Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 74, No. 454, August, 1853
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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 74, No. 454, August, 1853

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BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCLIV.      AUGUST, 1853.      Vol. LXXIV.

CONTENTS.

The Narcotics we indulge in, | 129
South American Travel and Adventure, | 140
Napoleon and Sir Hudson Lowe, | 159
New Readings in Shakespeare, | 181
The Insurrection in China, | 203
Lady Lee’s Widowhood—Part VIII., | 220
The Marquis de Larochejaquelein—France in 1853, | 245

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET;

AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

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

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

BLACKWOOD’S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCLIV.      AUGUST, 1853.      Vol. LXXIV.

THE NARCOTICS WE INDULGE IN.[1][2]

When a distinguished man sinks into his grave, from the midst of many rivals in a common race, the strife of opinions in reference to him is instantaneously allayed; personal feelings, if not quenched, are repressed and hushed; and, like the heroism of the triumphant warrior, when he is caught by the anxious eye emerging unscathed from the battle and the smoke, his merits appear now unclouded and confessed. Such, we believe, is the general feeling among the members of his own profession in regard to the author of the valuable work now before us. Snatched suddenly from the midst of his labours, before the third edition of his Materia Medica was completed, there are few in any way familiar with the subject who will not regret the sudden extinction of so much learning, and, apart from all private considerations, that the world should have so prematurely lost the benefits of his ripening judgment and experience, and the results of his extended reading and research. Yet how many precious cabinets of collected knowledge do we see thus hurriedly sealed up for ever! How often, when a man appears to have reached that condition of mental culture and accumulated information, in which he is fitted to do the most for the advancement of learning, or for promoting the material comfort of his fellows, how often does the cold hand suddenly and mysteriously paralyse and stop him! He has been permitted to add only a small burden of earth to the rising mound of intellectual elevation, scarcely enough to signify to after-comers that his hand has laboured at the work. Nevertheless, he may have shown a new way of advancing, in some sense, so that to others the toil is easier and the progress faster, because he has gone before. The more, however, the true-hearted worker in the cause of progressive science becomes familiar with its actual condition and its great future, the more he becomes satisfied also of the vanity of attempting to associate with an individual name the merit of this or that advance—the more earnestly he trains himself to find the best reward for individual attempts in the growing conquests and dimensions of the field he cultivates, and in the consciousness that he has not been unhelpful in widening its domain. Such a consciousness Dr Pereira might well entertain, and we trust he found in it something to alleviate the regrets the best of us naturally feel, when compelled to leave a favourite task unfinished.

We should be forsaking widely the field we usually occupy, were we to attempt to lay before our readers any analysis of a work so elaborate and so purely professional as this of Dr Pereira. We propose, however, to take it as our text-book, in considering a subject of great general interest—one scarcely of more importance to the professional physician than it is to the physiologist, the psychologist, and the economical statist. The book is replete with scattered information on the subject of the Narcotics we Indulge in, and some of this we propose to bring together in the present article. And among other sources from which we mean to draw the materials necessary to our purpose, are the Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, long, long ago noticed in our pages, but, to us who have been reading it to-day, as fresh and new as ever—as full of interest, as suggestive of profound reflection. We who are ourselves somewhat scientific, can scarce restrain a selfish sigh when we think how fresh and new, how sure of human sympathy this actual burning experience of a living man will continue to be when the heavy and toilsome tomes of Pereira shall have become mere records of the progress of science, and be turned up only to illustrate the ignorance of the most learned or trusted in their professions about the middle of the nineteenth century.

In ministering fully to his natural wants, man passes through three successive stages. First, the necessities of his material existence are provided for; next, his cares are assuaged and for the time banished; and lastly, his enjoyments, intellectual and animal, are multiplied and for the time exalted. Beef and bread represent the means by which, in every country, the first end is attained; fermented liquors help us to the second; and the third we reach by the aid of narcotics.

When we examine, in a chemical sense, the animal and vegetable productions which in a thousand varied forms, among various nations, take the place of the beef and pudding of the Englishman in supplying the first necessities of our nature, we are struck with the remarkable general similarity which prevails among them naturally, or which they are made to assume by the artifices of cookery, before they are conveyed into the stomach. And we exclaim, in irrepressible wonder, “by what universal instinct is it that, under so many varied conditions of climate and of natural vegetation, the experience of man has led him everywhere so nicely to adjust the chemical constitution of the staple forms of his diet to the chemical wants of his living body?”

Nor is the lightening of care less widely and extensively attained. Savage and civilised tribes, near and remote—the houseless barbarian wanderer, the settled peasant, and the skilled citizen—all have found, without intercommunion, through some common and instinctive process, the art of preparing fermented drinks, and of procuring for themselves the enjoyments and miseries of intoxication. The juice of the cocoa-nut tree yields its toddy wherever this valuable palm can be made to grow. Another palm affords a fermented wine on the Andean slopes of Chili—the sugar palm intoxicates in the Indian Archipelago, and among the Moluccas and Philippines—while the best palm wine of all is prepared from the sap of the oilpalms of the African coast. In Mexico the American aloe (Agave Americana) gave its much-loved pulque, and probably also its ardent brandy, long before Cortez invaded the ancient monarchy of the Aztecs. Fruits supply the cider, the perry and the wine, of many civilised regions—barley and the cereal grains the beer and brandy of others; while the milk of their breeding mares supplies at will to the wandering Tartar, either a mild exhilarating drink, or an ardently intoxicating spirit. And to our wonder at the wide prevalence of this taste, and our surprise at the success with which, in so many different ways, mankind has been able to gratify it, the chemist adds a new wonder and surprise when he tells us, that as in the case of his food, so in preparing his intoxicating drinks, man has everywhere come to the same result. His fermented liquors, wherever and from whatever substances prepared, all contain the same exciting alcohol, producing everywhere, upon every human being, the same exhilarating effects!

It is somewhat different as regards the next stage of human wants—the exalted stage which we arrive at by the aid of narcotics. Of these narcotics, it is remarkable that almost every country or tribe has its own—either aboriginal or imported—so that the universal instinct has led somehow or other to the universal supply of this want also.

The aborigines of Central America rolled up the tobacco leaf, and dreamed away their lives in smoky reveries, ages before Columbus was born, or the colonists of Sir Walter Raleigh brought it within the chaste precincts of the Elizabethan court. The coca leaf, now the comfort and strength of the Peruvian muletero, was chewed as he does it, in far remote times, and among the same mountains, by the Indian natives whose blood he inherits. The use of opium and hemp, and the betel nut, among eastern Asiatics, mounts up to the times of most fabulous antiquity, as probably does that of the pepper tribe in the South Sea Islands and the Indian archipelago; while in northern Europe the hop, and in Tartary the narcotic fungus, have been in use from time immemorial. In all these countries the wished-for end has been attained, as in the case of intoxicating drinks, by different means; but the precise effect upon the system, by the use of each substance, has not, in this case, been the same. On the contrary, tobacco, and coca, and opium, and hemp, and the hop, and Cocculus indicus, and the toadstool, each exercise an influence upon the human frame, which is peculiar to itself, and which in many respects is full of interest, and deserving of profound study. These differences we so far know to arise from the active substances they severally contain being chemically different.

I. Tobacco.—Of all the narcotics we have mentioned, tobacco is in use over the largest area, and by the greatest number of people. Opium comes next to it; and the hemp plant occupies the third place.

The tobacco plant is indigenous to tropical America, whence it was introduced into Spain and France in the beginning of the sixteenth century by the Spaniards, and into England half a century later (1586) by Sir Francis Drake. Since that time, both the use and the cultivation of the plant have spread over a large portion of the globe. Besides the different parts of America, including Canada, New Brunswick, the United States, Mexico, the Western coast, the Spanish main, Brazil, Cuba, St Domingo, Trinidad, &c., it has spread in the East into Turkey, Persia, India, China, Australia, the Philippine Islands, and Japan. It has been raised with success also in nearly every country of Europe; while in Africa it is cultivated in Egypt, Algeria, in the Canaries, on the Western coast, and at the Cape of Good Hope. It is, indeed, among narcotics, what the potato is among food-plants—the most extensively cultivated, the most hardy, and the most tolerant of changes in temperature, altitude, and general climate.

We need scarcely remark, that the use of the plant has become not less universal than its cultivation. In America it is met with everywhere, and the consumption is enormous. In Europe, from the plains of sunny Castile to the frozen Archangel, the pipe and the cigar are a common solace among all ranks and conditions. In vain was the use of it prohibited in Russia, and the knout threatened for the first offence, and death for the second. In vain Pope Urban VIII. thundered out his bull against it. In vain our own James I. wrote his “Counterblaste to Tobacco.” Opposition only excited more general attention to the plant, awakened curiosity regarding it, and promoted its consumption.

So in the East—the priests and sultans of Turkey and Persia declared smoking a sin against their holy religion, yet nevertheless the Turks and Persians became the greatest smokers in the world. In Turkey the pipe is perpetually in the mouth; in India all classes and both sexes smoke; in China the practice is so universal that “every female, from the age of eight or nine years, wears as an appendage to her dress a small silken pocket, to hold tobacco and a pipe.” It is even argued by Pallas that the extensive prevalence of the practice in Asia, and especially in China, proves the use of tobacco for smoking to be more ancient than the discovery of the New World. “Amongst the Chinese,” he says, “and amongst the Mongol tribes who had the most intercourse with them, the custom of smoking is so general, so frequent, and has become so indispensable a luxury; the tobacco purse affixed to their belt so necessary an article of dress; the form of the pipes, from which the Dutch seem to have taken the model of theirs, so original; and, lastly, the preparation of the yellow leaves, which are merely rubbed to pieces and then put into the pipe, so peculiar—that they could not possibly derive all this from America by way of Europe, especially as India, where the practice of smoking is not so general, intervenes between Persia and China.”[3]

Leaving this question of its origin, the reader will not be surprised, when he considers how widely the practice of smoking prevails, that the total produce of tobacco grown on the face of the globe has been calculated by Mr Crawford to amount to the enormous quantity of two millions of tons. The comparative magnitude of this quantity will strike the reader more forcibly, when we state that the whole of the wheat consumed by the inhabitants of Great Britain—estimating it at a quarter a-head, or in round numbers at twenty millions of quarters—weighs only four and one-third millions of tons; so that the tobacco yearly raised for the gratification of this one form of the narcotic appetite weighs as much as the wheat consumed by ten millions of Englishmen. And reckoning it at only double the market value of wheat, or twopence and a fraction per pound, it is worth in money as much as all the wheat eaten in Great Britain.

The largest producers, and probably the largest consumers, of tobacco, are the United States of America. The annual production, at the last two decennial periods of their census returns, was estimated at

1840, | 219,163,319 | lb.
1850, | 199,752,646 | „

being about one-twentieth part of the whole supposed produce of the globe.

One of the remarkable circumstances connected with the history of tobacco is, the rapidity with which its growth and consumption have increased, in almost every country, since the discovery of America. In 1662, the quantity raised in Virginia—the chief producer of tobacco on the American shores of the Atlantic—was only 60,000 lb.; and the quantity exported from that colony in 1689, only 120,000 lb. In two hundred and thirty years, the produce has risen to nearly twice as many millions. And the extension of its use in our own country may be inferred from the facts that, in the above year of 1689, the total importation was 120,000 lb. of Virginian tobacco, part of which was probably re-exported; while, in 1852, the quantity entered for home consumption amounted to

28,558,753 lb.

being something over a pound per head of the whole population; and to this must be added the large quantity of contraband tobacco, which the heavy duty of 3s. per lb. tempts the smuggler to introduce. The whole duty levied on the above quantity in 1852, was £4,560,741, which is equal to a poll-tax of 3s. a head.

Tobacco, as every child among us now knows, is used for smoking, for chewing, and for snuffing. The second of these practices is, in many respects, the most disgusting, and is now rarely seen in this country, except among seafaring men. On shipboard, smoking is always dangerous, and often forbidden; while snuffing is expensive and inconvenient; so that, if the weed must be used, the practice of chewing it can alone be resorted to.

For the smoker and chewer it is prepared in various forms, and sold under different names. The dried leaves, coarsely broken, are sold as canaster or knaster. When moistened, compressed, and cut into fine threads, they form cut or shag tobacco. Moistened with molasses or with syrup, and pressed into cakes, they are called cavendish and negrohead, and are used indifferently either for chewing or smoking. Moistened in the same way, and beaten until they are soft, and then twisted into a thick string, they form the pigtail or twist of the chewer. Cigars are formed of the dried leaves, deprived of their midribs, and rolled up into a short spindle. When cut straight, or truncated at each end, as is the custom at Manilla, they are distinguished as cheroots.

For the snuff-taker, the dried leaves are sprinkled with water, laid in heaps, and allowed to ferment. They are then dried again, reduced to powder, and baked or roasted. The dry snuffs, like the Scotch and Irish, are usually prepared from the midribs—the rappees, or moist snuffs, from the soft part of the leaves. The latter are also variously scented, to suit the taste of the customer.

Extensively as it is used, it is surprising how very few can state distinctly the effects which tobacco produces—can explain the kind of pleasure the use of it gives them—why they began, and for what reason they continue the indulgence. In truth, few have thought of these points—have cared to analyse their sensations when under the narcotic influence of tobacco—or, if they have analysed them, would care to tell truly what kind of relief it is which they seek in the use of it. “In habitual smokers,” says Dr Pereira, “the practice, when employed moderately, provokes thirst, increases the secretion of saliva, and produces a remarkably soothing and tranquillising effect on the mind, which has made it so much admired and adopted by all classes of society, and by all nations, civilised and barbarous.” Taken in excess in any form, and especially by persons unaccustomed to it, it produces nausea, vomiting, in some cases purging, universal trembling, staggering, convulsive movements, paralysis, torpor, and death. Cases are on record of persons killing themselves by smoking seventeen or eighteen pipes at a sitting. With some constitutions it never agrees; but both our author and Dr Christison of Edinburgh agree that “no well-ascertained ill effects have been shown to result from the habitual practice of smoking.” The effects of chewing are of a similar kind. Those of snuffing are only less in degree; and the influence which tobacco exercises in the mouth, in promoting the flow of saliva, &c., manifests itself when used as snuff in producing sneezing, and in increasing the discharge of mucus from the nose. The excessive use of snuff, however, blunts the sense of smell, alters the tone of voice, and occasionally produces dyspepsia and loss of appetite. In rarer cases it ultimately induces apoplexy and delirium.

But it is the soothing and tranquillising effect it has on the mind for which tobacco is chiefly indulged in. And amid the teasing paltry cares, as well as the more poignant griefs of life, what a blessing that a mere material soother and tranquilliser can be found, accessible alike to all—to the desolate and the outcast, equally with him who is rich in a happy home and the felicity of sympathising friends! Is there any one so sunk in happiness himself, as to wonder that millions of the world-chafed should flee to it for solace? Yet the question still remains which is to bring out the peculiar characteristic of tobacco. We may take for granted that it acts in some way upon the nervous system; but what is the special effect of tobacco on the brain and nerves, to which the pleasing reverie it produces is to be ascribed? “The pleasure of the reverie consequent on the indulgence of the pipe consists,” according to Dr Madden, “in a temporary annihilation of thought. People really cease to think when they have been long smoking. I have asked Turks repeatedly what they have been thinking of during their long smoking reveries, and they replied, ‘Of nothing.’ I could not remind them of a single idea having occupied their minds; and in the consideration of the Turkish character there is no more curious circumstance connected with their moral condition. The opinion of Locke, that the soul of a waking man is never without thought, because it is the condition of being awake, is, in my mind, contradicted by the waking somnambulism, if I may so express myself, of a Moslem.”[4]

We concede that Dr Madden might find in England, in Germany, and in Holland, many good smokers, who would make excellent Moslems in his sense, and who at the close of long tobacco reveries are utterly unconscious and innocent of a single thought. Yet we restrict our faith in his opinion to the simple belief, that tobacco, with a haze such as its smoke creates, tends to soften down and assuage the intensity of all inner thoughts or external impressions which affect the feelings, and thus to create a still and peaceful repose—such a quiet rest as one fancies might be found in the hazy distance of Turner’s landscapes. We deny that, in Europeans in general, smoking puts an end to intellectual exertion. In moderation, our own experience is, that it sharpens and strengthens it; and we doubt very much if those learned Teutonic Professors, who smoke all day, whose studies are perpetually obscured by the fumes of the weed, and who are even said to smoke during sleep, would willingly, or with good temper, concede that the heavy tomes which in yearly thousands appear at the Leipsic book fair, have all been written after their authors had “really ceased to think.” Still it is probably true, and may be received as the characteristic of tobacco among narcotics, that its major and first effect is to assuage, and allay, and soothe the system in general; its minor, and second, or after effect, to excite and invigorate, and, at the same time, give steadiness and fixity to the powers of thought.

The active substances, or chemical ingredients of tobacco or tobacco smoke, by which these effects upon the system are produced, are three in number. The first is a volatile oil, of which about two grains can be obtained from a pound of leaves, by distilling them with water. This oil or fat “is solid, has the odour of tobacco, and a bitter taste. It excites in the tongue and throat a sensation similar to that of tobacco smoke; and, when swallowed, gives rise to giddiness, nausea, and an inclination to vomit.” Small as the quantity is, therefore, which is present in the leaf, this substance must be regarded as one of the ingredients upon which the effects of tobacco depend.

The second is a volatile alkali, as it is called by chemists, which is also obtained by a form of distillation. The substance is liquid, has the odour of tobacco, an acrid burning taste, and is possessed of narcotic and highly poisonous qualities. In this latter quality it is scarcely inferior to Prussic acid. The proportion of this substance contained in the leaf varies from 3 to 8 per cent, so that he who smokes a hundred grains of tobacco may draw into his mouth from three to eight grains of one of the most subtle of all known poisons. It will not be doubted, therefore, that some of the effects of tobacco are to be ascribed to this peculiar substance.

The third is an oil—an empyreumatic oil, it is called—which does not exist ready formed in the natural leaf, but is produced along with other substances during the burning. This is supposed to be “the juice of cursed hebenon,” described by Shakspeare as a distilment.[5] It is acrid, disagreeable to the taste, narcotic, and so poisonous that a single drop on the tongue of a cat causes immediate convulsions, and in two minutes death.

Of these three active ingredients contained in tobacco smoke, the Turkish and Indian pipes, in which the smoke is made to pass slowly through water, arrest a large proportion, and therefore convey the air to the mouth in a milder form. The reservoir of the German meerschaums retains the grosser portions of the oils, &c., produced by burning; and the long stem of the Russian pipe has a similar effect. The Dutch and English pipes retain less; while the cigar, especially when smoked to the end, discharges everything into the mouth of the smoker, and, when he retains the saliva, gives him the benefit of the united action of all the three narcotic substances together. It is not surprising, therefore, that those who have been accustomed to smoke cigars, especially such as are made of strong tobacco, should find any other pipe both tame and tasteless, except the short black cutty, which has lately come into favour again among inveterate smokers.

The chewer of tobacco, it will be understood from the above description of its active ingredients, is not exposed to the effects of the oil which is produced during the burning. The natural oil and the volatile alkali are the substances which act upon him. The taker of snuff is in the same condition. But his drug is still milder than that of the chewer, inasmuch as the artificial drying or roasting to which the tobacco is subjected in the preparation of snuff, drives off a portion of the natural volatile oil, and a large part of the volatile alkali, and thus renders it considerably less active than the natural leaf.

In all the properties by which tobacco is characterised, the produce of different countries and districts is found to exhibit very sensible differences. At least eight or ten species, and numerous varieties, of the plant are cultivated; and the leaf of each of these, even where they are all grown in the same locality, is found to exhibit sensible peculiarities. To these climate and soil add each its special effects; while the period of growth at which the leaves are gathered, and the way in which they are dried or cured, exercise a well-known influence on the quality of the crop. To these causes of diversity is owing, for the most part, the unlike estimation in which Virginian, Cuban, Brazilian, Peruvian, East Indian, Persian, and Turkish tobaccos are held in the market.

The chemist explains all the known and well-marked diversities of quality and flavour in the unadulterated leaf, by showing that each recognised variety of tobacco contains the active ingredients of the leaf in a peculiar form or proportion; and it is interesting to find science in his hands first rendering satisfactory reasons for the decisions of taste. Thus, he has shown that the natural volatile oil does not exist in the green leaf, but is formed during the drying, and hence the reason why the mode of curing affects the strength and quality of the dried leaf. He has also shown that the proportion of the poisonous alkali (nicotin) is smallest (2 per cent) in the best Havannah, and largest (7 per cent) in the Virginian tobacco, and hence a natural and sound reason for the preference given to the former by the smokers of cigars.

As to the lesser niceties of flavour, this probably depends upon other odoriferous ingredients not so active in their nature, or so essential to the leaf as those already mentioned. The leaves of plants, in this respect, are easily affected by a variety of circumstances, and especially by the nature of the soil they grow in, and of the manure applied to them. Even to the grosser senses of us Europeans, it is known, for example, that pigs’ dung carries its gout into the tobacco raised by its means. But the more refined organs of the Druses and Maronites of Mount Lebanon readily recognise, by the flavour of their tobacco, the kind of manure employed in its cultivation, and esteem, above all others, that which has been aided in its growth by the droppings of the goat.

But in countries where high duties upon tobacco hold out a temptation to fraud, artificial flavours are given by various forms of adulteration. “Saccharine matter (molasses, sugar, honey, &c.), which is the principal adulterating ingredient, is said to be used both for the purpose of adding to the weight of the tobacco, and of rendering it more agreeable. Vegetable leaves (as those of rhubarb and the beech), mosses, bran, the sproutings of malt, beet-root dregs, liquorice, terra japonica, rosin, yellow ochre, fullers’ earth, sand, saltpetre, common salt, sal-ammoniac”[6]—such is a list of the substances which have been detected in adulterated tobacco. How many more may be in daily use for the purpose, who can tell? Is it surprising, therefore, that we should meet with manufactured tobacco possessing a thousand different flavours for which the chemistry of the natural leaf can in no way account?

There are two other circumstances in connection with the history of tobacco, which, because of their economical and social bearings, are possessed of much interest.

First, Every smoker must have observed the quantity of ash he has occasion to empty out of his pipe, or the large nozzle he knocks off from time to time from the burning end of his cigar. This incombustible part is equal to one-fourth or one-fifth of the whole weight of the dried leaf, and consists of earthy or mineral matter which the tobacco plant has drawn from the soil on which it has grown. Every ton, when dried, of the tobacco leaf which is gathered, carries off, therefore, from four to five hundredweight of this mineral matter from the soil. And as the substances of which the mineral matter consists are among those which are at once most necessary to vegetation, and least abundant even in fertile soils, it will readily be understood that the frequent growth and removal of tobacco from the same field must gradually affect its fertility, and sooner or later exhaust it.

It has been, and still is, to a great extent, the misfortune of many tobacco-growing regions, that this simple deduction was unknown and unheeded. The culture has been continued year after year upon virgin soils, till the best and richest were at last wearied and worn out, and patches of deserted wilderness are at length seen where tobacco plantations formerly extended and flourished. Upon the Atlantic borders of the United States of America, the best known modern instances of such exhausting culture are to be found. It is one of the triumphs of the chemistry of this century, that it has ascertained what the land loses by such imprudent treatment—what is the cause, therefore, of the barrenness that befalls it, and by what new management its ancient fertility may be again restored.

Second, It is melancholy to think that the gratification of this narcotic instinct of man should in some countries—and especially in North America, Cuba, and Brazil—have become a source of human misery in its most aggravated forms. It was long ago remarked of the tobacco culture by President Jefferson, in his Notes on Virginia, that “it is a culture productive of infinite wretchedness. Those employed in it are in a continued state of exertion beyond the powers of nature to support. Little food of any kind is raised by them, so that the men and animals on these farms are badly fed, and the earth is rapidly impoverished.”[7] But these words do not convey to the English reader a complete idea of the misery they allude to. The men employed in the culture, who suffer the “infinite wretchedness,” are the slaves on the plantations. And it is melancholy, as we have said, to think that the gratification of the passion for tobacco should not only have been an early stimulus to the extension of slavery in the United States, but should continue still to be one of the props by which it is sustained. The exports of tobacco from the United States in the year ending June 1850, were valued at ten millions of dollars. This sum European smokers pay for the maintenance of slavery in these states, besides what they contribute for the same purpose to Cuba and Brazil. The practice of smoking is in itself, we believe, neither a moral nor a social evil; it is merely the gratification of a natural and universal, as it is an innocent instinct. Pity that such evils should be permitted to flow from what is in itself so harmless!

II. The Hop, which may now be called the English narcotic, was brought from the Low Countries, and is not known to have been used in malt liquor in this country till after the year 1524, in the reign of Henry VIII. In 1850 the quantity of hops grown in England was 21,668 tons, paying a duty of £270,000. This is supposed to be a larger quantity than is grown in all the world besides. Only 98 tons were exported in that year; while, on the other hand, 320 tons were imported, so that the home consumption amounted to 21,886 tons, or 49 millions of pounds; being two-thirds more than the weight of the tobacco which we yearly consume. It is the narcotic substance, therefore, of which England not only grows more and consumes more than all the world besides, but of which Englishmen consume more than they do of any other substance of the same class.

And who that has visited the hop grounds of Kent and Surrey in the flowering season, will ever forget the beauty and grace of this charming plant? Climbing the tall poles, and circling them with its clasping tendrils, it hides the formality and stiffness of the tree that supports it among the exuberant profusion of its clustering flowers. Waving and drooping in easy motion with every tiny breath that stirs them, and hanging in curved wreaths from pole to pole, the hopbines dance and glitter beneath the bright English sun—the picture of a true English vineyard, which neither the Rhine nor the Rhone can equal, and only Italy, where her vines climb the freest, can surpass.

The hop “joyeth in a fat and fruitful ground,” as old Gerard hath it (1596). “It prospereth the better by manuring.” And few spots surpass, either in natural fertility or in artificial richness, the hop lands of Surrey, which lie along the out-crop of the green sand measures in the neighbourhood of Farnham. Naturally rich to an extraordinary degree in the mineral food of plants, the soils in this locality have been famed for centuries for the growth of hops; and with a view to this culture alone, at the present day, the best portions sell as high as £500 an acre. And the highest Scotch farmer—the most liberal of manure—will find himself outdone by the hop-growers of Kent and Surrey. An average of ten pounds an acre for manure over a hundred acres of hops, makes this branch of farming the most liberal, the most remarkable, and the most expensive of any in England.

This mode of managing the hop, and the peculiar value and rarity of hop land, were known very early. They form parts of its history which were probably imported with the plant itself. Tusser, who lived in Henry VIII.’s time, and in the reigns of his three children, in his Points of Husbandry thus speaks of the hop:—

“Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould,

Well-doonged and wrought as a garden-plot should:

Not far from the water (but not overfloune),

This lesson well noted, is meet to be knowne.

The sun in the south, or else southlie and west,

Is joy to the hop as welcommed ghest;

But wind in the north, or else northerly east,

To hop is as ill as fray in a feast.

Meet plot for a hop-yard, once found as is told,

Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold;

Now dig it and leave it, the sun for to burne,

And afterwards fense it, to serve for that turne.

The hop for his profit, I thus do exalt:
It strengthened drink, and favoureth malt;
And being well brewed, long kep it will last,

And drawing abide, if ye draw not too fast.”[8]

The hops of commerce consist of the female flowers and seeds of the humulus lupulus, or common hop plant. Their principal consumption is in the manufacture of beer, to which they give a pleasant, bitter, aromatic flavour, and tonic properties. Part of the soporific quality of beer also is ascribed to the hops, and they are supposed by their chemical properties to check the tendency to become sour. The active principles in the hop consist of a volatile oil, and a peculiar bitter principle to which the name of lupulin is given.

When the hop flowers are distilled with water, they yield as much as eight per cent of their weight of a volatile oil, which has a brownish yellow colour, a strong smell of hops, and a slightly bitter taste. In this “oil of hops” it has hitherto been supposed that a portion of the narcotic influence of the flowers resided, but recent experiments render this opinion doubtful. It is probable that in the case both of tobacco and of the hop, a volatile substance distils over in small quantity along with the oil, which has not hitherto been examined separately, and in which the narcotic virtue resides. This is rendered probable by the fact that the rectified hop oil is not possessed of narcotic properties.

The hop has long been celebrated for its sleep-giving qualities. To the weary and wakeful, the hop-pillow has often given refreshing rest, when every other sleep-producer had failed. It is to the escape, in minute quantity, of the volatile narcotic substance we have spoken of, that this soporific effect of the flowers is most probably to be ascribed.

Besides the oil and other volatile matter which distil from them, the hop flowers, and especially the fine powdery grains or dust which, by rubbing, can be separated from them, yield to alcohol a bitter principle (lupulin) and a resinous substance, both in considerable proportion. In a common tincture of hops these substances are contained. They are aromatic and tonic, and impart their own qualities to our beer. They are also soothing, tranquillising, and in a slight degree sedative and soporific, in which properties well-hopped beer also resembles them. It is certain that hops possess a narcotic virtue which beer derives from them;[9] but in what part of the female flower, or in what peculiar chemical compound this narcotic property chiefly resides, is still a matter of doubt.

To the general reader it may appear remarkable, that the chemistry of a vegetable production, in such extensive use as the hop, should still be so imperfect—our knowledge of its nature and composition so unsatisfactory. But the well-read chemist, who knows how wide the field of chemical research is, and how rapidly our knowledge of it, as a whole, is progressing, will feel no surprise. He may wish to see all such obscurities and difficulties cleared away, but he will feel inclined rather to thank and praise the many ardent and devoted men, now labouring in this department, for what they are doing, than to blame them for being obliged to leave a part of the extensive field for the present uncultivated.

Among largely used narcotics, therefore, especially in England, the hop is to be placed. It differs, however, from all the others we have mentioned, in being rarely employed alone except medicinally. It is added to infusions like that of malt, to impart flavour, taste, and narcotic virtues. Used in this way, it is unquestionably one of the sources of that pleasing excitement, gentle intoxication, and healthy tonic action, which well-hopped beer is known to produce upon those who drink it. Other common vegetable productions will give the bitter flavour to malt liquor. Horehound and wormwood, and gentian and quassia and strychnia, and the grains of paradise, and chicory, and various other plants, have been used to replace or supplant the hop. But none are known to approach it in imparting those peculiar qualities which have given the bitter beer of the present day so well-merited a reputation.

Among our working classes, it is true, in the porters and humbler beers they consume and prefer, the Cocculus indicus finds a degree of favour which has caused it, to a considerable degree, to take the place of the hop. This singular berry possesses an intoxicating property, and not only replaces the hop by its bitterness, but to a certain extent also supplies the deficiency of malt. To weak extracts of malt it gives a richness and fulness in the mouth, which usually imply the presence of much malt, with a bitterness which enables the brewer to withhold one-third of his hops, and a colour which aids him in the darkening of his porter. The middle classes in England prefer the thin wine-like bitter beer. The skilled labourers in the manufacturing districts prefer what is rich, full, and substantial in the mouth. With a view to their taste, it is too often drugged with the Cocculus indicus by disreputable brewers; and much of the very beastly intoxication which the consumption of malt liquor in England produces, is probably due to this pernicious admixture. So powerful is the effect of this berry on the apparent richness of beer, that a single pound produces an equal effect with a bag of malt. The temptation to use it, therefore, is very strong. The quantity imported in 1850 was 2359 cwt., equal to a hundred and twelve times as many bags of malt; and although we cannot strictly class it among the narcotics we voluntarily indulge in, it may certainly be described as one in which thousands of the humbler classes are compelled to indulge.

It is interesting to observe how men carry with them their early tastes to whatever new climate or region they go. The love of beer and hops has been planted by Englishmen in America. It has accompanied them to their new empires in Australia, New Zealand, and the Cape. In the hot East their home taste remains unquenched, and the pale ale of England follows them to remotest India. Who can tell to what extent the use of the hop may become naturalised, through their means, in these far-off regions? Who can predict that, inoculated into its milder influence, the devotees of opium and the intoxicating hemp may not hereafter be induced to abandon their hereditary drugs, and to substitute the foreign hop in their place? From such a change in one article of consumption, how great a change in the character of the people might we not anticipate?

This leads us to remark, that we cannot as yet very well explain in what way and to what extent the use of prevailing narcotics is connected, as cause or effect, with peculiarities in national character. But there can no longer be any doubt that the soothers and exciters we indulge in, in some measure as the luxuries of life, though sought for at first merely to gratify a natural craving, do afterwards gradually but sensibly modify the individual character. And where the use is general and extended, the influence of course affects in time the whole people. It is a problem of interest to the legislator, not less than to the physiologist and psychologist, to ascertain how far and in what direction such a reaction can go—how much of the actual tastes, habits, and character of existing nations has been created by the prolonged consumption of the fashionable and prevailing forms of narcotics in use among them respectively, and how far tastes and habits have been modified by the changes in these forms which have been introduced and adopted within historic times. The reader will readily perceive that this inquiry has in it a valid importance quite distinct from that which attaches itself to the supposed influence of the different varieties of intoxicating fermented drinks in use in different countries. The latter, as we have said, all contain the same intoxicating principle, and so far, therefore, exercise a common influence upon all who consume them. But the narcotics now in use owe their effects to substances which in each, so far as is known, are chemically different from those which are contained in every one of the others. They must exercise, therefore, each a different physiological effect upon the system, and, if their influence, as we suppose, extend so far, must each in a special way modify also the constitution, the habits, and the character.

Our space does not permit us, in the present Number, to speak of the use of opium and hemp; we shall return to these extensively consumed drugs on a future occasion.

SOUTH AMERICAN TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.[10]

We here associate two books which have little in common beyond their relation to the same region and races of men; the one is chiefly scientific and statistical, the other deals largely in the characteristic and romantic. Dr Weddell, physician and naturalist, and member of various scientific societies and commissions, who had previously travelled in and written of certain districts in South America, was induced, two years ago, once more to cross the Line, bound for Bolivia. His former journey had had a purely botanical object: he had gone to make acquaintance with the trees which produce the Peruvian bark. His researches were crowned with success; but he was attacked with fever and dysentery, and quitted the unwholesome shores, vowing never to revisit them. A handful of sand which he carried away with him caused him to break through his resolution. Deposited in the Museum of Natural History at Paris, it attracted attention by the beauty of the golden spangles it contained. Dr Weddell again sailed for America, this time with a double mission. The administrators of the Garden of Plants confided to him certain scientific researches; and a number of persons, whose objects were more material, commissioned him to examine and obtain concessions of tracts of land upon the Tipuani—a stream which, rising amongst the snows of the Cordilleras, flows over golden sands to its junction with one of the chief tributaries of the mighty Amazon.

Mr Theodore Pavie has been a great traveller. In the volume before us we find him alternately in India, Africa, America, on the banks of the Nile, on the Coromandel coast, in the forests that fringe the Sabine. His book includes even a Chinese legend; but that he confesses to have derived from a missionary, the companion of one of his voyages. His most interesting chapters are a series of South American sketches—in the Pampas, Chili, and Peru. He makes half an apology for having mingled fiction with facts he himself witnessed. The system he has pursued is perfectly allowable, and has been adopted by many travellers of wider fame. We may instance Sealsfield, Ruxton, and a host of other precedents. Like them, he has brought home from his distant wanderings a portfolio of rough sketches, which he has filled up, coloured, and completed by his own fireside. The landscape, the character, the figures, even some of the incidents, are true to nature; but he has thrown in a little artificial action, rendering the picture more attractive.

From the Peruvian port of Arica, which he reached, viâ Southampton and Panama, in the spring of 1851, Dr Weddell started at once for the Bolivian town of La Paz. After passing Tacna, where they were detained for some days by purchase of mules and travelling stores, the doctor and his two companions, Mr Borniche and Mr Herrypon (the latter a civil engineer), soon found themselves in the mountains, and suffering from the painful sensations produced by the great rarefaction of the air. This effect of the sensible diminution of the atmospheric pressure upon the circulation and respiration is there called the soroche, and is ignorantly attributed by the natives to metallic emanations from the soil. At the height of about 12,000 feet above the level of the sea, the travellers came to the first apacheta. In former days the Peruvian Indians, upon attaining, with a burden, the summit of a mountain, were accustomed to offer to their god Pachacamac the first object that met their view. The custom was not costly, for the object was usually a stone. They accompanied the offering by several repetitions of the word apachecta, which was a sort of prayer. In time, this word, slightly altered, was applied to the heaps of stones which the superstition accumulated, and then to the mountain-peaks which these heaps surmounted. Apachetas are found upon all elevated points of Peruvian roads. Around one of them, at the summit of the Pass of Gualillos—estimated by Dr Weddell, and by the English traveller Pentland, to be nearly 15,000 feet above the sea—were numerous skeletons of asses, mules, and lamas, which had perished of fatigue on attaining that prodigious elevation. The three Frenchmen felt almost as much inclined to lay their own bones beside those of the defunct brutes as to push on further; but they managed to continue their route over one of those vast mountain platforms known as puñas, of which the German doctor Tschudi has given so striking an account. They passed the night in the village of Tacora, and had regained their wonted courage and activity when aroused next morning by their muleteer with intelligence that four vicuñas were grazing close at hand. Stealing up to them under cover of a wall, Dr Weddell and Mr Herrypon got within fair shot, fired, and missed. Three of the animals took to flight; the fourth stood its ground, and gazed boldly at its enemies. The doctor, supposing that a wound was the cause of its immobility, quitted his cover and approached the vicuña. When he got within a certain distance, the animal ran. It was too late. The doctor fired his second barrel, and the ball broke its spine. It was not, as Dr Weddell had supposed, a wound that had delayed its flight. “When a herd of vicuñas is pursued,” he says, “the most vigorous of the males, who act as chiefs, invariably remain the last upon the place of danger, as if to cover the retreat of the others. This is a fact of which we were more than once witnesses during our journey, and hence it is much easier to obtain male than female vicuñas. I have been twenty times within shot of males, but not once of females. The vicuña (Camelus vicogna Gmel.) is the most numerous species (it and the guanaco) of the camel tribe in the New World. It is met with in all the elevated regions of the Andes, from the equator to Magellan’s Straits. The places it best loves to haunt are those where man and the condor alone can follow it. The condor, that mighty bird of prey, which is to the Andes what the eagle is to the Alps, prefers carrion to a living prey, and seldom makes war upon it; and man, until our own days, has rather encouraged its multiplication than aided in its destruction. This explains the abundance of the vicuña at the period of the conquest of Peru.” The old Spanish chroniclers relate that the vicuñas, although wild, were regarded as the exclusive property of the Incas, and any who hunted them incurred severe penalties. At fixed seasons—about once a-year—a general hunt took place, under the personal superintendence of the Inca and his chief officers; but only once in every four years was this monster battue allowed in the same district. The chase was on a prodigious scale. Fifty or sixty thousand hunters—even more, if some writers are to be believed—armed themselves with poles and lances, traced an immense circle, and drove to a common centre all the animals it enclosed. A selection then took place. Roebuck, guanacos, and other inferior animals, were killed, especially the males; their skins were used for various purposes, and their flesh was divided amongst the hunters. This meat, cut in thin slices and dried, was called charqui, and composed the sole animal food of the lower classes of Peruvians. The vicuñas, of which thirty or forty thousand were often thus collected, were more gently treated. They were carefully shorn, and then set at liberty. The wool was stored in the royal warehouses, and issued as required—the inferior qualities to the people, the better ones to the nobles, who alone had a right to wear fine cloth. The tissues then manufactured from the best vicuña wool are said to have been as brilliant as the finest silks, and to have excited, by the delicacy of their tints, the envy of European manufacturers. At the present day, no salutary law protects the graceful and useful vicuñas; they lose their life with their fleece, and have greatly diminished in numbers. The Indians drive them into enclosures, knock them on the head with cudgels, or break their necks across their knees, strip off the skin, and sell it for half a dollar. The wool sells as high as a dollar a pound upon the coast of Peru. It is chiefly consumed in the country, to make hats and gloves. Only two or three thousand dollars’ worth is annually exported from Peru.

Dr Weddell makes numerous interesting zoological observations during his journey up the country. Whilst traversing the frozen puña, he was greatly surprised to find a ruin—in which his party slept, with snow for a counterpane—infested with mice, whose sole nourishment, in that barren and inhospitable district, must have been grass. The next halt was at the farm of Chulunguiani, the highest point upon the road from Tacna to La Paz. Here the party slept under a roof, and found a pulperia or little shop, where they were able to obtain sardines in oil, sheep’s-milk cheese, and bad Bordeaux wine. A day was passed here in duck-shooting, and in hunting the viscacha, a small animal of the chinchilla tribe, having a dark grey fur, very soft, but less esteemed by furriers than that of the chinchilla. It is about the size of a rabbit, burrows amongst rocks, and is found only at a very great elevation, equal to that habitually preferred by the vicuña. Dr Weddell and his host shot two specimens. When the doctor went indoors to skin them, he found that the animals had lost the tips of their tails. The farm-steward, who had carried them in, explained that he had thus docked them to preserve them from decomposition, the extremity of the tail having the singular property of producing the corruption of the whole animal, if not cut off almost immediately after death. Dr Weddell was not very well satisfied with this explanation, but, to his astonishment, he afterwards found it everywhere the custom to sever the end of the viscacha’s tail.

Whilst at the farm (it was a sheep-farm—oxen live but do not thrive at that altitude) Dr Weddell did his utmost to get an alpaca, knowing that there were some in the neighbourhood. He was unsuccessful; and as to buying one, it is a most difficult matter in that country, where the Indians have an extraordinary dislike to parting with their domesticated animals, except sheep. During his stay in Bolivia, he repeatedly offered five or six times its value for an alpaca, and was refused. The alpaca wool, which constitutes one of the most important branches of Peruvian commerce, and is consumed chiefly in England, varies greatly in price, the pure white selling for thirty or thirty-five dollars a hundredweight; other colours at an average of twenty-two dollars. The weight of the fleeces ranges from three to seven pounds. “I have seen some of these animals,” says Dr Weddell, “whose virgin fleece almost swept the earth; when they attain that state, their faces are hidden in the wool that surrounds them.” From a priest, who afforded hospitality to the travellers at their second halt after they quitted the farm, they obtained some instructive details concerning the country, and a most marvellous story of a natural phenomenon observed by him during his rambles in the province of Yungas. “This was nothing less than a bird-plant—that is to say, a bird which, having alighted upon the ground, had there taken root. More than a hundred persons, the cura said, had seen this wonder, and verified its reality. The person who had discovered the bird, unfortunately forgot one day to take it food, and it died. We were not informed how it had lived before it found a master.” It is odd to be able to trace a coincidence between the wild tale of the Peruvian puña and a tradition of Asiatic-Russian steppes. Edward Jerrmann, in his Pictures from St Petersburg,[11] tells of the baranken or sheep-plant, supposed to produce the fine silky fleece that was in reality obtained by ripping unborn lambs from the mother’s belly.

At La Paz, which the little caravan reached after much fatigue, some severe hardship, and a few misadventures, but without serious disaster, one of the first things the travellers did was to avail of a letter of introduction from the Bolivian minister at Paris, to obtain an audience of the president of the republic, General Belzu, who had just recovered from wounds inflicted by assassins. One ball had struck him full in the face, and his visitors looked curiously for the trace. A scarcely perceptible scar, at the angle of the nose, was all they could discern. The bullet remained in the head, but occasioned no inconvenience; and the general said that his health was even better than before the occurrence. Some time afterwards he consulted Dr Weddell about his wounds, and the doctor learned, from the best source, the particulars of the attempt upon his life, which he briefly recapitulates.

“Raised to the presidency after the battle of Yamparaës, in which he discomfited the adherents of Velasco, General Belzu had not only to struggle against the remains of that party, but to defend himself against the secret and much more formidable attacks of General Ballivian, Velasco’s predecessor. It is said to have been at the instigation of Ballivian that the plot I have spoken of was formed; and, in support of this assertion, the remarkable fact is adduced that, upon the very day on which the crime was committed at Chuquisaca, Ballivian and one of his intimates quitted Copiapo (in Chili), where they were staying, and rode in great haste towards the frontiers of Bolivia.

“The day selected for the crime was the 6th September 1850. In the afternoon the president left his palace, accompanied by an aide-de-camp, and by Colonel Laguna, one of the principal members of the senate, and betook himself to the public walk. Scarcely had he reached it, when four men assailed him. He stood upon his defence, but at that moment a bullet struck him in the face, and he fell to the ground. The shot had been fired so near that his beard was burnt, and his cheeks were speckled with grains of powder. A second shot was fired, but without effect. When the assassins saw him stretched upon the earth, they fired three other shots at him, but, strange to relate, each time the weapons flashed in the pan. The chief of the brigands—a mulatto named Moralès, who was mounted—then tried to trample him under his horse’s feet, but without success. After several efforts, he at last urged his horse close up to his victim, and, leaning over him, put a pistol to his head and fired a last shot. ‘The tyrant is dead!’ he cried, and, spurring his horse, he galloped through the streets to the barracks, to excite the garrison to revolt. Meanwhile Laguna, the senator, stood by with folded arms, and when the crime seemed fully consummated, he walked away with its perpetrators, thus affording good grounds for suspicion of his complicity. He was shot a few days afterwards.

“As to the president, whose existence, with two bullets in his head, seemed almost impossible, he had not even, he himself assured me, lost consciousness for a moment; and when Moralès and his band left him, he got up unaided, and reached, bathed in his blood, a neighbouring hut, inhabited by a poor Indian. The news quickly spread that the chief of the state still lived, and the projected revolution was stifled in its birth.”

The preservation of the president’s life was little short of a miracle. One of the bullets had glanced off the skull without doing material damage beyond occasioning complete loss of hearing with the left ear; but the other had gone so deep into the head that it could not be extracted. Dr Weddell probed the wound, and satisfied himself of the course and position of the ball. A few hairs’-breadths farther, or a copper bullet instead of a leaden one, and all was over with General Belzu.

