most usurious interest for their loans, but actually held in mdrtgage the most productive sources of the national taxa- tion and, not content with that, they bought up, at ten per cent. of their nom- inal value, an enormous amount of dis- credited bills, issued by the Government in~thetiine of the Fronde, which they forced the Treasury to pay off at par; and this was done with the very money they had just before advanced to the Government. Such barefaced plunder could not be endured, and ColLert was the last man to endure it. He not only repressed peculation, but introduced a number of practical improvements in the distribution, and especially in the mode of levying the ~xes. So imperfect were the arrangements connected with the lat- ter, that it was estimated that of eighty- four millions paid by the people, only thirty-two millions entered into the cof- fers of the State. The almost instan- taneous effects of Colberts measures 72 THE RETAIN OF LOUIS XIV. the yawning deficit was changed into a surplus of forty-five millions in less than two years showed how gross and fla- grant had been the malversation preced- ing. Far more difficult, and far nobler in the order of constructive statesman- ship, were his vast schemes to endow France with manufactures, with a com- mercial and belligerent navy, with col- onies, besides his manifold reforrris in the internal administration tariffs and customs between neighbouring provinces of France ; the great work of the Langue- doc Canal; in fact in every part and province of government. His success was various,* but in some cases really stupendous. His creation of a navy al- most surpasses belief. In i66i, when he first became free to act, France possessed only thirty vessels of war of all sizes. At the peace of Nimeguen, in 1678, she had acquired a fleet of one hundred and twenty ships; and in 1683 she had got a fleet of one hundred and seventy-six ves- sels ; and the increase was quite as great in the size and armament of the individ- ual ships as in their number. A perfect giant of administration, Colbert found no labour too great for his energies, and worked with unflagging energy sixteen hours a day for twenty-two years. It is melancholy to be forced to add that all this toil was as good as thrown away, and that the strong man went broken-hearted to the grave, through seeing too clearly that he had laboured in vain for an un- grateful egotist. His great visions of a prosperous France, increasing in wealth and contentment, were blighted; and he closed his eyes upon scenes of improvi- dence and waste more injurious to the country than the financial robbery which he had combated in his early days. The Government was not plundered as it had been, but itself was exhausting the very springs of wealth by its impoverishment of the people. Boisguillebert, writing in 1698, only fifteen years after Colberts death, estimated the productive powers of France to have diminished by one- half in the previous thirty years. It seems, indeed, probable that the almost magical rapidity and effect of Colberts early reforms turned Louis XIV.s head, * The unity and centralization of France, in the seventeenth century have often heen supposed greater than they really were. The successful resistance made to Colberts tariff of 1664 is one proof among many others. For a good account of the essential weakness of the French Monarchy see Une Province sous Louis XIV., par A. Thomas; and for all that concerns Colhert, the excellent work m 14. Clement, Histoire de Colbert. and that he was convinced that it only depended on his good pleasure to renew them to obtain the same result. He never found, as he never deserved to find, another Colbert ; and he stumbled onwards in ever deeper ruin to his disas- trous end. But these evil days are as. yet far off. A handsome young kings after a credit- able and quite unexl)ected attention to the toils of empire, may well allow him- self a little relaxation, and Louiss relax- ations were ample and magnificent. Balls, masks, and scenic splendours which last seven days at a time, assure enraptured courtiers that the winter of their discon- tent is at last over, and that a king indeed has come to bless them. More impor- tant still were the hunting parties at Coin- pi~gne, and the moonlit wanderings in the leafy dimness of Fontainebleau for- est. The young king is married and re- ligious , at least hears mass with unfail- ing regularity every day of his life, yet he can truthfully say, Mais, Madame, apr~s tout je ne suis pas un ange; and he is besieged by dames and demoiselles who are pining to hear him make the tender avowal. He makes it to one Ga- latea after another, with no awkward modesty hut with the frank directness which becomes a king whose device is the sun. The austere Clio passes, or should pass, by such scenes with averted eyes; one she cannot overlook, for it oc- curs directly in her path. The Marquise de Montespan belongs to history. Athenais de Mortemart came of one of the noblest families of Poitou. She was the wife of the Marquis de Montespan, twenty-six years of age, and in the full splendour of an ample and rather gor- geous beauty. She had the famous wit of her kindred, brilliant and hard as steel. When her chariot heavy and spacious as a waggon runs over and cru~ht#~ a poor cripple on the Pont Neuf, she rallies with lively jocosity her com- panions who manifest distress and feeling at the accident. She came to Court with the avowed design of storming the not very stron~ly fortified fortress of Louiss heart. Her success was commensurate with her courage. He surrendered at discretion. But there was a third person who showed an,~ ccentric dissatisfaction at these gallant achievements M. de Montespan, her husband. When he dis- covered how matters really lay, he forgot himself so far as to slap his wifes face, put on mourning, and went about Paris in his coach with four horns stuck at the THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. 73 corners. Such unseemly conduct was ternately to bear the assaults of a sharp- promptly punished, and he was banished tongued woman, and to strengthen the to his lands in the Pyrenees. Then the unstable resolution of her not wholly Montespan expanded into a Sultana, to penitent lover. Not that he was insensi- whom every knee was bowed. The mm- ble to the grandeur of the part he was isters were summoned to council in her called upon to play. He confirmed him- boudoir, and even the imperious Louvois self by reflecting on the great example of was reduced to servitude. Once when St. Ambrose and Theodosius: begged seven marshals were created, she coolly his friends to pray for ~xim that his faith took the list out of the Kings pock~t, might not falter, and rebuked the royal and, after inspecting it, said, Then my sinner (in letters he was commanded to brother, Vivonne, is not amongst them ? write) with subtle flatteries and compli- The King and Louvois stammered, looked mentary reproaches. at each other, and finished by saying it It may be imagined what interest the was an oversight, and her brother Vi- idle throng of courtiers, who had little to vonne was nominated eighth marshal. do but dress themselves and observ.e the So it went on for some years, till on a King, took in this business. The softer particular occasion Madame de Montes- souls with a turn for devotion believed, pan was refused absolution by a priest of or pretended to believe, that a striking Versailles. We are not told why this miracle of divine grace was about to be mishap had not occurred before. But so wrought. The more experienced shook it was ; owing to the scruples of a subal- their heads with smiling scepticism. Al- tern priest the haughty favourite could though Madame de Montespan seemed not exhibit an edifying spectacle of devo- resigned to her fate, it certainly was a tion by communicating at Easter amid suspicious circumstance that in her near the splendid dames and cavaliers of Ver- retreat at Clagny she was able to display sailles. She complained to the King, a state and dispose of funds such as she who sent for the cur6 of the parish. The had never done in the days of her high- cur6 declared that the priest had only est favour. She had the Kings taste for done his duty. The King was quite building, and laying out gardens, and she struck with such harmony of opinion, and indulged it to an extent which exceeded announced with magnanimity he would even Louiss prodigality. Twelve hun- condemn neither the cur6 nor the priest dred workmen were employed on her until he had consulted the Duc de Mon- new chateau, and Le N6tre, the land- tausier and M. de Condoms that is to scape gardener, surpassed himself in in- say, the great Bossuet. They both agreed genious novelties. Madame de S6vign6, with the curd that the priest had only writing to~er daughter, could only com- done his duty, and the bishop spoke with pare the M ontespan to Dido watching such force and reasoned with such elo- the rising walls of Carthage. Of course quence of glory and religion, that the these things cost money, and nioney at King rose, seized M. de Montausiers the moment was being borrowed at ruin- hand, and, squeezing it, With a sob of ous interest, for the war with Holland emotion said, I will see her no more. was at its height. But what was Colbert There was some rashness in this asser- there for, working sixteen hours a day, tion, and besides Madame de Montespan except for that very purpose of finding had not been consulted. Bossuet was money? He received the repeated com- deputed to the ungrateful task of persuad- manes ~ the King to supply whatever ing the deposed mistress to accept her the lady might ask for also that Ma- disgrace in a Christian spirit. Every dame Colbert should do her best to night he travelled post from Versailles amuse her. Colbert was used to these to Paris to have long interviews with her. little services connected with the Kings She overwhelmed him with reproaches, mistresses. He had been sent after the told him it was through his pride that fugitive Lavalli~re when she fled to she was driven forth, and that he wished Chaillot, and he will be shortly requested to make himself master of the Kings to bring M. de Montespan to reason, mind for his own purposes. Finding when that crotchety and obstreperous anger unavailing she turned to caresses, husband comes t~Paris and misbehaves tried to dazzle him with the glory of a himself as usual. Monsieur Colbert, cardinals hat, and the prospect of the writes the King, I am told that Mon- highest preferment in the Church. Poor tespan permits himself to use indiscreet Bossuet.s nerves were~orely tried by the language. He is a madman whom you hard labour of his position. He had al- will do me the pleasure to follow up 74 THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. closely. . . I know that Montespan has threatened to see his wife, and as he is quite capable of doing such a thing, and the results would, be objectionable, I again trust to you that he does not speak. Dont forget this; and above all see that he leaves Paris as soon as possible. So he obeyed his master, and supplied Ma- dame with money at her discretiop. But Louis had now returned from one of his military promenades, which he seriously thought were campaigns. Was this cruel and absolute separation necessary as St. Ambrose had exacted? Far more hu- mane was Pare La Chaise (Chaise de Commodit~, as Madame de Montespan ungratefully called him afterwards), who opined that they might surely meet and see each other, provided it were done in a Christian manner. Divine grace is so strong when it is present, as was indeed seen when, to avoid the faintest whisper of scandal, it was arranged that the King and the Montespan should meet in Ma- dames de Richelieus salon, surrounded by the stateliest dames, perfect dragons of virtue. The King and the Marquise had naturally much to say after so long a separation, and a retired window was most convenient for intimate conversa- tion. The talk was very intimate, and some persons noticed tears. When the dialogue was over, Louis and Madame de Montespan made a profound rever- ence to the venerable ladies, and passed into an adjoining apartment. The haugh- ty mistress returned to power more in- solent than ever for her temporary defeat; and Lullys music and Quinaults verse celebrated in the opera of Theseus the gratifying event. Venus and Mars de- clared Louis was equally precious to them both, and that Tout doit 1aimer, Tout doit le craindre. Whatever doubt there might be as re- garded his claims to universal love, he soon showed he could inspire something like universal fear. Just as he had seized the first opportunity at home to convince his people that he meant to be supreme, so in his dealings with foreign powers he at once adopted a tone of haughtiness which produced a marked effect; and it must be added, that impartial history will not condemn him as having in these early years exceeded the limits of an honoura- ble jealousy for the dignity of his crown. He first came across Spain, whose ambas- sador had, in a disgraceful riot in the streets of London, shamefully maltreated his envoy. Louis exacted and obtained the amplest apologies from the King of Spain, who was his own father-in-law. He next refused, with great warmth and dignity, the insulting pretension of Eng- land to have her flag saluted (by the ships of other nations lowering their t opsails to it), not only in British waters but on the ocean. Again, he compelled the Pope to offer the most submissive excuses for an indignity to which the French Ambassa- dor had been subjected at Rome. If the peremptoriness with which he stood upon his rights in each of these cases might lead men to suspect that he nourished a pride but slightly removed from insolence, still he was not the aggressor. The con- tingent of six thousand men which he sent to assist the Emperor against the Turks, was again a step of some vigour, but in nowise overbearing. And his sup- port of the Dutch against En gland in 1665 was an act of undoubtedly good policy, and consonant with the best tradi- tions of Richelieu and Mazarin. But here his moderation comes to an end; for the rest of his reign he was as insolent as he could be, and as his neighbours would let him. His first breach of public faith was his attack on the Spanish Netherlands, un- der colour of certain pretended rights of the Queen, his wife the Infanta Marie Th~r~se ;~ although he had renounced all claims in her name at his marriage. This aggression was followed by his fa- mous campaign in the Low Countries, when Franche Comt~ was overrun and conquered in fifteen days. He was stopped by the celebrated Triple Alliance in mid career. He had not yet been in- toxicated by success and vanity; Col- berts influence, always exerted on the side of peace, was at its height ; the men- acing attitude of Holland, England, and Sweden awed him, and he drew back. TIi~pride was deeply wounded, and he revolved deep and savage schemes of re- venge. Not on England, who se abject sovereign he knew could be had when- ever he chose to buy him, but on the he- roic little Republic which had dared to cross his victorious path. His mingled contempt and rage against Holland were ibdeed instinctive, spontaneous, and in the nature ~thin gs. Holland was the living, ant incarnation of the two things he hated mostthe principle of liberty in politics, and the principle of free inquiry in religion. With a passion too deep for hurry or carelessness, he made his preparations. The army was THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. 75 submitted to a complete reorganization. of the Dutch, he advised a rapid dash A change in the weapons of the infantry with six thousand horse on Amsterdam. was effected, which was as momentous in It is nearly certain, if this advice had its day as the introduction of the breech- been followed, that the little common- loading rifle in ours. The old inefficient wealth, so precious to Europe, would firelock was replaced by the flint musket, have been extinguished; and that that and the rapidity and certainty of fire scheme, horn of heroic despair, of trans- vastly increased. The undisciplined in- ferring to Batavia, under new stars and dependence of the officers commandii~g amid a strange vegetation, the treasure regiments and companies was suppressed of freedom and valour ruined in its old by the rigorous and methodical Colonel home by the Sardanapalus of Versailles. Martinet, whose name has remained in might have been put in execution. But other armies besides that of France as a it was not to be. Vigilant as Louis had synonym of punctilious exactitude.* been in preparation, he now seemed to The means of offence being thus secured, be as careless or incompetent in execu- the next step was to remove tbe, political tion. Not only he neglected the advice difficulties which stood in the way of of his best general, and wasted time; but Louiss schemes ; that is to dissolve Sir he did his best to drive his adversaries W. Temples diplomatic masterpiece, the to despair, and the resistance which Triple Alliance. The effeminate Charles comes of despair. They were told by II. was bought over by a large sum of proclamation that the towns which money, and the present of a pretty should try to resist the forces of his Ma- French mistress. Sweden also received jesty by opening the dykes, or by any a subsidy, and her schemes of aggran-. other means, would be punished with the dizement on the German continent were utmost rigour; and when the frost should encouraged. Meanwhile, the illustrious have opened roads in all directions, his man who ruled Holland showed that kind Majesty would give no sort of quarter to of weakness which good men often do in the inhabitants of the said towns, but the presence of the unscrupulous and would give orders that their goods should wicked. John de Witt could not be con- be plundered and their houses burnt. vinced of the reality of Louiss nefarious The Dutch envoys, headed by De Groot, designs. France had ever been Hollands son of the illustrious Grotius, came to the best friend, and he could not believe that Kings camp to know on what terms he the policy of Henry IV., of Richelieu, and would make peace. They were refused Mazarin would be suddenly reversed by j audience by the theatrical warrior, and the young King of France. He tried ne-I told not to return except armed with full gotiations in which he was amused by powers to make any concessions he Louis so long as it suited the latters pur- might dictate. Then the hucksters of pose. At last, when the Kings prepara- Amsterdam resolved on a deed of daring tions were complete, he threw off the which is one of the most exalted among mask, and insultingly told the Dutch that the high traditions of the world. They it v~as not for hucksters like them, and opened the sluices and submerged the usurpers of authority not theirs, to med- whole country under water. Still their dle with such high matters. Then com- position was almost desperate, as the menced one of the brightest pages in the winter frosts were nearly certain to re- history of national heroism. At first the store a firm foothold to the invader. Dutch were overwhelmed; town after They~an~e again suing for peace, offering town capitulated without a blow. It Ma~stricht, the Rhine fortresses, the seemed as if the United Provinces were whole of Brabant, the whole of Dutch going to be subdued, as Franche Comt~ Flanders, and an indemnity of ten mil- had been five years before. But Louis lions. This was proffering more than XIV. had been too much intoxicated by I Henry IV., Richelieu, or Mazarin, had that pride which goes before a fall, to re- ever hoped for. These terms were re- tain any clearness of head, if indeed he fused, and the refusal carried with it ever had any in military matters. The practidally the rejection of Belgium, great Condd, with his keen eye for attack which could not f~ to be soon absorbed at once suggested one of those tiger when thus surrounded by French posses- springs for which he was unequalled sions.* But Louis met these offers with among commanders. Seeing the dismay I * Louis XIV. became aware of the blunder he com- mitted in not closing with the offers of the Dutch. The Histoire de Louvois, pa~~Carnille Rousset, vol. reasons he gives for his refusal are so confused that it is i p. 163. difficult to guess their meaning. They were probably 76 THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. the spirit of an Attila. He insisted on the concession of Southern Gueldres and the island of Bommel, twenty-four mil- lions of indemnity, the endowment of the Catholic religion, and an extraordinary annual embassy charged to present his Majesty with a gold medal which should set forth how the Dutch owed to him the conservation of their liberties. Such vin- dictive cruelty makes the mind run for- ward and dwell with a glow of satisfied justice on the bitter days of retaliation and revenge which in a future, still thirty years off, will humble the proud and piti- less oppressor in the dust ; when he shall be a suppliant, and a suppliant in vain, at the feet of the haughty victors of Blen- heim, Ramillies, and Oudenarde. But Louiss mad career of triumph was gradually being brought to a close. He had before him not only the waste of waters, but the iron will and unconquer- able tenacity of the young Prince of Or- ange, who needed neither hope to make him dare, nor success to make him perse- vere. * Gradually the threatened neigh- bours of France gathered together and against her King. Charles II. was forced to recede from the French alliance by his Parliament in 1674. The military massa- cre xvent on, indeed, for some years longer in Germany and the Netherlands but the Dutch Republic was saved, and peace ratified by the treaty of Nimeguen. It may be doubted whethe~r Europe has fully realized the greatness of the peril she so narrrowly escaped on this oc- casion. The extinction of political and mental freedom, which would have fol- lowed the extinction of the Dutch Re- public, would have been one of the most disastrous defeats of the cause of liberty and enlightenment possible in the then condition of the world. To borrow an image from the savage criminal legislation of the time, it would have been the tear- ing out by the roots of the tongue of Eu- rope and civilization. The free presses of Holland gave voice to the stifled thought and agony of mankind. And they were the only free presses in the world. But Holland was not only the greatest book mart of Europe, it was not meant to be intelligible, as they were certainly not sincere. He afterwards gave the real reason in this bauglsty fashion: Posterity will believe me in these remarks or not as it likes, or ascribe my refusal to my ambition, and to my desire to revenge myself for the insults I had received from the Dutch. I will not justify myself before her. Ambition and glory are always excusable in a Prince, and especially in a young Prince, and one so well t~eated as I had been by For- tune. Rousset, vol. i. p. 379. * These words are M. Mignets. emphatically the home of thinkers and the birthplace of ideas. How precious it was to human welfare was shown by the hasty exultation of the Court of Rome over what seemed its approaching ruin. And, indeed, it suffices but to recall a few dates to realize what an eclipse would have darkened European thought had Louiss invasion of Holland left him master of the country. The two men then living to whose genius and courage the modern spirit of mental emancipation and toleration owes its first and most arduous victories were Pierre Bayle and John Locke. And it is beyond dispute, that if the French King had worked his will on Holland, neither of them would have been able to accomplish the task they did achieve under the protection of Dutch freedom. They both were forced to seek refuge in Holland from the big- otry which hunted them down in their re- spective countries. All the works of Bayle were published in 1-lolland, and some of the earliest of Lockes writinos appeared there also ; and if the re- mainder saw the light afterwards in Eno~- land, it is only because the Dutch, by saving their own freedom, were the means of saving that of England as well. Not one of the works of either Bayle or Locke, neither the Pens~es sur la Com~te, nor the Commentaire Philoso- phique, nor the immortal Critical Dic- tionary, nor the letters on Toleration, nor on Civil Government, nor that creative impulse of speculative thought for a hundred years to come, the Essay on the Human Understanding~ would have appeared if Louis had established his proconsuls in the Dutch provinces, and garrisoned their towns with his mus- keteers and dragoons. There is a futile, almost an immortal saying, Il ny a pas dhomme n~cessaire, meaning, in some confused way, to say, that if one man is ~ut*off and prevented from doing the work, another will forthwith appear capa- ble and willing to do it. People who hold this view would most likely say in the present case that if Locke and Bayle been hindered from writing, even if the Dutch free press had been extinguished, still the spirit of the age, the march of intellect, or some other equally defin- ite and scie n~Jfic entity, would have made it all right, nd the world would have been none the worse off. Such reflec- tions imply but feeble gratitude to the noble organs of human progress. What is meant when it is said that humanity can spare, without missing them, its best THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV. 77 leaders? Is it meant that it is com~e- tent to any one to take their place at a moments warning, and that if Bayle had not written his Critical Dictionary, and if Locke had not written his Essay, somebody else would? Perhaps the believers in the march of intellect for even a mob cannot march along a turnpike road .~vithout some leadership are not prepared to go so far as that. Time, they will say, would have brought forth other minds of equal or similar quality, which, findin~ the same unre- solved problems before them, would have attacked and resolved them ; so that the same advance would have been made, only the names prominently connected with the advance would have been dif- ferent, and progress would be equally certain in either case. The answer to this is, that it is simply untrue. For, granting for sake of argument though in truth it is a most unwarrantable assump- tion that Bayles and Lockes, or their equals, are fruits that come like pears and apples in due season, still the very fact that we have to wait for their succes- sors to do the ~vork they were prevented from doing, causes the loss of a stage, a delay, and who can tell how long a delay? And again the delay, has it had no in- fluence; has it left the problem in the same position, or not rather greatly in- creased its difficulty? So that not equal but greater men are required to solve it; not men as courageous, but more cour- ageou s are required to face it. Those who say that Truth is great and will pre- vail, overlook the fact that Truth can only prevail if there are men forthcom- ing capable of finding it, and brave enough to assert it. Have they never heard of societies where, in consequence of steady unflinching repression of such men, the race has at last died out? Have they not heard of the history of Spain? The country which produced Ximenes, Cervantes, and Servetus cannot be denied intellectual ardour and initia- tive. Then how came it that Spanish intellect has not a single name to show on the muster-roll of human emancipa- tors? It seems likely, to sa~ the least, that a careful extirpation of seminal minds, a careful suppression, as soon as they appear, of seminal ideas, will have the effect of causing them to cease to exist: and that the march of intellect and progress of the species are not quite matters of course, whether interfered with or not. It is, perhaps, replied that France and Europe were in no dange of falling under the yoke of anything re- sembling the Spanish Inquisition. Who can say there was no danger of such a horror ? A French Inquisition would have differed from the Spanish in detail might have been at the service of the Crown rather than of th~ Church; might have condemned opinions tolerated at Rome, and vice verscf. But it would not, therefore, have been a less stifling op- pressor of the human mind. Indeed, the severity of Louiss censorship did be- come an Inquisition. And why was it not permanently successful? Mainly, one can fearlessly answer, because Holland remained free, to assail the citadel of su- perstition and tyranny with a ceaseless storm of intellectual fire. Because Bayle, Basnage, Jurieu, Jaquelot, Leclerc, LEn- fant, and a host more, did publish their books, which penetrated into France and undermined the despots power, do what he would. Because. Locke found a refuge there from the fury of Tory and Jesuitical malignity. Again it must be repeated, that on the safety of Dutch liberty the future of English liberty was dependent. At least, no one can maintain that if Holland had been anni- hilated in 1672, the English revolution could have occurred in the form and at the time it did. It is far more probable it would never have occurred at all, and that Louis, who had invited Spain, in the early years of his reign, to a joint crusade against England, would, after the destruc- tion of Dutch independence, have been able, in alliance with the malignant Stuart, to overcome the liberties of this country also. Then, we may ask, what would have become of the Principia of Isaac Newton? For although that book was published in 1687, just one year before Jamess expulsion, we may be quite ~ertain that those two deadly enemies of reason, Louis and James, would have been much farther advanced ,in their campaio~n ao~ainst the freedom of mankind had Holland disappeared fifteen years before. It can hardly be doubted that James II., who, even in that great crisis of his fortune, found time to quar- rel with Cambridge, and to attempt to force a Benedictine monk on the Univer- sity against the stathtes, would have con- sulted many monks about the publication of such a book, and that the learned members of his Church would probably have had scruples with regard to an hy- pothesis which, three-quarters of a cen 78 THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. tury afterwards, they carefully abstained haps it was an inopportune moment; but from declaring to be true .* The memora- it was a subject for which she felt a few ble expansion of thought which, in the minutes were enough, as it could not but reigns of Queen Anne and the first be painful to both. George, made England the wonder and Well, mother, he said, with a tone model of the free spirits of other nations, of resignation. He was going next day, and the high school in which Montes- which gave him strength to bear this or- quieu, Voltaire, and Lessing learned to deal, whatever its motif might be. see the wide horizons of the future and I have said nothing to you indeed, the distant peaks of knowledge, radiant indeed, I have wished to say nothing with inspiration to those who could think about Richard, my dear boy, listen and dare all this must have been lost to me with patience 1 will not keep you to humanity but for the noble stand made long about Vals mother your by little Holland in 1672. The conditions wife. of the time had made her a Thermopyke What about her? said Richard, with of thought, and her fate was happier, but harsh Jrevity. He made a movement in no degree less glorious, than that of almost as if to throw off his mothers arm. Leonidas and his band of Spartans. My dear, you must not think this With the Peace of Nimeguen the earli- subject is less disagreeable to me than to er and nobler portion of Louis XIV.s you. Nothing has been said about her reign came to a close. The remaining for a long time period of disaster and reaction will be And why should anything be said treated of in the following number. about her? said Richard. In such a JAMES COTTER MoRISoN. hopeless business, what is the advantage of discussion? She has chosen her path * The editors, Le Sueur and Jacquier, of the Order in life, which is not the same as mine.~, of Minims, declared, in their reprint of the Prirscipia, His soft and oentle face set into a published in 1760, that they were playing a part which b did not belong to them in admitting the motion of the harsh rigidity : it grew stern, almost se- earth. Hinc alienam coacti sumus gerere personam. vere Come indoors, mother the They add, C~terum, latis a summis Pontificibus contra telluris motum decretis nos obsequiprofitemur ~ evening gets cold, he added, after a pause. ______________ Just a word, Richard just one word! Do you not see a trace of some- From Blackwoods Magazine. thing different rising in her ? She has THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS brought back your boy: I suppose she BROTHER. thinks, poor thing, that it is just she should have one of them CHAPTER VII. Mother, said Richard, I am aston RICHARD, there is one disagreeable ished at your charity. You say, poor subject which, as you said nothing about thing. Do you remember that she has it, I have avoided as long as possible; but ruined your sons life? I must speak now, before you go. Lady Eskside made no answer. She Lady Eskside had led her son out upon looked at him wistfully, with an evident the terrace the evening before he was to repression of something that rose to her leave. She was dressed for dinner in her lips. black satin gown, with a lace cap and ~ ~$he has been my curse, said Rich- stomacher, which even his fastidious eye ard, vehemently. For Gods sake, if approved. She had come to the age when she will leave us alone, let us leave her little change of costume is possible. alone. She has made my life a desert. Sometimes she wore velvet instead of Is it choice, do you think, that makes me satin, but that was about all the variety an outcast from my own country? that she made, and her lace was her only shuts me out of everything your son and vanity. She hRd a crimson Indian scarf my fathers son ought to have been? thrown over her head and shoulders. Why cannot I take my proper place in Her erect old figure was still as trim, and societymy natural place? You know her step as springy, as any girls. She well enough~hat the answer is her, was the picture of an old lady, everybody only her. She has been my ruin: she is allowed; and it was true she was old the curse of my life. yet full of an unquenchable youth. He spoke almost with passion, growing She had taken her.~son by the arm in the not red but white in the intensity of his interval before dinner, and led him out feelings. Lady Eskside looked at him, into the open air to speak to him. Per- kept looking at him, with a face in which THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. 79 sympathy shone along with some other What are you two doing there, phi- expression not so easy to be defined. landering like a lad and a lass ? said the Richard, she said, in a low voice, old lord. Richard, bring your mother all you say is true who can know it in; shell catch cold. Theres a heavy better than I do? but oh, my dear, mind dew falling, though its a fine night. she could have had no power on your It is my mother who insists on stay- life, if you had not given it to her of ing out in the night air, which I disap- your free will. prove of, said Richard. The Italians So, then, it is I alone who am to have a prejudice on the ~subject of sun- blame ? said Richard, with a laugh, bet. They think it the most dangerous which was half rage and half scorn. I hour of the day. I am so much of an might have known that was what you Italiafi now and likely to be more so were sure to say. that I have taken up their ideas at Yes, you might have known it, said least so far as sunset is concerned. Lady Eskside for nothing, I hope, So much an Italian and likely to be will ever shut my mind to justice; but more so I I hope not, I hope not, not because I am in the habit of reproach- Richard, said his father. After this ing you, Richardfor that I never did, good beginning you have made, it will be even when you had made my heart sore; hard upon your poor mother and me if but we need not quarrel about it, you and we cannot tempt you home. me. What I want to-know is, if you do Or drive me away forever, said not see now the still greater importance Richard, so low that his mother only of getting some hold upon her; for Val- heard him. She grasped his arm with a entinesfor all our sakes ? sudden vehemence of mingled love and You will never get a hold upon her; anger, which for the moment startled it is folly to dream of it. She is beyond him, and then dropped it, and stepl)ed in your reach, or that of any reasonable through the window, letting the subject creature. Mother, come in the bell drop altogether. She was unusually must have rung for dinner. bright at dinner, excited, as it seemed, by I have written to the man we em- the sharp little encounter she had just ployed before, said Lady Eskside, hur- had, which had stirred up all her powers. riedly. This was what I wanted to say. Lord Eskside, who was not of a fanciful Do not stare at me, Richard! I will not nature, and whose moods did not change put up with it. I must do my duty as I so quickly, regarded her with some sus- see it, and whatever comes of it. I have picion. He was himself depressed by given him all the particulars I could, and his sons approaching departure, and told him to try every means, and lose no somewhat disposed to be angry, as he time. Her heart must be soft after giv- generally was when depressed. ing up her child. You must have been saying some- So, said Richard, with a quivering thing to your mother to raise her spirits, pale smile, you consult me what should he said, after one or two ineffectual at- be done after all the steps have been tempts to subdue herwhen Richard taken. This is kind! You haye taken and he were left to their claret. care to provide for my domestic comfort, Not I, sir, said Richard, on the mother____ contrary; my mother has ideas with If we should find her which God which I4lis~a~gree entirely. grant I I will take charge of her, said Ay, boy, to be sure, said the old Lady Eskside, with a flush of resentment. lord, she was saying something to me. Neither your comfort nor your pride Then it was opposition, and not satis- shall be interfered with never fear. faction as I thought? You see, Richard, You are most considerate, mother, women have their own ways of tl~inking. said Richard. Your house, then, is to We cannot always follow their reasoning; be finally closed to me, after the effort I but in the main your mothers perhaps have made to revisit it ? Well, after all, right. I suppose the Palazzo Graziani suits And having said this, in mild backing best. up of his wifes bold~ suggestions, Lord You are cruel to say so, Richard, Eskside changed the subject and spoke said his mother. Tears came quickly to of the property, and of new leases he was her bright old eyes; but at that moment granting, and the improvement of the es- Lord Eskside looked out from one of the tate. drawing-room windows, ~d stayed the There is a great deal of land about further progress of the quarrel. Lasswade that might be feued very ad- So THE STORY OF VALENTINE AND HIS BROTHER. 4 i vantageously but I would not do it with- but let me stay among strangers, out ascertaining your feeling on the sub- where the circumstances of my existence ject~ Richard. It cant make much dif- need not be inquired into. ference in my time; but in the course of I dont know that you have anything nature that time cant be very long. to be ashamed of, said Lord Eskside, I wish it might be a hundred years, with a husky voice. said Richard, with no false sentiment; Anyhow, I cannot, offer myself as a for indeed, apart from natural affection, subject to be discussed by all the ~vorld, to be Lord Eskside and live up here in said Richard. Courage, he said to him- the paternal chateau among the woods self to-morrow and all this will be over! did not charm his imagination much. He made a strenuous effort to be patient, That is all very pleasant for you to strengthened by this thought. say, said his father, receiving and dis- Well, Richard, if you have made up missing the compliment with a wave of your mind but you know our wishes, his hand ; but, as I say, in the course said the old lord with a si~h. Little Val of nature my time must be but short. had been exercising his grandfathers There is just the question about the temper by his excursions round the table amenities upon which every man has his a little while before. He had been obsti- own opinion nate and childishly disobedient till he The what did you say? asked was carried off by the ladies; and Lord Richard, puzzled. Eskside, somewhat out of temper, as I The amenities of the place. It is have said, by reason of being depressed I true the village is not visible from the in spirits, had been ready to augur evil house, but if in the future you were to of the childs future career. But the find the new houses that might be built contradiction of Vals father was more an eyesore grave. When he resisted his parents That is entirely a British notion, wishes it was of little use to be angry. Richard answered, with a smile ; I The old lord sighed with a dreary sense think great part of the beauty in Italy is that nothing was to be made by strug- from the universal life you see every- gling. Of all hopeless endeavours that where villages climbing up every hill- of attempting to make your child carry side. No; I have no English prejudices out the plans you have formed, is (he on that point. thought to himself) the most hopeless. I dont know about it being an English Everything might favour the project prejudice, said Lord Eskside, who never which would make a mans friends happy, forgot the distinction between English and satisfy all their aspirations for him and Scotch, as his son invariably did. when, lo! a causeless caprice, a foolish Then you dont object to feuing? dislike, would balk everything. It is true Willie Maitland will be a proud man. that he had for years resigned the hope He has told me often I might add a thou- of seeing Richard take his true place in sand a-year to the income of the property the county, and show at once to the new by judicious feus. They will be taken men what the good old blood was worth, up by all kind of shopkeeper bodies, re- and to the old gentry that the Rosses tired tradesmen, and the like a consid- were still their leaders, as they had been eration which gives me little trouble, for generations; but this visit had Richard, but may perhaps act upon you. r~Aight a renewal of all the old visions. No? Well, youre aphilosopher: theyre He had seen with a secret pride of which, bad at an election ; theyre totally even to his wife, he had not breathed a beyond your control unless, indeed, word, his son assume with ease a social your mother and I were to put ourselves position above his brightest hopes. The out of our way to visit and make of county had not only received him, but them ; but we would want a strong in- followed him, admired him, listened to ducement for that. his opinions as those of an oracle. To Here Lord Eskside looked at his son bring him in for the county after this, with a look of mild entreaty, not saying and to carry his election by acclamation, anything; and Richard knew his father would be ch~ds-play, his father thought. well enough to comprehend. But Richard did not see it. He was, or You must not think of that, sir, in- assumed to be, indifferent to the ap- deed you must not. Am I in a position plause of the county. He cared noth- to be set up before the county, and have ing for his own country, or for that bles- every fact of my life brought up against sedness of dwelling among his own peo- me? No, father, anything else you like ple which Scripture itself has celebrated. THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. 8i No wonder that Lord Eskside should sigh. I believe you think more of these fiddling play-acting foreigners, he said, after an interval of silence, during which his eyebrows and his under lip had been in full activity, than for all our traditions, and all the duties of your condition in life. Every man has his taste, sir, Rich- ard answered, with a shrug of his shobl- ders, which irritated his father still more deeply. Well, you are old enough to judge for yourself, he said, getting up abrupt- ly from the table. A great many things to say to his son had been in the old lords mind. He had meant to expound to him his own view of the politics of the day, at home, to which naturally Rich- ard had not paid much attention. He had meant to impress upon him the line the Rosses had always taken in questions exclusively Scotch. But all this was cut short by Richards refusal even to con- sider the question. Being sad before- hand by reason of his sons departure, I leave you to imagine how melancholy- cross and disappointed Lord Eskside was now. What ! is that imp still up? he said, as going into the drawing-room he stumbled over his own best-beloved stick, upon which Val had been riding races round the room. How dared you take my stick, sir? If you do that again you shall be whipped. You darent whip me, cried saucy Valentine. Grandma says I am never to be frightened no more I aint; and Im to have what I want. Grandma! he is taking my stick away! Your stick, ye little whipper-snapper! No; one generation succeeds another soon enough, but not so soon as that. Send the boy to his bed, my lady. He ought to have been there an hour ago. Just for this night, said Lady Esk- side, as she caught the little rebel, and, holding him close in her arms, smoothed the ruffled curls on his forehead, and whispered in his ear that he was to be good, and not to make grandpa angry. Just for this nightas his father is going away.~~ Oh, his father! said her husband, with a slight snort of irritation which showed Lady Eskside that the last even- ing had been little more satisfactory to him than to herself. Her own voice had faltered a little as she spoke of Richards departure, and she looke4 at him wistful- ly, with an incipient tear in the corner of LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 266 her eye, hoping (though she might have known better) for some response; but Richard, as bland and gentle as ever, had seated himself by Mary, to whom he was talking, and altogether ignored his moth- ers furtive appeal. Valentine gave her enough to do just at that moment to hold him, which, perhaps, ~vas well for her; and Lord Eskside walked away to the other end of the room, pretendin~ to look at the books which were scattered about the tables, and whistling softly under his breath, which was one of his ways of showing irritation. Even Mary was agi- tated, she scarcely knew why; not on Richards account, she said to herself, but as feeling the suppressed excitement in the house, the secret sense of disap- pointment and deep heart-dissatisfaction which was in those two old people, who had but little time before them to be hap- py in, and so wanted the sunshine of life all the more. Richards visit had been a success in one sense. It had answered to their highest hopes, and more than answered; but yet in more intimate con- cerns, in a still closer point of view, it had been a failure; and of this the fa- ther and mother were all the more tremu- lously sensible that he showed so little consciousness of itnay, no conscious- ness at all. He sat for a long time by Mary, talking to her of the most ordinary subjects, while his mother sat silent in her chair, and Lord Eskside, at the other end of the room, made-believe to look for something in the drawers of one of the great cabinets, opening and shutting them impatiently. Richard sat and talked quite calmly during these demon- strations, unaffected by them. He kissed his child coolly on the forehead, and bid him good-bye, with something like a sen- timent of internal gratitude to be rid of the little plague, who rather repelled than attracted him. Mary went to her room shortly ~tter Valentines removal, which was effected with some difficulty, pleading headache, and in reality unable to bear longer the painful atmosphere of family constraint Lady Esksides half-appeal- ing, half-affronted looks, and anxious consciousness of every movement her son made, and the old lords irritation, which was more demonstrative. Then the three who were left gathered together round the fire, an~ some commonplace conversation conversation studiously kept on the level of commonplace ensued. Richard ~vas to start early next morning, and proposed to take leave of his mother that night -~ not to disturb 82 THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. her at such an unearthly hour, he said. Did you ever leave the house at any hour when I did not make you your breakfast and see you away? Lady Eskside asked, with a thrill of pain in her voide. And as she left the room, she grasped his hand, and looked wistfully in his face, while he stooped to kiss her. Richard, she said in a half whisper, as the two faces approached close td each other, for myself I do not ask anythinc but, oh, mind, your father is an old man ! Please him if you can. Lord Eskside was leaning upon the mantelpiece, gazing into the fire. He continued the same commonplace strain of talk when his son came back to him. How badly the trains corresponded; how hard it would be, without waiting at cross stations and losing much time, to accom- plish the journey. And as you have to make so early a start you should go to your bed soon, my boy, he said, and held out his hand; then grasping his sons, as his wife had done, added hastily, his eyebrows working up and down What I have been saying to you, Rich- ard, may look less important to you than it does to me; but if you would make an effort to please your mother! Shes been a good mother to you; and neither I nor anything in the world can give her the pleasure that you could. Good night. I shall see you in the morning; and Lord Eskside took up his candle and hurried away. The effect of this double appeal, so pa- thetically repeated, was not, I fear, all that it should have been. When he reached his own room, Richard yawned, and stretching his arms above his head Thank heaven! I shall be out of this to-morrow, he said. CHAPTER VIII. I HAVE now to change the scene and bring before the notice of the reader an- other group, representing another side of the picture, with interests still more oppo- site to those of Lord Eskside and his heir-apparent than were, even, the inter- ests of that heir-apparents mother. But to exhibit this other side, I have fortu- nately no need to descend to the lower levels of society, to Jean Macfarlanes disreputable tavern, or any haunt of doubful people. On the contrary, I know no region of more unblemished respecta- bility or higher character than Moray Place in Edinburgh, which is the spot I wish to indicate. strangers and tourists do not know much of Moray Place. To themand great is their good-fortune Edinburgh means the noble crowned ridge of the Old. Town, fading off misty and mysterious into the wooded valley be- neath ; the great crags of the castle rising into mid-sky, and the beautiful background of hills. Upon this they gaze from the plateau of Princes Street; and far might they wander without seeing anything half so fine as that storied height, lying grey in sunshine, or twin- kling with multitudinous lights, as the blue poetic twilight steals over the Old Town. But on the other side of that middle ground of Princes Street lies a New Town, over which our grandfathers re- joiced greatly as men rejoice over the works of their own hands, despite the fullest acknowledgment of the work of their ancestors. There lie crescents, squares, and places, following the down- ward sweep of the hill, with, it is true, no despicable landscape to survey (chiefly from the back windows), yet shutting themselves out with surprising compla- cency from all that distinguishes Edin- burgh amid the other cities of the world. Nobody can say that we of the Scots na- tion are not proud of our metropolis; but this is how our fathers and grandfathers acute humorous souls as most of them were, with a large spice of romance in them, and of much r1~ore distinctly marked individual character than we possess in our dayasserted the funda- mental indifference of human nature, in the long-run, to natural beauty. How comfortable, how commodious are those huge solid houses! houses built for men to be warm in, to feast in, and gather their friends about them, but not with any ~sthetical meaning. Of all these streets, and squares, and crescents, Moray Place perhaps is the most pala- tial, or was, at least, at the period of which I speak. Personally, I confess l~hat~t makes a very peculiar impression on me. Years ago, so many that I dare not count them, there appeared in the pages of this Magazine a weird and terri- ble story called the Iron Shroud, in which the feelings of an unhappy crim- inal shut up in an iron cell (I think, to make the horror greater, of his own in- vention) which by some infernal contri- vance diminished every day, window after window disap~earing before the wretchs eyes, until at last the horrible prison fell upon him and became at once his grave and his shroud were depicted with vivid power. This thrilling tale always returns to my mind when I stand within THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. 83 the grand and gloomy enclosure of Moray Place. It seems to me that the walls quiver and draw closer even while I look at them; and if the circle were gradually to lessen, one window disappearing after another, and the whole approaching slow- ly, fatally towards the centre, I should not be surprised. But in Edinburgh, Moray Place is, or was, considered, a noble circus of houses, and nobody feels afraid to live in it. I suppose as it has now stood so long, it will never crash to- geth er, and descend on the head of some breathless wretch in the garden which forms its centre ; but a superstitious dread of this catastrophe, I own, would haunt me if I were rich enough to be able to live in Moray Place. Mr. Alexander Pringle, however, never once thought of this when he established his tabernacle there. This gentleman was an advocate, to use the Scotch term the cosmopolitan and universal term, instead of the utterly conventional and unmeaning apl)ellation of barrister com- mon to the English alone at the Scotch bar. His father before him had been a W. S.. or Writer to the Signet a title of which I confess myself unable to ex- plain the exact formal meaning. How these comparatively unimportant people came to be the heirs-at-law, failing the Rosses, of the barony of Eskside, I need not tell. Pringle is a name which bears no distinction in its mere sound like Howard or Seymour; but notwithstand- ing, it is what is called in Scotland a good name; and this branch of the Pringles were direct descendants from one of the Eskside barons. When Dick Rosss misfortunes happened, and his wife forsook him, Mr. Alexander Prin- gle, then himself recently married, pro- ducing heirs at a rate which would have frightened any political economist, and possessing a wife far too virtuous ever to think of running away from him, became all at once a person of consequence. He felt it himself more than any one, yet all society (in Moray Place) had felt it. By this time he had a very pretty little fam- ily, seven boys and one girl, all healthy, vigorous, and showing every appearance of long and prosperous life. Fear not, dear reader! I do not mean to follow in this history the fortunes of Sandy, Willie, Jamie, Val, Bob, Tom, and Ben. They were excellent fellows, and eventually received an admirable educa- tion at the Edinburgh Academy; but I dare not enter upon th~chronicle of such a race of giants. Val was born about the time that Richard Rosss children disap- peared, and the Pringles christened the baby Valentine Ross, feelino that this might be a comfort to the old lord, whose name-son had thus mysteriously dis- appeared. Mr. Pringi e spoke of this event as an inscrutable dispensation,~~ and lamented his cousins strange mis- fortunes to everybocVy he encountered. But dreadful as the misfortune ~vas, it made him several inches higher, and threw a wavering and uncertain glimmer of possible fortune to come over the un- conscious heads of Sandy, Willie, Val, and the rest. They cared very little, but their father cared much, and was very wide awake, and constantly on the watch for every new event that might happen on Eskside. The seven years of quiet, dur- ing which nothing was heard of Richards children, ripened his hopes to such an extent that he almost felt himself the next in succession; for a mild dilettante like Dick Ross, who always lived abroad, did not seem an obstacle worth counting. Perhaps he was in consequence a little less careful of his practice at the bar ; for this tantalizing shadow of a coronet had an effect upon his being which was scarcely justified by the circumstances anyhow, though they managed to keep up their establishment in Moray Place, and to give the boys a good education, the Pringles did not advance in prosperity and comfort as they ought to have done, considering how well-connected they were, and the good abilities of the head of the house. Though he would sometimes foolishly show a disregard for the punctilios of the law in his own per- son, and was now and then outwitted in an argument, yet Mr. Pringle was under- stood to be an excellent lawyer; and he had a certain gift of lucidity in stating an argument which found him favour alike in tl~ ~es of clients and of judges. Had he l~een a little more energetic, prob- ably he would have already begun to run the course of legal preferment in Scot- land. He was sheriff of the county in which his little property lay; and at one time no man had a better chance of ris- ing to the rank of Solicitor-General or even Lord Advocate, and of finally set- tling ~s Lord Pringle or Lord Dairuluzian (the name of his ~joperty) upon the judi- cial bench. But his progress was ar- rested by this shadow of a possible pro- motion with which his profession would have nothing to do. Lord Dairuluzian might be a sufficiently great title if no more substantial dignity was to be had, 84 THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. but Lord Eskside was higher; and the~ mans imagination went off wildly after the hereditary barony, leaving the re-i ward of legal eminence far in the back- ground. Gradually he had built himself up with the thought of this advancement; and though they were by no means rich enough to afford it, nothing but his wifes persistent holding back would have kept him from sending Sandy, his eldest boy, to Eton, by way of preparing him for his possible dignity. For the days when boys were sent from far and near to the High School of Edinburgh are over; and it is now the Scottish parents pride to make English schoolboys of his sons, and to eliminate from the speech of his daughters all trace of their native accent. Mrs. Pringle, however, was prudent enough to withstand her husbands desire. What would he do at Eton? she said. Learn English? If hes not content with the English you and I speak, its a pity; and as for manners, he behaves himself very ~vell in company as it is, and youll never convince me that ill-man- nered louts will be made into gentlemen by a year or two at a public school. You may send him if you like, Alexander youre the master but you will get no countenance from me. When a well- conditioned husband is told that he is the master, there is an end of him. Mr. Pringle was not made of hard enough material to resist so strong an opposition; and then it would have cost a great deal of money. Well, my dear, well talk it over another time, he said, and put off the final decision indefinitely; which was a virtual giving in without the necessity of acknowledging defeat. After all this gradually growing satis- faction and confidence in his own pros- pects, it is almost impossible to describe the tremendous effect which the news of Richards return, and of the strange events which had taken place at Ross- craig, had upon the presumptive heir. He spoke not a word to any one for the first two days, but xvent about his busi- ness moodily, like a man under the shadow of some deadly cloud. The first shock was terrible, and scarcely less ter- rible was the excitement with which he listened to any rumour that reached him piecing the bits of news together. For a week he neglected his business ; for- sook, except when his attendance was compulsory, the Parliament House; and, if he could have had his will, would have done nothing all day but discuss the as- tounding tale, which at first he declared to be entire fiction, a made-up story, and pretended to laugh at. He hung about his dressing-room door in the morning, while his wife finished her toilet, talking of it through the door-way; he hovered round the breakfast-table, after he had finished his meal, neglecting his Scots- man ; he was continu~illy appearing in the drawing-room when Mrs. Pringle did not want him, and deaved her, as she said, with this eternal subject. To no one else could he speak with freedom; but this sweet privilege of wifehood, in- stead of being an unmingled good, often becomes, in the imperfection of all created things, a bore to the happy being who is thus elevated into the ideal position of her spouses alter ego. Mrs. Pringle was not sentimental, and she soon got heartily sick of the subject. She would have cheerfully sold, at any time, for a new dinner dressa thing she was pretty generally in want ofall her chances, which she had no faith in, of ever becom- ing Lady Eskside. Dont you think, Alexander, she said, having been driven beyond endur- ance by his rejection of a proposed match at golf on Musselburgh Links, a thing which proved the profound gravity of the crisis, dont you think th?~t the best thing you could do would be to take the coach and go out to Lasswade, and inquire for yourself? Take Violet with you a little fresh air would do her good; and if you were to talk this over with somebody who knows about it, in- stead of with me, that knows nothing more than yourself Goto Lasswade 1 said Mr. Prin- gle that is a step that never occurred to me. No; I have not been invited to Rosscraig to meet Dick, and it would look very strange if I were to go where nobody is wanting me. If you think, in- d,ged, that Vi would be better for a little chano~e But no Lord Esk- side would not like it there would be an undignified look about it an under- hand look; still, if you think an expedi- tion would be good for Vi It was thus that under pressure of a personal anxiety a man maundered and h~sitated who could give very sound advice to his clients, and could speak very much t~ the purpose before the Lords of Session. Mrs. Pringle knew all this, and did not despise her husband. She felt that she herself was wiser in their own practical concerns than he was, but gave him full credit for all his other advantages, and for that ability in his THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. profession which did not always make brother, could hold her up in his hand, to itself apparent at home. And she had a the admiration of all beholders. One great many things to do on this par- daughter in such a family holds an ideal ticular afternoon, and was driven nearly position, such as few girls achieve other- out of her senses, she allowed afterwards, ~vise at so early an age. Their little by this eternal discussion about Dick sister was the very princess of all these Rosss children and the succession to boys. The big ones petted and spoiled Eskside. her, the little ones believed~ in and rever Do you remember, she said, exer- enced her. To the dne she was some- cising her ingenuity, with as little waste thing more dainty than any playthinga of words as possible for the mother of living doll, the prettiest ornament in the seven sons, not to speak of one little house, and the only one which could be daughter besides, who is not rich enough; handled without breaking wantonly, on to keep a great many servants, has not purpose to have them punished, in their much time to waste in talk that hands; and to the others she was a small little cottage at the Hewan, which I was mother, quaintly unlike the big one, yet always so fond of? The children are; imposing upon them by her assumption fond of it too. As you are off your of the maternal ways and authority. match, and have the afternoon to spare, When she addressed the nursery audi- go away down and see if the Hewan is ence with, Now you ittle boys, mind let, and whether we can have it for the what I say to you, the babies acknowl summer. edged the shadow of authority, and felt But, my dear, it is not half big that Vi wielded a visionary sceptre. She enough for us, Mr. Pringle began. was very serious in her views of life, and His wife turned upon him a momentary held what might appear to some people look of impatience. What does it exaggerated ideas as to the guilt of spill- matter whether its big or little, when you ing your tea upon your frock, or tearing want to see what is going on ? she said. your pinafore; and was apt to wonder Take the child with you, and ask about where naughty little children who did it. It would be fine to have such a place, such things expected to go to, with an to send Vi when the heat, gets too much unswerving and perfectly satisfied faith for her. These last words were spoken in everlasting retribution, such as would in perfect good faith, for people in Edin- have edified the severest believer. Violet burgh keep up a fiction of believing awarded these immense penalties to very that the heat is too much for themas trifling offences, not being as yet wise if they were in London ~or Paris, or any- enough to discriminate or get her land- where else, where people love a yearly scape into perspective. Her dolls were change. taught their duty in the most forcible So it would, said Mr. Pringle; and way, and she herself carried out her you could go out yourself sometimes and tenets by punishing them severely when spend a long day. It would do you they displeased her. She got up from good, my dear. I think I will go. the midst of them now, and though she Run and tell nursie to put on your had been lecturing them solemnly a few best hat, Violet, said her mother; and minutes before, huddled them up, with you may have your kid gloves, if you legs and arms in every kind of contor- will be sure not to lose them. You are tion,,jnt~ a corner which was appropri- going out to the country with papa. ated to her. She walked up-stairs very Little Violet rose from where she had gravely to be dressed, but made such a been sitting, with a family of dolls round fuss about her kid gloves, that nurse, her, on the carpet. She had been giving with two baby boys on her hands, was her family their daily lessons, and felt it nearly driven to her wits end. On ordi, a very important duty. She was but six nary occasions, Vi wore little cotton years old one of those fair-haired little gloves, with the tops of the fingers sewed maidens who abound in Scotland, with inside in a little lump, which made her hair of two shades of colour, much smallhands (as they used to make mine) brighter in the half-curled locks which extremely uncomf~table. When she was lay about her shoulders than on her head, fully equipped, she was a very trim little With these light locks she had dark eyes, woman not fine, but as imposing and an unusual combination, and pretty in- dignified in her appearance as a lady of fant features, scarcely formed yet into six can manage to be; and when the anything which gave p~mise of beauty. anxious heir-at-law to the Eskside barony She was so light that Sandy, her big came down-stairs with her to start on this 86 THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. mission of inquiry, she was very particu- lar that he should have his umbrella nicely rolled, and that his hat should be brushed to perfection. She liked her papa to be neat, as she was, and took, in short, a general charge of him, as of all the house. This, dear reader, is the villain of this history, who is bent on spoiling,~ if he can, the heros prospects, and working confusion in all the arrangements of the Eskside family, for the advantage of him- self and his Sandy, the next heir failing Richard Rosss problematical children. But on this particular day when he lifted his little girl into the coach, and made her comfortable and smiled at her as she chatted to him, notwithstanding all his preoccupations, he was not a very bad villain. He would have liked to turn out to the streets the little beggars brat of whom he had heard such incredible stories, and who was supposed to be likely to supplant in his lawful inherit- ance himself and his handsome boys but then he had never realized the individ- uality of this beggars brat, while his heart was very much set upon his own children and their advantage a state of mind not very uncommon. He was as good to little Violet as if he had been an example of all the virtues, and instead of feeling at all ashamed of so very small a com- panion, was as proud of her as if she had been a duchess. To see her brighten up as the coach rolled on through the green country roads distracted him for the first time from his all-absorbing anxiety; and as they came in sight of the village of Lasswade, and he pointed out the river and the woods and the village houses to little Vi, he almost forgot all about the barony of Eskside. You would say that evil intentions could scarcely take very deep root in a heart so occu- pied; but human nature is very subtle in its combinations, and it is curious how easily virtue can sometimes accommodate itself by the side of very ill neighbours. Mr. Pringle had no idea or intention of working mischief, though mischief might no doubt arise by chance in his path. All that he wanted was justice, and to make sure that there was no cuckoos egg foisted into the nest at Eskside. CHAPTER IX. OH, sir, no, sir, said the smiling landlord at the Black Bull, where Mr. Pringle went to have some luncheon and to order a mach?ne, to take Vi and himself to the Hewan thedittle cottage, which was the ostensible end of his mis- sion theres different stories going about the country, but we must not be- lieve all we hear. The real truth is, Im assured by them that ought to know, that the little boy came over from foreign parts with his father, the Honourable Richard Ross, to be brought up as is be- fitting, in a decent-like house, and among folk that have some fear of God before their eyes, which its no easy to find, so far as I can hear, abroad. Came over with his father! cried Mr. Pringle, through whose soul this in- formation smote like a sword. if this was the case, farewell to the beggars brat theory, and to all hope both for Sandy and himself. Well, thats the most reasonable story, said the landlord ; theres plenty of other nonsense flying about the country. What we a heard at first was, that some gangrel body knockit loud and lang at the ha door the night of that awfu storm, and threw in a bundle, nigh knocking over auld Harding the butler; and when lights were gotfor the lamp was blown out by the wind it was found to be this boy. Its an awfu age for sensation this, and thats the sensational story folk ca it. But Mr. Richard, there can be nae doubt, has been home direct from Florence and Eitaly, and, what so, likely as that he should bring the bairn himsel? So far as I can learn, abody that is anybody, so to speak, the gentry and them that ought to ken, believes he came with his father. The servants and folk about the town up- hold the other story; but you ken, sir, the kind of story that pleases common folk best? Aye something wonderful; fancy afore reason. But surely it is very easy to get to the bottom of it, said Mr. Pringle, with a,~be~ting heart. Was the child with Mr. Ross, for instance, when he arrived? Na, I never heard that, said the landlord, swaying over to the other side. The carriage passed by our windows. So far as I could see, there was but him- self inside, and his man on the box. We maunna inquire too close into details, sir especially you that are a relation of the family. That is e~ctly why it is so important I should know? Well-a-well, sir! they do say, I al- low, said the man, sinking his voice, that the little laddie was here before his father; thats rather my own opinion no that I ever saw him. They sent THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. down here to inquire about a woman and a wean ; nae woman or wean had been here. There was one, I heard, at Jean Macfarlanes on the other side of the bridge, which is a place no decent per- son can be expected to ken about. And who ~vas the worn in ? said Mr. Pringle, with breathless interest. Na, thats mair than I can tell. Some say a randy wife thats been seen of late about the country-side ; some says one thing and some another. Auld Simon the postman and Merran Miller were twa Im told that saw her; but this is a hearsay a hearsay; I ken nae- thing of my own knowledge. I must say, however, added the landlord, seri- ously, that I blame themselves up at the big house for most of the stir. They sent down inquiring and inquiring, put- ting things into folks heads about this woman and the wean. My lord had a them that saw her up to the house, and put them through an examination. It was notaprudent thing to doit was that, more than anything else, that made folk begin to talk. And was that before Richard Ross came home? Oh ay,sirohay; agood week be- fore. At the time, in short, that the child came? said Mr. Pringle, with legal clearness. Well, Mr. Pringle about the time the bairn wa.s said to have come, Ill no deny; but abody thats best able to judge has warned me no to build my faith on a coincidence like that. Maist likely it was nothing more than a co-inn- ci-dence. Theyre queer things, as you that are a lawyer must know. Yes, they are queer things, said Mr. Pringle, with a flicker of hope; and then he changed the conversation, and began to inquire about the Hewan, and whether it was let for the season, or if any one had been in treaty for it. My wife has a fancy for the place. She was there when she was young, he said, half apolo- getically. But its a wee bit box of a place no fit for your fine family. It would bring the roses, though, into little Misss cheeks, for the airs grand up on that braehead. It is just for her we want it, Mr. Pringle said, with an unusual openness of confidence. She is rather pale. Come, Vi, there is the gig at the door. Vi walked down-stai?s very demurely and got into the gig, trying to look as if she mounted with some dignified diffi- culty, and not to clamber up with the speed and sureness which her breeding among so many boys had taught her. She had been listening, though she took no part in the talk. Who is the little boy, papa? she said, curiously, as they drove briskly along through the keen but sunshiny air. A little boy at Rosscraig up yonder among the trees. Do you see the tur- rets, Vi? Yes, I see them: are they made of gold? and is he a bad little boy, papa? No, Vi; I dont suppose he means it, and you dont understand, my pet; but it would be very bad for Sandy and the rest if he were to stay there. Then, papa, if it will be bad for Sandy, and the little boy is naughty, why not drive up the avenue and take him and carry him somewhere where he can do no harm? This was Violets incisive way of deal- ing with difficulties. She had all the in- stincts of a grand inquisitor: and would have acted with the same benevolent ab- sorption in the grand object of doing good to her patient whether he liked it or no. The pair drove at a spanking pace up the pretty road among tlie budding trees, through which at intervals there were glimpses of Esk brawling over his boul- ders, his brown impetuous stream all flecked with foam, like a horse in full career. A sensation of positive happi- ness was in Mr. Pringles mind as he drove along the familiar road through the country which he hoped might yet ac- knowledge his influence and authority. He could not have kidnapped the little offender as Violet suggested; but he was glad to think that there was every chance he was an impostor, and the field clear for himself and his heir. A lawsuit rose up befor~ h~m in fullest dramatic detail, a kind of thing very attractive to his pro- fessional imagination. He saw how much more difficult it would be on the other side to prove the right of this sup- posititious heir, than it would be on his to throw doubt upon him. I do not think the thought ever crossed his mind that the child might not be supposititious at all, but the real grandson of Lord Esk- side. It is so mi~h easier when you are deeply interested in a subject to see your own side of the question, and to believe that yours is the side of right. In his sense of the possibilities of the case his spirits rose, and he enjoyed. his drive to the Hewan with his innocent little girl 88 THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. beside him. Up they went, mounting passion, seizing the child in his arms, and the long slope, now letting the horse lifting her up to share his view. Look, walk at the steep parts, now urging him Vi! perhaps some day all that may be to a momentary spurt, now rolling rapidly yours and mine. along on a shady level, with the branches Violet looked gravely as a duty; but almost meeting overhead. The day was there was something in his strenuous warm for April, yet the wind was fresh grasp that frightened her, and she strug- and chilly, and blew in their faces with a gled to be put down. . I do not think, keen and sweet freshness which brpught she said, with precocious philosophy, the colour to little Violets cheek. Lit- that it would be any bonnier if it was tie Vi would change into little Rose up yours, papa or even mine. here on Eskside, said Violets father Mr. Pringle was tremulous after this he had not felt so light of heart for many burst of unusual emotion, for what has a a day. respectable middle-aged lawyer to do The Hewan is the tiniest of little cot- with passion either of one kind or an- tages, perched high up on a bank of the other? The fit went off, and he felt Esk, and surveying for a mile or two the slightly ashamed of himself; but the course of the picturesque little stream thrill and flutter of feeling did not go off between its high wooded banks, with for some time. He sent the gig and here and there a pretty house shining far horse to meet him at the Eskside gates, off among the trees, on some little pla- and taking Vis hand in his, went down teau of oTeensward, and the sound of the by a pathway through the woods to a side river filling the air with a soft rustlino entrance. Perhaps we shall see this and tinkling. Alas ! there are paper-mills little boy we were talking of, he said; now along the course of that romantic but he was far from having made up his stream. I was but six years old, like mind to confront the two old people, my Violet, when I first saw that wild little lord and my lady, who would see through place, and ever since (how long a time !) his pretences, as people are clever to see it has remained in my mind, charming me through the guiles of their heirs. He was with vague longings. Vi trotted to the reluctant to face them boldly; but yet he grassy ridge and gazed down the course was how curious ! eager to look the of the stream and said nothing; for what present crisis in the zace, and see for can a child say, who has no phrases himself what he had to fear. After they about the beautiful at her tongues end, had gone a little way al~& ng the woodland and can only stare and wonder, and rec- path, which was still high above the ollect, all her life after, that brawling, course of the stream, though accompa- surging river, those high trees, inclining nied all the way by the sound of its xva- from either bank towards each other, and ters as by a song, Violet escaped from that ineffable roof of sky? The old wo- her fathers hand, and ran on in advance, man who kept the cottage consented th~t making excursions of her own, hither it was still unlet, and threw no. difficul- and thither, darting about in her brown ties in the way; and Mr. Pringle secured coat and scarlet ribbons like a robin-red- it there and then for the summer. I breast under the budding branches. Mr. should like to buy it, he said to himself, Pringle, lost in his own thoughts, let her if it were not The idea of the stray before him, expecting no encounter. great possibilities before him suddenly Presently, however, there came from Vi a surged upwards, flooding his soul; and little~cry of surprise and excitement, then a hunger seized him for the river, which quickened his step. He hurried and the woods, and the fair country on after her, and came to an opening in which they threaded through. He wanted the trees where the path widened out. to have them, to possess them not the It was a small circular platform open to rent of them, or the wealth of them, but the slope of the river-bank, and with a themselves a passion of acquisition rustic seat placed in an excavation on the which is something like love, s~velling higher side of the way. Into this open suddenly in his heart. He forgot him- space another little figure had rushed self oazino at them, till Vi roused him, from the othe~side, panting and flushed, plucl~ing a~t his coat, Papa, it is bonnie; grasping a tall stick, and stood, suddenly but why do you look and look, with your arrested, in front of Violet, facing her, eyes so big and strange, like the wolf with an answering cry, with big blue eyes that ate little Red Riding Hood ? expanded to twice their natural size, and Am I like a Wolf? he said, half a face suddenly filled with curiosity and laughing, yet tremulous in his momentary wonder. Mr. Pringle it may be supposed THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. 89 was b/ast! in the matter of boys, and I do not think that the affectionate father of an honest plain family is ever a great amateur of childish beauty. This little figure, however, in his fantastic velvet dress, with his hat perched on the hack of his head, and all his dark curls ruffled back from his bold brown forehead, struck him ~vith a certain keen percep- tion of beauty which was almost pain. Ab! and with a perception of something else which was still sharper pain. He fell back a step to recollect himself, stag- gered by the sudden impression. What made the child so like Richard Ross What malignant freak of fortune had so amalgamated with the dark complexion and look which was not Richards those family features ? Mr. Pringle stood as if spell-bound, contemplating the child about whom he had been so curious, about whom his curiosity was so fatally satisfied now. You are the boy that lives at Ross- craig, said Violet, feeling the responsi- bility of a first address to lie with her, but somewhat frightened, with tremblings in her voice. Yes; and who are you ? cried the little fellow. Mr. Pringle behind no- ticed with a pang that he spoke with an English accent, that advantage which the ambitious Scotch parent so highly estimates. This gave him a still deeper pang than the resemblance, for it seemed to give the final blow to the beggars brat theory. Beggars brats in Mr. Pringles experience spoke Scotch. Who are you ? said Val. I never saw you before. Will you come and play? Its dull here, with no one to play with. Do you hear any one coming? Ive run away from grandpapa. But you oughtnt to run away from your grandpapa, said Violet. It is very naughty to run away, especially when the other people cant run so fast as you. Thats the fun, cried the other, with a laugh. If youll come and play, Ill show you squirrels and heaps of things. But help me first to hide this big stick. I think I hear him coming quick, quick! Would he beat you with it? said Vi, growing pale with terror. Quick, quick! cried the boy, seiz- ing her by the wrist ; but just then there was a rush of steps in the sloping path which wound down the brae to this centre, and Lord Es~side himself ap- peared, half angry, half laughing, pulling aside the branches to look through. Give me back my stick, you rogue 1 he cried, then paused, arrested, as Mr. Pringle had been, by that pretty woodland picture. It was something be- tween a Watteau group, and the ruder common rendering of the Babes in the Wood : the girl in her scarlet ribbons, with liquid dark eyes~ uplifted, her face somewhat pale ~vith mingled terror and self-control ; the boy all flushed and beautiful in his cavalier dress, grasping her by the wrist ; with the faintly green branches meeting over their heads, and the brown harmonious woods, all musical with evening notes of birds and echoes of the running water, for a background. The men on either side were so im- pressed by the picture that they paused mutually, in involuntary admiration. But they had both perceived each other, and though their sentiments were not very friendly, politeness commanded that they should speak. I hope you are well, Lord Eskside, said Mr. Pringle, stepping with an effort into the charmed circle. I had just brought my little girl through the woods to see how beautiful they are. This is my Violet ; and this fine little fellow is a visitor, I suppose. ? Is it you, Alexander Pringle ? said Lord Eskside. I could not believe my eyes. It is a sight for sore een to see you here. Indeed it is chance, mere chance, said Pringle, with a fulness of apology which he was himself uneasily conscious was quite uncalled for. I have been up at the Hewan, which I have taken for the summer. The Hewan for the summer! why, man, its a mere cottage; and what has become of your own place? Oh, I retain my old place; but it is a long~wa~ off, and best for the autumn, when we can flit altogether. My wife is fond of the Hewan, though it is so small, and we thought it would be handy to run out for a day now and then. In short, it suits us. Does this little fellow, Lord Eskside, belong, to the place? or is he a visitor? He seems to have struck up a sudden friendship with my girl. A visitor! said Lord Eskside. Do you mean to say4ou have not heard do you see no likeness in him? This is my grandson, Pringle my successor one day, I hopeRichards eldest son. Richards son! you are joking,~, said Mr. Pringle, growing pale, but with a smile that hurt him, you are joking, 90 THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER. Lord Eskside; a child of that complex- ion Richards son I Lord Eskside felt that his adversary had hit the blot and, to tell the truth, he himself had never perceived Vals re- semblance to Richard. Colouring is not everything, he said; I suppose he has his complexion from his mother: then with a return blow, but I carrt ex- pect you to be very much delighted with the sight of him, Pringle; he takes the wind out of your sailsyours and your boys. I hope my boys will be able to man- aoe for themselves, said Pringle, with a forced laugh. If I say that I dont see the resemblance, it is for no such reason. I have never hungered for other folks rights: but that is one thing and justice is another. Vi, my dear, we must go. What! wont you come and see my lady? She will be affronted if you pass so near without calling; and you see, said the old lord, with an effort at cor- diality, the children have made friends already. Come and have some dinner, man, before you go home. You know me of old. My bark is waur than my bite I meant no harm. Oh, there is no offence, said the heir-at-law; but its getting late for a delicate child, and our gig is waiting at the wood-gate. Violet, you must bid the little man good-bye. He is not a naughty boy, papa, as you said he is a nice boy, said Vi, looking up with an appeal in her eyes please, I should like to stay. And what made you think he was naughty, my bonnie girl ? said Lord Eskside, in insinuating tones. Come, come, Violet, you must be obedient, said her father, hastily, shak- ing hands with his kinsman, whose old face, half grim, half humorous, was light- ed up with sudden and keen enjoyment of the situation. Mr. Pringle hurried his daughter on almost hastily in the confu- sion of his feelings. He had never been harsh to her before; and Violet, in her disappointment, took to crying quietly under her breath. I should like to stay I should like to stay, she murmured, till out of pure exasperation the kindest of fathers could have whipped her, and thought of that operation as an actual re- lief to his feelings. Lord Eskside, on his part, stood still in the clearing, holding back Val, who was more vehement. I want her to play wi~ me, and you said I was to have whatever I wanted, the boy cried, struggling with all his might to break away. You must know, my man, that there are many things which we all want and cannot get, cried the old lord, holding him fast; and then he burst into a low laugh. Heres a bonnie state of affairs already, he said to himself: Richards son breaking bounds to be after Sandy Pringles dauo~hter? Its the best joke Ive heard for many a day. Come, Val, come, like a good boy. Well go and tell grandma. She may have a little girl in her pocket for anything you and I know. But I dont want any little girl; I want that little girl, cried Val, with pre~ cocious discrimination. The old lord chuckled more and more as he half led, half dragged him up the steep path to~ wards the house. Why, man, if youre after them like this already, well have our hands full by the time youre of age. But when he had said this, Lord Eskside paused and contemplated his grandson, and shook his head. Can he be Richards son after all ? the old man asked himself. Lord Eskside, however, looked grim enough before he went into the house, where he betook himself at once to the drawing-room, in which his wife sat alone, at a window overlooking the river. He went in to her moody, with the air of a man who has something to say. What is the matter? said Lady Esk- side. Oh, nothings the matter. Were entering into the botherations I foresaw, thats all thats the matter. Who do you think I met in the woods but that lawyer~ rascal Sandy Pringle, come to spy out the nakedness of the land! And what nakedness is there to spy into? and what can Sandy Pringle do to you or me? said the old lady, with a sUgh~elevation of her head. Not much, perhaps, to you or me. Hes taken the Hewan, Catherine, where he can lie in wait like an auld spider till he gets us into his net. I dont understand you, said the old lady, with the light of battle waking in her eyes. What does it matter to us where Sandy Pringle lives? He has been out of the question, poor man, as everybody kn~ws, since Providence sent to my son Richard his two bonnie boys. Its fine romancing, said Lord Esk- side. Wheres the tother of your bon- nie boys, my lady? And where is your proof of this one that will satisfy a court DR. JOHNSON S WRITINGS. 9 of law? Likeness is all very well, and natural instincts all very well, but they make little impression on the Court of Session. And though hes a haverel in private life, Sandy Pringh was always a clever lawyer. If you do not find the wo- man there will be a lawsuit, that will leave Eskside but an empty title, and melt all the lands away. Well find the woman, said the old lady, clasping her fine nervous hands. Ill move earth and heaven before Ill let anything come in my boys way.~~ At this moment Val burst in, rosy and excited, with his grandfathers stick, which in the vehemence of their new ideas both the child and the old man had forgotten. Grandma, I want that little girl to play with. Send over directly, cried Val, in hot impatience, to get me the little girl! You have enough on your hands, my lady, said Lord Eskside. From The Corohill Magazine. DR. JOHNSONS WRITINGS. A BOOK has recently appeared of which it is the professed object to give to the modern generation of lazy readers the pith of Boswells immortal biography. I shall, for sufficient reasons, refrain from discussing the merits of the performance. One remark, indeed, may be made in pass- ing. The circle of readers to whom such a book is welcome must, of necessity, be limited. To the true lovers of Boswell it is, to say the least, superfluous; the gentlest omissions will always mangle some peoples favourite passages, and ad- ditions, whatever skill they may display, necessarily injure that dramatic vivacity which is one of the great charms of the original. The most discreet of cicerones is an intruder when we open our old fa- vourite and, without further magic, retire into that delicious nook of eighteenth century society. Upon those, again, who cannot appreciate the infinite humour of the original, the mere excision of the less lively pages will be thrown away. There remains only that narrow margin of readers whose appetites, languid but not extinct, can be titillated by the promise that they shall not have the trouble of making their own selection. Let us wish them good digestions, and, in spite of modern changes of fashion, more robust taste for the future. T would still hope that to many readers Boswell has been what he has certainly been to some, the first writer who gave them a love of English literature, and the most charming of all companions long after the bloom of nov- elty has departed. I subscribe most cheerfully to Mr. Lewess statement that he estimates his acquaintances according to their estimate of Boswell. A man, in- deed, may be a good~ Christian, and an excellent father of a family, without loving Johnson or Boswell, for a sense of humour is not one of the primary virtues. But Boswells is one of the. very few books which, after many years of famil- iarity, will still provoke a hearty laugh even in the solitude of a study; and the laughter is of that kind which does one good. I do not wish, however, to pronounce one more eulogy upon an old friend, but to say a few words on a question which he sometimes suggests. Macaulays well-known but provoking essay is more than usually lavish in overstrained para- doxes. He has explicitly declared that Boswell wrote one of the most charming of books because he was one of the greatest of fools. And his remarks sug- gest, if they do not implicitly assert, that Johnson wrote some of the most unread- able of books, although, if not because, he possessed one of the most vigorous intellects of the time. Mr. Carlyle has given a sufficient explanation of the first paradox; but the second may justify a little further inquiry. As a general rule, the talk of a great man is the reflection of his books. Nothing is so false as the com- mon saying that the presence of a distin- guished writer is generally disappointing. It exemplifies a very common delusion. People are so impressed by the disparity which sometimes occurs, that they take the exception for the rule. It is, of course, true that a mans verbal utter- anc~ n~y differ materially from his writ- ten utterances. He may, like Addison, be shy in company; he may, like many retired students, be slow in collecting his thoughts ; or he may, like Goldsmith, be over anxious to shine at all hazards. But a patient observer will even then de- tect the essential identity under superfi- cial differences; and in the majority of cases, as in that of Macaulay himself, the talking and ~e writing are palpably and almost absurdly similar. The whole art of criticism consists in learning to know the human being ~vho is partially revealed to us in his spoken or his writ- ten words. Whatever the means of com- munication, the problem is the same. 92 DR. JOHNSONS WRITINGS. The two methods of inquiry may supple- lowing out such indications as we pos- meat each other; but their substantial sess. agreement is the test of their accuracy. The talking Johnson is sufficiently fa- If Johnson, as a writer, appears to us to miliar to us. So far as Boswell needs an be a mere windbag and manufacturer of interpreter, Mr. Carlyle has done all that sesquipedalian verbiage, whilst, as a can be done. He has concentrated and talker, he appears to be one of the most explained what is diffused, and often un- genuine and deeply feeling of men, we consciously indicated, in Boswells pages. may be sure that our analysis has been When reading Boswell, we are half somewhete defective. The discrepancy ashamed of his power over our sympa- is, of course, partly explained by the thies. It is like turning over a portfolio faults of Johnsons style; but the expla- of sketches, caricatured, inadequate, and nation only removes the difficulty a degree each giving only some imperfect aspect further. The style is the man is a of the original. Mac aulays smart para- very excellent aphorism, though some doxes only increase our perplexity by eminent writers have lately pointed out throwing the superficial contrasts into that Buffons original remark was Ze style stronger relief. Mr. Carlyle, with true cest de ihomme. That only proves that, imaginative insight, gives us at once the like many other good sayings, it has been essence of Johnson ; he brings before our polished and brought to perfection by eyes the luminous body of which we had the process of attrition in numerous previously been coTiscious only by a minds, instead of being struck out at a series of imperfect images refracted blow by a solitary thinker. From a pure- through a number of distorted media. ly logical point of view, Buffon may be To render such a service effectually is correct; but the very essence of an the highest triumph of criticism ; and it aphorism is that slight exaggeration which would be impertinent to say again in makes it more biting whilst less rigidly feebler language what Mr. Carlyle has accurate. According to Buffon, the style expressed so forcibly. We may, how- might belong to a man as his coat or his ever, recall certain general conclusions hat belongs to him. There are parasiti- by way of preface to the problem which cal writers who, in the cid phrase, have he has not expressly considered, how far formed their style, by the imitation of Johnson succeeded in expressing himself accepted models, and who have, there- through his writing. fore, possessed it only by right of appro- The world, as Mr. Carlyle sees it, is priation. Boswell has a discussion as to composed, we all know, of two classes: the writers who may have served John- there are the dull millions, who, as a son in this capacity. But, in fact, John- dull flock, roll hither and thither, whither- son, like all other men of strong idio- soever they are led, and there are a few syncrasy, formed his style as he formed superior natures who can see and can his legs. The peculiarities of his limbs will. There are, in other words, the were in some degree the result of con- heroes, and those whose highest wisdom scious efforts in walking, swimming, and is to be hero-worshippers. Johnsons buffetincr with his books. This deyel- glory is that he belonged to the sacred opment was doubtless more determined band, though he could not claim within it by the constitution which he brought the highest, or even a high, rank. In the into the world, and the circumstances current dialect, therefore, he was nowise under which he was brought up. And a~lot~es-horse or patent digester, but a even that queer Johnsonese, which genuine man. Whatever the accuracy Macaulay supposes him to have adopted of the general conception, or of certain in accordance with a more definite lite- corollaries which are drawn from it, the rary theory, will probably appear to be application to Johnson explains one main the natural expression of certain innate condition of his power. Persons of col- tendencies, and of the mental atmos- ourless imagination may hold nor will phere which he breathed from youth. we dispute their verdictthat Mr. To appreciate fairly the strangely cum- Carlyle overcharges his lights and shades, brous form of his written speech, we must and brings his4eroe s into too startling a penetrate more deeply than may at first contrast with the vulgar herd. Yet it is sight seem necessary beneath the outer undeniable that the great bulk of man- rind of this literary Behemoth. The kind are transmitters rather than origi- difficulty of such spiritual dissection is, nators of spiritual force. Most of us are indeed, very great ;~ut some little light necessarily condemned to express our may be thrown upon the subject by fol- thoughts in formulas which we have DR. JOHNSONS WRITINGS. 93 learnt from others and can but slightly rarity of such qualities. Many people, tinge with our feeble personality. Nor, we think, love their fathers. Fortunately, as a rule, are we even consistent disciples that is true; but in how many people of any one school of thought. What we is filial affection strong enough to over- call our opinions are mere bundles of in- power the dread of eccentricity? How coherent formuke, arbitrarily stitched many men would have been capable of together because our reasoning faculties doing penance in Uttoxeter market years are too dull to make inconsistency pain- after their fathers death for a long- ful. Of the vast piles of books which passed act of disobedi6nce? Most of us, load our libraries, ninety-nine hundredths again, would have a temporary emotion and more are but printed echoes: and I of pity for an outcast lying helplessly in it is the rarest of pleasures to say, here the street. We should call the police, is a distinct record of impressions at first or send her in a cab to the workhouse, or, hand. We commonplace beings are hur- at least, write to The Times to denounce ned along in the crowd, living from hand the defective arrangements of public to mouth on such slices of material and charity. But it is perhaps better not to spiritual food as happen to drift in our ask how many good Samaritans would direction, with little more power of tak- take her on their shoulders to their own ing an independent course, or of forming homes, care for her wants, and put her any general theory, than the polyps which into a better way of life. are carried along by an oceanic current. In the lives of most eminent men we Ask any man what he thinks of theworld find much good feeling and honourable in which he is placed : whether, for ex- conduct; but it is an exception, even in ample, it is on the whole a scene of happi- the case of good men, when we find that ness or misery, and he will either answer a life has been shaped by other than the by some cut-and-dried fragments of ~vhat ordinary conventions, or that emotions was once wisdom, or he will confine him- have dared to overflow the well-worn self to a few incoherent details. He had channels of respectability. The love a good dinner to-day and a bad tooth- which we feel for Johnson is due to the ache yesterday, and a family affliction or fact that the pivots upon which his life blessing the day before. But he is as turned are invariai.y noble motives, and incapable of summing up his impressions not mere obedience to custom. More as an infant of performing an operation than one modern writer has expressed a in the differential calculus. It is as rare fraternal affection for Addison, and it is as it is refreshing to find a man who can justified by the kindly humour which stand on his own legs and be conscious breathes through his Essays. But what of his own feelings, who is sturdy enough anecdote of that most decorous and sue- to react as well as to transmit action, cessful person touches our hearts or has and lofty enough to raise himself above the heroic ring of Johnsons wrestlings the hurrying crowd and have some dis- with adverse fortune? Addison showed tinct belief as to whence it is coming how a Christian could die when his and whither it is going. Now Johnson, life has run smoothly through pleasant as one of the sturdiest of mankind, had places, secretaryships of state, and mar- the power due to a very distinct senti- riages with countesses, and when nothing ment, if not to a very clear theory, about except a few overdoses of port wine the world in which he lived. It had buf- has,~sh~ken his nerves or ruffled his feted him severely enough, and he had temper. A far deeper emotion rises at formed a decisive estimate of its value, the deathbed of the rugged old pilgrim, He was no man to be put off with mere who has fought his way to peace in spite phrases in place of opinions, or to accept of troubles within and without, who has doctrines which were not capable of ex- been jeered in Vanity Fair and descended pressing genuine emotion. To this it into the Valley Qf the Shadow of Death, must be added, that his emotions were as and escaped with pain and difficulty from deep and tender as they were genuine, the clutches of Giant Despair. When How sacred was his love for his old and the last feelin~s~of such a man are tender, ugly wife ; how warm his sympathy solemn, and simNe, we feel ourselves in wherever it could be effective ; how a higher presence than that of an amiable manly the self-respect with which he gentleman who simply died, as he lived, guarded his dignity through all the temp- with consummate decorum. tations of Grub Stree~ need not be once On turning, however, from Johnsons more pointed out. Perhaps, however, it life to his writings, from Boswell to the is worth while to notice the extreme Rambler, it must be admitted that the 94 DR. JOHNSON S WRITINGS. shock is trying to our nerves. The Ram- friends oddities. Every man, he says, bier has, indeed, high merits. The im- has some habitual contortion of body, pression which it made upon his own or established mode of expression, which generation proves the fact ; for the repu- never fails to excite mirth if it be pointed tation, however temporary, was not won out to notice. By premonition of these by a concession to the fashions of the particularities, I secured our pleasantry. day, but to the influence of a strong judg- The feminine characters, Flirtillas, and ment uttering itself through uncouth Cleoras, and Euphelias, and Penthesileas, forms. The melancholy which colours are, if possible, still more grotesque. its pages is the melancholy of a noble Macaulay remarks that he wears the pet- nature. The tone of thought reminds us ticoat with as ill a grace as Falstaff him. of Bishop Butler, whose xvritings, de- self. The reader, he thinks, will cry out faced by a style even more tiresome, with Sir Hugh, I like not when a oman though less pompous than Johnsons, has a great peard! I spy a great peard have owed their enduring reputation to a under her muffler. Oddly enough John- philosophical acuteness in which John- son gives the very same quotation; and son was certainly very deficient. Both goes on to warn his supposed correspond. of these great men, however, impress us ents that Phyllis must send no more let- by their deep sense of the evils under ters from the Horse Guards ; and that which humanity suffers, and their rejec- Belinda must resign her pretensions to tion of the superficial optimism of the female elegance till she has lived three day. Butlers sadness, undoubtedly, is weeks without hearing the politics of that of a recluse, and Johnsons that of Buttons Coffee House. The Doctor was a man of the world; but the sentiment is probably sensible enough of his own de- fundamentally the same. It may be fects. And yet there is still a more wea- added, too, that here, as elsewhere, John- risome set of articles. In accordance son speaks with the sincerity of a man with the precedent set by Addison, John- drawing upon his own experience. He son indulges in the dreariest of allebories. announces himself as a scholar thrust Criticism, we are told, was the eldest out upon the world rather by necessity daughter of Labour and Truth, but at than by choice; and a large proportion of last resigned in favour of Time, and the papers dwell upon the various suffer- left Prejudice and False Taste to ings of the literary class. Nobody could reign in company with Fraud and Mis- speak more feelingly of those sufferings, chief. Then we have the genealogy of as no one had a closer personal acquaint- Wit and Learning, and of Satire, the son ance with them. But allowing to John- of Wit and Malice, and an account of son whatever credit is due to the man their various quarrels, and the decision who performs one more variation on the of Jupiter. Neither are the histories of old theme, Vanifas vanitaturn, we must such semi-allegorical personages as Alma- in candour admit that the Rambler has moulin, the son of Nouradin, or of the one unpardonable fault: it is un- Anningait and Ayut, the Greenland lovers, readable. much more refreshing to modern readers. What an amazing turn he has for com- That Johnson possessed humour of no monplace! That life is short, that mar- mean ?~der, we know from Boswell; but riages from mercenary motives produce no critic could have divined his power unhappiness, that different men are vir- frorii the clumsy gambols in which he oc- tuous in different degrees, that advice is ca~ori~lly recreates himself. Perhaps generally ineffectual, that adversity has his happiest effort is a dissertation upon its uses, that fame is liable to suffer from the advantage of living in garrets ; but detraction ; these and a host of other the humour struggles and gasps dread- such maxims are of the kind upon which fully under the weight of words. There no genius and no depth of feeling can are, he says, some who would continue confer a momentary interest. Here and blockheads, even on the summit of the there indeed the pompous utterance in- Andes or the Peak of Teneriffe. But let vests them with an unlucky air of absurd- norany man be considered as unimprova- ity. Let no man from this time, is the ble till this pot~t remedy has been tried comment in one of his stories, suffer for perhaps he was found to be gre at only his felicity to depend on the death of his 1in a garret, as the joiner of Ant~eus was aunt. Every actor, of course, uses rational in no other place but his own same dialect. A gay young gentleman shop. tells us that he amuse his com- How could a man of real power write panions by giving them notice of his such unendurable stuff? Or how, indeed, DR. JOHNSONS WRITINGS. could any man come to embody his thoughts in the style of which one other sentence will be a sufficient example? As it is afterwards nearly repeated, it may be supposed to have struck his fancy. The remarks of the philosophers who denounce temerity are, he says, too just to be disputed and too salutary to be rejected; but there is likewise some dan- ger lest timorous prudence should beTh- culcated till courage and enterprise are wholly repressed and the mind congested in perpetual inactivity by the fatal influ- ence of frigorifick wisdom. Is there not some danger, we ask, that the mind will be benumbed into perpetual torpidity by the influence of this soporific sapience ? It is still true, however, that this Johnson- ese, so often burlesqued and ridiculed, was, as far as we can judge, a genuine product. Macaulay says that it is more offensive than the mannerism of Milton or Burke, because it is a mannerism adopted on principle and sustained by constant effort. Facts do not confirm the theory. Miltons prose style seems to be the result of a conscious effort to run English into classical moulds. Burkes mannerism does not appear in his early writings, and we can trace its development from the imitation of Bo- lingbroke to the last declamation against the Revolution. But Johnson seems to have written Johnsonese from his cradle. In his first original composition, the pref- ace to Father Lobos Abyssinia, the style is as distinctive as in the Rambler. The Parliamentary reports in the Gentle- mans Magazine make Pitt and Fox * ex- press sentiments which are probably their own in language which is as unmis- takably Johnsons. It is clear that his style, good or bad, was the same from his earliest efforts. It is only in. his last book, the Lives of the Poets, that the mannerism, though equally marked, is so far subdued as to be tolerable. What he himself called his habit of using too big words and too many of them~ was no af- fectation, but as much the result of his special idiosyncrasy as his queer grunt- ings and twitchings. Sir Joshua Reynolds indeed maintained, and we may believe so attentive an observer, that his strange physical contortions were the result of bad habit, not of actual disease. John- son, he said, could sit as still as other people when his attention was called to it. And possibly, if he had tried, he * See, for example, the greet debate on February 13th, 1741. 95 might have avoided the fault of making little fishes talk like whales. But how did the bad habits arise? According to Boswell, Johnson professed to have formed his style partly upon Sir W. Temple and on Chamberss Proposal for his Dictionary.. The statement was obviously misinterpreted: but. there is a glimmering of truth in~the theory that the style was formed ~ so far as those words have any meaning on the giants of the seventeenth century, and espe- cially upon Sir Thomas Browne. John- sons taste, in fact, had led him to the study of writers in many ways congenial to him. His favourite book, as we know, was Burtons Anatomy of Melancholy. The pedantry did not repel him ; the weighty thought rightly attracted him and the more complex structure of sen- tence was perhaps a pleasant contrast to an ear saturated with the Gallicized neat- ness of Addison and Pope. Unluckily, the secret of the old majestic cadence was hopelessly lost. Johnson, though spiritually akin to the giants, was the firmest ally and subject of the diver-fish dynasty which supplanted them. The very faculty of hearing seems to change in obedience to some mysterious law at different stages of intellectual develop- ment; and that which to one generation is delicious music is to another a mere droning of bagpipes or the grinding of monotonous barrel-organs. Assuming that a man can find perfect satisfaction in the versification of the Essay on Man, we can understand his saying of Lycidas, that the diction is harsh, the rhymes uncertain, and the numbers unpleasing. In one of the Ramblers we are informed that the ac- cent in blank verse ought properly to rest upon every second syllable through- out the whole line. A little variety must, he admits, be allowed to avoid satiety; but ~l ~nes which do not go in the steady jogtrot of alternate beats, as regu- larly as the piston of a steam-engine, are more or less defective. This simple- minded system naturally makes wild work with the poetry of the mighty- mouthed inventor of harmonies. Mil- tons harsh cadences are indeed excused on the odd ground, that he who was vindicatino the ~yays of God to many might have been c ~n demned for lavish- ing much of his attention upon syllables and sounds. Moreover, the poor man did his best by introducing sounding proper names, even when they added little music to his. poem. An example 96 DR. JOHNSON S WRITINGS. the Tuscan artist views, At evening, from the top of Fiesole Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, & c. of this feeble, though well-meant expe- comparison by really imitating Addison. dient, being the passage about the moon, He has to make allegories, and to give which lively sketches of feminine peculiarities, and to ridicule social foibles of which he was, at most, a distant observer. The inevitable consequence is, that though here and there we catch a glimpse of the This profanity passed at the time for or- genuine man, we are, generally, too much thodoxy. But the misfortune was, that provoked by the awkwatdness of his cos- Johnson, unhesitatingly subscrihitig to tume to be capable of enjoying or even the rules of Queen Annes critics, is al- reading him. ways instinctively feeling after the In some of his writings, however, John- grander effects of the old school. Na- son manages, to a certain extent, to throw ture prompts him to the stateliness of off these impediments. In his deep ca- Milton, whilst Art orders him to deal out pacity for sympathy and reverence, we long and short syllables alternately, and recognize some of the elements that go to make them up in parcels of ten, and to the making of a poet. He is always a then tie these parcels together in pairs man of intuitions rather than of discur- by the help of a rhyme. The natu- sive intellect; often keen of vision, ral utterance of a man of strong percep- though wanting in analytical power. For tions, but of unwieldy intellect, of a mel- poetry, indeed, as it is often understood ancholy temperament, and capable of now, or even as it was understood by very deep, but not vivacious emotions, Pope, he had little enough qualification. would be in stately and elaborate phrases. He had not the intellectual vivacity im- This style was not more distinctly a plied in the marvellously neat workman- work of art than the style of Browne or ship of Pope, and still less the delight in Milton, but unluckily, it was a work of all natural and artistic beauty which we bad art. He had the misfortune, not so generally take to be essential to poetic rare as it may sound, to be born in the ~xcellence. His contempt for Lycidas is wrong century; and is, therefore, a giant sufficiently significant upon that head. in fetters ; the amplitude of stride is Still more characteristic is the incapacity still there, but it is checked into mechan- to understand Spenser, which comes out ical regularity. A similar phenomenon incidentally in his remarks upon some of is observable in other xvriters of the time. those imitations, which even in the mid- The blank verse of Young, for example, dle of the eighteenth century showed that is generally set to Popes tune with the the sensibility to the purest form of omission of the rhymes; whilst Tho m- poetry was not quite extinct amongst us. son, revolting more or less consciously But there is a poetry, though we some- against the canons of his time, too often times seem to foro~et it, which is the nat- falls into more pompous mouthing. ura lexp ression of deep moral sentiment, Shaftesbury, in the previous generation, and of this Johnson has written enough trying to write poetical prose, becomes to reveal very genuine power. The as pedantic as Johnson, though in a dif- touching verses upon the death of Levett ferent style; and Gibbon~ s mannerism are almost as pathetic as Cowper; and is a familiar example of a similar es- fragments of the two imitations of Juve- cape from a monotonous simplicity into nal have struck deep enough to be not awk~vard complexity. Such writers are q~ite~orgotten. We still quote the lines like men who have been chilled by what about pointing a moral and adorning a Johnson would call the frigorifick in- tale, which conclude a really noble pas- fluence of the classicism of their fathers, saoe We are too often reminded of his and whose numbed limbs move stiffly m~lancholy musings over the and awkwardly in a first attempt to re- gain the old liberty. The form, too, of Fears of the brave and follies of the ~vise, the Rambler is unfortunate. Johnson and a few of the concluding lines of the has always Addison before his eyes; to Vanity of Human Wishes, in which he whom it was formerly the fashion to com- answers the q~stion whether man must pare him for the same excellent reason of necessity which has recently suggested compari- sons between Dickens and Thackeray, namely, that their works were published in helplessness and ignorance, may have in the same extern~1 shape. Unluckily, something of a familiar ring. We are to Johnson gave too much excuse for the give thanks, he says, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate, DR. JOHNSON S WRITINGS. For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sovereign oer transmuted ill; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind natures signal for retreat; These goods for man, the laws of heaven or- dain, These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain, With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find., Some of these lines, if I am not mis- taken, are noble in expression, as well as lofty and tender in feeling. Johnson, like Wordsworth, or even more deeply than Wordsworth, had felt all the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world; and, though he stumbles a little in the narrow limits of his versification, he bears himself nobly, and manages to put his heart into his poetry. Coleridges paraphrase of the well-known lines, Let observation with extensive observation, observe mankind from China to Peru, would prevent us from saying that he had shaken off his verbiage. He has not the felicity of Goldsmiths Traveller; but his ponderous lines show genuine vigour, and can be excluded from poetry only by the help of an arbitrary classification. The fullest expression, however, of Johnsons feeling is undoubtedly to be found in Rasselas. The inevitable com- parison with Voltaires (andide, which, by an odd coincidence, appeared almost sim- ultaneously, suggests some curious reflec- tions. The resemblance between the moral of the two books is so strong that, as John- son remarked, it would have been difficult not to suppose that one had given a hint to the other but for the chronological dif- ficulty. The contrast, indeed, is as marked as the likeness. (andlde is not adapted for family reading, whereas Ras- selas might be a textbook for young ladies studying English in a convent. Candlde, whatever the disgust which it may cause, not only to the orthodox but to the rever- ent mind, is a marvel of clearness and vivacity; xvhereas to read Rasselas is about as exhilarating as to wade knee- deep through a sandy desert. Voltaire and Johnson, however, the great sceptic and the last of the true old Tories, coin- cide pretty well in their view of the world, and in the remedy which they suggest. The world is, they agree, full of misery, and the optimism which would deny the reality of the misery is childish. Li faul c itiver no/re jardiu is the last word of Gazidide, and Johnsons teaching, both here and elsewhere, maybe summed up in the words Work, and dont whine. LiVING AGE. VOL. VI. 267 97 It need not be considered here, nor, per- haps, is it quite plain, what speculative conclusions Voltaire meant to draw from his teaching. The peculiarity of Johnson is that he is apparently indifferent to any such conclusion. A dogmatic assertion that the world is on the whole a scene of misery, may be pressed into the service of different philosophies. Johnson as- serted the opinion resolutely, both in writing and in conversation, but appar- ently never troubled himself with any in- ferences but such as have a directly prac- tical tendency. He was no speculatist a word which now strikes us as having an American twang, but which was famil- iar to the lexicographer. His only excur- sion to the borders of such regions was in the very forcible review of Soane Jenyns, who had made a jaunty attempt to explain the origin of evil by the help of a few of Popes epigrams. Johnsons sledge-ham- mer smashes his flimsy platitudes to pieces with an energy too good for such a foe. For speculation, properly so called, there was no need. The review, like Rasselas, is simply a vigorous protest against the popular attempt to make things pleasant by a feeble dilution of the most watery kind of popular preaching. He has no trouble in remarking that the evils of poverty are not alleviated by call- ing it want of riches, and that there is a poverty which involves want of neces- saries. Such consolation, indeed, came rather awkwardly from the elegant coun- try gentleman to the poor scholar who had just known by experience what it was to live upon fourpence-halfpenny a day. Johnson resolutely looks facts in the face, and calls ugly thinbs by their right names. Men, he tells us over and over again, are wretched, and there is no use iii denying it. This doctrine appears in his familiar talk, and even in the papers which he meant to be light reading. He begins the proflog~e to a comedy with the words: Pressed with the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind. In the L~fe of Savage he makes the com- mon remark that the lives of many of the greatest teachers of mankind have been miserable. The explanation to which he inclines is that they have not been more miserable than tbei~neighbours, but that their misery has been more conspicuous. His melancholy view of life may have been caused simply by his unfortunate constitution ; for everybody sees in the I disease of his own liver a disorder of the universe; but it wa~ also intensified 98 DR. JOHNSONS WRITINGS. by the natural reaction of a powerful nature against the fluent optimism of the time, which expressed itself in Popes aphorism, Whatever is, is right. The strongest men of the time revolted against that attempt to cure a deep-seated disease by a few fine speeches. The form taken by Johnsons revolt is characteristic. His nature was too tender and too manly to incline to Swifts misanthropy. Men might be wretched, but he would not therefore revile them as filthy Yahoos. He was too reverent and cared too little for abstract thought to share the scepti- cism of Voltaire. In this miserable world the one worthy object of ambition is to do ones duty, and the one consolation deserving the name is to be found in religion. That Johnsons religious opin- ions sometimes took the form of rather grotesque superstition may be true; and it is easy enough to ridicule some of its manifestations. He took the creed of his day without much examination of the evi- dence upon which its dogmas rested; but a writer must be thoughtless indeed who was more inclined to laugh at his superficial oddities, than to admire the reverent spirit and the brave self-respect with which he struggled through a pain- ful life. The protest of Rasselas against optimism is therefore radically different from the protest of Voltaire. The Frenchman is aiming, with an irritating flippancy, though not without quick feel- ing, at popular theology; the Englishman desires to impress upon us the futility of all human enjoyments, with a view to deepen the solemnity of our habitual tone of thought. It is true, indeed, that the evil is dwelt upon more forcibly than the remedy. The book is all the more im- pressive. We are almost appalled by the gloomy strength which sees so forcibly the misery of the world and rejects so unequivocally all the palliatives of senti- ment and philosophy. The melancholy is intensified by the ponderous style, which suggests a man weary of a heavy burden. The air seems to be filled with what Johnson once called inspissated gloom. Rasselas, one may say, has a narrow escape of being a great book, though it is ill calculated for the hasty readers of to-day. Indeed, the defects are serious enough. The class of writing to which it belongs demands a certain dramatic picturesqueness to point the moral effectively. Not only the long. winded sentences, but the slow evolution of thought and~the deliberation with which he ~vorks out his pictures of misery, make the general effect dull be- side such books as (~andide or Gullivers Travels. A touch of epigrammatic exag- geration is very much needed; and yet anybody who has the courage to read it through will admit that Johnson is not an unworthy guide into those gloomy re~,ions of imagination, which we all visit some- times, and which it is as well to visit in good company. After his fashion, Johnson is a fair rep- resentative of Greatheart. His melan- choly is distinguished from that of feebler men by the strength of the conviction that it will do no good to whine. We know his view of the great prophet of the Rev- olutionary School. Rousseau, he said, to l3oswells astonishment, is a very bad man. I would sooner sign a sen- tence for his transportation than that of any felon who has gone from the Old Bailey these many years. Yes, I should like to have him work in the plantati6ns. That is a fine specimen of the good John- sonese prejudices of which we hear so much; and, of course, it is easy to infer that Johnson was an ignorant bigot, who had not in any degree taken the measure of the great moving forces of his time. Nothing, indeed, can be surer than that Johnson cared very little for the new gos- pel of the rights of man. His truly British contempt for all such fancies ( for anything I see, he once said, for- eigners are fools ) is one of his strongest characteristics. Now, Rousseau and his like took a view of the world as it was quite as melancholy as Johnsons. They inferred that it ought to be turned upside down, assured that the millennium would begin as soon as a few revolutionary dog- mas were accepted. All their remedies appeared to the excellent Doctor as so much of that cant of which it was a man s first duty to clear his mind. The evils of life were far too deeply seated to be ~a~sed or cured by kings or demagogues. One of the most popular commonplaces of the day was the mischief of luxury. That we were all on the high road t,o ruin on account of our wealth, our cor- ruption, and the growth of the national debt, was the text of any number of politi- cal agitators. The whole of this talk was, to his mind, so much whining and cant. Luxury did ~o harm, and the mass of the people, as indeed was in one sense oo- vious enough, had only too little of it. The pet state of nature of theorists was a silly figment. The genuine savage was little better than an animal; and a savage woman, who3e contempt for civil- DR. JOHNSON S WRITINGS. ized life had prompted her to escape to the forest, was simpi a speaking cat. The natural equality of mankind was mere moonshine. So far is it from being true, he says, that no two people can be together for half an hour without one ac- quiring an evident superiority over the other. Subordination is an essential ele- ment of human happiness. A Whig stinks in his nostrils because to his eye modern Whiggism is a nei~ation of all principles. As he said of Priestleys writings, it unsett les everything and set- tles nothing. He is a cursed Whig, a bottomless Whig as they all are now, was his description apparently of Burke. Order, in fact, is a vital necessity; what particular form it may take matters com- paratively little ; and therefore all revolu- tionary dogmas were chimerical as an attack upon the inevitable conditions of life and mischievous so far as produc- tive of useless discontent. We need not ask what mixture of truth and falsehood there may be in these principles. Of couse, a Radical, or even a respectable V,Thig, like Macaulay, who believed in the magical efficacy of the British Consti- tution, might shriek or laugh at such doc- trine. Johnsons political pamphlets, be- sides the defects natural to a writer who was only a politician by accident, advo- cate the most retrograde doctrines. No- body at the present day thinks that the Stamp Act ~vas an admirable or justifi- able measure; or would approve of tell- ing the Americans that they ought to have been grateful for their long exemp- tion instead of indignant at the imposi- tion. We do not put a calf into the plough; we wait till he is an ox was riot a judicious taunt. He was utterly wrong; and, if everybody who is utterly wrong in a political controversy deserves unmixed contempt, there is no more to he said for him. We might indeed ar- gue that Johnson was in some ways en- titled to the sympathy of enlightened people. His hatred of the Americans was complicated by his hatred of slave- owners. He anticipated Lincoln in pro- posing the emancipation of the negroes as a military measure. His uniform hatred for the slave trade scandalized poor Boswell, who held that its abolition xvould be equivalent to shutting the gates of mercy on mankind. His lan- guage about the blundering tyranny of the English rule in Ireland would satisfy Mr. Froude, though he wQuld hardly have loved a Home Ruler. He denounces the frequency of capital punishment and the harshness of imprisonment for debt, and he invokes a compassionate treatment of the outcasts of our streets as warmly as the more sentimental Goldsmith. His conservatism may be at times obtuse, but it is never of the cynical variety. He hates cruelty and injustice as righteously as he hates anarchy. Indeed, Johnsons contempt for mouthing agitators of tbe Wilkes and Junius variety is one which may be shared by most thinkers who would not accept his principles. There is a vigorous passa~e in the False Alarm which is scarcely unjust to the patriots of the day. He describes the mode in which petitions are generally got up. They are sent from town to town, and the people flock to see what is to be sent to the king. One man signs because he hates the Papists ; another because he has vowed destruction to the turnpikes one because it will vex the parson ; an- other because he owes his landlord noth- ing; one because he is rich; another be- cause he is poor; one to show that he is not afraid, and another to show that he can write. The people, he thinks, are as well off as they are likely to be under any form of government; and grievances about general warrants or the rights of juries in libel cases are not really felt so long as they have enough to eat and drink and wear. The error, we may prob- bably say, was less in the contempt for a very shallow agitation than in the want of perception that deeper causes of dis- content were accumulating in the back- ground. Wilkes in himself was a worth- less demagogue; but Wilkes was the straw carried by the rising tide of revo- lutionary sentiment, to which Johnson was entirely blind. Yet whatever we may think of his political philosophy, the value of these solid sturdy prejudices is unde- niable. To the fact that Johnson was the ty~ica~representative of a large class of Englishmen we owe it that the Society of Rights did not develope into a Jacobin Club. The fine phrases on which French- men became intoxicated never turned the heads of men impervious to abstract theories and incapable of dropping sub- stances for shadows. There are evils in each temperament ; but it is as well that some men should c~rry into p6litics that rooted contempt for~vhining which lay so deep in Johnsons nature. He scorned the sickliness of the Rousseau school as, in spite of his constitutional melancholy, he scorned valetudinarianism whether of the bodily or the spiritual order. He saw evil enough in the world to be heartily, 99 100 DR. JOHNSONS WRITINGS. at times too roughly, impatient of all fine ladies who made a luxury of grief or of demagogues who shrieked about theoret- ical grievances which did not sensibly affect the happiness of one man in a thousand. The lady would not have time to nurse her sorrows if she had been a washerwoman ; the grievances with which the demagogues yelled them- selves hoarse could hardly be distin- guished amidst the sorrows of the vast majority condemned to keep starvation at bay by unceasing labour. His incapa- city for speculation makes his pamphlets worthless beside Burkes philosophical discourses; but the treatment, if wrong and defective on the theoretical side, is never contemptible. Here, as elsewhere, he judges by his intuitive aversions. He rejects too hastily whatever seems insipid or ill-flavoured to his spiritual appetite. Like all the shrewd and sensible part of mankind, he condemns as mere moon- shine what may be really the first faint dawn of a new daylight. But then his intuitions are noble, and his fundamental belief is the vital importance of order, of religion, and of morality, coupled with a profound conviction, surely not errone- ous, that the chief sources of human suf- fering lie far deeper than any of the rem- edies proposed by constitution-mongers and fluent theorists. The literary ver- sion of these prejudices, or principles, is given most explicitly in the Lives of the Poets the book which is now the most readable of Johnsons performances, and which most frequently recalls his con- versational style. Indeed, it is an admir- able book in its way, and but for one or two defects might enjoy a much more de- cided vitality. It is full of shrewd sense and righteous as well as keen estimates of men and things. The Lzfe of Savage, written in earlier times, is the best exist- ing portrait of that large class of authors who, in Johnsons phrase, hung loose upon society in the days of the Georges. The lives of Pope, Dryden, and others have scarcely been superseded, though much fuller information has since come to light; and they are all well worth reading. But the criticism, like the politics, is wofully out of date. Johnsons division between the shams and the real- ities deserves all respect in both cases, but in both cases he puts many things on the wrong side of the dividing line His hearty contempt for sham pastorals and sham love-poetry sill be probably shared by modern readers. Who will hear of sheep and goats and myrtle bowers and purl~ng rivulets through five acts? Such scenes please barbarians in the dawn of literature, and children in the dawn of life ; but will be for the most part thrown away as men grow wise and nations grow learned. But elsewhere he blunders into terrible misapprehensions. Where he errs by simply repeating the accepted rules of the Pope school, he for once talks mere second-hand nonsense. But his independent judgments are interesting even when erroneous. His unlucky as- sault upon Lycidas, already noticed, is generally dismissed with a pitying shrug of the shoulders. Among the flocks and copses and flowers appear the hea- then deities; Jove and Phcebus, Neptune and ~olus, with along train of mythologi- cal imagery, such as a college easily sup- plies. Nothing can less display knowl- edge, or less exercise invention, than to tell how a shepherd has lost his compan- ion, and must now feed his flocks alone; how one god asks another god what has become of Lycidas, and how neither god can tell. He who thus grieves can excite no sympathy, he who thus praises will confer no honour. Of course every tyro in criticism has his answer ready ; he can discourse about the ~sthetic tendencies of the Renais- sance period, and explain the necessity of placing oneself at a writers point of view, and entering into the spirit of the time. He will add, perhaps, that Lycidas is a test of poetical feeling, and that he who does not appreciate its exquisite melody has no music in his soul. The same writer who will tell us all this, and doubtless with perfect truth, would probably have adopted Pope or Johnsons theory with equal confidence if he had lived in the last century. Lycidas repelled Johnson by incongruities, which from his point of view were certainly offensive. Most wio~rn readers, I will venture to suggest, feel the same annoyances, though they have not the courage to avow them freely. If poetry is to be judged exclusively by the simplicity and force with which it expresses sincere emotion, Lycidas would hardly convince us of Miltons profound sorrow for the death of King, and must be condemned accordingly. To the purely pictorial or musical effects of a poem Johns& 4was nearly blind; but that need not suggest a doubt as to the sin- cerity of his love for the poetry which came within the range of his own sympa- thies. Every critic is in effect criticising himself as well as his author; and I con- fess that to my mind an obviously sincere I0I DR. JOHNSON S WRITINGS. record of impressions, however onesided and sometimes burst; out en-tphatically they may be, is infinitely refreshing, as and unexpectedly. The prospect of death revealing at least the honesty of the often clouds his mind, and he bursts into writer. The ordinary run of criticism tears when he thinks of his past suffer- generally implies nothing but the extreme ings. His sacred love of truth and un- desire of the author to show that he is compromising hatred of cant in all its open to the verylast new literary fashion. innumerable transmutations, prompts half I should welcome a good assault upon his mogt characteristic sayings. His Shakespeare which was not prompted by queer prejudices take ~a humorous form a love of singularity; and there are half- and give a delightful zest to his conver- a-dozen popular idols I have not the sation. His contempt for abstract specu- courage to name themupon whom I lation comes out when he vanquishes could witness a genuine attack with en- Berkeley, not with a grin, but by strik- tire equanimity, not to say some compla- ing his foot with mighty force against a cency. If Johnsons blunder in this case large stone. His arbuments, indeed, implied sheer stupidity, one can only say never seem to have owed much to what that honest stupidity is a much better is generally meant by logic. He scarcely thing than clever insincerity or fluent waits till his pistol misses fire to knock repetition of second-hand dogmas. But you down with the butt-end. The merit in fact this dslike of Ly~Idczs, and a good of his best sayin~s is not that they com- many instances of critical incapacity press an argument into a phrase, but that might be added, is merely a misapplica- they are vivid expressions of an intuitive tion of a very sound principle. The judgment. In otber words, they are al- hatred of cant and humbug and affecta- ways humorous i ~ther than witty. He tion of all vanity is a most salutary ingre- holds his own belief with so vigorous a dient even in poetical criticism. John- grasp that all argumentative devices for son, with his natural ignorance of that loosening it seem to be thrown away. historical method, the exaltation of which As Boswell says, he is through your body threatens to become a part of our con- in an instant without any preliminary temporary cant, made the pardonable parade ; he gives a deadly lunge, but blunder of supposing that what would cares little for skill of fence. We know have been gross affectation in Gray must we are free and theres an end of itis have been affectation in Milton. His ear his characteristic summary of a perplexed had been too much corrupted by the con- bit of metaphysics; and he would eyi- temporary school to enable him to recog- dently have no patience to wander nize beauties which would even have through the labyrinths in which men like shone through some conscious affecta- Jonathan Edwards delighted to perple~c tion. He had the rare courage for, themselves. We should have been glad even then, Milton was one of the tabooed to see a fuller report of one of those con- poets to say what he thought as forci- versations in which Burke wound into bly as he could say it; and he has suf- a subject like a serpent, and contrast fered the natural punishment of plain his method with Johnsons downright speaking. It must, of course, be ad- hitting. Boswell had not the power, even mitted that a book embodying such prin- j if he had the will, to give an adequate ci p les is doomed to become more or less account of such a wit combat. obsolete, like his political pam phletsj That such a mind should express itself And yet, as significant of the writers own I most fo& ibly in speech is intelligible character, as containing many passages enough. Conversation was to him not of sound judgment, expressed in forcible merely a contest, but a means of escape language, it is still, thou~h not a great from himself. I may be cracking my book, really impressive within the limits joke, he said to Boswell, and cursing of its capacity. the sun: Sun, how I hate thy beams ! After this imperfect survey of John- The phrase sounds exaggerated, but it sons writings, it only remains to be no- was apparently his settled conviction that ticed that all the most prominent pecu- the ofily remedy for melancholy, except liarities are the very same which give indeed the religio~~s remedy, was in hard interest to his spoken utterances. The work or in the rapture of conversational doctrine is the same, though the preach- strife. His little circle of friends called er s manner has changed. His melan- forth his humour as the House of Coin- choly is not so heavy-eyed and depress- mons excited Chathams eloquence; and ing in his talk, for We catch him at both of them were inclined to mouth too moments of excitement; but it is there, much when deprived of the necessary DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 102 stimulus. Chathams set speeches were as pompous as Johnsons deliberate writ- ing. They resemble the chemical bodies which acquire entirely new properties when raised beyond a certain degree of temperature. Indeed, we frequently meet touches of the conversational Johnson in his controversial writing. Taxation no Tyranny is at moments almost as pithy as Swift, though the style is never so simple. The celebrated Letter to Ches- terfield, and the letter in which he tells MacPherson that he will not be de- terred from detecting what he thinks a cheat by the menaces of ~ ruffian, are as good specimens of the smashing repartee as anythin~ in Boswells reports. Nor, indeed, does his pomposity sink to mere verbiage so often as might be supposed. It is by no means easy to translate his ponderous phrases into simple words without losing some of their meaning. The structure of the sentences is com- pact, though they are too elaborately bal- anced and stuffed with superfluous antith- eses. The language might be simpler, but it is not a mere sham aggregation of words. His written style, however faulty in other respects, is neither slipshod nor ambiguous, and passes into his conversa- tional style by imperceptible degrees. The radical identity is intelligible, though the superficial context is certainly curi- ous. We may perhaps say that his cen- tury, unfavourable to him as a writer, gave just what he required for talking. If, as is sometimes said, the art of con- versation is disappearing, it is because society has become too large and diffuse. The good talker, as, indeed, the good artist of every kind, depends upon the tacit co-operation of the social medium. The chorus, as, indeed, Johnson has shown very well in one of the Ramblers, is quite as essential as the main performer. Nobody talks well in London, because everybody has constantly to mee ta fresh set of interlocutors, and is as much put out as a musician who has to be al- ways learning a new instrument. A lit- erary dictator has ceased to be a possi- bility, so far as direct personal influence is concerned. In the club Johnson knew how every blow would tell, and in the rapid thrust and parry dropped the heavy style which muffled his utterances in I print. He had to deal with concrete il- lustrations, instead of expanding into plat- itudinous generalities. The obsolete theories which impair the value of his criticism and his ~litics, become amus- ing in the form of pithy sayings, though they weary us when asserted in new ex- positions. His greatest literary effort, the Dictionary, has of necessity become antiquated in use, and, in spite of the in- tellectual vigour indicated, can hardly be commended for popular reading. And thus but for the inimitable Boswell, it must be admitted that Johnson would probably have sunk very deeply into oblivion. A few good sayings would have been preserved by Mrs. Thrale and others, or have been handed down by tra- dition, and doubtless assigned in process of time to Sydney Smith and other con- versational celebrities. A few couplets from the Vanity of Human Wishes would not yet have been submerged, and curi- ous readers would have recognized the power of Rasselas, and been delighted with some shrewd touches in the Lives of the Poets. But with all desire to magnify critical insight, it must be admitted that that man would have shown singular penetration, and been regarded as an ec- centric commentator, who had divined the humour and the fervour of mind which lay hid in the remains of the huge lexicographer. And yet when we have once recognized his power, we can see it everywhere indicated in his writings, thou~h by an unfortunate fatality the style or the substance was always so deeply affected by the faults of the time, that the product is never thor- oughly sound. His tenacious conser- vatism caused him to cling to decaying materials for the want of anything better, and he has suffered the natural penalty. He was a great force wasted, so far as literature was concerned, because the fashionable costume of the day hampered the free exercise of his powers, and be- cause the only creeds to which he could attach himself were in the phase of de- cline and inanition. A century earlier or later he might have succeeded in express- i~g fimself through books as well as through his talk ; but it is not given to us to choose the time of our birth, and some very awkward consequences follow. From Blackwoods Magazine. DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. ~ PART III. IT must have been just an accidental meeting, said the curate. They must have come up 4 the same moment to speak to Mr. Pound. People are always wanting something of him. DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. [03 No, said Lydia, that wasnt it, Im sure. I saw them ride into the town to- gether, without doubt. What on earth can have brought them into company? Oh, some odd chance or other. Is the thing worth noticing Not if Miss Fulford speaks of it her- self. We shall see. Perhaps she will explain all about it. It is odd, isnt it ?~ Miss Fulford, as we have seen, did not speak of the matter herself. She was annoyed at it having occurred, and she believed that nobody had noticed it so she was glad to banish it from her thoughts. Mr. Saunders, on the con- trary, saw in this incident his good for- tune working its way to the fulfilment of his desires. To think now, said he to himself, of my actually riding ~ilone with her for three or four miles, and at- tending of her to the little inn I This is getting on at a great pace : shell get over her shyness after a bit; if I should have the luck to meet her once or twice more. Im awake. And he was silly enough to talk to one or two of his as- sociates about having ridden with Miss Fulford, suppressing the circumstances to which the ride was due, so as to make them open their eyes wide and say to one another after he left them, My eye Bens a gettin on, isnt he ? hell be to court next ; clever chap, Ben. It was about this time that I sat, one evening, at a meeting of the club, apart on a sofa with the curate, neither of us caring to play cards. We were talking of the strange coincidences that happen in this world, and then it was that Nor- cott confided to me that curious story of Lieutenant Hardinges dream. I thought it one of the most remarkable things I had ever heard, and said I should like to make a note of the particulars to keep by me. I knew the Plymouth Hotel well, and asked whether the curate could give the number of the room,~vhich he said was 26, Hardinge having once or twice named the number, as if impressing it on his own memory, and saying, Its the number of the Cameronians: I shall rec- ollect it by that. I observed that these foreshadowings, or warnings, or what- ever they were, certainly passed our comprehension; when Saunders, who had been lounging opposite to us, ap- parently studying a sporting paper, jumped up at my words, and came across towards us, asking if we were talking about visions and prophecies, and what they were, as he took ~t deep interest in such matters. Of course we were not in- dined to tell him of the story, to renew his grief, so the curate put him off by saying that we had been discussing a certain dream which had been remarkably and exactly fulfilled. Fulfilled, eh ? an- swered lie, little imagining what the sub- ject of the dream was. You know in- stances, then, of dreams hayiiig been ex- actly fulfilled: good. I have no doubt they come quite true sometimes. I could tell, if I liked, of a very odd dream that seems likely to come to pass, only they say you spoil all if you tell it. Of course I know now what was then in Mr. Benjamins mind. Admiral Tautbrace was very fond of his garden. He understood gardening, and worked himself at it a part of most days on which he was free of engage- ments. He employed as his assistant a queer old fellow, who was quite a char- acter in the neighbourhood, observant, shrewd, droll after his fashion, and quick at repartee. Uncle * Jack Varco or old Plummybag, as he was profanely called, because plum means soft, as an air-cushion, risen-bread, & c., and Uncle Jack had been afflicted with dropsy soon after his conversion re- joiced in the reputation of having been somewhat of a reprobate in time past; but in my recollection he had been a saint a liberal saint, that is, for he still enjoyed his joke, did not pull long faces, and was not particularly hard on his neighbours save in the way of sarcasm, to which he had always been addicted, even in his carnal days. The religious denominations down there in the west might say, as the evil spirits did, that their name is legion, for they are many. Uncle Jacks persuasion called itself Bri- enite, after one OBrien, its founder. Sailors when on shore, I have observed, dislike constrained intercourse with infe- riors ~(ofwhich they have more than enough, perhaps, on the quarter-deck), and take to these privileged oddities, with whom they can be familiar without loss of dignity. The two were very busy one day among the beds, and Uncle Jack, having made mention of Thicky there, Saunderss boej, as he irreverently termed our friend Benjamin, said, What do eethink I heard about en, then, sir? Infernal youn~ cub! how should I know? Well, what did you hear, Jack ? * I have met many countrymen who supposed that to call elderty people Uncle and Anne was an American invention. Those who are acquainted witis the south- western peninsula of this island must know very well from whence the Americ os derived the custom. DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 104 I should say before telling of it, that it didnt come from no reliable witness, and if there was only Tommy Triggss word for it, I shouldnt ha believed it. Whothe Hades (?) is Tommy Triggs ? My dear, Im afeared youve a named the very place where they could tell ee most about en. Hes a fine carriter that there Tommy. Whupped heve a. been, and caged and ironed, to say nothin of a short visit to Buttiney Bay along of a hoss job. Theres little he dothnt knaw. Rascal! and theres something else about him, Jack, that I know without your telling me. Whats that, my dear ? Why, Ill answer for it, that with all those accomplishments, the fellows been a Brienite preacher. Cant say, my dear, wheer a was or not, or wheer a had any religion at all. What I do know of en is that a was once the Capn of a man-o-war: easier to onderstand that than his bein of a preacher. Easier to understand that, you old villain ! What the devil do you mean My dear, I knaws nothin of myself, how should I? but Ive heerd say, per- haps ontruly, that some of em wull cuss and swear, and call names like troopers, and be guilty of much profaneness: now thats exacly Tom Triggss carriter. Hark ye, Uncle Jack, youll do well to keep those sentiments for the shore for Ill be (something) if you wouldnt get your old back well scored afloat if you talked in that impudent way. Likely I might. Ive a been a-ship- board, and knaw sometbin of the doings. Convict vessel ? No, measter, no. What Ive a seed hey been in a very humble way. I never persoomed to make out that us had a sailed together me and Tommy, I means, of kewse. I daresay, bless you. But now about this rascal, this Mr. Triggs. Well, this rascal, as you calls en unfortinate sinner, as I calls enwas a drinkin last Friday arternoon to Hannah Sibleys, dree mile out upon the Slushton road, and he saith he seed Miss Gar- trude, you know, the young mistuss (winking and pointing his finger over his shoulder towards Golkatton) He saw, and be dashed (?) to him! Well, yes, yes; what did the fellow see \I was agwain to tell ee, onny you stopped me. The fella said that he seed the young lady (de~ sweet maiden her is, tew, I vow to gewdness) Get on, old man go ahead, make sail, will you? I wull, if youll leave me to, except makino~ sails, which I cant do;i wish I could. St. Paul, you knaw Bless St. Paul! Youre doing this on purpose, you old rascal ! (Then, calming himself with a great effort) Now, I say, Uncle Jack, lets have it; thats a good man. My, my! I hope youll be. forgove. Well, a said he seed Miss Gartrude out there a-ridin with young Bennyonny they two. An infernal lying villain! How could you think of repeating such an in- famous story ? upon Tommys word, sartainly, twasnt worthy to be tould again; but I onderstand the young sprig hisself hey a been sayin somethin of the same soart. He has, has he? Then he stands as good a chance of a ropes-ending as any man between the four seas. An impu- dent (a few choice imprecations, the details of which are not suited to these pages). Immediately after the above conversa- tion, the flag-officer, firing minute oaths, retired into the house, while old Plumrny- bag let his countenance relax into a grin that might have belonged to a hearty laugh, but was not attended by any sound whatever. As he doffed his garden dress, and rigged himself, as he called it, for town, it occurred to Admiral Tautbrace that his position in entering into judgment with Mr. Saunders would be much strengthened if he had some accurate in- formation as to the real facts. These could be ascertained nowhere so well as at Colkatton ; and he was glad of an ex- cuse for calling there. Thither, accord- ingly, he first took his way; and there he f~uq~1 the ladies much out of sorts, the younger one especially so, who had learned from Miss Tarraways innuendos rather than her words that she was ac- quainted with the adventure, and who had been made aware of this annoying fact at a time and in a company when and where it was impossible to reply or explain. Indeed Gertrude was greatly niortified and very angry. There was no need for the~ dmiral to beat cautiously about, for t a ies were only too glad to unburden themselves of their grief, and to tell him the whole story of the af- fair as it really occurred. He had heard of Corders accident, but not of the at- tendant circumstances: now he under- DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 105 stood the whole matter, and would take care that people whose opinion was worth should understand it too. Not knowing how Lydia had come by her im- perfect information, he thought the whole gossip was owing to Mr. Saunderss in- discreet boasting. So he took his leave, saying that he would go now and take steps for having a proper version of the tale put in circulation, and quietly intend- ing to go also and administer a caution to the offender. He called on the clergy- man of the parish, on the curate, and on one or two other persons who possessed either local influence or long tongues, and gave the proper version of the story, not without inveighing against Mr. Ben- jamin Saunderss idiotic vanity, and hint- ing at the retribution which was probably in store for him. Some of the persons whom he went to enlighten had never heard the story at all; but among those who had heard it was Mr. Norcott, who felt himself guilty, not for having spoken of the subject, or having even imagined that there could be anything in it worth speaking about, but because he had too quietly permitted Miss Tarraway to de- ceive herself (so the honest fellow put it) as to its having been other than one of the most simple of accidents. lie never thought of blaming Lydia, to whose weak- nesses he was getting particularly blind. The Admiral then took his way towards the large gates, over which were written on a great wooden arch that spanned the entrance, Saunders, Stone-Mason, Brick- layer, Builder, and (ontractor, and stepped into the little office adjacent thereto, where he saw Mr. Benjamin be- hind the desk, having some earnest busi- ness talk with a gentleman of the town who stood outside the same desk, and John Bray, the foreman, who was in at- tendance. On observing who it was that darkened the doorway, Ben came smirk- ing forward, requested the Admiral to take a seat, and he would have the pleas- ure of taking his orders in a very few minutes but the Admiral said there was no hurry; he had a short business to do elsewhere, and would return; so he went out again, rather to l3ens disappointment, wuo thought perhaps he might forget to call again, or be prevented from doing so. There was, however, no danger of his forgetting; only as he had now ascer- tained that Mr. Saunders was within his reach, which he had feared might not be the case, he thouTht he would take a turn or two outside, measure the young mans offence, and consider bow he should be dealt with. Some people would have looked into these little matters before seeking the delinquent, but that was not the Admirals way. A little reflection showed him that Ben had been guilty of only indiscretion, or at the worst of a suppression of the truth, and that he had been indulging his vanity without any bad intention. He therefore did the great violence to his feelings of putting aside the idea of ropes-ending. No, said he to himself, enjoying the consciousness of his clemency, which he didnt think ten men in the whole service would have the magnanimity to imitate No, by George (?), Ill only give the whelp a little wholesome advice ; speak to him like a father this time, and if that doesnt do he didnt finish the sentence, but closed his fist upon his baton, and made it quiver a little in his grasp. Ah, are you desengaged now, young- ster? inquired he, as he entered the office the second time. Benjamin rubbed his hands, and said he was quite at the Admirals orders, again offering a seat. Then just let your mate or whatever he may be go forard get out of this, I mean for I want to say a few words to you in private. John Bray raised his eyebrows at this, and thought it looked mysterious ; he took his departure, however. Ben began to experience a disagreeable sensation, as if this pointed to a different kind of bus- iness from what he had expected. Now look you, my friend, began the Admiral. I understand that your good fortune yotlr devilish good for tune, mind you caused you to render a small service the other day to a young lady whose groom met with an accident. You know. Bens apprehension turned suddenly to delight. Could the Admiral possibly have~coWe as an ambassador to open ne- gotiations that might lead to the fulfil- ment of the dream ? This did indeed look promising. Ben simply bowed in acknowledgment that he had done his devoir, as imputed. Then dont interrupt me, sir. Zounds, I say sir, dont interrupt me. Youve been lubber enough to speak of your ride home as if it hadnt been the result of an accident, but so~ething in the way of your ordinary privilege, havent you? (faint effort on Mr. Saunderss tart to say something in mitzgation.) Not a word, sir not a word; you know you did. Now my first impression, when I heard of this, was that it was impertinence, and, DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. io6 by George, sir, if (movement of dissent from Mr. Saunders) well, I am willing to believe that it was not impertinence, only folly, blest folly, which perhaps you were not aware of; I hope not. But now that Ive made you understand what an ass you are, what an idiotical conceited puppy you are justly called, I trust it will operate as a caution to you as. long as you live, not to speak of gentlewomen ex- cept with the profoundest respect the profoundest respect, do you hear? Really, Admiral Tautbrace, Ben was beginning in an indignant strain. Silence, sir; dont attempt to answer. If Id ordered you four dozen that is, I mean, if youd been severely trounced (you understand me), there might have been some reason for singing out, al- though men of any mettle are not much given to bleating under punishment; but Ive chosen to deal with this case mildly by yea and nay, mildly. Good day, sir; good day. I hope I shant have to repent of my humanity. Dont drive me to be a savage against my nature. As the Admiral strode put of the office, striking his stick upon the floor, uttering from his nostrils breath that was red-hot if it had not burst into flame, and looking the very picture of mild benevolence, he came against John Bray in the porch, who didnt appear to have withdrawn himself to any great distance. John sprang out of the path of the meek old sailor as if the latter had been a ~steam- engine at full speed, and presently re- entered the office, where he found. his chief greatly disconcerted, and not a bit so6thed by the suspicion that his foreman had overheard the no, not the dialogue.. That be a limb,* bent a? said John, as he came in. Soart uv a chap now,. that ef he wus upun the one side uv a hadge I wud sewnderbe upun the tether; speakth to we like as ef us was brewt beastisses, doant a? An old man, John, answered Ben. People have spoiled him by humouring of him. I was half a mind to serve him properly, and let the daylight through him. Bless him, the old tyrant, but I dont think he meaned half that he said, you know. If Id punished him for his hectoring, the old fool, I should have been sorry afterwards, perhaps. Es, I reckon yew wewd, replied John. Ben, be it remarked, was not thought to be deficient in courage; it was want of To wit, of Satan. sense and judgment that put him wrong. His father, if the old Admiral had tried to bully him, would have met the assault quietly but firmly, and in the end got the better of the peppery old sailor. But Ben, although he may have been up to hitting out, had no other resource, and personal violence, he instinctively felt, was not the right thing in this place. It was an attack against which he was not prepared with any defence. He felt rather guilty, too, being aware that he had made his remarks in such a way as not to convey exactly the whole truth ; and yet, indeed, nothing that he said would have been much noticed by any one if his words had not been so ably supported by those of Miss Tarraway. Well, here he was in another mess, and snubbed again. He couldnt think how it was, that while some influence or other seemed to be intent on forwarding the fulfilment of his dream, some other unlucky chance brought him, out of each opportunity, mortification and discouragement. Many people may think that the Ad- miral had much better have omitted his interview with Mr. Saunders. Such, however, was by no means his own opin- ion. Satisfied that he had done his duty, and rather proud of the calm and temper- ate manner in which it had been done, he took his way homewards, and thought he would look in again at Colkatton to assure the fair inhabitants that everything had been put right. He felt himself now to be commissioned in some sort as Ger- trudes champion, to be wearing her fa- vour; and, sink me, said he to himself, I should like to see one of these waltzing, gallopin.g young humbugs that could dis- pose of a bit of business of that kind like an oldster who has some comprehension of discipline, by George ! He reported in few words the outlines of his proceed- in~s,mo re to let Gertrude observe his ze~an in the way of boasting; said that all annoyance about the matter might be suffered to die away now, as he was certain that he had quite put an end to misapprehensions ; received his meed of thanks, and then, like a prudent mari- ner, thought he would clap on all sail while the wind was fair. Accordingly, he led the conversation to his own affairs, with subt~ty adapting his remarks to tastes rather than her daughters (as he who would be master of the body of the place knows that he must first win the outworks), mentioned an in- terview which he had had with the sea lord on his recent visit to the Admiralty. DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 107 Fine fellow, Tom Mainsplice, and, I may say, not ill disposed to your humble servant sailed together you know; tak- ing of Martinique Toms arm broke I shot through calf of my leg; that sort of thing. Hell do me a good turn, rely upon it, if he can. Oho! you expect promotion, Admi- ral. Well, I hope with all my heart it will not be long delayed. What shall you be a field-marshal ? said Mrs. Fulford. Promotion ! not a hit of it. Thats all right: goes by seniority, you see, now. Ive been of the white two years and a half, and must be of the red soon, if the old ones go off as they are doing at pres- \ent. Poor Sir Davy Dreadnought, only last week; good-service pensionone leg, and reef in right side from sabre-cut in boarding. Two or three just before him. No, I wasnt speaking of promo- tion; but Mainsplice gave me a whisper about the South American command being vacant shortly, and he hinted that possibly, he couldnt say for certain, mine might be one of the names submitted for it. Oh yes; and then, if your name were submitted ? If I were selected you know, my flag would go up. Really, your flag would go up, re- peated Mrs. Fulford, intensely interested, and understanding the matter of which she spoke as well as if it had been men- tioned in Sanskrit. Then you will have to get it down again! No, Heaven forbidno; if I get it up, Ill keepjt flying, trust me. Sending up my flag, maam, means getting a coin- mand; taking my berth on board a flag- shzj5 dye understand ? Oh, I see; of course, of course. (The Misses Tautbrace were rather bet- ter up in this subject than Mrs. Fulford. The possible ascent of this flag was the constant topic of conversation when the family was alone, and came to them as regularly as their daily bread, though, I fancy they prayed less earnestly for it.) Well, dont you think it looks prom- ising? asked the Admiral. Oh, most hopeful almost certain, I should say. Of course, you reminded your friend, Maysplice Mainsplice, maam, Mainsplice. Name that was in everybodys mouth in J erviss days. Commanded Untameable Hy~ena off Cape St. Vincent. Of course, I me~t Mallspice; the king gave him a bath, or something, I remember. Well, you reminded your friend Malispice, now, of that glorious, glorious conflict, of that dreadful wound in your arm? Leg, maam, leg and not so dread- ful, neither; not even entered severe in doctors report. No, Tom knows all about that, and the First Lord wouldnt know or care much abput it if it was told to him. Ill tell you what I reminded him of, though; I said he must recollect that I had always voted strai,,ht since that little matter was put right about the Finisterres prize-money; and that theyd have returned one of those confounded prying, grumbling, arithmetical rascals for Wetton last election, if I hadnt pre- vented it. I hinted, too, that if I was left too long ashore, I might, in a mo- ment of forgetfulness, plump for, the wrong man. That will give me a capital chance if Tom represents it properly. What! a better chance than the mem- ory of your services and sufferings A blessed (I beg your pardon, la- dies) a confounded sight better. What occurred to poor Gertrude on this occasion was, that if Tom Mainsplice should only be duly impressed by his friends merits, she might be delivered from the importunities of a suitor who was becoming troublesom~, and was, in the present circumstances, particularly distasteful. ut another thing had taken hold of Mrs. ~ulfords mind, which had never before ~ened to the great possi- bilities of Admiral Tautbraces position in the sery,ice possibilities which, though they surrounded him now in only an uncorporeal and invisible state, might any day be clothed upon and take gor- geous shape. Once she conceived the new idea, she didnt do so in an imper- fect way, but saw Tautbrace full-blown as Port-Admiral at Plymouth. She had been at the Admiralty House there, and seen~th* glories of the appointment; and to think that Admiral Tautbrace, her friend and neighbour, inioht be invested with these or similar, glories if only Tom Mainsplice should prove an effectual ad- vocate ! She didnt know how Tom Mainsplice, and other Toms, Dicks, and Harrys, had been playing fast and loose with~ the Admiral for the last seven or eight years always holding out hopes, and always find~hg some excuse for not realizing them I Jack, said the Admiral to old Plum- mybag next morning in the garden, I gave a word of caution yesterday to that jackanapes, that young whats-his-name. icS DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. Saunderss boey do ee mean? Yes ; the fellows father was a respect- able man, so I thought I wouldnt be so sharp as I intended, but speak to him mildly, as a parson or one of those peo- ple would. He isnt a used to sich tenderness as that. Shouldn wonder now ef a never seed twas lovin-kindness at all. Folks be so contrairy. That may be, Jack; Ive often and often found that the case, but Ive got used to it, and dont expect anything bet- ter. A man that expects to be appreciat- ed will be disappointed, its a bad world, old man a dashed ungrateful world. All i~norance, my dear; they doesnt knaw when theym a spoke to in that pleasant way that tis all for their own good. After this occurrence the spring ad- vanced at Wetton without incident worthy of special mention, although time was, of course, preparing eventsand sur- prises. As to the characters in this nar- rative, they were quietly working away, or being borne, towards their destinies. Lieutenant Hardinge was making the most of the days that remained of his country sojourn, sporting, visiting, but not making love, I am afraid. The young fellow went to Colkatton now and then with a mind perfectly~ asy as to the terms on which the acq i~l ntance there was maintained, and n~er for an in- stant suspecting the flushes, tremors, palpitations, meditations, and tears to which his visits nay, his looks, words, and oestures gave rise. Although he had disappointed the matrimonial expec- tations of Wetton, he was there regard- ed as an unaffected, good-natured, rather pleasant fellow. His want of liveliness was set down to a reflecting mind and professional study. A fine honourable young fellow, and a thorough soldier, I can assure you, was the testimony re- gardin~ him of the doctor of the militia, who, except for the three weeks during which the regiment was occasionally em- bodied, practised in the town as an ordi- nary surgeon, and assumed, and was al- lowed, to be the highest resident military authority. Hardinge had come short of the stereotyped country town idea of a young officer, all dash,, brilliancy, and ex- travagance, and so rather disappointed the place at his advent; but when the time of his departure approached, Wet- ton found that it w~s sorry to lose him. Miss Tarraway, having obtained satisfac tory testimonials of Mr. Norcott, and as- certained that two of his cousins were members of Parliament (one of them a small official), also that he had a bishop for his uncle by marri~ge, and that there was a livin~ in the family, no longer con- fined herself to tentative operations, but formally invested that young man, and sat down before him, assailing him vig- orously with all the weapons of which the attack was in that day cognisant. But some innocent objector may remark, How could curates be attacked in those days? There was no confession, no dec- orating of churches at all seasons of the year, no working of altar-cloths, no em- broidering of stoles, no prostrations, no choirs, no schools, even, calculated to aid such designs ! Thou fool; pre- sumest thou in thy small scale of sense to weigh thy opinion, founded on the ex- perience of a few years probablyof a generation at most against the eternal instincts of spinsterhood expectant here on earth? Because the modern method of operating was not applicable to those days, is that a reason why there should have been no operation at all? If a mod- ern curate in his raffish wideawake, his starched band, his bombasine waistcoat, and his straight-cut surtout, got up in imitation, as far as he dares, of a popish priest, be, in that he is a bachelor, an object of competition, why should not an ancient curate have been equally so, al- though his ambition was to form himself upon the model of a Methodist preacher? Know well, that this relation is not for an age but for all time, and that where- soever a curate (unencumbered) is, there will gentlewomen of a certain type be gathered together. In the days of Miss Tarraways youth, Dissent was preva- lent in the West of England, and zealous young clergymen beholding this result supposed it to be produced by some- tl1tn~effective in the snuffle, the whine, the uncompromising doctrine, the ex- ceeding plainness of worship, of attire, and of speech; and they too, being am- bitious of winning souls, governed them- selves accordingly, as our officials have it. They probably were not aware that the popularity of the Dissenters was simply a measure of the unpopularity of the Church oC England in those parts, as represented~y its older and beneficed clergy. Those last-named public-spirited ministers had perceived that the people were in danger of becoming comparative- ly indifferent to field-sports, and of aban- doning some flagrant vices, if by the in- DISORDER IN DREAMLAND. 