The travellers made some stay at La Paz, where they soon became acquainted with the principal people in the place. They passed their time in paying visits, in seeking useful information relative to the objects of their expedition, and in getting dreadfully out of breath by the ascent of steep streets in an atmosphere so rarified that a newly-arrived European can hardly take ten steps without a pause. English housewives will read with interest Dr Weddell’s account of Bolivian edibles, with disgust his sketch of the filthy horrors of a Bolivian kitchen, with wonderment and incredulity the recipes he gives for the manufacture of certain Bolivian dishes and delicacies. The mode of using potatoes is very original. As it freezes nearly every night of the year in the upper regions of the Andes, and the people have no means of preserving potatoes from frost, they anticipate its action, in order to regulate it. “They spread the potatoes on a thin layer of straw in the open air; they water them slightly, and expose them to the frost for three successive nights. When the vegetables subsequently thaw in the sun, they acquire a spongy consistency; in that state they are trodden under naked feet, in order to get rid of the skin and squeeze out the juice; then they are left in the air until perfectly dry.” This delectable preparation is known as the black chuño; and when wanted for food, requires soaking in water for six or eight days. White chuño is prepared in another way, but one description of the sort will probably satisfy everybody of the untempting nature of the diet. Besides the animal and vegetable kingdoms, the mineral reign contributes to the gratification of South American epicures. An important section of the market at La Paz is occupied by sellers of a species of light-grey clay, very greasy to the touch, and called pahsa. The Indians alone consume it, mixing it with water to the consistency of thin gruel, and eating it with salt. At Chuquisaca, Dr Weddell was informed, a sort of earth called chaco, similar to the pahsa of La Paz, was sold and eaten in little cups, like custard or chocolate; and he heard of a señorita who thus ate dirt till she killed herself. The moderate use of this queer article of food is not injurious, but neither does it afford the slightest nourishment.

The beefsteak was long in making its appearance one day at Don Adolfo’s gargotte, where Dr Weddell and his companions usually took their meals, and an impatient Frenchman started from his seat to visit the kitchen and inquire into the delay. “Do not so!” cried a more experienced customer; “if you see how it is done, you will not eat for a week.” Dr Weddell had opportunity of inspecting more than one Pazeña kitchen. Besides the cooks—which we take to be something indescribably abominable, since he describes them merely as a degree or two more disgusting than the scene of their operations—those kitchens contain three things,—shapeless earthen pots, black and greasy; heaps of dried lama-dung, used as fuel; guinea-pigs ad libitum. Guinea-pigs are the rabbits of Bolivia, where European rabbits are curiosities, called Castilian conies, and kept in cages like some outlandish monkey. The guinea-pig has the run of the kitchen, where he thrives and fattens, and is ultimately slaughtered and cooked.

Dr Weddell went to a ball, given in celebration of the birthday of a young and amiable Peruvian lady, recently allied with one of the best families of La Paz. His account of it gives a curious notion of the degree of civilisation of the best Bolivian society. No illuminated portals, liveried lackeys, or crowd of carriages indicated to the doctor (who had not yet been at the house) the scene of the festival, when he issued forth, at eight in the evening, white-waistcoated, and draped in his cloak. The street was dark and deserted. By inquiring at shops, he at last found the door he sought; it stood open. A little Indian girl, whom he encountered in the court, pointed to the staircase, up which he groped his way. At the end of a passage, upon the first floor, he discovered a faint light. Following this beacon, and passing through two doors that stood ajar, he reached a small room, where several of the guests were smoking cigars round a table, on which stood half-emptied cups and glasses. In a corner two señoras were squatted, making ice; and a little farther off an old negress was putting sugar into a caldron of punch. The ice-makers were the mother and sister of the heroine of the day; the master of the house was amongst the smokers. Dr Weddell paid his respects, got rid of his cloak, and passed on into antechamber No. 2. This was in darkness, save for the glimmering rays of light that shot in from the adjacent rooms; and the doctor, seeing nothing, and advancing quickly, ran up against a soft substance, which he presently made out to be another señora, enveloped, even to the crown of her head, in a vast shawl. The room was half full of shawled ladies, seated on either side of the passage left open for the guests, some on chairs, others on trunks, and two or three upon a bed. These señoras, the doctor learned, were mothers, friends, or relatives of the guests. Not being sufficiently smart to show themselves in the foreground of the festival, they yet would have a view of it. They came as mosqueteras. Antechamber No. 2 contained what is called, in that country, the mosqueteria.[12] Another step took the doctor into the ball-room. Thence shawls and cigars were banished, and replaced by silks and lace, white gloves and black patent leather. Dr Weddell looked down with some shame at his boots, which he had himself blacked before leaving home. Silence reigned in the saloon. The ladies were on one side, the men upon the other, waiting for the military band, which was behind time. The first tap of the drum electrified the mute assemblage. Smiles and animation beamed upon every face. At the same time were distributed the fragrant contents of the caldron which the black Hecate had brewed in anteroom No. 1. Cups of punch circulated, and were not disdained by the ladies. Dancing began. The doctor, who, whilst climbing mountains, three days previously, in quest of flowers and simples, had suffered terribly from the soroche, and had counted a hundred and sixty throbs of his pulse in a minute, was feverish and ill at ease, and did not intend to dance. But he was borne away by the torrent. After the quadrille came another distribution of punch, and a proportionate rise in the ladies’ spirits; then came the ices which mamma and sister had so industriously manufactured, and which were, of course, pronounced excellent; then (Bolivia seems a very thirsty country) bottles of champagne and sherry made their appearance, every gentleman seized as many glasses as he could carry, and challenged the señoritas, who were not allowed to refuse. The fun now grew fast and furious. A new phase of the ball commenced. For formal quadrilles were substituted national dances. These, Dr Weddell acutely remarks, have little merit unless danced as soup is eaten—hot. The military orchestra played the airs of the bailesitos with infinite spirit, one of the musicians accompanying them with words, in which there was some license and much wit. The zapateado was danced amidst vehement applause. The good-humour of the evening was at its height. Farther they could not go, thought Dr Weddell. He was mistaken. In an interval of the dancing, it was decided that a colonel there present, who, in the doctor’s opinion, was abundantly gay, was not sufficiently so, and he was condemned to be shot. The sentence was forthwith carried into execution. The victim was placed upon a chair in the middle of the room, the band played a funeral march, and the unhappy (or happy) colonel was compelled to swallow, one after the other, as many glasses of champagne or sherry as there were young ladies present. This done, the dead-march ceased, and the culprit was released. The German students have a custom somewhat similar to this, Der Fürst der Thoren, when one sits astride upon a barrel, and imbibes all the beer, schnaps, and Rhenish presented to him by his boon-companions. But with the exception of Lola Montes, who smoked her cigar and drank her chopine in a Heidelberg studenten-kneipe, the fair sex in Europe do not generally mingle in orgies of this kind. After a substantial supper, Dr Weddell was condemned to be shot, and shot accordingly. Other executions followed, and the jollity reached its climax by the men voting the execution en masse of the whole of the ladies—a sentence which was resisted, but at last carried out. The Bolivian señoritas must have strong heads, for we read that dancing recommenced and continued vigorously until five in the morning, when the band and the majority of the guests beat a retreat. A guitar was then procured, and the lady of the house and two or three of her friends, with half-a-dozen of the most active of the caballeros, danced on, and kept up the ball until one in the afternoon! After which, all we have to say is, Brava, Bolivia!

Dr Weddell, who had been unwell before the ball, was very ill after it, and lay in bed for six weeks. When his strength returned, he made an excursion to La Lancha, a point about four leagues from La Paz. The steps he and his companions had taken to obtain concessions of land on the Tipuani had not led to the results they anticipated; so they temporarily directed their attention to the river Chuquiaguillo, upon which La Lancha is situated. In the opinion of the natives, this place is un pozo de oro—a well of gold. Early one morning in May the three Frenchmen set out for it, upon mule-back, passing along a road enlivened, during its early portion, with various kinds of shrubs, bearing flowers of brilliant colours. At this part of the doctor’s book we come to a good deal of scientific detail, accompanied by woodcuts, all very interesting to miners and intending gold-seekers, but on which we shall not dwell. The gold of the Chuquiaguillo is found in the form of pépites, or nuggets, very various in shape and size. One of them, sent to Spain by the Conde de Moncloa, is said to have weighed more than twenty kilogrammes—forty-four English pounds. At various periods, and much more recently, nuggets of several pounds’ weight have been found.

“During the presidency of General Ballivian, an Indian came from time to time to La Paz, to sell pieces of gold, which had the appearance of being cut with a chisel from a considerable mass of the metal, and many persons judged, from the colour, that the mass in question must proceed from the river Chuquiaguillo. No bribe or promise could induce the Indian to reveal his secret. The affair got to the ears of the president, who expected to obtain without difficulty the information refused to others; but the Indian held out, and would say nothing. Finding gentle means ineffectual, the general tried threats, imprisonment, &c., but all in vain. Finally, the poor man was condemned to life-long service in the army, as guilty of disobedience and disrespect to the chief of the state! From that day forward nothing more was heard either of him or of his treasure. Some persons in La Paz told me that he perished under the lash.”

La Lancha (the word signifies a boat) is neither town nor village, but a marsh. On approaching it, up a ravine, the travellers came to an immense dike or barrier of rock, through one extremity of which the river had wrought itself a narrow passage. This dike had evidently long been an immense obstacle to the waters that flowed down the ravine of Chuquiaguillo, and it was a rational enough conclusion that, since those waters washed down gold, a good deal of the metal must still remain behind that natural barrier. But it seemed more probable that the river gathered its gold after than before passing the rocky wall. It struck Dr Weddell as pretty certain that Count Moncloa’s nugget would have remained behind the dike instead of being washed over it. The conclusion was reasonable enough. Behind the dike La Lancha begins, terminating a quarter of a league above it, at the foot of another rock, which rises vertically to a height of thirty feet. Over this rock the river dashes, covering its surface with great stalactites of ice, and then winds along the right side of the marsh, where it has made itself a channel.

“At one point of its surface the Lancha contracts, and thus presents the form of the figure 8. Perhaps one should seek the figure of a boat, to which the site has been compared, in the combination of the marsh and of the mountains of bluish schist that rise abruptly around it. According to this manner of viewing it, the surface of the marsh would represent the deck of the vessel, and the gold would be in the hold—that is to say, on the rock which is supposed to form the bottom of the basin. Several attempts have been made to ascertain the existence of the precious metal, and we were told a multitude of attractive tales—much too attractive to be credible. The upshot, however, which could not be concealed, was, that all attempts had ultimately failed, owing to the infiltration of water into the wells sunk in the attempt to reach the veneros (strata of argillaceous sand) in which the gold is found.”

Nevertheless, the doctor thought the place worthy deliberate examination, and to that end established himself, with Mr Herrypon the engineer, and with Franck, their carpenter, under a tent, within which, during the night, the thermometer rarely stood at less than three degrees below zero. When the sun shone, the climate was genial and agreeable; but at three o’clock it dipped behind the mountains, which was the signal for the wanderers to creep under canvass, wrap themselves in blankets, and feast upon the hot stew their Indian cook had passed the morning in preparing. They had neighbours: several Indians had built huts on the ledges of the mountains, and daily drove their sheep and alpacas to graze upon the herbage of the marsh. From one of them Dr Weddell subsequently obtained an alpaca for his collection. Vicuñas occasionally strayed near the camp, and Franck managed to shoot one, which, with viscachas and a few wild ducks, improved the campaigning fare.

“Of the feathered inhabitants of the district, the most curious, unquestionably, is a species of variegated woodpecker (Picus rupicola), which, notwithstanding its name of carpintero (carpenter), has all the habits of a mason. Instead of working at trees, as do its congeners, it finds nothing in that graminaceous region but rock and earth upon which to exercise its beak. These birds are invariably met with in isolated pairs; they skim the ground in flying, and settle, after a few moments’ flight, upon a sod or rock, uttering a long, shrill, cooing sound. If one is killed, it is rare that its mate does not come and place itself beside the dead body, as if imploring a similar fate—a request which the sportsman is not slow to comply with, for the carpintero of the Cordilleras is a dainty morsel.”

Whilst Dr Weddell herborised, adding nearly a hundred species of plants to his collection, the engineer studied the Lancha with other views, and at last resolved to sound it. Mr Borniche, who had remained at La Paz, obtained authorisation from the Government—el derecho de cateo, or right of search, in the whole of the Lancha, during a fixed time, at the end of which he might, if he thought proper, purchase the ground at its rough value, fixed without reference to any mineral wealth it might contain. All this in accordance with the Mining Code. But poor Herrypon knew not what he undertook. He had no idea of mining difficulties in Bolivia. In this single operation he took the measure of the country’s capabilities. A month and a half passed in hammering out, in a forge at La Paz, a common and very clumsy Artesian screw, such as would have been got ready in three days in a European city, and at a cost considerably less than that of the coal consumed in the Bolivian smithy. The mere hire of the forge and bellows-blower was four dollars (sixteen shillings) a-day. When at last the instrument was ready and applied, layers of solid rock and a thick bed of diffluent clay long frustrated all the miners’ attempts. Finally, a deep well was sunk, but no gold was found, nor signs of any, and the miners quitted the place, where nothing less than the certainty of ultimately reaching a rich vein would have justified them in continuing their costly and laborious researches.

A second illness, by which he was attacked before he had fully recovered from the debilitating effects of the first, determined Dr Weddell to seek change of air. Whilst his engineering ally was still sinking wells and unprofitably probing the Lancha, he set out with Mr Borniche for Tipuani. Passing the magnificent Mount Illampŭ, which is upwards of seven thousand English yards high, and the great lake of Titicaca, they reached the town of Sorata, after an easy journey of thirty leagues. A toilsome one of forty remained to be accomplished before they should reach Tipuani. The roads were difficult, their muleteers fell ill, their mules were stubborn and restive, and mal-pasos (dangerous places to pass) were numerous; but after a few small accidents and much fatigue they reached the village, which derives its name from tipa, the name of a tree that produces a gum known in that country as sangre de drago—dragon’s blood. This tree, it is said, was formerly very abundant in the valley of Tipuani. In the aymara, or Indian tongue, the particle ni, added to a word, implies possession. The village consists of fifty or sixty houses, built chiefly of palm trunks, placed side by side, thatched with leaves of the same tree, and partitioned, when partitions there are, with bamboos. “I found the place somewhat increased in size since my visit in 1847, but no way improved with respect to healthiness and cleanliness. At its entrance, stagnant water, covered with a green scum, filled old excavations, or diggings, and told that there, as in California, gold and fever are inseparable. It sufficed, moreover, to behold the pallid countenances of the inhabitants, to judge of the atmosphere we breathed.” This was hardly the place for an invalid to recruit his health and strength in, and, after visiting the mines, Dr Weddell set out for the Mission of Guanay, boating it down the rapid and rocky Tipuani—a rather dangerous mode of travelling. The priest of the Mission was an aymara Indian, a native of La Paz; his parishioners were Lecos Indians, considerable savages—although they had abjured paint, or only secretly used it—and very skilful with gun and bow, as well as in the capture of several large species of fish found in the river Mapiri, hard by which they dwelt. Some of these fish attain the weight of nearly a hundred pounds. They are taken with strong hooks, shot with arrows, or hocussed and taken by hand. This last practice prevails amongst some other South American tribes.

“The substance employed for this purpose by the Guanay Indians is the milky juice of one of the largest trees of their forests, known by them under the name of Soliman. It is the Hura crepitans of the botanist. To obtain this venomous milk, they cut numerous notches in the bark of the tree, and the sap which exudes runs down and soaks the earth at its foot. This earth, enclosed in a large sack, is thrown into the river, and as soon as the water becomes impregnated with it, the fish within the circle of its influence float inanimate upon the surface, and are collected without trouble. A creek or small branch of the river is usually selected for this operation. In other parts of Bolivia, and especially in the province of Yungas, they use, to poison the water, the green stalk of a small liana called Pepko or Sacha, of which they crush, upon a stone, a fathom’s length or two, in that part of the river they wish to infect. Its effect is said to be as speedy as that of the Soliman sap, and I was assured that the fish thus taken could be eaten with impunity. It is not to be thence inferred that the sap, like the poison used for their arrows by the Indians of Guiana and on the Amazon, may be taken by man without injury; it is to the extreme smallness of the dose swallowed with the fish that its apparent harmlessness is to be attributed. The sap of the Soliman has, in fact, such caustic qualities, that its mere emanations cause violent irritation of the organs which receive them. We saw at the Mission a person who had lost his sight in consequence of a few drops of this juice having accidentally spirted into his eyes; and Messrs Boussingault and Rivero related that, having subjected the sap of the Soliman to evaporation, with a view to analyse it, the person who superintended the operation had his face swollen and his eyes and ears ulcerated, and was cured only after several days’ medical treatment.”

Bolivia is evidently a fine field for the botanist. Dr Weddell mentions a number of vegetables unknown, or little known, in Europe, but interesting and valuable by reason of their medical properties or economical uses. When in the province of Yungas, he briefly refers to two or three of the principal of these: “The Matico, a shrub of the pepper tribe, whose leaves, which resemble those of sage, have remarkable vulnerary properties; the Vejuco, a curious species of Aristolochia, whose crushed leaves are said to be an infallible cure for the bites of serpents; and a sort of Myrica, or wax-tree, whose berries, soaked in boiling water, yield in abundance a green wax, used to make candles.” Concerning the Quinquina, or Peruvian bark tree, and the Coca shrub, whose leaves the Indians chew, the doctor gives many interesting particulars. When descending the river Coroico in a balsa or Indian canoe, he frequently encountered his old acquaintances the cascarilleros, or bark-gatherers, who pursue their wild and solitary calling in the interior of the forests, dwelling under sheds of palm-leaves, and exposed to many dangers and hardships. Whilst seeking, one evening, a good place to bivouac, the doctor, and the padre from the Guanay Mission, who was then his fellow-traveller, came upon a cascarillero’s hut, in front of which they beheld a horrible spectacle. A man lay upon the ground in the agonies of death. He was almost naked; and, whilst yet alive, he was preyed upon by thousands of insects, whose stings and bites doubtless accelerated his end. “His face, especially, was so much swollen that its features could not be distinguished; and his limbs, the only portion of this corpse which still moved, were in an equally hideous state. Under the roof of leaves was the remainder of the poor wretch’s clothes, consisting of a straw hat and a ragged blanket; beside them lay a flint and steel, and an old knife. A small earthen pot contained the remains of his last meal—a little maize, and two or three frozen potatoes. For a few seconds the missionary contemplated this piteous object, then made a step towards the unfortunate man, and was about, I thought, to offer him some assistance, at least of a spiritual nature, but his courage failed him; and, suddenly turning away, he walked hastily to his balsa, and had himself rowed to a place some hundred yards farther, upon the opposite bank of the river.” In fact, the tortured bark-gatherer was beyond human aid, and on the brink of death. Dr Weddell covered him with his blanket, and returned to the boats.

We have dipped but into a few chapters of this compendious volume of nearly six hundred pages. A large portion of its contents are more interesting to naturalists and miners than to the general reader. Dr Weddell’s investigations are of a comprehensive nature, including the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms, extending to an analysis of the various Indian languages of the country, and even to Bolivian music, of which he furnishes specimens. A map, some useful illustrations, an excellent table of contents, and headings to the chapters, give the work a completeness not so common in French as in English publications of this nature. Having adopted it for examination as a book of travel, and not of scientific and mining research, we recommend the numerous chapters we have not touched upon to those classes of readers to which they especially address themselves, and turn to Mr Pavie’s sketches of countries adjacent to those in which Dr Weddell has more recently wandered. It does not appear, from the former gentleman’s book, that his rambles had any more serious motive than love of locomotion, and a curiosity to view strange lands. The form he has adopted, and the modest pretensions announced in his preface, relieving him of most of the responsibility to which writers of travel usually hold themselves subject, he gives no account of himself, is very desultory, and does not take the trouble to supply dates. We collect, however, from his volume and preface, that some years have elapsed since his travels were performed, and that he was then a young man, eager for adventure, and enthusiastic for local peculiarities and national characteristics. It is with a view to variety, he tells us, that he has jumbled the sections of his book, and irregularly distributed those of them which have a natural order and sequence of their own. It was about twenty years ago—as we gather from the internal evidence of the chapters—that Mr Pavie left Buenos Ayres for Valparaiso, by the route across the Pampas. The moment was not particularly well chosen for such a journey. Anarchy was at its height in South America, and especially in the country of the Argentine republic. There was strife between federalists and unitarians. The Indians, resuming the offensive, had committed many depredations, and defeated the volunteers of the province of Cordova. The roads were far from safe; impediments and stoppages were numerous, and two months were consumed by the journey from La Plata to the Cordillera, a distance of three hundred leagues. When at only four days’ march from the Andes, snow fell, and a halt was called in the poor little town of Mendoza. The mountains were white from foot to summit; there was no possibility of crossing them; patience must be cultivated, and spring waited for. In these dull winter-quarters Mr Pavie had abundant leisure to note down the incidents of his two months’ journey, to gather characteristic traits of the people, and striking anecdotes of the war. We shall take him up, however, at an earlier period of his expedition, when he was but a week out from Buenos Ayres. He had traversed the province of the same name and that of Santa Fé, and hoped to reach the town of Cordova upon the following night. A forest succeeded to bare and monotonous plains. The horses trotted briskly over a light sandy soil, refreshed by numerous streams; the country was smiling, the vegetation rich. It still wanted two hours of sunset, and another league would bring the travellers to the post-house of the esquina—the Corner—situated at the junction of the two high-roads which connect the Pacific and the Atlantic—one leading northwards, to Bolivia and Peru, the other south-west, to Chili, passing through St Luis and Mendoza. Mr Pavie would have availed himself of the remaining daylight to push on a stage farther, but a young Cordovan, who accompanied him, and who was a lively and pleasant fellow, urged him to pass the night at the esquina. It was kept by a widow, he said, a certain Doña Ventura, whose eggs with tomata sauce were quite beyond praise, and whose daughter Pepa sang like a nightingale. It was a long road from that to Santiago de Chili—three hundred leagues, besides the Andes to cross, and the season was advanced, but Mr Pavie was unwilling to disoblige his friend.

“An old gaucho, the widow’s managing man, came out to receive us. Whilst the horses were unharnessed, a lad of twelve or thirteen, beautiful as one of Murillo’s shepherds—who was hurling stones at the wild pigeons perched upon the fig-trees—threw his sling across his shoulder, and ran into the house, crying out—‘Mother! mother! here is Don Mateo with some foreign señores.’ Don Mateo, our Cordovan friend, went to see after dinner, and to inform the post-mistress that we should not need horses before the next morning. The travellers’ room was tolerably clean, and very large. Its sole furniture consisted of a small lamp burning before an image of the Virgin, and of a guitar suspended from a nail. When dinner was ready, Doña Ventura brought in immense arm-chairs, covered with leather and gilt nails, and evidently made at Granada in the time of the Catholic kings. Some very brisk peasant girls (cholas), who said nothing, but looked a great deal, laid the table, and placed upon it the promised eggs and tomatas, and large salad-bowls containing lumps of roast meat swimming in gravy. Pimento had not been spared. The soup was brought to us, according to the custom of the country, at the end of the repast. The post-mistress, seated upon the estrade or platform that extended completely round the room, triumphed in our famous appetites, and proudly drew herself up whenever one of us paid her a more or less exaggerated compliment on the excellence of her dinner. Pepa, a handsome girl, with a remarkably white skin and fresh complexion, stood near her, smoking a cigarrito, and gazing about with her great blue eyes, which were shaded by long dark lashes. Juancito, the boy with the sling, rambled round the table, and unceremoniously tasted the Bordeaux wine in our glasses. Dinner cleared away, Mateo took down the guitar and presented it to Pepa: ‘Señorita,’ he said, ‘these gentlemen would be enchanted to hear you sing; favour them with a ballad, and they will consider you the most amiable girl—la mas preciosa niña—in the entire province.’ We were about to add our entreaties to those of Mateo, but the young girl had already tuned the instrument; and, without coughing, complaining of a cold, or waiting to be asked again, she sang half-a-dozen very long songs. At the end of every verse Mateo applauded. Pepa certainly had a charming voice, which she did not badly manage. Gradually her countenance grew animated. From time to time she stopped and exclaimed—‘Ay, Jesus! I am dead!’ and then went on again. Doña Ventura at last began to accompany her daughter’s song. At every chorus we slapped the table with the palms of our hands; and Mateo, imitating castanets with his fingers, danced like a madman in the middle of the hall.”

This thoroughly Spanish-American scene was interrupted by the arrival of fifteen waggons, each drawn by six oxen, and laden with dried fruits, cotton, and bales of horse-hair. They drew up in line upon the open space in whose centre stood the post-house. The oxen, unharnessed, joined the reserve drove which followed the convoy, in charge of a dozen horsemen; and from the innermost recesses of the vehicles there emerged bullock-drivers, women, children, passengers of all ages and of motley aspect, who had joined the caravan in order to get over three hundred leagues at small expense. Some ran to cut wood, others to fetch water. Fires were lighted, and enormous slices of meat set to roast before them upon spits stuck in the ground. Every convoy of this kind is under the orders of a capataz or chief. This one was commanded by a certain Gil Perez, whose arrival seemed of strong interest to Doña Ventura and her daughter. Pepa hastened to adorn herself with a silk shawl, the gaudy product of a Lyons loom, and with a fashionable Buenos Ayres comb, a foot high. His camp established, Gil Perez entered the house with a beaming countenance. He had brought presents for everybody;—a scarf and satin shoes for Pepa, a Peruvian gold chain for her mother, a dirk for Juancito. In Spanish countries acquaintance is soon made. His gifts distributed, Perez sat down and chatted with Don Mateo and the other travellers; whilst the bullock-drivers, the cholas, and the postilions of the esquina, were dancing outside. By and by, Perez, who had been out to look after his people, announced the approach of more travellers, indicated by a cloud of dust in the south-east. Juancito went out to reconnoitre, and reported that the muleteers from San Juan were close at hand. Pepa and her mother exchanged a rapid glance. The muleteers halted at some distance from the posting-house, and unloaded their beasts, each of which carried two barrels of brandy. Their chief dismounted and walked towards the house, his saddle-bags over his shoulder. Walking rapidly and on tiptoe, on account of the long steel spurs which he dragged at his heels, he knocked at Doña Ventura’s door. Juancito answered.

“Gil Perez looked at the muleteer pretty much as an admiral might look at the humble master of a merchantman. The muleteer, disconcerted at finding the room full of strange faces, to say nothing of that of the capataz, which seemed greatly to incommode him, paused near the door for some seconds.

“‘Come in, Fernando,’ said Doña Ventura; ‘you are surprised to see my Pepita in full dress, eh, my lad? We have had an arrival of gentlemen. Will you sup? I have some puchero at hand.’

“‘Thanks, señora,’ replied Fernando; ‘I want nothing. You know that I never pass this way without calling to see Pepita. I have brought you a little barrel of the best brandy that has been tasted at San Juan for many a year.’

“‘Is the brandy for Pepa?’ said Gil Perez.

“‘Don Gil,’ replied the muleteer, ‘every one gives what he has, and according to his means.’ Then, turning to the young girl—‘Pepita,’ he said, ‘when you were a child you liked the tarts made in our mountains; I have brought you some, and of the best peaches.’

“Whilst speaking, he drew from his saddle-bags the little barrel of brandy, and a dozen square cakes filled with a thick marmalade, which seemed particularly grateful to the gums of Juancito. Then he sat himself down near Pepa, and looked proudly at the captain of the waggons.

“‘How many beasts have you?’ said the latter.

“‘Fifteen, besides saddle-horses.’

“‘Just as many as I have carts. Not so bad, really. You carry thirty casks—half a load for one of my waggons. Pshaw! what can you earn? A poor trade is yours, my lad, and you will follow it long before you grow rich.’

“‘When I am tired of it,’ replied Fernando, ‘I will try another.’ The muleteer spoke these words in a singular tone.

“‘Fernando is stout-hearted,’ said Doña Ventura, ‘and he will do well yet; and he will find, somewhere in his own province, a pretty girl with a good dowry. Eh, Fernando?’

“Fernando made no reply, but pulled down his little pointed hat over his forehead;—his eyes glittered like those of a cat. Seizing the guitar, which lay upon the bench beside Pepa, he strummed it with an absent air, like one absorbed by his thoughts. Juancito, who stood before him, waiting doubtless for the end of the prelude, and for the commencement of some lively mountain ditty, pushed his arm, and said—‘Fernando, have you seen the fine presents Gil Perez has brought us?’ Without raising his eyes, the muleteer sang, in a low voice, this verse of an old ballad:—

‘No estès tan contenta, Juana,
En ver me penar por ti;
Que lo que hoy fuere de mi,
Podrá ser de ti mañana,’[13]

Then suddenly throwing down the guitar, he jumped upon the estrade, extinguished the lamp that burned before the Madonna, and clapped his hand to his knife. Pepa took refuge close to her mother. At the cry she uttered, Gil Perez stood upon his guard; but Fernando passed close by him without looking at him, and reached the door. ‘Ah, Pepita!’ muttered he as he went out, ‘you will drive me to harm!’ And he disappeared.”

This stormy episode broke up the party. Agitated and alarmed, Doña Ventura and her daughter betook themselves to their bedchambers. The travellers wrapped themselves in their blankets—Mr Pavie establishing himself, according to his custom, in their coche-galera, or travelling-carriage, where he slept but little, owing to the songs and dancing of the waggon-drivers, and the screaming of innumerable parrots. The night passed without incident, and at daybreak he was roused by Mateo. The horses were ready; the San Juan muleteers were already on their road; Gil Perez, foot in stirrup, was directing the departure of his convoy. That evening the travellers reached Cordova.

Several months had elapsed since the scene at the esquina, and Mr Pavie, after rambling through Chili and Pern, returned to Santiago, the capital of the former country. Looking on, one night, at a dance in a public garden, he fell in with his old acquaintance, Don Mateo, somewhat threadbare, but still a passionate lover of song and dance. One of the political changes so common in South America had driven him across the Andes. He was an exile, proscribed in his own country. His party had fallen, his patrimony had been swallowed up by fines, and he deemed himself fortunate to have saved his neck.

“Do you remember,” said Mateo, as he leaned beside his French friend upon the parapet bordering the Tajamar, and gazed at the summits of the Cordillera, which still reflected a last gleam of sun—“do you recollect one evening at the esquina? Well, of all the persons then assembled under Doña Ventura’s hospitable roof, and including her and her daughter, how many, do you suppose, still live? Two, you and I! The first scene of the drama passed before your eyes. I will narrate those that ensued. You have not forgotten our merry supper at the posting-house, Gil Perez and his waggons, and Fernando, the little muleteer with the long spurs?”

Mr Pavie perfectly remembered all that had passed at the esquina. Mateo took up the tale from the moment of their departure. Although Fernando and Gil Perez started nearly at the same moment, they met no more until they reached Buenos Ayres. The aria (string of mules) trotted briskly over the plain, whilst the heavy waggons lingered in the ruts. Four days had elapsed since Fernando’s arrival, when Perez reached his usual halting-ground near the hill of the Retiro, and, after turning out his cattle to graze, rode into the city. As soon as he was gone, the bullock-drivers, a vagabond and insubordinate race, gathered round the camp-fires to discuss the news that had reached them of insurrections in the inland provinces. Most of these wild gauchos felt sorely tempted to exchange goad for lance, and join the armed bands then scouring the country. To gallop in boundless plains, to pillage isolated farms, and attack hamlets—such was the fascinating perspective that offered itself to their imagination. Whilst they were debating the probable course of events in the tierra adentro, Fernando came by. He was on foot; his long spurs were still at his heels.

“‘Ha!’ cried the bullock-drivers, ‘here is the little muleteer, the brandy-merchant from San Juan! Give us a barrel, Fernando, and we will drink your health.’

“‘Give me something to eat,’ replied the muleteer, ‘I am fasting since yesterday.’

“And cutting a slice off a great piece of beef that roasted at the fire, he took one end of it in his fingers, put the other into his mouth, and swallowed it at a single gulp, as a lazzarone swallows an ell of macaroni. Then he wiped his knife on his cowskin boot and lay down under a cart to sleep. When Gil Perez returned and walked round his camp, he saw the muleteer, who was snoring on the grass.

“‘Hallo, Fernando!’ he cried, ‘what do you there, my man?’

“‘Resting myself,’ replied Fernando, rubbing his eyes, ‘I have passed four days and nights playing at cards.’

“‘Have you won?’

“‘Lost everything—my load of brandy, my mules, all I had in the world. Lend me twenty dollars, Gil Perez?’

“‘To gamble them?’

“‘Perhaps. See, I was a steady man; I never played, and you are cause that I am perhaps about to become a robber. I have known Pepa from her childhood; her mother received me well, saw that I loved her daughter, and encouraged me to work and increase my little trade. Every trip I made I never missed calling at the esquina, and every trip I found Pepa prettier than before. She received me joyfully, and I was happy. But since two years that you have gone that road, all is changed. With your gold chains and silk shawls you have turned their heads. Lend me twenty dollars, that I may make them presents and regain their favour. You are rich, Gil Perez—you will find a wife in the towns, at Salta, Cordova, where you please; I am poor, but I love Pepita, the only girl who would not refuse me, ruined though I be.’”

Surprised at the muleteer’s frank explanation and request, Gil Perez offered him the twenty dollars, but laughed at the idea of abandoning his pretensions to Pepita. Fernando refused the money, and departed with a muttered threat. That night he took to the plain, mounted on a fine horse and bearing gold in his girdle—the spoils of a traveller he had waylaid and murdered. The die was cast; the honest muleteer had become a gaucho malo.

A few days after this, Fernando rode up to the esquina. Little Juancito ran to kiss him. Torribio, the steward, surprised to see him come alone, riding a valuable horse and without his usual retinue of mules and muleteers, hurried out to meet him. “Amigo!” he cried, “whence come you, thus finely equipped? It seems the San Juan brandy fetches a good price in the market!” Without replying, Fernando abruptly opened the door and addressed the two women, astonished at his sudden appearance.

“The gauchada is about to take the field,” he said, “and I greatly fear that one of its earliest visits will be for you. I have friends in its ranks; give me your daughter, Doña Ventura, and I answer for her safety and yours.’

“‘Since when are you allied with the brigands, Fernando?’ indignantly demanded Doña Ventura.

“‘Pepita,’ said the muleteer, evading reply, ‘will you have me?—You tremble—you turn away your head!—Are you afraid of me, Pepita? Do you take me for a bandit?’

“There was something terrible in the sound of Fernando’s voice, which even the passionate love he still felt for Pepa was insufficient to soften. The young girl in vain endeavoured to speak.

“‘Fernando,’ cried Doña Ventura, ‘when last you were here, you left my house like a madman, your hand on the haft of your knife; you enter it to-day like a bandit, with threats upon your lips. Begone, and return no more; I need not your protection.’

“‘Ha! you mean to say that Gil Perez will protect you. Reckon upon that! There are times when fine shawls and gold chains are not worth sabre and carbine. After all, I too have gold! See here. Once more, Pepita, will you follow me? I am no longer a muleteer; it was too base a trade, was it not? Shall I carry you off on my horse’s crupper into the sierra of Cordova and to Chili?’”

Pepa, frightened at the gaucho’s fierce voice and vehement manner, burst into tears and fainted in her mother’s arms. Fernando hastily left the house, his love—the last good sentiment his heart retained—exchanged for bitter hate.

It was not long after this incident, early upon a winter’s morning, that Gil Perez, riding ahead of his waggons, which had camped on the banks of the Rio Salado, discerned at the horizon a dozen black specks that rapidly approached him. Soon he made them out to be horsemen, armed some with lances, others with rifles. Deeming them suspicious, he rode back and formed his caravan in order of battle. The waggons were arranged in a circle, the bullocks inwards; arms were distributed to the men, and from between the waggons the muzzles of pistols and blunderbusses menaced those who should assail the fortress. These arrangements were scarcely made when the party of horsemen slackened speed, and one of them rode forward alone. At twenty paces from the waggons he drew rein and removed the handkerchief, which partly concealed his face.

“‘Don Gil,’ cried the horseman, ‘confess that the little muleteer Fernando has given you a famous fright.’

“‘It is you,’ replied Perez, ‘what do you here? what do you want of us?’

“‘I have changed my trade, amigo; did I not once tell you that when I should be tired of mule-driving, I had another trade in view? I am now an ostrich hunter. A fine flock escaped from us this morning. Have you not met it?’

“‘Another poor trade that you have taken to,’ replied Perez. ‘If that be all you have to say to me, there was no need to charge down upon us with your comrades like a band of robbers. When you first came in sight there were some ostriches about a mile in front of me; if those are what you seek, continue your hunt and leave us to continue our journey.’

“During this parley, the bullock-drivers, believing danger past, ceased to stand upon the defensive; Fernando’s comrades slowly approached and carelessly mingled with them, rolling their cigarritos and entering into conversation. Although suspecting no treachery, Perez hesitated to resume his march so long as Fernando and his band were there. Thus the halt was prolonged, and the ostriches, no longer frightened by the creaking of wheels, reappeared upon a rising ground behind which they had taken refuge.

“‘Don Gil,’ exclaimed Fernando, ‘I will wager that my horse, which has already done ten leagues to-day, will overtake one of those birds sooner than yours, fresh though he be.’

“‘I have no time to try,’ replied Perez, annoyed at the delay; ‘the place is not safe, and I am in haste to see the houses of Cordova.’

“‘Pshaw! a five minutes’ ride,’ said the muleteer; ‘come, one gallop, and I will rid you of my company, and of that of my friends, with which you do not seem over and above pleased.’

“‘So be it then,’ answered Perez, ‘and then I must be off;’ and he set spurs to his horse. Fernando rode so close to him that their knees touched. The gauchos and drivers shouted to excite the two horses, which seemed to fly over the plain; and the ostriches, finding themselves pursued, fled their fastest, stretching out their necks, beating the air with their short wings, and furrowing the ocean of tall herbage by rapid zigzags right and left. The two horsemen gained upon them. The furious race had lasted at least ten minutes, when Fernando fell into the rear. Gil Perez, looking back to calculate the distance that separated them, saw him brandishing a set of balls as big as his fist.[14] ‘Amigo,’ cried he, without stopping, ‘those balls are big enough to catch a wild horse.’ Whilst he sought, in his girdle, the small leaden balls he proposed throwing round the ostrich’s neck, his horse fell, his fore-legs entangled in the ropes that had just quitted the muleteer’s hands. The violence of the fall was in proportion to the rapidity of the ride. On beholding his rival roll in the dust, Fernando uttered a triumphant shout. Perez, who had fallen upon his left side, sought to extricate his sabre in order to cut the terrible cord which shackled his horse’s legs. The poor brute, panting and covered with foam, struggled violently for release. Before Gil Perez could draw his weapon, the muleteer was on foot and held him by the throat.

“‘You are a traitor and a coward!’ cried the unfortunate Perez, giddy from his fall, and trying to shake his enemy off. ‘You have led me into a snare to murder me!’

“‘That is not all,’ coolly replied the muleteer. ‘Look yonder; you see that smoke, it proceeds from your waggons. The plain is on fire. ’Tis you whom I was hunting, carretero (waggoner); but for you I should still be a muleteer. I have become a brigand. I have seen Pepa; she rejects me. The traitor, I say, is you, who have ruined all my hopes.’

“Perez was active and vigorous: on equal terms his enemy would not have dared contend with him; but surprise and terror paralysed his strength. After deliberately stabbing him, Fernando passed a rope round his neck, and, as he still breathed, dragged him to a neighbouring stream and threw him into the water.”

Gil Perez dead, most of his men, who had arms and were more than a match for the banditti, joined the latter, plundered the waggons, killed the oxen, and departed with their new comrades, those who had no horses riding double. Fernando promised to take them to a place where they could mount themselves well. He kept his word. One night, old Torribio, who, ever since Fernando’s visit and the commencement of the civil war, had kept vigilant watch, and frequently patrolled the neighbourhood of the esquina, thought he heard voices in the forest. He bridled up the horses, which he always had ready-saddled in the stable, and entreated his mistress and her daughter to escape by the Cordova road. The two women got upon the same horse; Torribio, armed with sabre and carbine, mounted another, to escort them; Juancito, not understanding the danger, leaped, light and laughing, into his saddle, whip in hand, and his sling over his shoulder. The little party set out. They would have escaped an enemy to whom the locality was not familiar. But Fernando had placed spies round the posting-house, and lay in ambush upon the road to Cordova. A bullet from Torribio’s carbine grazed the brigand’s cheek; the next moment the faithful old servant lay in the road, his skull cleft by a sabre-cut. Juancito escaped into the forest. His mother and sister did the same, but were captured and taken back to the posting-house, which was pillaged and afterwards burnt. The outlaws then departed. Doña Ventura had supplied them plentifully with brandy, hoping to escape during their intoxication, but Fernando drank nothing. When the moment came for departure, he lifted Pepa upon his horse, repulsed with his foot her despairing mother—who in vain struggled and clung to her child—and rode off. Pepita, more dead than alive, uttered lamentable cries. The muleteer heeded them not, but sang the lines he had sung upon the memorable night when he found Gil Perez at the posting-house, and left it with a sombre prediction that Pepa would drive him to evil.

“No estès tan contenta, Juana,
En ver me penar por ti;
Que lo que hoy fuere de mi,
Podrá ser de ti mañana.”

Doña Ventura’s fate is not upon record; she is believed to have perished of hunger, misery, and cold. Juancito lost his way in the pampas. Although bred in the desert, the poor boy had not sufficient experience to guide himself by sun and stars. It was never known how long he held out. Not many days after his flight, there was found, upon the frontier of the Indian country, a child’s corpse, which was supposed to be his. A whip hung from the wrist, and a sling was over the shoulder. The birds of prey had made a skeleton of the body.

The fate of poor Pepita was far worse even than that of her mother and brother. Forced to follow the fortunes of the gaucho malo and his band, she was compelled to enliven their bivouacs by song and dance. At first, even the rude desperados amongst whom she had fallen, were inclined to pity her sufferings, but soon they imitated the contempt with which Fernando treated her. Elegantly dressed, she accompanied them everywhere; she was their ballet-dancer and opera-singer. Her duty was to amuse those who rarely addressed but to insult her. She was known in the country as the wife of the gaucho malo. Sometimes, in the night, when the robbers, overcome by fatigue, slept to the last man, she might have escaped; but whither could she fly? Their halts were generally in places remote from all habitations; and even had she reached a farm or village, what sort of welcome would there have been for the supposed wife of the gaucho malo and accomplice of his misdeeds?

“After several months,” Mateo continued, “passed in rambling about the plains, Fernando, emboldened by impunity and success, approached the villages. Other bands, better organised and more numerous than his own, spread terror through the province of Cordova. He profited by the general confusion to take share in the fight, like a privateer who spreads his sails in the wake of friendly frigates. The militia, called out to oppose the insurgents who threatened the town of Cordova, were beaten. The town remained in the power of the horsemen of the plain, and the militia could not return to their homes, of which the enemy had taken possession. They were forced to fly, exchanging a few parting shots with roving corps that sought to impede their escape. I was of the number of the fugitives. The company to which I belonged daily diminished. Every man secretly betook himself to the place where he hoped an asylum. Only twenty of us remained together, resolved to make for the western provinces, and to cross the Andes into Chili: we had two hundred leagues to get over before putting the frontier between us and the enemy.

“One evening, as we were riding through the sierra of Cordova, we noticed a bivouac amongst the rocks. ‘Shall we reconnoitre that camp?’ I asked of the officer who commanded us. ‘They are gauchos,’ he replied; ‘it is almost dark, we can pass them unperceived: the robbers are not fond of fighting when there is no chance of booty;’ and we silently continued our march. By the light of the bivouac fires, we made out a dozen horsemen seated on the ground upon their saddles. Their lances were piled in a sheaf in the middle of the camp; before them a woman was dancing, her figure and movements clearly defined against the bright fire-light. They did not hear us; we marched at a walk, pistol in bridle, hand and carbine on thigh. We had already passed the bivouac unperceived, and were closing up our files preparatory to starting off at a gallop—it was no use fighting, the game was already lost—when a young man in the rearguard imprudently fired at the group. In an instant, the gauchos were armed and on horseback. Then they paused for a moment to see whence the danger came. We set up a loud shout, which the echoes repeated. The gauchos were terrified. Whilst they hesitated to assume the offensive, we turned their camp. They fired half-a-dozen carbines at us, but hit nobody. Those who had no firearms went about and ran, and their example was quickly followed by the rest of the band. Their flight was accelerated by the shots we sent after them. A few fell, but we did not stop to count the dead. This useless victory might betray our flight; our best plan was now to hasten on through the ravines, and avoid for the future all similar encounters.

“During the skirmish, the woman who had been dancing before the fire had disappeared. We thought no more of her. Suddenly, as we formed up, a shadow passed before the head of the column. ‘Who goes there?’ cried the officer, and we quickly reloaded. ‘Who goes there?’ he repeated, probing with his sabre the bushes that bordered the path. We listened, and presently we heard a plaintive moan, followed by sobs. ‘It is a wounded man,’ said the officer: ‘so much the worse for him, the devil a doctor have we here!’

“‘Señores caballeros,’ cried the mysterious being that was thus hid in the darkness, ‘have pity upon me—save me! He is dead! I am free! Ah! mother, mother!’...

“The officer had dismounted; a young girl threw her arms round his neck, repeating the words: ‘Save me—he is dead!’ We had all halted. ‘It is the dancing-girl,’ said the men; ‘she detains us here to give time to her friends to return. It is the wife of the gaucho malo.’

“‘I am Pepa Flores,’ she vehemently replied, ‘the daughter of Doña Ventura of the esquina! Ah, señores, you are honest people, you are! Never, never have I been Fernando’s wife. Is there none here who knows Doña Ventura?’

“I at once recognised Pepa’s voice. ‘She speaks the truth,’ I cried; ‘I will answer for her. Come, Pepita, you have nothing to fear with us.’

“Fernando had perished in the skirmish. It was perhaps my hand that had terminated the career of the formidable bandit, and liberated Pepita. When she learned that her mother was dead—I myself was obliged to impart to her the mournful fact, which everybody else knew—she shed a flood of tears, and begged me to take her with me. A proscribed fugitive, I had enough to do to take care of myself; but how could I resist the entreaties of an orphan, who had neither friend nor relative in the world?”

All the fugitives pitied the poor girl, and were kind to her. Her character had been changed, as well it might be, by her abode with the gaucho malo and his band. She was no longer the timid, indolent creature whom Mateo had known at the posting-house; she was quick, alert, courageous, and gave little trouble to anybody. At halts she made herself useful, and was particularly grateful and attentive to Mateo, whom she called her saviour and liberator. At the town of San Luis, he would have left her in charge of a respectable family, but she wept bitterly, and begged to follow his fortunes, disastrous though they were. He was then for the first time convinced that she had never loved either Fernando or Gil Perez. The poor girl had attached herself to the man who had delivered her from dreadful captivity, and shown her disinterested kindness. At Mendoza he again attempted to prevail on her to accept of an asylum under a friendly roof, but with no better success than at San Luis. The season was far advanced, snow rendered the passage of the Andes dangerous and very painful. Mateo’s companions urged her to wait till spring, when she might rejoin them at Santiago. She would not hear of delay. Her vision was fixed upon Chili and its Paradise Valley, Valparaiso. Providing themselves with sheepskins for protection against the cold, and abandoning their arms, now a useless encumbrance, the party commenced the toilsome ascent. They got on pretty well until they reached the region of snow. There they were obliged to quit their horses, and to climb on foot the steep and frozen acclivities, bearing on their shoulders heavy loads of provisions and fuel, their legs wrapped in fur, and handkerchiefs tied over their ears. Pepita, her head and neck enveloped in a large shawl, marched stoutly along, and often led the way, bounding like a mountain goat. Three days passed thus. There were frequent falls upon the frozen snow, many narrow escapes from death in a torrent, or over a precipice. The enormous condor hovered over the heads of the weary pilgrims, as if hoping a repast at their expense. At last they reached the foot of the Cumbre, the last steep they had to climb before commencing their descent into a milder climate, and a land of refuge. An icy wind blew, a driving snow fell: it was doubtful whether the Cumbre could be ascended upon the morrow. The wanderers halted early, in a hut known by the ominous name of Casucha de Calavera (the Cabin of the Skull). They had still a little wine in their ox-horns, which they heated and drank, and then wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down to sleep. At midnight the wind was still high, but the snow had ceased, and they determined to proceed. The reflection of the sun from the snow had so fatigued their eyes, that they travelled in the night as often as they could safely do so. Their next stage was almost perpendicular, but it was unbroken by precipices, and they thought they might risk progress. They would have done more prudently to await daylight, but they were eager to cross the frontier—to reach the summit of the Cumbre, the boundary-line between Chili and the Argentine provinces. They began to ascend. Poor Pepa’s feet were swollen, and she suffered in walking, but she was as courageous as ever, and made light of hardship. Soon the travellers entered a dense fog: they no longer saw the stars; all around them was white as a shroud. The fog became sleet; they plodded wearily on, supporting themselves with their sticks, sometimes on hands and knees.

“I was so weary,” said Mateo, “that I thought I was in a dream. I had no sensation in my body, but my head was very painful. A few paces off, I heard the frozen snow crack gently under Pepa’s feet, and I discerned her form accompanying me like my shadow. Snow succeeded the sleet; it fell in heavy flakes, and accumulated so rapidly as to threaten burial to laggards. The path—or rather the track—was invisible; in spite of all my efforts to follow it, I felt that I was deviating. I called to Pepa, but neither her voice nor the voices of my comrades replied; we were scattered. I walked on at random, I know not for how long. When daylight came, I found myself in a deep ravine, amidst snowdrifts and glaciers. Right and left, as far as I could see, was a vista of similar valleys. Not a vestige of Pepa or of my comrades. My strength failed me. With great difficulty I crept into a sort of cave amongst the rocks. There I fell asleep.”

He would have perished but for Pepa, who, on discovering his absence, spurred his comrades, by her reproaches, to a search for the friend whom their own terrible sufferings and fatigues would have induced them to abandon. There was, indeed, little chance of finding and saving him, and the men would have been fully justified in consulting their own safety, and pushing forwards. But a woman’s courage shamed them. Pepa, esperaba desesperada—despairing, she still hoped. She nobly paid her debt of gratitude to her deliverer. His life was saved, but hers was lost. Her hands and face cut and bleeding from the cold, her legs scarcely able to support her, she traced him out. It was still in time; friction restored him to consciousness. But the sunlight had scarcely greeted his eyes, when a cry of distress reached his ears. A treacherous crust of snow, covering a crevice of incalculable depth, gave way beneath Pepa’s feet, and she disappeared for ever.

The whole of this sketch—of which we have given but a bare outline, omitting many incidents—is full of life, interest, and character, although it is to be remarked and regretted that Mr Pavie’s style is deficient in that terseness and vigour which enhance the fascination of narratives of adventure. He is too diffuse and explicit, dwells too lovingly upon details, distrusts his readers’ intelligence, and is rather sentimental than energetic. “Pepita” is decidedly the best of his South American sketches. That entitled “The Pinchegras” has interest. For several years after the battle of Ayacucho had finally overthrown Spanish dominion in Chili, an armed band, known as the Pinchegras, from the name of their chief, still upheld the banner of Castile. Pablo Pinchegra began his singular career with his brothers and a few vagabonds for sole followers. They formed a mere gang of robbers. Presently he was joined by several Indian caciques and their warriors, and then by a Spaniard named Zinozain and five-and-twenty men, who carried arms in the names of Ferdinand and Spain. Thenceforward Pinchegra adopted the same rallying cry; at the end of 1825 the “royalist army” numbered eight hundred men, including Indians, and gained an important advantage over the Chilian troops at Longabi, where a squadron of cavalry was annihilated by the long lances of the Indians. The Spanish faction in Chili, encouraged by this unexpected success, recognised Pinchegra as their champion, and supplied him with arms and munitions of war. Deserters from the army of the Republic, adventurers of all kinds, flocked to his standard, beneath which a thousand men were soon ranged. With these and his Indian allies to support him, he found himself master of a large track of country, attacked and pillaged towns, carried off cattle and women to his camp in the Andes, and made his name everywhere dreaded. It was found necessary to send large bodies of troops against him. These accomplished little; and it was not until 1832 that his band was completely defeated and broken up—or rather, cut to pieces—he himself having previously been betrayed to his enemies, and shot. No quarter was given to the fugitives, and the victor’s bulletin (but Spanish bulletins are proverbially mendacious) stated that only four men of the army—for it then really was a small army—escaped the slaughter. The Indian auxiliaries had run at the beginning of the action. With one of the four survivors, a caudillo, or chief of some mark, named Don Vicente, Mr Pavie fell in at Mendoza, during the winter he passed there. The Pinchegra was silent and mysterious enough; but a young French physician, settled in the place, told his countryman the history of the last body of men that maintained with arms the right of Spain to her South American colonies. It is an interesting narrative, comprising much personal adventure, and numerous romantic episodes. The story of Batallion, an Indian foundling, adopted by a cavalry regiment, in whose ranks he serves and is slain, and that of Rosita, a lovely Limeña who loved and was abandoned by an English naval officer, and whom Mr Pavie saw in the madhouse at Lima, where she inquired of every foreign visitor whether the frigate had returned, complete the South American portion of a very interesting book.

NAPOLEON AND SIR HUDSON LOWE.[15]

One of the most distinguishing features of public life in England is the judgment exercised upon the character of its public men. In other countries the public man is generally seen through a haze of opinion. The minister of a foreign monarchy stands in the clouded light of the throne. If eminent, his fame is the result of secret councils, unknown circumstances, and personal influences almost purposely hidden from the national mind. If unsuccessful, his failures are sheltered under his partnership with the higher powers. He is hidden in the curtains of the Cabinet. At all events, he divides this responsibility with the monarch whose choice has placed him in office, and whose influence retains him in power. There are no publications of private correspondence, no despatches, except garbled ones; no secret instructions, hereafter to be developed. All the materials for forming a true estimate of the minister are withheld, by suppressing all the materials for forming a true estimate of the man. Even if a biography of the individual is written, either by a friend or an enemy, it is generally greatly destitute of that evidence from which alone posterity can come to a rational conclusion. But in England—and it is to the honour of England—the career of the public man is almost incapable of misconception. He has seldom been chosen by the caprice of power. He must have given pledges as to character. Parliament has been the point from which he has launched into the navigation of public life; his principles must have undergone a probation before his possession of office, and the whole course of his after life is registered by correspondences, despatches, and authentic memorials, which may be made public at the requisition of any member of the Legislature. The twofold advantage of this publicity is, that public justice is sure to be done to character, and that every man acts under a sense of that enlarged responsibility which is the safest guardian of public honour. If even to this feeling there may be exceptions, this view is the true theory of Ministerial life; and, among the imperfect motives of all human virtue, it is not the least that the documents are in existence, hourly accumulating, and sure to be brought forward, which shall testify to the nation and the world against every act of individual shame.

The record to which we now advert is a collection of letters, despatches, and orders, on a subject which formed some years ago the chief topic of Europe—the detention of Napoleon at St Helena. The treatment by the British officer to whom he was given in charge, the commands of Government, and the character of his captivity, are now, for the first time, laid before the world on the testimony of unanswerable documents; and an authentic form is now given to the narrative of that melancholy period which closed on the most eventful, disturbing, changeful, and dazzling era of Europe for a thousand years; the fifth act of the most magnificent drama of the modern world; the thunderstorm which, combining all the influences of a world long reeking with iniquity, the feculence of earth with the fires of heaven, at last burst down, perhaps to purify the moral atmosphere, or perhaps to warn nations of the still deeper vengeance to come, and startle them into regeneration.

We now give a brief sketch of the governor of St Helena. Sir Hudson Lowe was born in Ireland, in Galway, in July 1769. His father was an Englishman, who had served as a medical officer with the British troops in the Seven Years’ War, and whose last service was as head of the medical department in the garrison of Gibraltar, where he died in 1801.

Shortly after the birth of Sir Hudson Lowe, his father’s regiment, the 50th, being ordered to the West Indies, he was taken out with it, and thus underwent the first hazard of a life of soldiership. On his return to England he was made an ensign in the East Devon Militia—probably the youngest in the service, for he was but twelve years old. In 1787 he was appointed to an ensigncy in the 50th regiment, then at Gibraltar—arriving while the place was still in ruinous confusion from the memorable siege. “The whole rock was covered with fragments of broken shells and shot; and there was not a house in the town, nor a building within the batteries, which did not bear the marks of its devastation.” O’Hara succeeded to Elliot as the governor, and seemed resolved to signalise himself by his discipline. “I was once,” says Sir Hudson, “proceeding with the escort, in order to reach the barrier-gate by daybreak, with my head down, to stem, as well as I was able, the tremendous gusts of rain and wind, when I heard myself very sharply spoken to by a mounted officer, who desired me to ‘hold up my head and look what I was about, for it was not as a mere matter of form I was ordered on that duty.’” This officer was General O’Hara. “This,” says the narrator, “is the only real rebuke I ever experienced from a superior officer during the whole course of my military life.” He approves of the rebuke. On another occasion, on parade, when the late Duke of Kent happened to have done something which displeased the General—on a rebuke, in the presence of the officers, the Prince said, “I hope, sir, I shall always do my duty.” The General’s reply was, “And if you don’t, I shall make you do it.” It, however, happened that this man of fierce tongue showed himself at least unlucky in the field; for, having been sent to take the command of Toulon, then in possession of the Allies, he was taken prisoner in an unsuccessful sortie, and carried off by the besiegers.

On leave of absence, after four years’ duty in the garrison, Lowe, then a lieutenant, travelled into France and Italy, and made himself master of the languages of both; an accomplishment of prime value to a soldier, and which was the pivot of his fortunes. On his return to Gibraltar, the war having broken out, the 50th was ordered to Corsica, and garrisoned Ajaccio—the residence of that family who were afterwards to enjoy such splendid fortune.

In a memorandum he says, “We were all delighted with our change of quarters to Ajaccio. The town was well laid out, spacious, well built, and the citadel had excellent accommodations, but not sufficient for all the officers. One of the best houses was occupied by the mother and sisters of Bonaparte. An officer of the 50th, of the name of Ford, was, for a short time, quartered in the house, and spoke with much satisfaction of the kind manner in which the family acted towards him. The young girls—for such they were at that time—ran slipshod about the house, but hardly any notice was taken of them. There were several balls and parties given after our arrival there, but Madame Bonaparte was not invited to them, on account of the situation of her two sons (in France). She shortly after removed to Cargese, originally a Greek colony, to a house which had been built or occupied by Count Marbœuf while in the administration of that part of the island. It is not from my own recollection I mention those circumstances, because, strange as it may appear, I was not aware of the residence of any of the Bonaparte family at Ajaccio during nearly two years when we were in garrison in that town. I used frequently to hear Napoleon spoken of, but not as connected with the exploits generally mentioned as giving the first celebrity to his name—his share in the expulsion of the British from Toulon.”

The 50th subsequently served in Elba, Lisbon, and Minorca. To this last place flocked a large body of Corsican emigrants, who were formed into a corps called the Corsican Rangers, the charge of which was intrusted to Lowe, then a captain. In 1800 they were attached to the Egyptian Expedition under Abercromby, Lowe having the temporary rank of major. In the famous landing at Aboukir, on the 8th of March 1801—one of the most brilliant exploits ever performed by an army—the Corsican Rangers fought on the right of the Guards, and were warmly engaged; they were present also at the battle of Alexandria (March 21, 1801), when the dashing attack of the French on the English lines was most gallantly defeated;—an action which, in fact, involved the conquest of Egypt, for the French fought no more, the rest of the campaign being a succession of marches and capitulations. In this campaign the Major had the good fortune to save Sir Sydney Smith’s life; for a picket, mistaking Sir Sydney for a French officer, from his wearing a cocked hat (the English wearing round hats), levelled their muskets at him, when Lowe struck up their pieces and saved him. His activity in command of the outposts received the flattering expression from General Moore—“Lowe, when you are at the outposts, I always feel sure of a good night’s rest.” Moore, in writing to Lowe’s father, said—“In Sir Ralph Abercromby he lost, in common with many others, a good friend; but his conduct has been so conspicuously good, that I hope he will meet with the reward he merits.” In Sir Robert Wilson’s history of the campaign, Lowe is mentioned as “having always gained the highest approbation,” and his Corsican Rangers as exciting, from their conduct and appearance, “the general admiration.”

On the Peace of Amiens they were disbanded, but Lowe was confirmed in his rank of Major-Commandant; and after being placed on half-pay, was appointed to the 7th or Royal Fusileers, on Moore’s recommendation; adding, “It is nothing more than you deserve; and if I have been at all instrumental in bringing it about, I shall think the better of myself for it.” This generous testimony continued to influence Lowe’s fortunes; for on his arrival in England, in 1802, he was appointed one of the permanent Assistants Quartermaster-General. “I have known you,” said Moore, “a long time; and I am confident your conduct, in whatever situation you may be placed, will be such as to do honour to those who have recommended you.” He soon obtained a mark of still higher confidence. Before he had been many weeks in England, he was sent on a secret mission to Portugal, for the purpose of ascertaining the state of Oporto and the neighbouring cities. On this occasion he expressed his opinion of the practicability of defending the country by united British and Portuguese. Thus he gave an opinion contradictory to that of Europe, but subsequently realised with the most admirable success by Wellington.

He then proceeded to the Mediterranean, with an order to raise another regiment of Corsican Rangers. In the course of service with this corps, he commanded at Capri, in the Bay of Naples; and as the loss of this place formed one of the chief themes of foreign obloquy on this officer, we enter into a slight statement of the facts, less for the clearance of his character, than for the more important purpose of showing how truth may be mutilated, partly by negligence in the general narrative, and partly by exaggeration in the personal enemy.

The island of Capri, in May 1806, had surrendered to a British squadron. Its possession was of value as blocking up the Bay of Naples. Colonel Lowe, with five companies of his regiment, and a small detachment of artillery, were sent in May to garrison the island. The whole regiment was subsequently sent. In August, Murat took possession of the kingdom of Naples, and his first expedition was to Capri, whose possession by a British force, seen from the windows of his palace, continually molested him. Accordingly, on the 4th of October, an embarkation under General Lamarque attempted a landing near the town of Capri. Lowe with his Rangers hastened to the spot, and drove the enemy back to their ships. The island is three miles long, and about two miles across, and had 4000 inhabitants. Lowe had demanded a force of 2190 men for its defence. The whole number under his command were 1400, of whom 800 were a regiment of Maltese, of a miscellaneous description, and but imperfectly disciplined, though commanded by a gallant officer, Major Hammill. Lowe placed this regiment in Ana-Capri, an elevated district, on a platform of rock, to be ascended only by 500 steps of stone. The French landed 2000 men there. The Maltese regiment dispersed themselves, notwithstanding the utmost efforts of Major Hammill, who, disdaining to follow their flight, was killed; finally, the whole of the Maltese regiment were taken prisoners. Thus the 1400 men were reduced to 600, in the presence of a French force of 3000! Lowe’s object was now necessarily confined to defending the town of Capri, which he did vigorously, for ten days of frequent attacks, in the hope of being succoured by the English squadron, which would have turned the tables on the besiegers, and caught the French General in a trap. But, from some cause not easily accountable, the fleet did not appear, and the Corsican Rangers were left to the rotten and unprepared ramparts of the town. On the 15th the French cannon had made a practicable breach. Lowe still held out, and attempted to erect new defences under the fire of the French guns; but the walls were crumbling, and the cannon of the town were rendered nearly unserviceable by the enemy’s fire. The French flotilla also approached. In the evening Lamarque sent in a flag of truce, demanding the surrender of the garrison as prisoners of war, with the exception of Lowe and five or six of his officers. Lowe would permit no distinction between his officers and soldiers, nor suffer the words “prisoner of war,” positively refusing to accept of any other terms than “to evacuate his post with his arms and baggage.” On these terms alone the town was surrendered, and on the 20th the garrison embarked at the Marina, “with all the honours of war.” In addition, it deserves to be remembered that, on Lamarque’s demanding that several of the foreigners, who had enlisted in the British service while prisoners, should be given up to him, Lowe’s spirited answer was, “You may shoot me, but I will never give up a single man.”

On this occasion he received many flattering letters on his defence of the island under such difficulties; and among the rest, one from Major-General Lord Forbes, expressing the sense which must be entertained by his superior, Sir John Stuart, “of the unremitting zeal, ability, and judgment which his conduct had displayed, under the trying circumstances of Capri.”

After various services on the Italian coast, Colonel Lowe with his regiment was ordered on an expedition against the Ionian Islands, then garrisoned by the French. On their conquest, he was appointed governor of Cephalonia and Ithaca, with a recommendatory circular from General Oswald, commanding the expedition, and congratulating the people on the government of an officer “who had shown himself the common father of all ranks and classes of their communities.” In 1812 he obtained the rank of full Colonel, and returned on leave to England. “I was then,” he says, “in my twenty-fourth year of service, and had never been absent a single day from my public duty since the commencement of the war in 1793. I had been in England only once during that time.” His services were still required by Government in matters of importance; in inspecting foreign regiments to be taken into English pay; in attendance on the negotiations for the accession of Sweden to the Grand Alliance, &c. &c. At the Swedish Court he met the “Queen of the Blues,” the celebrated Madame de Stael, talking politics as usual. She had begun her performances in Sweden with writing a letter of thirty pages to Bernadotte, instructing him how to govern the Swedes; but she was not always guilty of this extravagance of presumption. Silly in her political ambition, she was hospitable in her home. A little theatre was formed in her house—for the French, even in exile, cannot live without the follies of the theatre—where she and her daughter exhibited scenes from the Iphigenie of Racine. How her physiognomy might have agreed with the requisitions of the stage, it is difficult to conjecture, for Nature never clothed a female with a more startling exterior. She afterwards performed in a farce of her own, in which her daughter exhibited as a dancer! And those were the entertainments for ambassadors and princes!—for Bernadotte, then Prince-Royal, came in, but soon disappeared. We should by no means wish to see the manners of foreign life adopted by the pliancy of Englishwomen.

The prince is thus described: “I have never seen so remarkable a countenance as that of Bernadotte; an aquiline nose of most extraordinary dimensions—eyes full of fire—a penetrating look—with a countenance darker than that of any Spaniard—and hair so black that the portrait-painters can find no tint dark enough to give its right hue: it forms a vast bushy protuberance round his head, and he takes great pains, I understand, to have it arranged in proper form.” When we had the honour of seeing the prince, which we did in Pomerania, when he was about to march his army to the camp of the Allies, every lock of his hair was curled like a Brutus bust displayed in the window of a Parisian perruquier. From Sweden Colonel Lowe was summoned by Lord Cathcart, then ambassador to Russia, to join him at the Imperial headquarters in Poland. After an interview with the Czar, he joined the Allied troops, and was present at the hard-fought battle of Bautzen on the 20th and 21st of May. Here he first saw that extraordinary man, whom he afterwards was to see under such extraordinary circumstances of change. In his correspondence with Lord Bathurst, the Colonel says—“Between the town of Bautzen and the position of the Allies is a long elevated ridge.... In the morning a body of the enemy’s troops was observed to be formed on its crest. In their front a small group was collected, which by our spyglasses we discovered to be persons of consequence in their army. Among them was most clearly distinguishable Napoleon himself. He advanced about forty or fifty paces, accompanied only by one of his marshals (conjectured to have been Beauharnais), with whom he remained in conversation, walking backwards and forwards (having dismounted) for nearly an hour.

“I was on an advanced battery in front of our position, and had a most distinct view of him. He was dressed in a plain uniform coat, and a star, with a plain hat, different from that of his marshals and generals (which were feathered); his air and manner so perfectly resembling the portraits that there was no possibility of mistake. He appeared to me conversing on some indifferent subject; very rarely looking towards our position, of which, however, the situation in which he stood commanded a most comprehensive and distinct view.”

In October, through Sir C. Stewart (now Marquis of Londonderry), he was attached to the army under that great and bold soldier, Marshal Blucher, and was with him in every battle from Leipsic to Paris. His description of the horrors of the French retreat, after the battle of Leipsic, unfolds a dreadful picture of the sufferings of war. “For an extent of fifty miles, on the French route, there were carcasses of dead and dying horses without number; bodies of men, who had been either killed, or died of hunger, sickness, and fatigue, lying in the roads and ditches; parties of prisoners and stragglers brought in by the Cossacks; blown-up ammunition waggons, in such numbers as absolutely to obstruct the road.... Pillaged and burning towns and villages marked, at the same time, the ferocity with which the enemy had conducted himself.”

In the close of this memorable year, Colonel Lowe was ordered to Holland on a commission for organising the Dutch troops who were to join Sir Thomas Graham’s army; but (as it appears), at his own request, his destination was changed for the Prussian army, under Blucher, then crossing the Rhine. He was present at all the battles fought by that army on their march through France, forming, with its four German actions, no less than thirteen—of which eleven were fought against Napoleon in person.

In all those campaigns he gallantly took the soldier’s share, being constantly at the Marshal’s side; being present, on one occasion, when he was wounded; on another, when the Cossack orderly was shot beside him; and on two others, when he narrowly escaped being made prisoner, being obliged to make a run of it, with the whole of his retinue, through a party of the enemy; Bonaparte also having been nearly taken by him in the same way, on the same day. He was present at the conferences of Chatillon, where he strongly joined those opinions which were in favour of the “March to Paris;” and he had the honour of bearing the despatch to England announcing the abdication of Napoleon; which was instantly published from the Foreign Office, in a “Gazette Extraordinary.” Colonel Lowe was received with great distinction. The Prince-Regent immediately knighted him; and the Prussian order of Military Merit was conferred on him, with the order of St George from the Emperor of Russia.

In 1814 Sir Hudson Lowe was promoted to the rank of major-general, and appointed quartermaster-general to the British troops in the Netherlands, commanded by the Prince of Orange. In that capacity he visited the fortresses on the frontier, and drew up reports on their restoration. It is remarkable that among his plans was the recommendation of building a Work at Mont St Jean, as the commanding point at the junction of the two principal roads from the French frontier, on the side of Namur and Charleroi, to Brussels, and the direction in which an army must move for the invasion of Belgium. How much earlier the battle of Waterloo would have terminated, and how many gallant lives might have been saved by the possession of a fortress in the very key of the position, we may conjecture from the defence of Hougomont, where the walls of a mere farmyard, defended by brave men, were sufficient to resist the entire left wing of the enemy during that whole hard-fought, decisive, and illustrious day.

The news of Napoleon’s escape from Elba roused all Europe. It was at once the most dexterous performance, and the most unwise act, of the great charlatan of empire. He ought to have delayed it, at least for a year. The negotiators at Vienna were already on the verge of discontents which might have broken up the general alliance; the troops were on the point of marching to their homes: thus Europe was about to be left without defence, or even to a renewal of hostilities. But the escape of Napoleon sobered all. The universal peril produced the universal reconciliation. And the Manifesto was issued in the shape of a universal declaration, proclaiming Napoleon Bonaparte the enemy of mankind.

The position of Sir Hudson Lowe at Brussels made his advice of importance. The question was, where the Allied armies should expect the attack? The Prussian generals were of opinion that they should be prepared on the side of Switzerland and Mayence. Sir Hudson Lowe, more sagaciously, affirmed that Brussels would be the object. Count Gneisenau, the Prussian quartermaster-general, finally decided to wait for the opinion of the Duke of Wellington on his arrival in the Netherlands. At this period, while matters remained in a state of uncertainty as to the movements of France, Sir Hudson Lowe was offered the command of the British troops at Genoa, intended to act with the Austro-Sardinian army, and the squadron under Lord Exmouth, against the south of France. Unwilling to quit the great Duke, he waited on him for his opinion. As all recollections of Wellington are dear to his country, we give his few words, in which, after saying that Sir W. Delancy (as his successor) might not at once be au fait at the business of the Office, and as Sir G. Murray, “who had been with him for six years, was only on his return from Canada, still he did a good deal of his own business, and could do business with any one.” In short, “it was a case that must be left to himself.”

Accordingly, he remained with the Duke until the beginning of June, and then went to take his command. On his way through Germany, he met at the Imperial headquarters Blucher, Schwartzenberg, and the Czar. With the last he had the honour of a conversation. The Czar received him in his cabinet, quite alone; took him by the hand; said that he was glad to see him, but that it was an unfortunate circumstance which compelled him (the Czar) to come forward; that oceans of blood might be again spilt; but that, while that man (Napoleon) lived, there would be no hope of repose for Europe; that armies must be kept up by every nation on a war footing; and that, in short, there appeared no other alternative than carrying on the war with vigour, and thus bringing it to the speedier close. The Czar spoke in English. He asked many other questions; but seemed most gratified by knowing that the force under the Duke of Wellington, instead of being 60,000 men, was, with the Allied forces of the Netherlands, not less than 100,000.

On reaching Genoa, the expedition sailed to the south of France; but all the cities having suddenly hoisted the white flag, the war was at an end.

Now began the only portion of his prosperous and active career, which could be called trying and vexatious. On the 1st of August 1815 he received an order to return immediately to London, for the purpose of taking charge of Napoleon Bonaparte.

On his arrival in Paris he had communications with all the Cabinet. Lord Castlereagh asked him his opinion of the possibility of Napoleon’s escape. He answered that he could see none, except in case of a mutiny, of which there had been two instances at St Helena. But on being informed of the nature of the intended garrison, he answered that its chance would be proportionably diminished. This was the only conversation which he ever had with Lord Castlereagh. On reaching London, he received the Ministerial orders for the charge of his memorable prisoner. By Lord Liverpool’s authority, he was told that if he remained in charge for three years, the royal confidence, and, we presume, the royal reward, “should not stop there.” Lord Ellenborough, Chief-Justice, assured him, “that in the execution of the duty the law would give him every support.” On the 23d of August, the Directors of the East India Company appointed him governor of St Helena; the command of the troops, with the local rank of lieutenant-general, was given to him; and his salary was fixed at £12,000 a-year.

The regulations for the safe keeping of Napoleon, adopted by the Secretary of War and Colonies, Lord Bathurst, and delivered to Sir George Cockburn, were (in outline) as follows:—

1. When General Bonaparte shall be removed from the Bellerophon to the Northumberland, there shall be an examination of the effects which the General shall have brought with him.

2. All articles of furniture, books, and wine, which the General shall have brought, shall be transhipped to the Northumberland.

3. Under the head of furniture is the plate, provided it be not to such an amount as to bespeak it rather an article of convertible property than for domestic use.

4. His money, diamonds, and negotiable bills of exchange, are to be given up. The admiral will explain to him that it is by no means the intention of Government to confiscate his property, but simply to prevent its being converted into an instrument of escape.

The remainder consists of details. In the event of his death, the disposition of his property was to be determined by his will, which would be strictly attended to.

Bonaparte was to be always attended by a military officer; and if he was permitted to pass the boundaries allotted to him, the officer was to be attended by an Orderly. No individual of his suite was to be carried to St Helena but with his own consent, it being explained to him that he must be subject to the restraints necessary for the security of Bonaparte’s person. All letters addressed to him were to be delivered to the admiral, or governor, and read by them. Bonaparte must be informed, that any representation addressed to Government would be received and transmitted, but must be transmitted open to the governor and admiral’s inspection, that they might be enabled to transmit answers to any objections. If Bonaparte were to be attacked with serious illness, the governor and admiral were each to direct a medical person, in addition to his own physician, to attend him, and desire them to report daily on the state of his health. Finally, in the event of his death, the admiral was to give orders for the conveyance of his body to England.

It would be difficult to conceive arrangements less severe, consistently with the urgent necessity of preventing another war.

On the embarkation on board the Northumberland, the arms were to be taken from the French officers on board; but to be packed carefully, and put into the charge of the captain. Napoleon’s sword was not taken from him, and the swords of the officers were restored on their arrival at St Helena. Of this order, Count Montholon made a handsome melodramatic story, in the following style: “His lordship (Lord Keith) said to him, in a voice suppressed (assourdie) by vivid emotion, ‘England demands your sword.’ The Emperor, with a convulsive movement, dropped his hand on that sword, which an Englishman dared to demand. The expression of his look was his sole answer. It had never been more powerful, more superhuman (sur-humaine). The old admiral felt thunderstruck (foudroyé). His tall figure shrank; his head, whitened by age, fell upon his bosom, like that of a criminal humbled before his condemnation.” This theatric affair Mr Forsyth declares to be pure fiction. The story is contradicted even by Las Cases, who says, in his journal—“I asked, whether it was possible that they would go so far as to deprive the Emperor of his sword? The admiral replied that it would be respected; but that Napoleon was the only person excepted, as all the rest would be disarmed.” The perpetual habit of frequenting the theatre spoils all the taste of France. The simplest action of life must be told in rhodomontade, and even the gravest facts must be dressed up in the frippery of fiction.

On the 7th of August 1815, Bonaparte was removed on board of the Northumberland, with a suite of twenty-five persons, including Count and Countess Bertrand, with their three children; Count and Countess Montholon, with one child; and Count de Las Cases, with his son, a boy of fourteen. As Mengeaud, the surgeon who had accompanied him from Rochefort was unwilling to go to St Helena; O’Meara, the surgeon of the Bellerophon, was chosen by Bonaparte, and allowed by Lord Keith to attend him.

They hove to at Madeira for refreshments, and landed at St Helena on the 15th of October.

A letter of O’Meara to a Mr Finlayson at the Admiralty, gives a characteristic detail of the voyage. “During the passage the ladies were either ill the whole time, or fancied themselves to be so; in either of which cases, it was necessary to give them medicine, in the choice of which it was extremely difficult to meet their tastes or humours, or their ever-unceasing caprice. What was most extraordinary, they never complained of loss of appetite. They generally ate of every dish at a profusely supplied table, of different meats, twice every day, besides occasional tiffins, bowls of soup, &c. They mostly hate each other, and I am the depositary of their complaints—especially Madame Bertrand’s, who is like a tigress deprived of her young, when she perceives me doing any service for Madame Montholon. The latter, to tell the truth, is not so whimsical, nor subject to so many fits of rage as the other.

“Bonaparte was nearly the entire of the time in perfect health. During the passage, Napoleon almost invariably did not appear out in the after-cabin, before twelve; breakfasted either in bed or in his own cabin about eleven; dined with the admiral about five; stayed about half an hour at dinner, then left the table and proceeded to the quarter-deck, where he generally spent a couple of hours, either in walking, or else leaning against the breech of one of the guns, talking to De las Cases. He generally spoke a few words to every officer who could understand him; and, according to his custom, was very inquisitive relative to various objects. His suite, until the day before we landed (three days after our arrival), invariably kept their hats off while speaking to him, and then, by his directions, remained covered. He professes his intention, I am informed, to drop the name of Bonaparte, and to assume that of a colonel he was very partial to, and who was killed in Italy.

“He is to proceed in a few days to Longwood, the present seat of the Lieutenant-governor, where there is a plain of above a mile and a half in length, with trees (a great rarity here) on it. He is to have a captain constantly in the house with him, and he is also to be accompanied by one whenever he goes out. None of his staff are to go out, unless accompanied by an English officer or soldier.

“I had a long conversation with him the day before yesterday. Among other remarks he observed, ‘Why, your Government have not taken the most economical method of providing for me. They send me to a place where every necessary of life is four times as dear as in any other part of the globe; and not content with that, they send a regiment here, to a place where there are already four times as many inhabitants as it can furnish subsistence to, and where there are a superabundance of troops. This is the way,’ continued he, ‘that you have contracted your national debt—not by the actual necessary expenses of war, but by the unnecessary expenses of colonies.’”

Napoleon was in the habit of predicting the ruin of England, and pointing out, we may presume, with no intention of warning, the blunders of that policy which, however, had rescued Europe from the French yoke, and sent himself to moralise in a dungeon. “This island,” said he, “costs, or will cost, two millions a-year, which is so much money thrown in the sea. Your East India Company, if their affairs were narrowly scrutinised, would be found to lose instead of gaining, and in a few years must become bankrupt. Your manufactures, in consequence of the dearness of necessaries in England, will be undersold by those of France and Germany, and your manufacturers will be ruined.” All this train of ill omen is profitable, if it were only to show how little we are to depend upon the foresight of politicians. Here was unquestionably one of the most sagacious of human beings delivering his ideas on the future, and that not a remote future, not a future of centuries, but a future within the life of a generation; and yet what one of these predictions has not been completely baffled? The East Indian territories of England have been constantly aggrandising for nearly forty years of that period which was to have seen their bankruptcy. The manufactures of England, instead of total failure, have been growing to a magnitude unequalled in the annals of national industry, and are rapidly spreading over the globe. England, instead of struggling with exclusion from foreign commerce, and domestic disaffection, has possessed a peace, the longest in its duration, and the most productive in its increase of opulence, invention, and power, that Europe has ever seen. But if the malignant spirit of her prisoner may be presumed to have perverted his sagacity, his opinions were the opinions of the Continent; and every statesman, from Calais to Constantinople, occupied himself by counting on his fingers the number of years that lay between England and destruction. Yet England still stands, the envy of all nations; and will stand, while she retains her loyalty, her principle, and her honour; or, rather, while she retains her religion, which includes them all.

The exterior of St Helena is unpromising. “Masses of volcanic rock, sharp and jagged, tower up round the coast, and form an iron girdle. The few points where a landing can be effected are bristling with cannon.” The whole has the evidence of the agency of fire; and from the gigantic size of the strata, so disproportioned to its circuit, it has been supposed the wreck of a vast submerged continent. But the narrow valleys, radiating from the basaltic ridge forming the backbone of the island, have scenes of beauty. A writer on the “Geognosy” of the island, even describes those valleys as exhibiting an alternation of hill and dale, and luxuriant and constant verdure. Even Napoleon, in all his discontent, admitted that it had “good air.” Or, as in some more detailed remarks transmitted by Las Cases—“After all, as a place of exile, perhaps St Helena was the best. In high latitudes we should have suffered greatly from cold; and in any other island of the tropics we should have expired miserably, under the scorching rays of the sun. The rock is wild and barren, no doubt; the climate is monstrous and unwholesome; but the temperature, it must be confessed, is mild (douce).”

It is of some importance to the national character to touch on those matters, as they show that Napoleon was not sent for any other purpose than security of detention. A West Indian island might have unduly hastened the catastrophe. A letter from Lieutenant-Colonel Jackson gives even a more favourable testimony than has been generally conceived. He had been a resident for several years.

“Lying within the influence of the south-east trade-wind, which is usually a strong breeze between the Cape and St Helena, the tropical heat is moderated thereby to a delightful temperature, and perhaps there is no finer climate to be found than in certain parts of St Helena. In the town, I rarely saw the thermometer above 80°, while the general height may have been about 75°. But I write from memory, having lost my register of the temperature. Between Longwood and Jamestown there is a difference of eight or ten degrees. A fire is rarely necessary, unless perhaps as a corrective of the dampness produced by fog, to which the elevated portions of the island are occasionally liable. I believe the average duration of life to be much as in England.”

Mr Henry, who was stationed in the island as assistant-surgeon during Napoleon’s residence, gives even a more decided testimony. “For a tropical climate, only 15° from the line, St Helena is certainly a healthy island, if not the most healthy of the description in the world. During one period of twelve months, we did not lose one man by disease out of five hundred of the 66th quartered at Deadwood. In 1817, 1818, and 1819, Fahrenheit’s thermometer, kept at the hospital, ranged from fifty-five to seventy degrees; with the exception of calm days, when it rose to eighty. In Jamestown, from the peculiar radiation of heat to which it was exposed, the temperature was sometimes upwards of ninety.... There is no endemic in the island.... The upper parts of St Helena, including the residence of Bonaparte, are decidedly the most healthy, and we often moved our regimental convalescents from Jamestown to Deadwood for cooler and better air. The clouds moved so steadily and regularly with the trade-wind that there appeared to be no time for atmospherical accumulations of electricity, and we never had any thunder or lightning. No instance of hydrophobia, in man or any inferior animal, had ever been known in St Helena.”

We shall limit ourselves to an outline of the transactions referring to Napoleon. He landed at Jamestown on the evening of the 17th of October, where he remained for the night, and on the next day removed to the “Briars,” the country house of Mr Balcombe, who afterwards became purveyor to the residence at Longwood. Two proclamations were immediately issued by the governor, Colonel Wilkes, one cautioning the inhabitants of the island against any attempt to aid the escape of “General Napoleon Bonaparte;” and the other, prohibiting all persons from passing through any part of the island (except in the immediate vicinity of the town) from nine at night until daylight, without having the parole of the night; and a third, placing all the coasts, and vessels or boats, under the control of the Admiral. A despatch from the Admiral, to the Secretary of the Admiralty, explained the choice of Longwood for the residence of the prisoner. “I have not hesitated on fixing on it. Longwood is detached from the general inhabited parts of the island, therefore none of the inhabitants have occasion, or are at all likely, to be met with in its neighbourhood; it is the most distant from the parts of the coast always accessible to boats.” He then mentions it as having an extent of level ground, perfectly adapted for horse-exercise, carriage-driving, and pleasant walking. The house was small, but it was better than any other in the island (out of the town) except the governor’s; and by the help of the ships’ carpenters and others, was capable of convenient additions. Repairs were accordingly made, and everything was done that could fit it for a comfortable residence.

The system of discontent, remonstrance, and, we must add, misrepresentation, was begun. A letter from the “Grand Marshal, Count Bertrand,” led the way. It protested against everything, and frequently applied the term “Emperor” to Napoleon. The Admiral’s reply was fair and manly. It expressed regret for the necessary inconveniences, and a desire to consult the wishes of General Bonaparte; but said that he was authorised to apply no title which had not been given by his Government. This refusal was perfectly justifiable, though it made one of the clamours of the time. The custom of European diplomacy is never to acknowledge a new title but by treaty, and in return, if possible, for some concession on the part of the claimant. The embarrassments connected with the opposite practice are obvious. Where is the line to be drawn? If every ruler, however trifling his territory, or however recent his usurpation, were to fix his own title, all the relations of public life might be outraged. The creature of every revolution might be authenticated the legitimate possessor of sovereignty—an upstart received into the family of kings, become a living encouragement to political convulsion. All the declamation which was lavished on the denial of the Imperial title to Bonaparte, amounted to the maxim, that success justifies usurpation. If, in general life, no man can bear a title without the sanction of the laws—to avoid the disturbance of the Civil order, why should not the same sanction be demanded where the result of concession without cause might influence the highest interests of public life? There can be no question that the Imperial title, continued to Napoleon by the credulity of Alexander, laid the foundation of the renewed disturbances of France and Europe. It had placed him within sight of power again; it had fixed the eye of French conspiracy on him; it had conveyed to all his partisanship the idea that he still was an object of fear to Europe, and it thus revived the hope of his restoration. This dangerous concession made him, while at Elba, the virtual Emperor of France—prompted him to contemplate the resumption of the sceptre—pointed him out as a rallying point for disaffection—connected his mock crown with his former sovereignty—and left the peace of the world to the hazard of the die which was thrown at Waterloo.

If it be said that the concession which was dangerous at Elba was trifling at St Helena, we have no hesitation in accounting for the sudden forgetfulness of Napoleon exhibited by France to the refusal of the title. “General” Bonaparte lived only in the recollection of a broken army; the “Emperor” lived in the pride and passions of the people. It was essential to dissolve this combination; to show that the prestige of his name existed no longer; that he was an object of fear no more; and especially, that his connection with title-loving France was to be cut asunder for the remainder of his existence. All this was done, and could alone be done, by refusing to continue that title to the prisoner, which England had loftily refused to him in the height of his power.

Even Napoleon himself was so fully convinced of the contradiction between his present state and his former, that he subsequently wrote a Memorial addressed to the Governor, containing this declaration: “Seven or eight months ago Count Montholon proposed, as a means of removing the little inconveniences which were ever recurring, the adoption of an ordinary name.... I am quite ready to take any ordinary name; and I repeat that, when it may be deemed proper to remove me from this cruel abode, I am resolved to remain a stranger to politics, whatever may be passing in the world. Such is my resolve; and anything which may have been said different from this would not be the fact.”

Unfortunately, it was wholly impossible to rely on any declaration of this kind, and it would have been absolute folly to have hazarded the peace of Europe on the contingency of Napoleon’s keeping his word. He had gone to Elba with the same protest against politics, he had publicly declared that his political life was ended; and the weakness of giving credit to that declaration cost the lives of perhaps fifty thousand men, and might have cost a universal war.

If the strictness of the regulations at St Helena have been matter of charge against this country, it is to be remembered that the highest interests might have been endangered by his escape; that no royal captive was ever so indulged before; and that England was but a trustee for the tranquillity of the world. The instructions were the most lenient possible, consistently with his safe keeping. A captain was to ascertain his presence twice in the twenty-four hours. Whenever Napoleon rode or walked beyond the boundaries where the sentinels were placed, he was to be attended by an officer. Napoleon and his attendants were to be within his house at nine o’clock every night.

If these restrictions might be considered severe, it is to be remembered that they were only severities against the necessity of a second Waterloo. It is to be observed, also, that these regulations all took place before the arrival of Sir Hudson Lowe. The English mind revolts against confinement of any kind; but the limits of Napoleon’s grounds, within which he might take exercise unattended by any officer, embraced a circuit of twelve miles! The ground was nearly flat, and well covered with turf. On the plain of Deadwood, adjoining, was an excellent race-course, a mile and a half long, of which one mile was in a straight line. The house at Longwood had been used by the former governor as a villa; but it was small, consisting only of five rooms. To these, however, additions were made; the whole being merely a temporary residence until the completion of a house on a larger scale, which was preparing in England.

It became the peevish custom of the French, on the arrival of Sir Hudson Lowe, to contrast his conduct with that of Sir George Cockburn, and speak of their satisfaction with the latter; but they quarrelled equally with both. A letter from O’Meara to his correspondent Finlayson (not printed in his volumes), says: “Napoleon inveighs most bitterly against the English Ministry for sending him here. He has been for sometime back at Longwood, where he is tolerably well lodged, considering the island.”

As to his displeasure at being sent to the island, he should have regarded himself as peculiarly well treated; for what must have been his condition in the custody of any other government? He must have been sent to a fortress with no other liberty of exercise than within the space of the ramparts; he must have had sentinels everywhere on his steps, and have been subjected to all the rigid regulations of a garrison, and perhaps altogether separated from his attendants and general society. The greater probability of escape in Europe would have required the greater strictness; and the necessity of the case must have made his confinement little better than that of the dungeon. What liberty was allotted to Louis Napoleon in Ham for six years? What liberty was allotted to Toussaint Louverture by Napoleon himself?—a damp dungeon until he died. What liberty was allotted to the State prisoners under the Empire?—or what liberty was allotted to the English officers confined in the casemates of Biche? Instead of such restrictions, he had a large space of a healthy island in which he might move, without watch or ward, with a crowd of attendants of his own choice round him, with such society as he chose to receive, with a sumptuous table kept for him, and every deference paid to his fame and rank, compatible with that essential point, the prevention of his escape, which he appears to have been constantly meditating.

An order prohibiting the general access of the population to Longwood was now issued. Napoleon at this was in great indignation. He said to O’Meara, “It was absurd to prohibit people from visiting him, while he was at liberty to go out and call upon them.... I will never receive any person coming with a pass from the Admiral, as I will immediately set down the person receiving it as being like the donor, and a spy upon me.”... Then becoming more warm, he said, “Who is the Admiral? I have never heard his name as the conqueror in a battle, either singly or in general action.... It is true, he has rendered his name infamous in America; and so he will now render it here, on this desolate rock.”

Stopping then with much agitation, and looking at me earnestly—“Next to your Government exiling me here, the worst thing they could have done, and the most insufferable to my feelings, is sending me with such a man as HE. I shall make my treatment known to all Europe. It will be a reflection and a stain on his posterity for centuries. What! does he want to introduce Turkish laws into the Rock? Other prisoners under sentence of death are allowed to communicate, by the laws of England and all other civilised nations.”