109 fluence of both precept and example such, within were perfectly splendid. Biit I am lapses were not prevented. To arrest saying rather too much about this court- the falling away, they, the clergymen, de- ship. Poor Gertrude was decidedly out voted themselves, hearts and souls, to of health, lost her fresh look and her following and recommending the sports, rounded form: the kind inquiries to and practising the vices, so that men which she was subjected vexed her, and could see their works. The stiff-necked struck a chill to her mothers heart. parishioners, instead of walking in the Pound had prescribed and supplied some way of their pastors, ran after the Dis- abominable mixture xyhich he called a senters, iather to show how little feeling tonic, also a box of pills. The two to- they had in common with their owfi gether were enough to produce serious clergy, than because ranting and howling disease in a healthy person, and to hurry and cushion-thumping were to their uk- a patient towards the grave. One or two ing. But the rising generation of par- friends, more clear-sighted than the sons naturally enough supposed that apothecary, recommended an excursion, there was something positively attractive which he never would have suggested in the Dissenting style when so many but of this Gertrude wouldnt even hear seemed to approve it; and so they vied at present, though she thought perhaps with each other in simplifying their she might be more disposed to travel in churches, their services, and their attire, the summer. I dont know what odd fan- and in debasing their style of preaching. cies didnt occur to her now. Protestant Lydias leading move, which we may call nunneries were beginning to be heard of; the preparation for her attack, was a gen- and she thought she would like to start a eral intimation that she was becoming little society of sisters of the broken heart, serious. She adopted a bonnet which or something of that sort, who would do projected about three inches beyond the an incalculable deal of good, and be a real point of her nose, withdrew a good deal blessing to mankind. She wasnt quite from carnal amusements, attended meet- clear what their line would be, but she ings of the Bible and other benevolent had nearly made up her mind about the societies, took great interest in missions, bonnet of the order, a sketch of which and was deeply affected at some passages lay for long between the leaves of her in Norcotts sermons, which forced her blotting-book. And even yet, that stupid to raise her eyes to the preacher, uncon- fellow Hardinge would sometimes, by a scious of the fact that they were running thoubhtless word or action, dispel for a over. She likewise discovered a great time all the resignation, and renew the passion for art, especially for oil-paint- whispers of hope, even if the whispers ings. But I wish it to be understood that were so low as to be almost inaudible. Lydia did not start off suddenly from her Admiral Tautbrace, having perceived that old path to walk in wisdoms ways. It the mention of the flag had not been was done gradually and cleverly, so that without its effects on Mrs. Fulford, took by-and-by, when the time had come for care to refer very frequently to that piece pects. It had not her timidly to seek spiritual advice from of bunting and its pros the curate on one or two points, there gone up yet, and it had grieved Tom was nothing in her doing so to excite Mainsplice to the heart to say that the suspicion. Lydia did, moreover, some First Lord had been compelled (much noble deeds of charity; and although her against his private inclination) to bestow right hand was profoundly ignorant of the the ~So~h American command on another benef actions of her left,.and vice versd, the officer whose claim it was impossible to secrets of both palms somehow were re- overlook. (Mainsplice did not mention vealed to Norcott. When a young clergy- that this deserving officer could influence man begins to think of matrimony, it is three votes in the House of Commons; comfortable to know that the object of his and that the last division; on a question regard is already very much what in his of confidence, had been what he called a opinion a clergymans wife ought to be! [something] near thing, by George !) Taut- There was a nice docility, too, about brace, however, would be borne in mind, Lydia; she was willing to be guided by and something else would be sure to turn the opinions of a person whom she re- up before long. W~ou couldnt call Taut- spected. Her features were expressive brace by any means an old man, Mrs. certainly, and she managed their play Fulford thought he still possessed all with great judgment. It was only lately the energy of youth; whatever his years that Norcott had bec~ne alive to the fact were, was ready to take a command at.a that her eyes when lighted up by the soul days notice, was most distinguished in ITO THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. his profession, and would certainly have a title some day. (This last idea the Ad- miral had cleverly insinuated.) Of course, Mrs. Fulford perceived that Tautbrace aspired to the honour of heing her son- in-law; and although she rather hesitated about actively favouring his suit, she couldnt help reflecting sometimes that if things should take that turn, it might prove a tolerable dispensation. Ben Saunders, more and more intent on effecting a rise in the world, and play- ing the great part assigned to him by fate, did not make himself more popular with people of his own class by his very openly exposed pretensions. He did not care much for that, though; for he found that fortune had been favouring him in more ways than he had till now been aware ofshe had not only suggested a great ambition, but had bestowed some very important means of gratifying it. When the amount of the property left hy his father came to be ascertained, it was found greatly to exceed the estimates of it made just after his death. The old builder had been industrious, shrewd, and frugal; his private expenditure had been a mere nothing in comparison of his in- come; consequently year by yearhe had been accumulating money, which he had put out to increase here and there, always discreetly. The deposits and invest- merits coming to light week by week. (for, as has been said, his accounts and memo- randa were not of the most enlightening; moreover, his will disposed of his prop- erty in bulk almost) amounted to a hand- some sum, the income derivable from which, added to the profits of the busi- ness, sufficed for a good deal of indul- gence. Under pretence that his mothers spirits would never revive as long as memory should be kept awake by the daily sight of things connected with the past, Ben persuaded her to go for change of air and scene to a house situated some little way in the country, a very different residence from their old one. He an- nounced it as a temporary arrangement, but they never returned to the old house near the building-yard. It need hardly be added, that with the new abode a new style of living was adopted, not in the best of taste, but comprehending indul- gences never dreamt of in old days. Only under vehement protest did Mrs. Saun- ders consent to these revolutions: if she had found herself as rich as Cr~sus, she would have considered it a presumption for the likes of he~ to be eatin with a silver fork, made for show, and quite useless for l)ickin up ones fewd, besides woundin of the gums and tongue; and trapesin over rich carpets and amongst fine furnitur that a body dare not tech for fear of dirtyn of em. This was very unlike the feeling of her son, who be-. lieved that nothing had been, or ever would be, so made as to be worthy of be- ing used by him. He furthered his plans very much by giving expensive dinners to such young men as he could persuade to partake of them; and I think I recol- lect that many of those who declined his hospitality at first were wooed by the good report of the meat and drink, and by the advice that Ben lost money at cards like a lord at Crockfords. Like many another rising man, he became in- sultingly cool to some of his old friends. The distant and condescending saluta- tion which he one day gave the militia sergeant-major, whose acquaintance he had in times past looked upon as his greatest social achievement, so wounded that gallant spirit, that he was fain to compose his mind by drinking steadily for three days and three nights, during which period he revealed to his familiars how a dirty little puppy of a mechanic, ought to be treated. From The Contemporary Review. THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. PREFACE. THE famous Episode of the Shield of Achilles in Homer is in its conception alike daring and simple, in its execution alike complete and gorgeous, from the nature of the topics, and the telling sharpness of outline with which they are presented. The employment of a Divine personage as the artificer of the Shield seems to show that the design w~nt far b~ofi~l anything which the eyes of his countrymen had been wont to view, and was in effect conceived in the mind of~ the Poet, not founded as a whole upon experience, and not representative of, but very much more advanced than, the Art of the period in which he lived. This introduction of the god has the advantage, too, of enabling the Poet, without extrav vance, to push to its fur- thest limit the ~ds vivida, the livin~ and life-giving power, of his genius, and not only to introduce successions of events into one and the same scene, but to en- dow the things and persons represented with other incidents of vitality ;as when THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. ITT the upturned earth darkens behind the with this exception, there is hardly any- plough, and we are made to see the actual where the description of a pure mental progress of the dragging of the slain out emotion. It is sometimes well to employ of the battle. statistics in aid of criticism. Let us test The Art of the Shield is in thorough the Shield by the number of its epithets. consonance with the spirit of the Homeric I have counted them, endeavouring to sep- Poems ; that is to say, its basis is thor- arate between those which belong to the ou~hly human, thoroughly objective, and quidfrom those which belong to the quaZe. thoroughly realistic. It does not seek The latter alone, I apprehend, are epi- aid from the unseen ; from the convetse thets proper: and I cannot reckon of of man with his own spirit; from ideal these more than sixty-eight in one hun- conceptions ; or even from history or dred and eighteen lines: a number sur- legend. Human interest in the actual prisingly small, when it is remembered known human life, with its terrestrial that the whole consists of strictly de- abode, its pursuits, its simple institutions, scriptive poetry.* its vicissitudes, is the keynote of the There is, however, one point in which, whole. above all others, the Shield of Achilles is For us and for our time, it may seem distinguished by its daring form from that realistic means prosaic; and for cor- most, if not all, other poetical repre- roborative emblems of this proposition sentations of a work of art. It is the may be chosen some of our statues in degree in which it is charged with life coat, waistcoat, and trowsers ; some of our and activity. Of the twelve pictures de- highly conventional painting; and the scriptive of scenes familiar to the eye, large measure in which our poetry, since almost every one contains a narrative the days of Scott and Crabbe, has quitted and this narrative is made to pass before this field, like an animal flying from some the eye with a vivid rapidity which is recurrence of the glacial. period in these alike enchanting and impressive. There latitudes to seek a more congenial clime, is but a single exception, and it is ad- It is the voice of humanity, no longer mirably chosen.: the sheep at pasture young, which says to us, give us a piece of still life, with a subject The things which I have seen i now can see most appropriate to the mode of repre- no more, sentation. Even the description of the heavens is animated with the spirit of and, movement. Orion is watched, or waited I know, whereer I go, on, by the Bear. And the moon is a fill- That there hath past away a glory from the ing or waxing moon. So I have trans- earth.* lated it, in opposition to Pope and to high But what is flat and stale to us was in- lexicographical authorities, after consid- tensely poetical to the youth of our world. eration, and with confidence. The genius The cup which we have drunk was but of the present participle (ir?~ovaav), to say just presented to its lips. The bloom the very least, seems to warrant that was yet on the grape, the aroma yet in mode of rendering. But pictorially, I the draught. The first perception of the find it hard to believe that Homer meant forms of beauty seems to have a life and to place a little round moon in competi- force for the race, as well as for the in- tion with a large round sun. And, so far dividual, which is peculiar to itself, and as poetry is concerned, it is surely in the which cannot be retained. We may be spirit~of~this most animated episode to thankful that some of it, at least, has represent the moon as growing rather heen precipitated into palpable and last- than as stationary in figure. We cannot ing forms for our behoof. fail to observe how much more this is in It appears to me, indeed, that the genu- keeping with the Poets treatment of the me realism of Homer not only is observ- Sun Here he has no change of shape able in this famous episode, but even to call in aid: so he touches him xyith the reaches its climax here. Never was out- spark of life in another form, by calling ward Fact so glorified by the Muse. him the unwearying Sun. This phrase Nowhere in poetry, to my knowledge, is at once brin~s;b~ore the mind his daily there such an accumulation of incidents journey, how he ~zlimbs and then de- without crowding. The king is glad as scends the heaven. he watches his reapers and his crop ; but * The epithets in the corresponding episode of the * Wordsworth, Ode on th~Reco1lections of Child- ZEneid, compared with the number of lites, seem to be hood. nearly twice as many. 112 THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. Upon the whole, I would venture to submit it, for the consideration of those who have a more extensive and accurate command of poetical literature than my- self, whether any poet of any age has been so hardy and so powerful as Homer in the imaginative handling of material objects of Art for the purposes of Poetry? This hardiness and power of Homer un- questionably reach their climax in the Shield. It has already been noticed that legend does not enter into the representations of the Shield. The short roll of nascent Greek history or tradition had already, at the epoch of the Trojan War, yielded at least two great enterprises of historical interest to posterity; the voyage of the ship Argo, and the War of the Seven against Thebes. But it was only thus making its beginning; it perhaps was neither rich and full enough, nor as yet familiar enough to the mass, to make it more suitable for representations like that on the Shield, than the purely unat- tached and impersonal representations with which it is filled. It may be also that the Eastern charac- ter, still attaching to the god-artificer Hephaistos, would have presented an in- congruity in the treatment of purely na- tional legends, which is not felt where the delineation of life, though thoroughly Greek, is still general, and where much of the subject-matter presented was probably common to Greece and to the Syrian and Assyrian East. Virgil, on the other hand, has with per- fect propriety adopted the basis of history and legend for his otherwise derivative representation of the Shield of iEneas. But perhaps we are warranted in say- ing that the entire absence of tradition from the Homeric Shield not only ac- cords with the recency of Greek national or quasi-national existence, but also with the belief that Art had not yet become, so to speak, endemic in Greece; as we may feel certain that the intense patriot- ism, which pervades the Iliad, would at a very early stage of development have im- pressed upon Greek art a national charac- ter by the free use of legend for the pur- pose.* The materials used in;the composition of the Shield deserve notice. The metals cast into the furnace are copper, tin, gold, and silver; and in one passage we find what may be a reference to icivevog, or bronze, resulting from a mixture of tin and copper; but it is a question whether the mix~d metal yieldin~ the dark colour is intended, or the dark colour only. Nowhere else in Homer is there a refer- ence to the making of a mixed metal. In general, to say the least, the workman- ship of the Shield is employed upon the several metals, single and uncombined and it is probable that the Poet meant, by their free intermixture, to aim at the ef- fect of colour.* This likelihood is con- firmed by his repeated use of the word ~rotei2~2to, to variegate, which seems to be taken from the sister art of embroidery, and which is applied with a peculiar pro- priety to the most brilliant of all the rep- resentations, that of the Dance at the close. The reader, even in a translation, can- not fail to observe the highly archaic picture of life, presented by the scenes upon the Shield. The scene of the trial respecting the fine for homicide belongs to a stage of society anterior to law, though forms of polity have begun to ex- ist; and. when corruption, by the receipt of gifts other than the acknowledged pub- lic premium for superior judgment, (dora- dokia,) had not yet come in. That of the harvest, where the master of the reapers is also the King, is yet nearer the l)atri- archal stage; but some difference is to be expected between the country and the town; which are distinct from one an- other in the Shield as they are also in the Iliad.t In no particular do the man- ners of the Shield appear to differ from those of the Poems generally: they are certainly not less primitive. In the main it may be said, as to the subject-matter of the episode, that the Poet represents, upon the surface offered by the great defensive weapon of the Warrior, first, through its outline, a figure of the universe, such as he conceived it se~on~ly, a collection of all those scenes and events of human life, which were at once the most stirring, the most familiar, and the most important. A question may be raised, whether we ought to conceive of the form of the Shield as oblong, or as round. This is not the place for a discussion on the sub- ject: no epithet is used, in the descrip- tion of the process of manufacture, which determines it ;Vut I have taken the Shield to be oblono~ and I may observe * See Popes Observations on the Shield, following I may refer to Mr. A. S. Murray on the Homeric his s5th book. But he goes greatly beyond what I have Question, CONTEMPORARY~EvIEW, January, 1874, p. stated. 239. 1 Il. xxiii. 835. THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. I 13 that Pope, who treats it as round, in reli- ance apparently upon an erroneous ren- dering of a word Q2vTv~), assumes for it a diameter of no less than four feet.* It is probable that the boss in the mid- dle was meant, in the Poets mind, to afford space and a suitable shape for the representation of the vault of heaven. The sc~es wrought upon the Shield are as follows i. The Earth, Sea, and Heavenly bodies. 2. In a city at peace, we have a. Marriage processions and festiv- ities b. A judicial suit, tried by the peo- ple, under the presidency of the Elders. 3 In a city at war, a. A scene before the ramparts: b. An ambush and surprise: c. Abloody fight. 4. The ploughing of a field. 5. The harvest, and the meal in prepa- ration. 6. The vintage, with music, and march (or something more than march) to time of the vintagers. 7. A herd of cattle attacked by lions. 8. Sheep at pasture, and their folds. 9. The Dance. io. The great Ocean River, encompass- ing the whole; as,in the mind of Homer, it encompassed the surface of the Earth. The two grand over-ruling conditions of human life, and the prevailing and ele- mentary pursuits of human industry, are thus placed before us with a remarkable comprehensiveness. We see Peril and Safety, Stir and Calm, Toil and Pleasure; the repast prepared to reward the one, music and movement enlivening the other. The alternations of the scenes are both skilful and studied. From the bloody fight we pass to the activity of peaceful industry; from the furious assault of the lions to the deep repose of the pasturing flocks; and from these again to the rapid and sparkling animation of the dance. We may however remark upon what the Shield does not contain as well as on what it does. We do not find on it any scene of i. Navigation: 2. Huntino~ 3. Any domestic art or trade: 4. Religious rite or observance. As to the first, it is plain from the Poems generally, that Navigation had not * Observations, & c. LIVING AGE. VOL. VL 268 yet become a characteristic or familiar feature of Greek life. We hear nowhere of a trading-ship, except in connection with the Phcenicians. As to the second, we must bear in mind that the hunting of the Homeric times was not a pastime, but a pursuit of direct utility, intended to rid the hnd of a nui- sance, and to provide~for the safety of property. When it is thus viewed, we have the substance of hunting given us in the singularly animated scene of the lions and the bull. With respect to the third head, we may bear in mind that the useful arts of the period were for the most part homely, sedentary, and single-handed. Even for his similes, Homer has but little em- ployed them: much less could they come up to the dignity of these more stirring exhibitioiis of life. Even the combined labour of the damsels in the Palace of Alkinoos the only instance given us in the Poem of such combination would have supplied but a tame and poor pic- ture for the Shield. Moreover it is rather a Phcenician, than a Gre~ek pic- ture. The absence of any scene representing the rites and observances of religion, opens much wider questions. The great and standing institution o~ ancient religion was sacrifice. We have this in Homer as associated with particular places, like the grove and fountain of the Nymphs near the town of Ithaka ; * or with rare and solemn occa- sions, like the hecatomb to Apollo in the First Iliad,t and the sacrifice of Agamem- non in the Third4 Lastly, it is an inci- dent of the common meal, as we see both in other places, and in this very descrip- tion, where the Heralds had sacrificed, that is, had killed and cooked a great ox for the meal of the reapers. None of these ,~hr~e occasions of sacrifice were available or a prominent position on the surface of the Shield: the first and sec- ond, because they were occasional, not ordinary; the third, because it could not command the requisite hreadth and live- liness of interest as a separate or special subject. In truth, the observances of religion filled no large place in the Greek mind, even in the Homeric times. And this leads to a wiclV form and scope of observation. We find here, in this, ex- traordinary poetic achievement of Homer, an early indication, an embryo,, so, tq * Od. xvii. 204IS. t Ii. i. 446. $ IL ~ 264. 4 THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. speak, of that principle which was to reach its fullest manifestation in the Greek of the classical period, the prin- ciple of the sufficiency of this, our hu- man, earthly life without any capital re- gard to what is before us in futurity, or what is above and around us in the un- seen world. Hence the Shield contains no Birth, and no Funeral, of man.~ The beginning and the end of life are en- dowed for Christians with so intense an interest, that we are apt to forget how different an aspect they offered to those beyond the pale. Both of them are swathed in weakness or distress, and the Greek had no charm in his possession which could invest distress and weak- ness with beauty, or infuse into them the glow of life. Sorrow had not yet been glorified. Scenes like these, he Would say, do not make up the completeness of life, but impair it: they are not to be ac- knowledged as legitimately belonging to it; we submit to them, for we cannot help submitting; but they form no por- tion of our glory, and we put them out of sight. Fulness of energy in the powers of body and mind, and fulness of delight following their exercise action reward- ed in itself, and sustained by this reward a sphere bright, brilliant, bounded ,self- contained, self-supported, full of all things glorious, beautiful, and strong; such was the aim of life for the Greek, and all that tended to break and banish the illusion was carefully kept away from thought and view. The spirit which per- vades the action of the Shield is. there- fore the spirit of joy: joy in movement, joy in repose; joy in peace;and joy in battle: anywhere and always joy, until the day that must come shall come, and the final plunge is made into the Dark- ness, where a Sceptre, ruling all the dead, is not worth as much as is the mess of a labourer for hire, though the master be poor, and can give but scanty cheer,* if only it be had beneath the cheerful sun and in the abode of the living. In writing thus I am not unmindful of the Greek Tragedy. But I do not think it qualifies the general truth of my po- sition ; and I would recommend those who doubt, to consult the remarkable observations of Bishop Butler, in the Analogy, on passive habits. Upon the Translation I have only to say that I have aimed at great fidelity in a word, at the ~epresentation of Homer * Od. Xi. 489. as he is ; though well awarein how slight a measure this object can have been gained: for in the effort to hold firmly by the bone and sinew of the Poet, the ethereal parts escape. I have given to the obscure word eirai the sense of ramparts, which the context seems almost to require: and I have not attempted to render by ~any ex~tct equiva- lent the expression ~ericZntos Amg5 Ii I- gz~eeis; even Chapman in this place re- coils from the letter, and translates the phrase the famous Artsman. THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES, WROUGHT BY HEPHAISYCS. II. XViiL. 468608. I. So He spake, and left the goddess; Straightway to the bellows drew, Fixed them fireward, set them blowing; Mouths a score in all they blew, Reddening, whitening, all the furnace With their timely various blast, As the god and work required it, Slower now, and now more fast. Precious gold, and stubborn copper, Silver store, and tin, he cast In the flame. The ponderous anvil Next upon its block he tries; One hand grasps the sturdy hammer, One the pincers firmly plies. II. First of all, the Shield he moulded Broad, and strong, and wrought throughout, With a bright and starry border, Threefold thick, set round about. Downward hung its belt of silver, Five the layers of the Shield, And with skilful mind he sculptured Rare devices oer its field. ur. There he wrought Earth, Sea, and Heaven, There he set the unwearying Sun, ~An~ the waxing Moon, and stars that Crown the blue vault every one; Pleiads, Hyads, strong Orion, Arctos, hight to boot the Wain. He upon Orion waiting, Only he of all the train Shunning still the baths of Ocean, Wheels and wheels his round again. Iv. There he carved two goodly Cities Thick with~warms of speaking men. V. Weddings were in one, and banquets, Torches blazing overhead, Nuptial hymns, and from their chambers Brides about the city led. THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES. Here to pipe and harp resounding Young men wildly whirling danced; Wh;Ie the women, each one standing By their porches, gaze entranced. VI. But the townsmen all assembled In the forum thronging stood; For a strife of twain had risen, Suing on a fine of blood. All was paid, the first protested, Pleading well to move the crowd; Nought was had, upheld the second; Each to obey an umpire vowed; And the hearers, as they sided This or that way, cheered aloud. And the heralds ordered silence; And, on chairs of polished stone, Ranged in venerable circle Sate the Elders. One by one Each the clear-toned heralds sceptre Took, and standing forth alone Spake his mind. Two golden talents Lay before them, to requite Only him, among the Judges, Straightliest who should judge the right. VII. But before the second City Bright in arms two Armies lay. Evil choice one gave the other: Either half the goods ~to pay In that smiling town, or see it Given to fire and slaughter. They Brooked it not, but armed for ambush. Wives beloved, and stripling hands, And with these the age-bound greybeards, Guard the wall. Off march the bands. VIII. Ar~s and Athen~ lead them; Gold, and golden-clad, they gleam, Fair, and large in aims, and towering Right and left, as gods beseem. Dwindled either host beside them. One to ambush held its way, Where the folk was used to water, And along the river lay Wrapt in swarthy armour. Yonder, Twain for scouts they set, to keep Watch fof the expected booty, Curly-horn~d beeves, and sheep. Soon it comes in view. Two shepherds Mirthful music heedless play On their pipes. Forewarned, the army Quick make havoc of the prey, Snowy flocks, and droves of oxen, And the swains beside them slay. Ix. When the host before the ramparts Heard the bellowing din from far, Mounted each man on his chariot Drove the prancing steeds to war: Quick they came. They closed in battle Ranged along the rivers banks, And they hurled the sharp-tipped * lances Each athwart the others ras1~s. * Literally, copper-tipped. 5 Strife and Tumult there were mingling, There destroying Fate he drew; Some alive and still unwounded, Some she grasped, with gashes new; Some, now corpses, through the turmoil Draggling by the feet she bore, And her shoulders had a mantle Dabbled foul with human gore.; Like to living men they mingled, Fought alive with might and main, And, alive, to either army Dragged the bodies of the slain. x. There he set a loamy fallow, Three times wrought, full soft, and wide: Many a team, and many a ploughman Down and up the fallow plied. And as each, the boundary reaching, Turned, would one that stood beside Give into his hands the wine-cup Honey-sweet. So each more fain, Wheeling down the deep soft furrow, Eager strove the bound to gain. And the darkening glebe behind them, All along, albeit of gold, New wrought earth in hue resembling, Gave a marvel to behold. xl. There he set a field corn-laden. In that field the shearers reap, Grasping close their sharpenect sickles. Down the furrows, heap on heap, Falls the grain to ground. The binders Sheaves, in order following, bind; Binders three: to whom unwearied Carrier-lads their armfuls bring. Watching from beside the furrow, Silent near them stands the King, Staff in hand, and glad in spirit. By an oak oershadowing, Heralds, for the feast preparing, Slay a weighty ox, and dress; And the women strew thick oer it Barley-meal, the reapers mess. xir. There he set a goodly vineyard, Laden with its grapes of gold: Silver-pal~s tl~ pendent clusters Glossy-black all through uphold. Moat of bronze * around the border, Round the moat a hedge of tin; One small path, at time of vintage, Lets the gatherers out and in. And the train of youths and maidens In the wicker-baskets brings, Blithe of thought, the luscious fruitage. Daintily.a stripling sings To his clear-toned lyre, amongst them, So as Linos sung of y~e: They too, frisking, shouting, singing, Stamp the time upon the floor. * It is an unsolved question whether the word in the original ( vavei~) refers only to colour, or to a metallic suhitance. In my opinion, if it refers to a metallic sub stance, that substance is bronze. 1I& LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. XIII. There a herd of kine he moulded, Some in tin, and some in gold, Lowing they, with horns uplifted, Rushed afield frotn out the fold, Where the wavy reed-bed quivered, Where the sounding river rolled. Golden herdsmen four attend them, Nine swift dogs behind. When lo! Dread to see, a pair of lions, Mid the kine that foremost go Seized a bellowing bull, and dragged him Roaring. Dogs and men pursued. They, the huge hide tearing open, Lapped the bowels and the blood. While the herdsmen, void of purpose, Chid the swift hounds to the proof, These, as loath to grip the lions, Bayed at hand, yet held aloof. XIV. There a pasture, broad, and gleaming White with sheep, in beauteous glade, And with hut, and roof-clad pen, and Stall, the mighty Master made. XV. There a Dance the mighty Master In the broidered metal wrought. Such to rich-haired Ariadn~ Daidalos in Knossos brought, Spacious Knossos. Youths and maidens, Maidens grown of age to wed, Hand on wrist, each one with other, Through the mazes lightly sped. These are robed in rarest muslin, Those fine-woven tunics wear, Soft with glaze of oil, and glistening. These are crowned with garlands fair, Those their golden poniards, hanging From their belts of silver, bear. Now with train~d feet careering All the troop in circle * flies, Like the potters wheel t and gearing, Which for speed he sits and tries; Now each rank in backward movement On the rank behind them falL Charmed with those bewitching dancers, Throngs a gazing crowd. Mid all Harps and sings the sacred minstrel: Ever, as his notes begin, Tumblers twain are wildly whirling Round the open ring within. xvr. Oceans might, resistless River, Last of all, his labour sealed, Rolling round the outmost border Of the deftly-fashioned Shield. 1867. W. E. GLADSTONE. * The simile of the potters wheel has led me to describe the dance in terms as circular; and I have been influenced in rendering this passage to a certain extent by dances as I have seen them practised by a Greek village population of this day. t My thoughts are whirled like a potters wheel. x Henry VI., r, ~. Froni The Contemporary Review. LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TO THE AUTHOR OF ORION ON LITERARY AND GENERAL TOPIcs. III. To English philologists, in general, but more especially afl those who can take an interest in the early studies of lyrical poets, it would be both curious and interesting to discover the methods adopted by different poets towards attain- ino~ excellence in the verbal mastery of their Art: how they obtained their skill in dictionin fact, a command of words. But they are all silent. In the first chirrups and snatches of song, they all begin alike, i.e., without thinking as to how they do it very much after the manner of song-birds. They lisped in numbers, for the numbers came, and of course the words came first. And this bird-like practice may continue during some years, and with admirable success, being the fresh breath of the morning, the thought of any special studies only occurring with the advance towards some maturity of purpose. The two greatest song-writers the world has ever known Burns and B~ranrer probably continued in the first youthful way longer than most other poets yet Burns event- ually took to study, after some fashion, which is not, I believe, very well known, except that he fancied a little Latin would materially help him, and, finding it did not, he exclaims with amusing indig- nation; Whats a your jargon o your schools Your Latin names for horns and stools, If honest Nature made ye foads, What sairs yer grammars? Yed better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers! .~ In another poem he says, with a sort of humorous self-irony, not without sar- casm at scholastic exactions, Ye ken nae Greek. The biographers of B& ranger are anxious to show that he had studied the finest classical poets; and yet, at the age of thirty-sevenjudging by the date of his birth and that of the poem he wrote : Cest alors que Philom~le MeI~eignant ses plus doux sons, Jirais de la pastourelle Accompagner les chansons. Puis jirais charmer lermite, Qui, sans vendre leau b6nite, Donne aux pauvres son manteau. LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 117 Je volerais vite, vite, vite, Si j& ais petit oiseau! That B~ranger must have made special studies of various kinds, before he could have attained to that perfection of fin- ished simplicity manifested in most of his songs and other poems, there can be no doubt; but what they were has never, I believe, been recorded. Wordsworth, in an elaborate Preface, unfolds his views of the high and sacred office of the Poet, and on more than one occasion boasts of the pains and labour he has bestowed upon the Art, as Milton had done, yet no hint of how they went to work is vouch- safed to us.~ Shelley wrote an Essay, en- titled A Defence of Poetry ~ (a most in- adequate title), which I should like to get printed in letters of gold; but Shelley, like all the rest, down to Gerald Massey and Algernon Swin burne, is mute as to all the means he took for his marvellous command of words. Miss E. B. Barrett, while alluding to her arduous studies, leaves us in many respects quite in the dark as to the collection of materials, modus operandi, and speculative excur- sions. Nor could her Letters, which I am about to give (on English Rhymes and Versification), have been in all prob- ability ever written but for a certain friendly provocation that will be narrated. The present paper, may, therefore, be regarded as a first glimpse of such se- cret work as we have alluded to notes pour servir ~ ihistoire, & c., or how young poets (neglecting their future nests) feather their wings and arrows. Miss Barrett had sent me the MS. of her beautiful poem entitled The Dead Pan, asking my opinion about it, where it would be best to send it, or if it should be reserved for a special volume. Of course I admired its poetry and its versi- fication, but concerning her view of per- fect and imperfect, or allowable rhymes, in that poem, and several of her other productions, I wished, once for all, to object, and give full reasons for it. Still, as I had only published certain tragedies, and never any volume of lyrical, or so- called minor poems (nor have I done so up to this time), it seemed proper towards one who had long been secretly at work in that way, that I should give some rough sketch of my own studies of that kind, the substance of which may be con- densed within a few pages, as it was in the first instance, in one or two notes. I am not aware of this sort of revealment having ever been hithertQ made by any one. It is related somewhere of SirWalter Scott and if the story is not true, it does not in the least signifythat at a Christmas merry-making, the genial border-minstrel proposed, among other round-games and puzzles, a prize to be given to whoever made a couplet, of any sort, with a rhy;ne to the first line which should end with the ~ord~ silver. There were to be no half-rhymes, or allowable rhymes, but a perfect rhyme. After young folks and old had thought, and frowned with comical mental strug- gles during some minutes, to no purpose, Sir Walter put them out of their misery by informing them, with a hu- morous smile, that there was no rhyme to silver in the English language Hear- ing this remarkable fact, when a boy though I subsequently came to find it ridiculous enoughit made a considera- ble impression upon me, as a very strange thing in any copious language; but hav- ing commenced my first efforts in poetry by a sort of uncouth imitation of Miltons blank verse, and then abruptly ceasing (finding, no doubt, that I had got out of my depth) during six or eight years, the whole matter passed out of my thoughts. But not out of mind, because nothing seems ever to pass out of some minds perhaps not quite out of any mind and when it again occurred, I was commen- cing to write short lyrical poems, in the usual way i.e., upon poetical emotions without very well-defined subjects, or sub- jects worth defining. I naturally fought shy of ending a line with silver, but having to forage my brain for rhymes to other words of two syllables, such as shadow planet filbert squirrel beetle statue trellis anchor April August temple virtue frrest angel poet proper budget stranger open almond bayonet blossom something nothing, & c., I found *hete was not a single perfect rhyme to any one of them! The above list is by no means exhaustive. It is to be understood that this is only a rough sketch of an Essay, and of one not likely ever to be written by me. This dis- covery, however, naturally led to further search, and I then made a list of the words of one syllable, and also of three syllables, to which there were no perfect rhymes in our langu~e; also, a list of all those words to which there was only one rhyme, such as people and steeple an- guish and languish winter and printer hornet and cornethatchet and latchet mountain and fountain darhness and i i8 LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. starkness votive and motive black- morn was not spelt mawn; and, indeed, ness and slackness, & c., and a list of the I have heard men of similar bad or triplicates, or words that have only two cavilling ear endeavour to prove such ob- rhymes to them, such as billow, pillow, jection by adopting a provincial accent, willow iron, scion, lion, and those: or screwing their mouths in order to make which are quadruple, these two latter dawn and dawning partially take lists being meagre enough. Seeing the the sound of darn and darning, so that conditions of lyrical composition in Eng- they should not rhyme with morn and lish to be subject to these lin~its, it be morning ; and,, in like manner, to provincial twang of came obvious that for any freedom in give morn a writing, a large admission must be made mourrn, in order to prove that it did for what the practice of the greatest of not rhyme with darn or dawn. The our poets has established as imperfect Scotch have their peculiarities, so have but allowable rhymes. And we now the Irish, so have Yorkshire and Som- come to the vexatious fact that, while the ersetshire Londoners no less and true and only re~i test of a rhyme is its they should all mind what they are sound to the ear, many persons, deficient about. in that organ, take refuge in the plausible While some readers will be much in- pretext that words must be rhymes to the terested in this question of English pro- eye i.e., the letters must be in accord. nunciation, others will regard it, I fear, How short-sighted and inconsiderate this as supererogatory, so that at this stage of is, can be sho~vn in a moment. A our introductory comments the wish arises learned member of the Spanish Academy that it were possible to ask if we were once undertook to show us that we had fatiguing our audience but as this can- twenty different sounds to the very first not be done, it will now be the safest plan letter of our alphabet. Evading that to bring this matter home as briefly elaborate examination, we will content as possible. ourselves with directing attention to the From what has been already shown and fact of the positive exchange of souods suggested, it will follow that for due free- which some of our vowels undergo in dif- dom of lyrical poetry due allowance ferent words. Thus, have and cave, where should be made for the perverse and ex- the first sound is hav and the second is ceptional peculiarities of the genius of ayve; ~oatch and match, the first sound the English language. Rhymes to the being wotch, and the second atch; the ear are to be regarded as the true crite- same with wand and hand was and non, and never to be sacrificed to rhymes has; wonder and thunder, the first however perfect to the eye. Finding word having the o sounded as u;head 1 there are so many words of one, two, and and mead, the first sounding ed and the three syllables (i.e., the vast majority of second eed; caught and draught, the our words) which have no rhymes at all first having the terminal sound of ort, and to them, a reasonable number of allow- the second aft~~do and go, the first able rhymes should be recognized, that sounding oo, and the second o,plough is to say, rhymes of consonants, where and tough, the first sounding ow, and the the actual vowels differ, or have different second uff; wounds and sounds, the sounds, and other words which do not first having the vowel sound of oo, and assume to be rhymes, but which rank with the second qf own, & c. The non-recog- the Spanish nina asonante and have a nition of these numerous changes o~ pJ~asing effect when judiciously and sound in the same vowels in different sparsely mingled with perfect rhymes. I words (causing so many words which are even consider that lyrical verse of the perfect rhymes to the eye to be in reality heroic measure would have a richer effect far more imperfect to the ear than many I if so me imperfect rhymes were purposely words which are of quite a different spell- I introduced, antI this on the principle of ing) has been the cause of frequent criti- harmonious discords in music which cal censures when the defect was rather: render the effect so much more grand, in the critic than the poet, and sometimes in fact, while the genius of music depends entirely in the critic. Thus the very upon original melody, the science is same critic who has unhesitatingly ac- based upoi~Jnrmony, which disallows all cepted the words scarce and farce, hood~ monotonies unless for isolated special andflood, or charm and warm, as perfect effects. rhymes, when they are most palpably of Having gone to such lengths in my different vowel-sounds, would actually liberalities and allowances for our lyrical object to daW~z and morn, because poetry, I am still ready to admit that LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 9 some line of demarcation should be drawn. And this line, I think, has been passed more boldly, defiantly, and persist- ently by Miss E. B. Barrett than by any other English poet. Strange to say, while various unfortunate men have re- ceived the severest censure for trifling and trumpery licences (often quite fair and really allowable), my admired correspond- ent has but seldom been called to accotint for her numerous violations of all re- ceived principles of English rhyme. But what a compliment to her genius, the brightness and fertility of her intellect, and to the energy and euphony of her verse, that critics were carried away by the stream, and rarely had time to take heed of the sticks and straws they were passing! This fact also implies a com- pliment to the critics. The poem of The Dead Pan, opens with this verse, Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, Can ye listen in your silence? Can your mystic voices tell us Where ye hide? In floating islands With a wind that evermore Keeps you out of sight of shore? Pan, Pan is dead. I am requested to make my comments on the MS. of this then unpublished poem ; and I fear it will be thought that I did not do my spiriting as gently as the poetess expected. June 17, 1842. Certainly mark as much as you please. They will all he marks of kindness, coming from you, whether depreciative or otherwise. nante class ? or was it considered that the rhymes being on the first syllables (Hell and tell, si and I) instead of the last, they were to be regarded as fair ex- changes? In verse iv., I accepted rolls on and the sun and altars and welters on the principle of allowable rhymes, as they were quite as good as corses and forces where the letters were all right, and recognized as true rhymes which they really are not. In verse vi., I objected to flowing and slow in, (the rhyme being only on the first syllable), and in verse xii. to golden and enfolding, for the same reason. In verse xiii. iron was very badly rhymed by inspiring, being only a rhyme on ir., Panther and saun- ter in the next verse were bad. In verse xvi., driven and heaving were not admissible. In verse xix. tur- ret and chariot could only be excusa- ble on the equivocal grounds that there was no rhyme to either of them in the lan- guage, and it mioht seem generous to wed b b them for that reason, if not quite jus- tifiable. The words oer her and horror, angels and candles, nothing and truth in, could only be excused on The same grounds, as there were no rhymes in the language to noth- ing, angels, or horror. There were several more of these anomalies in the same poem, but I felt I had said quite enough. I was very curious to know how all this would be received. The fol- lowing will show to what purpose I had preached and prayed - . . (No date, but apparently written in London.) What if certain passages in Dead Pan Oh you are a gnasher of teeth in criticism, should be in suspense, critically; voices crying I see you are a lion and a tiger in one, and to me, Alter this Alter that! whereas in a most carnivorous mood, over and above. I may not have made up my mind, and my My dear Mr. Home, do you know, I could rhymes, .s to alterations anywhere? For the not help, in the midst of my horror and Pan-ic rest, there will be some fifteen or sixteen pages terror, smiling outright at the nafvet6 of your of print. But it is in stanzas. You shall douht as to whether my rhymes were really have it in MS., and also in proof, and then I meant fo~ rhymes at all? That is the naivet6 shall he sure to do my best or worst for you. of a right savage nature of an Indian play- commenced with a due appreciation ing with a tomahawk, and speculating as to I whether the white faces had any feeling in of the poetry its subject, treatment, their skulls, quand m~me! Know then, and the euphonious flow of the versifica- that my rhymes are really meant for rhymes tion but took objection to many of the and that I take them to be actual rhymes as rhymes. I did not like tell us as a good rhymes as any used by rhymerand that rhyme for Hellas ; and still less, islands in no spirit of carelessness or easy writing, or as a rhyme for silence. The only excuse desire to escape difficulties, have I run into for them, was the difficulty with regard to them, but chosen them, selected them, on the first, and the impossibility of the principle, and witl~he determinate purpose of second, as there was no perfect rhyme for doing my best, in and out of this poem, to have them received! What you say of a eitlzerof them in the English language. poets duty, no one in the world can feel I suggested that perhaps they were not more deeply in the verity of it, than myself. intended as absolute jhymes at all, but If I fail ultimately before the public that is, euphonious quantities of the nina aso- before the people for an ephemeral popu 120 LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. larity does not appear to me worth trying for it will not be because I have shrunk from any amount of labour where labour could do anything. I have worked at poetry it has not been with me reverie, but Art. As the physician and lawyer work at their several professions, so have I, and so 4o I, apply to mine. And this I say, only to put by any charge of carelessness which may rise up to the verge of your lips or thoughts. With reference to the double rhyn-iing, it has appeared to me employed with far less variety in our serious poetry than our language would admit of genially, and that the various employment of it would add another string to the lyre of our Terpander.* It has appeared to me that the single rhymes as usually em- ployed, are scarcely as various as they might be [Perfectly true, and also what follows.] but that of the double rhymes, the observa- tion is still truer. A great deal of attention far more than it would take to rhyme with conventional accuracy have I given to the subject of rhymes, and have determined in cold blood, to hazard some experiments. At the same time, I should tell you, that scarcely one of the Pan rhymes might not separately be justified by the analogy of received rhymes, although they have not themselves been re- ceived. Perhaps (also) there is not so irregular a rhyme throughout the poem of Pan as the fellow and prunella of Pope the infal- lible. [Bad as this may be and every poet of any vigour, has abundance of bad as well as half rhymes there is a marked difference between that sort of badness and what was pointed out in the Dead Pan.] I maintain that my islands and silence is a regular rhyme in comparison. Tennysons tendons and attendance Is more objectionable to my mind than either. You, who are a reader of Spanish poetry, must be aware how soon the ear may be satisfied, even by a recurring vowel. I mean to try it. At any rate, there are so few regular double rhymes in the English language, that we must either admit some such trial, or eschew the double rhymes generally; and I, for one, am very fond of them, and believe them to have a power not yet drawn out to its length and capable de- velopment, in our lyrical poetry especially. And nowupon all this to prove to you that I do not set out on this question with a minority of one I take the courage and vanity to send you a note which a poet whom we both admire, wrote tp a friend of mine who lent him the MS. of this very Pan. Mark no opinion was asked about the rhymes, the satisfaction was altogether impulsive from within. Send me the note back, and never tell anybody that I showed it to you it would appear too vain. Also, I have no right to show it. It was sent to me as likely to please me, and pleased me so much, and naturally * The masterly use of double, treble, and all sorts of rbyines io comic verse such as in Hudihras~ Don J uao, Tom Hoods P~ems, and others, is some proof of this argument. on various accounts, and not least from the beauty of the figure used to illustrate my rhymato/ogy, that I begged to be allowed to keep it. So, send it back, after reading it confidentially, and pardon me as much as you can of the self-will fostered by it. Perhaps, under all present circum- stances, I might now hayc considered myself exonerated as to the secret of this praise, in the spirit of which I should have most heartily joined (while object- ing to some of the letters), but of course I took no copy of the note, and returned it as requested. I even forgot who the poet was that wrote it, but fancy it must have been Landor. An allusion is next made to some critic in the Quarterly Re- view, always so fond of doing a mis- chief where poets and poetry are con- cerned, who carped and cavilled. at sev- eral paltry and insignificant matters, such as the use of the word very, and sound- ing the edat the close of certain words. Why shouldnt I (also) say very pale, if I please, for all Mr. Lockhart? It is very ludicrous, if I may not! I say no more verysthan other people and defy all the critics in the world to prove it. Let them count, and see. As to Tennyson, his admirer I am, and his imitator I am not, as certainly. Nearly everything in the Seraphim was written before I ever read one of his then pub- lished volumes: and even the instructing the reader to say ed, was done on the pattern of Campbells Theodoric, and not from a later example. In these last volumes of mine I have eschewed all signs whatever of a di~resis pronounced or unpronouncd, so as to give no offence either to myself or other people. But it would be sheer weakness to throw otit a word from your vocabulary because somebody is pleased to hang his own foolscap on it. Let it hang there! It. is not mine, and I need not fear the disgrace of it. About the Pans [the too frequent repeti- tions] you are right, and I shall this them as much as I can. For all your kindness about the poem I am also grateful very~ grate. fur ifou will let me be so insolent to Mr. Lockhart. You are a bloody critic, nevertheless. I am glad to hear of B, and agree with you on the point of Patmore. Ever and truly yours, E. B. B. The bravely humorous use of the epi- thet that has made the reader start with incredulous and comical dismay (having a back reference\o the ladys graphic al- lusion to lions and tigers) in defiance of all its ordinary objectionableness, and outrage on ears polite, I could not make up my mind to omit, but after a struggle have left it to the generous and LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 121 right appreciation of those readers who are not unlikely to be excessively amused, even if not quite approving of it. The letter concludes with some genial criti- cism on the poetry of the Hon. Mrs. Nor- ton, Rogers, Patmore, and some others, which must be reserved for a future op- portunity. Greatly admiring and respecting the breadth of intention and principle, ~ks well as the moral courage of Miss Bar- rett, it will readily be supposed that I did not think it right to persevere with any further comments on this question. Be- sides, it is best, even with far inferior persons, to avoid a sore subject. The next time, however, that I went down on my usual visit to Miss Mitford, at Three Mile Cross, during the strawberry sea- son, as she called it, I determined to have the matter fully out with her in her garden summer-house in face of all the geraniums. As she was a lady of the old school, I was prepared for resist- ance when I unfolded my views as to the large number of allowable rhymes it seemed important, and indeed necessary, to admit in English lyrical verse. She broke in upon me at the outset, with Oh, pray do not teach or promulgate anything to make the Art of Po.etry easier and more open to all-comers. Do every- thing you can to throw all sorts of diffi- culties in the way. The world is over- stocked already with minor and minnikin poets, and the crop multiplies every year. One of the very best things I have ever done in my life is to have nipped in the bud half-a-dozen young poetesses. Ele- gant girls have come to me, declaring they had been. visited by poetical im- pulses, and begging me to read what they had written. A very little was enough, and I assured them that such things had all been done over and over again. Ad- mitting the good service thus rendered, not only to the young ladies themselves, but to their future husbands and children, I still requested to be heard, and told her of the recent correspondence with Miss Barrett. Then she listened very attentively. Repeating the broad views I entertained as to allowable rhymes, both single and double, I also spoke of the freedom as well as the harmonious vari- ety to be attained by adopting, occa- sionally, the Spanish asotuinte verse, of which our language was highly capable, though it had so very seldom been used. Thus the Magico Prodigioso of Calderon opens with this sort of~erse En la amena soledad De aquesta apacible estancia Bellisimo laberinto De tirboles, fibres y plantas, Podeis dejarme, dejando Conmigo, que ellos me bastan Por compafiia, los libros Q ue os mand~ sacar de casa. Idos los dos ti Antioquia, Gozad de sus fiestas varias, Y volved por me ti. este sitio, Q uando et sol cayendo vaya A sepultarse en las ondas, Q ue entre obscuras nubes parda~. Al gran cad6.ver de oro Son monumento~ de plata. Aqui me hallareis. The foregoing lines have been so ad- mirably translated by Mr. Denis Flor- ence MacCarthy, that although they were only recently published, I feel sure the anachronism of transcribing them here will be readily forgiven In the pleasant solitude Of this tranquil spot, this thicket Formed of interlacing boughs, Buds, and flowers, and shrubs commingled, You may leave me, leaving also As my best companions, with me, (For I need none else) those books Which I bade you to bring hither. Go to Antioch and mingle In its various sports, returning When the sun descending sinketh To be buried in the waves, Which beneath the dark clouds fringes Round the royal corse of gold, Shine like sepulchres of silver. Here youll find me.* Could these English lines have been read to Miss Mitford, it is probable that she would have admitted their euphoni- ous flow, and that one might soon come not to feel the loss of the rhymes. But in the absence of such an example, Miss Mitf~d.simply agreed that it was all very well for the Spanish, but thought it would not do in English verse. I then told her of the battle over the Dead Pan manuscript, adding my objections to certain rhymes in another of our friends poems ~ such as children, and bewilderino and stilled in resounding and round him, Heaven and unbelieving the * Southey and Shelley were very harmonious in the use of the short lines of sn irregular blank verse; hut their rhythmic quantities were as usual, and not like she shove. Mr. Rohert Buchanan, in his Book of Orm has adopted this as~nsnte verse very success- fully. 122 LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. fact being, whether the poetess intended new theories of rhymes outraged her no- it or not, that she was for introducing a tions of propriety, and, much as she loved system of placing rhymes on the first and admired the poetess, she refused to half of the word, and leaving th.e closing entertain them, and more than hinted re- syllable to a question of euphonious proof to me for my large allowances in quantity. Now, I frankly admitted that such matters. The special examples I she had effected this so xvell that it did had given she met with the following an- not hurt my ear, and I had mainly pro- ecdote of another person, which, had it tested against it as contrary to all re- been narrated wish any humorous or ceived usage, and to save her from criti- graphic art of the ordinary sort, would cal onslaught, especially of those who have had a rather ludicrous effect. As could not appreciate her genius and her it is, I have some compunctious visit- excellence in other respects. In like ingsin giving it. But Miss Mitfords manner, Bion and undying, Bac- humour was of a peculiar kind. She chantes and grant us, deep in never adorned or embellished, or used and leaping, were all rhymes on the any mimetic art if she really possessed first or second syllable. I had, moreover, anybut just placed the facts in a sim- discovered that it had so happened, when ple arid prominent position, and slowly there was no rhyme to a word, the lady and drily delivered them with all the was inspired, probably without being gravity of a chronicle. Strongly objecting clearly aware of the fact, to unite another to the rhyming licences adopted by the word in the same condition of single life poetess, she thus proc~eded to account thus, among other instances, for, and in part excuse them. Our dear friend, you are aware, never sees any- But natural Beauty shuts her bosom body but the members of her own family, To what the natural feelings tell! and one or two others. She has a high Albeit I sighd, the trees would blossom Albeit I smiled, the blossoms fell. opinion of the skill in reading, as well as the fine taste of Mr. , and she gets Who can say such a euphonious verse him to read her new poems aloud to her, hurts the ear I and who can fail to ad- and so tries them upon him (as well as mire it as poetry? One felt ashamed of herself), something after the manner of having foraged out the fact that there Voltaire with regard to a far less elegant was no rhyme in the English language authority. So Mr. stands upomi the either to bosom or to blossom. hearth-rug, and uplifts the MS., and his There seemed, indeed, an et tu Brute voice, while our dear friend lies folded look through the air on the whole of these up in Indian shawls upon her sofa, with objectionsparticularly as many of the her long black tresses streamin~ over her foregoing examples are taken, not from bent-down head, all attention. Now, the Dead Pan, but from a poem in a dear Mr.has losta front toothnot foot-note of which she makes such hand- quite a front one, but a side-front one some allusion to myself. If I felt this and this, you see, causes a defective ut- at that period, I feel it the more now terance. It does not induce a lisp, or she is gone. And, after all, she may be a hissing kind of whistle, as with low right, to a considerable extent, in her people similarly circumstanced, but an struggle to enlarge the boundaries of amiable indistinctness, a vague softening lyrical poetry. of syllables into each other,so that si- Miss Mitford smiled like a summer i~nc~ and ziance, would really sound morning, but shook her head. Early very like one another, and so would training and fixed associations made her childrin and bewi/drin bacchantes and unable to look at the question in any new grant-es, dont you see? light. But it was the same with Leigh On the other hand, while really perfect Hunt, and others. The delightful au- rhymes to daisy tongue and thoress of Our Village, at the time we busy are found in crazy young are writing about, was a bright silvery and dizzy; there are no English sixty, and her face always shone as rhymes, to the eye, for any of the first brightly as her hair. I never saw a three. It will be obvious that all the blooming girl of sixteen with a more foregoing ex~ples are outside and far fruity hopefulness in her countenance. beyond the little commonplace objections Yet she clung to the past, not because to words, which a better knowledge of she would not go on with the stream of the condition of the language, and an ex- things, but becau~ from early training amination of the practice of all standard and habits of mind she could not. These poets (who are full of licences) would put LETTERS FROM ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 123 clean out of court. Yet so strong is the force of habit, that Leigh Hunt a poet of a life-long experience upon coming to a couplet where the words arch and porch were given as allowable rhymes as they are and must be, with all of sim- ilar family, wrote in the margin that they were most impossible, and pro- posed to substitute the following, A Serjeant of the Law, wary and wise, Whose robes had often brushed Pauls Para- dise. & c. Passing over the glaring paraphrase, as there is not one word of the second line in Chaucer (neither do I consider the meaning at all the right one, and I may frankly admit not feeling quite sure that my own version is accurate), the ear that would not admit arch and porch, can yet give paradise and wise, not perceiv- in~ that the s in the latter word is pro- nounced as znot wice, but wizeand takes rank with the allowable rhymes, like all of that, as well as the arch and porch, class. The late Lord Lytton also, not very long ago, made an objec- tion of a similar kind to a passage in something I had sent him; and then courteously added some words of the usual kind about spots in the sun, and that he supposed his training had led him to regard certain rules as necessary,~~ & c. It seems clear that those who emancipate themselves from the old sys- tem, in special respects, and examine our language for justification, will gradually become latitudinarians. Thus, while ob- jecting to some of Miss Barretts rhymes as inadmissible, I yet consider there is some truth and foundation in her defence of her theory. Many of her half-rhymes either as consonant rhymes with dif- ferent vowels (like march, lurch, torch, & c., which are all allowable) or having the rhymes on the first syllable, and leav- ing only a euphonious ending, do not really hurt the ear, the positive proof of which is, that the great majority of her readers and admirers have probably never noticed them. And be it ever borne in mind; that here, and elsewhere, in all critical strictures, whenever there is a doubt or difficulty with regard to the propriety of a rhyme, and its effect upon the ear, it is a most unjust and erroneous proceeding in estimating the poetry, to detach the rhymes from the context. I only do so on this occasion from neces- sity, since the discussion is not of poetry, but of first princiga~es as matter of lan- guage and pronunciation. As a marked instance of effects on the. ear, the de- light which children take in the old Nursery Songs is on account of their rhythmic harmonies ; yet, in the very great majority of them, the music is of the kind of the old-fashioned child-song of Goosey, goosey, Gander! Where sha,1l I wander? Upstairs? Downstairs ? In my Ladys chamber? In chanting the foregoing, nobody, child, mother, or teacherhas ever been troubled with the dawning and mawning nonsense, and instructed the child to say Gander and wann-der, but has accepted the sound of o for a good rhyme to the a (in gander, as it is, and must be), and also the euphonious asonante of chamber as a third sort of rhyme. (In the verb to wonder, the obecornes u in pronunciation.) This early illustration of our ears educa- tion is given to show that such things do not really hurt the ear then, or after- wards, and it is only when they are close- ly examined (as we have now been obliged to do) that the objection arises. In like manner, we may refer to the fa- vourite old sea-song, by Dibdin, of Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bow- lin! It is quite too late for anybody to pretend that he has ever been troubled by the bowlin and howling, or the crew and him to! No doubt all this looks very like coming over to the ladys side,and so let it look, for to that side who knows but future poets may possibly be drawn, with more or less variation of experiment and practice? The only systematic rhyming authority in the language is Walkers Rhyming Dictionary, and very laboriously, and very well, it is done. As examples of the licences of standard poets he gives the following, -6 Draw next the patron of that tree; Draw Bacchus and soft Cupid by. OLDIiAM. Our thoughtless sex is caught by outward form And empty noise, and loves itself in man. DRYDEN. My parents are propitious to my roislz, Apd she herself consenting to the bliss. DRYDEN. One sees her ~highs transformed; another views Her arms shoot out, and branching into bouAhs. ADDISON. This last I thoroughly justify, and do not object to the next: CHINAMEN OUT OF CHINA. 124 Wit, kindled by the sulphrous breath of vice, Like the blue lightning, while it shines de- stroys. POPE. While considering the last example rather bold, it is nevertheless admissible. In short, the list of allowable rhymes given by Walker is of an extent to sur- prise all those who have not gone much into this question; and there is no doubt but the liberality becomes extended xVith ones experience. Yet, as before said, some kind of line should be drawn, how- ever oscillating; and however notion of licence may have been thought, I am unable to go quite to the same lengths as the lexicographer. He quotes the following bit of Scriptural doggerel, referring to one of the Plagues of Egypt, frankly intimating that it does not offend his ear, And how did he commit their fruits Unto the caterpillar, And eke the labour of their hands He gave to the grasshopper. Anybody who can stand that, can stand anything. Walkers words are, I have purposely omitted many licences I might have produced, as judging them in reality too licentious. Among these, however, I do izot reckon this of Stern- hold and Hopkins, of Gothic memory. He then gives the verse just quoted. Our old Nursery Rhymes, with all their (unobserved) licences, never go to such a length. It is simply ludicrous, and the more so from its biblical gravity. We now come to the very intricate, many-sided, opalescent question of Ver- salcation metres, quantities, rhythm and we shall be obliged to go back to Chaucer, the first great master in our he- roic couplets. As all that has been done, in that way, since his time (AD. 1400) by the Elizabethan poets and dramatists, then by Milton, the first great master of our blank verse, then by Pope, and his very different school, then by Coleridge, Shelley, and Leigh Hunt (Cowper, Words- worth, Moore, and others keeping in the regular metrical, and almost metallic, grooves), down to the present day of Tennyson, and his peers, the mere opening of the subject could not possibly be rendered lucid and acceptable with- out extending this paper to a greater length than I think it would be right to intrude upon the courtesy of the Editor and Readers of the Contemporary Review. I therefore reserve a remarkable Letter from Miss Barrett, a~d another from Leigh Hunt, together ~vith such connect- ing observations as may seem necessary, for the next instalment of the present series. R. H. HORNE. From The Pall Mall Gazette. CHINAMEN OUT OF CHINA. OF late years we have heard so much of Chinese cheap labour from various parts of the world that it is somewhat difficult to realize the fact that not more than 200,000 Chinamen are working in foreign countries at the present time. Even this number is quite an outside estimate. America and Australia have so far been the favourite resorts for Chinese emigrants. Allowing 130,000 for the former country and 30,000 for the latter, 40,000 are left for Peru, the Sand- wich Islands, and other places ; evidently a more than sufficient margin. Yet the anxiety and alarm shown have been alto- gether out of proportion to these figures. We cannot help thinking that this is one of those cases more common perhaps than is readily admitted in which im- agination plays a considerable part. Iiishmen have emigrated and are still emigrating in far larger numbers than the Chinese, and they are more trou- blesome to deal with in the countries in which they settle. Nevertheless the Irishman is looked upon as a neces- sary evil in new lands, and tolerated ac- cordingly. The Chinaman, however, is always regarded as an intruder. They are the only Asiatic race which, if they were secure from ill-treatment, would without special urging leave their native country freely. And even the most igno- rant of those among whom they come have a hazy notion that there are 400,000,000 or more similar strange-look- ing people tightly packed at home and ready~en~ugh to seek their fortune else- where. The storehouse of labour seems practically inexhaustible. A dread of what might happen if capitalists could command and control these vast hordes of workmen as against men of their own race has made the labouring class, at any rate, blind to their good qualities. The Americans, for instance, were fain to ad- mit that the Chinese came out grandly in the construction ~ the Pacific Railway. But that has nowise abated the sullen hostility with which they are regarded in California, and it needs but little to stir up this enmity to take a much more active shape than that of mere petitions CHINAMEN OUT OF CHINA. 125 to Con~ress. We, too, insist upon for- of European gastronomy. In many a cing ourselves and our commerce upon bush township a Chinaman is the only the Chinese, but the most peaceful inva- human being who has the sense to devote sion on their side would, we take it, be his spare time to the cultivation and irri- resented by our trade unionists in very gation of vegetables. Who would not practical fashion. It is well enough that have charitable feelings towards the man we should balance our Indian budget by who in a dry and thirsty land can for a debauching them with opium, and if need consideration furnish yqu with the crisp- be we must support our position i,n that est of lettuces on~a hot summers day? respect by war as before. They had Give a Chinaman a bit of land, and if any- better not emigrate to England none the thing can be done with it at all he will less. turn it into a market-garden. H is capa We have been led to make these re- city for getting to places where his labour marks by the news of a littl~misunder-, may be wanted, when once he has begun standing which has arisen recently in to roam, is remarkable. In 1869, when Victoria. The miners at the Lothair Fiji was not so well known as it is now, Mine struck for an iircrease of their a labour vessel chanced to call at one of already high wages. Other miners in the the remotest plantations. A Chinaman neighbourhood who at first were ready to at once s.tepped ashore, and, walking to take the wages then paid were persuaded the planters house, inquired if any hands to stand aloof. As a last resort, the would be needed next season, as by that owners engaged a body of Chinamen time he and 300 more then at work in who were brought into the place accom- Taheiti (!) would be ready to take a fresh panied by police. The colonial miners engagement. He had come to Fiji, so were in no mood to put up with this. both he and the skipper averred, for that They attacked police and Chinamen to- particular purpose. Most of them have a gether, and worsted them inflictin~ sen- dead l~orse to work off on first landing ous injuries on many. Eventually the in the shape of their passage-money and Chinamen were obliged to give way, the advances paid by some great Chinese original miners remained masters of the house. They are, therefore, let out into field, and the mine stands idle. The a sort of mitigated slavery until they have Victorian Government, afraid to lose the cleared this. Nothing but the most unre- mining vote in the colony, behaved in a mitting industry enables them to become most cowardly manner and took no ac- fairly their own masters. And when once tive proceedings against the rioters, they have got a little money they quickly Clearly, therefore, the line of democratic go out of the mere labouring class. In freedom in Victoria is drawn at indus- this respect they resemble the Jews and trious Asiatics, and if they seek work on genuine Americans. All of them being e ual terms with European colonists educated to a fair point, there is nothing q they do so at the risk of their lives, to keep them back. And it is noteworthy This, taken in conjunction with the that, passionately addicted as they are to harshness shown towards them in Cali- opiumand one of the best freights for fornia and the massacre reported from the up-country coaches is the opium case South America, ought to keep the they rarely take to it abroad to excess Chinese at home for the present. until they have made their pile. Some And yet it seems a pity that this emi- of the richest and most influential im- gration, small as it is, should be checked. 15lrters in Melbourne, San Francisco, and A Chinaman is qualified to do much that Honolulu came out as common labourers, cannot be so well or so cheaply done by with their great round hats and coarse the white man. He can work, and work clothing. On the gold fields, of course, well, in a great variety of climates. A they are familiar figures, and many claims German, so the sayin~ runs, will dine off which have been abandoned as too poor a bone which an English man has picked. have afforded them the means of return- A Chinaman will fare sumptuously after ing to China with a comparative fortune. both the Europeans have done their In short, for steady, dogged, persistent ~vorst. It may perhaps be an exaggera- labour, under~roper directiorr Chinamen tion to couple the Chinese with the are almost u equalled. To counterbal- French as the best cooks in the world. ance their frugality, their industry, and, But those who have most experience of as a rule, their quiet peaceful behaviour, their powers rate them highly, and in the they certainly have drawbacks that, apart capacity for makin~much out of little they from the cheapness of their labour, ac- are ip no way inferior to the great leaders count for the enmity felt towards them by 126 CHILDHOOD IN JAPAN. the rest of the population. In the first ill-famed Guano Islands. Stillthe mania place, they have until recently brought for self-destruction spread. This was a with them no women. This has often serious matter for the owners of the plan- given rise to serious troubles. A white tation, inasmuch as each Chinaman who woman who has once taken up with a thus put himself out of the world had, Chinaman rarely leaves him. A famous counting his passage, outfit, & c., cost a and dramatic trial which took place some good round sum, and was bound over to years ago at Melbourne threw some light work for a certain number. of. years at a upon this. Next they have a knack of fixed rate of wages. It w~s found upon carrying out their own peculiar system of examination that the suicides took place law and equity quite regardless of the because the Chinamen, who had gambled customs of the country in which they may away all their moley in hand and to come be temporarily resident. Some singular as well as their persons, thought exist- instances of the secret and relentless way ence a burden. All sorts of devices were in which they enforce their rules among I tried to stop the gambling, but to no pur- themselves have been discovered in Cali- pose. At last th~ manager hit upon the fornia. In Victoria it is believed that in bricrht idea of making the survivors of one case at least an innocent Chinaman I eac~h gang of twenty men pay the full has been hanged for murder by arrange- value of the one who made away with ment, his own confession the himself. After this there were no more evidence of his fellows and exonerating suicides. It may be observed that one of the guilty party. One Chinaman is so un- the difficulties in dealing with Chinamen commonly like another to the eye of an both in Taheiti and in the Sandwich unpracticed European that it is almost Islands, where they are much employed, impossible to get valuable outside evi- arises from the fact that some of those dence on such a matter. Then, again, who emigrate are skilled workmen, and their districts in the cities are generally are consequently much disinclined to de- most abominably dirty and overcrowded, vote their time to field labour unless they The Chinese quarter of San Francisco is are offered special inducements. This one of the shows of the place. Little the planter too often does not understand, Bourke-street, which runs parallel to the and attributes their hesitation to laziness principal business-street in Melbourne, or determination to break their contract. is, too, beyond all question a most filthy There are such vast tracts distributed hole. Still we could point to courts and over the earths surface which the Chi- alleys within a stones throw of the nese could and would cultivate to advan- Houses of Parliament, to say nothing of tage, but which are now quite useless, the waterside dens near the docks, which that it is impossible not to hope that are worse even than these in way of dirt ere long arrangements will be made to and unwholesomeness. Remissness on afford the security to their emigrants the part of the municipal authorities and which is now lacking. If their numbers greed on the part of the landlords are the were increased a hundredfold, they would causes in each case. Lastly, in the mat- not suffice for the development of the ter of gambling Chinamen are quite un- idle wealth of South America, Jamaica, manageable. Gamble they will, though and the Southern States. And so far as raid after raid be made upon their gain- can be seen, they are the only people mg-tables. And the extent to which they who could be induced to undertake the carry the practice is barely conceivable. work~onA large scale. At present, how- Chinamen have been known to gamble ever, all the steps which are being taken themselves away when they had nothing tend to their discouragement. else to play for. Their passion for gam- bling and their indifference to life were ______________ both curiously shown on Mr. Stuarts plantation at Taheitia plantation, by From All The Year Round. the way, which by means of the Afozroa and other vessels was responsible for CHILDHOOD IN JAPAN. much of what is called the South Sea THE Jap anese,~s a race, are gradually Slave Tradewhere at one time more I attracting more a d more attention all than 400 Chinaman were employed. A I over the world, for, notwithstanding their complete epidemic of suicide broke out former riodd exclusiveness, not only are among them. They were not ill-used, I they now admitting much of our western nor were they ill-paid, ~or was the labour civilization into their own country, but painful and distressing, like that on the numbers of their youth are const~ntly CHILDHOOD IN JAPAN. being sent to Europe and the United States of America for educational pur- poses. Under these circumstances, and because for many centuries the character and habits of the .nation have been to the outer world as a sealed book, we venture to hope that a brief account of some of their customs and usages, with respect to children, may not prove unacceptable~to our readers. A Japanese baby need be constitution- ally strong, for it is by no means over- delicately nurtured ; its mother frequently carries it out in the open-air in a state of complete nudity and with its head shaven. Amongst the lower orders, the women, when at work in the fields and on other occasions, may be seen with their infants fastened, almost like bundles, between their shoulders, so that they may be as little as possible in their way. In the houses they are left to their own devices much more than with us, and there is no need to be alarmed about their tumbling down-stairs, and eternally coming to grief against fenders, coal-boxes, mantelpieces, and similar objects of terror to a fond English mother, for such things do not exist in Japan. The thick mats, which constitute almost the only furniture of a Japanese house, are a splendid playground for the small atoms of humanity, for there they can roll and sprawl about to their hearts delight, without any risk or fear of injury. There they play about with the fat pug dogs and tailless cats, without any restraint and to the great benefit of their tiny frames. They are freely sup- plied with toys and other infantine amuse- ments, as Japanese parents have the repu- tation of being very kind to their off- spring. One curious custom in connection with a Japanese baby is that some of the clothes that it first wears are made from a girdle which its mother has worn pre- vious to its birth, the material being dyed sky blue for the purpose. The Record of Ceremonies * says that twenty-four baby robes, twelve of silk and twelve of cotton, must be prepared (for the new comer); the hems must be dyed saffron colour; and that when the child has been washed, its body must be dried with a kerchief of fine cotton unhemmed. ~For the peace of mind of parents of mod- erate means, it is devoutly to be hoped that baby robes are less expensive in Japan than in England! * See Mitfords Tales of d~d Japan. Vol. 2. Ap- pendix. 127 Accounts differ slightly as to when the Japanese baby receives its first name. Some say that it is on the seventh, while Humbert asserts that it is on the thirtieth day after its birth. According to the latter authority, there is no baptism of the child, properly so called ; it is simply, in certain cases, presented in the temple, which its parents affect, and without any ceremony of purification. The father gives three names to the priest, and he writes them on separate pieces of paper, which are mixed together, and then, with certain incantatory forms, thrown up in the air. The first that falls is the chosen name. This is written out by the priest on consecrated paper and given to the childs parents to preserve. The priests, at these times, are usually very liberally dealt with by parents in the matter of presents, and they are expected to keep accurate registers of all the children who are thus presented in the temple. This is the only approach to a religious cere- mony, in connection with the naming of a chiJd. The occasion is celebrated by family visits and feasts, and the child receives certain presents, among which, says Humbert, two fans figure, in the case of a male, and a pot of pomade in that of a female child. The fans are pre-. cursors of swords, and the pomade is the presage of feminine charms. In both cases a packet of flax thread is added, signifying good wishes for a long life. Mr. Mitford supplies a somewhat dif- ferent version of the ceremony of naming a child; for he quotes a translation of a Japanese MS., which says that on the seventh day after its birth, the child re- ceives its name ; the ceremony is called the congratulations of the seventh night. On this day some one of the relations of the family, who holds an exalted position, either from his rank or virtues, selects a name for the child, which name he keeps untirth~ time of the cutting of the fore- lock, when he takes the name which he is to bear as a man. The second name is called the cap-name, which is com- pounded of syllables taken from an old name of the family, and from the name of the sponsor. If the sponsor afterwards change his name, his name-child must also change his name. According to ancient custom, baby clothes ought to ~e left off on the seven- ty-fifth or the hundred-and-twentieth day after birth, and at the latter date the child (in theory, though not in practice) is weaned. At the ceremony which takes place on this day, if the child be a boy, 128 CHILDHOOD IN JAPAN. it is fed by a gentleman of the family; if a girl, by a lady. The account of the proceedings on this occasion, as given by the Japanese Record of Ceremonies, is decidedly amusing to the European mind, but is somewhat too long for quotation here. When he is three years old, the Japan- ese infant is invested ~vith a sword belt, and four years later with two dimitiutive swords, if he belong to the privileged class. The childs head is completely shaved until he is close upon four years old, and then three patches are grown, one at the back and one at each side. On this occasion the Record of Ceremo- nies ordains that a large tray, on which are a comb, scissors, paper-string, a piece of string for tying the hair in a knot, cotton wool, and the bit of dried fish or seaweed which accompanies presents, one of each, and seven rice straws these seven articles must be prepared. In another years time the child is put into the loo;e trousers peculiar to the privileged class, and he is then presented with a dress of ceremony, on which are embroidered storks and tortoises (em- blems of longevity ; the stork is said to live a thousand years, the tortoise ten thousand), fir-trees (which being ever- green, and not changing their colour, are emblematic of an unchangingly virtuous heart), and bamboos (emblematic of an upright and straight mind.) Soon after the child has reached his fifteenth year, a fortunate day is chosen on which the forelock is cut off, and at this period, being considered a man, he is entrusted with swords of ordinary size ; and on this occasion in particular great family festiv- ities and rejoicings take place in honour of the auspicious event. The lad then comes of age, and, casting away childish things, adopts the dress of a grown-up man in every particular. Japanese youths are said to be quite equal to the occasion, and, even at this early age, to adapt them- selves most readily to the habits of man- hood. At the stages in his life which we have alluded to, the child has a sponsor, and certain wine-drinking customs and pre- scribed festivities have to be carefully attended to. Some Japanese must have a string of names, awful to contemplate, if strict custom be always adhered to; for, be- sides the name which he receives shortly after his birth, Humbert tells us that he will take a second on attaining his major- ity, a third at his marriage, a fourth when he shall be appointed to any public func- tion, a fifth when he shall ascend in rank or in dignity, and so on until the last, the name which shall be given him after his death, and inscribed upon his tomb that by which his memory shall be held sacred from generation to generation. SOMEBODY has been writing in one of the papers about the base sovereigns that are cur- rent composed of platinum, and very hard to detect; and he goes on to say At present, if a man offers a false coin, having a similar false coin in his possession, the statute throws upon him the onus of satisfactorily proving his own innocence. But, if many of these false sovereigns are about, it is quite possible that an innocent man should have two of them in his possession at once. In- deed, the only practical advice of which the position admits is that we should never accept a sovereign in change, except from our bank- ers. What practical advice! and what rich people we must all be! Pray, how many per cent. of our respectable population have bank- ing accounts? We are reminded of the man in one of Mr. Gaskells novels, who, out at dinner, was perfectly astounded that his hosts did not grow their own pineapples. No pinery! he said, in accents of condolence. Let us all join in pit~ng the man without a banker; and yet two or three do manage to live and die without his taking charge of their little all. AFFECTIVE FACULTIES. Having much of one of the affective faculties, we do not like to be exposed to the acute exercise of the same faculty in others. A person with large veneration shrinks from being an object of veneration to others. (To one with large self- esteem, the veneration of others is, on the contrary, agreeable.) One with large acquisi- tiveness detests being subjected to the action of powerful acquisitiveness in his neighbours. It has often b~i observed that individuals who are much given to jesting at the expense of their fellow-creatures cannot endure to be the subject of other peoples jokes, and that great censurers and reprovers hate to be in the least rebuked or found fault with.