The fact was, that Napoleon wished to accomplish an object incompatible with the purpose of his being sent to the island; he demanded all the conveniences of perfect freedom—of course for the purpose of escape. However, to avoid all shadow of cruelty, the passports were finally left to the distribution of Bertrand.

O’Meara further says, “He has since discovered that the Admiral’s conduct has been most grossly and shamefully misrepresented and blackened to him. The people he is surrounded by at present give me some faint idea of what the court of St Cloud must have been during his omnipotent sway. Everything here is disguised and mutilated.”

Napoleon’s theatrical rants were sometimes amusing. Foreigners can rail fluently enough at misfortune, but they always forget the share which they had in bringing it on themselves. “Behold the English Government!” said he one day, gazing round on the stupendous rocks which encompassed him; “this is their liberality to the unfortunate, who, confiding in what is called their national character, in an evil hour gave himself up to them! But your Ministers laugh at your laws. I thought once that the English were a free nation; but I now see that you are the greatest slaves in the world. You all tremble at the sight of that man.”

“Another time, talking to me (O’Meara) about the island, he said, ‘In fact, I expect nothing less from your Government than that they will send out an executioner to despatch me. They send me here to a horrible rock, where even the water is not good. They send out a sailor with me, who does not know how to treat a man like me, and who puts a camp under my nose, so that I cannot put my head out without seeing my jailors. Here we are treated like felons: a proclamation is issued for nobody to come near and touch us, as if we were lepers.’”

O’Meara’s description of the officers in attendance on Napoleon is sufficiently contemptuous. Of Montholon he speaks most offensively. He admits Bertrand to be a “good man;” but he thus characterises Gourgaud, whose quarrel with Sir Walter Scott once made some noise: “Gourgaud is now recovering from dysentery. During his illness, I never saw a man betray so much fear of dying as he did on various occasions. One night a large black beetle got into the bed, and crawled up alongside of him. His imagination immediately magnified the insect into a devil, or some other formidable apparition, armed with talons, long teeth, and ready to tear away his lingering soul from its mortal abode. He shrieked, became terribly agitated and convulsed; a cold sweat bedewed his pallid face; and when I entered he presented all the appearance of a man about to expire, with the most terrific ideas of what would be his future lot; and it was not till after a considerable time that he could be restored to some degree of composure.” Gourgaud had in some degree provoked this description by his previous fanfaronades. When he arrived in the island he had produced a sword to the daughters of Mr Balcombe, on which he had himself represented in the act of killing a Cossack who was about to take Bonaparte prisoner, with a pompous inscription narrating the feat. At the end of the blade he made them observe a spot, as if stained with the blood of two Englishmen, slain by him at Waterloo. He gave the last finish to this “passage of arms,” by saying, that in the same battle he might have made the Duke prisoner! “but that he saw the business was decided, and he was unwilling to produce any further effusion of human blood!” (“Credit—believe it who will,” says O’Meara.) During Gourgaud’s illness, however, he seemed to have forgotten all his chivalry—as, one day, “whining and lamenting over his state, he said, with many tears, ‘He did not know for what he was exiled, for he had never done harm to mortal man.’”

O’Meara’s own history was a varied one. He had begun his course as an assistant-surgeon in the 18th, in 1804; but a duel happening in the regiment, in which he acted as second, a courtmartial was the consequence, and he retired from the army. He then served as a naval surgeon, for many years, in the Mediterranean and the West Indies, with Maitland (captain of the Bellerophon), who gave him an advantageous character. He was then selected as the surgeon in attendance on Napoleon. The quick observation of that sagacious personage saw instantly that O’Meara might be useful in more capacities than those of his profession; he flattered him with his confidence, and converted him into partisanship.

Nothing but the extraordinary selfishness of Napoleon’s character could have stooped to those perpetual complaints. A man who had sat upon the first throne of the Continent ought to have felt that nothing, after such a catastrophe, could be worth a care. A man of true grandeur of mind, after having seen all the diadems of the Continent under his feet, ought to have scorned any inferior degree of power—been utterly indifferent to title, wealth, or the homage of dependents. A philosopher would have despised the mockery of ex-emperorship; rejected the affectation of a power which he was to possess no more; and, having been once forced to submit to a change of fortune which displaced him from the summit of society for ever, would have been contemptuous of living on the fragments of his feast of supremacy. But Napoleon had no sense of this generous and lofty disdain—he clung to the wrecks of his royalty. He was as anxious to sustain the paltry ceremonial of kissing a hand, as when he saw kings crowding to his palace; and showed as much fretfulness at the loss of the most pitiful mark of respect, as he could at an insult to a throne which threw its shadow across the civilised world. This anomaly is easily explained. The spirit of selfishness belongs to all foreign life. Its habits, its amusements, its perpetual passion for frivolous excitement, its pursuit of personal indulgence in every shape, high or low, utterly extinguish all the nobler attributes of mind—substitute fierceness for fortitude, rashness for decision—and feeble repinings against fate, for the dignity which makes defeat but another occasion of showing the superiority of man to fortune. Napoleon was selfishness embodied, and was as important to himself at St Helena as in the Tuileries.

On the 10th of January 1816, Sir Hudson Lowe received a despatch from Earl Bathurst, stating that, on his arrival at St Helena, he should notify to all the attendants of Napoleon that they were at perfect liberty to leave the island for Europe or America; but that those who remained should declare, in writing, that they were prepared to submit to the necessary restrictions. To Sir Hudson the orders were—“You are to continue to treat Napoleon Bonaparte as a prisoner of war, until further orders.”

The governor reached St Helena on the 14th of April, and on the 16th he visited Bonaparte, having given him previous notice of his intention. The visit was unlucky, for even the hour was constituted into an offence. Las Cases thus mentions the visit: “The new governor arrived at Longwood about ten o’clock, notwithstanding the rain, which still continued. He was accompanied by the admiral, who was to introduce him, and who had, no doubt, told him that this was the most suitable hour for his visit. The emperor did not receive him—he was indisposed; and even had he been well, he would not have seen him. The governor, by this abrupt visit, neglected the usual forms of decorum. It was easy to perceive that this was a trick of the admiral. The governor, who probably had no intention to render himself at all disagreeable, appeared very much disconcerted. We laughed in our sleeves. As to the admiral, he was quite triumphant. The governor, after long hesitation, and very evident marks of ill-humour, took his leave rather abruptly. We doubted not that this visit had been planned by the admiral, with the view of prepossessing us against each other at the very outset.”

The English reader of this incident will find in it the key to the whole conduct of Napoleon and his attendants; he was determined to turn everything into an offence, and they were equally determined to turn everything into an intrigue. The narrative foolishly and malignantly represents the conduct of a naval officer of high character in the light of a paltry ruse, and for no imaginable purpose but ill-will. “They laughed in their sleeves” at the success of this ruse. The admiral was triumphant, because the governor was vexed; and Napoleon was, of course, conqueror on the occasion. This is the most pitiful of all gossip, and is unworthy of even the nursery. Let this be contrasted with the manly account by the governor himself of the first interview which took place next day at four. “I was accompanied by Sir G. Cockburn. General Bertrand received us in the dining-room serving as an antechamber, and instantly ushered me into an inner room, where I found him (Napoleon) standing, having his hat in his hand. Not addressing me when I came in, but apparently waiting for me to speak to him, I broke silence by saying, ‘I am come, sir, to present my respects to you.’ ‘You speak French, sir, I perceive; but you also speak Italian. You once commanded a regiment of Corsicans.’ I replied, ‘the language was alike to me.’ ‘We will speak, then, in Italian;’ and immediately commenced a conversation which lasted about half an hour—the purport of which was principally as follows. He first asked me, ‘where I had served?—how I liked the Corsicans? They carry the stiletto; are they not a bad people?’ (looking at me very significantly for an answer.) My reply was—‘They do not carry the stiletto, having abandoned that custom in our service. They have always conducted themselves with propriety; I was very well satisfied with them.’

“He asked me if I had not been in Egypt with them; and on my replying in the affirmative, he entered into a long discussion respecting that country. ‘Menou was an imbecile. If Kleber had been there, you would have been all made prisoners.’” To this ungracious remark the governor seems to have abstained from any reply. How easily might he have reminded Napoleon of Acre! and the difficulty which he found then of taking prisoners even the crews of two English ships, who drove him from the walls at the head of his army, and virtually, after hunting him from Syria, drove him into the desertion of Egypt. In the French narratives of war, the general who has been beaten is always an imbecile. It is an extraordinary trait of character in Napoleon to have ventured on the subject at all. Yet he expatiated on it, as if he had never known defeat on its shores. “He blamed Abercromby for not having landed sooner, or for not proceeding to another point. Moore, with his six thousand men, ought to have been all destroyed.” He admitted, however, the bravery of the generals. “He asked me if I knew Hutchinson, and whether he was the same who had been arrested at Paris” (for the escape of Lavalette). “His question on this point betrayed great interest.” The subject of Egypt was resumed. “It was the most important geographical point in the world, and had always been considered so. He had reconnoitered the line of the Canal across the Isthmus of Suez; he had calculated the expense at ten or twelve millions of livres (half a million sterling, he said, to make me understand more clearly the probable cost of it); that a powerful colony being established there, it would have been impossible for us to have preserved our empire in India.”

This remark is an example of the dashing way in which foreigners settle all the affairs of the world. If Napoleon had been asked to show how a French colony in Egypt could have overthrown an Indian empire, he must have been profoundly puzzled. A French colony would, doubtless, have prevented the overland passage. Yet, without that passage, India had been ours, or in the direct progress to be ours, for a hundred years! What could a colony in Egypt have done while the Red Sea was blocked up by English ships? How could it transport an army over the Desert—through Arabia, Persia, and the passes of the Himalaya?—and without an army, what could they do in India? The much greater chance was, that a French colony would have been starved or slaughtered, as the French army in Egypt would have been, but for its capitulation. The same absurdity is common to other services. The Russians, from the peasant to the throne, think that India is at their mercy, from the instant of a battalion’s appearing on the verge of Tartary, while they are forced to acknowledge that the Desert is impassable by any army in summer; and General Perowsky, in an expedition which decimated his army, half way to Thibet, has proved it to be equally impassable in winter. Or, may we not ask, if this mighty conquest is so much a matter of calculation, why have not the poor and feeble tribes of the Caucasus been conquered in a war of twenty years, within a stone’s throw of the Russian frontier?—while in India, after a march across swamps, sands, and mountains, they would have to meet an army of two hundred thousand men (easily increased to half a million), led by British officers?

The people of the United States are equally absurd in their speculations on the conquest of Canada. They pronounce it ready to drop into their hands, like fruit from the tree. Yet, every attempt at the invasion of Canada has resulted only in ridiculous defeat!

Napoleon again railed at Menou, and concluded with the remark, which he pronounced in a very serious manner: “‘In war, the gain is always with him who commits the fewest faults.’ It struck me as if he was reproaching himself with some great error.”

In this curious interview, Sir G. Cockburn’s having been shut out by a mere accident was made the most of, as a charge of incivility against the governor. We give Sir Hudson Lowe’s own version. He had been accompanied by the admiral to Longwood. “In order that there might be no mistake respecting the appointment being for Sir George Cockburn as well as myself, I distinctly specified to Bertrand that we should go together. We went, and were received in the outer room by Bertrand, who almost immediately ushered me into Bonaparte’s presence. I had been conversing with him for nearly half an hour, when, on his asking me if I had brought with me the Regent’s speech, I turned round to ask Sir George Cockburn if I had not given it to him? and observed, to my surprise, that he had not followed me into the room. On going out, I found him in the antechamber much irritated. He told me that Bertrand had almost shut the door in his face as he was following me into the room, and that a servant had put his arm across him. He said he would have forced his way, but that he was expecting I would have turned round to see that he was following me, when he supposed I would have insisted on our entering the room together. I told him I knew nothing of his not being in the same room till Bonaparte asked me for the Regent’s speech.... Bonaparte was ready to receive him after I had left the room; but he would not go in. Bertrand and Montholon have been with him since, making apologies. But the admiral, I believe, is still not quite satisfied about it.”

Napoleon’s conversation was essentially rough, a circumstance to be accounted for, partly by his birth, and partly by his camp education. O’Meara mentions that Montholon, having brought a translation of the paper which the domestics who desired to remain with him were to sign, Napoleon, looking at it, said—“This is not French—it is not sense.” “Sire,” said the other, “it is a literal translation of the English.” “However,” said Napoleon, “it is neither French nor German (tearing it in two)—you are a fool.” Then, looking it over, he said—“He makes a translation into stuff, which is not French, and is nonsense to any Frenchman.”

As we are not the defenders of the governor, and the subject of mere defence is now past by, we shall chiefly give abstracts of the conversation of his memorable prisoner. He asked O’Meara if he had been at Alexandria. “Yes, in a line-of-battle ship.” “But I suppose you could not enter the harbour?” O’Meara told him, “that we soon found a passage through which any vessel might go. This he would not believe for some time, until I told him that I saw the Tigre and the Canopus, of eighty guns each, enter with ease. ‘Why!’ said he, with astonishment, ‘that Commodore Barré, whom you took in the Rivoli, was ordered by me to sound for a passage when I was there, and he reported to me that there was not a possibility of a line-of-battle ship’s entering the harbour.’ He observed, then, ‘that the fleet might have been saved if he had done his duty.’ I told him, then, that we had blocked up the passage by sinking two vessels laden with stone in it; to which he replied, ‘that it was easy to remove such obstacles.’”

The expenses of Napoleon’s household were heavy. On the voyage out, between the 8th of August and the 17th of November, they had consumed a hundred dozens of wine, besides some casks of an inferior kind for the servants. In one of the governor’s despatches to Lord Bathurst, two fortnights’ accounts are given from Mr Balcombe, purveyor to Longwood. The amount of one fortnight is an expenditure of £683, 5s. 4d.; and of the other, £567, 10s. 4d.; the annual expense, at the former rate, thus amounting to above £16,000, and at the latter to £13,000—nine persons, with four children, being the family; the rest, with the exception of the two officers in attendance, being servants—the whole number amounting to 59.

One day, on hearing that Napoleon had not been seen by the attendant officer, the governor visited Longwood. “I passed,” said he, “through his dining-room, drawing-room, and another room, in which were displayed a great number of maps and plans laid out on a table, and several quires of writing, and was then introduced into an inner room, with a small bed in it, and a couch, on which Bonaparte was reclining, having only his dressing-gown on, and without his shoes.” On the governor’s expressing regret for his indisposition, and offering him medical advice, “I want no doctor,” said he. On his asking “whether Lady Bingham had arrived, and being answered that her non-arrival was owing to the delay of the Adamant transport, which was also bringing wines, furniture, &c., for Longwood, he said—‘It was all owing to the want of a chronometer; that it was a miserable saving of the Admiralty not to give every vessel of above two hundred tons one; and that he had done it in France.’ After a pause, he asked—‘What was the situation of affairs in France when I left Europe?’ I said, ‘Everything, I believe, was settled there.’ Beauchamp’s Campaign of 1814 was lying on the floor near him. He asked me if I had written the letters referred to in the appendix to this work. I answered, ‘Yes.’ ‘I recollect Marshal Blucher at Lubeck,’ said he; ‘is he not very old?’ ‘Seventy-five years,’ I replied, ‘but still vigorous—supporting himself on horseback for sixteen hours a-day, when circumstances render it necessary.’”

Napoleon then, after a pause, returned to the usual observations on his captivity. “I should have surrendered myself,” said he, to the Emperor of Russia, who was my friend, or to the Emperor of Austria, who was related to me. “There is courage in putting a man to death, but it is an act of cowardice to let him languish, and to poison him in so horrid an island, and so detestable a climate.” To the governor’s remark that St Helena was not unhealthy, and that the object of the British Government was, to make his residence on the island as satisfactory to himself as possible, he said—“Let them send me a coffin—a couple of balls in the head is all that is necessary. What does it signify to me whether I lie on a velvet couch or on fustian? I am a soldier, and accustomed to everything.”

As to his repeated expression, that he might have put himself into the hands of others, and that he voluntarily gave himself up to England, there can be no doubt of his conscious falsehood on both points. The French provisional government would not have suffered him to pass the frontier; nor would he have given himself up to Captain Maitland if he could have escaped to America. He also dreaded the sentence of the Bourbons, who would probably have imprisoned, or even put him to death, as they did Ney and Labédoyère, and as Murat was shot by order of the Neapolitan government. If he had fallen into Blucher’s hands, that officer proposed to have him shot in the ditch of Vincennes, on the very spot where the Duc d’Enghien was murdered; a proposal which was ineffectual only through the generous objections of the Duke of Wellington. The proclamation of the Allied sovereigns had already put him in a state of outlawry with Europe. Napoleon knew all this: he had been a prisoner at Malmaison; and though spared for the moment, he might be convinced that, on the withdrawal of the Allied troops, his life would have been demanded by the tribunals. Thus his declarations of confidence in England amounted simply to the belief that he would not be put to death in its hands. He was too sagacious to suppose that he could have been let loose again, to be the firebrand of the Continent, or to play once more the farce of royalty in Elba.

The inveteracy of Napoleon in his hatred of the governor almost amounted to frenzy. After one of these interviews, he said, “I never saw such a horrid countenance. He (Sir H. Lowe) sat in a chair opposite to my sofa, and on the little table between us was a cup of coffee. His physiognomy made such an unfavourable impression on me that I thought his looks had poisoned it. I ordered Marchand to throw it out of the window. I could not have swallowed it for the world.” Part of this “horror” was probably “acting;” but as everything reached Sir Hudson, it belonged to the system of insult.

Napoleon’s ideas of religion were sometimes regarded as decent, compared with the general tone of the Continent. On his deathbed he said, “Je ne suis ni physicien ni philosophe.” (I am neither a materialist nor an infidel.) But an anecdote given in Sir Hudson’s correspondence shows the unfortunate conception of his creed: “Dr O’Meara related to me yesterday a very characteristic observation of this remarkable personage. He asked him, on seeing that he had taken his oath to the authenticity of the paper he had brought to me, in what manner he had sworn to it. Dr O’Meara replied, ‘On the New Testament.’ ‘Then, you are such a fool!’ was his reply.” His attendants were obviously much of the same order of thinking: “Cipriani came out one day from Bonaparte’s room, to Dr O’Meara, saying, in a manner indicative of great surprise, ‘My master is certainly beginning to lose his head. He believes in God. You may think; he said to the servant who was shutting the windows, Why do you take from us the light which God gives us?’ Oh, certainly he loses his head. He began at Waterloo, but now it is certain.” His following remark was curious, as an evidence of the actual feeling of these people with respect to the man whom they professed to adore. Cipriani added—“I do not believe in God; because, if there were one, he would not have allowed a man, who has done so much harm, to live so long. And he does not believe; because, if he believed, he would not have caused so many millions of men to be killed in this world, for fear of meeting them in the other.” This is absurd, but it is perhaps the average of Italian belief. Cipriani was maître d’hotel, and a man of intelligence. He died on the island in 1818.

One of the conversations transmitted by O’Meara related to Waterloo. “The worst thing,” said Napoleon, “that England ever did, was that of endeavouring to make herself a great military nation. In doing that, she must always be the slave of Russia, Prussia, or Austria, or at least in some degree subservient to them, because she has not enough of men to combat on the Continent either France or any of the others, and consequently must hire men from some of them; whereas, at sea, you are so superior, your sailors so much better, that you will always be superior to us. Your soldiers, too, have not the qualities for a military nation; they are not equal in agility, address, or intelligence to the French; and when they meet with a reverse, their discipline is very bad.... I saw myself the retreat of Moore, and I never in my life witnessed anything so bad as the conduct of the soldiers; it was impossible to collect them or make them do anything; nearly all were drunk.”

This is a calumny. The army under General Moore offered battle to the army under Napoleon, who declined it; and when he saw the steadiness of the British, on their retreat through an exhausted country, and especially saw that his troops could make no impression on the fifteen thousand men commanded by Moore, and saw (as we understood) the utter defeat of the cavalry of his guard by the British hussars, under the command of the present Marquis of Londonderry, he wisely drew rein, and returned to Paris, leaving it to Soult “to drive the leopards into the sea,” who, instead of performing this exploit, was himself beaten on the shore, and forced to see the British embark at their ease. It is true that the rapidity and exhaustion of the British march left many stragglers on the road; but the rapidity resulted from the error of having supposed that there were parallel roads to the highroad, by which a French force might have intercepted their march. But, in every attack on that march, the French were repulsed; and such was the nature of their defeat in the battle of Corunna, that they were wholly driven off their ground, and another hour of daylight must have seen their retreat converted into a rout.

The sneer at England, as not being a military nation, is at once answered by the fact, that its whole regular force is an army of volunteers, while all the other armies of Europe are raised by a conscription; that in the French war England had an army of 200,000 men, raised by the military spirit of the country, besides 500,000 militia and yeomanry! The answer to the “want of soldierly qualification” in the British troops, is given in the fact, that in the whole war the British army never lost a pitched battle.

Napoleon’s account of Waterloo, as given in those pages, is, simply, that Wellington did everything wrong, but with the good fortune of everything turning out right; that he ought, in all propriety, to have been beaten, though he beat; that the battle was a series of blunders, which by the power of destiny, or something else, turned into victory; and that he himself ought, by all the rules of war, to have been marching in triumph into Brussels, while he was running away to Paris, leaving 40,000 Frenchmen slain, prisoners, or fugitives, instead of the 40,000 Englishmen, who ought to have fallen. In the same spirit, Napoleon ought to have been sitting on the throne of France, while he was talking fustian at St Helena. “What,” said Napoleon, “must have been the consequence of my victory?” The indignation against the Ministry for having caused the loss of 40,000 of the flower of the English army, of the sons of the first families, and others, who would have perished there, would have excited such a popular commotion, that—“they would have been turned out.” (A rather lame and impotent conclusion.) “The English would then have made peace, and withdrawn from the Coalition.”

This is one of the perpetual absurdities of foreigners. England has never been compelled to an ignominious peace, by losses in war. She has never seen an enemy in her capital. Loving peace, she willingly makes peace; but she has never surrendered her sword to make it.

He persevered in this verbiage. “I had succeeded; before twelve o’clock everything was mine, I might almost say. But destiny and accident decided it otherwise.” The curious combination of the most fixed, and the most casual, of all things, was alone adequate to account for the defeat of Napoleon! and with this folly the prisoner nursed his self-delusion to the end.

One of the chief charges against the English Government was its stinting the French tables. But one of O’Meara’s private letters gives a fair account of the matter. “With respect to the allowance within which all the expenses were directed to be comprised—viz., £8000 sterling a-year, to which Sir Hudson Lowe has, on his own responsibility, since added £4000 yearly (!) in my opinion a due regard has not been paid to circumstances, and I do not think even this latter sum will be sufficient.... You perhaps are not aware of the French mode of living and their cookery. They have, in fact, two dinners every day—one at eleven or twelve o’clock, to which joints, roast and boiled, with all their various hashes, ragouts, fricassees, &c., &c., are served up, with wine and liqueurs; and another at eight o’clock, which differs from the former only in being supplied with more dishes. Besides these two meals, they all have (except Bonaparte himself, who eats only twice a-day, certainly very heartily) something like an English breakfast, in bed, between eight and nine in the morning; and a luncheon, with wine, at four or five in the afternoon.

“The common notion of the English eating more animal food than the French is most incorrect. I am convinced that between their two dinners and luncheon they consume three or four times as much as any English family of a similar number. Those two dinners, then, the first of which they have separately in their respective rooms, cause a great consumption of meat and wine, which, together with their mode of cookery, require a great quantity of either oil or butter, both of which are excessively dear in this place (and you may as well attempt to deprive an Irishman of potatoes as a Frenchman of his oil, or some substitute for it). Their soupes consommés (for they are, with one or two exceptions, the greatest gluttons and epicures I ever saw), producing great waste of meat in a place where the necessaries of life are so dear, altogether render necessary a great expenditure of money.”

Among the cunning attempts to throw the conduct of the governor into abhorrence, was the charge of refusing Napoleon the bust of his son, and even intending to destroy it. O’Meara says, that it had been “landed fourteen days, and some of those in the governor’s hands.” This is another instance of the language perpetually used; the fact being, “that the bust was landed on the 10th or 11th of June, and sent to Longwood the next day.”

The true narrative was this: In the summer of 1816, the ex-empress Maria Louisa having visited the baths of Leghorn, two marble busts of her son were executed. One of those was purchased by Messrs Beaggini in London, in hopes of an opportunity of sending it to St Helena. A store-ship, the Baring, being about to sail there in January 1817, a foreign gunner on board, named Radavich, was intrusted with the bust, with instructions to give it to Count Bertrand, for Napoleon, leaving it to his generosity “to refund their expenses.” If, however, he wished to know the price, it was to be a hundred louis. The captain of the ship (a half-pay lieutenant) knew nothing of its being on board till shortly before, or immediately after, his arrival at St Helena; at that time Radavich was ill of apoplexy, followed by delirium, so that for several days it was impossible to speak to him on the subject. When Sir Thomas Reade was informed that it was on board, he immediately acquainted the governor with the circumstance. Sir Hudson Lowe, considering the clandestine manner in which it was brought, was at first inclined to retain it until he had communicated with Lord Bathurst. But, Sir T. Reade suggesting that as the bust was not plaster, it could not contain letters, advised its being forwarded at once, and the governor assented. Before, however, ordering it on shore, he himself went to Longwood, to ascertain Napoleon’s wish through Bertrand. Major Gorrequer accompanied him, and in his notes gives an account of the interview. The governor mentioned the arrival of the bust to Bertrand, and said that he would take upon himself the responsibility of landing it, if such was the wish of Napoleon. Bertrand’s answer was, “No doubt it will give him pleasure.” The next day the bust was landed, taken to Longwood, and received by Napoleon with evident delight. By some means or other he had known of its arrival, and said to O’Meara on the 10th, “I have known it several days.” He then rushed into one of those explosions of wrath and oratory which were familiar to him. He said, “I intended, if it had not been given, to have made such a complaint as would have caused every Englishman’s hair to stand on end! I should have told a tale which would have made the mothers of England execrate him as a monster in human shape.”

And all this with the bust before his eyes. To heighten the effect, he would persist in pretending to believe that Sir Hudson Lowe had given orders for breaking up the bust, and on this fancy he declaimed anew against him, calling him “barbarous and atrocious.” “That countenance,” said he, turning to the bust, “would melt the heart of the most ferocious wild beast! The man who gave orders to break that image would plunge a knife into the heart of the original, if it were in his power.” And all this fury for a fiction!—the palpable contradiction to the charge of cruelty standing on his table.

It is not even clear, after all, that there was not an intrigue connected with this bust: Napoleon exhibited extreme anxiety to see Radavich. This the governor permitted, but on the condition of the officer in attendance being present, and it was declined. Lord Bathurst, in his despatch to St Helena, said, “The suspicious circumstances under which the bust arrived, were sufficient to make you pause before you determined to transmit it to the general. Had the package contained anything less interesting to him in his character as a father, the clandestine manner in which it was introduced on board of the vessel would have been a sufficient reason for withholding the delivery of it, at least for a much longer period.... I am not disposed to participate in his (the French ambassador’s) apprehensions that letters were conveyed in it. No doubt, however, can be entertained that attempts are making at clandestine communications.”

To this we may add that, by some secret means, the French were acquainted with every transaction of Europe, and frequently before the public authorities.

Napoleon ordered £300 to be given to Radavich (who was merely the agent for the London house). O’Meara says, in his Voice from St Helena, that, “by some unworthy tricks, this poor man did not recover the money for nearly two years.” This is a proof of the slipshod statements which are to be found in the volume; the fact being, that, in March 1818, the former proprietors of the bust wrote to Bertrand, to complain of the conduct of Radavich, as having come to no settlement with them “for the payment he had received for the bust, and for the other articles intrusted to him; and that he had gone from England without rendering any account to them.” They solicited Bertrand to give them some remuneration.

Our limits warn us that we must conclude, leaving a crowd of interesting incidents behind. The work seems perfectly to clear Sir Hudson Lowe’s character, not merely from the charge of severity, but even from the imputation of petulance. No man could be placed in a situation of greater difficulty. He had to deal with a coterie of the most unscrupulous kind; he had also especially to deal with a man irritated by the most signal downfall in European record, subtle beyond all example, unhesitating in evasion, formed of falsehood, and furious at necessary coercion. He had to meet also the clamours of French partisanship throughout Europe, and to bear the calumnies of faction even in England. He had to endure personal insult, and to counteract reckless intrigue. If he had been roused into violence of temper, no man could be more easily pardoned for its excess; but there is not a single proof of this charge, and the whole tenor of his conduct seems to have been patient and equable, though strict and firm. He had one paramount duty to perform—the prevention of Napoleon’s escape, and he did that duty. All minor deficiencies, if they existed, might be merged in the perfect performance of a duty which involved the peace of the world.

The dismissal of O’Meara from his office in the island, followed by his dismissal from the navy, let loose a personal enemy of some ability, much plausibility, and the bitterest anger. His volume, A Voice from St Helena, embodied all the charges against Sir Hudson Lowe, and was prosecuted as a libel. But the prosecution having, in the opinion of the judges, been delayed for some months beyond the legal time, it failed, on that ground only. The governor of St Helena drew up a refutation of the volume, which still remains in the archives of Government. Why he did not appeal to the opinion of the country—a duty which no public man can decline without loss to his own character—cannot now be ascertained. He was probably weary of a life of contradiction, and had no desire to continue it in controversy.

But the task, though long delayed, has finally been performed, as it appears to us, with perfect manliness, clearness, and conviction, by its present author. Mr Forsyth’s style is admirably fitted for his subject—fair, forcible, and argumentative. By his work he has done credit to himself, and cleared the character of a brave, an honest, and a high-minded English soldier and gentleman. We know no ampler panegyric on the uses or the successes of authorship.

Sir Hudson Lowe was appointed to the colonelcy of the first vacant regiment (the 93d) on his return—was subsequently in command of the troops in Ceylon—and at length, yielding to the effects of toil and time, died in 1844, in his 75th year.

NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.[16]

A copy of almost any ancient author, with its margins studded with antique manuscript jottings, is a treasure to the scholar who possesses it, and a sore temptation to all his antiquarian friends. What, then, must be the pricelessness of an early folio, thus annotated, of Shakespeare, the Emperor of all the Literatures? Would not a lover of the poet be almost inclined to sell his whole library in order to purchase that single book? And when secured, with what zest would he not set himself to decipher the crabbed hieroglyphics on the margins of the intoxicating windfall! The various readings, recommended by the charm of novelty, and yet apparently as old, and perhaps as genuine as the printed text, would gradually become its rivals. Alterations, occasionally felicitous, would throw an air of respectability over their less insinuating associates. Sole possession would enhance the importance of the discovery. Solitary enjoyment would deepen the relish of the entertainment. The situation is one not at all favourable to the exercise of a sound critical judgment. Imagination goes to work, and colours the facts according to its own wishes; and faith and hope, “hovering o’er,” at length drive away all misgivings as to the authenticity of the emendations. That fine old handwriting, which is as conscientious as it is curious, is itself a guarantee that the corrections are not spurious—are not merely conjectural. The manuscript corrector must have had good grounds for what he did. He may have been Shakespeare’s bosom friend, his boon companion, his chosen confidant, and perhaps the assistant in his labours; or, if not that, at any rate the friend of some one who had known the great dramatist well—was acquainted with his innermost thoughts—and as intimate with his works, and with all that he intended to express, as if he himself had written them. At all events, the corrector must have had access to sources of information respecting the text of the plays, the results of which have perished to all the world—except me, the happy holder of this unique and inestimable volume.

Such, we conceive, would be the state of mind and the train of reasoning into which a man would naturally be thrown by the acquisition of such an agitating prize as we have supposed. Under the excitement of his feelings, the authority of the corrector of the work would, in all likelihood, supersede the authority of its composer; the penman would carry the day against the printer; and the possessor of the book would do his best to press the “new readings” into the ears and down the throats of a somewhat uncritical but not altogether passive or unsuspicious public.

The case which we have described is to be understood as a general and ideal one; but something of this kind seems to have befallen Mr Collier, whom accident lately placed in possession of a copy of the folio of Shakespeare, 1632, plentifully garnished with manuscript notes and emendations. In these trying circumstances he has acted very much in the way which might have been anticipated. It is true that he announces his good fortune in a strain of moderated enthusiasm. “In the spring of 1849,” says he, “I happened to be in the shop of the late Mr Rodd, of Great Newport Street, at a time when a package of books arrived from the country.” Among them was a very indifferent copy of the folio of Shakespeare, 1632, which Mr Collier, concluding hastily that it would complete an imperfect copy of the same edition which he had purchased from the same bookseller some time before, bought for thirty shillings. The purchase did not answer its purpose. The two leaves that were wanted to complete the other folio “were unfit for my purpose, not merely by being too short” (how very particular these book-fanciers are), “but otherwise damaged and defaced. Thus disappointed, I threw it by, and did not see it again until I made a selection of books I would take with me on quitting London. On consulting it afterwards,” continues Mr Collier, “it struck me that Thomas Perkins, whose name, with the addition of ‘his Booke,’ was upon the cover, might be the old actor who had performed in Marlowe’s Jew of Malta on its revival shortly before 1633.” That would have been an important fact, as helping to connect the MS. corrections closely with the Shakesperian era. But here Mr Collier was doomed to disappointment. On further inquiry he found that the actor’s name was Richard Perkins: “still,” says he, with a faith too buoyant to be submerged by such a trifle, “Thomas Perkins might have been a descendant of Richard,” from whom, of course, he probably inherited a large portion of the emendations. “This circumstance,” says Mr Collier, “and others, induced me to examine the volume more particularly: I then discovered, to my surprise, that there was hardly a page which did not present, in a handwriting of the time, some emendations in the pointing or in the text, while on most of them they were frequent, and on many numerous. Of course I now submitted the folio to a most careful scrutiny; and as it occupied a considerable time to complete the inspection, how much more must it have consumed to make the alterations? The ink was of various shades, differing sometimes on the same page, and I was once disposed to think that two distinct hands had been employed upon them. This notion I have since abandoned, and I am now decidedly of opinion that the same writing prevails from beginning to end, but that the amendments must have been introduced from time to time during perhaps the course of several years.”

But although Mr Collier speaks thus calmly of his prize, we are nevertheless convinced, by the rapidity of his conversion from the old readings to the new, that he, like the rest of us, is liable to be carried a little off his feet by any sudden stroke of prosperity, and is keenly alive (as most people are) to the superior merits of anything that happens to be his own. It is our nature to admire what we alone have been privileged to possess or to discover. Hence Mr Collier has stepped at one plunge from possession into cordial approbation and unhesitating adoption of most of the corrections set forth on the margins of his folio. Formerly the stanchest defender of the old Shakesperian text, he is now the advocate of changes in it, to an extent which calls for very grave consideration on the part of those who regard the language of the poet as a sacred inheritance, not to be disturbed by innovations, without the strongest evidence, the most conclusive reasons, and the most clamant necessity being adduced in their support.

We are far from blaming Mr Collier for having published his volume of “Notes and Emendations.” Although it might be advantageously reduced in bulk by the omission of many details occupied with the settlement of matters which have been long ago settled, still it is in some respects a valuable contribution to the literature of Shakespeare. We have no faith whatever in the authenticity of the new readings; a few of them, however—a very few—seem to us to be irresistibly established by their own self-evidence; while the whole of them are invested with a certain degree of interest as the interpretations of an indefatigable, though thick-headed—of a blundering, yet early and perhaps almost contemporary, scholiast. As a matter of curiosity, and as indicative of the state of English criticism in the 17th century, the new readings are acceptable; and the thanks of the literary portion of the community are due to Mr Collier for having favoured them with this publication. But here the obligation stops. To insert the new readings into the text, and to publish them as the genuine words of Shakespeare (which we understand Mr Collier has either done or threatens to do), is a proceeding which cannot be too solemnly denounced. This is to poison our language in its very “wells of English undefiled.” It is to obliterate the distinctions which characterise the various eras of our vernacular tongue; for however near to the time of Shakespeare our newly discovered scholiast may have lived, there was doubtless some interval between them—an interval during which our language was undergoing considerable changes. It is to lose hold of old modes of thought, as well as of old forms of expression;—it is to confound the different styles of our literature;—it is to vitiate with anachronisms the chronology of our speech;—it is to profane the memory of Shakespeare.

When we look for evidence in favour of the authenticity of these (so-called) “Emendations,” we look for it in vain. The state of the case may perhaps be understood, by attending to the following particulars. Of Shakespeare’s handwriting, so far as is known, there is not now extant so much as “the scrape of a pen,” with the exception of the autograph of his name. Of his plays, thirteen were published in an authentic form during his life, and four in spurious or “pirated” editions. These are called the quartos. After his death, one of his plays was published, by itself, for the first time—“Othello.” In 1623, seven years after his death, the first folio appeared. It contains the eighteen plays just referred to, with the addition of eighteen, now published for the first time. This folio 1623 was printed (if we are to believe its editors, and there is no reason to doubt their word) from Shakespeare’s own manuscripts, and from the quarto editions, revised and corrected to some extent, either by his own hand or under his authority. So that the folio 1623 is the highest authority that can be appealed to in the settlement of his text. It ranks even before the quartos, except in cases of obvious misprint, or other self-evident oversights. To it, in so far as external evidence is concerned, all other proofs must yield. Internal evidence may occasionally solicit the alteration of its text; but such emendations must, in every case, be merely conjectural. It is the basis of every genuine edition, and must continue so, until Shakespeare’s own manuscripts be brought to light.

Out of these circumstances an important consideration arises. It is this, that we are not entitled, on any account, to alter the text of the folio 1623, even in cases where manifest improvements might be made, so long as the old reading makes sense. If any reasonable meaning can be extracted from the received lection, we are bound to retain it, because we have every reason to believe that it is what Shakespeare wrote; and it is our object to possess his words and his meaning, not as we may suppose they ought to have been, but as they actually were. Where no sense at all can be obtained from a passage, a slight, perhaps a considerable, alteration is allowable; because any man’s intelligibility is to be preferred to even Shakespeare’s unintelligibility. But we are never to flatter ourselves, with any strong degree of assurance, that the correction has restored to us the exact language of the poet.

This consideration had, in former years, its due weight with Mr Collier. No one was a keener advocate than he for preserving the original text inviolate. He now views the matter in a different light. He is tolerant of new readings, even in cases where sense can be elicited from the received text. Further, he frequently gives the preference to new readings, as we hope to show, even in cases where the old reading is far the more forcible and intelligible of the two. And on what ground does he countenance them? Setting aside at present the question of their internal evidence, we reply, that he countenances them on the ground that the folio 1623 is of doubtful authenticity. He denies that it was prepared from Shakespeare’s own papers. This is the foundation of his case. He maintains that the copy which the printer used had been (probably) dictated by some underling of the theatre, to some scribe whose ear (probably) often deceived him in taking up the right word, and who consequently put down a wrong one, which was subsequently set up in type by the printer. He is further of opinion that a text of Shakespeare, purer than any that ever got into print, was preserved orally in the theatre, and that the corrector of his folio, who was decidedly of a theatrical turn, and perhaps himself a manager, picked up his new readings from the mouths of the players themselves. But he has entirely failed to prove these improbable assertions. His theory in regard to the printing of the folio 1623 is contradicted by the distinct announcement of its editors, who say of their great master that “his mind and hand went together, and what he thought he uttered with that easiness that we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers.” This declaration, that the materials from which they worked were derived directly from Shakespeare himself, seems to establish conclusively the authenticity of the folio 1623; and that point being made good, all external evidence in favour of the new readings must of necessity fail.

But perhaps these new readings are supported by their internal evidence—perhaps they bring along with them such an amount of force and propriety as carries conviction on the very face of it, and entitles them to a decided preference in comparison with the old? Mr Collier would fain think so. On their evident superiority, both in sense and in style, he rests the main strength of his case. Speaking of his volume, he says, “I ought not to hesitate in avowing my conviction, that we are bound to admit by far the greater body of the substitutions it contains, as the restored language of Shakespeare. As he was especially the poet of common life, so he was emphatically the poet of common sense; and to the verdict of common sense I am willing to submit all the more material alterations recommended on the authority before me. If they will not bear that test, I for one am willing to relinquish them.”

Our principal object in the following pages is to show that “by far the greater body of the substitutions” will not stand this test; and that many of them present such a perverse depravation of the true text, that if the design of the corrector had been to damage the literary character of Shakespeare, he could not have accomplished his purpose more effectually than by representing these new readings as his. At the same time, we shall endeavour to bring forward everything in Mr Collier’s volume which tells in the manuscript-corrector’s favour. This will probably cause the corrector’s notes and emendations to be more highly thought of than they deserve; because, while it will be no difficult matter to lay before the reader all, or nearly all, his judicious amendments, our space will not permit us to present to him one-twentieth part of his astounding aberrations. Selecting, then, as many of the more important alterations as our limits will allow, and weighing what their internal evidence is worth, we shall go over the plays seriatim, commencing with “The Tempest.”

The Tempest.—The new readings in this play are generally unimportant, and, in our judgment, not one of them ought to be admitted into the text. In no case would anything be gained, and in some cases a good deal would be lost, by adopting the proposed changes. In the following passage the original text is certainly unsatisfactory, but the new reading is at least equally so. Antonio, the usurping Duke of Milan, has become so habituated to the possession of his unlawful power, and has been so little checked in the exercise of it, that he at length believes himself to be the real duke. This idea is thus expressed. Prospero, the rightful duke, says of him—

“He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact,—like
one
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory
To credit his own lie,—he did believe
He was indeed the duke.”

For “lorded,” Mr Collier’s emendator would read “loaded”—a correction which Mr Collier himself admits to be “questionable,” and which we throw overboard at once. For “unto truth” he proposes “to untruth”—

“like one

Who having, to untruth, by telling of it,” &c.

But here, if one flaw is mended, another and a worse one is made. By reading “to untruth” we obtain, indeed, a proper antecedent to “it,” which otherwise must be looked for, awkwardly enough, in the subsequent word “lie.” But as a set-off against this improvement, we would ask, how can a man be said to make his memory a sinner to untruth? This would mean, if it meant anything, that the man’s memory was true; and this is precisely what Prospero says Antonio’s memory was not. We must leave, therefore, the text as it stands, regarding it as one of those passages in which Shakespeare has expressed himself with less than his usual care and felicity.

The substitution of “all” for “are” in the lines,

“They all have met again,

And are upon the Mediterranean float”—

Or, as the MS. corrector reads it,

“They all upon the Mediterranean float”—

strikes us as peculiarly un-Shakesperian. But this instance of the corrector’s injudicious meddling is a small matter. The following passage deserves more careful consideration, for we are convinced that the text of the first and second folios, which has been universally rejected since the days of Theobald, is, after all, the right reading. Act III. Scene 1 opens with the soliloquy of Ferdinand, who declares that the irksome tasks to which he has been set by Prospero are sweetly alleviated by the consciousness that he has secured the interest and sympathy of Miranda. He says—

“There be some sports are painful; but their labour

Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness

Are nobly undergone: and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious; but

The mistress, which I serve, quickens what’s dead,

And makes my labours pleasures. Oh, she is

Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,

And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove

Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up

Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress

Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness

Had never like executor. I forget:

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,

Most busy-less, when I do it.”

The last line, as it here stands, is Theobald’s reading; and it has been adopted almost unanimously by subsequent editors—by the compilers of the variorum Shakespeare—by Mr Knight—and most recently by Mr Halliwell, in his magnificent folio. Mr Singer, in his edition of 1826, and Mr Collier’s emendator, are, so far as we can learn, the only dissentients. The former proposes, “most busiest when I do it;” and the latter, “most busy,—blest when I do it;” which reading we agree with Mr Singer in thinking “the very worst and most improbable of all that have been suggested;”—will he excuse us for adding—except perhaps, his own? Theobald’s text is certainly greatly to be preferred to either of these alterations. Had the MS. corrector’s emendation been a compound epithet, “busy-blest” (that is, blest with my business, because it is associated with thoughts of Miranda), something, though perhaps not much, might possibly have been said in its behalf. But Mr Collier regards the correction as consisting of two distinct words; and, therefore, he must excuse us for saying that it is one in which sense and grammar are equally set at defiance. We now take up the original reading, which has been universally discarded, but which, as we hope clearly to show, calls for no alteration; and an attention to which, at an earlier stage in the revision of Shakespeare’s text, might have prevented a large expenditure of very unnecessary criticism. The original text of the line under consideration is this—

“Most busy, least when I do it.”

This is the reading of the second folio. The first folio has “lest;” but, of course, least and lest are the same word in the arbitrary spelling of that early period. We maintain that this lection makes as excellent and undeniable sense as could be desired.

“Most busy, least when I do it;”

—that is, “when I do it (or work) least, then am I most busy, most oppressed by toil.” More fully stated, the obvious meaning is “this labour of mine is so preciously sweetened, so agreeably refreshed by thoughts of Miranda’s kindness, that I really feel most busy, most burthened, most fatigued, when I am least occupied with my task; because, then I am not so sensible of being the object of her sympathy and approval.” Shakespeare intends that Ferdinand should express the ardour of his attachment to Miranda in a strong hyperbole; accordingly, he makes him say, “I am most busy, when I am least busy;” because the spirit of Miranda does not cheer and inspire my idleness, in the way in which it cheers and inspires my labour. Theobald’s line expresses, although in an imperfect manner, this same hyperbole conversely. “I am least busy, when I am most busy; because, when I am working hardest, the spirit of Miranda is present to refresh and alleviate my toils.” But Shakespeare’s mode of expressing the exaggeration is both stronger and finer than Theobald’s, which in point of language is exceedingly lame and defective. Our only doubt, in restoring the old reading, is in regard to the word “it.” Perhaps it would be as well away, and we might read more perspicuously

“Most busy,—least when I do.”

The measure being already redundant, the word could be spared. But its absence or presence makes little or no difference, and, with it, or without it, we hope to see this restoration of the original text, which, of course, requires no authority except its own to establish it, embodied in all future editions of our great national dramatist.

The only new reading in this play which we have some hesitation in condemning, is the following. The witch Sycorax is spoken of (Act V. Scene 1.) as one

“That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,

And deal in her command without her power.”

This is the ordinary text. The MS. corrector proposes “with all power;” and, at first sight, this correction looks like an improvement; for how could the witch deal in the moon’s command, if she had not got the moon’s power? On second thoughts, however, we believe that Mr Knight, who defends the common reading, is right. By “power,” we are here to understand legitimate authority; and of this Sycorax has none. By means of her spells and counternatural incantations she could make ebbs and flows, and thus wielded to some extent the lunar influences; but she had none of that rightful and natural dominion over the tides of the ocean which belongs only to the moon. Our verdict, therefore, is in favour of the old reading. We pass from “The Tempest” with the remark that the other new readings proposed by Mr Collier’s emendator have here and elsewhere been conclusively set aside, in our estimation, by the observations of Mr Knight and Mr Singer; and we again protest against any adulteration of the text of this play by the introduction even of a single word which the MS. corrector has suggested.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.—Nothing connected with Shakespeare is small, and therefore we make no apology for calling the reader’s attention to what some people might consider a very small matter—the difference between for and but in the following lines. Act I. Scene 1.—Valentine and Proteus, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” are saying good-bye to each other, the former being on the eve of setting out on his travels. Valentine, the traveller, says to his friend—

—“on some love-book pray for my success.

Proteus. Upon some book I love, I’ll pray for thee.

Valentine. That’s on some shallow story of deep love,

How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.

Proteus. That’s a deep story of a deeper love,

For he was more than over shoes in love.

Valentine. ’Tis true; for you are over boots in love,

And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”

In place of “for” in the last line but one, the corrector proposes “but,” and Mr Collier approves, remarking that but “seems more consistent with the course of the dialogue.” If, however, we attend to the sequence of thought in this passage, it will be apparent that the change not only fails to render the dialogue more consistent, but that it altogether destroys its consistency, converting very good sense into downright nonsense; smartness into drivel. When Proteus says that Leander who crossed the Hellespont was more than over shoes in love, Valentine catches him up, “’tis true: no doubt of it: he must have been more than over shoes in love; for you, who never swam the Hellespont at all, are actually over boots in love.” The reasoning here seems very plain. If Proteus, without swimming the Hellespont, was over boots in love, surely the very least that could be said of Leander, who did swim it, must be that he was more than over shoes in love. “Your remark, friend Proteus, though very true, is not very recondite. It is decidedly common-place, and such as I should scarcely have expected to hear from a person of your wit and penetration. Pray favour us with something a little more original and profound.” All this banter, and we venture to think it rather happy, is implied in Valentine’s words—

“’Tis true; For you are over boots in love,

And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”

But change this “for” into “but,” and the whole point of the dialogue is gone. Let this new reading be adopted, and future commentators will be justified in declaring that Shakespeare’s words were sometimes without meaning. This single and apparently insignificant instance in which the corrector has palpably misconceived his author, compels us to distrust his capacity, and ought to go far to shake the general credit of his emendations.

To alter “blasting in the bud,” into “blasted in the bud,” is merely an instance of excessive bad taste on the part of the MS. corrector. We see nothing worthy of approval or animadversion until we come to two lines which are quoted from Act III. Scene 2—

“But say, this weed her love from Valentine,

It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio”—

where it may be a question whether “wean” (the corrector’s suggestion), might not be judiciously substituted for “weed.” If rapid extirpation was intended to be expressed, “weed” is the word; otherwise we are disposed to prefer “wean,” as better fitted to denote the contemplated alienation of Julia’s affections from Proteus.

In Act IV. Scene 2, a whole new line is introduced; and as there is no evidence to prove that the corrector did not write this line himself, we must protest against its insertion in the genuine writings of Shakespeare. The interpolation is in italics. Eglamour says to the distressed Silvia, who is requesting him to be her escort—

“Madam, I pity much your grievances,

And the most true affections that you bear,

Which since I know they virtuously are placed,

I give consent to go along with you.”

Johnson explains grievances as sorrows, sorrowful affections—an explanation which renders the interpolated line quite unnecessary. Shakespeare understood the art of ne quid nimis, and frequently leaves something to be supplied by the imagination of his reader or hearer. Besides, it would have been indelicate in Eglamour to have alluded more particularly to the “loves” of Silvia and Valentine.

If the MS. corrector had ever seen Scene IV. effectively acted, he must have perceived how completely one good point would have been destroyed by his unwise insertion of the word “cur.” Launce, servant to Proteus, has been sent by his master with a little dog as a present to Silvia. Launce has lost the lap-dog, and has endeavoured to make compensation by offering to Silvia his own hulking mongrel in its place. These particulars are thus recounted:—

“Launce.—Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.

Proteus.—And what says she to my little jewel?

Launce.—Marry, she says your dog was a cur; and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a present.

Proteus.—But she received my present?

Launce.—No, indeed, she did not. Here I have brought him back again.

Proteus.—What! didst thou offer her this from me?

Launce.—Ay, sir, the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman’s boys in the market-place; and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater.”

The question is, whether the word “this” is better by itself, or whether it should be coupled with the word “cur,” as the MS. emendator proposes. Our notion is, that the single pronoun is greatly the more expressive. “Did you offer her this” (of course pointing to the brute with an expression of indignation and abhorrence, which disdained to call him anything but this) “THIS!!! from me? The lady must think me mad.” In regard to the other corrections, we perceive no such force or propriety in any of them as might incline us to disturb, for their sake, the received text of “The Two Gentlemen of Verona.”

The Merry Wives of Windsor.—In Act II. Scene 1, the commentators have all been gravelled by the word “an-heires,” as it stands in all the early editions in the following passage—

“Host.—My hand, bully, thou shalt have egress and regress; said I well, and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight—will you go, anheires?”

In place of this unintelligible word, various substitutes have been proposed. The MS. corrector would read “Will you go on here?” This is very poor, and sounds to our ears very unlike the host’s ordinary slang; and we have no hesitation in agreeing with Mr Dyce,[17] who gives the preference over all the other readings to that of Sir John Hanmer, the editor of the Oxford edition: “Will you go on, mynheers?”—will you go on, my masters? The word is proved to have been used in England in the time of Shakespeare.

In Act II. Scene 3, this same host, who deals somewhat largely in the unknown tongue, again says—

“I will bring thee where Mistress Page is, at a farm-house feasting, and thou shalt woo her. Cried game, said I well?”

This obsolete slang has puzzled the commentators sorely. Mr Dyce suggests “cried I aim,” which means, it appears, “Did I give you encouragement?”—(vide Singer, p. 7.) We confess ourselves incompetent to form an opinion, except to this extent, that Mr Collier’s corrector, who proposes “curds and cream,” seems to us to have made the worst shot of any that have been fired.[18]

In Act IV. Scene I, we rather think that the MS. corrector is right in changing “let” into “get,” in the following passage: “How now,” says Mrs Page to Sir Hugh Evans the schoolmaster; “How now, Sir Hugh?—no school to-day?” “No,” answers Sir Hugh; “Master Slender is let (read get) the boys leave to play.” In Sir Hugh’s somewhat Celtic dialect, he is get the boys a holiday.

In the following passage, Act IV. Scene 5, the received text is this—

“Simple.—I would I could have spoken with the woman herself. I had other things to have spoke with her, too, from him.

Falstaff.—What are they?—let us know.

Host.—Ay, come; quick.

Simple.—I may not conceal them, sir.

Falstaff.—Conceal them, or thou diest.”

Good Dr Farmer thought that, in both instances, we should read “reveal”—not perceiving that the humour of the dialogue (such as it is) consists in reading “conceal,” and in understanding “reveal.” But the MS. emendator, with an innocence beyond even Dr Farmer’s, would alter the passage thus—

“Falstaff.—What are they?—let us know.

Host.—Ay, come quick.

Falstaff.—You may not conceal them, sir.

Host.—Conceal them, and thou diest.”

And Mr Collier approves of this variation, as “making the dialogue run quite consistently.”

Measure for Measure.—In the Duke’s speech, at the opening of the play, a formidable difficulty presents itself. Addressing Escalus, of whose statesmanlike qualities he has the highest opinion, the Duke says, as all the editions give it—

“Of government the properties to unfold,

Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,

Since I am put to know that your own science

Exceeds in that the lists of all advice

My strength can give you. Then no more remains

But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,

And let them work.”

The two last lines of this passage have been a grievous stumbling-block to the commentators. The variorum men, with Johnson at their head, have made nothing of it. Mr Singer reads—

“Then no more remains

But there to your sufficiency as your worth is able,

And let them work;”

which seems quite as dark and perplexing as the original text. Mr Collier’s man, cutting the knot with desperate hook, which slashes away a good many words, gives us—

“Then no more remains,
But add to your sufficiency your worth,
And let them work.”

These words are sufficiently intelligible; but this is not to rectify Shakespeare’s text—it is to re-write it; and this no man can be permitted to do. As a private speculation of our own, we venture to propose the following, altering merely one word of the authentic version—

“Then no more remains,

But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is able)

You let them work.”

The Duke has remarked that he is not competent to give Escalus any advice on matters of public policy, as he is much better versed in such affairs than himself. He then goes on to say, “No more remains, but that (seeing your worth is able—that is, is equal—to your sufficiency or acquired knowledge) you should let the two, your worth, and your sufficiency, work together for the good of your country.” Or it might be allowable to introduce “equal” into the text, thereby making the sense still plainer—

“Then no more remains

But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is equal)

You let them work.”

But if any auxiliar authority could be found for the use of the word “able” as here employed (a point about which we are doubtful, though not desperate), we should prefer to retain it in the text. By making the words to and as change places, we obtain a still more perspicuous reading—

“Then no more remains,

But that (as your sufficiency to your worth is equal)

You let them work.”

Mr Collier remarks (p. 42), “Near the end of Mrs Overdone’s speech, ‘is’ is required before the words ‘to be chopped off.’ It is deficient in all printed copies, and is inserted in manuscript in the corrected folio 1632.” We can inform Mr Collier that the word “is” stands, in this place, in the variorum edition of 1785.

Act I. Scene 4.—The Duke, who has abdicated for a time in favour of Angelo, says, in allusion to the abuses which Angelo is expected to correct—

“I have on Angelo imposed my office,

Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

And yet, my nature never in the sight,

To do it slander.”

The corrector of Mr Collier’s folio suggests to draw on slander; and as a gloss or explanation of an antiquated or awkward expression, this variation may be accepted; but it certainly has no title to be admitted into the text as the authentic language of Shakespeare. The change of “story” into “scorn” (Scene 5), is perhaps admissible. Alluding to a false species of repentance, the friar, in Act II. Scene 3, says that such insufficient

“Sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven,

Showing we would not spare heaven, as we love it,

But as we stand in fear.”

On the margin of Mr Collier’s folio, “serve” is written, and “spare” is scored out. We greatly prefer the old reading, in spite of Mr Collier’s assertion that it is corrupt, and “seems little better than nonsense.” To spare heaven is not nonsense; it means to refrain from sin. To serve heaven means something more; it means to practise holiness. The difference is but slight, but it is quite sufficient to establish the language of Shakespeare as greatly superior to that of his anonymous corrector, because the point here in question is much rather abstinence from vice than the positive practice of virtue.

In Act II. Scene 4, the following somewhat obscure expression occurs: “in the loss of question”—what does it mean? “It means,” says Mr Singer (p. 11), “in the looseness of conversation.” That is a most satisfactory explanation. Yet if Mr Collier and his emendator had their own way, we should be deprived of this genuine Shakesperian phrase, and be put off with the unmeaning words “in the force of question.”

In Act III. Scene 1, the alteration of “blessed” into “boasted,” in the speech in which the Duke so finely moralises on the vanity of human life, cannot be too decidedly condemned—

“Thou” (oh Life) “hast nor youth nor age,
But as it were an after-dinner’s sleep,
Dreaming on both, for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld.”

Some people may not be able to understand how the period of youth can, in one and the same breath, be called blessed, and yet miserable as old age. They look on that as a contradiction. Such people ought never to read poetry. At any rate, they ought first to learn that the poet is privileged, nay, is often bound to declare as actual that which is only potential or ideal. Thus, he may say that blessed youth is a miserable season of existence, meaning thereby that misery overspreads even that time of life which ought to be, and which ideally is, the happiest in the pilgrimage of man. The manuscript corrector has but an obtuse perception of these niceties, and hence he substitutes boasted for blessed—converting Shakespeare’s language into mere verbiage.

Comedy of Errors—Act I. Scene 1.—The alteration of the word “nature” into “fortune” in the following lines, is an undoubted departure from the genuine language of Shakespeare, and a perversion of his sense. Ægeon, whose life has been forfeited by his accidental arrival at Ephesus, says—

“Yet that the world may witness that my end
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,
I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.”

Mr Collier, slightly doubtful of the propriety of the new reading (fortune), says, “Possibly by ‘nature’ we might understand the natural course of events.” We say, certainly this is what we must understand by the word. I die by nature, says Ægeon, not by vile offence; or, as Warburton interprets it, “My death is according to the ordinary course of Providence, and not the effects of Divine vengeance overtaking my crimes.” But the word “fortune,” had Ægeon used it, would rather have implied that he regarded himself as an object of Divine displeasure; and therefore this word must not only not be adopted, but it must be specially avoided, if we would preserve the meaning of Shakespeare. In this case, the internal evidence is certainly in favour of the ordinary reading.

In a subsequent part of the same scene, the Duke, who is mercifully inclined towards Ægeon, advises him

“To seek thy help by beneficial help.”

That is, he recommends him to borrow such a sum of money as may be sufficient to ransom his life. The MS. corrector reads not very intelligibly—

“To seek thy hope by beneficial help.”

And Mr Collier, explaining the obscurum per obscurius, remarks that “Ægeon was to seek what he hoped to obtain (viz. money to purchase his life) by the ‘beneficial help’ of some persons in Ephesus.” The “beneficial help” was itself the money by which he was to “seek his help,” or save his life. “Beneficial help” means “pecuniary assistance,” and therefore we are at a loss to understand Mr Collier when he says that Ægeon was to seek money by the “beneficial help” or pecuniary assistance of certain persons in Ephesus. All that he required to do was to obtain this pecuniary assistance; obtaining that, he of course would obtain the money by which his life was to be redeemed. The received text of the line ought on no account to be disturbed. The repetition of the word “help” is peculiarly Shakesperian.

Act II. Scene 1.—A very little consideration may convince any one that the following correction is untenable. The ordinary text is this: Dromio the slave having been well drubbed by his master, says—

“He told his mind upon mine ear; Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

“Luciana.—Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning?

Dromio.—Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them.”

The manuscript corrector proposes “doubly” for “doubtfully,” in both instances; losing sight, as we think, of the plain meaning of words. To speak doubly is to speak deceitfully; to speak doubtfully is to speak obscurely or unintelligibly. But certainly Luciana had no intention of asking Dromio if his master had spoken to him deceitfully. Such a question would have been irrelevant and senseless. She asks, spake he so obscurely that you could not understand his words?—and the slave answers, “By my troth, so obscurely that I could scarce understand (that is, stand under) them.” This is the only quibble.

In Act II. Scene 2, the expression “she moves me for her theme,” that is, “she makes me the subject of her discourse,” occurs. This is changed by the MS. corrector into “she means me for her theme;” that is, “she means to make me the subject of her discourse.” But the “she” who is here referred to is actually, at that very moment, talking most vehemently about the person who utters these words; and therefore this emendation is certainly no restoration, but a corruption of the genuine language of Shakespeare.

Act IV. Scene 2.—The bum-bailiff is thus maltreated. The words in italics are the MS. corrector’s wanton and damaging interpolations.

“Adriana.—Where is thy master, Dromio, is he well?

Dromio.—No: he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell;

A devil in an everlasting garment hath him, fell;

One whose hard heart is buttoned up with steel,

Who has no touch of mercy, cannot feel;
A fiend, a fury, pitiless, and rough;
A wolf, nay worse, a fellow all in buff.”

Here the only doubt is, whether the word “fury” (the MS., and also Theobald’s reading) is a judicious substitute for the word “fairy,” which the old copies present. We think that it is not, being satisfied with Johnson’s note, who observes—“There were fairies like hobgoblins, pitiless and rough, and described as malevolent and mischievous.”—Nowadays a fairy is an elegant creature dressed in green. So she was in Shakespeare’s time. But in Shakespeare’s time there was also another kind of fairy—a fellow clothed in a buff jerkin, made of such durable materials as to be well-nigh “everlasting;” and whose vocation it was, as it still is, to pay his addresses to those who may have imprudently allowed their debts to get into confusion. Let us not allow the old usages of language to drop into oblivion.

Act IV. Scene 3.—“The vigor of his rage,” is obviously a much more vigorous expression than “the rigor of his rage,” which the MS. corrector proposes in its place.

Act V. Scene 1.—“The following lines,” says Mr Collier, “as they are printed in the folio 1623, have been the source of considerable cavil,” meaning, we presume, dispute. The words are uttered by the Abbess, who has been parted from her sons for a great many years, and has but recently discovered them.

“Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail

Of you, my sons, and till this present hour

My heavy burden are delivered.”

“That the above is corrupt,” continues Mr Collier, “there can be no question; and in the folio 1632, the printer attempted thus to amend the passage:—

‘Thirty-three years have I been gone in travail

Of you my sons, and till this present hour

My heavy burthens are delivered.’

“Malone gives it thus:—

‘Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
Of you my sons; until this present hour
My heavy burthen not delivered.’

“The MS. corrector,” continues Mr Collier, “of the folio 1632 makes the slightest possible change in the second line, and at once removes the difficulty: he puts it—

‘Thirty-three years have I been gone in travail

Of you my sons, and at this present hour

My heavy burthens are delivered.’”

In his edition 1826, Mr Singer reads—

“Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burthen ne’er delivered.”

We are of opinion that a better reading than any here given, and than any ever given, might be proposed. Thus—

“Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail

Of you, my sons, and till this present hour

My heavy burthen has delivered.”

That is, I have done nothing but go in travail of you, my children, for thirty-three years; and, moreover (I have gone in travail of you), till this present hour has delivered me of my heavy burden. This reading brings her pains up to the present moment, when she declares herself joyfully relieved from them by the unexpected restoration of her children. This amendment seems to yield a more emphatic meaning than any of the others; and it departs as little as any of them from the original text of 1623.

Much Ado about Nothing—Act I. Scene 3.—The brothers Don Pedro and Don John have quarrelled, and have been reconciled. Conrade remarks to the latter, “You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta’en you newly into his grace.” The MS. correction is, “till of late,” which, as any one looking at the context even with half an eye, may perceive both spoils the idiom and impairs the meaning of the passage.

Act II. Scene 1.—We admit that Shakespeare might—nay, ought—to have written as follows, but we doubt whether he did. “Wooing, wedding, and repenting,” says Beatrice, “is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace; the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure full of state and ancienty; and then comes repentance, and, with his bad legs, falls into cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink apace into his grave.” “Apace” is MS. corrector’s contribution.

In the following much-disputed passage, we are of opinion that Shakespeare uses somewhat licentiously the word “impossible” in the sense of inconceivable, and that Johnson’s and the MS. corrector’s substitution of “importable” (i. e. insupportable) is unnecessary. “She told me,” says Benedick, speaking of Beatrice, “that I was the prince’s jester, and that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest, with such impossible conveyance, upon me, that I stood like a man at mark with a whole army shooting at me.” “Impossible conveyance” means inconceivable rapidity.

Act III. Scene 1.—There surely can be no question as to the superior excellence of the received reading in the following lines. The repentant Beatrice, who has overheard her character severely censured, says—

“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt farewell, and maiden pride adieu!

No glory lives behind the back of such.”

Beatrice means to say that contempt and maiden pride are never the screen to any true nobleness of character. This is well expressed in the line,

“No glory lives behind the back of such.”

A vigorous expression, which the MS. corrector recommends us to exchange for the frivolous feebleness of

“No glory lives but in the lack of such.”

This substitution, we ought to say, is worse than feeble and frivolous. It is a perversion of Beatrice’s sentiments. She never meant to say that a maiden should lack maiden pride, but only that it should not occupy a prominent position in the front of her character. Let her have as much of it as she pleases, and the more the better, only let it be drawn up as a reserve in the background, and kept for defensive rather than for offensive operations. This is all that Beatrice can seriously mean when she says, “maiden pride adieu.”

Act IV. Scene 1.—In the following passage we back Shakespeare’s word against the MS. corrector’s, not only in point of authenticity, but in point of taste. Leonato, greatly exasperated with his daughter, says to her—

“For did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,

Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,

Strike at thy life.”

This is the reading of the folio 1632. The folio 1623 reads “reward,” but that is obviously a misprint for “rearward.” The MS. corrector proposes hazard. As if the infuriated father would have cared one straw what the world might think or say of him for slaying his daughter. In his passion he was far beyond minding such a trifle as public opinion, and would never have paused to give utterance to the sentiment which the corrector puts into his mouth. What he says is this—that after heaping reproaches on his daughter to the uttermost, he would follow them up by slaying her with his own hand. This is admirably expressed by the words, “rearward of reproaches.” In this same scene the fine old word “frame,” in the sense of fabrication, is twice most wantonly displaced, to make way, in the one instance, for “frown,” and in the other for “fraud.”

Act V. Scene 1.—Let any reader who has an ear read the opening speech of Leonato, and he will perceive at once how grievously its effect is damaged by the insertion of the words “to me” in this line.

“And bid him speak (to me) of patience.”

In the same speech the following lines are a problem. Leonato, rebuffing his comforters, says, “Bring to me a person as miserable as myself, and

“If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard,

And, sorrow wag! cry, Hem, when he should groan,

Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk

With candlewasters, bring him yet to me,

And I of him will gather patience.”

“And sorrow wag! cry,” is the main difficulty. Johnson explains it thus: “If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard, and cry, Sorrow, begone!” This, in our opinion, is quite satisfactory; but what is the philology of the word “wag?” We believe it to be the German word “weg”—away—off with you. The MS. corrector cuts the knot which he cannot untie, by reading “call sorrow joy.” This is a gloss, not a reparation of the text.

Act V. Scene 4.—We maybe assured that a far finer sense is contained under Hero’s expression, when she says, according to the common reading,

“One Hero died defiled, but I do live,”

than under the pseudo-emendation,

“One Hero died belied, but I do live.”

Love’s Labour Lost—Act I. Scene 1.—We agree with Mr Dyce[19] in thinking that a quibble is intended in Biron’s speech, when he says that he and his friends will “climb in the merriness,” according as the absurd style of Armado’s letter shall give them cause. At any rate, nothing can be poorer than the MS. correction of this place, “chime in the merriness.” We think, however, that the corrector is right in giving the words, “Sirrah, come on,” to Dull the constable, and not to Biron, to whom they are usually assigned. We also consider the change of manager into armiger rather a happy alteration; at any rate, we can say this of it, that had armiger been the received reading, we should not have been disposed to accept manager in its place. This is a compliment which we can pay to very few of the MS. corrections. Had they formed the original text, and had the original text formed the marginalia, we should have had little hesitation as to which we would, in most cases, adopt. On the ground of their internal evidence—that is, of their superior excellence—the marginalia would certainly have obtained the preference. The passage to which we refer is this—“Adieu, valour!” says the fantastical Armado, “rust rapier! be still drum, for your armiger is in love.” This reading, we think, is worthy of being perpetuated in a note, though scarcely entitled to be elevated into the text.

Act III. Scene 1.—The corrector very soon relapses into his blunders. Passing over several, here is one, not so conspicuous perhaps, but as decided as any into which he has fallen. Armado, speaking to Moth his page, says, “Fetch hither the swain (i. e., Costard the clown), he must carry me a letter.” Moth replies, “A message well-sympathed—a horse to be ambassador for an ass.” The MS. corrector reads, “A messenger well-sympathised,” not perceiving that this destroys the point, and meaning, and pertinency of Moth’s remark. “A message well-sympathised” means a mission well concocted, an embassy consistent with itself, which, says Moth, this one is, inasmuch as it is a case of horse (Costard) representing an ass—(to-wit, yourself, master mine.) Yet Mr Collier says that “we ought unquestionably to substitute messenger for message.”

Moth, the page, having gone to fetch Costard, Armado says—

“A most acute juvenal, voluble, and free of grace.

By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face,

Most rude Melancholy, valour gives thee place.”

The MS. corrector alters the last line into “moist-eyed melancholy;” and Mr Collier remarks, “‘Most rude melancholy’ has no particular appropriateness, whereas ‘moist-eyed melancholy’ is peculiarly accordant with the sighs Armado breathes, in due apology, to the face of the welkin.” No particular appropriateness! when the euphuist is in the very act of apologising to the welkin for the breach of good manners of which his “most rude melancholy” has compelled him to be guilty. What else could he, in the circumstances, have called his melancholy with any degree of propriety? Oh, silly margins! you have much to answer for. You are not only stupid yourselves, but you are the cause of stupidity in other people.

Act IV. Scene 1.—Having considered the following passage very carefully, we are compelled to side with Mr Singer and Mr Dyce in favour of the old reading “fair” against “faith,” which is advocated by the MS. corrector, Mr Collier, and Mr Hunter. The princess, giving money to the forester, whom she playfully charges with having called her anything but good-looking, says—

“Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

Forester. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

Princess. See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit.

Oh, heresy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.”

The new reading proposed is, “Oh, heresy in faith.” But this change is not necessary; indeed it spoils the passage. The princess, when the forester compliments her, says—“See, see, my beauty will be saved” (not on its own account, for, in this man’s opinion, I have little or none) but “by merit,” that is, because I have given him money. He calls me an angel of light because I have given him half-a-crown. Oh, heresy in regard to beauty! None but the really beautiful ought to be so complimented. Those who like me are plain (as this man thinks me in his heart), and have “foul hands,” ought not to obtain fair praise—ought not to be praised as fair, however “giving” or liberal these hands may be. The heresy here playfully alluded to is the error of supposing that people can be beautified by their gifts as well as by their appearance; just as a religious heresy consists in the idea that a person can be justified by his works as well as by his faith.

Act IV. Scene 3.—The following passage has given some trouble to the commentators—

“Black is the badge of hell,

The hue of dungeons, and the school of night.”

Various substitutes have been proposed for the word “school.” The variorum reads “scowl,” which was introduced by Warburton. Theobald conjectured “stole.” The marginalia present “shade,” which is as poor as poor can be. We believe the original word “school” to be right, and that the allusion is to the different badges and colours by which different schools or sects or fraternities were formerly distinguished. “Black,” says the passage before us, “is the hue worn by all who belong to the school or brotherhood of night.”

The context of the following passage seems fairly to justify the MS. correction, by which “beauty” is changed into “learning.” Beauty may have been a misprint. Loquitur Biron—

“For where is any author in the world
Teaches such learning as a woman’s eye?
Learning is but an adjunct to ourself,
And where we are our learning likewise is,
Then, when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes,
Do we not likewise see our learning there?”

This, we think, is one of the very few emendations which ought to be admitted into the text.

It is curious to remark, what we learn incidentally from this play, that, in Shakespeare’s time, the words “doubt” and “debt” were pronounced as they are spelt, the “b” being sounded no less than the “t,” and that it was the height of affectation to say “dout” and “det,” as we do nowadays. So changes the norma loquendi.

Act V. Scene 2.—The following, in the old copies, is obviously a misprint—

“So pertaunt-like would I o’ersway his state,

That he should be my fool, and I his fate.”

The variorum edition reads “portent-like.” In 1826, Mr Singer published “potent-like.” The MS. corrector suggests “potently;” and this we rather prefer.

When the princess is informed of the intended wit-assault on her and her ladies by the king and his lords, she exclaims—

“What are they

That charge their breath against us?”

“To ‘charge their breath,’” says Mr Collier, “is nonsense, and the corrector alters it most naturally to

‘What are they

That charge the breach against us?’”

“Should any one,” says Mr Singer,[20] “wish to be convinced of the utter impossibility of the corrector having had access to better authority than we possess—nay, of his utter incapacity to comprehend the poet, I would recommend this example of his skill to their consideration. The encounters with which the ladies are threatened, are encounters of words, wit combats;” and therefore it was quite natural that they should talk of their opponents as “charging their breath against them.” We agree with Mr Singer; but we willingly change “love-feat,” in this same scene, into “love-suit,” at the bidding of the MS. corrector.

“Oh, poverty in wit!” exclaims the princess, when she and her ladies have demolished the king and his companions in the wit-encounter. “Kingly-poor flout!” The MS. corrector reads, “killed by pure flout;” and Mr Singer “has no doubt” that “stung by poor flout” is the true reading. We see no reason for disturbing the original text. A double meaning is no doubt intended in the expression “kingly-poor flout.” It means “mighty poor badinage;” and then, a king being one of the performers, it also means “repartee as poor as might have been expected from royal lips;” these being usually understood to be better fitted for taking in than for giving out “good things.”

Midsummer Night’s Dream—Act I. Scene 1.—“Near the end of Helena’s speech,” says Mr Collier, “occurs this couplet where she is stating her determination to inform Demetrius of the intended flight of Lysander and Hermia—

‘And for this intelligence

If I have thanks, it is a dear expense’—

which,” continues Mr Collier, “is only just intelligible; but the old corrector singularly improves the passage by the word he substitutes—

‘And for this intelligence

If I have thanks, it is dear recompense.’”

The old corrector is an old woman who, in this case, has not merely mistaken, but has directly reversed Shakespeare’s meaning. So far from saying that Demetrius’s thanks will be any “recompense” for what she proposes doing, Helena says the very reverse, that they will be a severe aggravation of her pain. “A dear expense” here means a painful purchase, a bitter bargain. “If I have thanks, the sacrifice which I make in giving Demetrius this information will be doubly distressing to me.” Of course she would much rather that Demetrius, her old lover, did not thank her for setting him on the traces of his new mistress. Thanks would be a mockery in the circumstances, and this is what Helena means to say. Such is manifestly the meaning of the passage, as may be gathered both from the words themselves, and from their connection with the context, which is this—

“I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight:
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her; and for this intelligence,
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense;
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither, and back again.”

The sight of Demetrius, and not his thanks, was to be Helena’s recompense.

Act II. Scene 1.—The corrector is unquestionably wrong in his version of these lines. Of Titania it is said by one of the fairies, that

“The cowslips tall her pensioners be,
In their gold coats spots you see,
Those be rubies, fairy favours,” &c.

The MS. corrector reads “all” for “tall,” and “cups” for “coats,” to the manifest deterioration of the text. Mr Singer thus explains the matter, to the satisfaction, we should think, of all readers. “This passage has reference to the band of gentlemen-pensioners in which Queen Elizabeth took so much pride. They were some of the handsomest and tallest young men of the best families and fortune, and their dress was of remarkable splendour—their coats might well be said to be of gold. Mr Collier’s objection that ‘cowslips are never tall,’ is a strange one. Drayton in his Nymphidia thought otherwise, and surely a long-stalked cowslip would be well designated by a fairy as tall.”

Act II. Scene 3.—The alteration of “conference” into “confidence” in the following lines is an improvement, most decidedly, for the worse. Lysander and Hermia are going to sleep in the wood. She says to him—

“Nay, good Lysander, for my sake, my dear,

Lye further off yet, do not lye so near.

Lysander.—Oh, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence;

Love takes the meaning, in love’s conference.”

That is, love puts a good construction on all that is said or done in the “conference,” or intercourse of love. “Confidence,” the MS. correction, makes nonsense.

Act III. Scene 2.—The margins seem to be right in changing “What news, my love?” into “What means my love?” in the speech in which Hermia is appealing passionately to her old lover Lysander.

Act V. Scene 1.—But we cannot accept the substitution of “hot ice and wondrous seething snow” for the much more Shakespearian “hot ice and wonderous strange snow.” The late Mr Barron Field’s excellent emendation of the following lines is borne out by the MS. correction—

“Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am

A lion’s fell, nor else no lion’s dam.”

“Fell” means skin. The old reading was—

“Then know that I, as Snug the joiner, am

A lion fell, nor else no lion’s dam.”

This ought to go into the text, if it has not done so already.

The Merchant of Venice—Act I. Scene 1.—In the following passage the margins make rather a good hit in restoring “when” of the old editions, which had been converted into “who,” and in changing “would” into “’twould.”

“Oh, my Antonio, I do know of these
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing, when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, ’twould almost damn those ears,

Which hearing them would call their brothers fools.”

Act II. Scene 1.—The Prince of Morocco says—

“Mislike me not for my complexion,

The shadowed livery of the burnished sun.”

Altered by the MS. corrector into “burning sun,” which, says Mr Collier, “seems much more proper when the African prince is speaking of his black complexion as the effects of the sun’s rays.” Mr Collier will excuse us: the African Prince is doing nothing of the kind. He is merely throwing brightness and darkness into picturesque contrast—as the sun is bright, or “burnished,” so am I his retainer dark, or “shadowed.” “To speak of the sun,” continues Mr Collier, “as artificially ‘burnished,’ is very unworthy.” True: but Shakespeare speaks of it as naturally burnished; and so far is this from being unworthy, it is, in the circumstances, highly poetical.

Act II. Scene 9.—To change the words “pries not to the interior,” into “prize not the interior,” in the following lines, is wantonly to deface the undoubted language of Shakespeare.

“What many men desire!—that many may be meant

Of the fool multitude, that chuse by show,

Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach,

Which pries not to the interior; but, like the martlet,

Builds in the weather, on the outward wall.”

Act III. Scene 2.—The MS. corrector proposes a very plausible reading in the lines where Bassanio is moralising on the deceitfulness of external appearance.

“Thus ornament is but the guiled surf
To a most dangerous sea, the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
The seeming truth which cunning times put on,
To entrap the wisest.”

The corrector proposes to put a full stop after Indian, and to read on—“beauty, in a word,” (is) “the seeming truth,” &c. Mr Singer says, “this variation in the pointing is no novelty; it occurs in an edition of Shakespeare, published by Scott and Webster in 1833, and has been satisfactorily shown to be erroneous and untenable by a correspondent in Notes and Queries, vol. v. p. 483.” We regret that it is not in our power, at this time, to consult the volume of Notes and Queries referred to; but we confess that we see no very serious objection to this new reading, except the awkwardness and peculiarly unShakespearian character of the construction which it presents. That there is a difficulty in the passage is evident from the changes that have been proposed. Sir Thomas Hanmer gave “Indian dowdy”—Mr Singer, “Indian gipsy,” which, however, he now abandons. We still confess a partiality for the old text, both in the words and in the pointing. “An Indian beauty” may mean the worst species of ugliness, just as a Dutch nightingale means a toad. Still we believe that a good deal might be said in favour of the MS. corrector’s punctuation.

Bassanio, descanting on the portrait of Portia, and on the difficulties the painter must have had to contend with, thus expresses his admiration of the eyes—

“How could he see to do them? having made one,

Methinks, it should have power to steal both his,

And leave itself unfurnished.”

The corrector reads “unfinished,” which Johnson long ago condemned. “Unfurnished” means, as Mr Collier formerly admitted, unprovided with a counterpart—a fellow-eye.

We willingly concede to Mr Collier the “bollen” instead of the “woolen” bagpipe. And when he next “blaws up his chanter,” may the devil dance away with his anonymous corrector, and the bulk of his emendations, as effectually as he ever did with the exciseman.

As You Like It—Act I. Scene 2.—In opposition to Mr Collier, we take leave to say that Sir Thomas Hanmer was not right in altering “there is such odds in the man” to “there is such odds in the men.” What is meant to be said is, “there is such superiority (of strength) in the man;” and “odds” formerly signified superiority, as may be learnt from the following sentence of Hobbes—“The passion of laughter,” says Hobbes, “proceedeth from the sudden imagination of our own odds and eminency.”[21] Mr Collier’s man, who concurs with Sir Thomas Hanmer, is, of course, equally at fault.

Act I. Scene 3.—“Safest haste”—that is, most convenient despatch—is much more probable than “fastest haste,” inasmuch as the lady to whom the words “despatch you with your safest haste” are addressed, is allowed ten days to take herself off in.

Act II. Scene 3.—When Orlando, speaking of his unnatural brother, in whose hands he expresses his determination to place himself, rather than take to robbing on the highway, says,

“I will rather subject me to the malice

Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother,”

the language is so strikingly Shakesperian, that nothing but the most extreme obtuseness can excuse the MS. corrector’s perverse reading—

“Of a diverted, proud, and bloody brother.”

“Diverted blood,” says Dr Johnson, means “blood turned out of the course of nature;” and there cannot be a finer phrase for an unnatural kinsman.

Act II. Scene 7.—The following passage is obviously corrupt. Jacques, inveighing against the pride of going finely dressed, says—

“Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

Till that the very very means do ebb?”

The MS. correction is—

“Till that the very means of wear do ebb.”

Mr Singer suggests, “Till that the wearer’s very means do ebb.” The two meanings are the same: people, carried away by pride, dress finely, until their means are exhausted. But Mr Singer keeps nearest to the old text.

Act III. Scene 4.—“Capable impressure” must be vindicated as the undoubted language of Shakespeare, against the MS. corrector, Mr Collier, and Mr Singer, all of whom would advocate “palpable impressure.”

“Lean but on a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure,
Thy palm a moment keeps.”

“Capable impressure” means an indentation in the palm of the hand sufficiently deep to contain something within it.

Act IV. Scene 1.—Both the MS. corrector and Mr Collier have totally misunderstood Rosalind, when she says, “Marry, that should you, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.” The meaning, one would think, is sufficiently obvious.

Act V. Scene 4.—And equally obvious is the meaning of the following line, which requires no emendation. Orlando says that he is

“As those who fear they hope, and know they fear.”

That is, he is as those who fear that they are feeding on mere hope—hope which is not to end in fruition—and who are certain that they fear or apprehend the worst:—a painful state to be in. The marginal correction, “As those who fear to hope, and know they fear,” is nonsense.

The Taming of the Shrew.—Induction. Scene I.—We agree with the margins in thinking that the following line requires to be amended, by the insertion of “what” or “who.” In the directions given about the tricks to be played off on Sly, it is said—

“And when he says he is—say that he dreams.”

The MS. corrector reads, properly as we think—

“And when he says what he is, say that he dreams.”

Scene 2.—There is something very feasible in the corrector’s gloss on the word “sheer-ale.” For “sheer” he writes “Warwickshire,” and we have no doubt that “shire (pronounced sheer) ale” is the true reading.

Act I. Scene 1.—One of the happiest and most undoubted emendations in Mr Collier’s folio, and one which, in his preface, he wisely places in the front of his case, now comes before us—“ethics” for “checks,” in these lines in which Tranio gives advice to his master Lucentio—

“Let’s be no stoics, nor no stocks, I pray,
Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks,
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured.”

We have no hesitation in condemning “checks” as a misprint for “ethics,” which from this time henceforward we hope to see the universal reading. It is surprising that it should not have become so long ago, having been proposed by Sir W. Blackstone nearly a hundred years since, and staring every recent editor in the face from among the notes of the variorum. Mr Singer alone had the good taste to print it in his text of 1826.

Let us here bestow a passing commendation on Mr Hunter for a very ingenious reading, or rather for what is better, a very acceptable restoration of the old text, which had been corrupted by Rowe and all subsequent editors. In the same speech, Tranio, who is advising Lucentio not to study too hard, says, according to all the common copies—

“Talk logic wi’ th’ acquaintance that you have.”

The elder copies read—

“Balk logic, wi’ th’ acquaintance that you have.”

This means, cut logic, with such a smattering of it as you already possess; or, as Mr Hunter explains it, “give the go-by to logic, as satisfied with the acquaintance you have already gained with it.” “Balk” ought certainly to replace “talk” in all future editions, and our thanks are due to Mr Hunter for the emendation.[22]

How scandalous it is to change “mould” into “mood” in the following lines, addressed by Hortensio to the termagant Kate:—

“Mates, maid! how mean you that? No mates for you:

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.”

Kate was not, at least so thought Hortensio, one of those,

“Quas meliore luto finxit præcordia Titan.”

Act II. Scene 1.—We greatly prefer Mr Singer’s amendment of what follows to the MS. corrector’s. The common text is this:—

“Petruchio (to Kate).—Women were made to bear, and so were you.

Katherine.—No such jade, sir, as you, if me you mean.”

This being scarcely sense, the corrector says—

“No such jade to bear you, if me you mean.”

Mr Singer says,

“No such load as you, sir, if me you mean.”

Act IV. Scene 2.—“An ancient angel coming down the hill” has puzzled the commentators. The margins read “ambler.” We prefer the received text—the word “angel” being probably used in its old sense of messenger, with a spice of the ludicrous in its employment.

Act V. Scene 1.—Vincentio, who is on the point of being carried to jail, exclaims—

“Thus strangers may be haled and abused.”

The MS. corrector proposes “handled;” and Mr Collier says that “haled” is a misprint, and the line “hardly a verse.” It is a very good verse; and “haled” is the very, indeed the only, word proper to the place. On turning, however, to Mr Collier’s appendix, we find that he says, “It may be doubted whether ‘haled’ is not to be taken as hauled; but still the true word may have been handled.” This is not to be doubted; “haled” is certainly to be taken for hauled, and “handled” cannot have been the right word.

All’s Well that ends Well—Act I. Scene 1.—In Helena’s soliloquy, near the end of the scene, the corrector, by the perverse transposition of two words, changes sense into nonsense. She says—

“The mightiest space in fortune nature brings

To join like likes and kiss like native things.”

The lady is in love with Bertram, who is greatly above her in rank and in fortune; and the meaning is, that all-powerful nature brings things (herself, for example, and Bertram) which are separated by the widest interval of fortune, to join as if they were “likes” or pairs, and to kiss as if they were kindred things. The MS. corrector reverses this meaning, and reads—

“The mightiest space in nature fortune brings

To join like likes and kiss like native things.”

But there was no “space” at all between Helena and Bertram in point of “nature.” They were both unexceptionable human beings. They were separated only by a disparity of “fortune.” Why does the MS. corrector go so assiduously out of his way for the mere purpose of blundering, and why does Mr Collier so patiently endorse his eccentricities? That is indeed marvellous.

Act 1. Scene 3.—Helena says—

“You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and proved effects, such was his reading

And manifest experience.”

Read “manifold,” says the corrector; and Mr Collier adds, “we may safely admit the emendation.” Retain the old reading, say we; “manifest” means sure, well-grounded, indisputable, and is much more likely to have been Shakespeare’s word than “manifold.”

Act III. Scene 2.—The countess, comforting Helena, who has been deserted by Bertram, says—

“I pr’ythee, lady, have a better cheer,
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
Thou robb’st me of a moiety.”

“The old corrector,” says Mr Collier, “tells us, and we may readily believe him, that there is a small but important error in the second line. He reads—

‘If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine

Thou robbest me of a moiety.’”

The small but important error here referred to is committed by the old corrector himself. The countess, to give her words in plain prose, says—if you keep to yourself all the griefs which are thine, you rob me of my share of them. The context where the countess adds—

“He was my son,
But I do wash his name out of my blood,
And thou art all my child,”

seems to have misled the old corrector. He appears to have supposed that the countess had griefs of her own, occasioned by the conduct of her son Bertram, and that she protests against Helena’s monopolising these together with her own. This is the only ground on which “as” can be defended. But the answer is, that although the countess may have had such griefs, she was too proud to express them. She merely expresses her desire to participate in the afflictions which are Helena’s. This is one of the innumerable instances in which Shakespeare shows his fine knowledge of human nature. Whatever grief a proud mother may feel on account of a disobedient son, anger is the only sentiment which she will express towards him. The word “as,” however, had the countess used it, would have been equivalent to an expression of grief, and not merely of indignation; and therefore we strongly advocate its rejection, and the retention in the text of the word “are.”

Act IV. Scene 2.—The following is a troublesome passage. Diana says to Bertram, who is pressing his suit upon her—

“I see that men make ropes, in such a scarre,

That we’ll forsake ourselves.”

This is the old reading, and it is manifestly corrupt. Rowe, the earliest of the variorum editors, reads—

“I see that men make hopes, in such affairs,

That we’ll forsake ourselves.”

Malone gives “in such a scene” for “in such a scarre.” The MS. corrector proposes “in such a suit.” Mr Singer says “that it is not necessary to change the word scarre at all: it here signifies any surprise or alarm, and what we should now write a scare.” We agree with Mr Singer; and, following his suggestion, we give our vote for the following correction—

“I see that men make hopes, in such a scare, That we’ll forsake ourselves.”

That is, I see that men expect that we (poor women) will lose our self-possession in the flurry or agitation, into which we are thrown by the vehemence of their addresses.

Act V. Scene 1.—We willingly change the received stage direction, “enter a gentle astringer”—a most perplexing character certainly—into “enter a gentleman, a stranger,” as proposed by the old corrector, who, in this case, corrects like a human being.

Act V. Scene 3.—To change the fine expression

“Natural rebellion done in the blade of youth.”

into “Natural rebellion done in the blaze of youth,” is to convert a poeticism into a barbarism. “The blade of youth” is the springtime of life. Besides, there is an affinity between the word “natural” and the word “blade,” which proves the latter to have been Shakespeare’s expression.

If “all was well that ended well,” as the title of this play declares to be the case, the MS. corrections throughout it would be impregnable; for these end with one of the very happiest conjectural emendations that ever was proposed. Bertram, explaining how Diana obtained from him the ring, says, according to the received text,

“Her insuit coming, and her modern grace

Subdued me to her rate.”

“Insuit coming” has baffled the world. The marginalia give us, “Her infinite cunning and her modern grace subdued me to her rate.” It ought to be mentioned that this excellent emendation, which ought unquestionably to be admitted into the text, was also started some years ago by the late Mr Walker, author of the “original.”

Twelfth Night, or What you will—Act II. Scene 1.—The following words in italics are probably corrupt; but the MS. correction of the place is certainly a very bad piece of tinkering. Sebastian is speaking of his reputed likeness to his sister Viola—“A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was of many accounted beautiful; but though I could not, with such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her,” &c. The margins give us—“But though I could not with selfestimation wander so far to believe that.” But who can believe that, Shakespeare would wander so far in his speech as to write in such a roundabout feckless fashion as this? What he really wrote it may now be hopeless to inquire.