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The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1558 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. April 18, 1874 0121 1558
The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1558 129-192

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ~ No. 1558. 18 1874 From Beginning, Volume ~. ~ April I (Vol. CXXI. CONTENTS. I. PROSPER MERIMEE: His LETTERS AND WORKS IL THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: A BONA- PARTIST STORY. Part I. III. THE Txvo SPERANSKT. A Page of Russian Official Life. Conclusion IV. A ROSE IN JUNE. Part I. V. RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. By Charles Cowden Clarke VI. EXPLORATIONS OF A NATURALIST, POET R T. HORATIAN LYRIcs Quarterly Review, Cornhill Magazine. Blackwood.r Magazine, Cornhill Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, Chambers ~ournal, 131 ISO i6o i68 174 i83 130 192 MISCELLANT . . . PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. 4 TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTIOI~N For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING Aou will ho punctually forwarded for a year,free of postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay commission for forsvarding Ilse money; nor when we club the LIVING Age with another periodical. An extra copy of THE LIVING Anu is sent gratis to any one gettIng up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the mo~y should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. 130 HORATIAN LYRICS. HORATIAN LYRICS. HORACE TO VIRGIL. ODE III. OF BOOK I. AD VIRGILIUM. Sic te Diva, potens Cypri. MAY that lovable Goddess, the Cyprian Queen, And the brothers of Helen, that bright con- stellation; And from every foul wind may old A~olus screen Thy bark, for he rules all the winds in crea- tion. And 0 ship that art trusted een now to convey My Virgil to Athens, the land of the stranger Bring thy passenger home in all safety, I pray, And save the best half of my Being from danger. That man must have had a thrice-fortified heart Of oak or of brass, who first tried naviga- tion; From the shelter of port who had courage to. part, And to face a sou-wester without consterna- tion. A wind that, when met by his foe the nor-east, Lays about in a way that is perfectly frantic; Lashes Adrias waves till theyre foaming like yeast, And rouses or soothes the uncertain Atlantic. What manner of death could that mariner dread, Who could look the sea-snake in the face without winking; Who could gaze on the breakers, with foam- shivered head, As they rose all around him, and dreamt not of shrinking? In vain a wise Providence severed the lands, And girdled them round with the streams of old Ocean; Since to shipbuilding men turned their impious hands, And would find, if they could, the Perpetual Motion. Mankind are in mischief a go-ahead race, Forever inventing and hunting for evil; Prometheus I cite him in proof of my case Brought fire down to mortals, in league with the Devil. And ever since fire was brought down from the skies, Consumption and fevers have worried the nations~ Mans life has grown short since the baking of pies, He has ruined his stomach by cooking his rations. Then D~dalus tried to make way through the air Upon wings a & vice not conceded to mortals; There is nothing too hard for a bold man to dare, Since Hercules burst een through Acherons portals. In our folly we try feats of daring and dread, In aerial cars through the firmament driven; We call down the lightuings of Jove on our head, For our crimes try too sorely the patience of Heaven. ODE III. OF BOOK II. IN WHICH THE POET SUGGESTS A PICNIC. A3quam memento rebus in arduis servare KEEP a stout heart when times are bad, my boy, And dont forget when things are looking better, To guard against extravagance, in joy, For Death wilZ come a foe no man can fetter Whether your life has passed in cheerless gloom, Or midst the song and dance and, mirth and revel; Unmindful that forever gapes the tomb, Where every man at last will find his level. Then to a nook where aged trees entwine Their mingling arms, and cast a grateful shadow; And crystal streams leap forth to cool your wine, Then run, exulting, towards the sunny meadow Bring wine and olives, and too short-lived flowers, And every choice invention of kind pleasure; While young and rich, and while the Sister- powers Leave still unclipped your lifes uncertain measure. For you must quit your country-house and club, River and park, and well-beloved planta- tions; And all you die possessed of theres the rub Wien you are gone, must go to your rela- tions. Art thou a millionnaire? Canst trace thy blood Right upwards to the Conquest? tis no matter; Still you must die and cross deaths sable flood, Just like a pauper, or a common hatter. Our lines in on~ great Central Station meet; From out the dread urn each ones tickets shaken Sooner or later; and our final seat In the Down Train must certainly be taken When the bell tolls. l3lackwoods Magazine. KNAPDALE. PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. 131 From The Quarterly Review. PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS.* No literary event since the war has excited anything like such a sensa- tion in Paris as the publication of the Le/tres d une Inconnue. Even politics became a secondary consideration for the hour, and academicians or deputies of op- posite parties might he seen eagerly ac- costing each other in the Chamber or the street to inquire who this fascinatin0 and perplexing unknown could be. The statement in the Revue des Deux Mondes that she was an Englishwoman, moving in brilliant society, was not sup- ported by evidence; and M. Blanchard, the painter, from whom the publisher re- ceived the manuscripts, died most pro- vokingly at the very commencement of the inquiry and made no sign. Some in- timate friends of M6rim6e, rendered in- credulous by wounded self-love at not having been admitted to his confidence, insisted that there was no secret to tell their hypothesis being that the Inconnue was a myth, and the letters a romance, with which some petty details of actual life had been interwoven (as in Gulli- vers Travels or Robinson Crusoe) to keep up the mystification. But an ar- tist like M6rim6e would not have left his work in so unformed a state, so defaced by repetitions, or with such a want of proportion between the parts. With the evidence before us as we write, we in- cline to the belief that the lady was French by birth, and the early years of the correspondence in the posi- tion of dame de comj5agnie or travelling companion to a Madame M de B , who passes in the letters under the pseudonym of Lady M. It appears from one of them that she in- herited a fortune in 1843; and she has been confidently identified with a respect- able single lady residing in Paris, with t~vo nieces, and a character for pedantry fastened on her (perhaps unjustly) on the strength of the Greek which (as we shall see) she learned from M6rimde. * Lel/res 2i une Inconnae. Par Prosper M~rim6e, de lAcad~mie Franlaise. c~d6es dune Etude aur M& im~e, par H. Tame. Paris, 1874. The extraordinary amount of interest taken in her is owing to something more than the Parisian love of scandal, gossip, or mystery. Prosper M6rim~e belonged to that brilliant generation of which MM. Thiers and Guizot are the last, and he will be remembered longer than many of those by whom he was temporarily out- shone. His character was no less re- markable than his genius ; and the strangely contrasted qualities that formed it will be found almost as well worth studying as his works. It was because he ~vas an enigma when living that people are so eager to know everything concern- ing him when dead. Was his cynicism real or affected? Had he, or had he not, a heart? Did he, or could he, love any- thing or anybodyatanytime? Was hea good or bad man? a happy or unhappy one? These are among the problems raised by the letters, and which M. Tame proposes to solve, or assist in solving, by his acute and discriminating Etude. I have often [he commenced] met Merimee in society. He was tall, upright, pale, and, with the exception of the smile, he had the look of an Englishman; at least, he had that cold, distant air which checks all familiarity from the first. To see him was enough to feel in him the phlegm natural or acquired, the self-command, the will and the habit of being on his guard. In ceremony above all, his physiognomy was impassible. Even in inti- macy, and when he related a droll anecdote, his voice remained unbroken and calm: no Sdat or t!Zan; he told the raciest details, in ap- propriate terms, in the tone of a man who was asking for a cup of tea. Sensibility in him was toned down to the point of appearing ab- sent: not that it was; quite the contrary; but there a~ thoroughbred horses so well broken by their master that, once well in hand, they no longer venture on a gambol. This closely corresponds with the char- acter of Saint-Clair in his novel of the Vase Etrusque, evidently intended for his own : He (Saint-Clair) was born with a tender and loving heart Nbut at an age when we too easily receive impressions which last through life, his too expansive sensibility had provoked the raillery of his comrades. Thenceforward he studied to conceal the outward and visible signs of what he regarded as a dishonouring 132 PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. weakness. . . . In the world, he obtained the melancholy reputation of insensible and indif- ferent. . . . He had travelled a great deal, read a great deal, and only spoke of his travels and his readings when it was exacted of him. We have our doubts whether the origi- nal inborn bent of a character was ever changed in this manner: whether a warm, loving nature, with sympathetic yearnings, was ever effaced or kept under so as to impress a general conviction of insensi- bility. Nor do we think that any man can adopt a bad habit like that of habit- ually suppressing his most generous and ennobling impulses, without damming up or vitiating their source. He will end by at least partially becoming in sad ear- nest what he began by simulating. We have recently seen in the Autobiography of Stuart Mill to what extent both head and heart may be impaired by the abuse of the analytical process; and M~rin~e, although he suffered less from it, prac- tised it to the extent of rendering any- thing like a sustained illusion an impossi- bility. He constantly recalls the scene in LHomme Blas~ (or Used-up), when the hero, about to strike, suspends the blow to feel by how many beats per min- ute the rising emotion has accelerated his pulse. ~ He passed through life (says M. Tame) en amateur: one can hardly do otherwise when one has the critical dispositioh: by dint of reversing the tap- estry, one ends by seeing it habitually on the wrong side. In this case, instead of handsome, well-placed figures, we see fag-ends of thread : it is then difficult to engage, with abnegation and as a work- man, in a common work to belong even to the party which we serve, even to the school which we prefer, even to the sci- ence which we cultivate, even to the art in which we excel ; if at times we descend into the melee as volunteers, we more fre- quently hold aloof. Fortunately for the indulgence of his humour, unfortunately perhaps for the development of his powers, M~rim~e had a small independent fortune and a place which exactly suited him the inspect- orship of historic monuments. He was elected a member oL the Academy in 1843, and of the imperial Senate (with a salary of 30,000 francs) in 1853. When he first formed the acquaintance of his Inconnue he was thirty-seven years of age,and a recognized celebrity, if not quite in the fulness of his fame. The precise period is fixed by a letter, dated Paris, February, 1842, in which, apologiz- ing for not sending her some Turkish slippers, he sends a Turkish looking- glass instead. Perhaps you will like it best; for you strike me as having be- come still more coquette than in the year of grace 1840. It was in the month of December, and you had on stockings of ribbed silk : that is all I remember. It was quite in his way to be thinking, when he wrote this, of Charlotte first seen by Werther when she was cutting bread and butter for the children, or the image of Matilda Pottingen associated by Rogero with the Sweet kerchief, checkd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sate knotting in. It appears from frequent allusions that the lady had pretty feet and ankles, and prided herself on her bottines. He is also enthusiastic in his praise of her hands, her hair, and her splendid black eyes. M. Tame has culled some of the most illustrative passages for the purposes of his Etude; but we think it best to take the letters as they come, and leave them to tell their own story. The first of the collection, written in Paris and re- ceived in England, begins with a re- proach: All is mysterious in you, and the same causes make you act in the diametrically oppo- site manner to that in which other mortals would conduct themselves. You are going int& ~th~country; well this is as much as to say that you will have plenty of time; for there the days are long, and the want of some- thing to do leads to the writing of letters. At the same time, the watchfulness and restless- ness of your dragon being less checked by the regular occupations of the town, you will have more questions to undergo when letters are brought to you. Moreover, in a country house the arrival of a ~tter is an event. Not at all: you cannot write, but, on the other hand, you can receive no end of letters. I begin to adapt myself to your ways, and I am now hardly surprised at anything. For all that, spare me, I pray, and do not put to too hard a PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. 33 trial that unhappy disposition which I have contracted, I know not how, to approve of everything you do. This commencement is the keynote of the correspondence for many years in- deed, until all uncertainty as to the mu- tual feelings of the pair is at an end, and M6rim~e is content to regard his fair cor- respondent as one who can never, under any circumstances, be to him more than a devoted and sympathizing friend. The letter continues: I remember having been perhaps a little too frank in my last letter, in speaking to you of my character. A friend of mine, an old diplo- mate, a man of great sagacity, has often told me; Never speak evil of yourself; your friends will speak enough. I begin to fear that you take literally all the evil I have said of myself. Understand that my great virtue is modesty: I carry it to excess, and I fear that this will injure me in your opinion. Another time, ~vhen I feel better inspired, I will draw up for you the nomenclature of all my quali- ties. The list will be long. of ideas this semi-poetic evening makes me think of another which was by no means poetic. I went to a ball given by some young men of my acquaintance, to which all the figurantes of the opera were invited. These women are mostly stupid (bi?tes) ; but I have remarked how superior they are in moral delicacy to the men of their class. There is only a single vice which separates them from other women poverty. A man must be far gone in cynicism to hazard such a paradox, and the un- known must have been singularly desti- tute of feminine dignity and self-respect could she have endured to be told that she was only separated from a class of women, whom he pronounced bates, by poverty she herself being little, if at all, elevated above them in that respect. She might have replied in the words of Dick- enss stage-coach driver ruined by rail- roads : Poverty, sir, is no disgrace to a man, but its devilish inconvenient. She obviously administered a sharp rebuke, although it failed to convince him of his want of tact and taste, for in his next letter he resumes the topic unabashed. Johnson gave Boswell the same advice which M6rim~e received from his old di- plomate, but based it on sounder grounds. Frankness and truth rarely succeed with Never speak ill of yourself, because, be- women: they almost always fail. Here are sides being exaggerated in repetition, it you looking on me as a Sardanapalus, because will probably be repeated as the result of ~ have been to a ball of opera dancers. You detection or discovery by others, and not reproach me this as a crime, and you rcproach me as a still greater crime the singing the even your indiscreet frankness will be praises of the poor girls. Make them rich, I credited to you. repeat, and they will retain only their good I give you a hundred guesses to say where I qualities. But the aristocracy have raised in- was Saturday evening, what I was doing at surmountable barriers between the different midnight. I was on the platform of one of the classes of society to let us see how much what towers of Notre Dame, and I was drinking goes on without the barrier resembles what orangeade and eating ices in the company of goes on within. I will tell you an opera story four friends and an admirable moon, the v~hole I heard in this so perverse society. attended by a big owl who flapped his wings In a house of the Rue St. Honor6 there was round us. Paris is really a very fine spectacle a ~pooA woman who never quitted a small by moonlight. It resembles those cities in the room in the garret, which she rented at three Arabian Nights, where the inhabitants had francs a month. She had a daughter twelve been enchanted during their sleep. The Pa- years old, very neatly dressed, very reserved, risians in general go to bed at midnight, fools who never spoke to anybody. This little girl as they are in this respect. Our party was went out three times a week in the afternoon, strange enough: four nations were represent- and returned by herself at midnight. She was ed, each with a different manner of thinking, known to be an opera figurante. One day she The tiresome part of it was that there were comes down to the porter and asks for a lighted some of us who, in the presence of the moon candle, which is riven her. The portress, sur- and the owl, thought themselves obliged to af. prised at not seeing her come down again, re- fect the poetic tone and talk commonplaces. pairs to her garret, finds the woman dead on In fact, little by little everybody set to talking, her mattrass, and the little girl busied in burn nonsense. ing an enormous quantity of letters which she I do not know how and by what connection was taking from a very large trunk. She said: 134 PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. My mother died last night, and charged me ance, who reads hieroglyphics, has told me to burn all her letters without reading them. that on the Egyptian coffins these two words This child never knew the real name of her were often found: Vie, guerre; which proves mother: she is now absolutely alone in the that I did not invent the maxim I have just world, and without any other resource than given you. playing the vultures, the monkeys, and the His reflections on her sex, or on hu- devils at the opera. man nature in general, excited her in- The dying advice of her mother was to be dionation virtuous and remain a figurante. She ~ ~ and he rejoins moreover, very virtuous,very devout, and not Your reproaches delight me. In truth, I fond of telling her story. Have the goodness am the elect of the fairies. I often ask what I to say if this little girl has not infinitely more am for you, and what you are for me. To the merit in leading the life she leads, than you first question I can get no answer : as for the have; you who enjoy the singular happiness second, I conceive that I love you like a niece of irreproachable entourage, and of so refined o~ fourteen whom I am bringing up. As to a nature that, to a certain degree for me, an your very moral relative, who says so much entire civilization is resumed in it. evil of me, he makes me think of Thwackum Gracefully told as is the story, and (spelt Twac/zum), who is always saying: Can any virtue exist without religion ? * Have prettily turned the compliment, the moral you read Tom Jones, a book as immoral as is dubious and the reasoning obviously all mine put together? If you were forbidden at fault. The poverty of this little girl it, you will certainly have read it. What a ri- was rather her virtue than her vice. It diculous education is received in England perfected and brought out her best quali- What is the use of it? You are out of breath ties: her patience, prudence, filial duty with lecturing a young girl ever so long, and fortitude and faith. Nor is it by an~ the result is that this girl is longing to become means clear that, when the trying time of acquainted with the immoral being towards temptation arrived with advancino xvo - whom you have done your best to inspire her with aversion. What an admirable history is manhood, she was not better fitted for that of the serpent! resistance than she would have been,,had her childhood been surrounded with all We once heard him enforce this (his the luxuries, vanities, and frivolities of favourite) theory by an ingenious story, wealth, borrowed from a contemporary. A He goes on to say that he can only en- Comte de , with or without reason dissatisfied with the attention of a neiTh- dure bad company at rare intervals, and from an inexhaustible curiosity for all the bouring Vicomte to his wife, was leaving home for an absence of some days, and varieties of the human race. had proceeded a short distance from the I never venture to try bad company in men, chateau, when a thought struck him, and There is something too repugnant, especially he sent back his groom with a message in this country; for in Spain I have often had to madame to the effect that something muleteers and bull-fighters for friends. I have had taken place xvhich compelled him to eaten more than once out of a wooden bowl with people that an Englishman would not request that she would on no account look at for fear of losing the respect he has for admit the Vicomte while he was away. his own eyes. I have even drunk out of the On his return he heard that the Corn- same skin with a convict. It should be added, tesse was confined to her bed, and on hur- however, that there was no other skin, and rying to her heard with surprise that she one must drink when one is thirsty. had been bitten by the great dog in the They were in the habit of interchan- yard,. ~But why did you go near the ging presents. After saying that the ter-colour drawing he had promised wa- great dog? Why did you send back to her desire me not to go near it U Coin- was not worthy of her acceptance, and pletely mystified, he proceeded to cate- expressing a hope that this would not chise the groom, who avowed and justi- prevent her from sendino- hi in the tapes- fled what he had done. I told madame destined for him, he you desired her not to go near the dog, try adds: and you see what came of it. If I had Try to choose a safe messenger. Rule told her not to receive the Vicomte, she general : Never choose awoman for confidant: certainly would have received him, and sooner or later, you would repent of it. Know he would have do~ her more harm than also that there is nothing more common than the doc to do eVil for the pleasure of doing it. Get Mdri~~es speculations on female dress rid of your ideas of optimism, and be thor ff1 I d oughly convinced that we are placed in this are more anciu t~an soun. world to fight against evei~body. As to this, * Thwackuin says: Can any honour exist lode- I may tell you that a savant of my acquaint- pendene of religion? PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. 35 I study you with lively curiosity. I have theories on the smallest things, on gloves, bottines, buckles, & c., and I attach much im- portance to them, because I have discovered that there is a certain relation between the character of women and the caprice (or, more properly speaking, the liaison did& s and the ratiocination) which makes them choose such or such a stuff. Thus, for example, people are indebted to me for fhe discovery that a woman who wears blue is coquette and affects sentiment. The demonstration is easy, but it would be too long. No coquettish Frenchwoman who un- derstood dress ever wore blue, unless it suited her complexion ; never, if she chanced to be a brunette. Where M~rim6e shines in his letters as in his books, is in telling a story in the fewest possible words, or sketching a scene by a few rapid strokes, and then pointing the moral or drawing the conclu- sion in a sentence or two, e.g. I went boating the other day. There were a number of little sailing boats on the river carrying all sorts of people. There was one very large in which were many wo~en (of doubtful character). All these boats had come on shore, and out of the large one came a man of forty, who had a tambourine and was playing on it for his amusement. Whilst I was admiring the musical organixation of this animal, a woman of about twenty-three ap- proached him, called him monster, told him she had followed him from Paris, and that if he refused to take her with him, he would repent of it. All this took place on the bank from which our boat was about twenty paces distant. The man of the tambourine xvent on playing during the discourse of the deserted woman, and replied with the utmost coolness that he would have none of her in his boat. Thereupon, she runs to the boat which was moored the farthest from the bank, and throws herself into the river, splashing us most igno- bly. Although she had extinguished my cibar, indignation did not prevent me any more than my friends from pulling her out before she could swallow two glasses of water. The fine object of so much despair had not stirred, and muttered between his teeth Why pull her out, if she was so eager to drown herself? We placed the woman in a cabaret, and as it was getting late and the dinner hour was near, we left her to the care of the landlady. How happens it that the most indifferent men are the most loved? This is what I asked myself, aM the time we were descending the Seine this is what I still ask myself, and what I beg you to tell me if you know. Unknown tells him that her affections are engaged, he runs on You say that you are engaged for life, as if you were saying, I am engaged for the contre- dance. So far, so good: my time, it seems, has been well employed in disputing with you about love, marriage, and the rest! You have not got beyond believing or sayir~g that when you are told Aimez Monsieur, you love. Have you promised by a contract signed before a notary as on pajier ~ vignettes? When I was a schoolboy, I received a love-letter, sur- mounted with two burning hearts strung on an arrow, from a milliner. My schoo!-master began by taking away my love-letter and locked me up. Then the object of this rising passion consoled herself with the cruel school- master. There is nothing more fatal to those in whose favour they are subscribed than en- gagements. Every obligation is naturally tiresome. In a word, from all this, if I had less modesty, I should draw this final conse- quence, that if you had promised your love to any one, you would bestow it on me; me to whom you have promised nothing. Resolved not to be the heroine of an adventure like that in La Double Me~brise, M& im6es Unknown was constafitly on herguard. She makes appointments to meet him at public places they take long walks together ; she accepts him as her cicerone through museums and picture galleries; and once or twice (never with- out a chaperon) occupies a box of his providing at the opera, but takes especial care never to be alone with him in a car- riage or a room. In vain does he labour to inspire her with confidence by lan- guage that sounds like a prose version of Moores Ode to Nea : Nay, tempt me not to love again! There was a time when love was sweet; Dear Nea, had I known thee then Our souls had not been slow to meet. But, oh! this weary heart hath run So many a time the rounds of pain, Not een for thee, thou lovely one, Wo~ld I endure such pangs again. He tells her that he has not only out- grown the capacity for being in love, but can be on occasions as prudent and self- denying as she could desire : Dont be afraid,. I shall never fail in love with you. Some years ago, it might have come to pass. I am too old and have been too unhappy. I could not be in love again, because my illu- sions have procure~me many desgnnas in love. I was on the point of falling in love wlien I started for Spain. It is one of the finest ac- The solution of the phenomenon, when tions of my life. The person who caused niy it occurs, is to be found in that very per- journey has never known anything about it. versity of human natwe on which he is If I had remained, I should haply have com- so fond of expatiating. Thus, when the mitted a great folly: that of offering to a wo 136 PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. man worthy of all the happiness that can be enjoyed on earth, of offering her, I say, in ex- change for everything dearest to her, a ten- derness that I myself felt to be very inferior to the sacrifice that she would perhaps have made. You remember my moral.: Love ex- cuses all, but we must be quite sure that it is love. Take my word for it, this precept is more rigorous than those of your Methodist friends. Conclusion: I shall be charmed to see you. Perhaps you will make the acquisi- tion of a true friend, and I perhaps shall find in you what I have long been looking for ; a woman with whom I am not in love, in whom I can put my trust. Both of us shall probably gain by being more thoroughly acquainted with each other. Do, however, what your ex- alted prudence may dictate. Here he is unconsciously echoing the Byronic apophthegm No friend like to a woman man discovers, So that they have not been, nor may be, lovers. He invariably speaks of marriage in a manner to inspire feminine distrust To say the truth, I am terribly out of hu- mour, in thinking of that ceremony which you are going to attend. Nothing makes me more melancholy than a marriage. The Turks, who buy a woman after examining her like a fat sheep, are better than we, who have put a var- nish of hypocrisy, alas! too transparent, on this vile bargain. I have often asked myself what I could say to a woman on m wed ing- day, and I have found nothing possible, ex- cept a compliment on her night-cap. The devil fortunately must be very cun- ning to catch me at such a fite. The part of the woman is easier than that of the man. On a day like that, she models herself after the Iphigenia of Racine; but if she has any obser- vation, what strange things she must see I You will tell me if thepte has passed off well. You will be courted and regaled with allusions to domestic happiness. He is thrown into despair on hearing directly afterwards that she is about to undertake in a similar ceremony the part he thinks so much easier than the many s Lady M. announced to me yesterday even- ing that you were going to be married. This being so, burn my letters: I shall burn yours, and adieu. I have already spoken to you of my principles. They do not admit of my re- maining on the same terms of intimacy with a married woman whom I have known as de- moiselle, with a widow whom I have known as wife. I have remarked that, the civil status of a woman being changed, the ties change too, and always for the worse. In a word, I can- not bear my female friends marrying. If, then, you marry, let us forget one another. Do not, I entreat, have recourse to one of your ordi- nary evasions, but answer me frankly. She does answer him frankly and satis- factorily. His next letter begin s,We are growing very tender. You call me Amzgo de ml alma, which is very pretty in a friends mouth. Then referring to the essential point I need not say that I am pleased with your answer. You have even told me, and perhaps involuntarily, many things that have given me pleasure, and especially that the husband of a woman who should resemble you, would in- spire you with real compassion. I can easily believe it, and I add that no one would be more unhappy, unless it were the man who should be in love with you. You must be cold and mocking in your fits of crossness, with an invincible haughtiness which prevents you from saying, I am in the wrong. Add to this the energy of your character, which must make you despise tears and complaints. When, by the lapse of time and the force of events, we shall be friends, then we shall see which of us two knows best how to torment the other. My hair stands on end at the bare thought of it. She must have been young when they first met, for in the third year of their ac- quaintance he tells her that she is not old enough to have a heart : What is your disease? Are you suffering from any pang or disappointment of the heart? There are some phrases in your last note, mys- terious like the rest, which seem to say as much. But, en/re nous, I do not believe that you have yet the enjoyment of that intestine (visc?re) called heart. You have pains of the head, pleasures of the head; but the intestine named heart is not developed till towards twenty-five years of age in the 46th degree of latitude. You ~vill contract your black and beautiful eyebrows, and you will say: The insolent fellow doubts whether I have a heart I for it is the grand pretension now-a. days. Since so many passionate or so-called passionate romances and poems have been contoc~d, all women pretend to have hearts. Wait a little. When you have a heart in right earnest, you will give me news of it. You will regret that good old time when you only lived by the head, and you will find that the evils you are now suffering are but pricks of the pin in comparison with the stabs of the dagger which will rain upon you when the time of the passions has arrived. The hard, cold materialism which abounds in these letters grows tiresome or repulsive when the novelty has worn off and we have got accustomed to the peculiar kind of wit of which it is the seasoning or the source. On ne ~laU ~s long-temps si (on na quune .rorte PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. destrit. Neither do we regret the change when the tone of gallantry cools down to the conventional temperature, and the letters assume more of the character of a journal recording the writers impressions of things and people as they pass. In March, 1842, after congratulating her on her recent accession of fortune, he writes My Minister has given me leave of absence for three months, and I have passed five in travelling between Malta, Athens, Ephesus, and Constantinople. During these five months, I have not felt bored for five minutes. You to whom I gave such a fright long ago, what would have become of you had you seen me during my expedition in Asia, with a belt of Pistols, a big sabre, and would you believe it ?moustaches reaching beyond my ears? Vanity apart, I should have frightened the boldest brigand of melodrama. At Constanti- nople I saw the Sultan in polished leather boots and black frock coat, all covered with diamonds, at the procession of the Bairam. There, a fine lady, on whose slipper I had trod- den by accident, gave me the grandest of fisti- cuffs, calling me giaour. This was my nearest approach to intimacy with the Turkisl~ beau- ties. At Athens, and in Asia, I saw the finest monuments in the world, and the most beauti- ful (if possible) landscapes. The drawback consisted in fleas and gnats as big as larks ; so that I never slept. In the middle of all this, I have grown quite old. My firman gives me hair colour of turtle dove: a pretty oriental metaphor to say ugly things. Picture your friend quite grey. They manage a meeting on his return, and he writes : If I must be frank, and you know that this defect in me is incorrigible, I will own that you struck me as much improved physically, not at all morally; you have a very fine com- plexion, and admirable hair, which I looked at more than your cap, which probably was worth looking at, since you seemed angry at my ina- bility to appreciate it. But I could never dis- tinguish lace from calico. You have always the figure of a sylph, and, biase~ as I am with black eyes, I never saw finer at Constantinople, nor at Smyrna. Now, for the reverse of the medal. You have continued a child in many things, and you have become hypocritical into the bargain. You do not know how to conceal your first impulses; but you think to mend matters by a host of petty expedients. What do you gain by them,? Remember this great and fine maxim of Jonathan Swift: That a lie is too good a thing to be wasted. This magnanimous sin of being hard to yourself will certainly carry you a long way, and a few years hence you will find yourself as happy as the Trappist, who, after having scourged himself time out of mind, should discover some fine morning that there is no such thing as Paradise. 37 It is a problem d la Mirimie why women will forgive any but really com- promising reflections on their morals, sooner than the slightest depreciatory al- lusion to their looks. Sir Robert Wal- pole used to say that he could always make up a quarrel between two women if neither had called the other ugly or old. It would seem that M~rim~es charmer was rather pleased than the contrary with his ringing the changes on her falsehood, hypocrisy, and infernal coquetry (his fa- vourite phrase), so long as he is as warm and eloquent as ever on the subject of the hair, the figure, and the eyes. In this same letter he traces her a route for a meditated tour in Italy : It is possible that we may meet at the cor- ner of a temple or a circus. I advise you to go straight to Naples. M. Buonnici will take you to Pompeii. You will go to P~estum, and you will think of me: in the temple of Nep- tune, you may say to yourself that you have seen Greece. From Naples you will go to Rome, where you will pass a month in saying to yourself that it is useless to see everything because you will return. Then you will go to Florence, where you will remain ten days. Then you will do what you like. - . . Proba- bly I shall then be at Aries or Orange. If you stop there you will ask for me, and I will ex- plain a Greek theatre to you, which will not interest you much. You have promised me something in return for my Turkish looking-glass. I rely reli- giously on your recollection. Ah! great news! The first Academician who dies out of forty will be the casue of my paying thirty-nine vis- its: I shall pay them as awkwardly as possible, and I shall doubtless gain thirty-nine enemies. It would be tedious to explain to you the pour- quoi of this fit of ambition. Suffice it that the Academy is now my blue cachemire. The allusion to the blue cachemire is explained in the next letter: A ~rg5os of your blue cachemire, I suspected you of devotion, because devotion in 1842 is a fashlon!ike the blue cachemires. This is the analogy which you did not catch: it is cleai enough, however. His in- structions for reading Homer are more serious and detailed than his outline of the Italian tour; and the mocking tone is kept under, if not entirely subdued, by the enthusiasm of the scholar for Greek : I am very sorry tl~t you read Homer in Pope. Read the translation of Dugas-Mont- bel: it is the only readable one. If you. had the courage to brave the ridicule, and the time to spare, you would take the Greek grammar of Planche and the dictionary of the same. You would read the grammar for a month to 133 PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. make you sleep. It would not fail in this ef- fect. At the end of two months you would amuse yourself by looking out in the Greek the word translated (in general) literally enough by M. Monthel: two months after- wards you would easily perceive from the em- barrassment of his phrase, that the Greek says something different from what the translator makes it say. At the end of a year, you would read an air; the air and the accompaniment: the air is the Greek, the accompaniment the translation. It is possible that this would give you the wish to study Greek seriously, and you would have admirable things to read. But I suppose you with neither dresses to occupy you nor people to show them to. Everything in Homer is remarkable. The epithets, so strange in French, are admirably appropriate. I remember his calling the sea purple, and I never understood this word. Last year I was in a little caique on the Gulf of Lepanto, going to Delphi. The sun was setting. As soon as it had disappeared, the sea took for ten minutes a magnificent tint of dark violet. This requires the air, the sea, the sun, of Greece. I hope that you will never become artist enough to enjoy the discovery that Homer was a great painter. A little farther on be writes out for her a regular course of Greek reading: If you have the courage to read history, you will be charmed with Herodotus, Polybius, and Xenophon. Herodotus enchants me. I know nothing more amusing. Begin with the Anabasis, or The Retreat of the Ten Thousand: take a map of Asia and follow these ten thousand rogues in their journey: it is Froissart gigantesque. Then you will read Herodotus: then Polybius and Thucydides: the two last are very serious. Next get The- ocritus and read The Svracusans. I would also fain recommend Lucian, who is the Greek with most wit (esprit), or rather most of our wit; but he is a sad rake, and I dare not. As to the pronunciation, if you wish I will send you a page that I had written out for your use, which will teach you the best, that is, the pronunciation of the modern Greeks: That of the schools is easier, but absurd. X~e began writing to each other en faisant re~z5rit; then we have done, what? I will not remind you. We are now at work on erudition... Whilst playing tutor he affects towards his pupil the same tone in which Ca- denus speaks of Vanessa: He now could praise, esteem, approve, But understood not what was love. Her conduct might have made him styld A father, and the nymph his child. It would seem that the Roman classics divided her attention with the Greek: his writings which it is impossible to translate into French. We see plainly enough what love was at Rome about the year 50 before j. c. It was, however, a little better than love at Athens in the time of Pericles. The woman were al- ready something. They made men commit follies. Their power has come, not, as is com- monly said, from Christianity, but I think through the influence which the barbarians of the North exercised over Roman society. The Germans had exaltation. They loved the soul. The Romans loved little but the body. It is true that for a long time women had no souls. They still have none in the East, and it is a great pity. You know how two souls speak to one another. But yours hardly listens to mine. I am glad you value the verses of Mus- set, and you are right in comparing him to Catullus. Catullus wrote his native tongue better, and Musset has the fault of not believ- ing in the soul more than C~tullus, whom his time excused. - Would you believe that a Roman could say pretty things, and could be tender? I will show you on Monday some Latin verses, which you will translate yourself, and which fit in like wax. dpropos of our ordinary disputes. You will see that antiquity is better than your Wilhelm Meister. He falls ill, and asks her what she would say if he became (in Homeric phrase) the guest of the gloomy Proser- pine: I should be delighted if you were saddened by it for a fortnight. Do you think this an extravagant pretension? I pass a part of my nights in writing, or in tearing up what I have written the night before, so that I make small progress. What I am doing amuses me, but will it amuse others? I believe that the ancients were more amusing than we: they had not such mean ends : they were not pre- occupied by a mass of silliness (nieiseries) like us. I find that my hero, Julius C~sar, was guilty of follies (l3t~tises) for Cleopatra at fifty- three, and forgot all for her, so that he was within an ace of drowning himself actually and figuratively. What man of our cenera- tion, I mean amongst the statesmen, is not o~m~etely case-hardened, completely insen- sible, at the age (forty) at which he can aspire to be a deputy? I should like to show the difference of that world from ours, but how to set about it? He must have set about it by a differ- ent line of argument and illustration, if he wished to produce conviction. There have been modern Mark Antonys, if not C~sars, ~vho would have deemed the world well I~st for Cleopatras eyes. M~rim~e must have known an eminent French statesman, with a character for You have done well not to speak of Catullus. austerity, who when long past forty could He is not an author te be read during the holy hardly meet a very celebrated lady in a ~week, and tbere is more than one passage in room without betraying his feelings by a PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. flutter or a flush and it is clear from Gentzs Diary that the select few who had undertaken the settlement of Europe at the Congress of Vienna, were quite as much occupied with their own love affairs as with the destinies of nations.* M~rim~e tries in vain to pass off his candidature for the Academy with an air of unconcern. He is deeply interested in the result, and submits, with a grim- ace, to the (to him) especially repugnant ceremonies imposed by it. It is the in- exorable rule for the candidate to call on each academician for the personal solici- tation of his vote and some of these compulsory visits have given rise to amusing and characteristic scenes. When Victor Hugo called on Royer- Collard, he was received with a bow and a stare. Je me nomme Victor Hugo. Connois pas. Lauteur de Notre Dame de Paris, & c. & c. Je ne les ai jamais lu. Permettez moi de vous en offrir des exemplaires. Je ne lis plus les livres nouveaux. Exit Hugo in a rage. Mdrimde had no reason to com- plain of his reception. I find people very polite, quite accustomed to their parts, acting them very seriously. Does it not strike you as ridiculous to say to a man: Monsieur, I believe myself one of the forty cleverest men of France; I am as good as you, and other drolleries? It is neces- sary to translate this into polite and varied languagc, according to the persons. He was elected on the 14th March, 1843, and on the 17th he writes Why do you weep? The forty chairs (fau- tends) were not worth one little tear, I am worn out, broken-down, demoralized, and completely out of my wits. Then, Arr?ne Guil/ot (his novel) makes a palpablefiasco, and excites the indignation of all the so-called virtuous people, and particularly the women of fashion who dance the polka and listen to the sermons of the P~re Ravignan; they go so far as to say that I act like the monkeys who climb to the top of the trees, and having reached the topmost branch snake grimaces at the ~vorld. I believe I have lost votes by this (so-called) scandalous story : on the other side, I have gained some. * SeAt. 12, 1814. Went to Prince Metternich; long conversation with him not (unhappily) on public affairs, but on his and my relations with Madame (the Duchess) de ~agan.~~ Sunday, Nov. 6. Went out at ten. Conversa- tiors of different kinds with Metternich. Returned at n~id-dav. Connt Clam: long talk with him on his new passion for Doroth~e (Madame de P~rigord). Friday, s/k. Visit to the King of Denmark talked an hour with him. Then Metternich: long con- versation, constantly turning mo~ on the confounded women than on 39 Her tears prove the warm interest he had inspired in her, despite her assumed coldness. Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me. There was a crisis towards the end of the year: It is evident that we can no longer meet without quarrelling horribly. We both of us desire the impossible : you that I should be a statue; I that you should cease to be one. Every fresh proof of this impossibility (of which at bottom we have never doubted) is cruel for both. For my part, I regret all the pain I have caused you. I give way too often to impulses of absurd anger: as well get angry with ice for being cold. He had obtained a high reputation as an arch~ologist by his Notes of Travel in the South and West of France, which contain the pith c~f his official Reports, and towards the end of 1843, he was a successful candidate for admission to the Academy of Inscriptions. This second candidature seems to have been more an- noying than the first: You are wrong to he jealous of Inscriptions. My sef-love is to a certain extent engaged, as in a game of chess with a skilful adversary; but I do not believe that the loss or gain will affect me a quarter as much as one of our quarrels. But what a wretched calling is this of solicitor Did you ever see dogs enter the hole of a badger? When they have any ex- perience, they have an appalling look on en- tering, and they often come out faster than they went in, for he is a most disagreeable brute to visit, is your badger. I always think of the badger when about to ring the bell of an academician, and, as seen in the minds eye, I present an exact likeness of the dog. Early in 1843 he formed one of a din- ner party, given by an academician to introduce Rachel to B6ranger. After dinner B6ranger told her that she was wron0 to Waste her talent in salons, that there was for her only one veritable pub- lic, that of the Th6~tre Franais. She listened with an assenting air, and to show how much she had benefited by the advice, played the first act of Esther. Some one was required to give her the ri- pZique, and she caused a Racine to be formally presented to me by a~ academician who was doing the duties of cicisbeo. I rudely replied that I knew nothing about verses, and that there were people in the room who, being in that line, would scan them much better. Hugo excused himself on account of his eyes; another for some reason or other. The mas 140 PROSPER MERIMEE HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. ter of the house devoted himself. Imagine ese pueblo, no Aay ~orvenir (In this country Rachel in black, between a piano and a tea- there is no chance of rising). . table, with a door behind her, prepa theatrical effect! This preparation ~ The marriage of the Countess de T6ba our eves was very amusing and very fine : it was the turning-point in his life. He listed about two minutes, then she began . was an old and attached friend of her Est-ce tol, ch~re Elise? mother, Madame de Montijo, through The confidant, in the middle of his reply, lets whom he was named senator, and became fall his spectacles and his book: it tajces him an habitual guest of their Imperial Ma- ten minutes to recover his page and his eyes. jesties at the Tuileries, Biarritz, Corn- The audience see that Esther is getting angry. pi~gne, and Fontainebleau. Although She resumes. The door behind opens: it is a there is no allusion to the fact in these servant coming in. He is signed to withdraw. letters, there is no doubt that he was a He makes a hurried retreat, and cannot man- valuable assistant to the Emperor in the age to shut the door. The said door keeps composition of the Vie de C~sar. The swinging backwards and forwards, accompany- drawback to the advantages of his new ing Rachel with a melodious and very diverting positio creak. As there seemed no end to this, n was the estrano~ement from Mademoiselle placed her hand on her ~ old friends: the majority of the and grew faint, but, like a person accustomed French men of letters, and especially to die on the stage, giving time for people to~ the academicians, having proudly held come to the rescue. aloof from the dynasty to the last. During the interlude, Hugo (Victor) and MJ The consciousness that he was regarded Thiers came to words on the subject of Ra- with suspicion and distrust will go far to cine. Hugo said that Racine was un pet?~ account for the increasing cynicism with esprit and Corneille un grand. You say which his letters are seasoned as we pro- that, replied Thiers, because you are un He literally spares nobody. From grand esprit: you are the Corneille here ceed. Hugo looked the picture of modesty of an Madrid again: epoch of which Casimir Delavigne is the Ra- It is the custom here to offer everything cine. You may guess what became of the that is praised. The fair friend of the Prime modesty. However, the faint passes off and Minister sat next me at dinner the other day. the act is finished, but fiascizeggiando. One She is bite comme un choux, and very fat. She who knows Mademoiselle well, remarked: displayed tolerably fine shoulders, on which How she must have sworn this evening on rested a garland with beads of metal or glass. going away. The remark set me thinking. Not knowing what to say, I praised both shoulders and beads, and she replied: Fodo ese S la di.~j5osicion de V. A still more mortifying mishap once befell Mrs. Siddons in a drawing-room, where she was acting Constance in King John. Here I and sorrow sit: Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. Through some untoward accident in suiting the action to the word, instead of sinking gracefully to the ground, she lost her balance, and came to the sitting pos- ture with a bump that shook the floor and fairly put tragedy to flight. In November, 1845, he is at Madrid, which he finds changed for the worse since his last visit in 1840. The bulls have no longer any heart, and the men are not much better than the bulls. Writing again from Madrid in October, 5853, he says : No one reads at Madrid. I have asked my. self how the women pass their time when they are not making love, and I find no plausible reply. They are all thinking of being em- presses. A demoiselle of Granada was at the play when she hea~d in her box that the Coin- tesse of Tuba was to marry the Emperor. She rose with impetuosity, exclaiming: En He is almost always in his caustic mood during his visits to England. Ad- mitting that there was something grand and simple in the invention and execu- tion of the Crystal Palace, he terms it perfectly ridiculous as regards art and taste : a plaything which costs twenty- five millions, and a cage in which several great churches might waltz. The last days I passed in London (July, 1854) have amused and interested me. I have seen and associated with (vu et pratiquti) all the political men. I have attended the debates on the Supplies in the Houses of Lords and Commons, and all the renowned orators have spoken, but very badly, as 1 thought. Lastly, I have caten an excellent dinner. They give excellent dinners at the Crystal Palace, and I recommend them to you you who are gourmande. I have brought from London a pair of garth-s, which come, I am assured, from Borrin (of Paris). I do not know with what Englishwomen keep up their stockings, nor how they procure this indispensable arti- cle, but I believe it to be a very difficult affair, and very trying to their virtue. The shopman who gave me these garters blushed up to the eyes. PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. 4 M~rim~e has here fairly outdone the German traveller who, describing the Boyle Farm gte, stated that only the wings of the chicken were placed upon the refreshment-tables, because the Eng- lish ladies could not bear to hear of the leg or cuisse. The fact is, M6rim~e saw and knew little of English society. He did not lay himself out for it. His man- ners were reserved, and his name was not one of those which create a sensation in a salon. But he had good introductions, and was taken to a few of the best houses by his friends; who will hardly be pleased at the use he made of his oppor- tunities Edinburgh, Douglas Hotel, 26 juillet 1856. I am going with a Scotchman * to see his chateau, but I cannot tell you where we shall stop on the route, which he promises me with abundance of castles, ruins, landscape, & c. I have passed three days at the Duke of Ham- iltons in an immense chateau and a very fine country. . . . All over this chateau are pic- tures by great masters, magnificent Greek and Chinese vases, and books with bindings of the greatest amateurs of the last century. All this is arranged without taste, and one sees that the proprietor derives small enjoyment from it. I now understand why the French are so much in request in foreign countries. They take pains to be amused, and, in doing so, amuse others. I found myself the most amus- ing of the very numerous society where we were, and I had at the same time the con- sciousness of hardly being so. We never heard before that the French are or were so much in request. A culti- vated and agreeable Frenchman, like any other cultivated and agreeable foreigner, would he in high request; but unless he spoke English fluently (which is rarely the case with Frenchmen), there are very few~ English country houses in which, except from motives of politeness, he would be pressed to prolong his stay. M6rimde could be a most pleasing companion when he thought fit; and he does himself great injustice in supposing that he owed his English welcome to an all-pervading sense of wearisomeness or vacuity: London, aoth July, s5~6. I have found people here so amiable, so pressing, so overwhelming, that they are evi-. dently much bored. Yesterday I saw two of my tormer beauties; the one has become asthmatic, and the other methodist: then I made the acquaintance of eight or ten poets, who struck me as a little more ridiculous even than ours. * The Right Hon. Edward ~llice: printed twice over Elind. Speaking of Edinburgh, he says : The accent of all the natives is odious to me. The women are in general very ugly. The country demands short petticoats, and they conform to the fashion, and to the exi- gencies of the climate, by holding up their gowns, with both hands, a foot from their pet- ticoats, showing sinewy legs and half-boots of rhinoceros leather, with feet to match. I am shocked at the proportion of red-haired women whom I meet. The site is charming, and the weather has been warm and clear for two days. In a letter dated from a country house, near Glasgow, August 3, 1856, after bear- ing testimony to the hospitality with which he is everywhere received, he says : I am contracting bad tastes. Arriving here the guest of poor people who have hardly more than thirty thousand pounds a year, I thought myself neglected on finding that they gave me a dinner without wind instruments and a piper in grand costume.* I passed three days at the Marquis of Breadalbanes, in driving about in a carriage in his park. There are about two thousand deer, besides eight or ten thousand others in his forests not adjacent to the chateau. There are also, for singularitys sake, at which every one aims here, a herd of American bisons, very fierce, which were inclosed in a peninsula, and one goes to see through the clefts of their pal- isades.t All the world there, marquis and bisons, had the air of being bored. I believe that their pleasure (bisons included?) consists in making people envious, and I doubt whether this makes up for the flurry they are in to be hotel-keepers to gentle and simple. Among all this luxury, I observe from time to time little instances of stinginess which amuse me. We should not have thought it possi- ble for even a cynical Frenchman to carry away such an impression from Taymouth Castle in 1856. There could hardly be more magnificent hospitality, or a grand seigneiir piore free from pretension, as- sumption, or the littleness of wishing to excite envy, than the host. He had a keen sense of humour, with a blunt rough way of giving expression to it, not much unlike Lord Melbournes; and the fre * At Taymouth Castle, in the time of the late Mar- quis of Breadalbane, a piper, placed behind a recess, played during the first course, and a complete hand of wind instruments during the second; the programme of the music being placed b~ the side of each plate with the menu. A Frenchwo~an who heard the bagpipe for the first time at Taymouth, turned to her neighbour with a cry: Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, eat-ce que cela sappelle musique?~~ The domain of Taymouth is so large that it ~vould require seven-league boots to walk over it in three days. t There were three or four in an inclosure, bounded on one side by a river. 142 PROSPER MERIMEE HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. quency of his hearty laugh was alone wishes to get away. In November, enough to refute the notion of his being 1858 an habitual sufferer from ennui. I We shall be detained another day at Corn- That M6rim6e should see little beauty pi~gne. Instead of Thursday it is Friday that in Highland scenery might have been an- we return, on account of a comedy of Octave ticipated from a principle of resthetics Feuillot that is to be acted on Thursday. I incidentally laid down in a letter from hope this will be the last delay. I am, more- Paris in 1843 over, ill. One cannot sleep in this place. What did you think of the fireworks? I One passes the time in freezing or roasting, and thi was at an ambassadors who has a fine garden, chest 5 has given me an irritation of the which exhausts me. But it is impossible from which we had a good view. The bouquet to in~iagine a more amiable host or a more was fine. It must be very superior to a vol- gracious hostess. Most of the guests took cano; for art is always much finer (plus beau) their departure yesterday, and we are left en than nature. petit comild, that is to say, we are but thirty or The man who thinks a bouquet of fire- forty at table. works superior to an eruption of ~tna or~ Vesuvius might, with equal plausibility, maintain that the Grandes Eaux of Ver- sailles are finer than the falls of Niagara. Turning back a little, we find him re~ cording a rather remarkable dinner in May, 1850 I dined yesterday with a bishop and a dean, who have made me more and more socialist. The bishop is of what the Germans call the rationalist school: he does not even believe what he preaches, and, on the strenjh of his black silk apron, pockets his five or six thou- sand a year, and passes his time reading Greek. Salisbury Cathedral is more than lost upon him : Salishury, Saturday ~5th June, 1850. I begin to have enough of this country. I am tired to death of the Perpendicular archi- tecture and the manners, equally perpendicular, of the natives. I have passed two days at Cambridge and Oxford with the reverends, and, all things considered, I prefer the capu- cins. A Fellow had the insolence to ask me to dinner. There was a fish, four inches long, in a great silver dish, with a lamb cutlet in another. All this served in magnificent style, ~vith potatoes in a dish of sculptured wood. But never was I so hungry. This is the result of the hypocrisy of these people. They like showing foreigners that they are abstinent (sobres), and, eating luncheon, they do not dine. I have just committed a blunder. I gave half-a-crown to a man in black who showed me over the cathedral, and then I asksd him the address of a gentleman for whom I had a letter from the Dean. It turned out that the letter was addressed to himself. He looked foolish, and so did I: but he kept the money. The man was obviously the beadle or verger to whom the letter was addressed, with directions to show the foreign gen- tleman over the cathedral. Although he always speaks well of the Emperor and Empress, he is no sooner settled in an Impetial residence than he Besides giving his Imperial host the aid of his classic lore, his varied talents, especially as a writer of fiction, were fre- quently laid under contribution for the amusement of the company. We have here (Compibgne) Mademoiselle , a fine sprig of a girl, five feet six high, with all the pretty manner of a grisette, and a mixture of ease and unaffected timidity, some- times very amusing. Fears were entertained lest the second part of a charade should not correspond with the beginning (a beginning of which I was the author). It will go off very well, said she: we shall show our legs in the ballet, and that will make up for alL N. B., her legs are like two~ flageolets, and her feet are far from aristocratic. More than one of his short novels arose out of discussions in the Imperial circle, and was read over to them by way of testing its probable success with the pub- lic. Being at Biarritx (in x866), a discussion one day arose as to the difficult situations in which one might be placed, as, for example, Rodrigo (in the Cid), between his papa and Chimi~ne, or Mademoiselle Camille between her brother and her Curiatius. The same night, having drunk some over-strong tea, I wrote fifteen pages on a situation of this kind. The thing is perfectly moral aufond, but there are details whi4 might be disapproved by Monseigneur Dupanloup. There is also a necessary be~ging of principle from the commencement of the narrative : two persons of different sexes go together to an hotel; this was never seen, but this was necessary to me; and, in their vicinity, something very strange occurs. It is iiot, I think, the worst thing I ever wrote, although it was written very hastily. I read it to the lady of the house (the Empress). There was then at Biarritz the Grand-Duchess Marie, the daughter of N~cho1as, to whom I had been presented some years since. We have renewed our acquaintance. Shortly after my reading, I received a visit from a policeman, professing to be sent by the Grand-Duchess. What do you want? I come on the part of her Irn. PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. 43 penal Highness to beg you to wait on her this evening with your romance. What ro- mance? That which you read the other evening to the Empress. I replied that I had the honour to be the jester of Her Majesty, and that I could not ~vork abroad without her leave; and I hurried to tell her what had passed. I expected that the least result would be a war with Russia, and I was not a little mortified that not 9nly was I authorized but entreated to wait on the Grand-Duchess, to whom the policeman had been assigned as factotum. However, to com- fort myself, I wrote the Duchess a letter in a sufficiently becoming tone, and announced my visit. I was on ow way to carry my letter to her hotel: the wind was high, and in a little side street I met a woman who was in danger of being blown into the sea by her petticoats (the wind having got under them), and who was in the greatest embarrassment, blinded and con- fused by the noise of the crinoline andthe consequences. I ran to her assistance; I had much difficulty in aiding her effectually, and then only did I recognize the Grand-Duchess. The wind spared her some little epigrams.. Besides, she played the good princess with me, and gave-me excellent tea and cigarettes, for, like almost all the Russian ladies, she smokes. The romance he read to these august ladies, was La Chambre Bleue, after- wards published in a Review, and included in his Derni~res Nouvelles. A young couple, just arrived from Paris, occupy the apartment of honour, called La Chambre Bleue, in an hotel. In the next room, separated only by a wooden parti- tion with folding-doors, is an English- man, their fellow-traveller on the railway, who had been exhibiting a roll of bank- notes and had quarrelled in their hearing with an ill-looking nephew, after threat- ening to cut him off with a shilling. The Englishman calls for a bottle of port. I told him we had none, says the maid. You are a fool, says the landlord. We have every sort of wine. I will soon find some port for him! Bring me the bottle of ratafia, a bottle of fifteen sous wine, and a carafe of brandy. This composition was so successful, that the last articulate sound beard in the hotel before the couple retired to rest, was the Englishman exclaiming: Waiter, bring me another bottle of the same port. The night-candle burning on the chimney. piece in the blue chamber was more than half consumed, when, in the apartment of the Eng- lishman hitherto silent, a strange sound was heard, such as a heavy body might produce in falling. To this noise was added a sort of crack no less strange, fol~wed by a. stifled cry and some indistinct words, resembling an im precation. The two young occupants of the blue chamber started. They had probably been suddenly awakened. This noise, for which they were unable to account, had made a sinister impression upon both. It is our Englishman dreaming, said L~on, with a forced smile. Two or three minutes afterwards a door was opened in the corridor, cautiously as it seemed: then it was slnit very gently. They heard slow and unsteady steps, which, accord- ing to all appearance, sought to escape notice. Confounded inn! exclaimed L~on. Ah, it is a paradise, replied the young woman, letting her head drop on Ldons shoulder: I am so sleepy: she sighed, and fell asleep again immediately. Not so Lion, who could not help thinking of the uncle with the bank- notes, the nephew coveting them, and that dead-sounding blow, like the blow of a club on a bald skull, that stifled cry, that frightful oath, and the muffled steps afterwards. That nephew had the look of the assassin. While these things were passing through his mind, L~on had his eyes mechanically fixed on the door of communication between the blue room and the Englishmans. There was an intervening space of half-an-inch between the door and the floor. All at once, in this space, appeared something like a dark shining line, moving slowly in the direction of a little blue satin slipper, thrown carelessly near this door. Was it some insect like a centipede? No, it is not an insect. It has no determinate form. Two or three similar lines have penetrated into the room, with an accelerated movement owihg to the slope of the floor. They advance rapidly; they come in contact with the little slipper. No more room for doubt! It is a liquid, and this liquid the colour was now distinctly visible by the light of the candle it was blood. What was L~on to do under these cir- cumstances? His obvious duty was to rush to the aid of the Englishman, who might be yet living, or, at all events, to rincr the bell and call up the people of the hotel. To,thi~ I reply, first, that in French hotels the bell-handles are there for the sake of orna- ment, and the ropes are not in correspondence with any metallic apparatus. I will add firmly, but respectfully, that if it he ~wrong to let an Englishman die close to you, it is not praise- worthy to sacrifice to him a woman who is sleeping with her. head upon your shoulder. What would have happened if Leon bad given the alarm? The gendarmes, the procureur- imp6rial and his clerk, would have arrived forthwith. Before ~sking what he had seen or heard, these gentlemen are by profession so curious that they would have begun by saying to him: What is your name? Your papers? And the lady? How came you to be together in the blue-room? You will have to appear at the assizes to say that on such a day of the 144 PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. month, or such an hour of the night, you were witnesses of such a fact, & c. & c. What appeared to him the most pru- dent, if the most selfish, course under the circumstances, was to lie still till day- break, then frankly explain to his fair friend the compromising nature of their position, and leave for Paris by the first train before the discovery of the catastro- phe. It has been guessed long since by the practised novel-reader. The couple are hurrying away without their breakfast, when the chambermaid is heard calling to the waiter: Make haste with the hot water for milords tea. And bring a sponge he has broken the bottle, and his whole room is flooded with his port. Several of the letters relate the con- ception, progress and completion of an- other romance, originating much in the same manner and similarly composed as an experiment. On the ~th of August, 1869, he writes: At Saint-Cloud, I have read Lokys * before a very select audience, comprising several de- moiselles, who have seen no wrong so far as I could discover. This has encouraged me to make a present of it to the Revue, since it causes no scandal. Either dame or de;noiselle must be gifted with a very lively imagination to be scandalized by this story in the pol- ished and corrected shape in which it eventually appeared in print. The story is supposed to be told by a savant, to whom the doctor, in attendance on an in- sane Lithuanian lady of rank, relates the cause of her insanity : She has been insane for more than twenty- seven years, having gone mad from fear. Two or three days after her marriage with the de- ceased count, the father of our host, she goes with him to the chasse. She remains behind or outstrips the sportsmen I do not know which. Never mind! all of a sudden the countesss little Cossack, a boy of fourteen, gallops up to the count. Master, a bear is carrying off my mistress. Where? This way. They all hurry to the place indicated: no countess. On one side her strangled horse on the other, her pelisse in shreds. They search, they beat the cover in all directions. At last, a sportsman exclaims: There is the bear ! In fact, the bear was seen traversing a glade, still dragging the countess, no doubt to devour her at his leisure in his den, for these animals are epicures in their way. They like, like the monks, to dine quietly. Having been married but two days, the count was very chiv- alrous: he wanted to throw himself on the bear, hunting-knife in hand, but, my dear sir, The Lithuanian word for bear. a Lithuanian bear does not let his throat be cut like a deer. Fortunately, the gun-bearer of the count, an idle vagabond, too drunk that day to distinguish a rabbit from a stag, fires his rifle a hundred paces off, without caring whether he hit the beast or the woman. And he killed the bear? Dead upon the spot. It is only drunkards who make such shots as that. The countess was badly scratched, without consciousness, as you may suppose, and with a leg broken. She comes to herself; but her reason was gone. She is taken to St. Petersburg. Grand con- sultation: four doctors covered with orders. They declare: The countess is with child; it is probable that her delivery will bring about a favourable crisis. Nine months afterwards, the countess is brought to bed of a well- formed boy: but the favourable crisis? Noth- ing of the kind. The count shows her her son. That never fails in romances. Kill him! kill the monster I was her exclamation: it was as much as they could do to prevent her from twisting his neck. From that time to this, alternations of stupid and raving insanity. The young count, when we are intro- duced to him, is a handsome and highly accomplished man of twenty-six, but he has odd, eccentric habits, and no dog or horse sees him for the first time without showing symptoms of fear. He has also a curious hunting adventure, which ends very differently from his mothers. This also is related by the doctor : Not a year ago he found himself exactly in the same position, and, thanks to his sang- froid, had a wonderful escape. From the claws of a bear? Of a she bear, and the largest that had been a long time. The count attacked her spear in hand. But, with a back- hand blow of her paw, she turned aside the spear, then seized the count and threw him on the ground as easily as I could upset this bot- tle. He cunningly pretended to be dead. The bear smelt him all over, and instead of tearing him to pieces licked his face. He had the presence of mind not to stir, and she xvent her way. 4Phe bear believed him to be dead. In- deed, I have heard say that these animals never eat dead bodies. We must believe it, and ab- stain from trying the experiment in our own persons.~~ We pass over the details to arrive at the ddnouement. The count is about to be married to a beautiful girl, ~vh om, ac- cording to the custom of the country, he brings on the 4ay fixed for the ceremony from her owri~ house to his chateau, where a distinguished company are as- sembled. As the carriage and four dashes up to the door the horses take fright ; the bride utters a cry ; when the bridegroom, who has sprung out, seizes PROSPER MERIMEE: IllS LETTERS AND WORKS. 45 her in his arms, and carries her up the It is not a steel blade, he exclaimed, steps. All of a sudden a woman, of tall that has made this wound. It is a bite I stature, pale, ~vorn, her dress in disorder It should be remembered that the her hair dishevelled, and all her features charm of M6rim6es stories consists in contracted by fear, appeared at the top of the style, the idiomatic language, the la- the steps, without any one knowing where tent humour, the playful fancy, and the she came from. The bear, she cried, fine, hardly perceptible, touches of irony in the roost piercing tones, the bear interspersed. It is therefore quite impos off a woman. Bnng guns. He is carrying It was the sible to do justice to them in abridge- Kill him. Fire ! fire I ment or translation. countess, who had escaped in the confu- On the 24th October, i86o, he writes sion from the persons who had charge of from Paris: Ii er. It was a very painful scene. It was necessa- ry to take her away despite her cries and her resistance. Many of the guests were not aware of her malady. Explanations were required. They conversed for some time in whispers. Every face was saddened. Bad omen, said the superstitious; and they are very numerous in Lithuania. They gradually recovered their spirits the wedding banquet was in the first style of Lithuanian hospitality and the relator was one of the very few who xvent sober to bed, and fell asleep. He awoke as the castle clock was striking three, and was looking about for his matchbox, when an opaque body, very large, passes b fore his window, and falls with a dead thump into the harden. His first impres- sion was that it was a man, a drunkard who had fallen from an upper window. He opened his own, and looked out, but saw nothing. On his coming down rather late next morning to the salon, he found that neither the count nor countess had appeared. The assembled guests, ~vho be- gan by making jokes on their laziness, at length became seriously alarmed. The valet de cka;nbre of the count had knocked several times at the door of his room without any notice being taken. We consulted together, Madame Dowghiello (the brides aunt), the doctor and myself. The alarm of the valet had proved catching. We all three ~vent up with him. Before the door we found the femme de cliombre of the young countess in a fright, vowing that some misfor- tune must have happened, for the window of madame was ~vide open. I remembered with alarm this heavy body falling before my win- dow. We knocked loudly. No reply. At last, the valet brought a bar of iron, and we broke open the door. No! I have not the courage to describe the spectacle that met our viexv. The young countess was stretched dead upon the bed, the face horribly lacerated, the throat open, inundated with blood. The count had (lisappeared, and no one has since heard of him. The doctor examined the horrible wound of the yopng woman. I LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 270 I went to St. Cloud yesterday, where I dined almost t& e-~-t~te with the Emperor, the Em- press, and Monsieur fils, as they say at Lyon: all in excellent health, and good hu- mour. I talked a long time with the Emperor, especially on ancient history and Ciesar. He astonishes me by the ease with which he com- prehends things of erudition, for which he has recently enough contracted the taste.* The Empress told me some curious anec- dotes of her journey to Corsica. The bishop spoke to her of a bandit named Bosio, whose story has the air of having been copied from Golom be. He is a thoroughly honest youth, whom the counsels of a woman have driven to commit two or three little murders. He is pursued for several months, but uselessly. Women and children suspected of carrying him food are thrown into prison, but impossi- ble to lay hands on him. No one knows cohere lie is. Her majesty, who has read the romance you wot of, felt interested in this man, and said she should be very glad if he could be in- duced to leave the island and go to Africa or elsewhere, where he might become a good sol- dier and an honest man. Ah, Madame, said the bishop, will you allow me to tell him this? How, Monseigneur, you know where he is ? is Rule general: the veriest rogue in Corsica always related to the honestest man. What greatly surprised them is that they (the Impe- rial party) were asked a prodigious number of grdces but not a sou: so that the Empress re- turned full of enthusiasm. In his charming novel, Colomba, much of tite plot turns on the secret un- derstanding that is kept up between the bandits and their hereditary chief: The meeting at Warsaw (he continues) is a failure. The Emperor of Austria invited him- self, and was received with the politeness ob- served towards the indiscreet. Nothing seri- ous was done there. The pretension of the Emperor of Austria was to establish that if Austria had the incitbus of Ht~ngary, Russia had Poland, to whicl~ Gortschako replied: You have eleven millions of Hungarians, and you are three millions of Germans. We are forty millions of Russians, and have no * La Vie de Jules Cf sar was published in e86~, 146 PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. need of help to keep six millions of Poles in much so? Doubtless, there have been ages order. Consequently no mutual assurance. I when people were more ignorant, more bar- barous, more absurd; but there were here and He rarely comes in contact with a ce- there some great geniuses to compensate; lebrity, especially an academician, with- while now-a-days, it strikes me, there is a very out a sneer. Writing from Cannes low level of all intellects. I have been in the company and the vicinity November I, 1869, from Cannes of M. Cousin, who has come to cure himself of a complaint in the eyes, and who talks like I ~ breakfasted yesterday at Nice with M. a one-eyed magpie, eats like an ogre, and i~ Thiers, who is greatly changed physically since surprised at not getting well under this beauti- the death of Madame Dosne, and not at all ful sky which he sees for the first time. He morally, so far as I saw. . . . In politics I is, moreover, very amusing; for he has the found him still more changed: he has become quality of talking his best for all the world. reasonable, at seeing this immense madness I believe that when he is alone with his ser- that has taken possession of this country, and vant he talks with him as with the most co- he is preparing to combat it, as he did in 1849. I fear he deceives himself a little as to his quettish Orleanist or Legitimist duchess. The strength. It is much easier to burst the bags Cannites pur sans do not know what to make of AFolus than to mend them and make them of him, and you may fancy how they look air-tight that we are coming to a upon being told that this man who talks on rns probable every subject, and talks well on every subject, It see has translated Plato and is the lover of M a- fight: the cizassepot is all powerful, and can dame de Longueville. His only defect is not give the populace of Paris an historic lesson, as General Changarnier remarked; but will it knowing when to stop talking. be used ~ props? Personal government has Almost the only man of mark who I become impossible, and parliamentary govern- passes through the ordeal unscathed is ment, without good faith, without honesty, and Prince Bismarek, whom he met (October, without men of capacity, appears to me not less impossible. In a word, the future, and I 1865) at Biarritz : might say the present, are to my thinking as Another personage, M. de Bismarek, has gloomy as they well can be. pleased me more. He is a tall German, very polite, who is far from naif He has an air absolutely devoid of Gernzit/i but full of esprit. He has made a conquest of me. He has brought with him a wife with tbe largest feet in Germany, and a daughter who walks in the footsteps of the mother. From Cannes, i6th December, 1867 What shall I say to you of the policy of M. Olivier and tutu quanti. In vain do they turn their phrases very elegantly, and affirm .that they are profoundly convinced. They seem to me second-rate actors, who play the first parts in a manner that can deceive nobody. We are daily growing less and less. The only real great man is M. de Biamarek. Apropos, might it be true that he spent some of his secret service money (in Paris)? I hold the purchase of the journals to be highly probable. But, as M. de Bismarek will not send his receipts to M. de Kervegnan, I sup- pose these gentlemen will come off with hon- our. It did not require his confirmed habit of turning the worst side outwards to dis- cern symptoms of national degeneracy and decline in June, 1869; when he writes from Paris I feel sure that we are about to have, in words and actions, enormities for which there will not be roasted apples enough. Alas! things may end in harder projectiles. What a misfortune that the modern mind is so fiat (pZat)! Do you believe that it was ever so ln January s87ohewritesfrom Cannes that, worse than having no appetite, he has a horror of every kind of nutriment that he cannot read, nor at times discern what is before his eyes Such, dear friend, is the situation in which I find myself. I feel certain that it is a slow and very painful death which is approach- ing. I must make up my mind to it. His mode of life, on his return to Cannes in the following autumn with the in- tention of wintering there as usual, is de- scribed by M. Tame. His main ,almost exclusive, object, was necessarily his health. The practice of archery had been prescribed to him as an exercise, and he was fond of sketching. Daily, therefore, ~vh~ the weather permitted, he might be seen walking silently towards some pre- appointed ground, in company with two elderly Englishwomen, one of whom car- ried his drawing-box, and the other his bow and arrows.