Act II. Scene V.—Malvolio congratulating himself on his ideal elevation says, “And then to have the humour of state,” which the MS. corrector changes into the poverty of “the honour of state,” overlooking the consideration that “the humour of state” means the high airs, the capricious insolence, of authority, which is precisely what Malvolio is glorying that he shall by and by have it in his power to exhibit.

Act III. Scene 4.—We never can consent to change “venerable” into “veritable,” at the bidding of the venerable corrector, in these lines—

“And to his image which methought did promise

Most venerable worth, did I devotion.”

“The word ‘devotion,’” says Mr Singer, “at once determines that venerable was the poet’s word.”

Act V. Scene 1.—How much more Shakesperian is the line—“A contract of eternal bond of love,” than the corrector’s

“A contract and eternal bond of love.”

The word “bond” is here used not as a legal term, but in the more poetical sense of union.

Winter’s Tale—Act I. Scene 2.—We agree with Mr Collier in his remark, that “there is no doubt we ought to amend the words of the old copies, ‘What lady she her lord’ by reading, ‘What lady should her lord,’” as given by the MS. corrector.

In the same scene, Leontes, expatiating on the falsehood of women, says—

“But were they false

As o’erdy’d blacks, as winds, as waters.”

That is, as false as “blacks” that have been dyed again and again until they have become quite rotten. This seems sufficiently intelligible; but it does not satisfy our anonymous friend, who proposes “as our dead blacks;” that is, as our mourning clothes, which, says Mr Collier, being “worn at the death of persons whose loss was not at all lamented,” may therefore be termed false or hypocritical. But surely all persons who wear mourning are not hypocrites; and therefore this new reading falls ineffectual to the ground.

Act IV. Scene 3.—We perceive nothing worthy of adoption or animadversion till we come to the following. Florizel is making himself very agreeable to Perdita, whereupon Camillo, noticing their intimacy, remarks, as the old copies give it—

“He tells her something

That makes her blood look on’t.”

There is something obviously wrong here. Theobald proposed—

“He tells her something

That makes her blood look out.”

Something that calls up her blushes. This is the received reading, and an excellent emendation it is. But on the whole we prefer the MS. corrector’s, which, though perhaps not quite so poetical as Theobald’s, strikes us as more natural and simple when taken with the context.

“He tells her something

Which wakes her blood. Look on’t! Good sooth, she is

The queen of curds and cream.”

On second thoughts, we are not sure that this is not more poetical and dramatic than the other. At any rate, we give it our suffrage.

There is, it seems, an old word “jape,” signifying a jest, which we willingly accept on the authority of the MS. corrector, in place of the unintelligible word “gap,” in the speech where “some stretch-mouthed rascal” is said “to break a foul jape into the matter.” The reading hitherto has been “gap.” This, however, is a hiatus only mediocriter deflendus. The next is a very lamentable case.

Act V. Scene 3.—Here the corrector interpolates a whole line of his own, which we can by no means accept. The miserable Leontes, gazing on the supposed statue of his wife, Hermione, which is in reality her living self, says, according to the received text—

“Let be, let be,
Would I were dead; but that methinks already—
What was he that did make it? see, my lord,

Would you not deem it breathed, and that those veins

Did verily bear blood?”

Here the train of emotion is evidently this:—Would I were dead, but that methinks already (he is about to add) I am, when the life-like appearance of the statue forcibly impresses his senses, whereupon he checks himself and exclaims, “What was he that did make it”—a god or a mere man, &c. The MS. corrector favours us with the following version—

“Let be, let be,
Would I were dead, but that methinks already
I am but dead, stone looking upon stone:
What was he that did make it? see, my lord,
Would you not deem it breathed?” &c.

The corrector is not satisfied with making Shakespeare write poorly, he frequently insists on making him write contradictorily, as in the present instance. I am stone, says Leontes, according to this version, looking upon stone, for see, my lord, the statue breathes, these veins do verily bear blood. Is not that a proof, my lord, that this statue is mere stone? Most people would have considered this a proof of the very contrary. Not so the MS. corrector, who is the father of the emendation; not so Mr Collier, who says that “we may be thankful that this line has been furnished, since it adds so much to the force and clearness of the speech of Leontes.” Truly, we must be thankful for very small literary mercies! Mr Collier may be assured that the very thing which Leontes says most strongly, by implication, in this speech is, that he is not stone looking upon stone.

Our space being exhausted, we must reserve for our next Number the continuation of our survey of Shakespeare’s Plays as amended by Mr Collier’s anonymous corrector.

THE INSURRECTION IN CHINA.[23]

Two Frenchman have just published, at an opportune moment, a curious book. One of them needs no introduction here. The readers who have twice encountered, in Blackwood’s pages, the vivacious and intelligent Dr Yvan, first under canvass for Bourbon, and then roaming in the Eastern Archipelago, will gladly, we are persuaded, meet him again amongst the mandarins. This time he is not alone, but has taken to himself a coadjutor, in the person of M. Callery, once a missionary, and, since then, interpreter to the French embassy in China—to which, it will be remembered, Dr Yvan was attached as physician. M. Callery is author of a Chinese dictionary, of a system of Chinese writing, and of translations from the same language. When we add that both gentlemen, although at present in France, were long and lately resident in China, under circumstances peculiarly favourable to the acquisition of sound information respecting its state and politics, and that they have had free access to the archives of their embassy, it will hardly be doubted that they have efficiently carried out their intention of giving a lucid account of the origin and progress of the civil war now waging in that country, bringing it down to the present day. The co-operation of one well acquainted with the Chinese tongue must have been invaluable, and perhaps indispensable to Dr Yvan, who, for his part, has evidently contributed to the common stock his shrewd and observant spirit and pleasant unaffected style. The book, which was published in Paris in the second week of July, has reached us rather late for deliberate review in the August number of the Magazine, but there is still time to give some account of its contents.

“The Chinese insurrection,” Dr Yvan commences, “is one of the most considerable events of the present time: politicians of all countries watch with curiosity the march of that insurgent army which, for three years past, has moved steadily onwards with the avowed object of upsetting the Tartar dynasty.” The Doctor then sketches, in a few very interesting pages, the chief events of Chinese history during the first half of the present century, with particular reference to the biography of the last emperor, deceased in 1850, and to the situation of the Chinese empire at the close of his reign.

The late emperor, who assumed, upon ascending the throne, the name of Tao-Kouang, Brilliant Reason, was the second son of Emperor Kia-King, a feeble and incapable monarch, whose power was virtually in the hands of an unworthy favourite, a certain Lin-King, chief of the eunuchs. In Chinese annals, incidents of this kind are, we are told, by no means rare. The chief of the eunuchs has always great influence in palace intrigues, and his degraded condition by no means constitutes, in that singular country, a bar to his ambition. That of Lin-King was boundless. He aspired to the throne. Having gained over most of the military mandarins, he marched into Pekin—one day that the emperor was out hunting with his sons—a body of troops whose chiefs were entirely devoted to him, and distributed them in the neighbourhood of the palace. His plan was to kill the emperor and princes, and have himself proclaimed by the army. Towards evening Kia-King and his eldest son returned to the palace, whose gates had scarcely closed behind them when it was surrounded by troops. In his haste and agitation the chief eunuch had not noticed that the emperor’s second son had not returned with his father. The conspiracy had just broken out, when that prince entered Pekin. He was alone, in a hunting dress, with none of the insignia of his rank, and he rode through the streets unrecognised, noting the general tumult and confusion, whose cause he soon understood. Outside the palace he found the ambitious eunuch haranguing his partisans, and at once perceived that his father’s favourite, at whose insolence he had often felt indignant, was at the head of the revolt. Mingling with the throng of horsemen, he drew near to the traitor; amidst a host of enemies, neither his coolness nor his courage failed him. Neither did his skill: he tore from his coat its round metal buttons, slipped them into his fowling-piece, took a short aim at Lin-King, and laid him dead upon the spot! Upon their leader’s fall, the rebels fled, throwing away their arms, and the prince triumphantly entered the palace, whose threshold they had not yet sullied. Old Kia-King learned, at one time, his past danger and present safety.

The prince who had displayed such happy promptitude and presence of mind, ascended the throne of China in 1820. He was then forty years of age. According to the custom of the princes of his dynasty, he had married a Tartar—a big-footed woman. By her he had no children; but his concubines had borne him a numerous family. In China, law and usage recognise no difference between legitimate and illegitimate children. All have the same rights of succession.

“During the first period of his reign, Tao-Kouang selected his ministers from amongst those statesmen who, in the eyes of the people, were the faithful guardians of Chinese traditions. Every nation that traces its history to a very remote period has its conservative party. In quiet times the government lies naturally in the hands of these representatives of old national guarantees. But when it becomes indispensable to modify ancient institutions, their exclusive attachment to things of the past becomes a real danger. This political truth is as perceptible in the history of the revolution of the Empire of the Centre as in our own. Tao-Kouang’s agents, Chinese to the backbone, and full of superb disdain for the barbarians, led their country into a disastrous war, because they did not understand that the moment was come for them to descend from the diplomatic elevation upon which their presumption and European forbearance had so long maintained them. At a later period, the same spirit of resistance to the necessity of the times brought on the insurrection whose history we are about to trace, so that the two most important events that Chinese annals have recorded during the last quarter of a century, the war with England and the revolt of Kouang-Si, have been determined by the same cause.”

Dr Yvan then gives an outline of the dispute with England, the consequent war and ultimate treaty, upon which it is unnecessary to dwell, since the circumstances are familiar to most English readers, although in France they have been often distorted, and to many are but imperfectly known. He blames Lin, whom he describes as being then “a man of about fifty, wearing the plain red button and the peacock’s feather with two eyes,” for his seizure of the opium, especially because, by his zeal, activity, and by the terror he inspired, he had given life and vigour to the Chinese custom-house, and had made a great advance towards the suppression of opium smuggling. “In France,” says MM. Callery and Yvan, “where ideas are not always just, it is taken as an established fact that, in the opium war, all the oppression was on the side of the English, and that right succumbed when the treaty of Nankin was signed. Nothing can be falser than this. The English smuggled on the coasts of the Celestial Empire exactly as smuggling is to this day carried on by foreigners on our coasts and frontiers; but it has not yet, that we are aware, been established as a principle that government may seize foreign merchants and threaten them with death, upon the pretext that vessels with prohibited merchandise are riding at anchor off Havre or Marseilles.” It is very courageous of these gentlemen thus to tell their countrymen the truth. We hope it will not injure the sale of their book; we have small expectation of its making many converts from the received opinion in France, that the part played by the English in the whole of the Chinese affair was that of wholesale poisoners, cramming their drug down their victim’s throat at bayonet’s point.

When Commissioner Lin had done all the mischief he could, burying the opium with quicklime, and bringing a British squadron up Canton river, blazing at the forts, he was recalled, and Ki-chan replaced him. Ki-chan was a capable man, resolute but prudent; he saw that China had found more than her match, and at once accepted the barbarian ultimatum. The emperor refused his sanction, and inflicted upon the unlucky negotiator the most signal disgrace any high functionary had endured during his reign. Poor Ki-chan was publicly degraded, his property confiscated, his house razed, his concubines were sold, and he himself was sent, an exile, into the depths of Tartary. Those who would know more of him need but refer to MM. Huc and Gabet’s curious journey to Thibet. At Lassa, those intrepid travellers knew him well. Dr Yvan and Mr Callery were intimate with another Chinese diplomatist, Ki-in, a relation of the emperor, who signed the treaty of Nankin, and whom they consider one of the two greatest statesmen that Tao-Kouang had. The other was Mou-tchang-ha, the Chinese prime minister or president of the council. “It is very probable that the Sublime Emperor, the son of Heaven, never exactly knew what passed between the English and the Chinese. He died, doubtless, in the consolatory belief that his troops were invincible, and that, if Hong-Kong had been given, as an alms, to a few miserable foreigners, it was because they had implored the happiness of becoming his subjects.” The treaty of Nankin signed, Ki-in, named governor of the two provinces of Kouang-Tong and Kouang-Si, took up his abode at Canton. By the disposition he showed to be on good terms with foreigners, and by his enlightened and progressive policy, he drew upon himself the hatred of the bigoted populace, who accused him of leaning to the barbarians and betraying his sovereign. In innumerable placards he was held up to popular odium and vengeance. “Our carnivorous mandarins,” began one of these violent and incendiary hand-bills, given by Dr Yvan, “have hitherto connived at all that those English bandits have done against order and justice, and five hundred years hence our nation will still deplore its humiliation. In the 5th moon of this year, more than twenty Chinese were killed by the strangers: their bodies were thrown into the river, and buried in the belly of the fishes; but our high authorities have treated these affairs as if they had not heard speak of them; they have considered the foreign devils as if they were gods, have taken no more account of Chinese than if they were dog’s meat, and have despised men’s lives like the hairs that are shaved off the head. Thousands of persons have lamented and been indignant; grief has penetrated the marrow of their bones,” &c. &c. These absurd accusations and calumnies had not, at the time, any influence on Ki-in’s political destiny. The emperor recalled him to Pekin, graced him with new dignities, and made him Mou-tchang-ha’s colleague. These two statesmen then tried to introduce certain reforms, beginning with the army, whose bows and arrows and old matchlocks they exchanged for percussion guns—thus jumping clean over the intermediate stage of flint and steel. A curious illustration of Chinese immobility for centuries. After a year’s trial, Ki-in reported the great perfection attained by artificers, officers, and soldiers, in manufacturing and making use of the new implements of war. This was towards the close of Tao-Kouang’s reign. The conciliatory spirit and enlightened views of the two ministers gave promise of that practical progress which even the most conservative Europeans must admit to be needed in China. Suddenly an unexpected and important event changed the aspect of affairs.

“Upon the 26th February, 1850”—thus does Dr Yvan, after his brief preliminary retrospect, commence his second chapter—“at seven o’clock in the morning, the approaches to the imperial palace at Pekin were obstructed by a compact crowd of mandarins of the inferior classes, and of servants in white garments with yellow girdles, conversing in a low voice, whilst their features wore an expression of official grief. In the midst of this throng of subordinate functionaries, stood sixteen individuals, each attended by a servant holding a saddlehorse. These sixteen persons wore the satin cap fastened under the chin and surmounted by the white button; they had a girdle of bells; a tube of a yellow colour was slung over their shoulders, and they all carried whips. A great dignitary issued from the palace, and delivered, with his own hand, to each one of these men, a despatch closed with the imperial red seal; they received it with a bow, brought each the yellow tube round upon his breast, and respectfully placed within it the official despatch. Then they mounted their horses, and the grooms fastened them to the saddle with straps that passed over the thighs. When they were thus well secured, the crowd opened a passage, and the horses set off at the top of their speed. These sixteen messengers, known as Feïma, flying horses, were bound to get over six hundred li—sixty leagues—in every twenty-four hours. They bore the following despatch to the governors-general of the sixteen provinces of the Celestial Empire:—

“‘In great haste, the minister of rites informs the Governor-general that, upon the 14th of the first moon, the Supreme Emperor, mounted upon the dragon, departed for the ethereal regions. In the morning, at the hour of mao, his Celestial Majesty transmitted the imperial dignity to his fourth son, Se-go-Ko, and in the evening, at the hour of haï, departed for the abode of the gods.’”

Directions for mourning completed the despatch. Agreeably with the constitution of the empire, the defunct sovereign had named his successor. It was his fourth son. But he had deviated from ancient custom by a verbal nomination. The legacy of supreme power was usually transmitted, long beforehand, by a solemn act, deposited in a golden coffer, opened with great ceremony upon the emperor’s death. Even in China, however, this last will and testament has not always been respected, and of this Dr Yvan digresses to give an example, which he considers as fully illustrative of Chinese manners and civilisation. The tale he tells abounds in what Europeans would laugh at as burlesque inventions, but which are doubtless very possible occurrences amongst the Celestials. We shall give its pith in a few lines. Tsin-che-houang, the second emperor of the Tsin dynasty, was already old and infirm when he sent his son and heir, Fou-sou, to superintend the building of the great wall, at which three hundred thousand men were working. They did less to lengthen it, Dr Yvan insinuates, than modern travellers have done. Whilst Fou-sou went north, accompanied by the renowned Mong-tièn, the greatest general of his time, the emperor made a pilgrimage southwards to the tombs of his ancestors. When far upon his road, he felt death approaching, and wrote to his eldest son to hasten back to the capital. Tcha-Kao, the chief of the eunuchs, having to seal and forward the missive, audaciously substituted for it a forged command from Tsin-che-houang to the prince and general to put themselves to death, as a punishment for their offences. Next day the emperor died, and the infamous Tcha-Kao prevailed upon his second son, Hou-haï, to seize the crown. To carry out this usurpation, it was necessary to conceal for a while the emperor’s death, lest the authorities and young princes at the capital should proclaim the successor he had appointed. So the body, sumptuously attired, and in the same attitude as when alive, was placed in a litter, surrounded by a lattice, and by thick silk curtains, and which none approached but those who were in the plot. The eunuch had proclamation made that the emperor, in haste to return, would travel day and night without quitting his litter. At meal-times a short halt was made, and food was handed into the litter and eaten by a man concealed in it. Unluckily, the weather was very hot, and the smell of the dead body soon became intolerable. This would have revealed the terrible truth, had not the ingenious eunuch hit upon a device. He sent forward an ante-dated decree by which the emperor permitted oyster-carts to follow the same road as himself. This had previously been severely prohibited, on account of the intolerable stench emitted by the oysters—an enormous species known to naturalists as spondyls, of which, then as now, the Chinese made enormous consumption. The fishmongers profited by the boon; hundreds of thousands of the full-flavoured testaceans soon preceded and followed the imperial convoy; the decomposing corpse reached the capital under cover of their alkaline emanations, and was received with gongs and acclamations. Meanwhile, the forged mandate of self-destruction was received by Fou-sou and Mong-tièn. The old officer thought it bad policy to order a general in command of three hundred thousand men to commit suicide, and treated the mission as apocryphal. But Fou-sou, considering only his duty as a son and subject, stabbed himself forthwith.

The accession of the present emperor was unattended by any such untoward circumstances, notwithstanding the irregularity of his nomination, to which the formal Chinese attach much importance. He ascended the throne without opposition, quitted, according to custom, the name he had till then borne, and assumed that of Hièn-foung, which signifies Complete Abundance. His accession was hailed with joy by both the political parties into which China is divided, and which the authors of this volume designate as exclusionists and progressive conservatives. The former expected to find in him a stanch supporter of their principles. If they did not anticipate the rebuilding of the crumbling wall of China, they doubtless hoped that he would so fortify Canton river as to prevent the fire-boats of the barbarians from ascending it to the capital of the two Kouangs. The progressive party, upon the other hand, thought that the son of Tao-Kouang, and the pupil of Ki-in, would maintain peace with the foreigner, regulate the opium trade—as the English have done in India, and the Dutch in Malaya—and would introduce into the Chinese fleets, armies, and administrations, those reforms which lapse of time had rendered necessary. MM. Yvan and Callery declare, that when they learned the emperor’s death they at once anticipated important events. It was to be feared that the new sovereign, a youth of nineteen, would sympathise with the sentiments and wishes of those of his own age. And in China, where everything seems diametrically opposed to what we observe in other countries, the young men of education and the ignorant populace compose the high conservative party. These two classes profess the same hatred of foreigners, the same instinctive repugnance for foreign institutions. “They are reactionary by nature, and by their attachment to national customs. It is the men of maturer age who, formed at the school of experience, appreciate the arts and institutions of Christian nations. When we were in China, Ki-in, before he had undergone any disgrace, frequently praised the governments of England, the United States, and France; and, at the same moment, Ki-chan, unjustly precipitated from the summit of greatness, expressed the same thoughts to MM. Huc and Gabet, in the holy city of Thibet.”

For some time the new emperor disappointed all parties. Surrounded by flatterers, eunuchs, and concubines, he remained inactive in his immense palace, which equals in size one of the large European fortified towns. He went not beyond the limits of those gardens whose walks are strewn with sparkling quartz, and seemed absorbed by voluptuous enjoyments. Politicians were wondering at this long inaction, when one day the thunder-cloud burst. The absolute monarch displayed his power; the reactionary party triumphed. The Pekin Moniteur published the dismissal of Mou-tchang-ha and Ki-in, overwhelming them with abuse, and declaring them degraded to inferior ranks. The document was dated in the 30th year of the reign of Tao-Kouang—the year of an emperor’s death being always reckoned by Chinese chronologists as belonging entire to his reign. The successors of the disgraced ministers were selected from amongst the bitterest enemies of Europeans, and their chief efforts were directed to neutralise the effect which the contact of the barbarians might have produced upon certain of their countrymen. This departure from the policy of Tao-Kouang, who had placed entire confidence in Ki-in, and had loaded him with marks of esteem, brought ill-luck to the new emperor. Very soon after the victory of the reactionary party, the first news came of the revolt of Kouang-Si.

There had been precursory symptoms of this insurrection. It had been currently reported amongst the people that prophecies had fixed the re-establishment of the Ming dynasty to take place in the forty-eighth year of that cycle, which year corresponded with A.D. 1851. It was further said that a sage, who lived under the last emperor of that race, had saved his standard, and had foretold that he who displayed it in the midst of his army should mount the throne. At the beginning of the insurrection it was affirmed that the rebels marched beneath this miraculous banner, and this was implicitly believed by the people. “The vulgar are incredulous of the extinction of old royal races; it is never certain that their last representative is in his tomb: there are people in Portugal who still look for the return of Don Sebastian, killed, three centuries ago, at the battle of Alcazar-Quivir.” An uneasy feeling soon spread far and wide, with rumours of the defection of mandarins. The legitimacy of the Tartar dynasty, and the necessity of substituting for it a national one, were publicly discussed. Here Dr Yvan translates an extract from an English paper, in which great importance is attached to the insurrection, and to the cry for reform which on all sides was heard. This was in August 1850. He then paints the portraits of the emperor Hièn-foung, and of the pretender Tièn-tè. The former is twenty-two, the latter twenty-three years of age. Without entering into a minute description of the physical and mental qualities of the two personages, some of which will incidentally manifest themselves as we proceed, we extract a few leading traits of Tièn-tè, whose portrait forms the frontispiece to the volume we are examining. “Study and vigils have prematurely aged him. He is grave and melancholy, and very reserved, communicating with those around him only to give them orders. His complexion is that of the southern Chinese—a saffron tint. His impassible gaze seems to probe the depths of the human soul. He commands rather by suggestion than by direct dictation. In a word” (and this reminds us of Dr Yvan’s own sovereign), “he has the silent reserve of a man who has reflected a great deal before communicating his projects to any one.”

The Doctor then gives a Chinaman’s description of the pretender’s entrance into one of the numerous towns taken by his troops. “The new emperor and his retinue reminded me of the scenes represented at our theatres, in which we are shown the heroes of ancient days, those who lived before we came under the Tartar yoke. The persons who surrounded Tièn-tè had cut off their tails, let the whole of their hair grow, and, instead of the chang buttoned at the side, they wore tunics open in front. None of the officers wore upon their right thumb the pan-tche, that archer’s ring which our mandarins so ostentatiously display. The emperor was in a magnificent palanquin, with yellow satin curtains, carried by sixteen officers. After Tièn-tè’s palanquin came that of his preceptor, borne upon the shoulders of eight coolies; then came his thirty wives, in gilt and painted chairs. A multitude of servants and soldiers followed in fine order.” There is a most important point to be noted in this description—the cutting off of the tail. It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to repeat that the strange style of head-dress with which porcelain and rice-paper pictures have familiarised Europeans, is of Tartar origin, and, in the case of the Chinese, a mark of subjugation. It was thus that the victors marked the vanquished—compelling them to shave their heads, with the exception of a spot upon the sinciput, the hair upon which was suffered to grow into a long tail. As a sign that they had thrown off the foreign yoke, Tièn-tè’s followers cut off their tails. This bold act—a treasonable offence in China—was equivalent to throwing away the scabbard, and caused a great and painful sensation at the court of Pekin. As a sort of counterpoise to it, the celestial Moniteur, the Imperial Gazette, was made to publish a supposititious act of submission on the part of the rebels, in which they were made to prostrate themselves, declare their fidelity, and submit to stripes and bondage.

The person designated by the Chinaman, in the account of the procession, as Tièn-tè’s preceptor, is his intimate friend and privy-councillor—his only one—a very mysterious individual—whether his father, his tutor, or merely a friend, none know—who accompanies him everywhere. But we are getting ahead of our subject, and must glance at the commencement of the insurrection, previously to the appearance of Tièn-tè upon the stage.

The province of Kouang-Si, where the rebellion began, and which is larger than the entire dominions of many European sovereigns, is situated in the south-western portion of the empire, is administered by a governor-general, and forms part of the vice-royalty of the two Kouangs. Its mountains are one of the curiosities of the Celestial Empire; but, since the Jesuits of Pekin, no foreigner has been suffered freely to explore them. “According to native travellers, these masses have the form of various animals, unmistakably representing a cock, an elephant, &c.; and there are rocks in which are found encrusted fantastical animals, petrified in the most singular attitudes. We have carefully examined drawings of these figures, which reminded us of the species resuscitated by Cuvier, and we have convinced ourselves that the petrified animals are merely red stains, produced by oxide of iron, and acutely defined upon the black surface of the rock. The general aspect of Kouang-Si is singularly picturesque. That vast district offers points of view which Chinese artists have frequently painted. To European eyes their collections of landscapes have a strange character. Those inaccessible mountains that seem shaped by the caprice of human imagination, those rocks representing gigantic animals, those rivers precipitating themselves into gulfs, over which are thrown impassable bridges, suggest an idea of fairyland.” A glance at the map of Kouang-Si suffices to prove the intelligence and judgment of the insurgent chiefs who chose that province for the commencement of their operations. Unproductive, by reason of its mountainous character, the misery of the inhabitants was a powerful auxiliary to the rebels. They found at once recruits for their army, and natural fortresses for their defence. The emperor needed a far larger army, and much more efficient means of attack than he possessed, to drive the insurgents from their fastnesses. If defeated in the plain, they had always the resource of mountain warfare. Dr Yvan compares the people of Kouang-Si to the guerillas who in Spain so severely harassed the French armies. Like them, he says, they are sober, intrepid, little sensible of fatigue, and animated by a spirit of independence. After centuries of occupation, the Tartars had not yet subdued the remotest districts of those mountains.

The chief vegetable products of Kouang-Si are cinnamon and aniseed. Its mountainous conformation, and the drawings of the Chinese artists, leave little doubt that it abounds in metallic deposits. Hence a seeming miracle, which took powerful hold on the imagination of the vulgar. Dr Yvan tells the tale thus:—

“At the beginning of the insurrection, the chiefs determined to mark the date of their enterprise by the erection of a religious monument. For its foundation, labourers dug in decomposed rocks, which yielded readily to the pickaxe. They had attained the depth of but a few feet, when they came upon lumps similar in form and appearance to the stones in the bed of a river. These lumps were observed to be very heavy, and were carefully examined. They proved to be silver-lead of great richness. It was from this providential bank, it is said, that the pretender paid his first soldiers. Whatever the authenticity of the tale, it is worth noting by the collectors of legends, whose writings will one day divert the leisure of the mandarins.... As if to confirm this metallurgic miracle, there have recently been discovered in Norway silver deposits precisely similar to those of Kouang-Si.”

It was in August 1850 that the Pekin papers for the first time spake of the insurgents, whom they designated as robbers; but robbers would hardly have established themselves in one of the poorest districts of the empire, remote from large towns and high-roads. The rebels showed no haste to contradict these rumours, but rather allowed them to gain credit, and waited patiently in the south-west part of the province, until the Celestial tigers[24] should be sent against them. They were on terms of amity with the Miao-tze, a race of men inhabiting the wildest parts of Kouang-Si. Dining one day with a Chinese functionary of high rank, in a pagoda at Canton, the author of this book received from him a curious account of those people, which they noted upon their return home, and now publish. The Miao-tze, the minister told them, are aborigines of the chain of mountains that extends from the north of Kouang-Toung (the southernmost province) into the central provinces of the empire. They dwell in small communities, never exceeding two thousand persons. Their houses are built on posts, like those of the Malays. They are warlike in disposition, and agriculture is their pursuit. The Tartars have never succeeded in subduing them. They have retained the old national costume—have never shaved their heads—have always rejected the authority of the mandarins and the Chinese customs. Their independence is now a recognised fact; and upon Chinese maps a blank is left for the country they occupy, to signify that it does not obey the emperor. For a great many years no attempt had been made to subdue them, when suddenly, in 1832, they made an incursion, pillaging wherever they went. They beat the Chinese troops sent against them, and were got rid of only by diplomacy and concession. They hold little intercourse with their neighbours, and are greatly dreaded by the Chinese of the towns, who call them man-dogs, man-wolves. “They believe them to have tails, and relate that, when a child is born, the soles of his feet are cauterised, to harden them, and render him indefatigable. These are mere tales,” continued the Chinese minister, whom Dr Yvan describes as a young and elegant man, and who is apparently of the more enlightened party in his country. “In reality, the Miao-tze are a very fine and intelligent race, and their manners have a tendency, I think, to become gentle.” Such a race as this was evidently a most valuable ally for the insurgents, whose first military movements put them in possession of two large towns, in one of which three mandarins of high rank were killed fighting against them. Siu, governor-general of the two Kouangs, took alarm; and upon learning that the rebels were coming his way, solicited the honour of making a pilgrimage to the tomb of the defunct emperor. This request was refused; and the troops he sent against the enemy were beaten and exterminated. The antiquated tactics of the insurgents—which would hardly have much success against any but a Chinese army—consisted in feigning a flight, and drawing their opponents into an ambuscade. This succeeded several times running—not being, we must suppose, guarded against in the Chinese twenty-four-volume treatise on the art of war. Emboldened by their repeated victories, the rebels crossed the frontier of Kouang-Si, and entered Kouang-Toung, where they soon met with and massacred, to the very last man, a detachment of imperial troops.

Two political acts of great importance were now simultaneously accomplished at Pekin and in the insurgent camp. In the former place, the emperor sent for Lin, the opium-burner, and bade him go and put down the rebellion. Notwithstanding his great age, the austere mandarin promptly obeyed. As if by way of retort, the insurgents issued a proclamation, declaring that the Mantchous, who for two centuries had hereditarily occupied the throne of China, had no right to it beyond that of the strongest; that that right was common to all—and that they had an equally good one to levy contributions on the towns they conquered. The Mantchous, they said, were foreigners, who had conquered the country by aid of a veteran army; their right of government consisted in possessing. This proclamation conveyed the leading idea of the rebels, which had previously been merely rumoured. They declared legitimacy to mean possession; and at the same time intimated their intention of expelling the Mantchous, and transferring to Chinese hands the management of the public revenues. This publication was the last act of the rebels in 1850. It coincided with the death of Lin, which occurred in November of that year. The old commissioner was in his seventieth year, and sank under the fatigue and anxiety of his new command.

The Chinese year begins in February. Its commencement is a sort of commercial and financial crisis, when everybody pays and calls in his debts. In January it was reported and believed, in Canton, that the insurrection of Kouang-Si was entirely suppressed, and that the celestial tigers had gained imperishable laurels. In consequence of this good news, business resumed its usual course, confidence returned, and the Chinese “settling day” passed without disaster. It was a mere trick of the cunning mandarins of Kouang-Toung, who, in the interest of the commercial community, had fabricated the bulletins. The public satisfaction and tranquillity were soon dispelled by intelligence of the cutting off of tails already mentioned, and which admitted of no other interpretation than “War to the Knife!”

Li succeeded Lin as imperial commissioner in Kouang-Si. The pusillanimous Siu was reduced four degrees of rank, which is something like reducing a field-officer to an ensigncy, but was still left governor of the two Kouangs. A very bad system was pursued by the agents of the Chinese government—exemplified by the following incidents. In March 1851, the little town of Lo-Ngan was taken by the insurgents, who levied a contribution, seized the contractor of the Mont de Piété, or pawning establishment, and fixed his ransom at 1000 taels (about £320). He paid, and was released. Next day the imperial troops drove out the rebels, levied another contribution, and squeezed 3000 taels from the contractor! This man, who was influential in the place, and indignant at suffering spoliation from those who should have protected him, harangued the people in the public square. Others spoke after him, and at last the excited mob cut off their tails, swore that the reign of the Tartars was at an end, and sent for the insurgents, who came in the night and massacred the garrison. Other things concurred to induce disaffection among the population to the reigning dynasty. Li took for his second in command a ferocious mandarin, who, when governor of the province of Hou-Nan, where the use of opium was very prevalent, had adopted the barbarous practice of cutting off the under lip of the smokers. Dr Yvan was in China at the time, and saw several poor wretches who had been thus mutilated, and whose aspect was horrible, the operation, performed by clumsy executioners, leaving hideous jagged wounds, “very different,” the doctor feelingly and professionally remarks, “from the elegant scars so artfully and happily produced by Parisian bistourys.” The nomination of the cruel Tchang (in his case, as in some others, we spare the reader the labour of reading his second and third names, which, although connected by hyphens, are not, as we perceive from Dr Yvan’s practice, inseparable from the first) was significant. At the same period, and in one day, thirty-six persons, accused of conspiring against the safety of the state, were put to death at Canton. Dr Yvan doubts whether their crimes were really political. In China they deal in what he calls prophylactic justice. The thirty-six executions were perhaps a preventive measure, and the victims common malefactors, elevated to the rank of rebels and traitors. “They may, however, have been members of secret societies, which are very numerous in China, and in those countries whither Chinese immigrate. At Singapore, Penang, Batavia, Manilla, we have known numerous adepts of the secret societies of the Empire of the Centre—a species of free-masonry, whose ascertained object is the dethronement of the Mantchous.

“In 1845, we lived for several days with a merchant of Chan-Toung, who clandestinely introduces arms into China. He took us to a house in one of the dirtiest and least reputable quarters of the town, and we ascended into a sort of garret. In that country garrets are on the first floor. His object was to obtain our estimate of arms which some Americans had sold him. They were enormous swords in steel scabbards. The heavy blades were clumsily forged; but cheap they certainly were, having been delivered in China at the price of ten francs a-piece. On our entrance the Chinese unsheathed one of these large blades, and uttered loud exclamations, gesticulating the while after the fashion of the Chinese heroes one sees painted upon fans. We asked him if it was for the equipment of the invincible tigers he purchased these arms. At the question he smiled significantly, and showed us, by an expressive gesture, the use intended to be made of them against the imperial troops. Perhaps at this moment the gigantic weapons are in the rebels’ hands.”

Neither the appointment of the terrible Tchang, the executions at Canton, nor the mendacious reports, perseveringly circulated, of imperial triumphs, checked the rebels. On the contrary, they replied to all this violence and boasting by the proclamation of an emperor of their own, whom they called Tièn-tè, which means Celestial Virtue! He was invested with the imperial yellow robe, and, contrary to Tartar usage, which forbids the reproduction of the sovereign’s features by his subjects, his portrait was circulated by thousands of copies. From one of those prints MM. Callery and Yvan have taken the frontispiece of their volume. The head-dress and costume are those of the days of the Mings, from whom the pretender’s partisans declare him descended.

The proclamation of Tièn-tè may be said to close the first period of the insurrection. Dr Yvan points admiringly to the patient policy of its chiefs. For a whole year Tièn-tè was kept in the background, his partisans contenting themselves with spreading a report that there existed a descendant of the Mings. Then they proclaimed, but did not show him to the people. He returned to a sort of mysterious obscurity, and showed himself but at long intervals, to his enthusiastic adherents. The rebellion now took the character of a civil war. The Emperor Hièn-foung, although deficient in political judgment, and in that tact and penetration which enable a sovereign to make the best choice of agents, displayed a good deal of energy; but this was too apt to degenerate into violence. He was certainly not well served. Siu, still governor of the Kouangs, was unequal to the difficulties that every day augmented. The inhabitants of two districts refused to pay taxes; the emperor ordered their punishment; Siu sent a mandarin to bring the ringleaders before him; the whole population rose, and pulled the officer out of his palanquin, which they broke to pieces, its occupant barely escaping with life. About the same time Tièn-tè set a price of ten thousand dollars on Siu’s head. The placard containing the announcement was affixed to the north gate of Canton, just as Siu was about to quit that city at the head of three thousand men, to join other forces directed against Kouang-Si. The viceroy was furious; and as his palanquin passed through Canton’s street, preceded by two gongs, and by a banner on which was inscribed, “Get out of the way and be silent; here is the imperial commissioner,” he glanced savagely right and left, as if seeking some one on whom to wreak his vengeance. “Presently he slapped his hand down upon the edge of his chair, and bade the bearers stop. It was just opposite the house of one of those poor artists who paint familiar genii and large family-pictures. The painter had hung up some of his most remarkable works outside his house; but strange to relate! in the midst of smiling deities, irritated genii, feetless women flying along like birds in silken vestments, there was displayed a decapitated mandarin. The rank of the personage was unmistakably indicated by the insignia painted on his breast. The corpse was in a kneeling position, and the head, separated from the trunk, was placed beside a beaver-hat bearing the plain button.” The unfortunate artist was called out of his shop, and kneeled trembling in the dust before Siu’s palanquin. In vain he protested that the picture was painted to order, and hung out to dry: he was sent to the town-prison to receive twenty blows of a bamboo for placing such ill-omened horrors upon the viceroy’s passage, and Siu went upon his way, gloomily impressed by the double presage of the placard and the picture. Besides his three thousand men, he had with him a host of mandarins, attendants, executioners, musicians, standard-bearers, and women, and a large sum of money, which he added to, upon the march, as often as he could. The women and the treasure were carried on men’s shoulders, in palanquins and chests. Dr Yvan relates the following curious incident as having occurred upon this march:—

“They one evening reached a deep and rapid water-course, which had to be crossed over a bamboo bridge. When a part of the escort had reached the farther bank, Siu stopped his palanquin, and ordered the coolies who carried the treasure-chest to cross slowly and cautiously. They obeyed; but just as they reached the centre of the elastic bridge, a sudden shock threw them and their load into the water. There was a moment of extreme confusion. The chest had sunk, the unfortunate coolies were struggling against the stream, and uttering lamentable cries, whilst Siu, furious, was breaking his fan for rage. Luckily the coolies swam like fish, and easily reached the shore. The viceroy was sorely tempted to bastinado them upon the spot; but he reserved that pleasure for another day, and ordered the poor wretches, who stood panting and terrified before him, instantly to fish up the precious chest, threatening them with a terrible chastisement if they did not find it. They stript off their clothes and courageously entered the water; skilful divers, they explored the river’s bed, and, after many efforts, succeeded in getting the heavy chest ashore. It was wet and muddy, but otherwise uninjured. Siu had it placed upon the shoulders of two fresh coolies, and the march was resumed. A few days later, on reaching Chao-King, his first care was to have the chest opened in his presence; but instead of his golden ingots, he found only pebbles and pieces of lead carefully wrapped in silk paper. The coolies were audacious robbers, who had skilfully planned the exchange. The viceroy set all his police on foot, but in vain; the thieves had doubtless taken refuge in the insurgent country, where they and their booty were safe.”

A Chinese gentleman, well-dressed, comely, and of intelligent aspect, has lately attracted considerable attention in Paris, in whose streets and public places he has been frequently seen. He is a friend and companion of M. Callery, and to him is owing the facsimile of a Chinese map included in the volume under notice. It represents those provinces which the insurgents have already traversed, from the mountains of Kouang-Si to the city of Nankin, the ancient capital of the Mings. A stream of red spots, running across its centre, and in some places spreading out wide, indicates the towns occupied by the rebels. The map is copied from one of the numerous charts published in China in 1851, towards the end of which year the victories of Tièn-tè’s troops were so numerous, and their progress so prodigious, that even the lying Pekin Gazette ceased to record imaginary imperial triumphs. It must not be supposed, however, that, in the case of the captured towns, occupation invariably implied retention. The chiefs of the insurgents heeded not the strategical importance of particular places. With the exception of a few fortresses, into which the pretender occasionally retired, they abandoned successively all the towns they took, after raising contributions to pay their troops. “Their tactics,” says Dr Yvan, “are those of the barbarian chiefs who led the great invasions of which history has transmitted us the account. The insurgents go straight before them, seizing, each day, some new point, which they next day abandon. Their intention is evidently to cut their way to the capital. In a country where the centralising system prevails so completely as in China, the Mantchous reign as long as Pekin is in their power; but upon the day on which the descendant of the Mings enters the imperial city, the provinces he has marched through and left unconquered will acknowledge his right, and submit themselves to his authority.” In several chapters of Dr Yvan’s book we find amusing examples of the military tactics of these strange barbarians who deem all others such. Thirteen thousand imperialists advanced against the rebels near the town of Ping-Nan-Hien. The rebels defended themselves feebly, and retreated from one position to another. When this had lasted several hours, and the weary pursuers were about to desist, they suddenly found themselves in an ambuscade, entangled in a bamboo jungle, and attacked in front and flank by a strong body of rebels, with more than sixty pieces of artillery. When General Ou-lan-taï got back to his camp, it was with half his army; the remainder had either been killed, or had deserted to the enemy. Siu, the valiant viceroy, safe behind the thick walls of a fortress, swore by his meagre mustaches that he would revenge this rout. “To that end, he borrowed from the ancient history of the kingdom of Tsi a stratagem which reminds one of the Trojan horse, and of Samson’s foxes. He got together four thousand buffalos, to whose long horns he had torches fastened; the drove was then given in charge to four thousand soldiers; and the expedition, prepared in the most profound secresy, set out one night for the rebel camp. It was anticipated that each buffalo, thus transformed into a fiery chariot, would commit terrible ravages, kill all the men it could get at, and set fire to the camp. At first the horned battalions met with no obstacles; the insurgents, duly advertised of this splendid stratagem, suffered them quietly to advance. But before the imperialists reached the camp, the enemy, who observed all their movements by favour of the splendid illumination, fell upon them unexpectedly, as they had so often done before, and the same scenes of carnage were renewed. This manœuvre of Siu’s cost the lives of more than two thousand men, and gives an idea of Chinese proficiency in the art of war. Had our sole knowledge of the affair been derived from the Anglo-Chinese press, we should have hesitated to reproduce it here; but we have had opportunity of collating the account given by The Friend of China, with authentic Chinese documents, and they entirely agree in their narrative of this incredible occurrence. In the eyes of the Tartar warriors, and of the Chinese themselves, this comical invention of Siu’s passes for a highly ingenious strategical combination.”

Whilst such were the disasters of his armies, and the progress of his foes, what was the occupation of his Imperial Majesty, the Son of Heaven, Hièn-foung? Surrounded by favourites and courtiers, he composed a poem, whose subject was the heroic exploits of his Tartar general, Oulan-taï—the said exploits existing but in the general’s own bulletins! According to MM. Yvan and Callery, who have read a portion of the emperor’s epic, it is an inflated performance, indebted in every line to reminiscences of the classic authors of the Celestial Empire—the Chinese Homers, the Ariostos of Pekin; so that the braggart general appropriately found a plagiarist bard. Meanwhile Siu, who had more confidence in golden than in leaden ammunition as a means of victory, offered ninety thousand taels (nearly £30,000) for the heads of Tièn-tè, his father, and his mysterious privy-councillor—that being, for each head, just thrice the sum at which the insurgents had estimated his. But no heads were brought in, and the viceroy, weary and despairing, implored permission to return to Canton. To obtain such permission, he invented an ingenious story, which the official Pekin paper was so unkind as to publish. He represented to his master that the subjects of Donna Maria da Gloria, queen of Portugal, were preparing for an expedition against the Celestial Empire. He converted the peaceable Macaists into a band of pirates ready to aid the insurgents, and to appropriate to themselves the provinces of Kouang-Toung and Fo-Kien! With an emperor, a general, and a viceroy, such as these characteristic traits exhibit, Dr Yvan is surely justified in anticipating the early dissolution of the Chinese Empire. Under such chiefs, it is not surprising when armies exhibit neither discipline nor courage. In the autumn of 1851, the insurgents, having taken three towns, respected the lives and property of the inhabitants. By a proclamation, Tièn-tè exhorted the latter to remain quietly where they were, but permitted those who would not recognise his authority to quit the place, taking with them all they could of their goods and chattels. A considerable number profited by this permission, and departed, laden with the most valuable portion of their property. They fell in with a body of imperialist troops, who stripped them of everything, and killed those who resisted. The unfortunate victims of civil war reproached their spoilers with their cowardice. “Before the rebels,” they said, “you are mice; it is only with us that you are tigers!”

From an early period of the rebellion, the mandarins endeavoured to discredit its banner and partisans by the propagation of lying inventions, some of which had the double aim of exciting the Buddhist population against the insurgents, and of rendering the Christians more and more odious to the young emperor. Thus they asserted that the pretender really was a descendant of the Mings, but that he was a Catholic, and that, wherever he went, he upset pagodas and destroyed idols. Others affirmed that he was of the sect of Chang-ti—that is to say, a Protestant. Whilst noticing these statements, Dr Yvan contents himself with remarking that the name of Tièn-tè, chosen by the pretender, is purely pagan. Another manœuvre of the mandarins was to announce that the insurgents had declared their intention, as soon as they should have attained to supreme authority, of driving the Europeans from the five ports. Thus they thought to set the Europeans against the insurrection. But this flimsy fabrication was easily seen through. Attempts were also made to cast ridicule on the insurgents, by the circulation of pamphlets filled with incredible anecdotes.

“One of these satirical productions relates that Tièn-tè, having perished in an accidental conflagration of his camp, his wife had had his brother assassinated, and had seized the reins of government. But, in China, petticoat government is inadmissible, and people never speak but with horror of the Empress Ou-heou, that Elizabeth of the East, who possessed herself of the imperial power, and exercised it for more than twenty years. In this respect, Chinese prejudices are so invincible that the name of Ou-heou has been effaced from the list of the sovereigns of the Celestial Empire. For the Chinese, that shameful reign never took place. The idea of sovereign power in a woman’s hands fills them with indignation; yet they know that a woman reigns over that western people which conquered them, and that the English nation was never greater or more glorious than under the rule of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria.”

The existence of a Christian element or influence in the ranks and councils of the insurgents, which the mandarins put forward, probably without any better grounds than their own malicious intent, is traced, at a later period, by MM. Callery and Yvan, in a proclamation issued after several triumphs won, at short intervals, by the armies of Tièn-tè. In a previous proclamation, the pretender had referred, somewhat obscurely, to the idea of a federal empire, to be composed of several kingdoms dependent on one chief. This idea was more clearly developed in the manifesto affixed to the walls of the captured town of Young-Gan-Tcheou, and signed, not by Tièn-tè, although he was then present, but by Tièn-kio, one of the future feudatory kings, who dated it from the first year of his reign. It announced, in plain terms, the plans of the insurgents. They would combine their forces, march on Pekin, and then divide the empire. The whole plan, Dr Yvan, who highly lauds it, believes to have been conceived and elaborated by the secret societies. “Since the overthrow of the Mings, and the accession of the Mantchous,” he says, “those clandestine associations, the intellectual laboratory of declining countries, have been constantly active. The most celebrated of them, the Society of the Three Principles, or of the Triad, is powerfully organised. In every part of China, and in all the countries where Chinese reside, are found members of this association; and the children of the Empire of the Centre might say, almost without exaggeration, that when three of them are assembled together, the Triad is amongst them.”

But if the substance of Tièn-kio’s proclamation is politically important, to its form Dr Yvan assigns immense significance. He recognises in it a new and regenerative element—that of Christianity. “Its authors speak of decrees of Heaven. They have prostrated themselves before the Supreme Being, after having learned to adore God. They have striven to save the people from calamities. This is a style unknown to the idolatrous Chinese, and foreign to Catholic language: to Protestantism is due the honour of having introduced it into China; and it appears that there really is, amongst the insurgents, an indigenous Protestant, holding a very high rank, and exercising very great authority. This Protestant is, it is stated, a disciple of Gutzlaff, the last secretary interpreter of the government of Hong-Kong.” Having mentioned Gutzlaff’s name, MM. Callery and Yvan—one, if not both, of whom appears to have known him—give some curious particulars concerning him. They speak of him as an intelligent man, having extraordinary facility in learning languages, and of his books as narratives in which a little truth is mingled with very agreeable falsehoods. Born in Pomerania, there was nothing German in his aspect; his features were Mongul, and in his Chinese costume he could not be distinguished from a Chinese.

“One night, during our residence in China, we were conversing about him with the mandarin Pan-se-tchèn, who was a great friend of his, and one of us expressed his surprise at finding, in a European, the characteristic signs of the Chinese race.

“‘Nothing is more natural,’ the mandarin, quietly replied; ‘Gutzlaff’s father was a Fokienese settled in Germany.’

“This fact appeared to us so extraordinary that we should hesitate to mention it here, if Pan had not affirmed that he had it from M. Gutzlaff himself.”

We do not here trace the progress of the Insurrection in China, the leading events of whose earlier stages have, to a certain extent, been made known to Europeans by the public press; whilst the details of its later period, and especially those of the siege and capture of Nankin, had not come to the knowledge of MM. Callery and Yvan up to the very recent date at which their volume went to press. We have preferred to cull from this curious and uncommon book, traits and incidents which, although they may not be of paramount importance in a political or military sense, exhibit, as clearly as could do the most circumstantial narrative of the war, the character of people and parties, and the probable eventualities of the struggle. There exists, it appears, amongst the Chinese—at least in certain provinces—so strong a tendency to assist the insurrection, that the viceroy of the two Kouangs published a decree forbidding the young men of the towns to form themselves into volunteer corps. In this cunningly-drawn-up document he thanked them for their zeal, and assured them that the imperial troops amply sufficed to put down the rebellion. The fact was, experience had taught him, that, as soon as the volunteers were put under the command of a military mandarin, and taken into the field, they deserted to the enemy. Their aid would have been welcome, could it have been relied upon; for, at the very time the decree was issued, the imperialists were enduring daily defeats, whilst the insurgents, who everywhere appropriated public money, but respected private property, daily acquired fresh partisans.

In the month of September 1852, Tièn-tè, with all his court, and with his body-guard, which never quits him, took up his quarters at a town within a few leagues of the wily and prudent Viceroy Siu. This personage is the most amusing of all the strange characters we meet with in Dr Yvan’s pages. Crafty, cowardly, and particularly careful of his person, he is a type of the Chinese, as Europeans understand that nation, of which, however, Dr Yvan leads us to believe that we have but an imperfect notion. A short time before he found himself in the perilous proximity of the insurgent leader, Siu had been at his old tricks, trying to impose upon his countrymen. Having caught a petty chief of the rebels, he ticketed him Tièn-tè, and sent him to Pekin in an iron cage. The official gazette published the capital sentence pronounced upon him, which, according to Chinese custom, was preceded by the criminal’s confession. This was a long document, drawn up, doubtless, by some Pekin man of letters, in which the spurious Tièn-tè acknowledged his delinquencies, and attributed the insurrection especially to a secret society founded by Gutzlaff, the Chang-Ti, or Protestant. Here was evident the perfidious intention of the exclusionist party to bring the Christians into discredit. The execution of the sham Tièn-tè was still the leading topic of discussion at Pekin, when news came that the real pretender was still alive and active in the mountains of Kouang-Si, whence he exercised his occult influence, and observed the progress of the revolt. When his pretended captor, Siu, found himself in his immediate vicinity, he made no attempt to capture him in reality; and soon afterwards (in January of the present year) that officer fell into disgrace with his sovereign, owing to the disasters that occurred under his government. He was deprived of his vice-royalty, and of his peacock’s feather with two eyes. Shortly after the appearance of this decree in the Pekin Gazette, a melancholy report was circulated at Canton; Siu, it was affirmed, driven to despair by his disgrace, had poisoned himself. When the circumstances of the act came to be known, the minds of his anxious friends were considerably relieved. He had poisoned himself with gold leaf.

“The science of toxicology is about on a par, in China, with the military knowledge of the generals of the imperial army. When a great personage wishes to put himself to death, he takes an ounce of gold leaf, rolls it into a ball, and swallows the valuable pill. According to the physiologists of the Celestial Empire, these balls, once in the stomach, unroll themselves, and adhere to the whole interior of the organ, like paper on a wall. The stomach, thus gilt, ceases to act, and the unhappy mandarin dies suffocated, after a few hours’ somnolency—a mode of suicide which we recommend to despairing sybarites.”

The year 1852 closed as disastrously as it had begun. Throughout its whole course, the imperialists—or, to speak more correctly, the troops of the Tartar dynasty, since there are now two emperors in the field—had been invariably worsted, and the insurrection had spread far and wide. Stringent measures were adopted by Hièn-foung; his generals were warned that defeat would be promptly followed by their degradation, and even by the loss of their heads: Victory or Death was the motto they literally and compulsorily assumed. Another evil was soon added to the many that assailed the young emperor. The imperial finances were exhausted; the Celestial Chancellor of the Exchequer declared his penury, and denounced the mandarins who nominally commanded in the insurgent provinces. They would render no account of their stewardship; not a copper was to be got from them—that was hardly to be expected—but they sent in fabulous “states” of the troops under their command, and demanded enormous sums wherewith to carry on the war. In this emergency, the means proposed, and those resorted to, to raise the wind, transcend belief. No desperate prodigal, reckless of reputation, ever adopted more shameless expedients to replenish his purse. A mandarin proposed an opium monopoly. A similar proposal, under the reign of Tao-Kouang, cost a minister his place, and was near costing him his life. Times are changed; Hièn-foung, less scrupulous, and notwithstanding his aversion to opium-smokers, was giving to the project, at the date of the last advices, his serious consideration. Meanwhile, the official newspaper published (12th November 1852) a document, comprising twenty-three articles, in which everything was put up for sale—titles, judgeships, peacocks’ feathers, mandarins’ buttons, exemptions from service, promotions in the army. In this publication, a casual reference being made to the English, they were still treated as barbarians; but, five months later (on the 16th March last), when the insurgents were before Nankin, and likely soon to be within it, Celestial pride was so far humbled that we find the authorities earnestly and respectfully supplicating Christian succour, in a circular addressed to all the representatives of civilised nations, resident in those Chinese ports open to European commerce, and especially to the consuls of Great Britain and the United States. For “barbarians” was now substituted “your great and honourable nation.” To such an extent are carried Chinese vanity and conceit, that, Dr Yvan assures us, if the demand for aid were complied with by the English and American plenipotentiaries, the Son of Heaven would instantly persuade himself that those Western people rank amongst his tributaries, and would very probably issue a proclamation announcing that his troops had subdued the rebels, aided by nations who had lately made their submission, and who had conducted themselves faithfully in those circumstances.

Meanwhile, the insurgents employed much more straightforward and satisfactory means of filling their treasury than those resorted to in extremity of distress by the Mantchou emperor. In the month of February last they captured Ou-Tchang-Fou, a rich city of four hundred thousand inhabitants, the capital of the province of Hou-Pé. A friend of MM. Yvan and Callery, an intrepid traveller, gave them a glowing description of this city, situated upon the right bank of the Yang-Tze-Kiang, or Son of the Ocean—an enormous river, in whose waters porpoises disport themselves as in the open sea, and which allows the ascent of ships of the largest burthen. Five or six thousand (and Dr Yvan’s friend expressly disclaims exaggeration) are the number of the junks usually at anchor before Ou-Tchang. The person referred to saw upwards of a thousand laden with salt alone, and the town is an immense depot of China produce and of European and American manufactures. Chinese junks are the noisiest vessels that float; their crews are continually beating gongs and letting off fireworks. The quiet of Ou-Tchang may be imagined. It was on the occasion of the capture of this wealthy and important city that poor Siu was deprived of his peacock’s feather and driven to internal gilding. “The troubles of the south,” said the emperor in his proclamation, “leave us no rest by night, and take away our appetite.”

The fourteenth chapter of L’Insurrection en Chine is chiefly occupied by a description of the five feudatory kings appointed by Tièn-tè (one of whom takes the title of the Great Pacificator, whilst the four others are known as Kings of the North, South, East, and West), of the Pretender’s ministers, of the dress and official insignia of the various dignitaries, and of the organisation of the insurgent army, which is regular and perfect. It also comprises a proclamation, exhorting the people to rise in arms against their tyrannical government, and whose exalted and metaphorical style may be judged of by a single short extract. “How is it that you, Tartars, do not yet understand that it is time to gather up your scattered bones, and to light slices of bacon to serve as signals to your terror?” Notwithstanding such eccentricities of expression, which may possibly be heightened by extreme literalness of translation, the document has its importance, especially by reason of a tendency to Christianity traced by MM. Callery and Yvan in the commencement of one of its paragraphs. “We adore respectfully the Supreme Lord,” says Tièn-tè, “in order to obtain His protection for the people.” The descendant of the Mings was now in full march for the city which, under the ancient dynasty he assumes to represent, and proposes to restore, was the capital of all China. With a formidable fleet and an army of fifty thousand men, the five kings appeared before Nankin.

“This city, which contains more than half a million of inhabitants, has thrice the circumference of Paris; but amidst its deserted streets are found large spaces turned up by the plough, and the grass grows upon the quays, to which a triple line of shipping was formerly moored. It is situated in an immense plain, furrowed by canals as numerous as those which traverse the human body. Its fertile district is a net-work of rivulets and of navigable water-courses, fringed with willows and bamboos. In the province of Nankin grows the yellowish cotton from which is made the cloth exported thence in enormous quantities; there also is reaped the greater part of all the rice consumed in the empire. The Kiang-Nan, or province of Nankin, is the richest gem in the diadem of the Son of Heaven. Nothing in old Europe can give an idea of its fruitfulness—neither the plains of Beauce, nor those of Lombardy, nor even opulent Flanders. Twice a-year its fields are covered with crops, and they yield fruit and vegetables uninterruptedly.... We have had the happiness to sit in the shadow of the orchards which fringe the Ou-Soung, one of the numerous veins that fertilise the province of Kiang-Nan. There we have gathered with our own hands the fleshy jujube, which travellers have often mistaken for the date; the pomegranate, with its transparent grains; monstrous peaches, beside which the finest produced at Montreuil seem but wild fruit, and the diospyros as large as a tomata. We have seen the scarlet pheasant and his brother of the pearl-tinted plumage running in the fields. This province contains thirty-eight millions of inhabitants.

“To a Chinese nothing is beautiful, good, graceful, elegant, or tasteful, but what comes from Nankin or from Sou-Tcheou-Fou. Wedded to routine, we have but one city which sets the fashions; the Chinese have two. The fashionables of the Celestial Empire are divided into two schools, one of which holds by Nankin, the other by Sou-Tcheou-Fou. It is still doubtful which of the two will carry the day. As to Pekin, the centre of government, it has no weight in matters of pleasure and taste; it has the monopoly of ennui. In Nankin reside the men of letters and learning, the dancers, painters, archæologists, jugglers, physicians, poets, and celebrated courtesans. In that charming city are held schools of science, art, and pleasure; for pleasure is, in that country, both an art and a science.”

With this interesting extract we shall conclude our article, after quoting a significant passage from a short proclamation which Tièn-tè’s agents have lately circulated:

“As to those stupid priests of Bouddha, and those jugglers of Tao-se,” it says, “they shall all be repressed, and their temples and their monasteries shall be demolished, as well as those of all the other corrupt sects.”

MM. Callery and Yvan anxiously speculate as to who are designated by the words other corrupt sects. Was the proclamation drawn up by a disciple of Confucius, or by a member of Gutzlaff’s Chinese Union? They admit that for the present it is impossible to answer the question.

But Tièn-tè’s banner waves over Nankin, and the riddle may soon be solved.

LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.

PART VIII.—CHAPTER XXXVII.

Between the village of Lanscote and the Heronry a side-road branched off, leading also to Doddington. At their junction the two roads bounded an abrupt rocky chasm, containing a black gloomy pool of unknown depth; known to the neighbourhood as the Mine Pool. A speculator had dug it many years before, in expectation of being richly rewarded by the mineral treasures supposed to exist there, and had continued the enterprise till the miners reached a great depth, when the water rose too rapidly to be kept under, and the work was abandoned. A few low bushes fringed the edge of it, besides which a dilapidated railing fenced it from the road. It formed a grim feature as it appeared unexpectedly yawning beside the green and flowery lane, and suggested ideas altogether incongruous with the smiling, peaceful character of the surrounding landscape.

On the morning after Bagot’s interview with Mr Holmes, as related in the last chapter, Fillett and Julius were coming down the lane towards Lanscote. They were often sent out for a morning walk, and had been easily induced to choose this road by the Colonel, who had promised Julius a ride on the front of his saddle if he would come towards the village.

In these walks Julius was accustomed to impart, for the benefit of Kitty, most of the information collected from his various instructors. He would tell her of distant countries which his mamma had described to him—of pictures of foreign people and animals drawn for him by Orelia—of fairy tales told him by Rosa—of scraps of botanical rudiments communicated to him by the Curate. And being a sharp-witted little fellow, with a wonderful memory, he seldom failed to command Kitty’s admiration and applause. There were few branches of natural or metaphysical science which he had not treated of in this way. He had explained to her all about thunderbolts—he had destroyed for ever her faith in will-o’-the-wisps, leaving instead a mere matter-of-fact, uninteresting ignis fatuus—he had sounded her belief in witchcraft—he had put questions respecting the nature and habits of ghosts which she was wholly unable to solve: “Bless the child,” Kitty would say, “it’s as good as a play to hear him.”

Julius, hovering round Kitty, and chatting with her, frequently looked anxiously about to see if his Uncle Bag were coming, that he might claim the promised ride. When they arrived near the Mine Pool, down into the depths of which he was fond of gazing with a child’s awe, the Colonel suddenly met them coming on horseback up the road. Julius, clamorous to be lifted up, ran towards him; but Bagot called out that he was riding home for something he had forgotten, and would speedily overtake him. He passed them, and trotted on to where the road made a bend. There he suddenly pulled up, and called to Kitty to leave the boy for a minute and come up—that he wanted to speak to her.

Fillett obeyed, tripped up to the horse’s side, and walked beside the Colonel, who proceeded onward at a slow pace, talking of the old affair of Dubbley and her ladyship, and pretending to have some fresh matter of the kind in his head. Kitty noticed that his manner was odd and nervous, and his language incoherent, and before she could at all clearly perceive what it was he wanted to tell her, he released her and trotted onward to the Heronry, while she hastened to rejoin her young charge.

Julius was not in the spot where she had left him, and Fillett ran breathlessly down the road, calling him by name. Reaching a point where she could see a long way down the path, and finding he was not in sight, she retraced her steps, alternately calling him aloud and muttering to herself what a plaguey child he was. She looked behind every bush as she came along, and on again reaching the Mine Pool looked anxiously over the fence. Some object hung in the bushes a few yards from where she stood, just below a broken part of the fence; she hastened to the spot and looked down—it was Juley’s hat.

Clasping her hands together with a loud shriek, poor Kitty’s eyes wandered round in every direction in search of some gleam of comfort;—in search of some one to help her, under the burden of this terrible discovery. No one was in sight; only she saw a yellow caravan going up the other road to Doddington, at a quarter of a mile off. She would have run after it shrieking to the driver to stop; but her limbs and voice alike failed her, and poor Kitty sunk down moaning on the ground. “What shall I say to my lady?” gasped Fillett.

Lady Lee was sitting in the library dressed for a walk, and waiting for her two friends who were getting ready to accompany her, when she heard a great commotion in the servants’ hall and rung the bell to ask the reason. It was slowly answered by a footman, who entered with a perturbed aspect, and said the noise was caused by Fillett, who was in hysterics. Lady Lee asked what had caused her disorder, but the man looked confused, and stammered in his reply. Before she could make any further inquiries, Fillett herself rushed frantically into the room, and threw herself down before Lady Lee. “O, my lady, my lady!” sobbed Fillett.

“What ails the girl?” asked Lady Lee, looking down at her with an astonished air.

Fillett tried to answer, but nothing was distinguishable except that “indeed it wasn’t her fault.” At this moment a whispering at the door caused Lady Lee to look up, and she saw that the servants were gathered there, peering fearfully in. Rising up she grasped Kitty’s shoulder, and shook her, faltering out, “Speak, girl!”

Fillett seized her mistress’s dress, and again tried to tell her tale. In the midst of her sobs and exclamations, the words “Master Juley,” and “the Mine Pool,” alone were heard; but thus coupled they were enough.

Kitty, not daring to look up, fancied she felt her ladyship pulling away her dress from her grasp, and clutched it more firmly. At the same moment there was a rush of servants from the door—the dress that Fillett held gave way with a loud rending—and Lady Lee fell senseless to the ground.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Until they lost him, they did not fully know the importance of Julius in the household. He was a very limb lopt off. To miss his tiny step at the door, his chubby face at their knees, his ringing voice about the rooms and corridors, made all appear very desolate at the Heronry. Though there had been no funeral, no room made dismal for ever by the presence of his coffin, and though there was no little green grave in the churchyard, yet the house seemed a tomb haunted by the dim shadow of his form, and saddened by the echoes of his voice.

Every endeavour was made to recover the poor child’s body. The Mine Pool was searched and dragged—it was even proposed to pump it dry; but the numerous crannies and recesses that lurked in its gloomy depths precluded much prospect of success, though the attempts were still persisted in after all hope was relinquished.

Lady Lee’s grief was of that silent sort which does not encourage attempts to console the mourner. She did not talk about her boy; she was not often observed to weep—but, whenever any stray relic brought the poor child strongly before her mind’s eye, she might be seen gazing at it with woeful earnestness, while her imagination “stuffed out his vacant garments with his form.” Rosa, observing this, stealthily removed, one by one, all the objects most likely to recall his image, and conveyed them to her own chamber; and she and Orelia avoided, so far as might be, while in Lady Lee’s presence, all allusions to their little lost friend. But in their own room at night they would talk about him for hours, cry themselves to sleep, and recover him in their dreams. A large closet in their apartment was sacred to his memory; his clothes, his rocking-horse, his trumpet, his musket, his box of dominoes, and a variety of other peaceful and warlike implements were stored there, and served vividly to recall the image of their late owner.

Rosa, waking in the morning with her face all swoln with crying, would indulge her grief with occasional peeps into the cupboard at these melancholy relics; while Orelia, a more austere mourner, sat silent under the hands of Fillett, whose sadness was of an infectious and obtrusive nature. Kitty would sniff, sigh, compress her under lip with her teeth, and glance sideways through her red, watery eyes at the sympathetic Rosa.

“I dreamt of dear Juley again last night, Orelia,” Rosa would say.

“Oh, Miss Rosa, so did I,” Fillett would break in, eager to give audible vent to her sorrow, “and so did Martha. Martha says she saw him like an angel; but I dreamed that I saw him galloping away upon Colonel Lee’s horse, and that I called and called, ‘Master Juley!’ says I, the same as if it had been real, ‘come to Kitty!’ but he never looked back. And the butler dreamed the night before last he was drawing a bottle of port, and just as he was going to stick in the corkscrew, he saw the cork was in the likeness of Master Juley, and he woke up all of a cold shiver.”

Conversations on this subject did not tend to cheer the young ladies’ countenances before they met Lady Lee at the breakfast-table. On their way down stairs they would form the sternest resolutions (generally originating with Orelia, and assented to by Rosa), as to their self-command, and exertions to be cheerful in the presence of their still more afflicted friend. They would walk up and kiss her pale, mournful face, feeling their stoicism sorely tried the while, and sitting down to table would try to get up a little conversation; till Rosa would suddenly sob and choke in her breakfast cup, and there was an end of the attempt.

This melancholy state of things was not confined to the drawing-room. A dismal hush pervaded the household, and the servants went about their avocations with slow steps and whispered voices. They took a strange pleasure, too, in assembling together at night, and remembering warnings and omens which were supposed to have foreshadowed the mournful fate of the poor little baronet. Exactly a week before the event, the cook had been woke while dozing before the kitchen fire after supper, by a voice calling her name three times, and when she looked round there was nobody there. The very day month before his loss, the housekeeper distinctly remembered to have dreamt of her grandmother, then deceased about half a century, who had appeared to her in a lavender gown trimmed with crape, and black mittens, and she had said the next morning that she was sure something would happen; in support of which prophecy she appealed to Mr Short the butler, who confirmed the same, and added, on his own account, that an evening or two afterwards he had heard a strange noise in the cellar, which might have been rats, but he didn’t think it was.

The sight of Fillett, so intimately connected with the memory and the fate of her lost child, was naturally painful to Lady Lee, and Kitty, perceiving this to be the case, wisely kept out of her way, devoting herself entirely to the young ladies. Self-reproach greatly increased the sharpness of Kitty’s sorrow for poor Julius; she accused herself of having, by her negligence, contributed to the unhappy catastrophe. She fancied, too, that she could read similar reproach in the behaviour of her fellow-servants towards her; with the exception, however, of Noble, who, melted at the sight of her melancholy, and forgetting all his previous causes of jealous resentment, was assiduous in his efforts to console her.

“Come,” said Harry, meeting her near the stables one evening—“come, cheer up. Why, you ain’t like the same girl. Anybody would think you had killed the poor boy.”

“I feel as if I had, Noble,” said Kitty, with pious austerity.

“But you shouldn’t think so much about it, you know,” replied her comforter. “It can’t be helped now. You’re crying of your eyes out, and they ain’t a quarter so bright as what they was.”

“Ho, don’t talk to me of heyes,” said Kitty, at the same time flashing at him a glance from the corners of the organs in question. “This is no time for such vanities. We ought to think of our souls, Noble.”

Noble appeared to be thinking just then less of souls than of bodies, for in his anxiety to comfort her he had passed his arm round her waist.

“Noble, I wonder at you!” exclaimed Kitty, drawing away from him with a reproving glance. “After the warning we’ve all had, such conduct is enough to call down a judgment upon us. I’m all of a trimble at the thoughts of what will become of you, if you don’t repent.”

Perhaps Harry may be excused for not seeing any immediate connection between the decease of his young master and the necessity of himself becoming an ascetic. But Kitty, in the excess of her penitence, from being as lively and coquettish a waiting-maid as could be found anywhere off the stage, suddenly became a kind of Puritan. It happened that at this time the members of a religious sect, very numerous in Doddington, having been suddenly seized with an access of religious zeal, held almost nightly what they termed “revivals”—meetings where inspired brethren poured forth their souls in extempore prayer; and those who were not fortunate enough to obtain possession of the platform indemnified themselves by torrents of pious ejaculations, which well-nigh drowned the voice of the principal orator. There is something attractive to the plebeian imagination in the idea of taking heaven by storm: the clamour, excitement, and éclat attending a public conversion had caused the ranks of these uproarious devotees to be recruited by many of their hearers, for the most part susceptible females; and Kitty, going to attend these meetings under the escort of Mr Noble (who, with profound hypocrisy, affected a leaning towards Methodism as soon as he perceived Miss Fillett’s bias in that direction), was converted the very first night. The grocer whose lodgings Oates and Bruce occupied was the preacher on this occasion, and his eloquence was so fervid and effective that, coupled with the heat of the place, it threw Kitty into hysterics. At the sight of so fair a penitent in this condition, many brethren of great sanctity hastened to her assistance, and questioned her so earnestly and affectionately as to her spiritual feelings, some of them even embracing her in the excess of their joy at seeing this good-looking brand snatched from the burning, that Mr Noble, conceiving (erroneously no doubt) that they were somewhat trenching on his prerogative, interfered, and conveyed her from the scene. After this, Kitty became a regular attendant at the revivals, and her demeanour grew more serious than ever, insomuch that Mr Dubbley, ignorant of this change in her sentiments, and petitioning for a meeting at the white gate, received an unexpected and dispiriting repulse.

The personage who seemed the least affected by grief of the household was the cat Pick. Perhaps he missed the teazings and tuggings, and frequent invasions of his majestic ease, which he had been wont to sustain; if so, this was probably to him a source of private self-congratulation and rejoicing. Never was a cat so petted as he now was, for the sake of his departed master, with whom he had been such a favourite. But Pick, far from testifying any regret, eat, lapped, purred, basked, and washed his face with his paw, as philosophically as ever.

The Curate’s sorrow at the event did him good—it distracted his mind from his own sorrows, and gave a new direction to his feelings for Hester. The unselfishness of his nature had an opportunity of displaying itself on the occasion. The thought of Lady Lee’s grief had roused his warmest sympathies, and he longed to comfort her—he longed to sit by her side, to hold her hand, to pour forth words of consolation and hope. He had done this, but not to the extent he could have wished; he could not trust himself for that. The Curate felt the most deep and tender pity for her—and we all know what pity is akin to: those very near relations, the Siamese twins, were not more closely allied than the Curate’s compassion and love for Lady Lee. Therefore Josiah, in his moments of extremest sympathy, kept watch and ward upon his heart, and said not all he felt.

But he bethought himself of preaching a sermon on the subject. He was conscious that his sermons had of late lacked earnestness and spirit; and he would now pour his feelings into a discourse at once touching and consolatory. He chose for his text, “He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.” He had intended to extract from this text a hopeful moral, and to set forth powerfully the reasons for being resigned and trustful under such trials. But the poor Curate felt too deeply himself on the occasion to be the minister of comfort to others, and, breaking down half-a-dozen times from emotion, set all Lanscote weeping.

“How could you make us all cry so, Josiah?” asked Rosa, reproachfully. “Weren’t we sad enough before?”

In fact, it seemed as if poor Julius might have lived long, and died at a green old age, without being either more faithfully remembered or more sincerely lamented.

Finding themselves disappointed in all their efforts to comfort Lady Lee, Orelia and Rosa came to the conclusion that, so long as she remained at the Heronry, she would never cease to be saddened by the image of the lost Juley. So they agreed it would be well to persuade her to leave the now sorrowful scene; and no place seemed so likely to divert her sorrow, by making a powerful appeal to her feelings, as Orelia’s cottage. Here she might recall her maiden fancies, and renew her youth, while her married life might slip aside like a sad episode in her existence.

“We’ll all start together next week,” said Orelia, when she had obtained Lady Lee’s sanction to this arrangement.

“No,” said Rosa, “not all, Reley. You and Hester shall go.”

“What does the monkey mean?” cried Orelia. “You don’t suppose we’re going without you, do you?”

“You know I should like to accompany you, Reley,” said Rosa, “and you know I shall be dreadfully disconsolate without you; but I must go and live with Josiah.”

“Live with Josiah, indeed!” quoth Orelia, with high scorn. “What does Josiah want of you, d’ye think, to plague his life out? Hasn’t he got that Mrs what’s-her-name, his housekeeper, to take care of him and his property? I’m sure I never see the woman without thinking of candle-ends.”

“’Tisn’t to take care of him that I stay, but to comfort him,” said Rosa. “You’ve no idea how low-spirited Josiah has been this some time past, ever since his friend Captain Fane went away. He has lost his interest in his books and flowers, and sits for hours in thought looking so melancholy. Oh! I couldn’t think of leaving him.”

Rosa persisted in this determination, and all the concession they could obtain was, that as soon as Josiah recovered his spirits she would rejoin her friends at Orelia’s cottage. Meantime, the latter and Lady Lee made preparations for a speedy departure.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The Squire’s preceptor, Mr Randy, saw with concern that he could never hope to obtain undivided empire over his pupil. He had, it is true, considerable influence with him—knew and humoured his foibles—assisted him with advice on difficult points, and had, in fact, become in various ways almost necessary to him. Nevertheless, he felt that Mr Dubbley’s susceptibility to female fascinations perpetually endangered his position. He had, indeed, attained the post of grand vizier, but might at any moment be stripped of his dignities at the first suggestion of a hostile sultana.

After long consideration of the subject, Mr Randy came to the conclusion that the most effectual way to establish himself firmly at Monkstone would be, to take care that this other great power, whose possible advent be constantly dreaded, instead of being a rival, should be entirely in his interests. This seemed to him, theoretically, a master-stroke of policy; to carry it into practice might not be easy. As he was revolving the matter in his mind one evening, after passing through Lanscote on his way home from Monkstone to Doddington, he perceived the Curate’s housekeeper taking a little fresh air at the garden gate. She had heated herself with the operation of making her own tea, and leaving the tea-pot on the hob, to “draw” as she termed it, had come out to cool herself before drinking it.

At the sight of her, Mr Randy’s air became brisker. He walked more jauntily—he swung and twirled his stick, instead of leaning on it—he placed his hat a little on one side of his head—and he re-buttoned his coat, which he had loosened in order to walk with more ease and convenience.

He was acquainted with Mrs Greene, and frequently stopped to talk with her as he passed; and, as he approached now, he took off his hat, and made what would have been a very imposing bow had he not unluckily slipt at a critical moment on a pebble, and thus impaired the dignity of the obeisance.

“A lovely evening, Mrs Greene,” said Mr Randy, whose courtesy was somewhat ponderous and antique, and whose conversation, when he was on his stilts, rather resembled scraps from a paper of the Rambler than the discourse of ordinary men. “Happy are you, my good Mrs Greene, who, ‘far from the busy hum of men,’” (whenever Mr Randy indulged in a quotation he made a pause before and after it) “can dwell placidly in such a scene as this. A scene,” added Mr Randy, looking round at the house and garden with a gratified air—“a scene that Horus would have revelled in. A pleasant life, is it not, my good madam?”

“It’s lonesome,” said Mrs Greene.

“The better for meditation,” returned Mr Randy didactically. “What says the poet?—‘My mind to me a kingdom is,’—and who could desire a fairer dominion? Ay,” (shaking his head and smiling seriously) “with a few favourite authors, and with the necessaries of life, one might be content to let the hours slip by here without envying the proud possessors of palluses.”

Though Jennifer admired this style of conversation exceedingly, she was hardly equal to sustaining it. “You seem to be a good deal with Squire Dubbley, Mr Randy,” she said.

Mr Randy answered in the affirmative, taking, at the same time, a pinch of snuff.

“He’s a queer one, they say,” said Jennifer. “I should think ’twas tiresome for a book-learned gentleman like you, Mr Randy, to be so much in his company.”

“Not at all, Mrs Greene,” said Mr Randy. “What says the Latin writer?—‘Homo sum, nihil humanum a me alienum puto,’ which means, my good madam, that, being myself a human being, I am interested in all that appertains to humanity. I study the squire with much satisfaction.”

“He’s a gay man the Squire,” said Jennifer sententiously. “Why don’t he marry and live respectable, I wonder? Hasn’t he got a lady in his eye yet, Mr Randy?”

“Marriage is a serious thing, my good Mrs Greene—a very serious thing indeed. No,” said Mr Randy, confidentially: “what he wants is a housekeeper, Mrs Greene, such a one as some gentlemen I could name are so fortunate as to possess—a respectable, careful person, who could take care of his domestic affairs, and prevent him from being fooled by any idle hussy of a servant-maid who may happen to have an impudent, pretty face of her own.”

“I should like,” said Jennifer, with compressed lips and threatening eyes—“I should like to see any such show their impudent faces in a house where I was. They wouldn’t come again in a hurry, I can tell ’em.” And, indeed, it was very likely they would not.

“Ah,” said Mr Randy, in deep admiration, “Mr Young is a fortunate man. He has secured a housekeeper whom we may safely pronounce to be one in a thousand.”

Jennifer, though austere, was not quite steeled against flattery. She looked on the learned man with prim complacency—she remembered that her tea had now stood long enough—and she suggested that perhaps Mr Randy’s walk had disposed him for some refreshment, and she should take his company during the meal as a favour.

Mr Randy was not particularly addicted to tea: on all those points for which it has been extolled—as a stimulant, as a refresher, as an agreeable beverage—he considered it to be greatly excelled by brandy-and-water. But the subject just touched upon was one in which he was greatly interested, and he resolved to follow up an idea that had occurred to him; so he courteously accepted Jennifer’s invitation, and followed her into the parsonage.

Mrs Greene’s room was a model of order, rather too much so perhaps for comfort—and showed other traces of her presiding spirit in a certain air of thriftiness which pervaded it. Reigning supreme, as Jennifer did in the Curate’s household, she might have indulged in small luxuries at her pleasure had she possessed any taste for them, but the practice of saving, for its own sake, afforded her positive delight. The shelves were rather sparingly furnished with jam-pots of very small dimensions, carefully tied down and corded, and marked with the name of the confection, and the year of its manufacture; various boxes and canisters, labelled as containing different groceries, were securely padlocked, as if they were not likely to be opened on light or insufficient grounds; the curtains rather scantily covered the window, and the carpet was too small for the floor.

Jennifer, unlocking the tea-caddy, put in two additional spoonfuls of tea in consideration of her guest. Then she invited Mr Randy to sit down, which he did with great ceremony; while she placed on the table two saucers of jam, helped Mr Randy to toast and butter, and some of the sweetmeat, and poured out the tea. And Mr Randy observing that Jennifer transferred hers to her saucer, for the better convenience of drinking, not only did the like, but also blew on the surface to reduce the temperature before the successive gulps, which were then both copious and sonorous.

“So the Squire’s not a good manager, eh, Mr Randy?” said Jennifer, after some little conversation on indifferent matters.

“No comfort, no elegance,” said Mr Randy. “The superintending hand of a female is greatly wanted.”

“And does the Squire think of getting a housekeeper?” asked Jennifer.

“I’ve not suggested it to him as yet,” returned her guest, “but I’m thinking of doing so, if I could fix my eye on a proper person.”

“Bless me, you’ve got no preserve,” said Jennifer, emptying, in a sudden access of liberality, the saucer of damsons on Mr Randy’s plate. “And there’s nothing but grounds in your cup—perhaps you’d like it a little stronger, sir.”

“No more, my good madam, I’m obliged to you,” said that gentleman, drawing away his cup, and covering it with his hand to show he was in earnest, so that Jennifer, pressing ardently upon him with the tea-pot, very nearly poured the hot tea upon his knuckles. “I’ve had quite an abundance—quite a sufficiency, I assure you. No, ma’am, things do not go on at Monkstone precisely as I could wish in all respects. For instance, it would be agreeable to me sometimes to find an attentive female to receive me—to say to me, Mr Randy you are wet, won’t you have a basin of soup to warm you?—or, Mr Randy, it rains, you’ll be the better of a glass of spirits and water to fortify you against the inclemency of the elements. Mr Dubbley is very kind, but these little things don’t occur to him.”

“Indeed, then, I think they might,” said Mrs Greene with warmth. “The least he could do is to be civil. Take some toast, sir.”

“’Tis forgetfulness, Mrs Greene, not incivility—a sin of omission, not of commission. I flatter myself few men would venture to be uncivil to me,” and Mr Randy drew himself up and looked majestic. “Then the want of a proper person in the house obliges him to look more closely after some small matters than is quite becoming in a man of property.”

“Closeness,” said Jennifer, with great disdain, “is what I never could abide. I could forgive anything better than that.”

“Well, well, Mrs Greene,” said her visitor, waving his hand, “we won’t be hard upon him—he means well. Yes, I’ve been looking out for some time for a lady that would answer the Squire’s purpose.”

“And what kind of person would be likely to suit you?” inquired Jennifer with interest.

“We should require,” said Mr Randy, brushing some crumbs from his lap with his pocket-handkerchief, as he concluded his meal—“we should require a character not easy to be met with;—a sensible—respectable—experienced—discreet—per-r-son—and one, too, who would not give herself presumptuous airs, but would conduct herself towards me—me, Mrs Greene, as I could wish.”

“Of course,” said Jennifer, “if she was beholden to you for her place, ’twould be her duty to make things pleasant to you, sir.”

“Ah,” said Mr Randy, “you are both a discreet and a sensible person, Mrs Greene, I perceive.”

“And as to terms, Mr Randy,” suggested Jennifer.

“As to terms, they would be hardly worth higgling about, Mrs Greene—for, if the lady possessed the manifold merits I have enumerated, and allowed herself to be guided in all things by me, why, she would be de facto—that is to say, in reality—mistress of Monkstone, and might feather her nest to her own liking.”

This was a dazzling prospect indeed, and well calculated to appeal to the heart of Jennifer. There was a grand indefiniteness as to the extent of power and profit which might be acquired, which she found inexpressibly alluring; for Jennifer was, after her fashion, ambitious, though her ambition was of too practical a nature to set itself on objects hopelessly remote.

Mr Randy perceiving the effect of what he had said, and considering it would be well to give her time to digest it before entering into details, now rose to take leave.

“Good evening, sir, and thank you,” said Jennifer. “When you’re passing another day, I hope you’ll look in;” and Mr Randy, having promised to do so, walked with his customary dignity up the road.

Mr Randy had not directly said that he thought Jennifer, if she would agree to share interests with him, would be exactly the person he wanted; nor had Jennifer directly stated that, if she succeeded in obtaining the post of housekeeper to the Squire, she would show her gratitude by being all Mr Randy could wish. But the knowledge of human nature displayed by the Randies and Jennifers is intuitive and unerring, so long as it is employed upon natures on a level with their own; and Jennifer knew perfectly well that Mr Randy wanted her for the furtherance of his own designs at Monkstone; while Mr Randy never doubted that the lure he had held out would secure her.

Jennifer, however, had by no means made up her mind to accept the offer at once. It was dazzling, certainly; but, on the other hand, she did not like the idea of giving up her long and persevering designs upon the Curate’s heart, which, as the reader knows, she had from the first been determined to attack. That was too grievous a waste of time and subtlety to be contemplated. But Mr Randy’s implied offer gave her an opportunity of carrying into execution a scheme she had long meditated. She considered (her cogitations being assisted by a third cup of tea, obtained by putting fresh water in the tea-pot after Mr Randy’s departure) that she had now lived so long with the Curate that she could not possibly become more necessary to him than she already was—that the sooner he was brought to the point the better—that being such an absent person, far from making any proposals of the kind she desired of his own accord, a very strong hint from herself would be required in order to extract them. Now if she resolved upon giving this hint, she must also be prepared to quit the parsonage in case of failure; and Monkstone would form exactly the point she wanted to retreat upon.

This secured, she would commence operations at once with the Curate. He was, in Jennifer’s estimation, a man who did not know his own mind or his own interests. But though he might never discover what was for his own good unassisted, yet a man must be foolish indeed who can’t perceive it when ’tis shown him. From frequent victories obtained over the Curate, and long managing and ruling him, she flattered herself she might now make her own terms, for that he could never bear to part with her; but if she deceived herself in this, why, then Monkstone would be a more lucrative place. So in any case she should gain some end, and she determined to put her powers of cajolery to proof without delay. Indeed, there was no time to lose, for that very morning Miss Rosa had signified her intention of coming to live with her brother when the ladies left the Heronry.

CHAPTER XL.

For many weeks the poor Curate had been indeed alone; for so long had his old companions, hope and cheerfulness, deserted him; for so long had he gone mechanically about his old pursuits, feeling that the glory had departed from them, and sat in the stormy autumn evenings by a hearth where only the vacant pedestals reminded him of the wonted presence of household gods.

Time, of whose lapse heretofore he had taken little note, became now a dull, remorseless enemy. The Curate, when he woke, would sometimes shudder at the prospect of the many-houred day between him and the grateful oblivion of sleep; for the day, formerly so busy, was now to him but a long tract of weary, reiterated sorrows.

Though he still spent many hours in his garden, it was lamentable to see the change there. Weeds sprung unregarded side by side with his choicest flowers—worms revelled in his tenderest buds—and the caterpillars were so numerous as to form quite an army of occupation. His books, too, were blank to him—the pages he used to love seemed meaningless. His only remaining consolation was his pipe.

See, then, the Curate sitting in the twilight in his elbow-chair, in an attitude at once listless and uncomfortable, his waist bent sharply in, his head drooping, one leg gathered under the seat, the other straddling toward the fire, his right hand shading his eyes, while the elbow rests on the table—the left holding the bowl of his pipe, while the elbow rests on the arm of his chair. Frequently he takes the mouthpiece from his lips, sighs heavily, and forgets to smoke—then, with a shake of the head, he again sucks comfort from his meerschaum. There is a tap at the door, which opens slowly—Jennifer looks in at him, and then draws near.

Jennifer stopt—looked at him—sighed—then drew a little closer—sighed again. The Curate, fancying she had come on some of her accustomed visits of inspection (for of late she had found frequent excuses for entering, such as to dust his books, to stir his fire, to draw his curtains), took no notice of her, but continued to pursue his train of thought. Presently he, too, sighed; it was echoed so sympathetically by Mrs Greene, that her suspiration sounded like a gust coming down the chimney. Finding that the Curate, as usual, pursued the plan which is popularly attributed to apparitions in their intercourse with human beings, and was not likely to speak till spoken to, Jennifer, with a little cough, came round between the table and the fire, and stirred the latter. Being thus quite close to the Curate, with the table in her rear, and her master’s chair close to her left hand, she commenced.

“I’m vexed to see you so down, Mr Young. I’m afraid you’re not satisfied in your mind. You used to be a far cheerfuller gentleman than what you are now.”

Mr Young, rousing himself, looked up with an assumed briskness.

“It’s my way, Mrs Greene—only my way.”

“No, sir,” said Jennifer, peremptorily, “’tis not your way, asking your pardon. There’s something on your mind. Perhaps it’s me—perhaps things have not gone according to your wishes in the house. If it’s me, sir, say so, I beg.”

“You, Mrs Greene—impossible. I’m quite sensible of your kind attention to my comforts, I assure you,” protested the Curate.

“Because,” said Jennifer, heedless of his disclaimer, and going on as if he had not uttered it—“because, if so, I wish to say one word. I only wish to remark, sir, that whatever fault there is of that kind, ’tis not a fault according to my will. My wish is, and always has been, to serve you to the utmost of my”—

“Mrs Greene!” began the Curate, touching her on the arm with the extended stem of his meerschaum, to check her volubility for a moment, “my good soul”—

——“To the utmost of my ability,” went on Jennifer, with a slight faltering in her voice. “If laying down my life could have served you, Mr Young, I’m sure”— Here Jennifer whimpered.

“Faithful creature!” thought the Curate, “what an interest she takes in me! My dear Mrs Greene,” said he, “your doubts wrong me very much; but this proof of your care for me is exceedingly gratifying”—which was perhaps an unconscious fib, for the Curate felt more embarrassment than gratification.

“And after all my trials and efforts, thinking only how I could please you, to see you—oh—oh—” and Jennifer broke down again, and in the excess of her agitation sat down on a chair near her. And though to sit down in his presence was a quite unusual proceeding on her part, yet the Curate was so heedless of forms, that if she had seated herself on the mantelpiece, he would possibly have thought it merely a harmless eccentricity.

“Calm yourself, Mrs Greene,” entreated the Curate. “These doubts of my regard are quite unfounded; be assured I fully appreciate your value.”

“But in that case,” said Jennifer, pursuing her own hypothesis with great perseverance, “in that case I must quit you whatever it costs me. And I hope you could find them, Mr Young, as would serve you better.”

“Don’t talk of quitting me, Mrs Greene,” said the Curate soothingly. “This is all mere creation of your fancy. I am perfectly satisfied—more than satisfied with you.”

“No, sir—I’ve seen it—I’ve seen it this some time. You don’t look upon me like what you used. ’Tisn’t any longer, ‘Mrs Greene, do this,’ and ‘Mrs Greene, do that,’ and the other. You can do without Mrs Greene now. And perhaps,” said Jennifer, “’tis better I was—gone” (the last word almost inaudible).

“Really, Mrs Greene, this is quite unnecessary. You are paining yourself and me to no purpose. Be persuaded”—(and the Curate took Jennifer’s hand)—“be persuaded of my sense of your merits.”

Jennifer wiped her eyes; then starting and looking round over her shoulder, “O sir,” said she, “if anybody should catch us!—what would they say?”

“Catch us, Mrs Greene,” said the Curate, hastening to withdraw his hand; but Jennifer clutched it nervously.

“Stop!” said Jennifer, “there’s a step—and that maid’s got such a tongue! No, ’twas my fancy—the maid’s asleep in the kitchen. O, sir—yes, what would they say?—people is so scandalous. They’ve been talking already.”

“Talking!” exclaimed Mr Young, withdrawing his hand with a jerk. “What can you mean, Mrs Greene? Talking of what?”

“O yes!” said Jennifer. “They’ve been remarking, the busy ones has, how it comes that a lone woman like me could live so long with a single gentleman. Many’s the bitter thought it gave me.”