* By way of varying the programme he sometimes made an expe- dition to a cottage, half a lea~ue off, to feed a cat, or amused himself ~vith catch- * Towards t~ end of his life, there were found with him two elderly English ladies to whom he spoke little, and for whom he did not appear to care moci: one of my friends saw him with tears in his eyes be- cause one of them was ill (Tame). They were friends of his mother, who endeavoured to supply her place by looking after his domestic arrangements. She did not die till he was near fifty. PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. 47 ing flies for a pet lizard. When the In La Guzla, * published in 1827, a railway brought him a friend, he lighted similar system of mystification is pur- up, and his conversation became charm- sued. This was an alleged translation of ing. But happiness was wanting; he the songs or popular poetry of an Illyrian saw the future in black, pretty nearly as bard, namcd Hyacinth Mao~s now we have it at this day; before closino- his whose biography is given ich, b by the trans- eyes, lie had the pain of witnessing the lator, an Italian refugee. The most complete downfall, and he died on the learned lino-uists French and German, 23rd September, 1870. The last of the were completely taken in ; an Ossianic letters is dated the day of his death controversy arose as to the existence and Dear friend, I am very ill; so ill, that writ- authenticity of the allege :1 originaL ; and ing is a trying affair. There is a little amend- the first to penetrate the mystery was ment. I will write to you soon, I hope, more Goethe, who said he was put upon the in detail. Send to my apartment at Paris for right track by observing that Guza is the the Lcttres de Madame de S~vim& and a anagram of Gzzul. On throwing off the Shakespeare. I ought to have sent them to disguise Me you before startino- Adiez~,/evouse;n6r see. ~ riinde writes What di- minishes the mcrit of Goethe in divining Two hours after ~vriting these words, the author of La Guzlais, that I sent him a copy, with sio-natu he was a corpse. Dying in the very re and flourish crisis of a nations destiny, he passed (paraplie), by a Russian who. was passing away unhonoured because unobserved * through Weimar. He has given himself and one good at least will result from the the honour of the discovery to appear publication of these Letters they will more mischievous. lead to a retrospective review of his lit- La Jacquerie appeared in 1828 erary productions, and a calm estimate of La Chronique du R~gne de Charles their merits and demerits, which can IX. in 1829; Notes dun Voyage dans hardly fail to be favourable to his memory le Midi de la France in 1835 Notes upon the whole. The bare recapitulation dun Voyage dans lOuest de la France will surprise those who have been wont in 1837; Etudes sur. lHistoire Ro- to look upon him more in the light of a maine in 1844; Histoire de Pierre I., literary amateur, like Walpole, than a Roi de Castille in 1848; Le Faux working man of letters. Dei~etriusin 1853. His minor works Although a member of the French Bar, and novels are spread over the whole of he never practised as an advocate, and his literary life, and, many having ap- his Th6~tre de Clara Gazul, Com6dienne peared piecemeal in reviews, it would be Espagnole, was published in 1825, when difficult to fix the precise date. His (born in Paris, September 28, 1803) he Notes et Souvenirs sur Beyle origi- was barely twenty-two. This is a collec- nally appeared as an introduction to tion of dramatic pieces, purporting to be Beyl~s Correspondlance Inddite, in translated from the Spanish of a Spanish i8~6. His historical works have never actress, by a Frenchman named Le- been popular. and the reason is plain. In- strange, who had been intimately ac- stead of studying artistic effects, he avoid- quainted with her and seen her in all her ed them. There is no glowing or floxving best parts. Both actress and translator narrative, no dramatic grouping, no sea- were imaginary. To complete the dece ~ soning of romance, no suppression or tion, M. Delescluze produced a portrait exaggerati~n of facts, no rhetorical ef- (afterwards lithographed) of Clara, from fusions, no undue colouring of character,. the life ; which, in one sense, it was nothing that will remind the reader of being, in fact, a portrait of M6rim~e, Thiers or Lamartine, Macaulay c~ Car- with the features a little softened, in the lyle. costume of a Spanish ~voman. The suc- fly dint of insisting on certainty, [says M. cess was so complete that a Spaniard Tame], he dried up knowledge, and kept of (ashamed, probably, to confess his igno- the plant only the wood without the flowers. rance of so celebrated a countrywoman) There is no other mode of accounting for the on being asked his opinion of the trans- coldness of his histori~al essays, Don Pedro, lation, replied that although very good, The Cossack s, The False I)emetnius, it hardly did-justice to the original. The Servile War, The Catiline Conspi- racy, complete, solid studies, ~vell supported. * The Discours of the successor to hisf ulcuis in hy authorities, well developed ; hut the pt~- the Academy, M. Lom~nie, svas delivered on the 8th sonages of which are lifeless probahly be- instant, atier this artice was ~n type. Although ahounding in curIous and valuabe osatter, it is com- pletely silent on the subject of the Inconnue. * The name of an Illyrian lyre or harp. 143 PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. caus h did notchoose to make them live.... lie miTht easily have done so: but it was can- t1 ry to his system to set them visibly before us: admitting in history only proved details, efusin~ to i~i ~e us his own guesses for authen- tic facts criical to the detriment of his work, ri orous to the point of retrenching the best part of himself, and putting an interdict on his imagination. The facility with which he had mysti- fied the critics had confirmed him in a mistziken estimate of art. About the year xSz7, he writes, I was a romanti- cist. XVe told the classicists, Point de salut sans la cozilezir locale. \Ve under- stood by cozilezir locale what in the seven- teenth century was called les znwurs, but we were very proud of our word, and we fancied ~ve had invented both the word and the thing. But the process was so simple, so easy, that I came to doubt of the merit of the cozilezir locale itself, and I forgave Racine for having civilized (po- lid) the savage heroes of Sophocles and Euripides. If we may trust the author, the receipt for the local colour in La Guzla, was this : Procure a statistical work on illyria, with the Travels of the Abbd Fortis, and learn five or six words of Sclavonic. This is a palpable exag~er- ation as regards Guzla, and pure atfec- tation so far as his best works of fiction are concerned. In Carmen, for exam- ple, of which the scene is laid in Spain, the local colour is so complete that the best scenes read like extracts from Don Quixote or Gil Bias. In Colomba. again, the Corsican manners, habits, and modes of thinking are depicted to the life. He had paid frequent visits to the countries in which his plots are laid mixed with the people, and conversed with them in their own language, includ- ing (if necessary) their patois. One of the places in ~vhich he was most at home was a Spanish hostelry, with Andalusian muleteers and peasants. He spoke Cab with a facility that astonished the Spanish gypsies and Carmen was a Spanish gypsy. He must also have been perfectly at home in Russian to en- able him to write La Faux Demetrius, in which free use is made of popular le- gends and traditions. The true Demetrius was the Tsarevitch supposed to have been murdered in i~i in his tenth or eleventh year, at the in- stigation of Boris, a sort of mayor of the palace, who soon afterwards usurped the imperial throne, Thd was firmly seated on it when, about 1603, a claimant started up. This was a young mail of twentytwo, who told a pInusilele story of his escape from the assassins, and lro- duced, in default of witnesses, a seal bear- ing the arms and the name of the Tsare- vitch, and a golden cross ornamented with precious stones, which he pretended to have received, according to usage, from his godfather, Prince Ivan Mstislovski, en the day of his baptism. He was red-haired, with blue eyes, a broad face, large nose, thick lips, and low in stature. The mother of the true Demetrius ~vas very clark, ansi his father, the Tsar Fedor, tall and handsome. Yet, somehow, lseople managed to discover a strong resem- blance to both. We give as a specimen of M6rim6es strict adherence to details, what he deems the best accredited ver- sion of the first appearance cf this per- sonage upon the stage One day, at Brahin (in Lithuania), Prince Adam Wisniowiecki being in his bath, a young valet c/c c/~ambre, who had been some time in his service, forgot to bring him something he I had called for. Irritated at this want of atten- tion, the Prince gave him a box on the ear, and called him a 50fl of . The young man, much move~l, exclaimed, with tears in his eyes: Ah, Prince Adam, if you knew who I am, you would not treat me in this manner. But never mind, I must endure everything, since I myself have taken the place of a do- mestic. And who are you then, and where do you come from? I am the Tsarevitch Demetrius, son of Ivan Vassilievitch. Thea he narrated the story df his miraculous escape, and showed his baptismal cross. The Prince, at his wits end, believed all this - od- est and good-looking young man told him. 1-le began by begging pardon for the box on the ear and the injurious epithet he had applied. Then begging the youth to remain in the bath- room, the Prince hurried to his wife, and or- dered her to prepare a magnifleent repast; since that very evening the Tsar of Muscovy was to be their guest. While the Princess knows not what to make of this sudden jour- iiey~f the Tsar, her husband orders six of his finest saddle-horses, dapple greys, to be ca- parisoned, and has each led by a skilful groom habited with all possible magnificence. A travelling carriage is then got ready and amply supplied with cushions and rich carpets.~ Then the Prince enters the bath-room followed by twelve servants carrying kaftans of broeade, pelisses of sable, and arms incrusted with gold. He respectfully assists his ex-valet to put on the richest dr~ss, and places horses, carriage, & e. & e., at his disposal. Let your Majesty deign to accept this trifle : all I have is at your service. * There were then no seats in the carriages. The persons using them sat on cushions, and covered their legs with rich Persian carpets; as still or recently in ~ PROSPER MERIMEE: HIS LETTERS AND WORKS. 49 All the ordinary forms of the Sciavonic le- gend ~vill be found in this recital. It forgets nothing, neither the housings of the horses, nor the colour of the stuffs, nor th~ price of the furs. It repeats in the Homeric manner the dialogue of its heroes. But why, under these details embellished by an Oriental im- agination, might there not be a genuine his- torical tradition? Introduced under such auspices, the claimant was everywhere received with acciamations; he is proclaimed Tsar; and then, to put the copestone to popu- lar credulity, an interview is arranged for a formal recognition by the mother, whom he was to see for the first time since his resurrection A rich tent had been erected near the village of Toiirnisk it was there that Demetrius re- ceived the widow of Ivan they remained in it for some instants hidden from all eyes: what they said to each other was known to none : * then they came out of the tent and fell into each others arms with all the marks of the most lively tenderness. At this spectacle, the aeclamations of the multitude rang out on all sides : all doubt had disappeared in the general sympathy, so easy and so catching for the masses. The respect of the son, the emotion of the mother, drew tears from the assembled crowds: not a person could have been found in it who was no~ ready to swear that the Tsar was verily the son of the widow of Ivan. She had revenues and an establishment befit- ting the mother of a sovereign assigned to her. He visited her daily, and always with demon- strations of the most profound respect and the most sincere affection. The incredulous were reduced to silence. Who would have dared to deny the evidence of the religious Tsarine? A few days afterwards, Demetrius was crowned with great pomp in the cathedral, and with the ceremonial already consecrated by Fedor and Boris. The career of the false Demetrius was cut short precisely as that of the true Demetrius might have beenby assas- sination ; and immediately a fresh one sprang up, to announce that he had never been assassinated at all. He, too, though a bad copy with different features, coarse manners, and gross ignorance was recognized by the flower of the Li- thuanian and Polish nobility, with the identical Prince Adam, the patron of the original claimant, at their head. To the same fastidiousness which (except, perhaps, in The False De- metrius ) led M~rim6e to strip history * She subsequently confessed that she was influenced by ~hreats sod promises to recognize the impostor. of everything melodramatic or meretri- cious, may be traced his practice of pruning and polishing his novels, espe- cially the shorter ones, till they might be compared to rare gems in choice settings, or to cabinet pictures by Meissonnier or Gerome. Moreover, we agree, with M. Tame, that if they do not always point a moral, they are eminently suggestive, and afford ample food for speculators who like to expatiate free oer all this scene of Man. It is hardly going too far to say, that the hundred pages of Carmen are worth more than many dissertations on the primitive and sav- age instinct; that the tale of Ars~ne Guillot contains the pith of many vol- umes on popular religion and on the true feelings of courtesans : that there is no severer sermon against the errors of credulity, or of the imagination, than La Double M6prise and Le Vase Etrusque ; that the Partie de Trictrac may be reperused in the year 2000 to learn what a single departure from honour may cost. A few kind actions go far to redeem an infinity of unkind or cynical words; and not a few kind actions of M6rim6es are remembered by his friends. Those who knew him best believed him when he wrote: It rarely happens to me to sac- rifice others to myself, and when this does happen, the utmost possible remorse is the result. He crave signal proof of both courage and generosity when he came forward as the defender of Libri in 1852. In support of the theory that an affectionate disposition lay hidden under his cold, calm demeanour, they may con- fidently point to his thirty years warm, unbroken, confiding attachment to his Inconnue. All things considered, therefore, we are content to accept and conclude with M. Tames summary of his character : It will be found, I think, that, born with a thoroughly good heart, endowed with a superior mind, having led an honourable life, worked hard, and produced some first-rate works, he has, notwithstanding, not drawn from him- self all the service he might have ren- dered, nor attained to all the happiness to which he might have aspired. Through fear of being a dupe, he distrusted him- self in life, in love, in science, in art and he was the dupe o~ his distrust. We are always the dupe ~ something, and per- haps it is best to resign ourselves from the first to being so. 150 THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: From The Corohill Magazine. THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: A BONAPARTIST STORY. I. CAPTAIN JEAN CZEURPREUX, of the 5th Algerian Spahis, having been sent to Paris with despatches from Marshal MMahon to Marshal Leb~uf, was invited to the last ball given at the Tuileries by Napoleon III. He was a man of about thirty, with a complexion the colour of leather, clipped hair that stood on end like bristles, and a full brown beard. His uniform was a light-blue loose-fitting jacket called a do/- man, braided across the front with black silk frogs, and embroidered from the cuffs to ~vithin an inch of the shoulders with gold lace of three rows interwoven. His baggy trowsers were scarlet; and he held in his hand a red kepi with the three rows of gold braid which marked his grade, the S pahis having no other head- dress than a kepi even for o~ala occasions. On C~urpreuxs breast glittered the rib- bon and cross of the Legion of Honour, the yellow ribbon and pendant of the ;ne~ dali/c mi/itaire, which proved he had risen from the ranks, and the three cam- paigning medals of the Italian, Cochin- China, and Mexican expeditions. Below these hun~ the white and blue ribbon and silver cross of Pius IX. and the medal of Mentana; also three other medals, two of silver and one of gold, attached to tri- coloured ribbons, and showing that the Captain had three times in the course of his career saved human lives. His mus- cular frame and smileless mien, the large size of the white gloves he wore, and the beard, which is the distinctive token of African service, all helped to mark a man who was no carpet soldier; and he looked embarrassed enough in the palace saloons, where he appeared to know not a soul, and where flitted before him, alert as dragon-flies, all, the dandy officers of the crack corps the Cent-Gardes in their azure tunics and gold aiglets, the Lancers of the Guard in Austrian white, the Guides in emerald and gold, the Ar- tillery of the Guard, the colour of whose uniforms was invisible for the mass of braiding that adorned them, and the whole host of State dignitaries, from di- plomatists and senators in blue and gild- ing to the prefects and deputies in black and silver. Pushed into a corner by this glittering throng, fearful of treading on the skirts of the ladies who streamed by him in a sea of silk and diamonds that made his head whirl, the Ciptain would evidently have felt much more at home in his saddle, hunting rebel Arabs, than in this place, to which the War Minister had procured him an invitation as a con- spicuous, though well-deserved, honour.* Yet leanino in a corner of the noble Salle des Mar& haux, where he had been hemmed in, the Captain cast his serious blue eyes about him as if he were in search of somebody. Twelve years be- fore this ball, and when he was but a quick-hearted boy of eighteen, he had fallen in love with a girl as beautiful as sunlight and a year less than his own age. He was thought too young to marry then; besides which, though a gentleman, he had no money to expect ; so the girls parents and his own had cut the court- ship short, and told him to dismiss all ideas of it and forever. He protested at first, but finding resistance vain, had en- listed to try and banish a passion which could lead to nothing. Soon after, he heard that Mdlle. Violette Despr~s, the young lady in question, had been mar- ried to a sub-prefect, who subsequently became a full prefectone M. de Cri, twenty years older than herself, an active placeman and a loyal. C~urpreux had never seen her since, for most of his time had been spent in warfare ; and when he * The SAnkis are the native cavalry of Algeria, as the Turcos are the native infantry: botls are mainly officered by Frenchmen; natives being restricted from rising above the ranle of lkutenant. The dolrncue is the summer-jacket as distinguished from the telisse, which is worn us winter, and has Astrakan for round the collar and cuffs. Some of the Spahi regiments used to wear scarlet tackets and light blue trousers and caps, but this has een recently altered, and the whole of the French liglst cavalry now svear the light blue jacicet and scarlet trowsers. The yellow-ribboned ueldaille miii- tceire was instituted by Napoleon III. as a minor decoration to the Legion of Honour. It is conferred on privates and non-commissioned officers as a first step towards the other order, and carries ,vith it a pen- sion of 51. a year, lust as the lowest grade in tlse Legion of Honour carries (in the army, not for civilians) ml. The rnedaiile neiii/ceire is sometimes conferred on field marslsalsand generals when they lsave attained to the highest rank, that of Grand Croix, in the Legion of flonofir; but in tlsis cast it is a manner of proclaiming that their cup of military distinction is full to the brim, and that the State can do nothing more for them. General de Cissey, War Minister under M. Thiers, was presented with the military medal by Marslsal M Malson, when the latter became President. The medals wish tricoloured ribbons are called rnsdaiiies do sauvelage, and are bestowed for acts of bravery in s:ving life. The first two are of silver; if a tlsird be won, it is of gold. There are five grades in the Legion of Honour. When in mufti, tlse chevaliers (companions as we should call them) wear a slip or small bow of red ribbon in their button-holes ; and the members of the four superior degrees offlcers;m~ commanders, grand officers, and grand-crosses rosettes. In evening dress or uniform the commanders wear collar-ribbons; the grand officers aiid grand-crosses broad ribbons under the waistcoat and lust peeping over the edge of it, not eecro.s.e the waistcoat, as knights in England. The grand-crosses also wear a star on the breast and a je~vel-croas pendant. A BONAPARTIST STORY. 5 came to France on furlough, it was only sano whispered to Viscount Laferri~re; for a few occasional weeks, which he and this courtly Vice-Chamberlain, hay- dutifully devoted to his family. But now, ing a key embroidered on his coat, glided having no one to speak to him, he glanced through the crowds with the expertness at every face that passed, half-dreading, of a well-bred eel, and, smiling as he yet moved by a curious anxiety, to see bowed, asked Captain C~urpreux wheth- the woman whom he had never forgotten er he should find him a partner. The nor could forget the loves of some sol- Captain would much rather not have diers being strangely deep and constant. danced, for he had grown rusty in this It had reached him that day that M. de science, and the offer made him redden. Cri was in Paris, angling for promotion But he regarded a vice-chamberlain after his wont, and he thought it probable somewhat as a superior officer, and fur- that his wife might be at this court ball. ther reflected that if people were invited Had a surgeon laid his stethoscope on to balls, it was presumably to the end that Captain Cceurpreuxs heart, he would they might disport themselves. Accord- have heard it beat like a boys. So much ingly he drew up his collar, cleared his for the man who had stared death a hun- throat, and followed M. de Laferri~re dred times out of countenance, and was with an erect stride, as if he were being called the lion of his regiment! told off for outpost duty. The Viscount The rooms continued to fill. Officers did not take him far. He hesitated a and dignitaries poured in faster and single moment which side he should turn., faster; the press of ladies became a then made straight for a lady dressed in crush and presently, the Empress, lilac silk and surrounded by a circle of seated under a canopy at the further end admirers two deep. She seemed used to of the room, observed this officer stand- be worshipped, and, flirting her fan, in g by himself, so grave and unnoticed. warded off with short laughs, glances, No sovereign ever better discharged her and tosses of her pretty head, the ready duties of hostess than this august lady, as compliments of her bevy, composed of gentle as she was amiable, as queenly as attach6s, subalterns of the Guard, and she was fair; so she turned to the Em- budding Councillors of State. But at peror, and inquired who was yonder Spahi, sight of the bronzed soldier this young so medalled and decorated. Napoleon, troop fell back, and M. de Laferri~re, perhaps dreaming of the recent plebiscite, always smiling, said about which he had just been conversing Madame, allow me to introduce to with M. Emile Ollivier, sedate in his sheen you an officer who respectfully begs the spectacles an~d black whiskers, referred the honour of your acquaintance: Mdme. de question to the Duke de Bassano, the Cri, Captain C~urpreux. Grand Chamberlain, who, of course, know- It was sinoular that the chamberlain ing nothing of the matter~ asked Marshal should have led him direct like that to Lebceuf, then standing by his side. the woman whom his own keen eyes had The War Minister came forward, and in been unable to discern the woman that xvcll-modulated voice xvhich made whose image had shone upon him from him the first of courtier soldiers, summed many a beacon-fire, lit up many a cloudy up the Captains history in twenty words. night, nerved him to more brave deeds XVoui~ded in Italy, wounded in Mexico, than might ever have been reckoned to Cmurpreux had conquered every step in his glory had he not been animated dur- his rise at the swords point. His last ing every day and hour of twelve long achievement was the capture of two Arab years ~th the thoughts of his first and chiefs and three villages with a troop of only love. But perhaps the image he had fifty horse that is at odds of something enshrined in his heart was that of the like ten to one. The Governor General young girl as he had first known her, of Algeria had sent him to Paris, that he with her virginal face and simple attire, mi~ht himself bear the tidings of the and it was this that had prevented him action in ~vhich he was the hero, and~ from recognizing her as she was then with your Majestys leave, added the not less fair, but of completer beauty. Marshal, I intended submitting Captain At all events, the recognition was prompt Cceurpreuxs name for promotion to the enough now; a~d there was not a linea- rank of cliefdercadron, and for advance- ment in those f~tures, so often seen in rnent in the Legion of Honour. The dreams, awake or sleeping, but seemed Emperor thanked him, and the Marshal to him embellished by time. He faltered retreated. out a request for the next waltz, in a thick Thereon the observant Duke de Bas- voice that struggled vainly to be distinct, 152 THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: and he found himself trembling as he had never done in danger or trouble since the day they had last parted. Madame de Cri blushed, though very slightly, and remarked that it was a long time since they had met. But this was all, for Strausss band suddenly struck up Metras Va/se des Roses, that delicious melody which may be said to have lulled the second Empire to its death; and Mdme. de Cri, forgetting or unheeding a promise made to another partner, stood up with Caurpreux. He encircled her waist with his arm, she rested one of her small hands on his shoulder, casting a wondering look the while at the rows of medals on his breast, and they whirled together into the maze. But why should the bravest of men have been so poor a dancer? There is not much waltzing in Algeria, nor, had there been, was C~ur- preux the man to care for it. He had held his own once in hall-rooms along with the best ; but this was when Violette Despr~s used to be his partner, and he had had none since. His arm tightened round her lithe form ; he felt her soft breath on his face, and his honest brain spun round like a wheel. The polished habituates of the Tuileries, accustomed to gyrate gracefully on a few yards of space, had never seen a man spin about in this fashion, and several couples skipped out of his way with alacrity. It was the best thing they could do, for the Captain crashed through the rest as if they were paper hoops, though he took care somehow that his own shoulders should be the rams and that his partner should turn unharmed. Characteristical- ly he had omitted to take off his sword, and ignored the drawing-room art of bal- ancing himself in such wise that it should hang perpendicular. It was no toy either, this weapon, but a huge cavalry sabre, which knew the taste of blood, and clanked noisily as if excited, sweeping round at right angles with its owner, entangling itself in cr~e de Giune skirts, and rippin~ therein gaps a foot wide. Desolate wails sprang up on the head- long Spahis path, and Mdme. de Cri felt that he had lost all control over his pace. I I think we had better stop, she murmured, growing afraid. But Cmur- preux could not have halted had he wished it. He had scattered most of the other dancers as effectually as a run- away charger might a flock of sheep; and he only kept his balance by the force of motion as a teetotuip does. Unluckily, tool there was one waltzer who had not noticed him. A Carabinier captain, six 1 feet high and a centaur in breadth of limb, came revolving in an opposite di- rection. Take care cried the Cara- biniers partner a countess, frail as a feather, who perceived the danger; but Ct~urpreux was already upon them. He bumped like a shell full upon the Cara- binier, and the two couples reeled asun- der from the shock. The Carabinier righted himself instantly, being adept; but C~urpreux had only just time to dis- engage himself from his partner, so as not to involve her in his fall, and floun- dered heavily to the ground, making an unholy clatter with his scabbard, and imprinting his two spurs into the slip- pery flooring clean as gimlets. Despite the Imperial presence, a titter broke out amid the muttered impreca- tions of those who had had their toes trodden on, and the Captain bade fair to be branded to all time as the lout who had made such a figure of himself at the Tui- leries. But quick as kindness, a hand was extended to the fallen man, who grasped it not knowing whose it was, scrambled to his feet by its means, and stood crest- fallen and giddy before the Emperor. It was at the Emperors feet he had rolled it was the Emperor who raised him. Commandant, said Napoleon, in the tones which those who once heard him speak, could never remember without emotion, this is the second time I have seen you fall the first was by my side on the field of Magenta. Then turning to Madame de Cri, while the laughers around lapsed silent and converged their gaze with surprise on the quivering sol- dier: Madame, a man may be pardoned for missing his footing in a ball-room, who has kept it so often and so well in posts of danger. But Commandant Cceur- preux will owe you a revancAe, and as he belongs from this day to my regiment of Guide., he will have many opportunities of proving to you in this very room that a gallant heart can always retrieve ill-for- tune. A general picked up and restored to the new Commandant * a medal of his that he had dropped; and C~urpreux bent low without a word before his Sov- ereign. What indeed could he have said? To save a man from ridicule and exalt * Commandant is the colloquial appellation of French brigade-majors, whose title is chefs desctedron, or chefs de & zlaillon, according as they are in the cavalry or in- fantry Al br is in France an administrative and depdt title. The French ajar keeps the regimental records and does some of the work of English quarter~ ma tgrs, 1~e does not con n~agcl iq thg ft 1r4, A BONAPARTIST STORY. 53 him to be the admiration of a thousand people who were disposed to laugh him to scorn, is not a service to be repaid by words; and C~urpreux felt simply too much moved to speak. The crowds parted in two respectful lanes to right and left of him, as he gave his arm to Madame de Cri and flattering murmurs buzzed their music in his ears, making his progress a triumphal march. T~he ladies forgave him for their torn skirts, and eyed him with complacency; the men bore no rancour for their grazed el- bows or bruised feet ; and the Carabinier captain, x~ho had been inclined to resent his clumsiness with a scowl, offered him a smirking apology, now that C~urpreux was promoted over his head and was a man to be courted among men. And Madame de Cri, what did she say or do? As her partner conducted her to her place, he was aware of an arm trembling upon his; and when she was seated and he ventured a few words, not very firm or coherent, in apology for his mishap, it did not escape him that her agitation ex- ceeded his own. It is perhaps not a bad world where the trials of twelve years can be effaced by a moments joy: for Caur- preux felt he would have suffered twelve years more to be repaid at the end with another such glance as Violette cast upon him when she muttered: I had not heard of your dangers and triumphs ; hope you will come and tell me about them yourself. Yes, we most sincerely hope Com- mandant C~urpreux will do us the plea- sure to call, intervened a personage who hurried up, looking like a yellow grass- hopper. He had not much hair, but a riband round his neck, and an open mouth that seemed to dribble words as if it had a leak in it. We shall always be delighted to see you, Commandant. We are staying at the Grand H6tel pending my transfer to a livelier prefecture, I trust, than that which I now hold. But I am come with orders from her Majesty. The Empress desires that you shall be a guest at her supper-table, in order that she may pin the officer cross of our Or- der to your coat with her own hand. The glow had faded from Violettes cheek and she had turned slightly pale at the arrival of this intruder. Commandant, she said in an abashed voice, my husband M. de Cri. I. M. DE CR1 belonged to a family who bad housed and fed themselves out of the public taxes ever since the great Revolution, and perhaps before it, which proves once again that revolutions and reforms are synonymous. Whatever be- fel kings, the family of De Cri remained where they were, and they were always in first-rate places ; so that now and then, when a Frenchman who had helped to overturn a throne came to a public of- fice and found a De Cri there as if noth- ing had happened, he was inclined to marvel whether his revolution had been of much use, which marvel was well grounded. The Cris were of course cousins by marriage and sworn brothers in all else to the great house of Jobus, who also clung to their posts through all wind and weather. If it had been computed what sums in gold these two valuable tribes had sucked out of the Treasury since they had first put their lips to the national udder, one would have reached a total which could have amply sufficed to gild every house-top, window-sill, and rain-pipe in France to say nothing of all the mile-stones from Havre to Marseilles and if it had been reckoned what they had done for their country in return for these payments, a mass of written paper might have been ac- cumulated sufficient to light the kitchen- fires of Europe for a score of years and the cigars of Christendom to all eternity. As it was, the buttermen, tobacconists, and grocers of France wrapped all their wares in printed forms filled up by mem- bers of the Cri and Jobus connections, so that it cannot be contended these families were either useless or unprofitable in their generation. TheV fared plenteous- ly, and, when their individual constitu- tions would admit of it, were sleek. It did not do to offend them, for they were naturally convinced that all things in France were theirs, and they could make their displeasure felt as effectively as a swarm o4drones can. As there was not a coat upon a Cri or Jobus back but had been paid for by the public, they missed no occasion of declaring how greatly the public were beholden to them. And it is fair to add that if the public occasionally evinced a different opinion, there was no want of moralists who asserted that we live in a thankless age.* M. Nepos L6margeux Desfonds de Cri, Violette Despr~s~musband, had been al- lotted his share in the budget at an early a~ e. His father holding a post of emolu * For additional particulars as to the Jobus int1oeoc~ see Le AIbzis/r~ eelgr~ lsz CossusLb MAoAZSNS, April2 m872. 54 ment, it had been frankly conceded that his son was entitled to do the same, and, further, that this post ought to be a lu- crative one, for, as we all know, the great Revolution abolished hereditary privi- leges. So young De Cri got a sub-prefect- ship, just as his father before him had obtained one because his father had en- joyed such a sinecure when sub-prefect- ships were first invented. Young De Cri was not pleased with his first appoint- ment, because there was not enough pay to it, and, as a general rule, M. de Cri never was pleased, nor, at heart, were the different Ministers who promoted him, for there was not one of them but felt that, if half the Mint should be poured into M. de Cris cash-bag, such a reward would not be in excess of that faithful servants deserts. Whenever a Home Minister came to grief, one of the first trains following the catastrophe brought M. de Cri into Paris; and another train soon after bore him out of the capital, with a patent of promotion signed and sealed in his coat-pocket. He visited the metropolis as ordinary folk do a kitchen-garden to pick fruit there and, in the course of his official changes, had been moved about the land like a chessman, displacing in his onward march many a humble pawn, who, being either inoffensive, or hard-working, or content with his lot, was naturally deprived, of his emoluments on the first convenient opportunity. M. de Cri was honoured with the esteem and confidence of all out of whom he had ever cozened favour, from the Emperor in person down to the lowest clerk in the Home Office, pre- sumably some relative of his own. M. Rouher knew him, so did M. de Per- signy; M. de Lavalette accounted him a blameless functionary, and M. Che~an- dier de Valdr6me was full of his praises. If M. Conti, his Majestys Secretary, had been asked to mention an indis- pensable official, he would have named M. de Cri; and if M. Emile Ollivier had been sounded as to who was the fitting man to be entrusted with a post involv- ing a substantial receipt of public monies, he would have pronounced M. de Cri to be that fitting man beyond all doubt. Nor was the reason of this far to seek, for M. de Cri had followed throughout his life a rule which cannot be too uni- versally commended he had never left to another the task of blowing his own trumpet. His own trumpet was an instrument he carried about with him, always ready for use, and he never al lowed it to grow rusty. If men would but bugle their merits as M. de Cri did, pitching his notes now loud, now with soft melodiousness, according to the mood of his listener, this earth would offer a concert of sweet sounds, to make the very angels hang their heads. Now a fortnioht or so after the ball at the Tuileries, M. de Cri returned to his lodgings at the Grand H6tel, elate at having obtained his promotion from a second to a first class prefectship, but pensive in another respect which other respect was Commandant C~urpreux. The fact is, when a man like C~urpreux, having neither kith nor kin in a Govern- ment office, or indeed anything at all to recommend him, save his own bravery, is suddenly raised to a brilliant post by an act of sovereign prerogative, he up- sets a whole series of thoughtful plans, devised for the good of the world by the real masters of the State, who are the Government underlings, and he jostles out of the way Jobuses, Cris, and their hangers-on without number. It is true that by popular fiction an Emperor is supposed to rule and dispense honours; but this is l)urely a fiction, for it is the Cris and Jobuses who rule; it is they who dispense honours, and they render unto each man according to his deserts, after laws of their own as immutable as those that xvent to work on Daniel. Thus, for a man like C~urpreux, there is no stint of dignities, but they must be of the proper sort that fit him. Let him be ad- vanced, by all means, and sent into marching regiments to fight Arabs, and, if heaven so wills it, be knocked on the head. But the leading commands in crack regiments like the Guides, and, in- deed, all snug military, as all civil berths generally, where there is no work to be done and plenty of plums to be gathered, these are the rightful ap- pend!ges of the Cris and Jobuses, and ought on no account to be interfered with. Captain de Cri-Hurlant had been confidently awaiting the commandant- ship which C~urpreux had got ,a Lieu- tenant Jobus had been expecting Cri- Hurlants vacancy, and a Sub-Lieutenant Jobus-Cri had made perfectly sure of stepping into the shoes which Lieutenant Jobus abandoned. These were combi- nations which bought not to have been roughly set aside, the less so, as this new commandant was not one of your decent speakers, who keep a civil tongue be- tween their teeth, and have the grace to attribute to the Jobuses and Cris what- THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: A BONAPARTIST STORY. 55 ever good-luck may befall them with or husband, and slightly blanched No; without the assistance of these worthies. there were several visitors on both occa- He was a grumbler, after the manner of sions. the Algerian officers, whose allowance is M. de Cri seemed disappointed, and that which the monkey got. He thought took up his position next the mantel- there were abuses at the War Office, and shelf, ~vith his coat-tails lifted under his used to say so in Africa; he would prob- arms, and his hands in his trowsers - ably discover there were abuses in the pockets a graceful and well-known at- Guides, and bawl the fact in the Empe- titude. rors hearing. This was altogether~ un - My dear, I have the utmost confi- desirablein fact, quite obnoxious to dence in your diplomatic powers, and I contemplate, and when M. Nepos L6mar- want you to try them on this kind of pet- geux Desfonds de Cri ~vent to get his let- ted savage, who I believe was attached ter of appointment at the Home Office, to you in bygone times. In a moment of he was told by his relatives there how heedless generosity, the Emperor con- greatly agitated and ruffled ~vere the ferred on him a post far too good for feelings of the War-Office Jobuses and such a man as he. It leads to equerry- Cris. They had deferred making out ships and all sorts of things. We must Cceurpreuxs commission, in the hope get him to drop it. And M. de Cri ex- that his Majesty might reconsider his, plained to his wife the little machination promise, and post the Commandant to on which all the Jobuses and Cris had active service again; and to this end they set their patriotic wits and their hopes. had spared no pains to impress upon his Violette listened in silence at first, Majesty that C ~urpreux was a disaffect- whilst she was recovering from the start ed sort of subject, a reformer, a man who which her husbands question had disapproved of guard regiments, and who caused her; but when she perceived the had even at sundry times expressed him- drift of M. de Cris request, an indignant self in no becoming terms of the Impe- flush mounted to her face. She was a rial dynasty. Unfortunately, Napoleon frivolous lady, as a woman cannot well had a weakness for keeping the promises help being who is mated to a gentleman he made ; and as the Jobuses and Cris like M. de Cri. Her married life had were aware (they are somehow aware of been made up of dressing and amuse- everything) that Mdme de Cri, n~e Des-i ment, chastened by a little fashionable pres, had been formerly acquainted with devotion in Passion Week, and what Creurpreux, they besought Prefect de, hours she could spare between the calls Cri that Madame might use her influence of society and those of her toilet-table on the Commandant, so that he might she mostly passed in blushing over the voluntarily forego his squadron in the novels of M. Houssaye, or in shedding a Guides, and petition of his own accord to few refreshing tears over those of M. be sent warring again. In this case there Octave Feuillet. But at sight of Jean. would be a commandantship in Cochin- Creurpreuxs honest features, she had felt China that would suit him admirably. all that was good in her young life revive, The Cochin-Chinese were not yet sub- as flowers shrunk by rain may do at the dued, and if Cceurpreux survived marsh first return of sun-warmth. He had fevers, dysentery, and poisoned arrows, breathed to her not a word that her hus- he might get his colonelcy almost as band might not have heard; but who is soon as by staying in Europe. the-wo~ian that needs to be told of what So when M. de Cri entered his draw- is in a mans heart? Since she had seen ing-room, which was a smart one on the C~urpreux come back to her after twelve first floor, looking out on to the Place de years absence, with the unalterable look lOp6ra, he said to his wife, who had been~ he had worn in bidding her good-by, she dividing her forenoon equally between a had thought of him alone, more perhaps novel of M. Ars~ne Houssaye and a fash- than was quite safe. ion-book from XVorths Do you mean to say, she exclaimed My dear, has that Commandant slowly, but with a hot flush, that you Geurpreux called since the other night? wish M Cceurpreux to renounce his post, Yes, twice ; and Violette bent over in order that th~ Emperor may suspect one of Mr. Worths notions of a plain him of ingratitude, and let him be sent morning dress fifty guineas without out of France again ? the trimming. Yes ; that is exactly it, answered M. Were you alone w.Jth him? de Cri briskly, and quite unobservant of Violette cast a terrified look at her the flush. If this Spahi seems to make THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: light of his appointment to the Guides, the Emperor xviii think the man has some crotchet about household brigades, and offer no impediment to his being posted elsewhere. Then Cri-Hurlarit will get the squadron. I never heard such an odious thing in my life, ejaculated Violette, almost crying from humiliation. Why, M. Cmurpreux is the soul of courage and loyalty, and you wish to damage him in favour of a man xvho has never done any- thing but lead quadrilles at court balls a puppy whom I can never look at with common patience. M. de Cr1 opened his mouth, and stared with a panic of astonishment. You appear to forget Cri-Hurlant is my cousin 1 And what of that? retorted Violette, flashing scorn from her eyes; he is not worthy to be the groom of the man to whom you grudge this poor little piece of Imperial bounty, because he appears to be friendless Oh, it is cruel and shame- ful, and I should esteem myself the low- est of women if I were to do what you have asked me. NI. de Cris physiognomy changed to an ashen colour that was by no means picturesque. He let fall his coat-tails, drew his hands from his pockets, and rubbed his fingers together quietly. I beg to observe that I was this morning appointed Prefect of the Haute- Seine, and there is no reason whatever, why, if I play my cards well, I should not soon be in the Senate, and perhaps the Cabinet. My relations have always been kind to me, and I am bound to stand by them, especially as in this instance Cri- Hurlant is only waiting for his squadron in the Guides to make a rich marriage. Besides (and here M. de Cr1 drew him- self up with a pompousness that was pretty droll) I believe this man Cmurpreux would be dangerous to the Emperors service. He is an innovator, perhaps a republican in disguise. He carps at the Governmentsuch persons have been known to desert to the rabble in times of reellion. Ah this is too much cried Vio- lette, trembling from head to foot, and with one of those stinging laughs with which women can goad a husband to fury. XVhy, I have been informed you xvere a republican yourself when you wished to retain a post under the republic, and a royalist when you were first made a sub-prefect by Louis-Philippe. M. de Cri broke out with something very like an oath, and turned a flaming visage upon his xvife. I am not here to be taunted by you as to any passage in my life, nor to hear your judgment on it. You will do as I tell you, or else, added he with signi- ficant emphasis, I shall conclude you have reasons for shielding this soldier xvhich no honest woma~i would care to avow. What answer M. de Cri might have re- ceived to this unmanly thrust, there is no saying, but perhaps it was xvell for him that at this juncture a waiter knocked at the door and came in announcing, Coin- mandant Cmurpreux. The prefects countenance underwent a rapid transformation, and he rushed forward to receive his visitor with his usual gush of affability and garrulous- ness. Hoxv do you do, my dear Com- mandant? delighted t oseeyou! What a difference you must find between our climate and the delicious summers of Africa I declare it looks as if it were going to rain again. But I am afraid I must leave you, having an appointment at the Flome Office. Mdme. de Masseline is going to call for Mdme. de Cri by-and- by, to take her to the Picture Exhibition, and I daresay you will fill my place, and act as their cavalier. The ladies could not be in better hands. He wrung C ~urpreuxs fingers with most affection- ate cordiality, sketched a smile to his wife, and was gone. Cmurpreux and Violette xvere alone. The Commandant xvas changed in ap- pearance since the ball. lIe shone in civilians dress and had shaved off his beard, wearinb now only the waxed mous- tache and i;nperiale of the Guard. In his button-hole was a rosette instead of a plain ribbon, and, though it would have been impossible not to recognize him for a soldier by his drilled gait and the miii- tam~ ~t of his clothes, he was got up with that careful neatness and goo dtaste which marks a French gentleman best school. b of the He took a seat beside the sofa on xvhich Violette sat, aad noticed that she was nearly overcome with emotion. A burn- ing flush overspread her features, and her manners were almost hysterical. Tell me, Qommandant, she said, beginning the onversation feverishly, are you gazetted yet? ~ No, I am still waiting. And why, since the Emperor prom- ised you your appointment before the whole court ? A DONAPARTIST STORY. 57 C~urpreux smiled gently and gave a true French shrug. The Emperor reigns, but does not rule. There are formalities to be accom- plished, papers to be signed, and I be- lieve there are moments when a signature costs a War-Office clerk as much as if it were ~vrung from him with a thumb- screw. I am not a favourite with those gentlemen ; and jf they could find some impediment to my getting on in the world, they ~vould sleep a happy night all round. Violette put her lace handkerchief to her mouth and bit it distractedly in a tor- ment of hesitation. Do not be offended at what I am go- ing to ask you, she faltered. Is it true that you are a republican ? The officer recoiled and turned red as if he had been accused of a dishonour- able action. Since I enlisted to drive away a sor- row ~vhich I thea thought curable, he said, in a grave tone of pain, I have had one benefactor, whose name has been connected with every rise that has made me what I am. XVhen my first epaulette was given me, it was in the Emperors name when I received the cross of hon- our for services far too slight to deserve such a dignity, I was told that the Em- peror had with his own hand written my nomination on the margin of the despatch in which my unworthy cl~ims were sub- mitted to him. The other night, when my a~vkwardness was nearly covering me with well-merited ridicule, you saw how he saved me, and you heard what he said. It would be trivial to declare I would die for the Emperor that is no more than my duty; but if by going barefooted and hungry I could save him a pang; if by sacrificing all I have now and all my pros- pects to come, I could relieve him from an annoyance, however slight, I would do it and deem myself happy at being able to acknowledge a debt which is more than I can ever pay. Violette was crying. Then you have enemies, she sobbed false and heartless enemies, who are maligning you. She gave way during a few minutes to a paroxysm of grief, which shook her whole frame, and which she was utterly unable to repress. Cmur- preux sat by, pale and silent, whilst beads~ of perspiration pearled on his forchead, and his eyes fastened, with an expression of anxiety impossible to render, on the woman who was all in all to him, and whose uncontrollable anguish was occa- sioned solely by fears for his sake. lie rose noiselessly, sank on one knee, and drew one of her hands within his. Violette, thank you for these tears, he murmured, with deep feeling. Do you not think I bless my enemies with all my might for this unexpected happi- ness they have given me? Violette disengaged her hand from his, and struggled pitifully with herself for a moment. You must go, Jean, she wailed in alarm, and shutting out the sight of him with her hands. I thought you would forget me and oh if I could have fore- seen this day but it is too late mis- fortune hangs over us, and you must go away. Do not face the malice of these men; they would find means to break your heart, for I know of what thin s they are capable ; and besides, if you re- mained near the court, we might see each other, and this cannot this must not be. No, you must go away far not abroad, where you would be in battles and danger again; but there must be regiments in France, to which you might be sent without excitinb any one s jeal- ousy. But you must leave me, for you see I am weak, and . . . Sobs choked her utterance again, and she averted her head from him, burying it on a pillow and convulsed in her agony. I ask you so little, Violette, and to see you occasionally would be such a oladness muttered C~urpreux, in a broken voice, standing over her. No, no ! and here she rose with an effort, clasped her hands and with stream- ing eyes implored him: Save me from myself, Jean, I entreat you on your hon- our. Good-by, then, he faltered with a great throb at his heart; and he drew her to him rapidly, kissed her and fled. But he did not go to the War Office to renounce his commission to the and GiPde~, for that afternoon it was too late, and by the time he went next da~ some kind friends had saved him all trouble on that head. The court were at St. Cloud, and in the evening one of those beings whose privilege it is to come quite near to the ear of royaltyand what a noble use they make of that privilege re- marked that his Maje. ty was never tired iof combating his dejtractors with good gifts. N apoleci~ inquired what detract- ors ; and the Empress, who was exam- ining with Princess Metternich an album of which the Prince Imperial turned the leaves, raised her soft eyes anxiously, wondering, maybe, when the tongues of I 53 THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: detractors would tire. The Being then mitted that Captain de Cri-Hurlant was a explained that M. de C~urpreux, who chivalrous warrior, and deeply devoted to xvoulcl soon have the honour of command- their Imperial Majesties, and he indicated 1n~ three troops of their Majesties body- by a glance the warrior in question, tvho guards, was a curious sort of man, most was courageously revolving a stereoscoDe brave, and all that, but wrong-headed, a for the two Mesdemoiselles dAlbe, the grognard of the politico-military species Enipresss graceful nieces. The Em- rather perilous, and with acid enough peror said nothing, but before another in him to turn the whole 2nd Regiment day had passed there ~vas balm for the of Guides sour. For instance, whilst whole tribe of the Jobuses and the Cris quartered at Constantine two years ago, Captain de Cri-Hurhant had the squad- he used to take in the L~nterxe, and read ron, Lieutenant Jobus got the captaincy, it aloud after dinner to his brother Sub-Lieutenant Jobus-Cri walkedl into the officers, dhilatin ~ much as he went on the lieutenantship, and a Jobus-I-Iurlant, just humour of M. Rochefort; whereat Napo- out of St. Cyr, gained possession of the leon frowned, for M. Rochefort was just cornetcywhereupon the world set to then cooling his humour in prison, and going round again, as if it had not been was no very welcome topic at court even- temporarily, and most infelicitously, put ings. The Being proceeded to state that out of course. the projected appointment of M. de C~ur- As for C~urpreux, he presented him- preux had excited great admiration on all self at the War Office in uniform on the sides, as illustrating once again the inex- day following his visit to Violette, and haustible benevolence of his Majesty, but after waiting no more than an hour and a that, singularly enough, the Commandant quarter in an ante-room, was admitted to himself was the only man who seemed the presence of a Jobus clerk, permanent, nowise enchanted by it. He had a mean of course, and irresponsible. There he opinion of Guard regiments, laughed at learned all that was good for hi into them, and thought the Spahis much know, namely, that he was not to have the better. He had said, sneering, that ~vith commission he hadl been promised but a troop of mounted negroes he would put the Jobus clerk added blandly, that he the entire Cavalry of the Guard to flight, would get something else some day or and dispose of the Infantry afterwards, other, when his Excellency the Minister There was no question, however, that he should have time to think about him. was brave to rashness, that is, to a fault. This high and mighty clerk, who may Now a sovcreign may well like to re- have stood five feet three allowing his ward valour, and yet be excused for not boots to count, was condescending desiring to have about him a man who enough to patronize such poor folk as would turn his pet regiment sour: so the this C~urpreux, who had done nothing Emperor said calmly but help win half-a-hundred battles or so, I thought to do Commandant C~ur- and he loftily waved his paw to him in preux a kindness by putting him in the token that he might depart. Guides but if he prefer some other But C~urpreux, who had come to fore- corps, let him have his way. And at go the Imperial favour motu ~ro~rio, felt this the Empress, who had lost interest not a little hurt that it should be with- in the album, neaveci a little sigh of re- dlrawn from him in this unceremonious lief, as though to say, Only fancy, if style and so exclaimed dryly enough: this wrong-headed Commandant had i~ sh~ould like to know whether the come and arrested us all at early morn- Emperor gave you orders to break his ing, like the officer on buard did poor xvord for him in that fashion. However, Prince Couza at Bucharest or as a I dont lay on the Emperors shoulders lady of humble sphere might have cx- the dirty tricks that are dlone in his name, pressed it, What an escape we have for if I did, there might come from this had of all being murdered in our beds I office alone mud enough to choke the 1-lowever, the Emperor, who perhaps Seine up. recalled C~urpreuxs manly face, and the Sir ! gasped the little Jobus-clerk, warm things that had ISeen written of him rising to hfs full l~eight and frowning at by Marshal MMahon, expressed the his insulter with a 1 the dignity of a flea ~vish that the Commandant should be onaperc h browbeating a lion with well provided for, and took the same oc- muzzle on Sir! but he could find casion to ask who would get this post in nothino else to say, for C~urpreux eyed the Guides which M~ C~urpreux dis- him coolly, and as duelling is not extinct dained? The Being deferentially sub- in France, the small Jobus doubtless re A BONAPARTIST STORY. 59 flected that if he were tweaked by the b~uf, at a party one night, with a tale so nose, he might get run through next day- worded as to touch him. Marshal Le- break into the bargain. Yet it was very b~uf, who has borne and xviii bear to all monstrous to this clerk that a miserable time the burden of the sins which his un- offloer should dare to bandy words xvith derlinos committed and of which they him thus shamelessly. of course promptly xvashed their hands I was going to say, continued C~ur- was no fool, but a gallant soldier, as can preux, drawing a large envelope from the witness his management of the artillery breast of his jacket, that I intended de- at Solferino. His fault was excessive dining the honour xvhich his Majesty good nature, which made him lo~h to wished to bestow, and here is a letter tackle the Jobuses and Cris, as iJeremp- which I had written to beg the Emperor torily as his predecessor Marshal Niel to employ me on active service again. I had done he had let them get the upper have got my promotion, for his Majesty hand of him, and walked in dread of called me Commandant, and not all the them. \Vherefore, hearing the xvife of clerks in Paris can take that from me, or M. de Cri denounce the doings of the shall. But I only ask to go back to my potent league of which her husband regiment, even if I take simple brevet was so honoured a member, he mar- rank of commandant, and I daresay you veIled slightly, but ended by smiling, as gentlemen will not object to that much. a Frenchman xviii do when a pretty wo Please see that my letter reaches the man pleads the cause of a soldier at once Emperor, or else therell be a row. Good- brave and handsome. He promised to morning. see into the matter, and next day to the The Jobus-clerk grumbled something disgust of the Jobuses, who had not been and thanked heaven he was well rid of so much as consulted, C~urpreux re- such a brute. C~urpreux xvent and ceived his commission to a full comman- lunched at the general rendezvous of offi- dantship in that doughty regiment the cers, the Cafd du Helder on the Baule- 25th Cuirassiers, with orders to join as yard des Italiens, and as, by sitting at soon as he should have gone to Algeria one of the tables outside, he could descry to fetch his traps and carry despatches the Grand H6tel some hundred yards to to Marshal MMahon. The Duke of the left, he did so when his frugal lunch Magenta laughed in his quiet way when was over, and remained smoking all the he heard from C~urpreux, at a private afternoon, watching if haphy Violette dinner, xvhat thin ~ s this worthy fellow might pass by in her barouche and afford had endured at the hands of the clerks. him one passing ~iimpse of her. But she He for his own part knexv the Jobuses did not pass, either that day or the next, well. Had they not poisoned the Empe- or on any of the txventy days more during rors mind against him by reminding his which the War-Office clerks kept C~ur- Majesty on every occasion that Marshal preux rapping his heels on the asphalte MMahon had voted.against the Govern- of Paris. Ccaurpreux chafed and growled ment Bill of Public Safety in the Senate, and vented his fury in much imprudent was a suspicious subject, and enjoyed a talk among brother officers at the Helder, dangerous ascendancy over the army ? vowing that the administration of the This had prevented the victor of Magen- army had grown rotten up to the hilt, as ta from ever becoming War Minister, France xvould find if she ever ran tilt and his viceroyalty in Algeria xvas vir- against a less Jobus-ridden Power. As tualLy ai~ exie. My poor Cmurpreux, armies are never quite devoid of high- said he smiling, you do not understand souled officers anxious to curry favour the secret of getting oa in life. Here is xvith the Jobu;-clerks, these sayings xvere Marshal Leb~uf, xvho writes to me pri- faithfully reported to the War Office, and I vately that you have been xvagging that did C~urpreux all the good one may im- honest tongue of yours too freely, and he agine. It became an urgent question of tells me to give you a friendly hint that it consigning him to Cochin-China xvithout wont do. But, Marshal, I have never delay, of treating him to the governor- breathed a xvord against the Emperor, ship of that delightful settlement of protested C~urpreux. No, said the convicts and vomito izegro, Cayenne, Duke, though ~erhxps it xvould have where, remarked the clerks humor- been safer if you had, for the Emperor ously, he xvould find himself in congen- forgives ; but the clerks are more poxv- mi company. But Violette, who watched erful than the Emperor, and they dont over C~urpreux in ~secret, frustrated forgive. You had best make your peace these designs, and accosted Marshal Le- vith them, believe me, C~urpreux, for i6o THE TWO SPERANSKY. they are stronger than all of us put to- g ether ; and the Marshal, who liked soldiers of C~urpreuxs mould, gave him a cigar and went out on the balcony of the Government House to smoke with him and talk about Paris. Exactly a month after this dialogue, Commandant Cmurprcux, who was in- stalled in his new garrison, received orders along with the rest of the 25th Cuirassiers to go and join Marshal MMahons army on the Rhine, for war had been declared by France against Germany. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE TWO SPERANSKY. CONCLUSION. ELIZABETH. ELIZAVETA MICHAILOVNA SPERANSKY was now a wife; in 1824 she also be- came a mother, and we put the fact down here at once, because it is one which col- oured her whole future personal life, and one which, long after her father had gone to his rest, must have explained to her the full sanctity of the tie which had ex- isted between him and herself. We have seen that their intercourse, tender and united as it was, had not been positively. without a cloud. But Elizabeth had mar- ried to please him, and after the birth of her son, Count Michael Speransky paid her his first visit in her home in the prov- inces. Much was said, but much more must have then been left unsaid between them, while both hearts ached, and while Speransky saw with pain that the pre- sentiment was justified which had once made him say that no one who had loved him had ever remained happy. It is curious that the reason should have escaped his perspicacity when he first ur~ed on this marria~e. M. Baor6effs solemn pretentions, his vacuity of mind, and his general nullity as~ a companion. had an effect on Elizabeths happiness which endless games of cards could not be supposed to counteract! and it was now Speranskys business to try to ameliorate her lot. M. Bagrdeff was, through his interest, elevated to the di - nity of senator, then called to St. Peters- burg, and made Governor of the Bank. It was a bad appointment for the Bank, which, owing to his stupidity, was pres- ently robbed of many millions of roubles by some light- fingered subordinates ; but it was good for Eii~beth, as her home was now fixed in the capital. She was again her fathers companion; their house was open to men of letters, and a brilliant society soon grouped it- self around them. The historian Ka- ramsine was there, a man fitted by his cultivation, his humanity, and his qz~zsi- liberal ideas, to be the historiographer of Alexander the Blessed ; Pouchkine came there also with his beautiful ~vife, and Adam Mi~hievicz the Pole, whose muse was made vocal by the long sorrows of his country. There was also Bruloff the painter ; Gogol the satirist, whose com- edies rendered him the Kotzebue of Rus- sian official life ; and Zoukovsky the poet. The general circle was lettered, elegant, and decor ted. The peace of Vienna had restored its principal mem- bers to affluence laurels had been reaped; and if some years ago Count Rostopchine had been constrained to set fire to their Mo//icr llloscocu, she, like the rest of the country, had proved hgr- self able to rise, phmnix-like, from her ashes. But the Great War had had another ef- fect upon society, and its smooth-flowing waters covered some very ugly political secrets. The young men who had been to France had imbibed with enthusiasm the new ideas. The leaven of romanti- cism and of liberalism was at work in them; and when their term of residence in France was past, many officers of the noble guard returned to Russia, only too full of the new ideas, determined to in- troduce a constitution, and to give to Russia the benefits (albeit questionable enough in some respects) of their own French experience. Secret societies had sprung up, Freemasons lodges, unions cf the Public Weal, of National Prosper- ity, of the United Selavonians, with others rejoicing in such ominous names as the Polish Patriots, and the Reap- ers. In November 1325, the Emperor Alexa~der died at Taganrog, and an oath of allegiance was then taken all over the kingdom to his eldest brother Constan- tine Pavlovitch. It was not the less well known in St. Petersburg that the sceptre of empire was not destined for this, the eldest of the Grand Dukes, but for Nich- olas, the greatest and ablest prince of the Romanoff dynasty. Constantine had ab- dicated, and though the use made of his name by these~conspirators may have made him later an object of suspicion to his brother, Nicholas, in November 1825, had no reason to doubt the good faith in which the formal abdication had been made. The eccentric Grand Duke had THE TWO SPERANSKY. i6i been wont to say that the crown would never suit him ; that, as the nation had only allowed his father to live for three years, they ~vould certainly not endure his rule for three months ; and that, as he preferred to preserve his life, he meant to abide by his resolution of never reign- ing in Russia. That he was now put for- word by the Dekabrists was owing to his peculiar incapacity only: it was such that they hoped to have him first as ~the tool and afterwards as the victim of their projects : and moreover, his seniority ~vas a powerful engine in their hands for pre- venting the accession of the too capable Nicholas. On the morning of the 14th December, Madame Speransky-Bagr6eff drove out in her sledge, but on reaching the Admiralty Square, she found a great crowd assembled there ; her horses heads were turned by two friends; and by the time that she reached her house a rattle of musketry was audible, and the rebellion had become an unde- niable fact. The army had revolted. The ringleaders were leavened through with the liberal ideas of which we have spoken; but they had appealed to the soldiers in the name of legitimacy; and persuaded as these were that Constantine ~vas being robbed of his birthright, regi- ment after regiment had refused to take the oaths to Nicholas. While Elizabeth hurried home, her father had to gallop to the scene of action, where, confronting his revolted legions, stood their new, ter- rible, and Jove-like Tzar. By three oclock that short December day was drawing to its close the dark- ness was approaching ; still in the great Square, and on the Isaac Bridge, the in- surgents made good their stand. Not that they ~vere undismayed. Prince Serge Troubetzkoi, who was to have headed them, was absent; and Obolensky, who replaced him, was neither a warrior nor a strategist. Two Metropolitans in full canonicals had already implored them to lay down their arms ; shots had been fired, and Miloradovich and Stiirler had fallen on the one side and on the other. At this moment Count Toll * galloped up to the Emperor, and said to him, Sire, command that the place be swept by can- non, or resign your throne. The guns were fired; and when the day was done, Nicholas returned to his palace, and to a trembling wife, and to a boy of seven years old, ~vhom he could now first greet as the -Tzar6vitch of all the Russias. The * Afterwards hea4,pf the police. LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 27! revolt was quelled ; then came the trial, the sentence, and the execution of the conspirators. At the head of the list was the name of Prince Serge Troubet zkoi, of the Preo- brashensky regiment of Body-Guards; but it included other officers of the Guards, privy councillors, secretaries, and members of nearly all the noblest families of Russia and Lithuania. Now comes the question, What knowledge, if any, had Speransky of all this mischief? On the night of the 13th December, through what one of his bio~raphers calls a fa/alild d4plorable, several of the conspirators were dinino in his daughters house. But it is still ~more remarkable that in the original plan drawn up by the conspirators in Prince Obolenskys house, and on no more remote a day than the 12th December, Speransky was named by them as a member of the provisional government which they intended to estab- lish. Admiral Mordvinof was to have been associated with him. This fact rests on the evidence of a military man present at the arrange- ment.* Now we may imagine, and it is possi- ble to do so, that Speransky knew noth- ing of this flattering but highly danger- ous preference for himself, ahd that he was ignorant of the honour in store for him : still it inflicts a shock on the mind when one finds him taking up a high moral and political attitude, and sitting on the tribunal before which these Dek- abrist conspirators, young and old, were arraigned. Nicholas Tourgenieff, Confi- dential Secretary to the Imperial Coun- cil, and one of the first batch of thirty- one victims sentenced to be beheaded, thus comments on the fact: One of the members of the supreme tribunal was Speransky, said to be the cleverest of them all. This is the same man of whom I have spoken in another place. He be- came, se to speak, the facto/uni of the trial; and he it was who presented the final report to the Emperor, in which his Majesty was begged not to pardon the condemned. . . . Speransky, to whom no one can deny many other qualities, did not possess that of courage: in de- fending me he feared to seem to defend some Liberal principles; and what fright- ened him most was the fact that, in the eyes of many pe~sons, he was already suspected of entertaining them. * Russian Conspirators in Siberia. By Baron R. Translated by Evelyn St. John Mildmay. 162 THE TWO SPERANSRY. After reading the above, it is difficult the new Tzar had said to the Polish not to say to ones self, that if Made- nobles whose heads Alexander had filled moiselle Speransky had once been with the semblance of a constitution, and ready to act the pretty part of Eliza- with visions of indulgence for their na- beth, the exile of Siberia. her father tional spirit. If the same words were not showed on this occasion his fitness for precisely addressed to the Russian Lib- the less elevated rc~ie of the celebrated erals, the same idea was often conveyed Vicar of Bray. The explanation of to them in very cogent methods and the situation seems to be this Speran- such dangerous topics as the emancipa- sky, the priests son, had started in life tion of the serfs had to be dropped sine as a theoretical but ambitious Liberal. die. Between such theories, fostered by the The old Russian party was now flat- philanthropy of a Tzar, and the secret tered by a Tzar who desired his nobility practices of a consp:racy, whose ends to speak Russian, who patronized the were clearly revplutionary, he became national dress, and who encouraged a aware of a great and judicious difference good deal of Philo-Sclavonic literature and, moreover, the liberal Tzar, who was and fashion, provided always these were wont to say of himself that he was a kept free of Neology and of Liberalism. happy accident in Russian history, was Nicholas loved Russia: he believed in dead. The Dekabrists, on their side, had himself as her visible head, as the foun- heard of the fame of Speranskys early tam of honour, and as the dispenser, not theories, of his disgrace, and of his ban- of justice, but of favour. He was the ishment. Nay, more they may have very embodiment of autocracy, for he had picked up in his daughters salon some its majesty, its grace, its charms, and its of his latest sentiments, such as my real caprices. There have been many more friends are the poor and lowly, prisoners tyrannical sovereigns in Russia than and exiles and they may have been Nicholas Pavlovitch, but there never has led to reckon on his help in op~osin~ the been a Tzar so perfectly arbitrary. Like reactionary rule of Nicholas. his brother, the Grand Duke Michael, he Of course it is understood that the con- had a passion for soldiering in all its de- spirators had cherished no abstract feel- tails, and he was a martinet in discipline ing of devotion to Constantine, but were but he sometimes showed mercy, and he simply determined to oppose the acces- took pleasure in doing so, because such sion of the younger man, who would have clemency is but another kind of power. but one remedy for Liberal sentiments, He acted and looked his part as no and who would set himself once and for crowned monarch ever has done before all above all laws ancient or recent. But or since; and he did it consciously, en- Speransky, whatever sympathy he might joying the effect which he produced on have had with exiles, had had too much the mind of the spectator. Have you personal experience of Siberia ever to no fear ? he once asked a very young puthimself again dans cette gal?re. Ac- maid of honour, whom he found, on the cordingly he sat on the supreme tribunal, first morning after her introduction to saw fiv~e young lives pay the penalty of her duties at the palace, perched upon a rebellion, and a long train of political window-sill, and reading a novel of Mrs. criminals, one hundred and sixteen in all, Gaskells aloud to a laughing companion, ~vend their way to the snowy prison which who seemed to enjoy the jokes in Cran- he knew only too well. Among them was ford as much as herself. The great his own secretary, a lad whom the Gov- Tz~r epected to have made more impres- ernor had brought from Siberia with him, sion even on two young girls! Some and whom he had since treated almost such jealous vanity made him very harsh as a son, Madame Speransky-Bagr~eff even with women, when they had dis- petitioning in vain for his pardon. pleased him. For example, he abhorred In the eyes of the new Tzar, M. Spe- Madame Swetchine, on account of her ransky at any rate happily contrived to wandering tastes and generally \Vestern appear perfectly innocent; and being a habits of thought. A still more serious very valuable public servant, he con- crime was her apostasy to the Church of tinued in harness till his death one Rome, when sltg became the leader of a asks ones self, at what sacrifice to self- faction which s nt more than one Rus- respect or to principle? since the policy sian nobleman into the ranks of the of Nicholas was eminently antipathetic Order of Jesus. Madame Speransky- to the ideas he had once entertained. Bagr~eff found him also eminently un- No dreams, gentlemen, no dreams, friendly through all the vicissitudes of THE TWO SPERANSKY. 163 her career; and in all probability the fa- ta/i/c de7lorable of her ill-selected dinner- party of the 13th December was never forgiven by him. Once that period of intrigue, disorder, and anxiety was outlived, the literary cir- cle which surrounded the Ministers daughter was ready to become as brilliant as before; but Madame Speransky-Ba- gr6effs biography now becomes in great part that of a landowner and of a mother. Of a landowner, because her father had bought for her an estate called Bow- romka ; and because the welfare of Bowromka and its peasants, the rise and fall of prices, the sale of wood, and the erection of model farms, dispensaries, and schools, occupied her time and emp- tied her purse. M. Bagr~eff was as un- fortunate as a landlord as he had been as a governor of the Bank; and in all these capacities he had the misfortune to sink more and more in his wifesestecm. But she had become the mother of three children. Of these the youngest, who was a boy, only lived two years; but Michael, her first-born, fulfilled all the promise of his youth ; and the education of her only daughter already caused her many hopes and fears, while it occupied her days. For them she wrote her first books, tales for children and short plays; while the faroucke temper of Mademoi- selle Bagr~eff, afterwards Princess Canta- cuzene, is probably reflected in Ir~ne, a novel on the benefits of education, which only saw the light in 1857, and which is perhaps the most Edgewor/kian of all the mothers works. Of M. Bagr6eff all this time she saw but little: very possibly this arrangement may have been one which had met with the consent of both parties: but none the less it probably had its share in inten- sifying the peculiarities of Mademoiselle Bagr6effs character. Whether caused by quarrels aboutmoney, by incompatibility of tastes and tempers, or by still graver wrongs, the mothers estrangement from the father of her children was now com- plete so complete that when M. Ba- gr6eff for the last time announced a visit to her, that visit was not accepted ; and when he died rather suddenly, their daughter only was with him no recon- ciliation between her parents having been procured or attempted. One of the causes which in the begin- ning may have helped to disunite the couple, and to keep them separate, had been Madame Elizabeths health. Al- ways delicate, child-bearing and housQ- I hold worries had told greatly upon her strength ; and in 1833, and again in 1834, she had gone to the sea-baths of Skeve- ningen to recruit. The first of these trips had been the first occasion on which Speranskys daughter crossed the boun- daries of Holy Russia, or trod the soil of one of those Western kingdoms with whose histories and institutions her father had made her acquainted. Did she, like Madame Swetchine, feel that she then breathed a freer air? She does not say so, but she became a great traveller. With her as with many of her country- n~en, travel grew at once into a habit and a passion. The already encumbered es- tate of Bowromka was left to the tender mercies of inkndants, of whom Madame Speransky-Bagr6eff had six in seven years ; and like most of the landowners of her day, she soon found herself deeply in debt to the Government, which is always happy to assist a Russian noble to mortgage his lands and villages. What, under these adverse circum- stances, became of the schools, dispensa- ries, sugar-factories, and model farms, the biographer of Madame Speransky- Bagr6eff, M. Victor Duret, does not say. What it is impossible to conceal is, that her daughter, and her daughters Greek husband took her financial measures iij quite as bad part as she had ever donE the meddling and muddling of her lat~ husband, and that something very like ~. quarrel was the consequence. None the less, and perhaps all the more for this very reason, she travelled to Egypt, to the Holy Land whither she had vowed to make a pilgrimage to England, to Vi- enna,to Paris, to Brussels, and to Hun- gary. These travels form the ground-plan of many of her novels, and supply much of the local colouring of her works. Take, for example, Les P6lerins Russes, ~. J eru~al~n, published at Brussels in 1854. Here Speranskys daughter puts out a great deal of her strength, and in her sketch of the deacon, in Une nuit au Golgotha, she has left a touching por- trait of the priests son, Michael Gram a- tine, who, in the seminary of Vladimir, had once formed ambitious hopes, and who had lived to realize many of them for, and with, and in herself. The book is written in Fr~ch. Prosper M~rim~e writes to her to congratulate her, and to praise its careful and vigorous idioms. It has added, he says, to his wish to know Russia and the Russians; but he ha~ one reproach to make to her, one fault tc 164 THE TWO SPERANSKY. find, it is all too sad; and life is such a sad thing, that clever people ought to be compelled always to write gay things, so as to divert one a little from things as they are. But Madame Elizabeth was sad; and she had good cause to be so. Something not quite unlike fame was now coming to her from her writings ; but then fame is, as Madame de Sta~l, who was a good judge, averred, a royal mourning, in l)urple, for happiness. Furthermore. the authoress was poor, and she had a thou- sand troubles at home which, had she been on the spot, would have been vexatious enough to arrange, and which at a dis- tance were hopeless. She was on bad aerms with her daughter, as she had been with her husband she had frequent at- tacks of rheumatic gout, an enemy which is apt to hang upon the flanks of all brain-workers ; she was in no favour at Court, and that in a country where Court favour is the all in all she might, if she liked, change her skies, but she could not change her mind ; publishers worried her, and editors occasionally mangled and dismembered her pieces ; and by her fireside, in two empty chairs those of her father and of her son there sat the shadow feared by man. Count Michael Speranskys death, in 1839, had been at least a natural one ; hut young Michael Bagr6eff had been killed in the Caucasus by a comrade who was maddened with drink, anti who, in the dark, drew his sword upon the boy who had tried to prevent a drunken riot and a scandalous fight. His mother never recovered from this shock. Her intel- ligence survived it, and her energy re- mained, along with the necessities for work, for money, and for intercourse with her fellow-workers ; but her heart was broken. It may not have shown much in her novels ; but there is a little book waich has only been published since her de ~tii, and which, as the Livre dune Fern~ne, lets one into many secrets of the xvoa~ans life. We see its loneliness. Thea, after some sharp struggles to for- give the enemies of her father, and the murderer of her son, comes a gentler sea-c of pity and of humilitysome dust to put on her own bead many tears to give to past errors, and a linger- ing l)assionate return to that oreat and b tender love which had subsisted be- tween her father and herself. One says a return, because at the time of Count Michael Speranskys death many circum- stances must have eonspired to divert her sense of pain into other channels than the purely filial one. He had died full of years, with his Swod or code a completed monument for his renown full, we may say, too, of honour that is, of such honour as despotism has to be- stow on a man who has been, throuoh two reigns, at once its good an~, el and its tool, its favourite, its adviser, and its victim. Full, certainly, of experience and of labour. Both health and strength for some months gave signs of distress but his august master would not allow him to interpret these as a warning to cease from all literary and responsible work. And so the Minister died in har- ness, after an apoplectic stroke, on the 23d of February i839. The Tzar, who grieved for him, or who at least missed him, would not, however, befriend his daughter. Elizabeth was poor, but the Emperor Nicholas gaye her no pension and M. Bagr6eff, who had accumulated some capital, and who had built expec- tations upon the position of his father-in- law, now took arbitrary possession of any fortune which could be said to belong to his wife. He was dissatisflerl with its amount, and Elizabeth ~vas displeased with the uses to which he appropriated it. High words ensued, and the separa- tion which we know of followed as a con- sequence. Thus it had happened that in its first years Elizabeths filial sorrow was greatly turned to bitterness, and de- formed by anger both against her hus- band and against the Government of the Tzar, which had possessed itself of all her fathers papers and literary remains. It was only in later years and when this soreness had ceased to be felt, that her filial feelings were able to reas- sert themselves in all their simplicity. Certainly Madame Speransky-Bagr6eff is never so much a woman, and never more truly attractive, than in those pas- saoes where her grief as a daughter and as~ ii~other finds vent. Many of the pages of the Livre dune Femme are devoted to these themes, and many more to meditations on the Scriptures a study which she had always shared, as a girl, with M. Speransky, and which now occupied many of the saddened years of her declining life. M. Speransky had interested himself greatly in the ~anslation of the Bible into Russ; but in one of his Siberian letters he begs his daughter not to read the XVord of God except in Sciavonic that is, in the time-honoured language and idioms appropriated to the service of THE TWO SPERANSKY. 165 the Orf/iodor Church. The vulgar we propose to give a sketch, are less tongue, he says, deprives the sacred likely to live than are the letters of her writings of their majestic beauty, and lays friend, letters all alive with those strong them open to the jarring of vuk,ar and sympathies, and with that ardent love of trivial associations. God and of her nei~hbour, which made His own commentary on the Gospel of Madame Swetchine a real power in the St. John, Elizabeth was wont to render society of her day. Elizabeths style is into German and many a long winters more studied, and throughout her whole day had the father and daughter spent career her paragraphs sound as if they over the 1\ISS., which the latter xvasaf- had been composed with a view to her terwards to preserve with pious care. fathers praise or blame. Both women The work was probably intended for l)ub- were very sensitive to the approach of lication at least, M. Speransky seems old age. Madame Swetchines remarks to hint at this when he says, Your on it have the sustained dignity of a mind thoucrhts about inspiration are so attrac- determined to rise above that last weak- tive that I am tempted to write an essay. ness, and to see always more of heaven upon them, and to demonstrate that in- through chinks that time has made ; sl)iration is not an illusion, but in truth a but Elizabeth lets a cry escape from her very real and substantial property of the now and then, See, she exclaims, Spirit. We can speak of this when we what generally fills up a womans life meet, and when I am able to write the once youth is past; sicknesses of the book which I have been thinking of for body, sorrows of the soul, regrets for the years. The book never saw the light ; past, and fears for the future But let but 200 folio sheets of commentary re- women resign themselves ; let them mained in his daughters care, and often I crown themselves with thorns, and walk afforded texts for the remarks and notes without murmurina in the austere wa of which abound in the Livre dune Fem- the Cross. b y me. But the daughter is less orthodox Against her own share of these haunt- than the father. For example, we find ing fears and reoTets Madame Speransky- Speransky dwelling with pleasure on the Bagr6eff was still also able to defend her- belief in the Guardian Angel ; and though self by work, and by the friendships he has been accused of holding Protes- which her works had helped to gather tant ideas, he often speaks of Protes- round her. tants with great reprobation, as per- Of all her novels, the one which is most sons who, under the pretence of likely to live is Une famille Tongouse. a greater spirituality, have refined their It is thoroughly original, and written with faith into, mere abstract l)ropositions, great spirit ; while the scenes, time char- banished gentle and devout feelings from acters, and the treatment of them all religion, and left it blunt, coarse, and carry her readers into a new country, and spiritless. Elizabeth has a good deal give us the pleasure of new associations, of this same mysticism but she often and yet the simple plot is founded on differs freely from the teaching of her own those feelings which, as Lamartine says, Church, though she was never tempted keep the heart of humanity ever young. to do like Madame Swetchine, and to ab- Its Siberian details have evidently been jure it for that of any other communion. elaborated by Madame Speransky-Ba- It is doubtful, however, whether the gr6eff as a labour of love, and many of Livre dune Femme would be consid- thentare~very curious. ered as an altogether orthodox work in She begins by telling u~ that on the any Church. It is full of curious specu- very confines of civilization, and on the lations, especially on the subject of the borders of the Lake Baikal, which the transmigration of souls; yet when read Cossacks and Siberians dignify with the in the light of the events of Elizabeths name of the 1-loly Sea, there dwelt in a life and of her mistakes, some of its con- small Sflznitza, or commune, two families fessions are very pathetic. distinguished by their labours and vir- It is difficult through the medium of a tues. The first was that of the village translation to convey any idea of the ex- priest, the ~?re Jossiff, with his gentle cellence of style or of the grace which wife; the other w~ that of the Cossack, distinguishes some of Madame Spe- Wassili-Ivanoff, with a helpmate who ransky-Bagr6effs sayings. She is a less might have sat for one of the Biblical powerful and a less eloquent writer ~than j portraits, so virtuous, hard-working, and Madame Swetchine; and her writings, devoted was she. Wassili (Basil) was a with the exception of oie novel, of which mighty hunter, a faithful subject of the i66 THE TWO SPERANSKY. distant Tzar, an orthodox believer, a suc- cessful fisher and fowler, and a good judge of furs. His days and nights spent in the forest or on the borders of the lake, had brought him often in contact with the stray Tongouses who ventured near the Christian Stanitzas, and ex- changes of furs and of good offices had passed between him and these nomads. The Tongouses, like the Bouriates, oc- cupy a good deal of the country between China and the Lake Baikal. They are now diminishing in numbers and cour- age; but their numbers, as far as they could be ascertained, were, in 1857, some- where about 50,000 males. They wander from frontier to frontier, and sometimes pay tessak, or tribute of furs, to both em- perors, of Russia and of China. Some of the tribes are more warlike than others but the neighbours of the Cossack Was- sili belonoed principally to the less note- worthy Kellems, or solitary Tongouses, whom the Siberians both hated as pa- g ans, and despised because they were so little formidable. Jossiff, the priest, often preached toleration and kindliness to his flock; but it ~vas in vain that hc. told them that example was the best way of making proselytes. Except XVassili- Ivanoff, no one had any charity for the stealthy wandering Tongouses who trapped the game of the forest, caught the fish of the Holy Sea, worshipped Sitaitans, or devils, and were led by S/ia- mans, necromantic priests, half sooth- sayers, half impostors, and whole rogues. Unlike the Bouriates, the Tongouses have not been elevated to Bouddhism, and their superstitions are as debased as they are cruel. Wassili the Cossack died, and his widow Salom~a and his son Alexei xvere left to mourn his loss by an accident in hunting. But it soon seemed that they and their Christian neighbours in the Stanliza were not alone in their grief. The good deeds of Wassili still followed him. Some grateful Ton goose brought offerings by night to his gravetossil ivory, and furs and fruits; and at last, most embarrassing of all, a basket was found on the tomb, containing an infant a little girl. The fashion of adopting children is not uncommon in Russia so little so, that their service-book con- tains a liturgical office for the ceremony of adoption: and S4lom~a was rich; but then to adopt a child of the devil, a little heretic ! was that to be thought of ? The whole commune w~s in an uproar; and public opinion, which was represented in it by the Attaman St~phan-Gr~gorieff, and still more by his talkative spouse, was set against the little girl, called al- ternately pig, and heretic, and change- ling! However, the foundling, baptized Marie, continued to live in Salom~as house, where, though she certainly ex- hibited no signs of vice, or of anything but previous starvation, her gestures and looks were all considered unearthly and, quoth Salom~a, her unwilling mother, your Reverence must admit, that for a widow who fears God, such a visitation is not agreeable. The worst part of it was that the little Tongou se was a girl. Even his Rever- ence felt that to be a trial. Public opinion in the mouth of the Attaman again observed, that had it been a boy they might have made a good Cossack out of a bad heathen, and had a good sdl- dier for their father the Tzar; but this was. only a poor soul, of the female sex, and the most they could do for it was to deliver it from Satan and his Shamans. Souls are of no gender, replied the ~re Jossiff, who accordingly made the education of little Marie his especial care. Salom~a had to resign herself; and Marie grew up, a child of the Church, but also a child of the forest, where it was thought she had rendezvous with more than with its birds and berries. That was hard on Salom~a; but what was more serious was, that Alexei in process of time loved the meek little foundling, and that she loved him in return with the passion of her lonely life and fantastic nature. He knew that her Tongouse family still lived near them ; he had already had to defend the girl from the machinations of her tribe and of its Shaman; but he asked her not the less to be his wife. They married, after some unwillingness on the part of the girl, lest she should bring more trouble on his house, and then Maries sorrows h~gag. She felt all the stain of her strange heathen parentage, and got to dread the same blot on her child when she should become a mother. Alexei stood by her ; but she saw that she had not brought him happiness, and sorrow ate away day by day the Tongouses sleep, her strength, and her beauty;for in spite of her Mongolian descent, Marie was very pretty, and ~vas as gentle as she was pretty. ~h.en Alexei also began to pine. The Shaman had laid spells on him, his mother said on her red sun, her little soul! and darker and darker grew the horizon of Maries life. Then her heathen kinsfolk dogged her,an~ the THE TWO SPERANSKY. 167 Shaman cursed her, and tried to terrify life in the provinces, such as she had her; hut Marie was a Christian, and lived it; and her Iles de la Nevais a would never cast in her lot with his cruel description of some of the environs of St. and filthy rites. Then, to make the mat- Petersburg, familiar enough to herself, if ter worse, it seemed that among the new to her readers. It was not published Yonrts of the Tongouses she had a till after the death of the Emperor Nichc- ~ brother, and that they had long known las, and it contains a notice of him. De- and met each other in the forest. Has- scribing the fortress of 55. Peter and Paul, sourdai feared the Shaman more than under whose walls the traveller is sup- Marie did; and though, in the fulness of posed to he floating, she recapitulates its time, he too joined the Christian commu- great dead Peter and Catharine, and nity, he was anything but an acceptable the Emperor Alexander. But, she addition to Salom~as family. Alexci adds, he who was last laid there was was constantly in trouble on his wifes the greatest of all. He has beaten even account ; and his mother was so embit- his ~ncestor, for he has conquered for tered by all the results of his marriage, himself a place in the hearts of his peo- that he hardly knew whether to grieve or ple. His private virtues, his ardent faith not when Maries child died. Sleep, and piety, his love of his country, his zeal my child, she sang to its little corpse ; for her interests, his incessant efforts for thou shalt sleep quietly under the damp her glory and prosperity, all these things, sod. Thy mother does not weep. An she says, will secure him an imperish- orphan in a strange place, she would not able memory. If these were Madame wish thee the same fate; sown with sor-~ Bagr6effs sentiments towards the great rows, watered with tears, and surrounded Tzar, they were by no means reciprocat- with griefs as with a wall, we do not be- ed; and her loyalty made her forget that long to this place. Finally, Marie died, when Nicholas died, the country was suf- leaning on the arms of the priest and of fering cruelly, both in men and money, her faithful Alexei. Do not mourn for from, a v~ar into which his ambitious tem- me, Alexei Wassiliwich ; I belong to a per had hurried her, and which had not frail race, and have little life in me. The even been successful. However, Madame little joy I have ever had has come from Speransky-Bagr~eff did not spare her your love, as ~vell as from those hopes praise. Almost immediately after the which make my passage to another world death of the Emperor she published an easy. Mother, she added, turning to account of his last hours, of the funeral, Salomn~a, who was weeping in a corner, and of the demonstrations of feeling grant me your prayers. I leave you made by the populace of St. Petersburg. your son. He is quite young; he will The paper had a certain popularity; but, bring you from beyond the seas a daugh- read some years after the event, it fails ter whom you can love, and then you will to please. It is too much written to be able to remember without bitterness orderit exaggerates; and then again, your kindness in adopting a poor Ton- perhaps because it was written to be read gouse orphan. Put my brothers arrow in high places, it naturall.y misses many into my grave. I am the last of my fain- of the striking and almost terrible ily of that silent and solitary race details of that august death-bed and which the world holds so cheap. .P?re funeral. Many of these details are now J ossiff, pray for your spiritual child. woven in with the legends of a people Alexei, adds Madame Speransky- peculiarly impressionable to signs and Bagrdeff, enlisted, and went to the war in tok~ns~ many more have become matter the Crimea. This is a sad story, she of history ; while some remain engraven concludes, but wild life is on this wise ; only in the memories of those who looked and the strange fusion of races which has for the last time on that colossal corpse been going on for centuries in Siberia before it was consigned to the fortress of (about which Europe troubles itself not at Peter and Paul. all), does give rise to such episodes. Of In i856, Madame Speransky-Bagr~eff the story which we have so rapidly travelled, and visited many of her literary sketched here, some of the pages are friei~xds in Paris and in Germany. It is written with as much power as pathos. pleasant to think~that in the last year of Written in French, and published in. her life she saw grouped around her wo- Paris or Brussels, as Madame Speransky- men like Madame Swetchine and Madame Bagr6effs books were, their subjects were! Soldaq, and men like M. de Falloux, generally Russian. Her Vie de Chfiteau Fallmerayer, Grillparzer, and Werner. dans lUkraine is a picture of domestic From Vienna she made another attempt i68 A ROSE IN JUNE. to win the favour or notice of her own Court. She offered to the Emperor Al- exander II. the whole of the political papers and MSS. of the late Count Spe- ransky. The offer was graciously re- ceived; and a pension was at last granted to the daughter of one of the best public servants Russia has ever possessed. A return to St. Petersburg was then planned for the spring of 1857; but Elizal~eths health was beginning, like her fathers, to suffer from the effects of constant mental exertion. Inflammation of the brain proved fatal to her at Vienna on the 3rd of April, and put an end to the separation which had so long existed between her and her father, and the son she had so bit- terly mourned. At last, as the Russian proverb expresses it, with two hands crossed on the breast, labour was done. From The Corohill Magazine. A ROSE IN JUNE. CHAPTER I. MARTHA, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things. Let the child alone she will never be young again if she should live a hundred years ! These words were spoken in the gar- den of Dinglefield Rectory on a very fine summer day a few years ago. The speaker was Mr. Damerel, the Rector, a middle-aged man with very fine, some- what worn features, a soft benignant smile, and, as everybody said who knew him, the most charming manners in the ~vorld. He was a man of very elegant mind as well as manners. 11e did not preach often, but when he did preach all the educated persons in his congregation felt that they had very choice fare indeed set before them. I am afraid the poor folk liked the curate best, but then the Curate liked them best, and it mattered very little to any man or woman of refine- ment what sentiment existed between the cottagers and the Curate. Mr. Damerel was perfectly kind and courteous to every- body, gentle and simple, who came in his way, but he was not fond of poor people in the abstract. He disliked everything that was unlovely, and alas! there are a great many unlovely things in poverty. The Rectory garden at Dinglefield is a de- lightful place. The house is on the summit of a little hill, or rather table-land, for in the front, towards the Green, all is level and soft as becomes ~n English village but on the other side the descent begins towards the lower country, and from the drawing-room windows and the lawn, where Mr. Damerel now sat, the view ex- tended over a great plain, lighted up with links of the river, and fading into un- speakable hazes of distance, such as were the despair of every artist, and the de- light of the fortunate people who lived there, and were entertained day by day with the sight of all the sunsets, the mid- day splendours, the flying shadows, and soft prolonged twilights. Mr. Damerel was fond of saying that no place he knew so lent itself to idleness as this. Idle- ness ! I speak as the foolish ones speak, he would say, for what occupation could be more ennobling than to watch those gleams and shadows all nature spread out before you, and demanding at- tention, though so softly that only they ~vho have ears hear? I allow, my gentle Nature here does not shout at you, and compel your regard, like her who dwells among the Alps, for instance. My dear, you are always practical but so long as you leave me my landscape I want little more. Thus the Rector would discourse. It was very little more he wanted only to have his garden and lawn in l)erfect order, swept and trimmed every morning like a ladys boudoir, and refreshed with every variety of flower: to have his table not heavily loaded with vulgar English joints, but daintily covered, and oh ! so daintily served ; the linen always fresh, the crystal always fine, the ladies dressed as ladies should be: to have his wine, of which he said he took very little, always fine, of choice vintage, and with a bou- quet which rejoiced the heart : to have plenty of new books: to have quiet, un- disturbed by the noise of the children, or any other troublesome noise such as broke the harmony of nature: and espe- cially undisturbed by bills and cares, such a~ he declared, at once shorten the life and take all pleasure out of it. This was all he required and surely never man had tastes more moderate, more in- nocent, more virtuous and refined. The little scene to which I have thus abruptly introduced the reader took place in the most delicious part of the garden. The-deep stillness of noon was over the sunshiny ~vorld,~ part of the lawn ~vas brilliang in light , the very insects were subdued out of their buzz of activity by the spell of the sunshine but here, under the lime-tree, there was grateful shade, where everything took breath. Mr. Damerel was seated in a chair which A ROSE IN JUNE. 169 had been made expressly for him, and which combined the comfort of soft cush- ions with such a rustic appearance as became its habitation out of doors; under his feet was a soft Persian ru~ in colours blended with all the harmony which be- longs to the Eastern loom; at his side a pretty carved table, with a raised rim, with books upon it, and a thin Venice! glass containing a rose. Another Rose, the Rose of my story, was half-sitting half-reclining on the grass at his feet a pretty light figure in a soft muslin dress, almost ~vhite, with bits of soft rose-col- oured ribbon here and there. She was the eldest child of the house. Her fea- tures I do not think were at all remarka- ble, but she had a bloom so soft, so deli- cate, so sweet, that her fathers fond title for her, a Rose in June, was every- ~vhere acknowledged as appropriate. A rose of the very season of roses was this Rose. Her very smile, ~vhich came and ~vent like breath, never away for two min- utes together, yet never lasting beyond the time you took to look at her, was flowery too, I can scarcely tell why. For my own part, she always reminded me not so much of a garden-rose in its glory, as of a branch of wild roses all blooming and smiling from the bough, here pink, here white, here with a dozen ineffable tints. Her hair ~vas light-brown with the least little curl in the world just about her forehead, but shining like satin on her pretty head; her eyes too were brown, with a dancing gleam of light in each the delicate eyebrows curved, the eye- lashes curved, the lips curved, all wavy and rounded. Life and light shone out of the girl, and sweet unconscious hap- piness. In all her life she had never had any occasion to ask herself was she hap- py. Of course she was happy! did not she live, and was not that enough? Rose Damerel was the last dainty ornament of his house in which her father delighted most. He had spoiled her lessons when she was younger because of his pleasure in her and her pretty looks, and he inter- fered now almost altogether with that usefulness in a house which is demanded by every principle of duty from the eldest daughter of a large family; for alas ! there was a large family, a thing which was the cause of all trouble to the Damerels. Had there been only Rose, and perhaps one brother, how much more pleasantly would everything have gone ! In that case there might have been fewer lines in the brow of the third person whom Mr. Damerel spoke to, but whom the reader has not yet seen. What Mrs. Damerel was like in her June of life, when she married her hus- band and was a Rose too, like her daugh- ter, it is difficult to tell. Life, ~vhich often makes so little real change, brings out much that is latent both of good and evil. I have said she was. a Rose, like her daughterand so, indeed, she was still, so far as formal documents went; but, somehow or other, the name had gone from her. She had acquired from her husband, at first in joke and loving banter of her early cares of housekeep- ing, ~vhile they were still no more than married lovers, the name of Martha, and by degrees that name had so fastened to her that no one recognized her by any other. Nobody out of her own family knew that it was not her name, and of course the children, some of whom were indignant at the change, could not set it right. In her letters she signed herself R. M. Damerel never Rose; and her correspondents took it for granted that the M stood for Martha. That she was careful and troubled about many things was the Rectors favourite joke. My careful wife my anxious wife, he called her, and, poor soul, not with- out a cause. For it stands to reason that when a man must not be disturbed about bills, for example, his wife must be, and doubly; when a man cannot bear the noise of children, his wife must and doubly; and even when a clergyman dis- likes poverty, and unlovely cottages, and poor rooms, which are less sweet than the lavn and the roses, why his wife must, and make up for his fastidiousness. She had eight children, and a husband of the most refined tastes of any clergyman in England, and an income not so much as might have been desired. Alas! how few of us have so much as might be de- sired ! Good rich people, you who have mor~ frI~oney than you want, how good you ought to be to us, out of pure grati- tude to heaven for the fact that you can pay your bills when you like, and never need to draw lines on your forehead with thinking which is imperative and which will wait I Mrs. Damerel was well- dressedshe could not help itfor that was one of the Rectors simple lux- uries. Fortunat~jy, in summer it is not so difficult to be ~ ell-dressed at a small cost. She had on (if any one car~s to know) a dress of that light brown linen which everybody has taken to wearing of I 70 A ROSE IN JUNE. late, over an old black silk petticoat, no harm, Herbert, to make herself use- which, having been good once, looked ful a little and help me. good even when tottering on the brink Useful I he said, with a half-pitying of the grave. She was no more than smile, the other roses are still less useful. forty, and but for her cares, would have What would you have the child do? Let looked younger; but June was long over her get the good of this beautiful morn- for this Rose, and the lines in her fore- ing. Besides, she is useful to me. head contradicted the softness of the nat- Ah, said Mrs. Damerel, faltering ural curves in her features. Those lines slightly, if she is doing anything for were well ruled in, with rigid straighten- you, Herbert I ing, by an artist who is very indifferent My dear, said the Rector, with a to curves and prettiness, and bad given gentle elevation of his eyebrows, dont a certain closeness, and almost sternness, confound things which are different. to the firm-shutting of her mouth. I am Doino- s afraid, thouo- she had great command of man ~ omething is your sole idea of hu- use, I know. No, Rose is doing herself, that Mr. Damerels delibhtful nothingit helps me to have her there. and unbroken serenity had an irritating She is part of the landscape ; suppose effect on his wife, in addition to the ef- you sit down yourself, instead of fretting, fects produced by her burden of care; and enjoy it. and irritation works with a finer and Enjoy it! Mrs. Damerel echoed, more delicate pencil than even anxiety. with faint irony. She heard already the She had come out this morning to ask noise of the schoolroom growing louder Roses help with the children, to whom, and louder, and iVIary, the housemaid, among her other fatigues, she had lately stood at the door, looking out anxiously, begun to give lessons, finding the daily shading her eyes from the sun, for the governess from the village impractica- mistress. Some one was waiting, she ble. She had been called away to other knew, in the ball, to see her; pray heav- duties, and the children were alone in en not some one with a bill! I am the schoolroom. She had just asked afraid I must go back to my work, she her daughter to go in and take charge of said, and I hope you will come to me, them, and I scarcely think let alone Rose, as soon as your papa can spare the answer she had just received from her you. I have no more time now. husband that the sight of this cool, Rose ~tiired uneasily, half-rising, and, fresh, delightful leisure in direct con- with a prick of conscience, made a feeble trast with the hot house, and the school- attempt to detain her. But mamma room, where all the children were more she began, as her mother moved away, tiresome than usual by reason of the heat, crossing the broad sunshine of the lawn had any agreeable effect upon Mrs. Dam- with hasty steps. Mrs. Damerel did not erels nerves. Such a contrast to ones or would not hear, but went swiftly into frets and annoyances seldom is deeply the house as they watched her, meeting consolatory. Mary, who was coming with a message. Martha, Martha, you are careful and Her light dress shone out for a moment troubled about many thingslet the in the fierce blaze of the sunshine, and child alone I then disappeared. When she was out of The Rector smiled, yet his tone was sight the Rector said softly, changing one of playful reproof. His was the su- his position with the leisureliness of ex- perior position. With the soft air fan- treme comfort, putting undermost the fling him, and the shade refreshing him, leg w~ich had been uppermost, What and the beautiful landscape displaying it- a pity that your mother does not see the self for him, and all the flowers blooming, beauty of repose more than she does ! If the leaves waving, the butterflies flutter- I had not learnt long ago to take no no- ing, the pretty daughter prattling, all for tice, I dont know what I might not have his pleasure, master of the creation as he been worried into by now. was, he was in a position to reprove any Mamma never worries any one, said harsh and hasty intruder who brought into Rose flushing at once with instantaneous this Paradise a discordant note. opposition. The more she felt guilty I do not want to burden her youth, towards her m~her, the less she would said Mrs. Damerel, with a resolute quiet hear a ~rord to her discredit. She blazed in her voice, which her children knew the up quite hot and fiery, with a loyalty sound ?f, and which they all learned to which ~vas a very good quality in its way, recognize as the tone of suppressed ir- thouo-h not so good as helping in the ritation, but I think it wouAd do Rose schoolroom. The father put forth his A ROSE IN JUNE. 7 fine ivory hand, and patted her pretty clothes. Rose had for him that enthusi head. asm of admiration which a girl often en- Quite right, dear, quite right, he tertains for a handsome and gentle- said; always stand up for your mother. minded father, who takes the trouble to And it is true, she never worries any- enter into her feelings, and make her his body; but I wish she had more percep- companion. I do not know any more tion of the excellence of repose. exquisite sentiment in humanity. She Perhaps if she had we should not be loved him entirely, and he was to her a able to enjoy it so much, said the girl, very model of everything that ~vas most still giving expression to a slight com- delightful, kind, tender, and beautiful. punction. But as she looked at this model of man, Very well said, Rose ; and it is quite his words somehow struck and vibrated possible you are right again. We should upon a new chord in the girls mind. not be so comfortable, and the house The struggle and wear and tear that would not go on wheels as it does, if she life demands. Did Mr. Damerel have thought more of her own ease. One much of that outside, as he said? star differeth from another star in glory, He resumed his reading, but his d augh - said Mr. Damerel who was fond of quot- ter did not look again at the book of ing Scripture, almost the only point in him poetry which lay open on her knee. which savoured slightly of the Church. I Somehow a reflection of the pucker on At the same time, my Rose in June, her mothers brow had got into her heart when you marry yourselfas I suppose her mother, whom Rose loved, but you will one day remember that there who was not an idol and model of excel- is nothing that worries a man like being lence, like the gentle and graceful being too constantly reminded of the struggle at her side. The contrast struck her for and ~vear and tear that life demands. perhaps the first time in her life. What He has enough of that outside in the was the meaning of it? Was it because world, said the Rector, gazing out over Mrs. Damerel did not understand the the fair prospect before him, and again beauty of repose, or because a woman s changing the position of his legs, with- business in this world is more detailed out having it thrust upon him in what and engrossing than a mans ? Fancy ought to be the sanctity of his home. mamma spending the whole morning out Rose looked at her father with a little of doors, reading poetry! Rose said to dawning wonder mingled with the admi- herself, with an involuntary silent laugh ration she felt for him. As a picture, over the absurdity of the notion. No Mr. Damerel was perfect. He had a fine doubt it was because of the difference head, with beautiful and refined features, between man and woman; one of those and that paleness which has always been disabilities which people talked about found to be so much more interesting and perhaps (Rose went on philosophiz- than brighter colouring. He lay half- ing) women are wrong to absorb them- reclined in his easy chair, with his eyes selves in this way in the management of dreamily regarding the landscape, and the their houses, and ought to rule their do- book he had been reading closed over his mestic affairs with a lighter hand, not in- hand. That hand was in itself a patent terfering with all the little minuti~, of gentility, and his whole appearance and making slaves of themselves. She confirmed the title. Somewhat fragile looked towards the house as she mused, a piece of delicate porcelain among the and the vague compunction which had rough delf of this worldnot able to en- bee!I iii her mind sharpened into some- dure much knocking about; fastidious, thing like a prick of conscience. It was loving everything that was beautiful, and delightful being out here, in the soft supporting with difficulty that which was shade of the lime-trees, watching when not the Rector looked like a choice ex- she liked the flitting shadows over the ample of the very height of civilization plain below, and the gleam of the river and refinement. And everything around here and there among the trees read- him was in harmony. The velvet lawn, ing when she liked Bala~estions Advert- on ~vhich no fallen leaf was allowed to lie tiwe, which ~vas the book on her knee. for an hour; the pretty house behind, The significance of the old story em- perfection of English comfort and dainti- bedded in that~ook did not for the mo- ness ; the loose morning clothes, not more ment strike her. I think she was, on the than half clerical, and perfectly unpre- ~vhol~, rather annoyed with Mr. Brown- tending, yet somehow more fine, better ing for having brought down the story of cut and better fitting..than other peoples a womans sacrifice, all for love, into the 172 A ROSE IN JUNE. region of even poetic reason. To Rose, at that period of her development, it seemed the most ideal climax of life to die for the man she loved. What could be more beautiful, more satisfactory? Such an ending would reconcile one, she thought, to any suffering; it gave her heart a thrill of high sensation indescrib- able in words. How sweet the air was, how lovely all the lights Rose was just enough of an~ artist to be able to talk about the lights with some faint un- derstanding of what she meant. She was in a kind of soft Elysium, penetrated by the thousand sensations of the morning, the quiet, the flattering soft air that ca- ressed her, the poetry, the society, the beauty all around. But then there came that sharp little prick of conscience. Perhaps she ought to go in and offer the help her mother wanted. Rose did not jump up to do this, as she would have done at once (she felt sure) had she been required to die, like Iphigenia, for her country, or, like Alcestis, for her hus- band. The smaller sacrifice somehow was less easy; but it disturbed her a little in the l)erfection of her gentle en- joyment, and dictated a few restless movements which caught her fathers eye. He turned and looked at her, ask- ing fretfully, with a look, what was the matter, for he did not like to be disturbed. Perhaps, said Rose, inquiringly, and appealing to him with another look, I ought to go in and see what is wanted. Perhaps I could be of some use to main ma. Mr. Damerel smiled. Use ? he said. Has your mother bitten you with her passion for use? You are not of the useful kind, take my word for it; and make yourself happy, like your namesakes, who toil not, neither do they spin. But perhaps said Rose softly to herselfher father gave her a friendly little nod and returned to his book and she had to solve her problem without his assistance. She tried to do it, sitting on the grass, and it was a long and rather troublesome process. It would have been much more easily and briefly settled, had she gone into the schoolroom; but then I am afraid Rose did not wish it to be solved that way. CHAPTER II. MRS. DAMEREL went back into the house ~vith a countenance much less placid than that of her husband. I scarcely know why it is that the contrast of perfect repose aifti enjoyment with anxiety, work, and care should irritate the worker as it invariably does ; but here in- deed there was reason enough ; for Mrs. Damerel felt that the two people luxuriat- ingin total absence of care on this de- lightful morning ought to have taken a considerable share with her in her labours and lightened the burden she was now obliged to bear alone. This mingled a sharpness of feeling with her toils. Peo- ple who interpret human nature coarsely and they are, perhaps, the majority would have said that Mrs. Damerel was jealous of her husbands preference for Roses society, and this would have been a total and vulgar mistake; but she had. in her mind a feeling which it is difficult to explain, which for the moment made her irritation with Rose more stronb than her irritation with Roses father. He was, in the first place, a man brand distinction, half contemptuous. half re- spectful, with which women of Mrs. Damerels age (I dont say young women often do it, at least consciouslyexcept in the case of their fathers and brothers) account for and make up their minds to so many things. I am not attempting to account for this sentiment, which is so similar to that with which men in their turn regard women; I only acknowledge its existence. He was a man, brought up as all men are (I still quote Mrs. Damer- els thoughts, to which she seldom or never gave expression), to think of them- selves first, and expect everything to give in to them. But Rose had none of these privileges. What her mother as a woman had to take upon her, Rose had an equal right to take too. Mrs. Damerel herself could not forget, though every- body else did, that she had been a Rose too, in her proper person ; the time even since that miraculous period was not so far off to her as to the others ; but be- fore she was Roses age she had been marrie~, and had already become, to some extent, Mr. Damerels shield and buckler against the world and its annoy- ances. And here was Rose growing up as if she, instead of being a woman as nature made her, was herself one of the privileged class, to whom women are the ministers. This annoyed Mrs. Damerel more,, perhaps, than the facts justified; it gave her a sense of injured virtue as well as feeling. It v~Quld be the ruin of the girl i- it was wrong to let her get into such ways. The mother was angry, which is always painful and aggravates every- thing. She was too proud to struggle with her daughter, or to exact help which was A ROSE IN JUNE. 173 not freely given ; for Rose was no longer a child to be sent hither and thither and directed what to do. And Mrs. Damerel was no more perfect than Rose was she had her own difficulties of temper like other people. This was one of them that she drew back within herself when she felt her appeal refused or even left without response. She went in with a little scorn, a littl~ pride, a good deal-of anger and more of mortification. I must do everything myself, it appears, she said, with a swelling of the heart which was very natural, I think. After the sun on the lawn, it was very warm indoors and the schoolroom was very noisy indeed by the time she had got rid of the apl)licants in the hall, one of whom (most respectful and indeed obsequious, and perfectly willing to accept her excu- ses, but yet a dun notwithstanding) had come to say that he had many heavy pay- ments to make up, & c.and if Mrs. Damerel could oblige him ? Mrs. Damerel could not oblige him, but he was very civil and full of apologies for troubling her. I do not, by any means, intend to say that the Rectors wife was tortured by perpetual struggling with her creditors. It was not so bad as that. The difficulty was rather to keep going, to be not too much in debt to any one, to pay soon enough to preserve her credit, and yet get as long a day as possible. Mrs. Damerel had come by long practice to have the finest intuition in such mat- ters. She knew exactly how long a tailor or a wine merchant would wait for his money without acerbation of temper, and would seize that croxvning moment to have him paid by hook or by crook. But by thus making a fine art of her bills, she added infinitely to her mental burdens for a woman must never forget anything or neglect anything when she holds her tradespeople so very delicately in hand. The schoolroom, as I have just said, was very noisy, not to say, uproarious, when she got back to it, and it ~vas hard not to remember that Rose ought to have been there. There were five children in it, of various ages and sizes. The two big boys \vere both at Eton. The eldest, Bertie, who was bright and clever, was on the foundation, and therefore did not cost his parents much the second had his expenses paid by a relation thus these two were off their mothers hands. The eldest in the schoolroom was Agatha, aged fourteen, who taught the two little ones bu~ who, during her mothers absence, ought to have been playing her scales, and had conscien- tiously tried to do so for ten minutes, at the end of which time she had been obliged to resign the music in order to rescue these same two little ones, her spe- cial charge, from the hands of Dick, aged ten, who was subjecting them to unknown tortures, which caused the babes to howl unmercifully. Patty, the next girl to Agatha, aided and abetted Dick; and what with the laughter of these two pickles, and the screams of the small ones, and poor Agathas remonstrances, the scene was Pandemonium itself, and almost as hot ; for the room was on the sunny side of the house, and blazing, notwithstanding the drawn blinds. The children were all languid and irritable with the heat, hating their confinement indoors ; and, indeed, if Rose had come, she would have made a very poor ex- change. Agathas music had tumbled down from the piano, the old red cover was half drawn off the table, and threatened at any moment a clean sweep of copybooks, ink-bottles, and slates. Dick stood among his books, all tumbled on the floor, his heels crushing the cover of one, while Patty sat upon the open dictionary, doub- ling down half the leaves with her weight. Such a scene for a bothered mother to come into ! Mr. Damerel himself heard some faint rumour of the noise, and his fine brow had begun to draw itself into lines, and a resolution to speak to their mother formed itself within his mind. Poor mother! She could have cried when she ~vent in out of all her other troubles ; but that was a mere momen- tary weakness, and the rebels ~vere soon reduced to order, Agatha sent back to her scales, and Dick and Patty to their copybooks. You two little ones may Mrs. Damerel said and with a shriek of delight the babies toddled out and made their way to the hayfield be- hind ~he~ouse, where they ~vcr~ perfect- ly happy, and liable to no more danger than that of being carried off in a load of fragrant hay. When Mr. Nolan, the Curate, came in to talk about parish bus- iness, Agathas scales, not badly played, were trilling through the place, and Patty and Dick, very deep in ink, and leaning all their weight upon their resl)ective pens, were busy with their writing and calni~ the calm of deep awe, prevailed. Shall I disturb you if I come in here? asked the Curate, with a mellow sound in his voice which was not brogue or at least he thought it was not, and 74 RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. was ingenuously surprised when he was recognized as an Irishman. Q It ~vill be my name, to be sure, he would say on such occasions, somewhat puzzled.) lie was a bony man, loosely put together, in a long coat, with rather a wisp of a white tie ; for, indeed, it was very hot and dusty on the roads, and where the rector is an elegant man of very refined mind, the curate, like the wife, has generall ya good deal to do. Indeed the lessons have been so much disturbed as it is, that it does not much matter, said Mrs. Damerel. On Monday morning there are so many things to call me away. How selfish of me I said the Cu- rate. Monday morning is just the time Ive little or nothing to do, except when theres sickness. What a brute I was not to offer meself, and, indeed, thats just what Ive come to speak.about. No, no, you are too kind, and do too much already, said Mrs. Damerel, look- ing at him with a grateful smile, but shaking her head. And, indeed, she added, the cloud coming over her face again, Rose ought to come and relieve me ; but her father has to be attended to, and that takes up so much of her time. To be sure, said the Curate cheerily, and reason good. Besides, it would be wearing work for one like herwhereas the like o me is made for it. Look here, Dick, my boy, will you promise to learn your lessons like a brick to-morrow if I ask the mother for a holiday to-day? Oh, hurrah I cried Ditk, delighted. Oh, mamma, like twenty bricks, cried Patty, though how a brick can learn lessons. Its so hot, and one keeps thinking of the hayfield. Then be off wi you all, cried the Curate. Dont you see the mother smile? and Agatha too. Im going to talk business. Sure you dont mind for one day? Oh; mind! said poor Mrs. Damerel, with a half smile ; then waiting till they were all out of hearing, an exit speedily accomplished, if it were not for duty, how glad I should be to give it up alto- ether ! but they could not go on with Miss Hunt, she added, with a quick glance at the Curate to see whether by chance he understood her. Good Curate, he could be very stolid on occasion, though I hope he was not fool enough to be taken in by Mrs. Damerels pretences~ though it was true enough that Miss Hunt was impracticable. She could not afford a better ; this was what she really meant. From The Gentlemans Magazine. RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. BY CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE. IN the village of .Enfield, in Middle- sex, ten miles on the North road from London, my father, John Clarke, kept a school. The house had been built by a West India merchant in the latter end of the seventeenth or beginning of the eigh- teenth century. It was of the better char- acter of the domestic architecture of that period, the whole front being of the pur- est red brick, wrought by means of moulds into rich designs of flowers and pomegranates, with heads of cherubim over niches in the centre of the building. The elegance of the design and the per- fect finish of the structure were such as to secure its protection when a branch railway was brounht from the Ware and Cambridge line to Enfield. The old school-house was converted into the sta- tion-house, and the railway company had the good taste to leave intact one of the few remaining specimens of the graceful English architecture of lon s-gone days. Here it was that John Keats all but commenced, and did complete his school education. He was born on the 2pth of October, 1795; and he was one of the little fellows who had not wholly emerged from the childs costume upon being placed under my fathers Care. It will be readily conceived that it is difficult to re- call from the dark backward and abysm of seventy-odd years the general acts of perhaps the youngest individual in a cor- poration of between seventy and eighty youngsters; and very little more of Keatss child-life can I remember than that he had a brisk, winning face, and was a fa- v6uri~e with all, particularly my mother. His maternal grandfather, Jennings, was proprietor of a large livery-stable, called the Swan and Hoop, on the pavement in Moorfields, opposite the entrance into Finsbury Circus. He had two sons at my fathers school: the elder was an officer in Duncans ship off Camperdown. After the battle, the Dutch Admiral, De Win- ter, pointing to~oung Jennings, told Dun- can that he ha fired several shots at that young man, and always missed his mark; no credit to his steadiness of aim, tor Jennings, like his own admiral, was con- RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. I 75 siderably above the ordinary dimensions in the school almost the only one at of stature. his Latin or French translation; and so Keatss father was the principal servant unconscious and regardless was he of the at the Swan and Hoop stables a man consequences of so close and persevering of so remarkably fine a common-sense, an application, that he never would have and native respectability, that I perfectly taken the necessary e~xercise had he not remember the warm terms in which his been sometimes driven out for the pur- demeanour used to be canvassed by my pose by one of the masters. parents after he had been to visit his I~ has just been said that he was a fa- boys. John was the only one resembling vourite with all. Not the less beloved him in person and feature, with broWn was he for having a highly pugnacious hair and dark hazel eyes. The father was spirit, which, when roused, was one of killed by a fall from his horse in return- the most picturesque exhibitions off in~ from a visit to the school. This de- the stage 1 ever saw. One of the tail may be deemed requisite when we transports of that marvellous actor, Ed- see in the last memoir of the poet the mund Kean whom, by the way, he statement that John Keats was born on idolized was its nearest resemblance the 29th of October, 1795, in the upper and the two were not very dissimilar in rank of the middle class. His two face and figure. Upon one occasion, brothers George, older, and Thomas, when an usher, on account of some im- younger than himself were like the pertinent behaviour, had boxed his broth- mother, who was tall, of good figure, with er Toms ears, John rushed up, put him- large oval face, and sensible deportment. self in the received posture of offence, The last of the family was a sister and, it was said, struck the usherwho Fanny, I think, much younger than all, could, so to say, have put him into his and I hope still living of whom I re- pocket. His passion at times was almost member, ~vhen once walking in the garden ungovernable; and his brother George, with her brothers, my mother speaking of being considerably the taller and strong- her with much fondness for her pretty er, used frequently to hold him down by and simple manners. She married Mr. main force, laughing wh en John was in Llanos, a Spanish refugee, the author of one of his moods, and was endeavour- Don Esteban, and Sandoval, the ing to beat him. It was all, however, a Freemason. He was a man of liberal wisp-of-straw conflagration; for he had principles, very attractive bearing, and of an intensely tender affection for his broth- more than ordinary accomplishments. ers, and proved it upon the most trying In the early part of his school-life John occasions. He was not merely the fa- gave no extraordinary indications of intel- vourite of all, like a pet prize-fighter, for lectual character; but it was remembered his terrier courage; but his highminded- of him afterwards, that there was ever ness, his utter unconsciousness of a mean present a determined and steady spirit in motive, his placability, his generosity, all his undertakings: I never knew it wrought so general a feeling in his be- misdirected in his required pursuit of half, that I never heard a word of dis- study. He was a most orderly scholar. approval from any one, superior or equal, The future ramifications of that noble who had known him. genius were then closely shut in the seed, in the latter part of the time per- which was greedily drinking in the moist- haps eighteen months that he remained ure which made it afterwards burst forth at school, he occupied the hours during so kindly into luxuriance and beauty. meals in r~ading. Thus, his wiwle time My father was in the habit, at each was engrossed. He had a tolerably re- half-years vacation, of bestowing prizes tentive memory, and the quantity that he upon those pupils who had performed the read was surprising. He must in those greatest quantity of voluntary woi~k; and last months have exhausted the school such was Keatss indefatigable energy for library, which consisted principally of tl~e last two or three successive half-years abridgments of all the voyages and tray- of his remaining at school, that, upon els of any note; Mayors collection, also each occasion, he took the first prize by his Universal History; Robertsons a considerable distance. He was at work histories of Scot~~nd, America, and before the first school-hour began, and Charles the Fifth; ~ll Miss Edgeworths that was at seven oclock; almost all the productions, together with many other intervening times of recreation were so works equally well calculated for youth. devoted; and during the afternoon holi- The books, however, that were his con- days, when all were at play, he would be stantly recurring sources of attraQtion 176 RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. were Tookes Pantheon, Lempri& es Classical Dictionary, which he ap- peared to learn, and Spences Poly- metis. This ~vas the store whence he acquired his intimacy with the Greek mythology; here was he suckled in that creed outxvorn; for his amount of class- ical attainment extended no farther than the ~neid ; with which epic, indeed, he was so fascinated that before leaving school he had voluntarily translated in writing a considerable portion. And yet I remember that at that early age may- hap under fourteen notwithstanding, and through all its incidental attractive- ness, he hazarded the opinion to me (and the expression riveted my surprise), that there was feebleness in the structure of the work. He must have gone through all the better publications in the school library, for he asked me to lend him some of my own books; and, in my minds eye, I now see him at supper (we had our meals in the schoolroom), sitting back on the form, from the table, holding the folio volume of Burnets History of his Own Time between himself and the table, eating his meal from beyond it. This work, and LeVh 1-lunts Examiner which my father took in, and I used to lend to Keats no doubt laid the foundation of his love of civil and reli- gious liberty. He once told me, smiling, that one of his guardians, being informed what books I had lent him to read, de- clared that if he had fifty children he would not send one of them to that school. Bless his patriot head I When he left Enfield, at fourteen years of age, he ~vas apprenticed to Mr. Thom- as Hammond, a medical man, residinii in Church Street, Edmonton, and exact- ly two miles from Enfleld. This arrange- ment evidently gave him satisfaction, and I fear that it ~vas the most placid pe- riod of his painful life ; for now, with the exception of the duty he had to perform in the surgeryby no means an onerous onehis whole leisure hours were em- ployed in indulging his passion for read- ino and translating. During his appren- ticeship he finished the tEneid. The distance bet~veen our residences being so short, I gladly encouraged his inclination to come over ~vhen he could claim a leisure hour; and in consequence I saw him about five or six times a month on my own leisure afternoons. He rarely came empty-handed; either he had a book to read, or brought one to be ex- changed. When the weather permitted, we always sat in afl arbour at the end of a spacious garden, and in Boswellian dialect we had a good talk. It were difficult, at this lapse of time; to note the spark that fired the train of his poetical tendencies ; but he must have given unmistakable tokens of his mental bent; otherwise, at that early stage of his career, I never could have read to him the Epithalamion of Spenser; and this I remember having done, and in that hallowed old arbour, the scene of many bland and graceful as- sociations the substances having passed away. At that time he may have been sixteen years old; and at that pe- riod of life he certainly appreciated the general beauty of the composition, and felt the more passionate passages; for his features and exclamations were ec- static. How often, in after times, have I heard him quote these lines Behold, while she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, And blesses her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up to her cheeks! And thc pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain, Like crimson dyed in grain, That even the angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain, Forget their service, and about her fly, Qftpee~ing in hen ce, that seems more fair, The mare they on it stare; But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are govern~d with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. That night he took away with him the first volume of the Faerie Queene, and he xvent through it, as I formerly told his noble biographer, as a young horse would through a spring meadow ramp- ing! Like a true poet tooa poet born, not manufactured, a poet in grain, he especially singled out epithets, for that felicity and l)ox\er in which Spenser is so eminent. He hoisted himself up, and looked burly and dominant, as he said, ~W~at an image that is sea-shoulder- ing whales! It was a treat to see as well as hear him read a pathetic passage. Once when reading the Cymbeline aloud, I saw his eyes fill with tears, and his voice faltered when he came to the departure of Posthumus, and Imogen saying she would have ~vatched him Till the diminution Of space had Rointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, follow dlfl m till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air; and then Have turnd mine eye and wept. I cannot reconcile the precise time of our separating at this stage of Keatss RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. careerwho first ~vent to London; but it was upon an occasion, that walking thither to see Leigh 1-lunt, who had just fulfilled his penalty of confinement in Horsemonger Lane Prison for the un- wise libel upon the Prince Regent, that Keats met me; and, turning, accompa nied me back part of the way. At the last field-gate; when taking leave, he gave me the sonnet entitled, Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison. This I feel to be the first proof I had received of his having committed himself in verse and how clearly do I recall the conscious look and hesitation with which he offered it! There are some momentary glances by beloved friends that fade only with life. His biographer has stated that The Lines in Imitation of Spencer Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footsteps touchd a verdant hill, are the earliest known verses of his com- position; a probable circumstance, from their subject being the inspiration of his first love, in poetryand such a love I but Keatss first publis.4ed poem was the sonnet O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steel) Natures observatory whence the deli, In flowery slopes, its rivers crystal swell May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep Mongst boughs paviliond, where the deers swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. But though Ill gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined, Is my souls pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. This sonnet appeared in the Era in/ncr some time, I think, in iSr6. When we both had come to London Keats to enter as a student of St. Thomass Hospital he was not long in discovering my abode, which was with a brother-in-law in Clerkenwell; and at that time being house-keeper, and solitary, he would come and renew his loved gos- sip; till, as the author of the Urn Burial says, we were acting our antip- odes the huntsmen were up in Amer. ica, and they already were past their first sleep in Persia. At the close of a letter which preceded my appointing him to come and lighten my darkness in Clerk- LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 272 77 enwell, is his first address upon coming to London. He says Although the Borough is a beastly place in dirt, turn- ings, and windings, yet No. 8, Dean Street, is not difficult to find ; and if you would run the gauntlet over London Bridge, take the first turning to the right, and, moreover, knock at my door, which is nearly opposite a meeting, you would do me a charity, which, as St. Paul saith, is the father of all the virtues. At all events, let me hear from you soon I say, at all events, not excepting the gout in b your fingers. This letter, having no date but the weeks day, and no postmark, pre- ceded our first symposium; and a mem- morable night it ~vas in my lifes career. A beautiful copy of the folio edition of Chapmans translation of Homer l~ad been lent me. It was the property of Mr. Alsager, the gentleman who for years had contributed no small share of celeb- rity to the great reputation of the Times newspaper by the masterly manner in which he conducted the money market department of that journal. Upon my first introduction to Mr. Alsager he lived opposite to Horsemonger Lane Prison, and upon Mr. Leigh I-I unts being sen- tenced for the libel, his first days dinner was sent over by Mr. Alsager. Well, then, we were put in possession of the 1-Joiner of Chapman, and to work we ~vent, turning to some of the famous- est passages, as we had scrappily known them in Popes version. There was, for instance, that perfect scene of the conver- sation on Troy wall of the 91d Senators ~vith Helen, who is pointing out to them the several Greek captains ; with the Senator Antenors vivid portrait of an orator in Ulysses, beginning at the 237th line of the third book But when the prudent Ithacus did to his counsels rise, lie stood a little still, and fixd upon the earh his eyes, His sceptre moving neither way, but held it formally, Like one that vainly doth affect. Of wrathful quality, And frantic (rashly judging), you would have said he was; But when out of his ample breast he gave his great voice pass, And words that flew about our ears like drifts of winters sn9w, None thenceforth mi~ght contend with him, though naught admird for show. The shield and helmet of Diomed, with the accompanying simile, in the opening of the third book; and the prodigious 178 RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. description of Neptunes passage to the Achive ships, in the thirteenth book The woods and all the great hills near trembled beneath the weight Of his immortal-moving feet. Three steps he only took, Before he far-off !Egas reachd, but with the fourth, it shook With his dread entry. One scene I could not fail to introduce to him the shipwreck of Ulysses, in the fifth book of the Odysseis, and I had the reward of one of his delighted stares, upon reading the following lines: Then forth he came, his both knees faltring, both His strong hands hanging down, and all with froth His cheeks and nostrils flowing, voice and breath Spent to all use, and down he sank to death. The sea had soakd his heart through; all his veins His toils had rackd t a labouring womans pains. Dead-weary was he. On an after occasion I showed him the couplet, in Popes translation, upon the same passage : From mouth and nose the briny torrent ran, And lost in lassitude lay all the man. [! Chapman* supplied us with many an after-treat; but it was in the teeming wonderment of this his first introduc- tion, that, ~vhen I came down to break- fast the next morning, I found upon my table a letter with no other enclosure than his famous sonnet, On First Looking into Chapmans Homer. We had parted, as I have already said, at day-spring, yet he contrived that I should receive the poem from a distance of, may be, two miles, by ten oclock. In the published copy of this sonnet he made an alteration in the seventh line : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene. The original which he sent me had the phrase Yet could I never tell what men could mean; which he said was bald, and too simply wondering. No one could more earnestly chastise his thoughts than Keats. His favourite among Chapmans Hymns of Homer was the one to Pan, which he himself rivalled in the Endymion : 0 thou whose mighty palace-roof doth hang, & c. With what joy would...Keats have welcomed Mr. RichardHo~per a admirable edition of our old version 1 It appears early in the first hook of the poem ; the first line in which has passed into a proverb, and become a motto to Exhibition catalogues of Fine Art: A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, & c. The Hymn to Pan alone should have rescued this young and vigorous poem this youngest epic from the savage injustice with which it was as- sailed. In one of our conversations, about this period, I alluded to his l)osition at St. Thomass Hospital, coasting and recon- noitring, as it were, for the purpose of discovering what progress he was making in his profession ; which I had taken for granted had been his own selection, and not one chosen for him. The total ab- sorption, therefore, of every other mood of his mind than that of imaginative com- position, which had now evidently en- compassed him, induced me, from a kind motive, to inquire what was his bias of action for the future ; and with that trans-. parent candour which formed the main- spring of his rule of conduct, he at once made no secret of his inability to sympa- thize with the science of anatomy, as a main pursuit in life ; for one of the ex- pressions that he used, in describing his unfitness for its mastery, was perfectly characteristic. He said, in illustration of his argument, The other day, for in- stance, during the lecture, there came a sunbeam into the room, and with it a whole troop of creatures floating in the ray; and I was off with them to Oberon and fairyland. And yet, with all his self-styled unfitness for the pursuit, I was afterwards informed that at his subse- quent examination he displayed an a~~ou~t of acquirement which surprised his fellow students, who had scarcely any other association with him than that of a cheerful, crotchety rhymester. He once talked with me, upon my complaining of stoinachic derangement, with a remark- able decision of opinion, describing the functions and actions of the organ with the clearness and, as I presume, techni- cal precision of an adult practitioner; casually illustr~ting the comment, in his characteristic way, with poetical imagery: the stomach, he said, being like a brood of callow nestlings (opening his capacious mouth) yearning and gaping for suste- nance; and, indeed, he merely exempli RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. fled what should be, if possible, the stock in trade of every poet, viz., to know all that is to be known, in the heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. It was about this period that, going to call upon Mr. Leigh Hunt, who then oc- cupied a pretty cottage in the Vale of Health, on Hampstead Heath, I took with me two or three of the poems I had received from Keats. I could not but anticipate that Hunt would speak encour- agingly, and in deed approvingly, of the compositions written, too, by a youth under age; but my partial spirit was not prepared for the unhesitating and prompt admiration which broke forth before he had read twenty lines of the first poem. Horace Smith happened to be there on the occasion, and he was not less demon- strative in l:~s appreciation of their mer- its. The piece which he read out was the sonnet, How many Bards gild the Lapses of Time ! marking with particu- lar emphasis and approval the last six lines So the unnumberd sounds that evening store, The songs of birds, the whispring of the leaves, The voice of waters, the great bell that heaves With solemn sound, and thousand others more, That distance of recognisance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. Smith repeated with applause the line in italics, saying, What a well-condensed expression for a youth so young! After making numerous and eager inquiries about him, personally, and with reference to any peculiarities of mind and manner, the visit ended in my being requested to bring him over to the Vale of Health. That was a red-letter day in the young poets life, and one which will never fade with me while memory lasts. The character and expression of Keatss features would arrest even the casual passenger in the street; and now they were wrought to a tone of animation that I could not but watch with interest, knowing what was in store for him from the bland encouragement, and Spartan deference in attention, with fascinating conversational eloquence, that he was to encounter and receive. As we approached the Heath, there was the rising and ac- celerated step, with the gradual subsi- dence of all talk. The interview, which stretched into three morning calls, was the prelude to many 4ter-scenes and saunterings about Caen Wood and its 79 neighbourhood; for Keats was suddenly made a familiar of the household, and was always welcomed. It was in the library at Hunts cottage, where an extemporary bed had been made up for him on the sofa, that he composed the frame-work and many lines of the poem on Sleep and Poet.ry the last sixty or seventy being an inventory of the art garniture of the room, commen- cing: It was a poets house who keeps the keys Of Pleasures temple. In this composition is the lovely and favourite little cluster of images upon the fleeting transit of lifea pathetic antici- pation of his own brief career: Stop and consider! Life is but a day; A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way From a trees summit; a poor Indians sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan? Life is the roses hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maidens veil; A pigeon tumbling in the summer air; A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elan. Very shortly after his installation at the cottage, and on the day after one of our visits, he gave in the following sonnet, a characteristic appreciation of the spirit in which he had been received : Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there Among the bushes half leafless and dry; The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare; Yet I feel little of the cool bleak air, Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from homes pleasant lair: For I am brimful of the friendliness That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-haird Miltons eloquent distress, And all his love for gentle Lycid drownd; Of lovely ~aura in her light green dress, And faithful Petrarch gloriously crownd. The glowing sonnet upon being com- pelled to Leave Friends at an Early Hour Give me a golden, pen and let me lean, & c., followed shortly after the former. But the occasion that recurs with the liveliest interest was one evening when some observations havin~ been made upon the character, habits, and pleasant associa- tions with that reverend denizen of the hearth, the cheeful little grasshopper of the fireside Hunt proposed to Keats the challenge of writing then, there, and iSo RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. to time, a sonnet On the Grasshopper and Cricket. No one was present but myself, and they accordingly set to. I, apart, with a book at the end of the sofa, could not avoid furtive glances every now and then at the emulants. I cannot say how long the trial lasted. I was not proposed umpire; and had no stop- watch for the occasion. The time, how- ever, was short for such a Iserformance, and Keats won as to time. But the event of the after scrutiny was one of many such occurrences which have riv- eted the memory of Leigh Hunt in my affectionate regard and admiration for un- affected generosity and perfectly unpre- tentious encouragement. 1-us sincere look of pleasure at the first line The poetry of earth is never dead. Such a prosperous opening! he said ; and when he came to the tenth and eleventh lines On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrong/it a silence Ah thats perfect Bravo Keats And then he xvent on in a dilation upon the dumbness of Nature during the seasons suspension and torpidity. With all the kind and gratifying things that were said to him, Keats protested to me, as we were afterwards walking home, that he preferred 1-lunts treatment of the sub- ject to his own. As neighbour Dog- berry woul:l have rejoined : Fore God, they are both in a tale ! It has occurred to me, upon so remarkable an occasion as the one here recorded, that a reunion of the two sonnets will be gladly hailed by the readcr. ON THE GRA55HOPPER AND cRIcKET. The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hed~e to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshoppers, he takes the lead In summer luxury, he has nevcr done With his delights, for when tircd out with fun He rests at case beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of carth is ceasing never; On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrou~ht a silence; from the stove there thrills The Crickets song, in warmth increasing ever, And sec~os to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshoppers amo~g some grassy hills. Dec. 30, iSib. JOHN KEATS. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE cRICKET. Green little vaulter in the sunny grass Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice thats heard amidst the hazy noon, When evn the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that Iselong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both though small are strong At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, In doors and out, Summer and \Vinter, Mirth! Dec. 30, xSi6. LEIGH HIJNT. Keats had left the neighbourhood of the Borough, and was now living with his brothers in apartments on the second floor of a house in the Poultry, over the passage leadin0 to the Queens Head Tavern, and opposite to one of the City Companies halls the Ironmongers, if I mistake not. I have the associating reminiscence of many happy hours spent in this abode. Here was determined upon, in great Isart written, and sent forth to the world, the first little, but vigorous offspring of his brain POEMS By JOHN KEATS. What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty! Rite of the Batterjly. Spenser. London: Printed for C. and J. Ollier, 3, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square. 1817. And here, on the evening when the last pruof-~heet was brought from the lsrinter, it was accomlsanied by the information that if a dedication to the book ~vas in tended it must be sent forthwith. Whereupon he withdrew to a side table, and in the lsuzz of a mixed conversation (for there were several friends in the room) he composed and brought to Charles Ollier, the Isuislisher, the Dedication Son- net to Leigh Hunt. If the original manu- script of that p~m a legitimate sonnet, with every restriction of rhyme and metre could now be produced, and the time recorded in which it was written, it ~vould be pronounced an extraordinary perform- ance: added to which the non-alteration RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. of a single word in the poem (a circum- stance that ~vas noted at the time) claims for it a merit with a very rare parallel. The remark may be here subjoined that, had the composition been previously pre- pared for the occasion, the mere writing it out would have occupied fourteen min- utes ; and lastly, when I refer to the time occupied in composing the sonnet on The Grasshopper and the Cricket, I can have no hesitation in believing the one in question to have been extempore. The poem which commences the vol- ume, says Lord Houghton in his first memoir of the poet, was suggested to Keats by a delightful summ ers day, as he stood beside the gate that leads from the battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by Caen Wood ; and the following lovely passage he himself told me was the recollection of our having frequently loitered over the rail of a foot-bridge that spanned (probably still spans, notwith- standing the intrusive and shouldering railroad) a little brook in the last field upon entering Edmonton Lin~er awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlets rushy banks, And watch intently Natures gentle doings; They will be found softer than ring-doves cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend! Not the minutest whisper does it send To the oer-hanging sallows; blades of grass Slowly across the chequerd shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets, crc they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon oer their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their w vy bodies gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temperd with coolness. How they wrestle Wit/i their own delmght, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand! Ifyoze but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain; But turn your eye and they are there again. He himself thought the picture correct, and acknowledged to a partiality for it. Another example of his promptly sug- gestive imagination, and uncommon fa- cility in giving it utterance, occurred one day upon returning home and finding me asleep on the sofa, with a volume of Chaucer open at the Flower and the Leaf. After expressing to me his ad- miration of the poem, which he had been reading, he gave me the fine testimony of that opinion in pointing to the sonnet he bad written at the close of it, which was an extempore effusiort, and without the alteration of a single word. It lies be- fore me now, signed J. K., Feb., 1817. If my memory do not betray me, this charming out-door fancy-scene was Keatss first introduction to Chaucer. The Troilus and Cresseide was cer- tainly an after-acquaintance with him; and clearly do I recall his approbation of the favourite passages that had been marked in my own copy. Upon being requested, he re-traced the poem, and with his pen confirmed and denoted those which were congenial ~vith his own feeling and judgment. These two cir- cumstances, associated with the literary career of this cherished object of his friends esteem and love, have stamped a priceless value upon that friends minia- ture i8mo copy of Chaucer. The first volume of Keatss minor muse was launched amid the cheers and fond anticipations of all his circle. Every one of us expected (and not un- reasonably) that it would create a sensa- tion in the literary world ; for such a first production (and a considerable portion of it from a minor) has rarely occurred. The three Epistles and the seventeen sonnets (that upon first looking into Chapmans Homer one of them) would have ensured a rousing welcome from our modern-day reviewers. Alas ! the book might have emerged in Timbuctoo with far stronger chance of fame and approba- tion. It never passed to a second edi- tion ; the first was but a small one, and that was never sold off. The whole com- munity, as if by compact, seemed deter- mined to know nothing about it. The word had been l)assed that its author was a Radical; and in those days of Bible- Crown-and-Constitution supremacy, he might have had better chance of success had he been an Anti-Jacobin. Keats had not made the slightest demonstration of political opinions ; but with a conscious feelipg .~f gratitude for kindly encourage- ment, he had dedicated his book to Leigh Hunt, Editor of the E~a;niner, a Radical and a dubbed partisan of the first Napo- leon; because, when alluding to him, Hunt did not always subjoin the fashionable cog- nomen of Corsican Monster. Such an association was motive enough with the dictators of that day to thwart the en- I deavours of a young aspirant who should presume to assert for himself an unre- stricted course of opinion. Verily, the former times were not better than these. Men may now utter a word in favour of civil liberty ~vithout being chalked on the back and hounded out. 182 RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. Poor Keats he little anticipated, and as little merited, the cowardly treatment that was in store for him upon the pub- lishing of his second composition the Endymion. It was in the interval of the two productions that he had moved from the Poultry, and had taken a lodg- ing in Well Walk, Hampstead in the first or second house on the right hand, going up to the Heath. I have an im- pression that he had been some weeks absent at the seaside before settling in this district ; for the Endymion had been begun, and he had made consider-. able advances in his plan. He came to me one Sunday, and we passed the great- er part of the day walking in the neigh- bourhood. His constant and enviable friend, Severn, I remember, was present upon the occasion, by a little circum- stance of our exchanging looks upon Keats reading to us portions of his new poem with which he himself had been pleased ; and never will his expression of face depart from me; if I were a Rey- nolds or a Gainsborough I could now stamp it forever. One of his selections was the now celebrated Hymn to Pan in the first book : O thou whose mighty palace-roof doth hang From jagged roofs; ~vhich alone ought to have preserved the poem from unkindness; and which would have received an awarding smile from the deep-browd himself. And the other selections were the descriptions in the second book of the bower of Adonis, and the ascent and descent of the silver car of Venus, air-borne: Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn, Spun off a drizzling dew. Keats was indebted for his introduc- tion to Mr. Severn to his schoolfellow Edward Holmes, who also had been one of the child-scholars at Enfield for he came there in the frock-dress. Holmes ought to have been an educated musician from his first childhood, for the passion was in him. I used to amuse my- self with the pianoforte after supper, when all had gone to bed. Upon some sudden occasion, leaving the parlour, I heard a scuffle on the stairs, and discovered that my young gentleman had left his bed to hear the music. At other times, during the day, in the intervals of school-hours, he would stand under the window listen- ing. At length he entrusted to me his hearts secret, that ha should like to learn music ; when I taught him his tonic al- phabet, and he soon knew and could do as much as his tutor. Upon leaving school, he was apprenticed to the elder Seeley, the bookseller ; but, disliking his occupation, he left it, I think, before he was of age. He did not lose sight of his old master, and I introduced him to Mr. Vincent Novello, who had made himself a friend to me ; and who, not merely with rare profusion of bounty gave Holmes instruction, but received him into his house and made him one of his family. With them he resided some years. I was also the fortunate means of recommend- ing him to the chief proprietor of the Atlas newspaper; and to that journal, during a long period, he contributed a se- ries of essays and critiques upon the sci- ence and practice of music, which raised the journal into a reference and an author- ity in the art. He wrote for the proprie- tors of the Atlas an elegant little book of dilettante criticism, A Ramble among the Musicians in Germany. And in the latter period of his career he contributed to the Ainsical Times a ~vhole series of masterly essays and analyses upan the masses of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. His own favourite production was a Life of Mozart, in which he performed his task with considerable skill and equal modesty, contriving by means of the great musicians own letters to convert the xvork into an autobiography. I have said that Holmes used to listen on the stairs. In after years, when Keats was reading to me the manuscript of The Eve of St. Agnes, upon the re- peating of the passage when Porphyro is listening to the midnight music in the hall below : The boisterous midnight festive clarion, The kettle-drum and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone The hell door sAnts again, and all I/ic noise is that line, said he, came into my head when I remembered how I used to listen in bed to your music at school. How enchanting ~vould be a record of the germs and first causes of all the greatest artists conceptions I The elder Brunels first hint for his shield in construct- ing the tunnel under the Thames was taken from watching the labour of a sea- insect, which, h~ving a projecting hood, could bore into the ships timber unmo- lested by the waves. It may have been about this time that Keats gave a signal e xainple of his cour RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. 183 age and stamina, in the recorded instance patetic signifying to his pupil, My eyes of his pugilistic contest with a butcher- Bill Soames giv me sich a licker! ~ evi- boy. He told me, and in his character- dently grateful, and considering himself istic manner, of their passage of arms.~ complimented upon being included in the The brute, he said, was tormenting a kit- general dispensation. Keatss entertain- ten, and he interfered; when a threat of- ment with and appreciation of this minor fered was enough for his mettle, and they scene of low life has often recurred to set to. He thought he should be me. But his concurrent personification beaten, for the fellow was the taller and of the baiting, with his positionhis legs stronger; but like an authentic pugilist, and arms bent and shortened till he my young poet found that he had planted looked like Bruin on his hind legs, dab- a blow which told upon his antago- bing his forepa~vs hither and thither, as nist; in every succeeding round, there- the dogs, snapped at him, and now and fore (for they fought nearly an hour), he then acting the gasp of one that had never failed of returning to the weak been suddenly caught and hugged his point, and the contest ended in the hulk own capacious mouth adding force to the being led home. personation, was a remarkable and as In my knowledge of fellow beings, I memorable a display. I am never re- never knew one who so thoroughly com- minded of this amusing relation but it is bined the sweetness with the power of associated with that forcible picture in gentleness, and the irresistible sway of Shakespeare, in Henry VI.: anger, as Keats His indiornation would As a bear encompassd round with dogs,~ have made the boldest grave; and they Who havingpinclzd a few and made 1/tern cry, who had seen him under the influence of The rest stand all aloof and bark at him. injustice and meanness of soul would not forget the expression of his features Keats also attended a prize-fight be- the form of his visage was changed. tween the two most skilful light Upon one occasion, when some local tyr- weights of the day, Randal and Turner; anny was being discussed, he amused the and in describing the rapidity of the party by shouting, Why is there not a blows of the one, while the other was fall- human dust-hole into which to tumble ing, he tapped his fingers on the window such fellows? pane. Keats had a strong sense of humour, I make no apology for recording these although he was not, in the strict sense events in his life ; they are characteris- of the term, a humourist, still less a tics of the natural man, and prove, more- farcist. His comic fancy lurked in the over, that the partaking in such exhibi- outermost and most unlooked-for images tions did not for one moment blunt the of association ; which, indeed, may be gentler emotions of his heart, or vulgar- said to form the components of humour~ ize his inborn love of all that was beauti- nevertheless, they did not extend beyond ful and true. He would never have been the quaint in fulfilment and success. a slang gent, because he had other But his perception of humour, with the and better accomplishments to make him power of transmitting it by imitation, was conspicuous. His own line was the axiom both vivid and irresistibly amusing. He of his moral existence, his civil creed: once described to me his having gone to A thing of beauty is a joy forever, see a bear-baiting, the animal the property and I can, fancy no coarser association of a Mr. Tom Oliver. The performance abl~to vmn him from his faiths Had he not having begun, Keats was near to, and been born in squalor he would have watched, a young aspirant, who had emerged a gentleman. Keats was not an brought a younger under his wing to ~vmt- easily swayable man; in differing with ness the solemnity, and whom he op- those he loved his firmness kept equal pressively patronized, instructing him in pace ~vith the sweetness of his persua- the names and qualities of all the mag- sion, but with the rough and the unlov- nates present. Now and then, in his zeal able he kept no terms within the con- to manifest and impart his knowledge, he ventional precincts, of course, ot social would forget himself, and stray beyond order. the prescribed bounds into the ring, to From Well W~lk he moved to another the lashing resemitment of its comptroller, quarter of the Heath, Wentworth Place, I Mr. William Soames, who, after some think, the name. Here he became a hints of a practical nature to keep back, sharing inmate with Charles Armitage began laying about him with indiscrim- Brown, a retired Russia merchant upon mate and unmitigable~ vivacity, the Pen- an independence and literary leisure. 184 RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. With this introduction their acquaintance self-willed, and mean-souled man and commenced, and Keats never had a more I have unquestionable authority for the zealous, a firmer, or more practical friend last term. To say nothing of personal and adviser than Armitage Brown. Mr. and private transactions, Lord Hough- Brown brought out a work entitled, tons observations, in his life of our poet, Shakespeares Autobiographical Poems. will be full authority for my estimate of Being his Sonnets clearly developed ; Lord Byron. Johnny Keats had in- with his Character drawn chiefly from his j deed a little body with a mighty heart, Works. It cannot be said that the au- and he showed it in the best way not thor has clearly educed his theory ; but, by fighting the bush-rangers in their in the face of his failure upon the main own style though he could have done point, the book is interesting for the that but by the resolve that he would heart-whole zeal and homage with ~vhich produce brain work which not one of he has gone into his subject. Brown ac- their party could exceed; and he did, for companied Keats in his tour in the He b- intheyear 1820 appeared the Lamia, rides, a worthy event in the poets ca- Isabella, Eve of St. Agnes, and the reer, seeing that it led to the production Hyperion that illustrious fragment, of that magnificent sonnet to Ailsa which Shelley said had the character of Rock. As a passing observation, and one of the antique desert fragments; to show how the minutest circun~stance which Leigh Hunt called a gigantic did not escape him, he told me that ~vhen I fragment like a ruin in the desert, or the he first came upon the view of Loch Lo bones of the Mastodon ; and Lord mond the sun was setting, the lake was Byron confessed that it seemed actual- in shade, and of a deep blue, and at the ly inspired by the Titans, and as sublime further end was a slash across it of as ~Eschylus. deep orange. The description of the All this wonderful work was produced traceried window in the Eve of St. in scarcely more than one year, manifest- Agnes, gives proof of the intensity of ingwith healthwhat his brain could his feeling for colour, achieve ; but, alas the insidious disease It was during his abode in Wentworth which carried him off had made its ap- Place, that unsurpassedly savage attacks proach, and he was preparing to go to, upon the Endymion appeared in some or had already departed for, Italy, at- of the principal reviews savage attacks, tended by his constant and self-sacrifi- and personally abusive; and which would Thing friend Severn. Keatss mother died damage the sale of any n~agazine in the of consumption; and he nursed his present day. younger brother, in the same disease, to The style of the articles directed the last; and, by so doing, in all proba- against the ~vriters ~vhom the party had bility hastened his own summons. nicknamed the Cockney School of Upon the publication of the last vol- poetry, may be conceived from its pro- ume of poems, Charles Lamb wrote one ducing the follo~ving speech I heard from of his finely appreciative and cordial Hazlitt: To pay those fellows in their critiques in the Morning Ghronicle. At own coin the way would be to begin with that period I had been absent for some Walter Scott, and have at his clu;np foot. weeks from London, and had not heard Verily the former times were not better of the dangerous state of Keatss health than these. only that he and Severn were going to To say that these disgusting misrep -~ Italy;-~t was, therefore, an unprepared- resentations did not affect the conscious- for shock which brought me the news of ness and self-respect of Keats would be his death in Rome. to underrate the sensitiveness of his na- Lord Houghton, in his 1848 and first ture. He did feel and resent the insult, Biography of Keats, has related the but far more the infrstice of the treat- I anecdote of the young poets introduc- ment he had received; and he told me tion to Wordsworth, with the latters ap- so. They no doubt had injured him in preciation of the Hymn to Pan (in the most ~vanton manner ; but if they, or the ~ Endymion ), which the author had my Lord Byron, ever for one moment been desired tQ repeat, and the Rydal- supposed that he was crushed or even Mount l)Oets 5n~~-capped comment upon cowed in spirit by the treatment he had ~ Hm! a pretty piece of Paganism! received, never were they more deluded. The lordly biographer, with his genial and Snuffed out by an article, indeed! placable nature, has made an amiable He had infinitely more magnanimity, in apology for the apparent coldness of its fullest sense, tlian~that very spoiled, Wordsworths appreciation That it RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. was probably intended for some slight re- buke to his youthful compeer, whom he saw absorbed in an order of ideas that to him appeared merely sensuous, and would have desired that the bright traits of Greek mythology should be sobered down by a graver faith. Keats, like Shake- speare, and every other real l)oet, put his whole soul into ~vhat he had imagined, portrayed, or embodied; and hence he appeared the true young Greek. The wonder is that Words~vorth should have forgotten the quotation that might have been made from one of his own deserved- ly illustrious sonnets The world is too much with us. . . Great God! Id rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less for- lorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. From Keatss description of his men- tors manner, as well as behaviour that evening, it would seem to have been one of the usual ebullitions of egotism, not to say of the uneasiness known to thos.e who were accustomed to hear the great moral philosopher discourse upon his own pro- ductions, and descant upon those of a contemporary. During that same inter- view, some one having observed that the next Waverley novel was to be Rob Roy, Wordsworth took down his vol- time of Ballads, and read to the company Rob Roys Grave ; then, returning it to the shelf, observed I do not know what more Mr. Scott can have to say upon the subject Leigh Hunt, upon his first interview with Wordsworth, de- scribed his having lectured very finely upon his own writings, repeating the en- tire noble sonnet, Great men have been among us ~ in a grand and earnest tone that rogue, Christopher North, added, Catch him repeating any other than his own. Upon another and sim- ilar occasion, one of the party had quoted that celebrated passage from the play of Henry V., So work the honey-bees; and each proceeded to pick out his pet plum from that perfect piece of natural history ; when Wordsworth objected to the line, The singing masons building roofs of gold, because, he said, of the unpleasant repetition of i;lg in it \Vhy, where were his poetical ears and judgment? But more than once it has been said that Wordsworth had not a genuine love of Shake~peare that, when he could, he always accompanied a with his con., and, Atticuslike, would just hint a fault and hesitate dis- like. Mr. James T. Fields, in his de- lightful volume of Yesterdays with Au- thors, has an amiable record of his inter- view with Wordsworth; yet he has the following casual remark, I thought he did not praise easily those whose names are indissolubly connected with his own in the history of literature. It ~vas lan- guid praise, at least, and I observed he hesitated for mild terms which he could apply to names almost as great as his own. Even Crabb Robinson more than once mildly hints at the same infirmity. Truly are ~ve all of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. I can scarcely conceive of anything more unjust than the account which that ill-ordered being, Haydon, the artist, left behind him in his Diary respecting the idolized object of his former intimacy, John Keats. After having read the man- uscript specimens that I had left with Leigh Hunt at Haydons own request, I introduced their author to him ; and for some time subsequently I had perpetual opportunities of seeing them together, and I can testify to the laudations that Haydon trowelled on the young poet. Before I left London, however, it had been said that things and opinions had changed; and, in short, that having paid a certain visit to Edinburgh, Haydon had abjured all acquaintance with Leigh Hunt (the man who all but introduced him to the public in the Eramincr, and whom I have heard him gaum with adulation) and, moreover, that he had even i~nored such a person as the author of Sonnets XII I. and XIV., To Haydon. I make no allusion to the grounds of their sepa- ration having heard no word from either party ; but, knowing the two men, and knowing, I believe, to the core the hum~ne~rinciple of the poet, I have such faith in his steadfastness of friendship that I am sure he would never have left behind him even an unfavourable truth; while nothing would have induced him to utter a calumny, especially of one who had received pledges of his former affec- tionate regard and esteem. Haydons detraction was the more odious because its oLject could not contradict the charge, and because it s~plied his old critical antagonists (if any remained) with an au- thority for their charge against him of Cockney ostentation and display. The most mean-spirited and trumpery twaddle in the paragraph was, that Keats was so i86 RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. far gone in sensual excitement as to put he would visit them, and, having gone Cayenne pepper upon his tongue when through a course of medical study in or- taking his claret I In the first place, if der that he might assist them with advice, the stupid trick ever were played, I have would commonly administer the tonic, not the slightest belief in its serious sin- which such systems usually require, of a cerity. During my knowledge of him good basin of broth or pea-soup. And I Keats never purchased a bottle of claret; believe that I am infringing on no private and, from such observation as could not domestic delicacy when repeating that he escape me, I am bound to assert that his has been known upon an immediate ur- domestic expenses never would have oc- gency to purloin ~ Convey the wise it casioned him a regret or a self-reproof; call a portion of the warmest of Mrs. and, lastly, I never perceived in him even Shelleys wardrobe to protect some poor a tendency to imprudent indulgence, starving sister. One of the richer resi- In recurring, after a lapse of so many dents of Marlow told me that they all years, to the above odious act of ingrati- considered him a madman. I wish he tude in Haydon, I cannot but feel glad had bitten the whole squad. that the record of the scandal * did not No settled senses of the world can match reach me during the life of it~ promul- The wisdom of that madness. gator; as I might have given way to a natural if a non-magnanimous impulse of Shelleys figure ~vas a little above the reprisal, middle height, slender, and of delicate When Shelley left England for Italy construction, which appeared the rather Keats told me that he had received from from a lounging or waving mann erin his him an invitation to become his 0u and, in short, to make one of his est, gait, as though his frame was compound- house- ed barely of muscle and tendon; and that hold. It was upon the purest principle the power of walking was an achieve- that Keats declined his nol)le proffer, for ment with him and not a natural habit. he entertained an exalted opinion of Yet I should suppose that he was not a Shelleys genius in itself an induce- valetudinarian, although that has been ment; he also knew of his deeds of said of him on account of his spare and bounty, and, from their frequent social vegetable diet: for I have the remem- intercourse, he had full faith in the sin- brance of his scampering and bounding cerity of his proposal; for a more crystal- over the gorse-bushes on Hampstead line heart than Shelleys has rarely Heath late one .nigh t,now close upon. throbbed in human bosom. He was in- us, and now shouting from the height capable of an untruth, or of deceit in any like a wild school-boy. He was both an form. Keats said that in declining t he active and an enduring walker feats invitation his sole motive was the con- which do not accompany an ailing and sciousness, which would be ever preva- feeble constitution. His face was round, lent with him, of his being, in its utter flat, pale, with small features ; mouth extent, not a free agent, even within such beautifully shaped; hair bright brown a circle as Shelleys he himself, never- and wavy; and such a pair of eyes as are theless, being the most unrestricted of rarely in the human or any other head, beings. Mr. Trelawney, a familiar of the intensely blue, with a gentle andlambent family, has confirmed the unwavering expression, yet wonderfully alert and en- testimony to Shelleys bounty of nature. grossino~ nothing appeared to escape where he says, Shelley was a being hiA kt~wledge.~ absolutely without selfishness. The Whatever peculiarity there might have poorest cottagers knew and benefited by been in Shelleys religious faith, I have his thoroughl~rpractical and unselfish na- the best authority for believing that it was ture during his residence at Marlow, when confined to the early period of his life. * I am reminded The practical result of its course of ac in upon this occasion, and have ex- lion I a quisite pleasure aptly quoting the following passa~e m sure, had its source from the from the recent production of the author of Frien~1s Sermon on the Mount. There is not in Council, Animals and their Masters, p. 25: one clause in that Divine code which his Some girls were asked by one of our inspectors of schools, at a school examination, whether they knew conduct towards his fellow mortals did what was the me~ning of the word scandal. One not confirln an~substantiate him to be- little girl stepped vigorously forsvard, and throwi her in action a follower of Christ. Yet, when hand up in that semaphore fashion by which children indicate the possession of knowledge, attracted the the news arrived in London of the death notice of the inspector. He desired her to answer the of Shelley and Captain Williams by question, upon which she uttered these memorable drownin words,Nobody does ezo4Si;eg, and everybody goes g near Spezzia, an evening jour- on telling of ii everywhere. nal of that day capped the intelligence RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS. iS~ with the following remark He will now know whether there is a Hell or not. I hope there is not one journalist of the present day who would dare to utter that surmise in his record. So much for the progress of freedom and the power of opinion. At page 100, Vol. I., of his first Life of Keats, Lord Houghton has quoted a literary portrait which he received from a lady who used to see him at Hazlitts lec- tures at the Surrey Institution. The building was on the south, right-hand side, and close to Blackfriars Bridge. I helieve that the whole of Hazlitts lectures on the British poets and the writers of the time of Elizabeth were delivered in that institution during the years 1817 and i8i8 shortly after which the establish- ment appears to have been broken up. The ladys remark upon the character and expression of Keatss features is both happy and true. She says His countenance lives in my mind as one of singular beauty and briThtness; it had an expression as if he liadbeen looking on some glorious sz~gkt. Thats excellent. His mouth was full, and less intellect- ual than his other features. True again. But when our artist pronounces that his eyes were large and blue, and that ~ his hair was auburn, I am naturally reminded of the Chameleon fable They were brown, Maam brown, I assure you ! The fact is, the lady ~vas enchanted and I cannot wonder at it with the whole character of that beaming face; and blue and auburn being the favourite tints of the front divine in the lords of the creation the poets eyes consequently became blue and his hair auburn. Colours, however, vary with the prejudice or partiality of the spectatox; and, moreover, people do not agree upon the most palpable prismatic tint. A writing-master whom we had at Enfleld was an artist of more than ordi- nary merit, but he had one dominant de- fect, he could not distinguish between true blue and true green. So that, upon one occasion, when he was exhibiting to us a landscape he had just completed, I hazarded the critical question, why he painted his trees so blue? Blue! he replied, What do you call green? Reader, alter in your copy of the Life of Keats. Vol. I., page 103, eyes l(gltt hazel~ hair lzgletish brown and wavy. The most pe:fect and favourite por- trait of him was the onethe firstby Severn, published Ln Leigh Hunts Lord Byron and his Contemporaries, which I remember the artist sketching in a few minutes one evening, when several of Keatss friends were at his apartments in the Poultry. The portrait prefixed to the Life (also by Severn) is a most ex- cellent one-look-and-expression likeness an every-day and of the earth, earthy one ; and the last, which the same artist painted, and which is now in the possession of Mr. John Hunter, of Craig Crook, Edinburgh, may be an equally felicitous rendering of one look and manner; but I do not intimately recognize it. There is another and a curi- ously unconscious likeness of him in the charming Dulwich Gallery of Pictures. It is in the portrait of Wouvermans, by Rembrandt. It is just so much of a re- semblance as to remind the friends of the poet, although not such a one as the im- mortal Dutchman would have made had the poet been his sitter. It has a plain- tive and melancholy expression ~vhich, I rejoice to say, I do not associate with Keats. There is one of his attitudes during familiar conversation which at times (with the whole earnest manner and sweet expression of the man) ever presents itself to me as though I had seen him only last xveek. How gracious is the boon that the benedictions and the bless- ings in our life-careers last longer, and recur with stronger influences, than the ill-deeds and the curses ! The attitude I speak of was that of cherishing one leg over the knee of the other, smoothing the instep with the palm of his hand. In this action I mostly associate him in an eager parley with Leigh Hunt in his little Vale of Health cottage. This position, if I mistake not, is in the last portrait of him at Craig Crook; if not, it is a reminiscent one, painted after his death. His stature could have been very little more than five feet ; but he was, withal, compactly made and~welJ-proportioned; and before the hereditary disorder which carried him off began to show itself, he was active, athletic, and enduringly strong as the fight with the butcher gave full attestation. His perfect friend, Joseph Severn, writes of him Here in Rome, as I write, I look back through forty years of worldly changes, and behold Keatss dear image again ~n memory. It seems as if he should be li~ng with me now, inas- much as I never could understand his strange and contradictory death, his fall- ing away so suddenly from health and strength. He had a fine compactness of person, which we regard as the promise i88 EXPLORATIONS OF A NATURALIST. the worlds intellectual homage and re- nown. A l)assage in one of Keatss letters to me evidences that he had a firm belief in the immortality of the soul, and, as he adds, so had Tom, whose eyes he had just closed. I once heard him launch into a rhapsody on the genius of Moses, who he said deserved the benediction of the whole world, we~-e it only for his in- stitution of the ~~Sabbath.~c But Keats was no Sabbatarian in the modern conventional acceptation of the term. Every day, he once said, was Sab- batl~to him, as it is to every grateful mind, for blessings momentarily bestowed upon us. This recalls Wordsworths lines, where he tells us that Nature, Still constant in her worship, still Conforming to th eternal ~vill, Whether men sow or reap the fields, Divine admonishments she yields, That not by hand alone we live, Or what a hand of flesh can give; That every day should have some part Free for a Sabbath of the heart: So shall the seventh be truly blest, From morn to eve with hallowd rest. Sunday was indeed Keatss day of rest, and I may add, too, of untainted mirth and gladness ; as I believe, too, of unprofessing, unostentatious gratitude. His ~vhole course of life, to its very last act, was one routine of unselfishness and of consideration for others feelings. The approaches of death having come on, he said to his untiring nurse-friend: Severn I lift me up. I am dy- ing. ~shall die e sy; dont befrzghtened; be firm, and thank God it has come. of longevity, and no mind ~vas ever more exultant in youthful feeiincr The critical world by which term I mean the censorious portion of it, for many have no other idea of criticism than that of censure and objection the crit- ical world have so gloated over the fee- bler, or, if they ~vi11, the defective side of Keatss genius, and his friends have so amply justified him, that I feel inclined to add no more to the cate~ory of opinions than to say that the only fault in his po- etry I could discover ~vas a redundancy of imagery that exuberance, by the ~vav, being a quality of the greatest promise seeing that it is the constant ac- companiment of a young and teeming genius. But his steady friend, Leigh Hunt, has rendered the amplest and tru- est record of his mental accomplishment in the preface to his Foliage, quoted at page i~o of the first volume of the Life of Keats and his biographer has so zealously, and, I would say, so amiably, summed up his character and in- tellectual qualities, that I can add no more than my assent. With regard to Keatss political opin- ions I have little doubt that his whole civil creed was comprised in the master principle of universal liberty viz Equal and stern justice to all, from the duke to the dustman. There are constant indications through the memoirs and in the letters of Keats of his profound reverence foP Shakespeare. His own intensity of thought and expres- non visibly strengthened ~vith the study of his idol ; and he knew but little of him till he had himself become an author. A marginal note by him in a folio copy of the plays is an example of the complete absorption his mind had undergone dur- ing the process of his matriculation and, through life, however long with any of us, we are all in progress of matriculation, as we study the myriad-mindeds system of philosophy. The note that Keats made was this: The genius of Shake- From Chambers Journal. speare was an innate universality; EXPLORATIONS OF A NATURALIST. wherefore he laid the achievements of MR. THOMAS BELT, a young English- human intellect prostrate beneath his in- man, skilled as a geologist and a zealous dolent and kingly gaze ; he could do easily amateur in natural history, proceeded in mens utmost. His plan of tasks to come i868 to Nicaragua as an employd in con- was not of this world. If what he pro- nection with a gold-mining concern in posed to do hereafter would not in the that part of Central America. On return- idea answer the aim, how tremendous ing home he h~s written a work partly must have been his conception of ulti- descriptive of the country, but chiefly to mates I I question whether any one of I tell us about the amazing abundance and Ahe recognized high priests of the temple variety of animal life which he discov- has uttered a loftier homily in honour of ered in his explorations. Some men Now burning through the inmost veil of Heaven The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beams from the abode where the Eternal are. EXPLORATIONS OF A NATURALIST. 189 placed in his onerous position would gers had to sit in the boat night and day, have taken little heed of anything be- covered in the case of rain, by an uin- yond their professional sphere. He, on brella and tarpaulin, but not so easily the contrary, does not appear to have lost sheltered from the attacks of mosquitoes. an opportunity of acquiring useful infor- Every morning there was a short relaxa- mation and extending the boundaries of tion. The canoe pulled ashore for break- science a good example to be followed fast, which was prepared by one of the in the circumstances. negroes from a store of provisions; the In The Naturalist iii Nicaragua, as repast being followed by a stroll in the hi~ book is named, little is said of politi- shade of the forest, surrounded by palms, cal affairs, and we can just crather that tree-ferns, and other tropical plants. Af- everything in that respect is in as rudi- ter passing the point where the Colorado mentary and hopeless a condition as is branched off, the country became more customary in dominions settled and mis- picturesque, the forests were grander, managed by Spaniards. For the coun- and the insects more numerous. try, nature has done much lavished on Lounging about at the periods of land- it the finest of climates, clothed it in pic- lug, opportunities were offered for study- turesque beauty, and criven it a bounteous ing the marvels of insect life. Two kinds fertility. Man has done nothing. Indo- of ants were specially interesting: the lence and incapacity reign over all. Land- Ecitons, or foraging ants, which live ing in February at Greytown, on the wholly on insects or other prey and the Atlantic side of the country, Mr. Belt leaf-eating, or vegetable feeding ants. found himself on a level shore, with a The former of these hunt about every- back-ground of scrub and forest inter- where, search every cranny in the bark spersed with lagoons and pools, less of trees for cockroaches, spiders, or any malarious than might be expected, in other animal they can attack, wrench in consequence of the blowing of the trade- pieces, and carry off piecemeal to be de- winds. In a branch of the San Juan voured. Marching in armies three or river he observed alligators hovering four yards wide, they are the terror of. about for a prey. On walking into the grasshoppers and spiders, which in vain swampy forest, the eye is dazzled with seek refuge in the trees. The ants climb the number of parrots, toucans, and tana- up in pursuit : every twig is examined gers, also no end of beautiful insects, in- and dropping in terror from the branches, cluding striped and spotted butterflies, the poor refugees fall to the ground into and hairy beetles of different colours, the midst of the devouring host. The As insectivorous birds abstain from spiders attempt to save themselves by touching hairy caterpillars, nature has spinning a fine thread, at the end of which covered the beetles with hairs, so that they may suspend themselves in mid-air, they may be similarly saved from their swinging between foes above and below. winged enemies. Concealing their an- In the armies of these Ecitons, there is a tenn~e at their sides, for sake of protec- division of labour. Some of the larger tion, these beetles are described as imi- size act as officers of companies, and by tative caterl)illars. In this, we are re- movements of their antenn~ direct the minded of different species of insects line of march ; others act as scouts or that are protected by their resemblance explorers ; and a third class, in the capa- to leaves, twigs, and flowers, city of labourers, dismember the bodies of In the centre of the country lies the the victims, and drag them away for food. great lake of Nicaragua, extending a hun- These, like some other ants, follow their dred and twenty miles in length by a scouts more by scent than by sight. breadth of from fifty to sixty miles. This Led on by commanders, their armies are inland sea, as it may be called, has an numbered by millions, and it would be outlet eastward by a river, which parts difficult to conceive the vigour with into two branches, one of them the which they carry out their exp~clitions. Colorado, the other the San Juan. It For intelligence, Mr. Belt places them at was up the latter branch that our author the head of the Articulata. Their cere- proceeded by a monthly mail-boat to bral ganglia are more developed than in Chontales, the place of his destination, other insects. ~ome instances are given The boat was simply an open canoe, hol- of their ingenuifv. 0 n one occasion, a lowed out of a log of cedar-tree, and had column on the march having come to a for crew several negroes, who prol)ehled small rivulet to be crossed, they contrived it with their oars. The voyage could not by holding one to the other to form a be called very agreeab~le; foi the passen- bridge, three ants in breadth, over which 190 EXPLORATIONS OF A NATURALIST. they all got in safety. Their discipline in had industriously stripped from the rose- obeying orders is spoken of as remark- trees and cabbages. As any ordinary able. method of obstructing these depredations At about a hundred and twenty miles would have been useless, Mr. Belt fell from Greytoxvn, the canoe reached San upon what promised a wholesale rid- Carlos, situated at the point where the dance. Tracing the ants to a mound full river issues from the lake of Nicaragua. of excavations used as their habitation, The height of the lake is not more than one he poured in a quantity of carbolic acid hundred and seven feet above the mean mixed with water, which flooding the bur- sea-level, and as the greatest elevation rows to the lowest level, produced a wide- between the Atlantic and Pacific is only spread destruction. Those ants that about one hundred and thirty-three feet, were not suffocated, rushed out in a state it would be possible to construct a water- of extreme perplexity. After a consulta- communication for ships between the two tion with outside marauders, working- oceans. By taking advantage of the lake parties were organized to carry away food midway, a navigable channel with few from the stores to a new establishment locks might no doubt be effected. The which was forthwith formed. In per- author before us, however, points out forming this duty, the ants had to de- some difficulties. The tendency in the scend a steep sloping bank. Here, their connecting rivers to silt up is a serious ingenuity in saving labour was demon- objection, and so is the divided nation- strated. When they came to the top of ality of Nicaragua and Costa Rica. In the bank, they rolled down their burdens, the hands of the Anglo-Americans, these which, on reaching the bottom, were im- obstructions would disappear. At pres- mediately carried off by fresh relays of ent, any native enterprise to carry out workers. such an undertaking is altogether hope- In the course of the minino- excava- less. tions in which the writer was engaged, Reaching the lake, there was still a nests of these ants at a considerable voyage of sixty miles, and then ensued a depth were sometimes exposed, and an land-journey over hills amidst Indians opportunity given of studying their inte- whose primitive habits resemble those of nor economy. The younger members the ancient Mexicans. Maize grown on of the community, lie says, are usefully the plains is the principal food of the in- employed in cutting up the leaves into habitants, as it has been from the earliest small pieces for storage. Exempted times; the method of preparing cakes of from the heavy labour out of doors, they it, called ~!or/il/as, having undergone no only ramble about for amusement. Like change. The forests resemble nothing children who like to jump up behind a of the kind in Europe. From nearly carriage, they take the liberty of leaping every bough in the great towering trees, on the leaves which the elderly ants are hangs a natural network of cables, which, dragging along the paths, and so get a intertwining, send down roots, that are ride homewards. The intelligence of cut by the natives, and form their only these leaf-eating ants does not appear to cordage. The trees, as well as the be much inferior to the Eciton species. ground, exhibit large and beautiful flowers Near the gold mines there were tram- in immense profusion, which there is no ways, which at first gave no little concern, winter to diminish. The timber is mag- for troops of marauders were apt to get nificent. crushe4 by the wheels of the cars. Re- At a village adjoining the mines to flecting on this source of danger to life which the author was bent, he settled and limb, the ants fell upon the ra- down in a house with a veranda, not un- tional device of tunnelling roads be- like a Swiss chalet. Connected with it low the rails, which, as if by general was a garden for fruits and vegetables, order, were never afterwards crossed. but these were liable to the ravages of so One scarcely likes to read of a trick many insects that the valuable produce which a Spanish Don played off on a came to little. The chief depredators colony of leaf-eatino- ants. This personage were the leaf-eating ants (~codoma), discovered that the~y could be driven mad which, streaming from the forests, laid by tasting corro~ve sublimate. Sprink- bare and ragged every plant suitable to ling a little of this powder in one of their their appetite. For convenience, they paths, the ants no sooner touched it than came along ant-paths, empty-handed, they ran about as if frantic, attacking carrying away, in their return journey other ants that came in their way, and the leaves in their r~ouths which they1 tremendous battles ensued. News of the EXPLORATIONS OF A NATURALIST. 191 commotion being carried to their nest, ants of a po\verful and determined char- acter issued forth, in the capacity of mag- istrates, to allay the tumult, but they, too, coming in contact ~vith the corrosive sub- limate, became as mad as the others, and the conflict went on till the field was strewn with the wounded and dismem- bered bodVs of the combatants. That these ants actually eat the brok~n- down leaves with which their nests are stored, seems to be by no means conclu- sive. Our author offers an explanation which may not, perhaps, be readily ac- cepted by naturalists. He gives it as his belief that the ants make use of the leaves as manure, or mass of decaying matter, on which grows a minute species of fungus, on which they feed that they are in reality mushroom growers, and eat- ers. T) verify this supposition, he men- tions having discovered in the interior of a nest a speckled brown, flocculent, spongy-looking mass of a light and loose- ly connected substance. The mass, he adds, was overgrown and lightly con- nected together by a minute white fun- gus, that ramified in every direction through it. Such, he contends, is the ant-food, which is carefully watched, and carried away in cases of danger to the community. No doubt, any mass of broken leaves would, in the confinement of a cell in a warm climate, soon become putrid, even although the ants, as we are informed, have the skill to construct shafts for ventilation. The rather curi- ous and confidently maintained theory, that these so called leaf-eating ants do not eat leaves at all, but carry them off in order to rear fungi for food on the de- caving mass, is worth the consideration of investigators acquainted with this branch of science. Mr. Belt gives some valuable informa- tion respecting the geology of the dis- trict, and the nature of the lodes, which will be appreciated by those concerned in gold-mining. For all useful details, we refer them to his very interesting work. We might offer the same counsel to all who wish to know the social char- acteristics of the country. What the nar- rator says of the sloth and ignorance of even the more affluent classes, is past or- dinary credence. Sunk in self-indul- pence, they would prefer to submit to any inconvenience rather than put themselves to the smallest industrial exertion. The general ignorance is grotesquely pictured in describing a person ~f moi~e than or- dinary accomplishments, whose house was hospitably opened during a journey across the country. He possessed a small library of books, nearly all being missals and prayer-books; and he had a little knowledge of geography, but as regards England he was sadly defi- cient. That it was a small island, he admitted was new to him, as he thought it was part of the United States, or at least joined to them. As a climax to his ignorance, he asked if it was true that Rome was one of the four quarters of the globe. Droll, but very melancholy! The ignorance of these Central Ameri- cans appears to go far beyond that of the most abject and illiterate of the popula- tion in Great Britain. We have little space for the further ex- plorations of this indefatigable naturalist. His accounts of humming-birds, gems of beauty; of the nests of certain birds hanging from trees ; of parrots which construct their dwellings in the ground near the nests of ants, conveniently close to a highly relished variety of food ; and of wasps that have strange ways of living, all must be passed over. Ants of one kind or other, we should say, form the staple topic of the volume. They cast up in all quarters. One species of a small size differ very distinctly from all the rest. Instead of making their nests in the ground, and roving about in a pre- datory fashion, they assume the duty of protecting plants in which they take up their residence. On the plant that spe- cially commands their services there grow hollow thorns, adapted for their abode. There they continually reside, deriving food from a minute kind of fruit of a lus- cious description suitable for their sus- tenance. These fruits do not ripen all at once. They come to maturity one after the other, to keep up a proper suc- cession of nutriment; the ants always running ~bout to examine the progress of ripening. In requital for board and lodg- ing, these valiant little warriors, like household troops, defend the plant against all comers, whether mammalia or articu- lata. Few things are calculated to im- press us more strongly with the wonders of animal life in this part of the world, than the description of these tiny warrior ants. To Mr. Belt, for what he has re- lated on this af~l other subjects, all proper thanks must be awarded. We heartily commend his unassuming work to the notice of all who are curious in natural history. w. C. MISCELLANY. 192 MR. EDWARD ATKINSON, an American writer on Cotton culture in the South, once predicted that cotton would be soxVn in hot- beds and planted out. A recent official report from Georgia tells us that an experiment of this kind has been tried by a planter there with perfect success. He dug long pits about three or four feet deep, and had a number of boxes made with shavings, larger at the top than at the bottom, placed them on planks at the bottom of this pit, filled them with manure and soft earth, and planted his seed in Jan- uary. He covered the pits with canvas at night and in very cold weather; and in April, when People wore preparing to plant, he had stalks a foot high. He then carried them out on their planks to the field, dug his holes, slipped his plant down, and raised his box out, and thus the plant never felt the change. He made nearly two hales to the acre, and con- tends that it was easier to do this than haul out his stable manure. He is a very practi- cal man, adds the chronicler of this ap- parently well-authenticated piece of intelli- gence, and has made a fortune, which is pretty good evidence of his good sense. The same report states that it is likely that cotton will he grown in California to a certain ex- tent. Some experiments in 1871 were so favourable, that in 1872 a crop of 1500 bales was expected, which would he a crop of about one bale per acre. Last year, it was thought, the average would he more than doubled. The Californian cotton had a ready home market, being found to possess a remarkable fitness for combination with wool in various fabrics. Academy. NEWS has been received by the French Geographical Society from the expedition to Terra del Fuego, under M. Pertuiset. The landing was effected on December 7 last, and the members of the expedition, armed to the teeth, at once proceded inland in the direction of Cape Horn. Their first discovery was an exquisitely beautiful lake, from twenty to twenty-five kilom~tres round, covered with thousands of small birds, ducks, and geese. The party gave it the name of their leader. At its south extremity a group of Fuegians was discovered, all of whom escal)ed, with the exception of a woman and two children. In return for some presents the woman gave M. Pertuiset a piece of tin from a box of sar- dines; she was, acIds M. Pertuiset, belle pour sa race. The Fuegians appeared to he hostilely disposed according to last accounts. Only one native hut ~vas discovered, lately abandoned; it contained nothing but dead rats. The report of the expedition is accompa. nied by some details from the French Consul at Valparaiso, relating to the territory of Ma- gellan. That territory includes all the south- em part of Chili, from ocean to ocean, from the isle of Chilo6 to Cape 1-loin. The climate is cold in autumn and winter, but in the other seasons either great heat prevails or violent xvest winds, blowing for whole days together, which render it impossible to get out of doors. The Chilian colony of Punta Arenas, founded in 1843 in the peninsula of l3runs- wick, has been very flourishing for the last four or five years. Its proximity to Terra del Fuego will allow M. Pertuisets expedition to find a refuge there in case of necessity. Its chief wealth is its mining industry ; gold is found in the river in considerable quantities, and the supply of coal is very abundant. The Fuegians, as well as most of the natives of the islands in the Straits of Magellan, are savages; hut the Patagonians, though nomads and hunters, faithfully observe their treaties. Their numher is decreasing every day, but from what precise causes does not appear to be known. Academy. IN conthluation of his exquisite researches on the phenomenon of flight (Co7ny5tAr Rendus, January 12, iS74), M. Marcy has made a series of observations which prove how important a part the onward movement of a bird plays in increasing the efficiency of each wing stroke. For supposing that in its descent the wing did not continually come in contact with a fresh volume of air, it would act at a disadvantage, because the downward impulse which, at the commencement of each stroke, it gives to the air below it, would make that air so much less efficient a resisting medium ; whilst, by con- tinually coming in contact with a fresh body of air, the wing is always acting on it to the best advantage. For this reason, when a bird commences its flight, it turns towards the wind if possible, to make up for its lack of motion on starting. Nature. A WASTED LIFE. What a distressing spectacle is that of a man of talent approach- ing to old age not only without the conscious- neSs & P having employed his abilities to any permanent good purpose for the benefit of mankind, but with the sense of having written in behalf of errors and exploded fallacies all the time, and in favour of a party which has come to natural ruin in the course of time, and can now do nothing for him not even give him sympathy in his misfortune. When such ~. a man reflects on his wasted existence, and conipares his position with that of one who took a directly~opposite course that is, worked for good and not for evil, or, it may be, worked uselessly and misspent his life how painful must be his feelings, if at all sen- sitive I

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The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1559 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. April 25, 1874 0121 1559
The Living age ... / Volume 121, Issue 1559 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. ol. CXXI Fiftli Series, Volume VI. No 1559. April 25, 1874. ~From Beginning, CONTENTS. I. LORD STANHOPE AND THE HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNES REIGN II. A ROSE IN JUNE. Part II. III. MENDELSSOHN. By Ferdinand Hiller. Part III. IV. THE COURTIER OF MISFORTUNE: A BONA- PARTIST STORY. Part II. V. SCEPTICISM AND MODERN POETRY, VI. ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE. By William Cham- bers VII. THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE VIII. YOUTH v. AGE IX. THE ILLNESS OF PRINCE BISMARCK, POETRY. TWILIGHT DREAMS, EARLY SPRING, Blackwoods Magazine, cornhill Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, cornitill Magazine. Blackwoods Magazine, chambers 7ournal, Saturday Review, Spectator, Economist, 195 212 218 227 236 242 248 253 255 94 194 j SWEET MARJORAM, 194 MISCELLANY,.... PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. -4 TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTIO~. For EIGhT DOLLAItC, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIvINo AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of ~Iostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we have to pay comusission for forwarding the money; nor when we club the LiVING Age with another periodical. An extra copy of THE LiVING Aou is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be m~e by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. 94 TWILIGHT DREAMS, ETC. TWILIGHT DREAMS. THEY come in the quiet twilight hour, When the weary day is done And the quick light leaps from the glowing heaps Of wood, on the warm hearth-stone. When the household sounds have died away, And the rooms are silent all, Save the clocks brief tick, and the sudden click Of the embers as they fall; They come, those dreams of the twilight hour, To me, with their noiseless tread, A tearful band, by the guiding hand Of a grave-eyed spirit led. There is no voice within the hall, No footstep on the floor, The childrens laughter is hushed, there is No hand at the parlour door. Like fingers tapping eagerly Against the shuttered frame Where the trailing rose its long branch throws, Beat the great drops of rain. But my heart heeds not the rustling leaves, Nor the rain-falls fitful beat Nor the winds low sigh, as it hurries by On its pauseless path and fleet; For now in the dusk, they gather round, The visions of the past, Arising slow, in the dim red glow, By the burning pine-brands cast. My brow is calmed as with the touch Of an angels passing wing They breathe no word, yet my soul is stirred By the messages they bring. Some in their grasp impalpable, Bear Eden-cultured flowers, That sprang in gloom, from the tear-bathed tomb Of hopes long-buried hours. Some from the fount of memory, Lasting, and pure, and deep, Bring waters clear, though many a year Hath saddened their first fresh sweep; And some in their hands of shadow bear, From the shrine of prayerful thought, A fragrance blest, to the stricken breast, With balm and healing fraught. The night ~vears on, the hearth burns low, The dreams have passed away; But heart and brow are strengthened now For the toil of coming day. Chambers Journal. EARLY SPRING. Now Nature wakes from out her wintry trance, Rejoiced that Winters gone, and Springs at hand Fair, blue-eyed Spring, who, with a proud ad- vance, Hath marched into the land. Strangely the sky hath softened, like the eyes Of some coy maiden just begun to love; The woods are starred with fiowrets, as the skies Are starred at nights above. There drifts of lilies mimic winters snows, Neath branches late by wild winds bent and riven; And the shy hyacinth that earliest blows Brings down the blue of heaven! Each morn gives birth to fresh life-giving airs; And lightly, blithely throb through every- thing All vernal impulses, all vernal stirs, The spirit which is Spring. Chambera~ Journal. SWEET MARJORAM. GODS gardenwhere tall lilies grow, Silver, and golden, and sweet, Where crimson roses only blow To shed their bloom at IIis feet; Purple pansies, with hearts of fire, Violets bathed in their own perfume Amid the rainbow tangle of flowers Can a little herb find room? Gods garden where the thrushes sing Ere Spring has yet begun, W er~arks with dew upon the wing Rise warbling to the sun, Nightingales chant as day grows dim, Gaily glistens the humming-bird Through the choral notes of that great hymn Can a little wren be heard? Herbs will sweeten the bleak hillside Where flowers can never grow; Through winter ~osts the wren will bide, And sing above he snow ; And God accepts with tender love Their service true and sweet Can nightingales or roses give An offering more complete? Sunday Magazine. C. BROOKE. THE HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNE S REIGN. 195 From Blackwoods Marazine. LORD STANHOPE AND THE HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNES REIGN. Wuv is it that the rei~n of Queen Anne is so attractive both to the writer and the reader of history? There are many reasons for this, as we shall pres- ently see; but there is a common cause that gives strength and unity to them all. It is the earliest historical epoch that blends in with our own time, and pre- sents us with historical glories of hero- ism, genius, and statesmanship, belong- ing, as it were, to our own age, and stir- ring us as the history that passes around us, with the freshness and impulse of that present, wherein our countrymen, our friends, and kindred ourselves per- haps are participators. The period belongs to that eighteenth century, remembered by the old among us in our youth, and crowded with me- morials of grand historical events still re- cent and fresh. But it is not in sound alone that Queen Annes reign has its place in the histories that have in them more of the present than the past. If we go back fifteen years from the acces- sion of Queen Anne, and get behind the Revolution, we are in a history that seems to carry us further away from Queen Annes reign than Queen Annes reign is from Queen Victorias. The Reformation, the great Civil War, the Protectorate, the Restoration, and the Revolution, had not yet finished the work that was to be done by successixt convulsions, each shaking society to pieces before it could readjust itself after the latest shattering. But in Queen Annes day all had settled down into the order that still exists. In politics, in lit- erature, in social life, we are all at home, as it were, and among our own people. If the political life were uneventful, the literature debased, the social life vapid, there might be little in the epoch to in- terest or attract us. But all its attributes are stamped with grandeur and energy. It is full of rapid action, of powerful sen- sations, and of great events. Arid it is when these are riot viewed through the apathetic influence of remoteness, as the deeds of a past and ~ndistinctly-chron icled age, or of a distant people, with na- tures and customs unkindred to our own, but as the affairs of our own time and our own land, that there is present so large a fund of interest to welcome the history of them. The affluence of this historical region cannot, we apprehend, be contemplated without envy by authors whose lot it is to labour in more arid districts ; those, for instance, where they have to gather their materials through the sort of quar- rying process termed arch~ology. Na- tions as well as men arrive at maturity by degrees and the events which hap- pen during their infancy or early youth cannot be recollected, and deserve not to be remembered. So spake Principal Robertson when he gracefully gave the whole affair the go-by as dark and fabulous; just as your prosperous gen- tleman evades participation in the lot of those ~vho have to struggle with hard work and poverty. There is, indeed, in the arider regions of historical investiga- tion, some thing strikingly akin to the struggles of genteel poverty striving to hide the baser eh~ments of its lot. Ia the endeavour to cope with the richer neighbour, every little trifle that is not doomed to perpetual sordid use is mar- shalled and displayed. Whatever has glitter or form or cpst about it is posed to catch the eye, like poor Caleb Balder- stones tin flagon. And yet when all is done there is a hardness and thinness visible to every spectator, and a pity is inspired by the palpably meagre effect of all the sedulous efforts to accomplish by diligence and cunning what wealth alone can ~eal~ze. Such being the doom of historical pov- erty to those who grope ihto the dark and fabulous, if it be in their destinies to reach such a period as Britain in the first fifteen years of the eighteenth cen- tury, they are to be congratulated as those who have emerged from poverty to the sudden acquisition of great riches. So great is the ad~ience of this historical reign, that it gives to all comers xvith an open hand. There is no occasion for jostling each workman may separately reap a plentiful harvest. There is room 196 LORD STANHOPE AND THE and opportunity for the stately historic march of a Gibbon or a Macaulay. But there is abundant material, also, for the accomplished minute criticism and ex- position of a Benjamin Disraeli or a Thackeray. Hence many historians have handled the period in many and va- rious ways, so that there is no occasion for those invidious comparisons that can- not be helped when one author does over again the work that has been done by an- other, or undertakes that which some mas- ter-hand has not lived to finish. There are many thoroughly meritorious histories of Queen Annes reign, and the latest Lord Stanhopes is the best of all. It has features and merits that separate it as completely from the others, as if it dealt with regions on the opposite side of the globe. While theirs is either the lamp-odoured work of the recluse or the passionate outcry of the political gladia- tor of the age, his is the estimate of a statesman and patrician of our own days, who, practised in State affairs and the ways of the Court, can with an easy grace take the estimate of like affairs passing in another age. Setting down Lord Stanhopes book, and taking up another of a different order of merit Alisons Life of Marlborough ~ we have a consciousness of the breadth and fertility of this historical field. The historian 5f the great war of later times was tempted away from his own chosen ground by what had ever a fascination for him the career of a great man doing great deeds ; and he followed up this ca- reer in the brilliant flowing style that came so naturally to his pen, and har- monized so well with the mighty and stirring stories he loved to tell. It is true that in the Court itself the materials that make the great pictur- esque epochs of our history do not come up, or rather do not appear in their usual garb and decorations. We have not, as in Mary Tudor, a grim she-bigot unconsciously feeding the flames of fa- naticism to the perpetration of cruelties and slaughters that carry terror and de- pression over the whole land. Nor have we one like her si~ter, with wayward strength of will, in her wild caprices tor turing wise statesmen, and driving them to their wits end, till they are made her accomplices in the death of that rival whose career she followed with hatred and envyings, broken in upon by lurid glances of no less fatal sympathy with her struggles as a royal sister. Nor is Queen Anne in any way like to that royal sister her ancestress ; nor can we even imagine the good queen, under any pos- sible conditions, affording us a like ro- mance of passion, turbulence, and crime. But we have in that period a thorough- ly picturesque self-made queen in Sarah Jennings, Duchess of Marlborough. Be- hold her as she blooms in the canvas of Kneller. After the hard features of war- riors and statesmen after even the worldly and anxious features of Court beautieshere is simple nature at last, as if we had alighted on it at a cottage- door a veritable Phebe Mayflower, with natures bloom upon her cheeks, beautiful in her simplicity, it cannot but cross the gazers thoughts to ask if this can be she who ruled a soverei n with an iron will, until her despotism, becoming intolerable to its good-natured victim, was at last cast off with a revulsion that shook Europe through and through. Here is the face of the only living being that could affect with fear the heart of the great con- quering duke. In him it was the fear that should rather be called timidity the timidity of a deep affection that is ever apprehending possibilities of change or calamity. But on others she cast real practical terror in her power and its vin- dictive use; and when material power had passed away, in the poisoned shafts of a pierciri~ and envenomed wit. A~ain, can this be old Sarah, who, alone in her gran- deur and wealth, greedy and grasping, adding field unto field, burying herself in bonds, bills, and debentures, could cast a scornful gift of ten thousand pounds at the Boanerges of St. Stephens, to encour- age him in his fierce philippics against her great politi~al foe ? Remembering all these things, a change seems to have swept over those lines of innocence and beauty. It is somewhat as in the old ro- mances, when insensibly the angel form resolves itself into the demons. Under HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNES REIGN. [97 the blooming cheeks, and rosy lips, and full lively eyes, we seem to trace the la- tent lines of hardness and fierceness that strengthened themselves into the charac- ter of the great Sarah. And then how grand is the historical figure that comes forth to us in her hus- band, the Conquering Duke! In no one else not even in George Washin~gton have we so grand a combination of the most valuable qualities in the man of ac- tion, the heroic soldier, the consum- mate tactician, the imperturbable and sa- gacious diplomatist, the wise, firm, and liberal home statesman. In no great commander do we find so much of duty and so little of self. His career is a great. lesson, wherein statesmen should learn how to suppress that diseased element in every public service that looks to the claims of the man rather than those of the country It is in military office, where it is the most dangerous, that this dis- eased source of action is the rifest. Over and over again has the claims of this man or that man to promotion or command weighed against the risk of a defeated project and the loss of many human lives. There was none of this in Marlborough. He took ever the place assigned to him. When Dutch deputies were selfish and unreasonable, and he might put them to shame or paralyze them by some great blow dealt against their consent, be would not peril the common cause to enhance the lustre of his own military renown. He gave way with graceful alacrity to all humours and ambitions and interests, without a thouoht for bimself, if it seemed conducive ultimately to the success of the great interests at stake that he should give way. There is a pleasant Castor- and-Pollux conception about his co-opera- tion with Prince Eugene two men, each an independent commander-in-chief, yet both working together through a long succession of great warlike operations in perfect harmony, without a single inter- ruption. No doubt Eugene was a great man among commanders generally but he was far below the level of his col- league. It suited his great companions policy, however, that they should be counted in all things~s equals. One less endowed with a high sense of duty would have either bowed the young prince down to his place as a subordinate, or would have driven him from his command, to be replaced by some tried soldier of lower birth who would fall naturally into his place. But Marlborough accepted him in the high place due, if he could hold it, to his birth and nationality, and trained and helped him to the performance of brilliant achievements. Marlborough had an abundant store of the minor social virtues. He was hu- inane, not only in the negative sense of abstinence from infliction, but in the posi- tive sense of investing labour and thought and self-sacrifice in the prevention or mitigation of human suffering. He was socially tolerant and polite abroad, and an affectionate husband and father at home. He was peaceful and unfactious as a public citizen. He bore without a murmur the sudden check upon his grand career. He had his step firmly placed on French soil, and inevitably he would have marched onwards and dictated to Louis the Grand in Paris. What history would have been had the events of 1815 and i87o been thus forestalled we can but guess but it is a great thing, in taking the incidents that enable us to take the measure of a mans character and capa- city, to know how nearly it had been done, and how benignly the great hero obeyed the order to halt and return. And yet we find all this grandeur and beauty of character stained with foul re- proaches reproaches of falsehood, of treachery, and of greed developing itself in absolute acts of peculation. Surely no hu~ian~ character that ever crossed the stage of life has stronger claim for full and close examination, both of its virtues and its defects. There never was a stronger claim on the renowned maxim Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. For any of the allow- ances and palliations conceded to the weaknesses of genius there is no room here. The stro~g commanding nature of Marlboroughs practical genius neither invites nor deserves palliation. His strength did not run in the wild wayward currents that drifted natures like that of 193 LORD STANHOPE AND THE Charles XII. or of Nelson to success or ruin. But if the examination of such a char- acter should be rigid and remorseless, it should be made in measurements ac- cordincr to the dimension of the charac- ter. The servant in plush should be hon- est and faithful, and so should the right honourable servant of the Crown, who works as a Cabinet minister; but we measure the honesty and fidelity of the two with separate scales. For Marlbor- ough, we require to take a rule of meas- urement far beyond that of even an ordi- nary Minister of the Crown. He xvas one of the great powers of Europe, guided by the influences rather of a sovereign than of a sovereigns servant. It was an a~ e when high command was almost exclu- sively the prerogative of royal persons. The organization of armies was adjusted so as jealously to exclude from the com- mand of large forces men who had not been trained to the accomplishment of command, as apart from the mere routine of field duty. But, among the fi~hting German States, it was only the members of royal houses that had the opportunity of imbibing this high class of military education. Yet here was the son of an Enolish oentle man stepping into supreme command over all of them with the easy grace of one born in the purple. He had members of reigning houses under him in subordinate command such as Prince Louis of Baden and the Prince of holstein. The jealous Dutch deputies sulemnly conceded in their communica- tions with him the etiquettes due to a soy- ereb~n He called on that madcap Charles XII., as one friend on another natted him on the back, and drew him off from some of the wildest and most dan- gerous of his eccentricities. Then Marl- borough became himself a sovereign prince. He was invested with the princi- pality of Mindelheim on the Danube near that town of Hochstadt where he gained his crowning victory. He bore upon his coat-armorial the double-headed eagle of the sovereign princes of the Holy Roman Empire. XVhen baffled in his design to march on Paris, there might have opened to him such a career as that followed by Wallenstein; but his nature soared above all such projecis of wayward and mis- chievous ambition. These few remarks go only to the point, not that his character should be spared in the examination of his conduct because of his grea~tness, but that it should be tested by other measures than those applicable to the ordinary run of re- spectabilities and disrespectabilities. To the adept in eological, and mineralogical, and chemical science, the mammoth and the encrinite must both be examined with an equal devotion to abstract truth; yet the phenomena of the two will be found at distant extremes of animal na- ture. So of the ba~altic crystallizations of the Giants Causeway, and the speci- mens of fluor-spar or crystallized agates in the mineralogists cabinet. It is the misfortune of history that there are dis- turbing elements in such inquiries ; and the greater the historical nature to he examined, the more powerful are the dis- torting influences. This is not the place where an attempt can be made to brii g the whole question of Marlborouohs character and conduct to what in pirlia- mentary and diplomatic language is called a satisfactory conclusion. There would be far too much elaborate estab- lishment of matter of fact, and of close criticism in its tenor when it is estab- lished, to be accomplished in a c suM paper. We can but look on his character and career from without, saying a word on the qualities of grandeur and beauty that adorn them ; and perhaps these can hardly be better felt than in reading the not enthusiastic estimate of him by two men who knew him both great men both unlike to him, and unlike to each other. The one of these was Boling- broke, who said of him He was the soul of the Grand Alliance against the French. AlthouTh u;z Izoz,z;zze ;zoz zeaze a private individuala subjecthe acquired by his talent and activity a greater influence in public affairs than his high birth, established authority, and the crown of England, had procured for the Prince of Orange. Not only were all the, pasts of that great machine pre- served by him more entire, and in a state of more complete union, but he, in a manner, aoimated the whole, and com- municated to it a more rapid and better sustained movement. To the protracted and often disastrous campaigns which had taken place under the Prince of Orange, succeeded warlike scenes lull of action ; and all those in which he himself had the directio~were crowned with the most brilliant success. He showed him- self at once the greatest general and the most skilful minister of his time. This is the saying of a statesman, his rival and enemy. The other is from a statesman too; but be speaks in the HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNE S REIGN. 99 other character, more esteemed by him- self, of a master of the ceremonies. If a philosopher were said to be a good dancer, we would take a dancing-masters certificate on the point so in the case of good ridino we would a huntsmans or a jockeys, as the case might be. So also, in the question of a mans possession of the graces, we are safe in the hands of Chesterfield. Of Marlborougli he said: The Graces protected and pro- rnoted him. His manner was irresisti- ble. It was by this engagin~ graceful manner that he was enabled during all the war to connect the various and jar- ring powers of the Grand Alliance, and to carry them on to the main object of the war, notwithstanding their private and separate views, jealousies, and wrong- headedness. Whatever Court he went to and he was often obliged to go to restive and refractory ones he brought them into his measure. The Pensionary Heinsius, who governed the United Provinces for forty years, was absolutely governed by him. He was always cool, and nobody ever observed the least varia- tion in his countenance. He could re- fuse more easily than others could grant and those who xvent from him the most dissatisfied as to the substance of their business, were yet charmed by his man- ner, and as it were comforted by it. * When his victorious career was sud- denly stopped, and the Treaty of Utrecht carried, there was much lamentation on the one side, and but little exultation on the other, since it was not a creditable story to boast about that a xvaiting maid had done it. And yet when we look back to it at this time, it is difficult to say that the treaty was a permanent calamity to Britain. We do not deal much in ab- stract glory, not deeming it a valuable commodity unless it is the companion of duty and public benefit. Even a suc- cessful march to Paris might have brought more perplexity than permanent benefit to the British empire. The leaving the Bourbons on the throne of Spain, if a calamity, was not a measurable calamity: the country, if it might have had better, might have had worse governors and in any case, the character of the governors it was to have could not be so weighed and anticipated that the one could be pronounced so much more valuable than the other as to justify a bloody war. Be- fore the treaty, Marlborough had already done the real work whence Europe prof * Passages cited in A1~on s Life, i. 88, 89. ited. It was to drive the demon of con- quest and supremacy out of Louis XIV. and his successors on the throne of France, by showing that the power which seemed to aim at a new universal empire was assailable and subduable. This xvas a service felt less by Britain than by Germany and the minor States of the Continent. At home, Marlboroughs victorious career conferred on his coun- try a blessing of another, and a less dubi- ous or questionable kind. Without it the union of England and Scotland might not have been effected and the supposi- tion of what might have been to both countries had the reign of Queen Anne passed without the accomplishment of that healing measure, opens up one of the most dreary and desperate visitas ever realized by those historical specula- tors who deal in the conditions that might have been but were not. Such specula- tions may be ridiculed as vain and use- less but we cannot estimate the public services of great men without some in- dulgence in them. It is impossible to look at the history of Europe for the year from xSi~ downwards, without thinkin ~, of what it might have been had the battle of Waterloo been the reverse of what it was and we cannot estimate Marlboroughs services to Britain with- out a consideration of what the empire would have been without the Union of 8707. His sagacity saw at once the his- torical conditions that must madden the Scots a~ainst their neighbors if both continued separate nations under one sovereign. That sovereign would live in the stronger nation : his advisers would be there and when their advice was. offensive to the nation poor and distant, they would tell him to use the power of the greater nation to bring the other to reason. With the heir of the house of Stewart at the Court of France, where his title was solemnly acknowledged with Sc6tlaiAd outraged and hostile after the affair of Darien with a declaration by Scotland that no occupant of the throne of England should rule her while her wrongs were unredressed with an army gathered on each side of the Border, nothing almost can be more certainly predicted as the effect of sufficient causes than that Louis XIV. would have defeated. the project of U~ion had his hands not been full of desperate work at home. How vital the crisis was, and how narrow the escape, is shown in the simple fact, that when a turn in the war in Spatn re- leased a part of the French force in the 200 LORD STANHOPE AND THE year after the Union, it was sent on an expedition to Scotlanda hopeless ex- pedition, since, under the good star of the fortunes of the British empire, a was a few months too late for mischief that might have been irretrievable. While we see in the career of Louis XIV. a signal instance of what a mon- arch could do in handling the destinies of a nation, we see in the Britain of Queen Annes reign how strong and firm the in- stitutions were, and how independent of personal influence. Queen Annes reign was signally eventful throughout it was eventful in the Court, in the senate, and in the field. And yet the sovereign who seemed to direct all was a stupid woman. It happened also that she was an obsti- nate woman. She was flighty and capri- cious, and when her caprice got into a groove, she held on to it with a stubborn- ness that had a strong likeness to firm- ness. The effects of these two qualities can scarcely be said to have been calami- tous, but they were remarkable. They set at work the powers of signally able and ambitious men ; but with all their ability and ambition these men had not power enough to disturb the constitution of the country. If a change of favour among waiting-maids produced a revolu- tion in the country, it was but in the form of substituting one able set of servants of the Crown for another. There was noth- ing dear to the constitution either usurped or lost in the topsy-turvy. Her defects had a curious capacity for opening into brilliant and beneficent results. She was a bigot; but her bigotry attached itself to an unbigoted religion, which did not fur- nish her with the means of doing mis- chief by persecution or intolerance. Her bizotry, indeed, to the Church of England, was the salvation of the Parlia- mentary and Protestant settlement. She dearly loved legitimacy. She had a nat- ural affection for the brother who was driven forth; hut when the temptation to act on these amiable feelings came upon her, the Church of England stepped be- tween them and a counter-revolution. There was sure4y a signal wealth of gifted minds at hand, when the caprices of a Court, influenced as they were by paltry and degrading incidents, called up on either hand two such potent spirits as Marlborough and Bolingbroke. The name of Marlboroughs kinsman, Sidney Godolphin, does not fill the ear of fame so full as these; but he v~as a very great statesman. His strength lay in domes- tic affairs internal government and there he took his post. His portrait by Houbraken is not attractive, and does not justly render his character. It has a cer- tain air of stupid corporate pomposity, heightened by the presence of the treas- urers staff of office held in solemn cere- monial. His statesmanship reached the elevation of real genius. The union with Scotland may justly be celebrated as his achievement; for nb one, on his side of the Tweed at least, did so much to fore- cast its character and press it forward to completeness. While his kinsman kept guard outside, he carried through the business within rapidly and effectively. It seemed a question between them how rapidly the one could get through his mo- mentous work, and how long the other could hold out and guard him from mo- lestation. The Commissioners assem- bled in the old Cockpit were set to work that eminently required to be conducted in peace and serenity. The nicest calcu- lations of money matters, and their inci- dence on the two nations, and on the sep- arate interests in either, were too apt to be toned by prejudices and national ani- mosities, and it was critically necessary to exclude all further exciting influences. There was wonderful adroitness in the pecuniary adjustment of extremely com- plicated international claims. England was a rich cOuntry with a heavy debt Scotland was poor, hut comparatively un- encumbered. Could Scotland be fairly asked to bear a share in the others bur- den ? No; it was otherwise arranged. The debt had been increased in wars to protect the commerce of England, and the colonial interests, whence Scotland was sedulously excluded. For the future Scotland must take her share in the tax- ation for these purposes ; but in as far as that taxation was for the payment of debt, she should receive compensation in hard cash, and did receive it. Accounts being thus s~ttled down to the year 1707, if Scotland, participating in the trading and colonial privileges, became rich, then she could not complain if she came to be taxed in proportion to her riches. The payment of the difference at issue in hard cash. instead of leaving it to the future adjustments of the partnership, made a separate capital for poor Scotland to begin with and had a mighty influence in averting prej~iices agafnst the treaty. It was, perhaps, open to the reflection that it brought a sordid pecuniary temp- tation home to Scotsmen; but there are fair and unfair pecuniary temptations, and this was distinctly a fair one. HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNES REIGN. 201 The general historical character of Godolphin is, that he was a man honest personally, and free from all suspicion either of appropriating the public money to his own uses, or of even selfishly seeking his own interest within the li- cense allowed by the political morality of the day. But it is said that he was audacious in the application of public money for the corruption of other~. This character was long strengthened against him by a circumstantial story how he bribed Scots statesmen by distinct sums of money paid for their votes and influence in carrying the Union. Per- haps the most extraordinary feature in the history of this charge is that, in the blind fury of some patriotic Scots against the Union, they should have implicitly believed in this base charge against their own countrymen. There was a grotesque minuteness in the items of the account, that, instead of stirring suspicion, was appealed to as aggravating the baseness of the transaction. The sum total was 20,340, 7s. 7d. Three of the traitors drew each 1000 or more, the highest being precisely 1104, 155. 7d. The lowest bribe, Lii, 25., was drawn by a northern peer of illustrious descent. Few drafts on the national expenditure of England at that period have been more distinctly accounted for than this, be- cause the items of it were examined in the relentless investigations of those who sought to make out a case of peculation against Walpole, and to accomplish this, there had to be a full audit of the public accounts throughout a long period. The money had been lent by the Govern- ment of England to the Government of Scotland, and repaid. The Exchequer of Scotland was much attenuated vir- tually bankrupt. There were arrears of salary to officers of the Crown, military and civil, with other public debts. The wise English statesman thought that, for the matter of risking some 20,000, it was to be regretted that needy or greedy creditors should be howling round the Government of Scotland during the del- icate discussions attending the Union. There was a curious subtlety in the trans- action, for it had an innate tendency to recoup itself. It was a foregone conclu- sion that if the Union were carried Eng- land would be due some matter of 300,000 to Scotland, and the paltry ad- vance would be deducted when this debt was paid. It would be easy to follow up the three great names that have~ passed before us with a procession of others that would have been eminent as statesmen in a less fertile Court. We confess to a weakness in favour of one of those, who has se- cured a comparatively small share of pub- lic favour Robert Harley, Earl of Ox- ford. He was doomed to a certain un- popular stigma as the cousin of Abigail Hill, who superseded the Duchess of Marlborough, and of the whole race of little Hills held in much despite, includ- ing him of the halfpence immortalized in the derisive wrath of Swift. On the other side, he gained a good deal when he was stabbed by Guiscard; and as he had the actual wound, and went to bed, the world held him entitled to all the credit of the affair, though it was maintained that the crazy Frenchman intended to stab Bolingbroke, as a far more formid- able antagonist of French interest. But, in truth, it is not as a statesman that Har- ley commends himself to our liking: it is for his princely patronage of literature and arta service of infinite merit in that age when it was undertaken by a man of rank and wealth, gifted with a discriminating spirit. All the world knows the value of his collection of man- uscripts. He took his part in studies but imperfectly followed in that age studies connected with early British arch~ology and the progress of the constitution. Then there were some touches of sim- plicity about him that one cannot but like, for all the evil attributed to him as a statesman. Among the men of letters and art who haunted him, were many who looked more to the possible rewards of intellectual achievements than to the pleasure of accomplishing them. Per- haps, poor fellows, when we look at Ho- garths distressed poet, we rhay pardon them, and give them even a little sympa- thy. But Harleys treatment of these men was a standing jest, because he did not see, ~r pretended not to see, what they were after, and dealt with them as if nothing had any interest on either side save some matter of literature or art. The case of Prior the poet was often spoken of as peculiarly cruel, though, at the same time, it caused more laughter than compassion. It was said that mys- terious hints had been uttered by the statesman as to its being desirable that he should study tl~ Spanish language; and that when he reported his studies as completed, the reward was not an em- bassy to the Court of Spain, but a re- quest for an interchange of opinions as to the style of Cervantes. 202 LORD STANHOPE AND THE The names of Bolingbroke and Oxford pass us on from the soldiers and states- men to the authors of the period. We are still on illustrious hround. There are some who can only look on Queen Annes reign as the era of great victories, while others think of it only as the age of a great literature. The wits of Queen Annes reign are a separate constella- tion like the magnates of the Augus- tan age in Romeonly in their habit, as they lived much more distinct. In the literary annals of the period they are con- tinually coming and going before us, or abiding in presence and making them- selves personally known. They were so many, so free-spoken, and so concentrat- ed in London, that their own talk and writings supply us in abundance with what the world ever hunts out with greedy curi- osity the l)ersonal nature and habits of men of genius. XVe have nothing else like the social interior thus opened to us in any other country, or in any other pe- riod of our own history. XVe may easily believe that Pericles had a group of lively, witty, accomplished people about him but what do we know of them, or of him- self either, in his convivialities as a pri- vate gentleman? There was much wit and eloquence scattered about within and around Ciceros Tusculum more still, perhaps, among those who lolled round the board of M~ecenas and slowly sipped his Falernian but all their wit and wisdom is as ill perserved for us as the heroism of the ante-Agamemnonites. Pass we from these periods of old renown to the literary group that has most loudly and steadily of all proclaimed its sayings and doings to the worldthat of the Frenchmen who are called the Encyclo- p~dists, whether they all wrote articles in that huge, unwieldy, forgotten mass the Encylop6die or not. Amono them are DAlembert, Diderot, Grimm, DHol- bach, Marmontel, Helvetius and there are the honourable women Deffant, LEspinasse, Geofrin, Boccage ,and B ouf- flers. The last was the mistress of the Prince of Conti, and must not be con- founded with that other contemporary Bouffiers, who did duty as mistress to Stanislaus Au~ustus of Poland. That they were a group full of genius and ac- * Are there any people now alive who remember the coml)lishments and worthy of all interest, late Robert Thomson, advocate, Sheriff of Caithoess, and the author of an esteemed practical law-book on is not to be questioned. It is to be re- i3ills of Exchauge~ He was in his day sufficiently no- gretted that we have so little about them ticed sod noticeable, from the peculiariiies that made a temporary wit otter the saying, that Thomson was botla in English literature. Only a clumsy in outward person and in inward character somewhat translation of the letters of Grimm and beyond the perpendicular. ft happens to be known notices by Miss to the autisor of this paper that he was the author of the Diderot, some pleasant little boolc here referred to, and a very readable book Berry, and a little tinknown book written it is. by an eminent Edinburgh lawer, called Literature, and its Effects on Society. * But there is throughout a deficiency in easy, natural, careless xvit, uttered for its own sake, and a prevalence of artificiality and parade. Every feat of intellect seems to be performed that it may be brought into the market and sold for two prices the one paid in public fame, the other in the smiles and solid patronage of some potentate. The flowers are in the hot air of a conservatory, or are potted and car- ried into some salon, where their scents are mixed with the fumes of pomatum and cosmetics. It was in fact a great mart of wit and literature, where the barbarian Courts brought these articles for importation. We have the collection of letters of literary state papers, as they might be called by Grimm and Diderot to the Duke of Saxe-Gotba, the renowned M6moires historiques, litt6- raries, et anecdotiques. They are no doubt pleasant, and excessively amusln6 but a good deal of contempt goes to sea- son admiration, and it is followed by some sense of the heartlessness and prof- ligacy of the whole set. The barbarian Courts, as we know, imported not only the wit in the passive sense as expressive of what was uttered, but also the wit in the active sense of the accomplished ut- terer of it. We know too well what Courts, barbarian and other, had to under- go from the principles so nourished, since every institution in the world was shaken by them. It becomes difficult to indulge in their guilty mirth without re- membering the Temple and the nillo- tine. And yet, when ~ve turn from this bril- liant throng to many respectable periods respectable for intellect as well as. other merits in British history, we feel a coldness and solitude, as one who goes home from a gay assemblage or theatre acrt~s a bleak moor in the grey morning hours. Isolation is the characteristic of most of our literary l)eriods, makinb the one we are here dealing with exceptional. Attempts, indeed, to ~roup together lit- erary pictures from the lives of our au- thors, have proved in some instances to HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNES REIGN. 203 be failures of a signal kind, with a sort of picturesqueness in their deficiencies. The two volumes quarto of Godwins Life of Chaucer were dignified, and be- came renowned by XValter Scotts ex- posure of their nothingness as concerned the princiPal person in the grouping. As the author boasted about his successful researches into the personal life of the old poet, so little known before he took it up, the illustrious critic thus estimated the justness df the boast The re- searches into the records have only pro- duced one or two writs addressed to Chaucer while Clerk of the Works the several grants and passports granted to him by Edward III. and Richard II., which had been referred to by former bi- ographers, together ~vith the poets evi- dence in a court of chivalry, a contract about a house, and a solitary receipt for half-a-years salary. These, with a few documents referring to John of Gaunt, make the appendix to the book, and are the only original materials brought to light by the labour of the author. Our readers must be curious to know how, out of such slender materials, Mr. God- win has contrived to rear such an im- mense fabric. For thi5 purpose he has had recourse to two fruitful expedients. In the first place, when the name of a town, of a person, or of a science, hap- pens to occur in his narrative, he stops short to give the history of the city ab urbe co;zdita; the life of the man from his cradle upwards, with a brief account of his ancestors or a full essay upon the laws and principles of the science, with a sketch of the lives of its most emi- nent professors. It is unaccountable how, with this ex- ample before him, Charles Knight should have played us the same trick in his Shakespeare a Biography. To be sure it is an infinitely more brilliant and readable book than the quartos of the great philosopher but a very small per- centage of its interest is spent on Shake- speare. We have not,it is true, the bi- ography of everybody else, and the his- tory of sciences from the Creation. We have a Evely sketch of English life, man- ners, and amusements, in the days of Queen Elizabeth and her successor but it has no more to do with the life of Shakespeare, than, as he must have been at school, to let us see about the system of rudimental education in that day and since it is probable that he may have sometimes danced round a May-pole, let us see about that too. No; unfortunate- ly for us, nothing has been done to bring Shakespeare down from his serene ele- vation above all that was contemporary with him, and show us in his manner as he lived to bring him forward as a man of this world. And are we better off when we come to Milton ? Is it not still with him and his life, as Wordsworth said, Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart? With all the learning and research and eloquence at the command of the biogra- pher now dealing with this chapter of lit- erary history, he has not been able to make Milton the centre of an intellectual group, or even a distinct item in such a corporation. He has not, it is true, fol- lowed the discursive method adopted with Chaucer and Shakespeare. But to reconcile us as it were to an account of Milton, he has given us a history of the times into the bargain. A good and full history it is but in its goodness and ful- ness it only excites regret that Professor Masson did not avowedly write a History of the Reign of Charles I. and the Pro- tectorate, giving Milton and his literature their proper place in such a book. This method of pursuing two separate classes of literary exposition differing in their proportions, remind us of that occasional separation of the stages of an event into two or more pictures on one canvas a practice to which even Raphaels Trans- figuration hardly reconciles the eye. Let us not open up great inquiries as to the summit-level reached by the. high- est intellects at one time or another. We are not going to solve subtle ques- tions about the influence that the great- est intellects have left for after-ages, and the lustre they have conferred each on the age when he appeared. Leaving un- settled the question whether one genius commanding all ages is worth more or less tlyinj group of clever people enjoy- iso their own cleverness among them- selves, and sending it forth among others, there is surely no period in the annals of England when literature was so brilliant as the age that hands down to us the names of Pope, Addison, Swift, Steele, Arbuthuot, Garth, Prior, and Defoe. If none of these soar into the altitudes that enjoy the worship, and seem neces- sary for obtaining ~e tolerance, of some minds, yet to the ess exalted there is abundant material for admiration and enjoyment. If we have not the worship of some great intellect apart from our own sphere, yet because of the approach 204 LORD STANHOPE AND THE made by all the group to a common level, we have the rattle of the repartee, and the flash and report of the occasional epigram or rhetorical climax. So affluent, indeed, is this age in intellectual growth, that besides the goodly, list that already fills the cars of fame, it would probably be the best period in which those resur- rectionists who di~ for and recover buried celebrities could invest their~ labour. Who speaks now of Tom Brown? If any one does, he will be supposed to refer, not to a real man of Queen Anne s day, but a fictitious man of Queen Vic- torias. Yet there was such a person, a real power in his day, issuing a bril- liant literature in countless editions. Very little is known of him personally. He was called Tom Brown of Oxford, so that he perhaps distinguished himself there. His writings are full of classicali- ties; but he scatters them about with a scornful carelessness, as if in the sort of familiarity that has a proverbial offspring. One of the favourite objects, indeed, of his acrid sarcasm, is the Christian who cannot accept an idea as worth anything unless it can be shown to have been pre- viously expressed in the thought of some heathen in Greece or Italy. Nothing,~~ he says, will please some men but books stuffed with antiquity, groaning with the weight of learned quotations drawn from the fountains and what is all this but pilfering? But I will neither rob the an- cient nor modern books, but pillage all I give you from the book of the world. The book of the world is very ancient, and yet always new. * There is ample room for comparing his genius with that of Swift and in such a competition judgment would not invaria- bly go with the greater reputation. Swift had a fine stage for the display of his mighty gifts. He had lived in his youth with a courtier, and a great monarch had taught him how to rear asparagus in the Dutch way. He knew intimately the first men of his day. Then he was an actual Dean. True, he said to the statesmen who did not make him a bishop, God confound you for a couple of scoundrels; but to be a Dean was to be placed high above assaults and suspicions. Nor did it in any way detract from his position that he had sometimes no congregation but his Dearly-beloved Roger. That he was above the sordid work of priests and curates enhanced his claim to belong * Preface to Amus~ments, Serious and Comical, calculated for the Meridian of London. to the class of the rich and great. Both these wits dealt in the morbid moral anat- omy of London; but here Brown was the more incisive and complete of the two. He evidently formed an item in groups of such a cast that neither a Cato nor a Very Reverend would dare to let vestiges be seen that he had approached them. Both dealt a little too much in the indecorous but their method was different. Swift, taking his stand as a clean man, displays in all its distinctness the moral nuisance. He rubs the worlds nose in it. Brown, on the other hand, by some subtle trope or classical allusion, points to some hid- den horror. Without some pre-knowl- edoe that such things can be, we might pass by his allusion as meaningless, and possibly stupid. In this, and in many other points, he has more analogy ~vith Hogarth than with any author. Both had the subtle power of telling by a hint. The three tell-tale faces in the funeral scene in one of the Progresses, and the evidence of Felix trembling, are very like some of Browns allusions. Both, too, despised antiquity and precedent as an infallible guide. Brown graced his epi- grammatic sentences by making sport of the classics ; but the painter had not the fortune to possess so apt a medium, and his ridicule of the great masters only made himself ridiculous. Both brought out to light the inner life of the social conditions of the day. It is to be regret- ted that we know little personally of Brown not even how he lived. It is open to us to suppose that the l)Opularity of his books supplied him with daily bread. He is bitter in his ridicule of dedications by the parasites of the day. It may be remembered how Byron said in laughing scorn that he had tried to give a bribe to his Grandmothers Review, the British ; I sent it in a letter to the editor, who thanked me duly by re- ~tur~ of post. Brown almost anticipates this trick by a story of a long fulsome dedication, and long waiting in the ante- room, with no result. Shall we count Jsaac Watts, with his Little busy bee, among the choice ce- lebrities of Queen Annes reign ? If any one doubts the right of the hymnist to this eminence, let him go to Southamp- ton ; let him there, in the presence of any body of men~native to the place, express anything apProaching towards a doubt that Isaac Watts was the mightiest bard that ever wielded the English language, he will meet such a rebuff as will awak- en him to some new ideas on the sublime HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNE S REIGN. 205 and beautiful. But, great poet or not, lished a year or so earlier. Whether we Watts has exercised a mighty influence may justly call him a great man or not, on the British mind. It was not in what it is certain that he would hold a higher he deemed his strength that it was exer- place in the present day, were he among cised. His Logic, put forth with all us, than he held in his own and those the pomp of a standard in philosophy, who are on the look-out for unpopular has no more in common with looic as a characters suitable for deification, might science than with acoustics or hydrostat- perhaps find a suitable hero in the Rever-. ics; and though not entitled to speak~ end John Henley. He was a Dissent- from a critical perusal, we may believe ing preacher; and that was nearly as that his other ponderous treatises, mak- fatal a definition in his day as that of ing up the six volumes of his collected Farmer-General became in the days works that introduce us to the one volume of Voltaire. But he was a Dissenting of his poetry, are~ of a like character. p reacher of a peculiarly odious stamp. But his sacred poetry, still p opular in He was a man of good old family. He the Presbyterian Churches in Scotland, i got a university education, and dropped and among the English Dissenters, may into a comfortable family living. But he be said to have got absolute possession would not he content with his lot, so he of the nursery ; and this is a strong post turned a Dissenter and popular preacher to hold by one who would invade and in London. There was something in all mould the adult intellect. But they are this so loathsome as only to be paralleled mistaken who suppose that there is not a when high-born Lady Serena disappears dash of fine poetry here and there in his with Plush, and gets married by the multitudinous rhymes. That the jingle Registrar. of rhyme and dancing measure carried The name of Orator naturally oc- them off into puerilities, was what really curred as a scornful designation for the made his juvenile hymnology available popular preacher because he called his for giving a fund of enjoyment to the church the Oratory. It was a large drudgery of the task-book, and helped to building, absorbing vast crowds out of the make children know the nature of poetry, miscellaneous population of London. In and to infuse into their minds some pure this it was the prototype of a certain and solemn thoughts. And however Tabernacle of the present day. XVhether much we may feel inclined to count that the existing Tabernacular, who has a the childrens poet was in himself some- great fame as an orator, be also a scholar, what childish, we cannot but admit the is not known; and it is not unfair to say greatness of his influence.* that probabilities are against the suppo- Perhaps it would be still more difficult sition. But Henley certainly was a to find a legitimate place in the group for scholar of wide range. He fought a con- him who became known as Orator Hen- troversial battle with Bowyer, the French ley. His fame, or notoriety, as some lexicographer, about the fundamehtals of would prefer to call it, belongs to a later French Grammar. In his project of a period ; but his most ambitious effort of Universal Gr4mmar, he threw himself genius, Esther, Queen of Persia: an fearlessly into oriental languages; and Historical Poem, now on the table be- though many have denounced his pulpit fore us, bears date in 1714; and his oratory, none have proclaimed his igno- project of a Universal Grammar was pub- rance of the lanoua~es he to wielcf. thus professed * Perhaps the reader may possibly remember the His most remarkable literary achieve- traditional story of the hopeful shape in whirls the m ent is, however, the Liturgy preoarecl youtlsful Watts renounced risyme, when undr dorsa discipline administered by the paternal hand: ~- by him for the conoren-ation of the Ora- Oh, father, do some pity take, tory. * It will be found reprinted in And I will no more verses make. Halls Fragmenta Liturgica ; and it It is in the recollection of the present writer, how, at a will perhaps surprise those who are famil well-remembered symposium long ago, bringing together a group of young men, the survivors of which are now iar with the qualities of a popular Dis- old men, there was a trial of wits in expressing the sen- seating preacher of the present day, to timent cf the young Watts in other foross of rhyming jingle. Some of the efforts were ludicrously doggerel, others ludicrously iseroic. The only one now remem- * The Primitive Liturgy and Eucharist, according to bered probably because it was the best was hit off the institution of Christ and His Apostles, for the use by Tiseodore Martin, who has since gained high repute of clse Oratory: with Two Homilies, or Theological in lyrical composition and classic learning. Here it Lectures, on the Liturgy and Eucharist; and a new is: Preface explaining tise discretionary use of the oldest Oh do not strike me, reverend sire, Creeds and Doxologies, or Gloria Pa/ri, of the Two And I no more shall strike the lyre. First Ages. 206 LORD STANHOPE AND THE find him sedulously searching through the Fathers and all the vestiges of early ecclesiastical literature for the devotional forms of the primitive Church. One of the wild and offensive projects attributed to Henley was the establish- ment of a university in London. As it was profanity to listen to such a sugges- tion, he bethought him to create some- thing like a centre of the higher educa- tion within his own Oratory. Sure lyhe expressed himself in something higher than the tone of a clerical demagogue when he set down among his objects in this project, To give by just degrees a standard to the English tongue ; to clear, regulate, and digest the English history to revive an ancient Athenian and Ro- man school of philosophy, rhetoric, and elecution, which last is reckoned among the artes terdit~. Our noble language, he says, like our arms, ought to bear the laurel from France, which it merits, as well as from ancient Greece and Rome, in delicacy, in force, in majesty, in beauty. There is no doubt that he carried hilar- ity, or, if you like, buffoonery, into the pulpit and he vindicated the practice thus: A preacher is bound in con- science sometimes to preach burlesque for he is bound to be all things to all men. Some men will not be engaged by any method but burlesque therefore I plead liberty of conscience, and demand it to preach burlesque when I think proper, as the clergy do to those that require that manner. Mirth is part of religion. The fear of God, says Ben Sirac, makes a merry heart her ways are pleasantness rejoice in the Lord. Be perfect as God is perfect. And God is said to mock, to have in derision, to laugh sinners to scorn. * Henley had, in factand it was the cause of his offensive popularity a touch of that fatality that in Swift, Syd- ney Smith, and less emphatically in our late neighbour Dr. Guthrie, could not re- sist the temptation to yield to the impulse of the ludicrous on the occasions when the ludicrous was also the unbecoming. It was amcng the cleverest ideas of Brougham, in reference to the possibility of making Sydney Smith a bishop, that he would be like the cat turned into a lady, who kept all feminine propriety till she saw a mouse, when nature triumphed, and she dashed at it, upsetting the china. Sydney would preserve all decorum until * Milk for Babes, & c. By J. Henley, M. A. some tremendous joke took possession of him, and then would come an explosion that would upset the Bench of Bishops. It was a practice with Henley, as it often is with very earnest preachers, and other promulgators of doctrine, to xvay- lay people so as to bring them within the influence of his eloquence. If he could but get them to hear, their hearts might be turned. On one celebrated occasion he laid a trap for the shoemakers. All London was placarded with an announce- ment that from the pulpit he would show how a pair of shoes could be made in fivc~ minutes. Throughout his arousing ad- dress the artisans present were impatient for the practical exhibition. He kept his word to them by producing a pair of boots and cuttin~ them down into avail- able shoes. Among those calamities incident to our pure human race that give a zest to history, we must include the quarrels, hatreds, follies, and cruelties incident to religious fanaticism. We had these pouring in upon the land in quick and dire succession, from the fires of Smithfield to the cruelties against the Covenanters, and the bloody vengeance wrought in the murder of Sharp. In Queen Annes reign this feature in Brit- ish history calms down. There was the affair of Sacheverell, to be sure, making a mighty splutter but it was to the bloody deeds of previous reigns as a street row to a battle, or a bloody nose to a murder. Bishop Burnet estimated it neatly enough when he said : The Whigs took it in their heads to roast a parson, and they did roast him but their zeal tempted them to make the fire so high that they scorched themselves. And yet the age was not without its fiery trials but they were seen, not felt. As the tide of war rolled far off from our peaceful shores, so did the ferocities and agonies of persecution touch us only in rumours as to a strange people in a dis- tant land. Of the rabid religious ferocity of Louis XIV. in his dotage, when he was under the influence of his sainted wife, we felt nothing save in the blessed task of affording succour and refuge to the oppressed, who repaid the debt by bringing a new and valuable industrial element into~ur population. In so far as the picturesqueness of fanaticism is attractive, these poor mar- tyrs from the Cevennes and Languedoc made themselves eminently attractive to the mob of London, where they settled down at large, forming the colony of HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNES REIGN. 207 Spitalfields. They ranted profusely, and made converts of many English people, chiefly of the devouter sex. These ranted also and as if to meet on common ground in their ravings, both French and English fanatics dealt in unknown tongues. Miracles, too, were performed in abundance. One was attended by inci- dents rather conspicuous and trouble- some. It was announced that the French prophets, as they were termed, were to raise a dead body in St. Pauls Church- yard. A vast mob assembled to behold the phenomenon, but it was a failure not one of the dead lying there would consent to rise. The failure was attrib- uted to the fact of some unfaithful person looking on and it is certainly a clear enough proposition, that in a mob of some sixty thousand of the refuse of London, there would be a considerable sprinkling of unfaithfulness in various shapes. There is a rather happy supplement to this story, which we would like to see examined and traced home. The shape in which we have come across it some- where is this: Some persons were prose- cuted on this occasion for a nuisance in gathering a mob and blocking up a thor- oughfare. Among these was a certain Sir John Bulkely, who ~vas a great sym- pathizer in the cause of the French prophets. He waited on Sir John Holt, the Chief Justice of the Queens Bench, and intimated that the Lord had appeared in a vision to him Bulkelyand told him to go to the Chief Justice and direct him to order a no/ic proseqzui in the pro- ceedin~s. Holt is said to have answered gravely that he did not think it could have been the Lord who had given such instruction, since it showed gross igno- rance of English law in sending him to the wrong officer the Attorney-General being the only person who could order a no/ic ~roscqlli. In these days England prospered apace, and was growing marvellously rich. It ~vas the sight of this prosperity rousing up envious Scotland into hostility and rivalry that rendered that disagreeable affair, the Union, an absolute necessity. Scotland said she must in some way have participation in the trading and shippin~ privileges, or find the like for lwrself. The great moneyed and trading powers of England pronounced that she should have neither. By the navi~ation laws, Scotland was as absolutely foreign as all the rest of the world: ar~.l all efforts at any arrangement, either by a union or otherwise, to bring Scotland within the navigation laws and the privileges of colonial trade, were sternly repelled. The efforts of Scotland to create such a system for herself were crushed in the affair of Darien. There was more apology for such harsh dealing, than, with the opin- ions current at the present day, we can readily realiz2. It was a devout belief that all national profit must be realized by a loss somewhere, and if Scotland prospered it would be by the ruin of Eng- land. Were those prosperous gentlemen who had invested in the great chartered companies to vote away their childrens bread? But there was a worse alterna- tive in sight. Scotland might go back to her ancient alliance with France, and find as of old a steady and powerful protector. It would be these two who would open the new trade in the British waters and apart from all questions about danger of invasion, a thing to be scorned of Eng- land, if it were a serious matter that the half-million or so of people in Scot- land were to be enriched at their expense, how much more awful was the dispensa- tion if it brought in the twelve or fourteen miThons of France in addition So the Union was forced on by an irre- sistible pressure, guided by able man- agers and when it came to pass, the ex- pected calamities did not follow it. On the contrary, whether Scotland became richer or not, the progress of England in prosperity seenled to take a special im- pulse. Then, although it was some little humiliation to the proud Englishman to find that by Act of Parliament he be- longed to that part of Great Britain called England, he found that there was bound over to keep the peace towards him a certain discreditable poor relation one wno went about swaggering in arms too, and might any day commit vio- lence on hts worshipful, comfortable, and wealthy kinsman. Many towns in Eng- land, and especially London, carry a permanent testimony of the wealth of Queen Annes day. In the streets about Westminster we see domestic architec- ture brought to the stage where it has remained with little change down to the present day. We have the flat rows of houses with the fr~t wall-plate instead of the gable to the streets ; the dining- room flat on a level with it, so that jolly topers could pass out and in with the minimum of risk and difficulty; the draw- ing-room flat above; and below, the area 208 LORD STANHOPE AND THE or basement story, in its quadrilateral pit, all extremely antagonistic to the ~esthetic, but withal comfortable. The English workingrnan had an ample share in the prosperity that was going. He became the envy of his brethren all over Europe. France was a terrible an- tithesis of splendour and squalor. The great Louis had made the fens ai~d dirty ditches of Versailles into a Garden of Eden and built on it palaces that might realize the dreams of a new Jerusalem. But there was intense penury even in Paris the provinces were swept by famine, and often the peasants cottage was found to contain nothing but the skeletons of those who had lived and worked in it, fighting with starvation until they fell in the struggle. The German peasant had often a hard strug- gle for a sufficiency of his black bread. The Dutchman, rather better off, was liv- ing very parsimoniously, and even saving a trifle to be laid aside for a rainy day. In England the workmans use of his good fortune produced some of the un- pleasant features that have reappeared at the present day. Not trained to husband the money passing into his hands, or to resist the stimulus to sensual indulgenee, he cast away the fruit of his industry in luxurious living. If he had as much of this as he cared for, he cut away a por- tion of his work-day and spent it in idle- ness. In harder times, or when the days ~vork barely supplied the days necessities, he was renowned for his gallant contest with difficulties, and, working more than any other workman, fed himself better, and kept up his strength for the contest. But now that he had all that he desired, and more, why should he work? The capitalist appealed to him in vain; the I temptation that could stimulate him to the additional work had disappeared with the prosperity that made the capital of the employer. The one was bent on increas- ino his handsthe other had no nucleus for accumulation. It was not his nature to begin such a process ; and so the British workman became notorious for leading a life of idle luxury, and ending his days a pauper in the parish work- house. Still these were but the reactionary evils of prosperity and abundance. The land at large was amply blessed. It en- joyed this material wealth along with those glories of a victorious career that sometimes sufficecL the gaunt enthusiast on the other side of the Channel when his vegetable meal was at its most atten uated level. The wars and desolation that must attend a victorious career were all far away from the happy homes of England. There was peace over the land as the companion of plenty. It was an age adorned with intellectual glory surely Britain was a happy land. Yet within this stately edifice of prosperity there stalked the household skeleton. He did not much trouble the workman. It may be said that he was scarcely seen by the country at large. But statesmen were all too familiar with himhe haunted them every day, troubling them with fears and perplexities. It was generally believed throughout the English l)opulace that the Pretend- er was the san of the wife of a va~a- bond physician, who was secreted in the palace, so that her babe, xvhen born, was brought in a warming-pan to the queens bed by a nurse generally called Goody Wilks. Hence, when any great occasion called forth a demonstration of anti-Jaco- bite feeling by the mob of London, their enthusiasm was appropriately expressed by clanging discordant music upon tin warming-pans. Statesmen had, however, abandoned all the childish stories that delighted the populace. They believed too surely that on the other side of the water there was growing up to manhood the youth who if immediate hereditary descent were what the Jesuits called it, a divine law, the footsteps of which could be followed with the precision of an ex- act science was the heir to his father, and at his death the King of Britain. If either of the daughters of King James and Anne Hyde had left a son or a daughter, many who were driven to other conclusions would have come to a tacit understanding to forget the nearer claim as on a later occasion, when the last grands on of King James died, people wh~ had professed Jacobitism xvould not look towards the Sardinian family and the other descendants of Charles I. through his daughter the Duchess of Or- leans, but obstinately held to the sort of fiction of law, that George III. was the next in the pure line of succession. In earlier times it was much easier than it had become in the reign of King George to hide such disagreeable conditions out of sight. G~iealogies were co okedby adepts to accomplish such things ; and if there were other adepts who knew the truth and could contradict them, the task was not a safe one. The two sisters were each in the right line, and were re- ceived by the common people as the only HISTORiANS OF QUEEN ANNE S REIGN. 209 legitimate representatives of that line. Could no~ the grave forget thee, and lay low King William might, for the services he Some less majestic, less beloved head? had done, hold the throne provisionally; and he too was in the line as a descend- On Knellers canvas the young prince ant of Charles I. But just as Queen is a handsome, intelligent boy, with the Anne was mounting the throne, a gloom better part of the Stewart lineaments was cast over the land by an event of like his cousin over the water, with some hitter sadness the death of her son intellect, fire, and strength injected into and only surviving child, the Duke of him. He was, like all princes whose Gloucester. How it shook the land we can easily believe, when we remember the crisis of the ~vinter before last. The country was told how it was caused by the fatiguing ceremonials of his birthday as Prince of Wales. After the cere- mony was over, the Duke found himself fatigued and indisposed, and the next day he was very sick, and complained of his throat. The third day he was hot and feverish. Next morning, after bleed- ing, he thought himself better ; but in the evenino his fever appearing more vi- olent, a blister was applied to him, and other proper remedies administered. The same day a rash appeared on his skin, which increasing next day, more blisters were laid on. In the afternoon the fever growing stronger, his Highness fell into a delirium, which continued till his death. He passed the night as he did the preceding, in short broken sleeps and incoherent talk. On the 29th, the blisters having taken effect, and the pulse mending, the physicians who at- tended him thought it probable that he might recover ; but about eleven at night he was on a sudden seized with a diffi- cult breathing, and could swallow noth- ing, so that he expired before midnight, being ten years and five days old ; * and so, as might some ragged urchin who had caught a cold through the neglect of his drunken parents, dropped away one on whom hung the fate of a mighty em- pire. Pallida mors ~quo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas Regumque turres. It is in the same solemn reverence to the power of the grim leveller that our English poet sang of a later palace ca- lamity Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sounds, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hooe of many nations art thou dead? * Custe, i. 4~9. LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 274 death might have averted critical condi- tions like his grand-uncle, Henry Prince of Wales, and the Dauphin, son of Louis XV. a miracle of virtue and intelli- gence. Burnet, who was his tutor, says I had read over the Psalms, Proverbs, and Gospels with him, and had explained things that came in my way very copious- ly; and was often surprised with the questions that lie put to me, and the re- flections that he made. He came to un- derstand things relating to religion be- yond imagination. I went through ge- ography with him. I explained to him the forms of government in every country, and the interests and trade of that coun- try, and what was both good and bad in it. I acquainted him with all the great revolutions that had been in the world, and gave him a copious account of the Greek and Roman histories, and of Plu- tarchs Lives. The last thing I explained to him was the Gothic constitution, and the beneficiary and feudal laws. I talked of these things at different times, nearly three hours a-day; this was both easy and delightful to him. The King ordered five of his chief Ministers to come once a-quarter and examine the progress he made ; they seemed amazed both at his knowledge and the good understanding that appeared in him. He had a wonder- ful memory and a very good judgment. It is possible that some who cast their eye on this page may have had but an in- distinct impression of William, Prince of Wales and Duke of Gloucester, who died in Que~en 4nnes reign. It is a significant fact, indeed, that it should have made so small a mark on history, and have passed away among its mere shadows, in the business of providing an immediate rem- edy for the loss, by going back to the Protestant descendants of the Princess Elizabeth, the unfortunate Queen of Bo- hemia, and out of the group of these descendants arriving by genealogical analysis at the Prii~ess Sophia. But statesmen must have felt how criti- cal the conditions had become. It was the climax of many disappointments. The children born to Queen Anne were so many that authorities differ about their LORD STANHOPE AND THE 210 number some saying seventeen, others nineteen. Of each one that lived for how- ever short a time the death must have been felt as a separate shake to the Revo- lution settlement. The whole suggested strange superstitions and gloomy ideas among such of the common people as were inclined to Jacobitism. The repeated loss- es were judgments against Queen .Anne for her undutiful and impious cor~duct to her father. * V/hen the last blow came it was a signal of the Almightys wrath, and plainly announced his decree that the impious projects for discarding the line of kings set by Him to reign as His vice- gerents on earth were to be crushed and punished. Yet still the new Act of Set- tlement went calmly through the Houses, as if it had been the settlement of some municipal franchise for the election of common-council men, which, having fall- en into confusion, had to be disentangled and settled by an Act of Parliament. We may find valuable constitutional lessons running through the many shift- ings and perils in this great passage of our annals; other nations may learn from them more than we require to seek. We are surely come now to the age when all may be examined dispassionately, and at freedom from the wayward influence of political forces. That the time has but recently come, and that many of our books of the period date from before its arrival, is an additional reason for bestow- ing special attention on the fourteen years elapsing between the death of King William and the accession of King George. It has to be remembered that after Jacobitism was long dead as a real political force to be dreaded, it had a pic- turesque and fanciful hold on literature a hold innocent of all power of prac- tical influence, but sufficient to have a distorting influence on history. It is not many years since Jacobitism got good- * The gentle reader may be excused if he should be surprised to find this tone of opinion very emphatically announced in this nineteenth century, under the auspices of an eminent philosopher of ultra-Presbyterian ten- dencies, on the conduct of Queen Anne to her father at the crisis of the Revolution. We are told that the conduct of the princess may possibly find some pallia- tion from the peculiar circumstances in which she was placed, and from the partiality to the Protestant faith, which from her earliest infancy she had been taught to cherish. But every feeling of the heart rises in in- dignation zgainst the unnatural deed, and seeks to hide it in that blaze of light which encircles the brilliant events of the reign. If heaven in this world ever in- terposes its avenging arm between guilt and happiness, may we not consider the low of sevente1en children as the penalty which it exacted from a mother who had broken the heart of the most. indulgent father? Arti- cle Anne, in r~e Edinburgh Encyclopedia, conducted by David Brewster, LL.D. humoured toleration enough to create kr terest in a swaggering Pretender parading the streets in portentous costume as the representative of the Stewarts ; who was even permitted to act his preposterous part at the tables of people holding rank in good society. But it is believed that now the atmos- phere is sufficiently cleared for an impar- tial account of the whole; and a wondrous tale it is to tell, when its difficulties, its dangers, and its momentous results are all followed. Surely it may be said with an assurance of universal assent, that no royal house in Europe is so secure in the indubitable succession as the house of Hanover so worthily represented among us now is. And as surely there can be few things so important for the other na- tions of Europe to know, as the various steps of progress by which Great Britain, after suffering a succession of unfortunate reigns, found a remedy that set a firm dynasty on the throne. The remedy was not in discarding monarchy, nor in dis- carding the dynastic system by which the heir pointed out by genealogical condi- tions succeeds to a throne as he wodld to an estate. Nor was the remedy dis- covered in any profound system of polit- ical philosophy founded on the maxims of the acknowledged authorities in this kind of work, such as Aristotle, Cicero, Tacitus, or Machiavelli. It was simply passing by the immediate detrimentals, and permitting the current of hereditary succession to run on. If there was phil- osophy in the remedy, it was the philoso- phy of creating the smallest possible disturbance of the existing system. Since that great constitutional feat was accomplished, what terrible convulsions, with their attendants, ruin and bloodshed, have we beheld in efforts to accomplish national regeneration by revolutions more conformable to abstract theory! How Thiiifple and beautiful a proposition that seemed to be in the French Declaration of Right, that All men are born equal And yet, after all the bloody Procrustean efforts to make it true, the result has been to invert the principle ; to find that men are born unequal, some strong, others weak some clever, others stupid; and that the great object of constitutions and laws is ~o see that their inequThty is so subject to restraints as to be incapaci- tated for gross injustice. The history of the Parliamentary set- tlement in the house of Hanover is sure- ly valuable for this one reason, if for nothing else, that it proves the possibility HISTORIANS OF QUEEN ANNES REIGN. 211 of a constitutional settlement. Through- out the rest of European mankind, among French, Germans, Spaniards, all efforts of the kind have been terrible failures and the most remarkable of modern ef- forts in the same direction is still on its trial in Italy. Our own settlement, now so old and so firmly rooted, ought surely to be an object of satisfactory reflection to all the friends of constitutional govern ment abroad, since it is the one example that proves such a settlement to be pos- sible. It should carry hope to other na- tions too, that it was preceded by convul- sions, and lived for some time in fear and trembling. If we look from the be- ginning of the Civil War to the Forty- five as the period of probation, then it exceeded a hundred years~ and even France has not yet suffered the convul- sive operation of political metamorphosis so long as that. But though the Hano- ver settlement was twice troubled at later times, it was a firm government at the death of King William and it is in the reign of Queen Anne that we have the means of studying its healthy youth. That our age has carried us far beyond the influences of Jacobitism, gives us an opportunity for studying with all the more fairness the exiles on the other side of the water. We can speak of them as of Aristides and Coriolanus, without exciting suspicion of our loyalty. There is much to study in that curious small Court that set itself up in St. Germains, and then had to move further off to Al- bano at the command of the British Min- ister, Lord Stair, who would not have it within France itself, nor yet near enough to France to be at the call of the French Government when it desired to trouble or frighten the English.. We have some recent literature on the ways and habits of these exiles, written generally in that pensive dreamy tone of literature that befits the subject. They were matter of much interest and inquiry to the late James Deniston of Deniston, the accom- pushed author of the History of the Dukes of Urbino; and there was some- thing in their fate and character that afforded acceptable mental food to his romantic, dreamy, and highly polished intellect. We have a work set apart to the task in a not unlike spirit in a book called The Descendants of the Stuarts an unchronicled page in Englands History, by William Townend. The British Museum has lately ac- quired many manuscripts from which fuller materials still can be drawn by those whose taste leads them into so tranquil a corner of history. There is particularly the Correspondence of Car- dinal Gualtiero, who was the Princes agent, anibass ador, or intercessor at the Vatican. We have here, as if it were matter of important diplomacy and pat- ronage, the inner secrets of the arrange- ments for keeping alive the Romish Church in Britain, and especially for pro- viding a supply of those Jesuits who were the fittest hands for the work when it was of a dark, dangerous, and desperate kind. There was a time when to lay these papers open to the public would have been a terrible calamity to many; but they are innocent enough now. The personal character of the King, Prince, Chevalier, or Pretender, as he was called, according to the various grades from Jacobitism to intense loyalty, makes in itself a curious study; and it becomes important as well as curious when we carry with us, in estimating it, some features in the history of the pres- ent day. It cannot be doubted that had he conformed to any reasonable extent, he would have succeeded his sister on the throne. But he was intractable to the most provoking degree in the eyes of his friends to the most satisfactory ex- tent in those of his opponents. There is an involuntary respect for the honest consistency that rejects the thrones and other lustrous baubles of the earth for conscience sake ; and yet there was a strange twist in his conscience and its source that seemed to detract from all merit in his abstinence. He considered that in the right time the right line would return to its place. It was a thing not to be acc@mp~shed by anything that he and others could do, the Eternal would effect it in the good time He had chosen. Hence the exile was ever serene ; noth- ing disappointed, nothing discouraged him; nor would he give a single word of concession. It is surely among the most interesting studies in our physiology of mental constitutions, that an exact repe- tition of this phenomenon should come up in this our day. ~ 212 A ROSE IN JUNE. From The Corrhill Magazine. be done at home, she added after a A ROSE IN JUNE. pause no, no, you weigh me down CHAPTER ~. under your kindness. What would the parish be but for you? (continued.) It Would be just the same if I were OUT of the question, said Mr. Nolan; dead and buried, said the Curate, shrug- and Im no scholar myself to speak of, ging his shoulders. Ah, thats the worst notwithstanding what Im going to have of it ; try for a little bit of a corner of the presumption to say to you. Its just work like a childs lessons, and you may this I dont do much visiting of morn- be of service ; but try to mend the world, ings; they dont like it. It takes them even a bit of a parish, and you re no- all in a mess as it were before theyve had where. They dont think half as much time to get tidy, and these mornings hang of me as they do of the Rector? he heavy on my hands. I want you to let added, with a curious smile, which the me have the three big ones. I might get Rectors wife only half understood. Was them on a bit ; and time, as I tell you, it satirical? or could it be possible that my dear lady, hangs heavy on my hands. the Curate was surprised that the people How can you tell me such a fib? thought more of the Rector than of him- said Mrs. Damerel, half crying, half laugh- self? Mrs. Damerel was aware, no one ing. Oh you are too good, too good ; better, of her husbands faults. Many a but, Mr. Nolan, I cant take anything more time she was ready to say in bitterness from you. Rose must help me, it is her (to herself) that he was wearing her to duty ; it is bad for her to be left so much death ; but nevertheless she looked at to herself; why I was married and had all long, loosely-built, snub-nosed Mr. Nolan, the troubles of life on my head at her with mingled amusement and surprise. age. Was it possible that he could entertain And so shell have, before you know any hopes of rivalling her husband? Of where you are, said the good Curate course a visit from the Rector was an which will show the reader at once that honour to any one, for Mr. Damerel was he entertained no absorbing passion for a man who, notwithstanding a little hu. Miss Rose, though I am aware it is a man weakness, was the very picture and curates duty so to do. So shell have ; model of a gentleman ; and the idea of shell be marrying some great gran dee or comparing him with good Mr. Nolan was other. She looks like a princess, and too absurd. Yes, no doubt they are thats what shell be. pleased to see him, she said poor She has no right to be a princess, people are very quick to recognize high said the mother, overwrou~ht and irrit- breeding; but I am sure, my dear Mr. able, and duty is better than ease sure- Nolan, that they are all very fond of you. ly. You, I know, think so. The Curate made no immediate answer. For the like of me, yes, said the I am not sure that he had not in his pri- Curate; for her, I dont know. vate heart something of the same feeling I was once very much like her, with which his present companion had though you would not think it, said the been thinking of her daughter, a feeling mother, with the slightest tinge of bitter- less intense in so far as it was much ness, but that is not the question no, more indifferent to him, yet in a way no, we must not trouble you. stronger because untempered by affec- When I tell you the mornings hang tion. The Rector was of his own kind, on my hands! I dont know what to do the ornamental and useless specimen, with my mornings. Theres Tuesday Im while he was the worker whom nobody due at the schools, but the rest of the thought of; but these secret feelings week I do nothing but idle. And idlings neither of the two confided to the other. a great temptation. A cigar comes nat- Mr. Nolan would have been horrified had ural when youve nothing to do. You he detected in Mrs. Damerel that slight dont like a man smoking in the morniun ; bitterness about Rose, which indeed Ive heard you say so. So you see the would have shocked herself as deeply had young ones will save me from a no, I she paused~o identify the sentiment, and wont say cigar worse than that she would have been, and was, to some cigars are too dear for a Curate, me dear slight extent suspecting the existence lady; from a pipe. of the feeling contemptuous and indig- Mr. Nolan, you are too good for this nant of Nolans jealousy, as I fear she world, said pool Mrs. Damerel, affected would have called it. They returned, to tears ; but I must first try what can however~ to the educational question, A ROSE IN JUNE. 213 which did not involve anything painful, and after considerable discussion it was settled that he should give the elder children lessons in the morning if their papa approved. It is impossible to say what a relief this decision was to the mother, who had felt these lessons to be the last straw which proverbially breaks the camels back. She was glad of the cLat with a sympathizing friend, who un- derstood, without saying anything about, her troubles and doubly glad of the holiday exacted from her by his means and gladder still to get rid of him and return to her many other occupations; for it was Monday, as has already been mentioned, and there was the laundress to look after, and a thousand other things awaiting her. The Curate went out by the garden door when he left her, out upon the lawn, where he paused to look at as charming a scene as could be found in England: a fair country spreading out for miles, its trees and fields and soft un- dulations under a summer sky, which was pale with excess of light, and ran into faint lines of misty distance almost col- ourless in heat and haze. Here and there the sunshine caught in a bend of the river, and brought out a startling gleam as from a piece of silver. The world was still with noon and distance, no sound in the air but the rustle of the leaves, the hum of insects; the landscape was all the sweeter that there was no remarkable fea- ture in it, nothing but breadth and space, and undulating lines, and light, everywhere light; and to make up for its broad soft vagueness, how distinct, like a picture, was the little group in the foreground the lime trees in their silken green, the soft rippling shadows on the grass, the picturesque figure in the chair, and the beautiful girl! The beauty of the sight charmed good Mr. Nolan. Had it been put to him at that moment, I believe he would have protested that his Rector should never do anything in his life ex- cept recline with languid limbs out- stretched and his poetical head bent over his book, under the sweet shadow of the trees. And if this was true even in respect to Mr. Damerel, how much more true was it with Rose? Well, Nolan, said Mr. Damerel, suavely, as the bony Curate and his shadow came stalking across the sun- shine; well, worrying yourself to death as usual in this hot weather? My wife and you are congenial souls. That is true, and its a great honour for me, said Nolan. .57w is worrying herself to death with the children, and one thing and another. As for me, in the mornings, as I tell her, Ive next to noth- ing to ~ Rose looked up hastily as he spoke. How angry she felt ! If her mother chose to worry herself to death, who had anything to do with that ? was it not her own pleasure? A hot flush came over the girls face. Mr. Nolan thought it was the quick ingenuous shame which is so beautiful in youth; but it was a totally different sentiment. Mamma does nothing she does not choose to do, she cried; then blushed more hotly, perceiving vaguely that there was something of.self-defence in the heat with which she spoke. Mr. Nolan was not graceful in his manners, like Mr. Damerel, but he had the good breeding which comes from the heart, and he changed the subject in- stantly, and began to talk to the Rector of parish business, over which Mr. Dam- erel yawned with evident weariness. Excuse me; the heat makes one lan- guid, he said; you.have my full sanc- tion, Nolan. You know how entirely I trust to your discretion; indeed I feel that you understand the people in some respects better than I do. Dont trouble yourself to enter into details. Mr. Nolan withdrew from these refined precincts with an odd smile upon his face, which was not half so handsome as Mr. Damerels. He had the parish in his hands, and the Rector did not care to be troubled with details ; but the Rector had all the advantages of the position, all the income, and even so much the moral su- periority over his Curate, that even they (by which pronoun Mr. Nolan indicated his poorer parishioners) felt much more deeply honoured by a chance word from the Rector than they did by his constant ministrations and kindness. What an odd, umwqt~d world this is ! he was thinking to himself not ruled by justice, or even a pretence at justice, but by cir- cumstances alone and external appear- ances. This did not make him bitter, for he had a kind of placid philosophy in him, and was of the kind of man who takes things very easily, as people say; but the curious force of the contrast made him smile. CHAPT~R III. ROSE DAMERELS life had, up to this time, been spent altogether in the sun- shine. She had been too young when she went to school to ponder much over 214 A ROSE IN JUNE. anything that went on at home, and had concluded during her holidays that home, which was so dainty, so pleasant, so sweet, was a kind of Paradise on earth, infinitely more delightful than any of the other homes, of which she heard from her schoolfellows. None of them had a father so delightful, a mother so kind and in these holiday times as everybody indulged and petted her, the privAte shad- ows I will not say skeletons in the house were never divined by her. She had, as sometimes happens to the eldest of a large family, much more care taken of her education and training than her sisters were likely to meet with. The burden had not begun to be so heavily felt when the eldest girl grew into bright intelligence, to her parents pride. The others were still too young to demand or even to suggest the expense that would be involved in their education and nothing was spared upon Rose. She had returned from school not much more than a year before the time of which I treat, and had gone on for some time in her delightful youthful confidence that every- thing around her was exactly as it ought to be. But shadows had begun to flit vaguely across the picture before that memorable day in the garden, which henceforward became a turning point in her thoughts. This was the first moment at which she fully identified the occa- sional clouds upon her mothers face, and learned that Mrs. Damerel was not merely a little cross that easy and rapid solution with which a child settles all problems concerning its parents but had a distinct cause for the little irrita- bilities which she tried so carefully to restrain. Perhaps it was in the very na- ture of things that Rose should be more attracted by the gentle indulgence and indolent perfection of her father than by her mothers stronger character. Mr. Damerel, had he been very rich, and free~ of all occasion to think of his childrens future, would have been a model father to grown-up and well-behaved sons and daughters. He could not bear any rough- ness, coarseness, or disorderliness, there- fore the schoolboys were but little con- genial to him, and he was never sorry when the holidays were over. And the~ little children were too troublesome and too noisy to please him; but Rose was the perfection of a child to such a man, and to her he was the perfection of a fa- ther. Everything in her pleased and gratified him. ~he was pretty, gentle, Lull of intelligence, eager to read with him if he would, still more eager to hear him talk, yet quick to perceive when he was disinclined to talk, and regarding all his moods with religious respect. She would sit by him for hours together, like a charming piece of still life, when he pleased, and was ready to converse or to listen, to walk, to sing, to follow his lead in everything, as~only a woman-child, full of the beautiful enthusiasm of youth- ful admiration, can do. Nothing, except perhaps the devotion of a young wife, when she really loves the man much older than herself, whom she has mar- ried, can equal the devotion of a girl to her father. She admired everything about him his beautiful refined bead, his fine voice, his grace and high breed- ing, his sermons, and what she called hs genius. To find this faultless father to be anything less than a demi-god was terrible to Rose. I do not mean to say that she got within a hundred miles of this discovery all at once; nay, the first result of the vague and dreamy doubts that stole into her mind was rather an increase of enthusiasm for her father, an instinctive makin~up to her own ideal for the sense of failure in him, of which she was vaguely conscious. Rose loved her mother after a totally different fashion, in an ordinary and matter-of-fact way, but she had no romance of feeling towards her ; and when her whole little world began, as it were, to sway upon its axis, to yield beneath her feet, as if it might swing round altogether in space, turning what she had supposed the brighter side into shadow, and elevating that which she had held lowly enough, she, poor girl, grew giddy with this strange and sickening sensation. She was at the age, too, when everything is apt to reel about the young experimen- talist taking her first steps ih life. She was vaguely conscious of being now a ~fr~ agent, consulted as to her own movements, no longer told curtly to do this and that, but exercising personal choice as to what she should do. This change is of itself sufficiently bewilder- ing. Nature makes, as it were, a pause at this first crisis of personal life. The child, wondering, half-delighted and half- troubled to have no longer its duties clearly and. sharply indicated, falls into a partial tran~, and neglects many things for sheer want of use and knowledge how to act for itself. This was Roses position. Between the mother, ~vho, a little mortified and hurt at her childs want of sympathy with her, did not give A ROSE IN JUNE. ~15 her orders, but only suggested employ-, and dark in the south, or the lingering ment, and the father, who said, Never, prolonged silvery and ineffable dimness mind, let her alone, she stood, not of those northern twilights which last half knowing how to settle the question, but the night; but has a dusky softness al- inclining naturally to the side on which together peculiar to itself, like the shad- she was most indulged and smiled upon, owing of downy wings. The air was de- thouTh with a secret uneasiness which licious, fresh after the hot day, yet so she could not shake off, and moral sense warm as to make wrappings quite unne- of a false situation which grew upon her cessary. The sky, still somewhat pale in day by day. its blue, after the languor of the heat, Rose had lovers, too, in this new mi- looked down faint yet friendly, as if glad raculous life upon which she had entered to see again a little movement and sense two lovers, not yet declared, but very of life. A few subdued stars peeped out evident to all knowing eyes ; and in the here and there, and the wide stretch of village there were many keen observers~ country lay dun underneath, r vealing it- One of these suitors was the most wealthy self in long soft lines of grey, till it struck proprietor in the neighbourhood a man into a higher tone of blue on the horizon much above her own age, yet not old, and where earth and heaven met. All the perfectly qualified to please a ladys eye; Damerels who were out of bed were in and the other, a young naval lieutenant the garden, and the neighbours, who had without a penny, the son of Mrs. Wo de-~ made this pleasant terrace the end of house, who lived on the Green, and had their walk, were scattered about in va- nothing in the world but het pension as rious groups. Mr. Incledon, who was an officers widow. Of course I do not Roses wealthy lover, came late and need to say that it was the poor man stood talking with Mrs. Damerel, watch- whom Rose preferred. She was not in ing with wistful eyes her appropriation love with him far from it; but she was by his rival, young Wodehouse whose so completely on the verge of universal mother, hooded in the white Shetland awakening, that a word or touch might shawl, which she had thrown over her be enough to arouse her whole being at cap to come out, sat on a garden-chair any moment might open her eyes to with her feet upon the Rectors Persian her own position and that of her parents, rug, listening to him while he talked, and show her the nature of her individ- with the devout admiration which became ual sentiments, as by a sudden gleam of a member of his flock. The Rector was light. Rose, however, was not the least in talking politics with General Peronnet, the world aware of this ; and at the present and Mrs. Wodehouse thought it was moment she was no further advanced beautiful to see how thoroughly he under- than was consistent with saying frankly j stood a subject which was so much out that she liked Wodehouse very much of his way as the abolition of purchase and feeling (but of this she said nothing) in the army. If he had been in Par- more glad when she saw him coming liament, now! she saidto the Generals than about any other event in her simple wife who thought her husband was the days. object of the eulogy. There were two or Dinglefield is a sociable place, and three other members of this group listen- there is something in a soft summer ing to the Rectors brilliant talk, saying evening after a very hot, blazing summer a few words, wise or foolish, as occasion day which fosters a disposition to stroll served. 4Others were walking about upon about and interchange, greetings with the lawn, and one lady, with her dress lift- your neighbours. As it began to darken ed, was hastening off the grass which she upon the evening of this particular day, had just discovered to be wet with dew. various people in the houses about Upon none of them, however, did Mr. stepped out of their wide open windows Incledons attention turn. He followed after dinner and, tempted by the beauty with his eyes a pair whose young figures of twilight, strayed along the road or grew less and less in the distance, half over the Green to the rectory garden, I lost in the darkness. The persistence which was by universal acknowledgment ~vith which he watched them seemed a the most perfect spot in the village. reproach to the ~other, with whom he Much has been said about the charms of talked by fits and starts, and whose anxi- twilight, but little, I think, of its peculiar ety was not at all awakened by the English beauty, which is not so magical fact that Rose was almost out of sight. as the momentary inte~val between light I am afraid Rose is not so careful as 216 A ROSE IN JUNE. she ought to be about the dew on the grass, she said, half apologetically, half smiling, in reply to his look. Shall I go and tell her you think so? said Mr. Incledon, hastily. He was a man of about five-and-thirty, good look- ing, sensible, and well dispositioned; a personage thoroughly comme ilfaut. He was a sort of suitor whom proper parents love to see approaching a favourite~ child. He could give his wife everything a woman could desire. Provide for her handsomely, surround her with luxury, fill her life with pleasures and pretti- nesses, and give her an excellent posi- tion. And the man himself was free of cranks and crotchets, full of good sense, well-educated, good-tempered. Where are girls eyes, that they do not per- ceive such advantages? Mrs. Damerel hesitated a moment between sympathy with her child and sympathy with this ad- mirable man. There was a struggle in her mind which was to have the predom- inance. At length some gleam of recol- lection or association struck her, and moved the balance in Roses favour, who she felt sure did not want Mr. Inceldon just at that moment. Never mind, she said, tranquilly, it will not hurt her and resumed a con- versation about the music in the church, which was poor. Mr. Incledon was very musical, but he had no more heart for anthems at that moment than had he never sung a note. Rose had strayed a little way down the slope with Edward Wodehouse. They were not talking much, and what they did say was about nothing in particular the garden, the wildflowers among the grass on this less polished and less cultured lawn which sloped down the little hill. At the moment when the elder suitors glances had directed Mrs. Damerels attention towards them they were standing under a gnarled old hawthorn tree, round which was a little platform of soft turf. We lose the view lower down, said Rose and there they stopped accord- ingly, neither of them caring to turn back. The soft plain stretched away in long lines before them into the haze and dis- tance like the sea. And as they stood there, the young moon, which had been hidden behind a clump of high trees, suddenly glinted out upon them with that soft dewy glimmer which makes the growing crescent so doubly sweet. They were both a little taken aback, as if they had been surprised l~y some one sudden- ly meeting and looking at them though indeed there was not a syllable of their simple talk that all the world might not have heard. Both made a step on as if to return again after this surprise, and then they both laughed, with a little inno- cent embarrassment, and turned back to the view. What a lovely night said Rose, with a faint little sigh. She had already said these not remarkable words two or three times at least, and she had nothing in the world to sigh about, but was in fact happier than usual; though a little sad, she knew not why. Look at those lights down below there, said young Wodehouse ; how they shine out among the trees Yes, that is from Ankermead, said Rose ; you know it ? the prettiest lit- tle house. When we are away, we poor mari- ners, he said, with a little laugh which was more affected than real; that is, I think, the thing that goes to our hearts most. What ? The lights in the windows of course I dont mean at sea, said young Wodehouse; but when we are cruisino- about a strange coast, for instance, just one