“Good heavens, Mrs Greene!” cried the Curate, pushing his chair, which ran on castors, away with a loud creak, “really this is all very strange and unexpected.”

“And more than that,” pursued Jennifer, “they’ve said concerning my looks——but I couldn’t repeat what they said, further than to mention that they meant I wasn’t old nor ugly—which perhaps I’m not. And they know what a good wife I made to Samuel” (this was the deceased shipmaster’s Christian appellation)—“never, as Mrs Britton that keeps the grocery said to me last Wednesday, never was a better. And when ’twas named to me what they’d been saying, I thought—O good gracious!—I thought I should have sunk into the hearth.”

“Gracious goodness!” exclaimed Mr Young, starting from his chair, and pacing the room in great perturbation. “How extremely infamous! Why, ’tis like a terrible nightmare. To spread false reports—to drive me to part with a valuable servant—’tis atrocious! I’m afraid, Mrs Greene, you really had better go to-morrow. I need not say how I regret it, but what you have told me renders it imperative.”

“I wish it mayn’t be too late, sir,” said Jennifer, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Too late!—too late for what?” inquired the Curate.

“And where do you think I’m to get another place? Who’ll take in a lone woman, whose character have been breathed upon? Oh, that ever I should have seen Lanscote parsonage!” cried Jennifer, choking.

“But, Mrs Greene,” said the agitated Curate, stopping in his walk to lean his hands on the table, and looking earnestly at her, “it shall be my care, as it is my duty, to prove the falsehood of these reports. You shall not suffer on my account, believe me. If necessary, I’ll expose the wicked slander from the pulpit.”

This wouldn’t have suited Jennifer at all. The Curate was going off quite on the wrong track, and she made a last effort to bring him into the right direction.

“And my—my—my feelings,” sobbed she, “ain’t they to be considered? Oh, that ever I should be a weak foolish woman! Oh, that ever I should have been born with a weak trustful heart!”

“I daresay ’twill be painful to leave a place where you have lived long, and a master who I hope has been kind to you,” said the Curate. (Jennifer lifted up her voice here, and writhed in her chair.) “No doubt it will, for you have an excellent heart, Mrs Greene. But what you have said convinces me of the necessity of it. And you shall be no loser; until you can suit yourself with a place, I’ll continue your salary as usual.”

“Salary!” cried Jennifer, starting from her chair. “Oh, that I should be talked to like a hireling! God forgive you, Mr Young. Well, it’s over now. I’ll consider what you’ve said, Mr Young, and I’ll try—try to bring my mind to it.”

Jennifer rose—sobbed a little—looked at her chair as if she had a mind to sit down again, and then prepared to depart. In her way out of the room, she passed close to the Curate, and paused, almost touching him, with her handkerchief to her eyes. “If ever he’d say the word, he’d say it now,” thought Jennifer, weeping copiously. But Mr Young, far from availing himself of the proximity to take her hand, or say anything even of comfort, far less of a tenderer nature, retreated with great alacrity to his original post near the fire, and Jennifer had no alternative but to walk onward out of the room.

She left him, roused, certainly, most effectually from his melancholy; but the change was not for the better. The poor shy Curate was exactly the man to feel the full annoyance of such reports as, according to Jennifer, were in circulation. He fancied himself an object of derision to all Lanscote—how could he hope to do any good among parishioners who said scandalous things of him and his housekeeper? How could he hope to convince them of his innocence? How preserve his dignity in the pulpit, with the consciousness that a whole congregation were looking at him in a false light?

Jennifer’s demeanour next day was sad and subdued. After breakfast she came into the room, and, without lifting her eyes, said that she thought she had better go next Wednesday. “On Wednesday,” said Jennifer, “Miss Rosa’s coming, and then, with your leave, I’ll quit, Mr Young.”

The Curate highly approved of this; he knew he could not feel easy till she was out of the house, and meanwhile he absented himself from it as much as possible.

It was fortunate for the Curate that the period of her stay was so short, for she took care it should be far from pleasant. She personally superintended the making of his bed, which she caused to slope downwards towards the feet, and at one side, so that the hapless occupant was perpetually waking from a dream in which he had been sliding over precipices; and, reascending to his pillow for another precarious slumber, would be again woke by finding his feet sticking out from beneath the clothes, and his body gradually following them. He got hairs in his butter, and plenty of salt in his soup; his tea, the only luxury of the palate that he really cared about, and that rather on intellectual than sensual grounds, grew weaker and weaker; his toast simultaneously got tougher; and he was kept the whole time on mutton-chops, which, from their identity of flavour, appeared to have been all cut from the same patriarchal ram.

Wednesday arrived. The Curate, leaning over his garden gate, saw the carriage from the Heronry coming down the lane. It drew up at the parsonage; in it were Lady Lee, Orelia, and Rosa, all in black, and all looking very sad. Rosa, rising to take leave of her friends, underwent innumerable embraces.

Orelia was the calmest of the three, but even her grandeur and stateliness quite gave way in parting. “Good-bye, Rosalinda,” was all she could trust herself to say, as Rosa alighted.

The Curate had intended to say a great deal to Hester, but it had all vanished from his mind, and remained unexpressed, unless a long pressure of the hand could convey it. Lady Lee gave several things in charge to the Curate to execute, and delivered a purse to him, the contents of which were to be distributed among various pensioners in the village; then she told the coachman to drive on.

“Write at least three times a-week, Rosalinda,” cried Orelia, putting a tearful face over the hood of the carriage, “or never hope for forgiveness.”

They were gone. A white handkerchief waved from the side, and another from the top of the carriage, till it disappeared, and the Curate and his sister slowly turned into the house—the last remnant of the once joyous party assembled at the Heronry.

What a hard thing was life! What a cruel thing was fate, that they could not all be left as they were! Their happiness did no harm to any one—nay, good to many—yet it was inexorably scattered to the winds for ever. So thought the Curate; and so felt Rosa, though perhaps her feelings did not shape themselves into thoughts.

But there was no time just then to indulge their grief. Scarcely had the carriage departed, when its place was taken by a vehicle of altogether different description. A donkey-cart, destined to convey away Jennifer’s chattels, and driven by a small boy, drew up at the gate, producing a kind of practical anti-climax. Then Jennifer, attired in bonnet and shawl, entered, and announced, in an austere and steady voice, that she was ready to hand over her keys of office to the still weeping Rosa.

“Now, Miss,” said Jennifer sharply, “if you could make it convenient to come at once, I should be obliged.”

“Go with Mrs Greene, my child,” said the Curate. When Jennifer found she had failed in her grand design on the Curate, and must quit the parsonage, she did not continue to affect regret at her departure; and having easily and at once secured the coveted post at Monkstone, through the influence of Mr Randy, she felt the change was likely to be for the better. She might, therefore, have been expected to quit her present abode, if with some natural regret, yet at perfect peace and charity with all the household. Jennifer’s disposition did not, however, admit of this. She felt enraged at the Curate because of the failure of her design upon him, and resolved to be of as little use as possible in the last moments of her expiring authority. “He’ll be wishing me back again before a week’s over his head,” said Jennifer to herself, with infinite satisfaction.

In vain Rosa protested against being dragged into every corner of the house, and having every bit of household property set before her eyes. In vain she assured Mrs Greene that both her brother and herself were perfectly satisfied of the correctness of everything. “’Twas a satisfaction to herself,” Jennifer said, “to show everything;” and it really was, for the extreme bewilderment and ignorance of Rosa on all points of housekeeping afforded Jennifer the keenest gratification. The Heronry, where Rosa’s chief business had been to amuse herself, was a very bad school to learn anything of the sort.

Accordingly, Jennifer did not spare her the enumeration of a single kitchen implement, pot of jam, nor article of linen.

“The bed and table linen’s all in this press,” said Jennifer, opening a large one of walnut wood in the spare bedroom.

“These are the sheets, I suppose, Mrs Greene,” Rosa remarked, wishing to show an interest in the matter.

“Bless you, they’re the tablecloths!” returned Jennifer, with a glance of disdain.

“Oh, to be sure! And these are towels?” resumed Rosa.

“Napkins,” said Jennifer, with calm superiority. “Mr Young’s shirts, and collars, and bands, and neckcloths, is all in these two drawers. Do you understand much about clear-starching, Miss?”

“N—n—no; I am afraid not much,” said Rosa.

“Ah, ’twould be just as well you should, perhaps, because the washerwoman requires a deal of looking after. She can be careless and impudent, too, when she dares, especially when she’s in drink. She never ventured upon any tricks with me, though.”

The thought of this terrible washerwoman made Rosa tremble, while Jennifer secretly exulted in the thought of seeing the Curate in limp collars and a crumpled shirt.

“There,” said the ex-housekeeper, locking up the press, and handing the key to Rosa; “I advise you, Miss, to take out everything that’s wanted yourself. The girl’s hands is generally dirty, and, besides, in taking out one thing she drags all the rest out upon the floor. Oh, she’s a nice one, that girl!—the work I’ve had to manage her! Well, Miss, I hope you’ll keep an eye upon her, that’s all.”

Having thus rendered Rosa as uncomfortable as possible at the prospect before her, Jennifer at length prepared to depart. Opening the door of the sitting-room, she said to the Curate, “The young lady’s seen everything, and is quite satisfied. Well, good-bye, and wishing you well, sir.” But the benediction was quite contradicted by the ferocity of her look and tone.

“Good-bye, good-bye, my good Mrs Greene,” said the Curate, who could not help regarding Jennifer as a martyr. “I wish you all success and happiness; I hope you won’t fret too much after the parsonage, Mrs Greene.”

“Ho, no,” said Jennifer, with an ironical little laugh; “it’s not likely.”

“I’m heartily glad of that,” said the Curate, who would not have detected irony even in Dean Swift; “and I hope you’ll soon get another and as good a place.”

“I’ve got one,” said Jennifer, “as good a one as ever I could wish.”

“Indeed! that is fortunate,” said the Curate; “and when do you go to it then?”

“I’m going now,” said Jennifer. “Ho, bless you! as soon as ’twas known I was going to leave this, I had more offers than enough. I took Monkstone,” said Jennifer, “being ’twas near my friends in the village. Wishing you good-bye, sir,”—here she dropt a curtsey, and closed the door. The boy had already conveyed her trunks and bandboxes to the donkey-cart. Jennifer marched past the window (from whence the Curate was watching this exodus) in austere majesty, and never deigned to turn her head. Then she, the boy, the donkey-cart, and the bandboxes, all went in procession down the road, leaving Rosa sole superintendant of the Curate’s household.

CHAPTER XLI.

The friendship which Bruce at this time conceived for Josiah was uncommonly warm and sudden. Though always well disposed towards the worthy Curate, he had not, while Rosa was living at the Heronry, taken much pains to seek his society, but he now became of a sudden a frequent visitor to the Parsonage. He showed great interest in flowers, though he hardly knew a dahlia from a polyanthus; he listened to details of parish matters with an attention quite wonderful, considering how little taste he had that way; and he became enamoured of those old English authors who were Josiah’s especial favourites. Finding these manifold pretences insufficient to account for the frequency of his visits, he hit upon a project for rendering them quite plausible. He insisted on subscribing fifty pounds towards a school-house that was to be built in the village under the Curate’s auspices; and when Josiah protested against this liberality as indiscreet and uncalled for, he hinted that it was not altogether disinterested—that his classical knowledge was getting rusty—that he perceived Josiah to be often unoccupied for an hour or two of a morning—and proposed they should read some Latin together.

The Curate liked the project much; it would divert his thoughts from painful subjects—his own classics wanted rubbing up—he had a great regard for Bruce, whose openness, vivacity, and good-nature had quite won his heart, and the readings commenced forthwith.

They were carried on upon a plan which, however agreeable to the master and his disciple, was scarcely calculated to answer the proposed end. Bruce and Josiah would sit down together with their Horace, or their Virgil, or their Terence before them, and for a time would read away with tolerable diligence. Presently Rosa, coming into the room from some household avocation, would trip across it softly, not to disturb them—get what she was in quest of, perhaps a cookery-book, and go off in the same silent fashion, with a nod and a smile at Bruce. At this stage of the lesson the student’s attention would begin to waver; he would look a good deal oftener at the door than upon his page. Perhaps shortly after Rosa would re-enter, to request Josiah to get from the garden some celery, parsnip, or other winter vegetable, of which she stood in need for culinary purposes. “Why didn’t you ask me before, when I was in the garden, my child?” the Curate would say, which, indeed, she might very well have done; and Josiah, rising with a sigh to comply with her request, would be forcibly reseated by Bruce, who would desire him to try again at that crabbed bit of Latinity, while he went to get what Miss Rosa wanted. Whereupon he and Rosa would repair to the garden together, she pointing out what she wanted, while Bruce supplied her with it; and the Curate, after looking dreamily about for their re-entrance, would forget them altogether, plunging either into a reverie or into a book.

Sometimes Bruce found the Curate absent on some clerical or parochial errand, and on these occasions he thought no apology necessary for his stay, nor did Rosa expect one. If she was too busy to talk to him in the study, he would repair to the kitchen, and even take a share in the culinary mysteries to which that region is sacred, though his presence did not perhaps, on the whole, contribute to the excellence of the cookery. I have always suspected that King Alfred, when he let the cakes burn, was making love to the herdsman’s wife, and that the idea of her scolding him for negligence was devised to conceal her share in the delinquency.

Mr Oates, seeing the state of affairs between them, grew quite morose, and would hardly speak to Bruce at breakfast-time. He addicted himself to the society of Suckling, and attempted to divert his thoughts by getting up a scratch pack of harriers, and hunting them himself; and might be heard two or three times a-week in the woods about Doddington, attended by the fast spirits of the place, hallooing, and pouring through the mellow horn his pensive soul.

Rosa had none of the dignity which in Lady Lee and Orelia could always have kept the most impassioned lovers under a certain restraint. It is well known to be the duty of young ladies to affect total ignorance of the fact that they are objects of adoration, and to harrow up the souls of their admirers with affectation of indifference, at any rate until coming to the point of proposal. Rosa, however, showed undisguised pleasure at Bruce’s visits, and one day, when he came in with a melancholy face, and told her the detachment was to leave Doddington immediately, she began to cry.

The Curate was from home that morning, and Bruce had found Rosa in the kitchen, rolling paste for mince-pies, while the cat Pick, whom she had, when leaving the Heronry, brought with her to the Parsonage, sat on the table, watching the process, and occasionally putting out his paw to arrest the motion of the rolling-pin. The smile with which she looked up at Bruce’s entrance turned to a look of sympathetic sadness, as she perceived his sorrowful aspect. He stood by her at the end of the table, and told her the news which had come that morning.

“You see what a life ours is,” said Bruce, trying to smile; “here to-day, gone to-morrow. And when we were going to spend such a pleasant winter too!”

“And won’t you be here at Christmas?” said Rosa; “and won’t you have any of the mince-pies after all? And is there to be an end of our rides, and walks, and evening readings?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Bruce, shaking his head. “The troop that relieves us will be here to-morrow week—though, in my opinion,” he added, with a faint attempt at pleasantry, “the best way to relieve us would be to let us alone.”

“And won’t you be coming back?” asked Rosa, with sorrow shining moistly in her blue eyes.

“I fear not,” said Bruce, “though, to be sure, it might be managed. But you won’t wish that when you’ve made acquaintance with our successors. The new-comers will take the place of your old friends, and you’ll forget us—won’t you, Miss Rosa?”

This highly sincere speech was too much for Rosa. “No—oh, no—ne—never!” sobbed she, sinking on a chair, and burying her face on her plump arms as they lay folded on the table.

Bruce had certainly supposed she would be sorry to hear he was going, but this display of sympathy surpassed his expectations. He stooped down over her—he whispered that nothing should prevent him from coming back—he also mentioned that she was “a dear little thing,” and spying a little white space amid her hair, between her ear and her cheek, and the whispering having brought his lips into that neighbourhood, he thought he would kiss it, and did so. Rosa wept on, which distressed the humane young man so much, that, after begging her, in vain, to look up and be comforted, he managed to insinuate his hand between her cheek and her arms, and to turn her face, using the chin as a handle, gently towards him. A flushed, tearful, glistening face it was; and really, considering the temptation and proximity, one can’t altogether blame him for kissing it, which he did both on the eyes and lips; and then, turning it so that his left cheek rested against hers, with only the tresses between, as he whispered in her left ear, while her glistening eyes appeared over his shoulder, he did his best to pacify her. And so absorbed was he in whispering, and she in listening, that the cat Pick, advancing along the flat paste (from which he had only been kept before by the terror of the rolling-pin), and leaving his foot-marks on the soft substance, proceeded, with the utmost effrontery, to lick up, under their very noses, the little dabs of butter dotted thereon. He made a good deal of noise in doing so; but as Bruce, between the whispers, made a noise not altogether dissimilar (for there were constantly fresh tears requiring to be attended to), Pick finished the butter with perfect impunity, and sat up in the middle of the paste, much about the same time that Rosa pushed Bruce gently away, and removed the last moisture from her eyes with her apron.

The two having, by this time, come to an understanding, Bruce suggested that he would write to his father, who, he assured her, was a splendid old fellow, and who would, no doubt, enter into the spirit of the thing immediately, and give his consent like a trump.

Accordingly, he fetched pen, ink, and paper from the study, and sitting at one end of the kitchen-table, while Rosa rolled fresh paste at the other, he indited a very eloquent and enthusiastic epistle to his parent, and having folded and directed it to “The Very Rev. the Dean of Trumpington,” put it with great confidence in his pocket.

After this their conversation took a more cheerful turn, and Rosa worked so diligently at her task that the mince-pies were made, after a receipt which Bruce read out to her from a cookery-book, and were ready for dinner that very day, and Bruce stayed to eat them.

That splendid old fellow the Dean of Trumpington got the letter in due time. It was brought in after dinner by his butler when he was chatting, in a pleasant digestive sort of way, with a couple of old Canons over a bottle of port. He put on his spectacles to peruse it, and as his wife was in the room, and the Canons old friends and admirers of Harry, he proceeded to read it aloud, and had got pretty well into the matter before he discovered its interesting nature. “Why, bless my soul!” interpolated the Reverend Doctor Bruce, in the middle of a warm passage, “the boy’s fallen in love!”

“My dearest Harry!” exclaimed Mrs Bruce; and then eagerly added, “go on, love!”

While the reading proceeded, one old Canon, who was married and had a large family, looked fiercely at his glass of port, as he held it between him and the light, and cried “hum!” or “ha!” at the most touching passages; while the other, who was a bachelor, rubbed his hands as he listened, and chuckled aloud.

“Her brother, Mr Young, is a member of your own profession,” read the Dean over again slowly. “Sillery” (to the bachelor Canon), “oblige me by touching the bell. Bring the Clergy List,” said the Dean to the butler, when the latter entered.

“Y,” read the Dean, running his finger down the list, when he got it—“Yorke—Youatt—Young—here you are: Young, George, Vicar of Feathernest (is that him, I wonder? good living Feathernest)—Young, Henry, Prebendary of Durham—Young, Josiah, Curate of Lanscote—that must be the man,” said the Dean, referring to the letter; “he dates from Lanscote, near Doddington.”

“There was a Young at Oxford with me,” said Dr Macvino, the married Canon, in a deep, oily, sententious voice. “He left college on coming into six thousand a-year. He might have a daughter,” said the Canon, looking round as he propounded the theory. “And,” added the Canon, “he might also have a son in the Church. He was a tall fellow, who once pulled the stroke oar in a match, as I remember—he gave remarkably good breakfasts.”

“Dear boy!” said Mrs Bruce, apostrophising Harry, “I’m certain he wouldn’t make other than a charming choice. I’m certain she’s a sweet girl.”

“Harry knows what’s what,” said the Dean; “I’ve confidence in that boy.”

“Plenty of good sense,” said the bachelor Canon.

“Good stuff,” said Dr Macvino, who, sipping his wine before he gave the opinion, left it doubtful whether he was praising Bruce junior or the port.

“Harry’s got something here,” said the Dean, pointing to his forehead. “He’s almost thrown away in his present profession. He ought to have come into the Church.”

“Decidedly he ought,” said Dr Macvino, who thought himself an example to teach other clever fellows how to choose a profession.

“He’s the most sensible darling!” said Mrs Bruce; “and I, too, was sorry that he hadn’t chosen a learned profession, till I saw him in his uniform. His mustache promised to be beautiful” (there had been perhaps four hairs in it when she last saw him,) “and ’tis very becoming.”

“Suits him to a hair,” said the bachelor Canon, who was a wag in a mild way.

“The boy’s letter is a little high-flown,” said the Dean, “but that was to be expected, perhaps. I remember describing Mrs Bruce there to my family in such terms, that, when I brought her home, they were rather disappointed at finding her without wings. But I’ve no doubt the young lady is a most proper person.”

“A young man like my Harry ought to get a wife with twenty thousand pounds any day,” said his mother.

“There were two things, I remember,” said Dr Bruce, “that Harry was very fastidious about in women—dress and manner: I venture to prophecy that our future daughter-in-law is irreproachable in both.”

“A tall girl, I suspect,” said Mrs Bruce.

“Tall, and with a good deal of the air noble—perhaps a little proud,” the Doctor went on.

“But not disagreeably so,” said Mrs Bruce.

“Certainly not,” said the Doctor. “A hauteur of manner merely. I like to see a woman keep up her dignity.”

“I wish he had said something about her fortune,” said Mrs Bruce.

“So do I,” said the Doctor, “and I think I’ll go down to Doddington to-morrow, and see what he’s about. I’m rather in want of change of air.” And the two canons drank success to his journey in another bottle of port.

Accordingly, the next day the Doctor went down to Doddington, three counties off, and not finding Harry at his lodgings, got a conveyance and a man to take him over to Lanscote. Bruce was there of course—he had rushed away from the parade that morning, and, without changing his dress, galloped to Lanscote at a tremendous pace. He was not sorry to find the Curate absent, and, going clanking into the kitchen in his spurs, found Rosa there with a great pinafore on, making a tart.

For about ten minutes after his arrival the manufacture of the tart proceeded but slowly; and Rosa, to keep him out of her way, begged him to superintend the re-boiling of some preserves, which Jennifer’s economy had left to spoil in their jars. “You’ve nothing to do,” said she, “but to sit still before the fire, and skim the pan from time to time with this spoon; and I’ll get you something to keep your uniform clean, while you’re doing it.” So Rosa went and got a small table-cloth, and causing him to seat himself in the desired position in front of the fire, she pinned it round his neck as if he was going to be shaved—his brass shoulder-scales sticking out rather incongruously from under the vestment.

“I ought to hear from my father, to-day,” said Harry, skimming away at the pan with his spoon.

“He won’t be angry, I hope,” said Rosa, putting a strip of paste round the edge of her tart-dish.

“Angry,” said Bruce, “not he. If he was, I should just show you to him, and if he were the most peppery old man in existence, he’d come to the down charge directly, like a well-bred pointer—just as the lion did before Una. He’d love you directly—I’m certain he would—he must, you know—he couldn’t help himself.”

“I’m sure I shall love him,” said Rosa, smiling at Bruce as she took the spoon from him in order to taste the jam, and see how it was getting on.

“Of course you will,” said Harry. “As I said before, he’s a splendid old fellow.”

At this moment a step was heard on the gravel in front of the house, followed by a tapping at the door of the porch, which was open.

“Come in!” cried Bruce. “Come in, can’t you!” he repeated, as the tapping was renewed. “I can’t go to the door in this way,” he said to Rosa, looking down at his table-cloth.

“It’s only the butcher, or Josiah’s clerk, or some of those people,” said Rosa; “come in, if you please.”

At this the step advanced along the passage, and came to the kitchen door. Bruce, skimming away at his pan, didn’t turn round till he heard a voice he knew exclaim behind him, “God bless my soul!” The spoon fell into the brass pan, and disappeared in the seething fruit.

“Why, in heaven’s name,” said the Doctor, “what is the boy about?”

The boy in question, standing up in great confusion to the height of six feet, with the table-cloth descending like a large cloud about his person, hiding all of it except his military-looking arms and legs, did not make any reply. Rosa, when she tasted the jam, had left some on her lips, and somehow a splash of it had got transferred to Bruce’s face.

“What prank is this, sir?” asked the Dean sternly. “Who is this person?” pointing his thick yellow cane at Rosa. “Is it the cook or the dairymaid?”

“That, sir,” said Bruce, coming to Rosa’s rescue, “is Miss Young—the lady I wrote to you about.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the Doctor, who had not found the answers to the inquiries he made in Doddington as to the worldly condition of the house of Young at all to his mind, and who, at the sight of the Parsonage, had been more struck with its diminutiveness than its picturesqueness. “You’re a pretty fellow! Don’t you think you’re a pretty fellow? Answer me, puppy!”

“I’m not doing any harm, sir,” said Bruce, his handsome face looking very red over the table-cloth, which he struggled to unpin.

“Not doing any harm, sir!” sung the Dean after him, through his nose. “Are you making an ass of yourself, sir, do you think? Come, sir, I’m waiting for ye. Come along with me, sir.”

Bruce having got rid of the table-cloth, went up to console Rosa, who was now sobbing in a chair.

“Are ye coming, sir?” shouted the Dean from the door; and Bruce, with a last whisper of comfort, went to join his parent, who, lifting his shovel-hat, said, “Ma’am, I wish you a very good morning!” As they went through the passage, Rosa heard the Doctor say something about “What a shock to your poor mother!”

When Josiah returned, he found Rosa weeping by the kitchen fire, now sunk to embers, the jam reduced to a sort of dark concrete, and the tart still in an elemental state.

“Harry’s papa has been here,” sobbed Rosa; “and he’s been so angry; and he’s carried Harry away, and I shall ne—never—see him—any mo—re.”

The Dean kept such strict watch over his son while the troop remained at Doddington, lecturing him all the time, that he never got the smallest glimpse of Rosa before quitting the place, though he managed to write her some tender and consoling letters. His only other consolation was in confiding his grief to Mr Titcherly, the old antiquary. They had become intimate and fond of one another—“a pair of friends, though he was young, and Titcherly seventy-two.” Bruce had sympathised with the old gentleman’s pursuits, and aided them—he had, moreover, made drawings illustrative of the great work on the antiquities of Doddington, which were now being engraved for a second edition; and when the troop left the town, nobody missed him more, nor thought more kindly of him, next to Rosa, than Mr Titcherly.

Bruce had nourished in his secret heart an intention of getting leave when they got to headquarters, and coming back to see Rosa. This was defeated by the vigilance of his parent, who, suspecting the design, made it a particular request to the Colonel that he would allow his son no leave of absence, hinting at an indiscreet attachment; and the Colonel, in the most friendly way, promised to comply with the Dean’s wishes. Afterwards the Dean went home, and told his wife (he being a pious man, and familiar with the ways of Providence) that he considered the moving of the detachment from Doddington in the light of a special interference.

CHAPTER XLII.

For my own private choice, I don’t know whether I should have preferred to live at Larches or the Heronry. People who like aristocratic-looking houses of imposing size and respectable age would have preferred the latter. But there are others whose ambition does not soar so high—who would feel encumbered by space which they could not occupy, and by galleries and apartments to them superfluous; yet who have sometimes, when dreaming in a verandah in the tropics, a snow-hut of some northern region, or a narrow cabin at sea, figured to themselves a snug English home, not too remote for the world’s affairs, nor too public for seclusion—not so large as to be dull without visitors, nor so small as to be unfit to accommodate them—not so grand as to invite inspection, nor so unadorned as to disappoint it—standing, in fact, on the boundary which divides comfort from ostentation; and such would have preferred Larches.

Yet, ah! that air from Queen Anne’s time that breathed about the Heronry—that library, where Samuel Johnson might have devoured books in his boyhood—the trim gardens, where Pope might have sat in fine weather, polishing his mellifluous lines—the gateway and porticoes that Vanbrugh might have regarded with paternal complacency, as hooped dames and bewigged cavaliers passed underneath—all these were pleasant to the eye and mind that love the picturesque and antique.

Yet even these advantages would not weigh in the scale for a minute, when Larches was inhabited as now. Place Lady Lee and Orelia in the balance, and the Heronry kicks the beam. They would have made a hut in Tipperary, or South Africa, or any other pagan and barbarous region, more alluring than the palace of Aladdin.

However (to describe its intrinsic advantages), Larches was a onestoried house, too spacious to be called a cottage, which, however, it resembled in shape, and surrounded by a deep verandah open from the eaves to the ground. To please a caprice of Orelia’s, the slated roof had been covered with thatch—indeed, she exercised her fancy in so many alterations, both of the house and grounds, that the place was like a dissolving view, and never presented the same appearance for two consecutive seasons. The house stood on a knoll which raised it above the surrounding garden, except at the back, where the north winds were repelled by a small grove rising from a high bank. In the front rank of this grove rose three tall larches that gave the place its name. The verandah kept the sun from the apartments, but the windows, opening to the ground, admitted plenty of sober light. Looked at from without, the open verandah and the large space occupied by windows and doors gave an idea of extreme airiness; while the rich heavy curtains that lined the windows, and the glimpses of luxurious furniture behind, conveyed ample assurance of comfort.

Hither Orelia had brought her friend, and here she applied herself to soothe her sorrow. Many offices would, perhaps, have suited Orelia better than that of comforter—but her affection and warm sympathy for Lady Lee made her discharge it with right good-will.

When Hester had entered the hall, at the conclusion of their journey, Orelia came up and kissed her.

“We will forget now,” she said, “that you have ever been Lady Lee. We will revive in substance, as well as in idea, the old times when you were Hester Broome at the parsonage; and we will see if there is not yet in store for you as bright a future as ever you dreamt of in your imaginative days.”

A thin elderly person, holding a handkerchief to her face to keep off the draught, was hovering about an inner door of the lobby as they entered. This was Miss Priscilla Winter, the lady who did propriety in Orelia’s establishment, and managed the minor details thereof. She had lived with Orelia’s mother as a companion, when the young lady herself was a child, and had subsequently accompanied the latter to Larches. She was a good kind of ancient nonentity, without any very decided opinions on any subject, resembling, indeed, rather a vague idea than an absolute person. As she always had a smile ready, and agreed with everybody, Priscilla was sufficiently popular and endurable. At present she smiled a welcome on one side of her face only, because the other was swelled—a frequent symptom of the perpetual toothach which afflicted her.

“Here’s Frisky,” said Orelia, on seeing her; “dear old Frisky!—good old Frisk!” and she went up and greeted the old lady very cordially, as did Lady Lee.

Orelia called her Frisky, not because of any particular fitness in the appellation, but, having a way of her own of altering people’s names, she used to call her first Priskilla, then, when she wanted to coax her, Prisky, which suggested Frisky, and the total and glaring inappropriateness of the epithet tickled the inventor so much that it was permanently adopted by her. The old virgin preceded them into the drawing-room, where a comfortable fire was blazing, and told them dinner would be ready in a quarter of an hour.

“And how are the live stock, Frisk?”

“All well except Dick, who had a fit yesterday,” said Miss Winter, “but he seems quite cheerful again to-day.” Dick was a bullfinch.

“I’ll see him presently,” said Orelia, “but first I must visit Moloch.”

“Take care, my dear Orelia,” said Priscilla; “Francis has got him chained up—the cook says she thinks he’s going mad, for he hasn’t drank his water to-day.”

“Stuff!” said Orelia, marching out of the room.

Moloch, a great yellow bloodhound, flecked with white, chained in the yard, thundered a deep welcome as his mistress went towards him, and upset his kennel in his eagerness to jump upon her. She unstrapped his collar, and he preceded her backwards in a series of curvets to the drawing-room, yelping joyfully, and nearly upsetting Priscilla, whom Orelia found occupied in settling Lady Lee near the fire, that she might be warm before taking off her things; for the old lady was a great hand at coddling people, if permitted.

“Hester looks pale, poor dear,” said Priscilla, with a heart-rending sadness of tone and aspect—“ah, well, she’s had her trials and”—

“Now, I’ll tell you what it is, Frisk,” interrupted Orelia, looking sternly at the old lady, “I didn’t bring her here to be made dismal, and if ever I hear you saying anything of a doleful character, I’ll leave a chink of your bedroom window open at night, and give you a stiff neck.—I will, as sure as your name’s Frisky.” And this speech at once produced the desired effect; the venerable spinster caught her cue with alacrity, and the unswelled side of her face at once assumed an expression of great cheerfulness.

Dinner was presently announced. “I’m afraid the dining-room will be chilly,” mumbled Priscilla, “and this terrible face of mine—would you mind it, my dear, if I sat at dinner in my bonnet?”

“Not in the least, my tender Frisk,” quoth Orelia; “and pray bring your umbrella and pattens also.”

A few days after their arrival, they went down to the parsonage where Hester had formerly lived with her father. Orelia was curious to see what effect the memories attached to the place would have upon her ladyship. She saw her grow flushed and excited as they passed the familiar cottages, and trees, and fields along the road. She saw her excitement increase as they came in sight of the parsonage. A glimpse of it was afforded from the road, as it stood at the end of a lane, and looked down upon a lawn dotted with dwarf firs. That glimpse showed it little changed; but as they entered the swinging gate, opening on the gravel path that curved round to the front of the house, the place seemed to Hester to have dwindled. Perhaps the spacious proportions of the Heronry dwarfed the parsonage by contrast—perhaps her remembrance had flattered the scene—perhaps it had lost its interest together with its former inhabitants—for, her father having died soon after her marriage, a new clergyman now lived there, and neither he nor his wife were likely to renew much of the romantic atmosphere of the spot—at any rate, Hester’s associations vanished rapidly. The furniture was all so different: there was a new door opened in the sitting-room, which might be a convenience, but was to her an impertinence—her bedroom, the chamber of her maiden dreams (ah, sacrilege!) was now a nursery. The walls where the echoes of Hester’s voice, as she read aloud, or sung, or said her prayers, ought yet to have lingered, resounded to the squalls of the latest baby published by the prolific clergyman’s wife, and the clamour of its small seniors. A cradle had taken the place of her bookcase; and her bed, whose white curtains had once enclosed the poetic dreams and bright fancies of the virgin Hester—the very altar-piece, as it were—was occupied by a rocking-horse with its head knocked off. Scarcely worse the desecration, when the French stabled their chargers in the cathedrals of Spain.

She descended to the porch, and paused there, trying to recall her former self as she had sat in its shadow, reading, working, dreaming, fancying that the world was paradise. She wondered what could have made her fancy so; it had, indeed, been blissful ignorance, but very silly, nevertheless: her eyes were open now, and she was quite sure—yes, quite—she should never see things again surrounded by such delusive splendour. The Hester of eighteen had been quite a different person from the Hester of twenty-five. And so sad seemed to be the train of thoughts thus aroused, and bringing with it so many silent tears, that Orelia was sorry she had carried her well-intended visit to the parsonage into execution. She mentioned it in a letter to Rosa; and here, in common type, wherein it loses all the character it gained in the original, from that bold yet feminine hand, with its long upstrokes and downstrokes, and its audacious dashes, we will insert Orelia’s letter.

“Dearest Rosalinda,” (it said,) “what is there about you, do you suppose, that you should be so constantly in my thoughts as you are, to the utter exclusion, of course, of all kinds of rational contemplation? For how can any serious or important idea be expected to remain in company with that of a little laughing, redfaced thing? In vain I banish the pert image; it comes back with all the annoying and saucy pertinacity of the original, till I actually catch myself addressing it; and my first impulse, on waking of a morning, always is to pull you out of bed.

“People sometimes say of their deceased relations (especially if they have left them any money), that it would be wrong to wish them back to this scene of trial. And I grow somewhat resigned to your absence, when I think that you are probably much happier where you are. For Hester and I are very dismal, Rosey—not a bit better than we were during the last sad weeks at the Heronry. She grows paler, Rosetta—paler and thinner every day. And I don’t think ’tis owing to any failure of mine in carrying out our plan for her benefit. I have, in every possible way, closed up the avenues to sad recollections. I have avoided all allusions to her married life, as if it had been wiped out of my memory with a great wet sponge. I have nearly choked myself by arresting, on the brink of utterance, observations that might have awakened in her mind some train of thought ending in a sigh. I have endeavoured to interest her in her old occupations here, and to get her to resume the subjects of conversation and of fancy that used to delight her in the old times, when she was the most enthusiastic and bright and hopeful of friends; and I have had my labour for my pains. She wandered through my hothouses with most annoying apathy—stood on the very spot where she and I first saw one another, and which I expected would have had an electrical effect on her, with an absence of recognition that quite exasperated me; and when I wished her good night, in the very bedroom that was always allotted to her when weather-bound at my cottage, she returned the benediction without one allusion to the old days that have departed apparently for ever.

“Well, Rosetta, I persevered, nevertheless—yes, I did—I struck my great coup—I took her down to the parsonage, where she was born and bred. Long after her father’s death it stood untenanted; but a new family now live there. I watched the effect of each familiar object that we passed on the road; her breath now and then came a little quicker, and, at the first distant glimpse of the house, her colour rose, and she smiled more naturally than she has done any time these three months. ‘Now,’ said I to myself, ‘the old Hester is going to peep out of this melancholy mask;’ so I said, by way of assisting the metamorphosis, ‘Do you remember anything about that stone, Hester?’ pointing to a great white one by the side of the road. Now, by this stone hangs a tale, Rosamunda. You must know (if I never told you) that Hester and I had once a little quarrel; and as it’s so long ago, I don’t mind saying ’twas all my fault. Well, we did not meet for two or three days, for Hester was hurt, and I was sullen; but then, by a simultaneous impulse, we started to meet and be reconciled. Hester was near this stone when she caught sight of me, and, forgetting all cause of offence, ran towards me. In her haste (’twould take a deal to make her run now, Rosey) she tript on the grass at the side of the road, and fell with her head against the corner of the stone. There she lay for a moment, stunned, and I, who had just reached the spot, sat down on the stone, and, taking her head on my lap, vowed, after she had opened her eyes, and assured me she was but little hurt, that I would never again offend her.

“She remembered it well, she said, as I stopt and pointed to the spot; then, pressing my hand, ‘Though I am not so demonstrative now as then, you must not think my friendship colder, dear Orelia,’ she said. This looked all very promising, and I walked on in great spirits, awaiting the further effect of the coming scenes.

“The clergyman’s wife had called on us, so our visit had an excuse. The porch looked just as it used—we entered; but there, in the identical spot where Mr Broome used to sit and talk to us, when a pause in his disorder let him brighten up for an hour or two, with the benignity of a Socrates—his pale face glowing, his dim eye kindling, and his failing voice hardly able to keep pace with his eloquent flow of thought—there sat his successor—fat, contented, vulgar. The first words he spoke, in tones that seemed to struggle through layers of beef and cabbage and Yorkshire pudding, dissipated the romance that lingered for me and Hester about the scene. And his wife! I don’t deny that the woman may have good qualities, Rosa; but I never can forgive her that cap of hers—nor her furniture—nor her younger sister, with her vulgar affectation of well-bred ease—nor her mode of addressing her husband—she called him by the initial letter of his horrible surname.

“In vain I struggled with these prosaic influences—in vain I tried to recall the old memories of the place—they had absolutely deserted me. I did not look at Hester, for I should only have looked disappointment. I did not speak to her, for I had nothing to say. But I looked at the clergyman and his wife and sister-in-law—daggers, Rosetta—and I was glad, when we departed, to see them reduced to a state of terrified and silent civility.

“So this part of the project signally failed. Hitherto we had lived altogether by ourselves, for I did not wish to annoy her with the task of making a parcel of new acquaintances, not likely to be particularly interesting either to her or to me. But now I thought visitors might rouse her from her melancholy, and I let them come.”

The time when Lady Lee and Orelia were most disposed to be communicative to each other was the last hour before they went to bed. Both, after flickering fitfully between dinner and tea, musing, looking into the fire, sighing, &c., would brighten up into temporary effulgence, before undergoing the extinction of sleep.

“You are cheerful to-night, Orelia,” said Lady Lee, one night after some guests had departed. “I am happy to see it, my dear. Come closer,” said her ladyship, passing her arm round her friend’s waist, and drawing her on to the sofa beside her. “I want to whisper to you. May I venture to hope” (this in Orelia’s ear, from which she had brushed back the volume of black hair that hid it) “that you have forgotten that little romance of yours?”

Orelia silently turned, and sat facing her with her black eyes, without answering.

“You never confided in me in that matter,” said her ladyship, still whispering, though there was nobody but those two in the room, and the servants had gone to bed. “I shouldn’t speak of it now, only that I observe some symptoms occasionally which make me still doubt the direction of your thoughts. Can I help to guide them back to tranquillity?”

“No, Hester,” said Orelia; “I don’t want any aid. I’ve come to a resolution of my own accord.”

“Tell it me,” said Lady Lee.

“How can I tell you all?” said Orelia. “You didn’t know him. To you he was merely what he appeared to the world—to me he was himself—the manliest, the cleverest, the most independent, the—ah, you smile; but, had you met him in his true position, you would have thought of him as I do.”

Lady Lee squeezed the hand of the somewhat indignant enthusiast. “Who so apt as I to believe,” she said, “that when Orelia Payne admires, the object is an elevated one? Well, dearest?”

“Well,” said Orelia, “I dreamt at the Heronry a sort of dream—that he would regain his position in the world, and be all you or any of my friends could wish. He left me apparently with some such expectation; but now I see it was fallacious.”

“But a man could scarcely make a very great stride in the world in a couple of months,” observed Lady Lee.

“’Twill take years, perhaps,” said Orelia, “even if he ever succeeds; and consider the chances against him. And, except as successful, I shall never see him—he is prouder than a fallen angel.” Here she paused, and pondered a little. “But,” she resumed, “I have resolved to think no more on that subject. Yes, resolved!” (stamping with her foot, while her colour heightened, and a tear came into her eye). “It can do no good—it will be vain, weak, idle—it will be wasting life in unreality; therefore it shall end”—(another little stamp).

Lady Lee looked at her with a kind of serious half smile. “So earnest, Orelia!—then the cause cannot be slight.”

“It is not,” said Orelia petulantly. “I am ashamed to think how much it has engrossed my thoughts. And yet—everything considered—so much merit in so unfitting a position! Had he been placed where he deserves, I should perhaps have withheld my admiration; but indignation at the way in which fortune and the world have treated him lent it double force. Now, Hester, I have been franker than you—for we both had our secrets; had we not?”

It was Lady Lee’s turn to redden and be silent.

“Hester,” went on Orelia, “what do you think of the men who sometimes come here? Is there one of them fit to be named with either of those to whom we gave—I mean to whom we would have given—our hearts? Think for a moment of the best of them—and then place their images, side by side, with those I speak of. Don’t they dwindle?—don’t they show like wax-work beside sculpture, with their fleeting hues of character, their feeble melting outlines, their stupid conventionalities?”

“You are severe, my dear,” said Lady Lee, without, however, heeding much her own reply—for Orelia had confused her.

“O, it scatters my patience!” said her impetuous friend. “I think less of myself when one of them has hinted admiration. Yesterday, that worthy noodle, Mr Straitlace—he who thinks it good to be wise, but not to be merry, and whose expressive eyebrows proclaim all pursuits to be vanity except his own—had the astonishing effrontery to give my hand a kind of meaning squeeze, at taking leave, muttering something about ‘his pleasure at recognising a congenial spirit.’ What have I done, Hester, to deserve that?—the owl!”

“I don’t see the congeniality, certainly,” said Lady Lee, smiling, “more than between an owl and a—peacock, or any other majestic bird.”

“Then there’s that baronet Sir Dudley (you seem to have an attraction for baronets, Hester)—that well-dressed Mephistopheles, with crow’s feet about his eyes and his heart at five and twenty, who has just cleverness enough to find out the faulty side of everything—he had the impudence, after looking at you as if he were judging a horse, to pronounce that ‘you had some good points,’ which from him is equivalent, I suppose, to high praise.”

“I hope he specified the points that struck him,” said Lady Lee, smiling.

“He hadn’t time,” returned Orelia. “I felt downright savage at the idea of such a snail as that crawling on your petals. I asked him who had told him of your merits? for that we all knew him to be slow at finding them in anything.”

“And what did he say?”

“He turned to his next neighbour and merely said, ‘Shut up, by Jove!’ Why, compared with these people, Major Tindal grows respectable; for though he has but one side to his character, ’tis a manly and decided one.”

“Poor, misguided Major Tindal,” said Lady Lee; “to think that he should have taken the trouble to come all the way here” (the Major hadn’t been able to forbear singeing his wings again), “just to do hopeless homage to a girl who talks of him in that way.”

“Certainly he had better have stayed at Doddington,” said Orelia. “But, now, Hester, tell me—could you admire, or ever be induced to love, any of our present acquaintances, after having seen others so much worthier?”

“I will go farther than that,” said Lady Lee, resuming her habitual tone of melancholy, which she had relinquished for one of assumed gaiety, merely to cover the confusion that Orelia’s home-thrust had caused her; “I will say that we never could have admired or loved them in any case.”

“And yet they are not below the average of those we shall meet in our pilgrimage,” said this severe censor; “and that brings me to a subject I have for some time thought of. You and I can never link our lives to people of that sort.”

“Never,” said Lady Lee, fervently.

“Neither will we spend them in vain regrets,” said Orelia. “In men that would be unmanly, and in us ’twould equally be unwomanly. We will drive out thought—we will leave it no avenue to enter—we will place a quickset round our hearts. Some do this by openly relinquishing the world, and taking vows; our resolutions shall be none the weaker because we only take our vows privately, and to one another.”

Lady Lee looked at her friend inquiringly.

“Why should we have done with life because we have been disappointed in one of its objects?” said Orelia. “Why should we languish or let ourselves rust because those we prefer are withheld from us? We could not be content to go lingering and dreaming all our lives.”

“Not content, certainly,” said Lady Lee. “But what are we to do?”

“Make business for ourselves in the world,” said Orelia. “Be of use—turn our energies to account. How many women younger than we quit a life of ease without our provocation, and devote themselves to one of active usefulness! We might be the founders of an unprofessed sisterhood. What do you say, Hester? When shall we begin?”

“When?” said Lady Lee. “My dear, such a thing requires thought.”

“Say a week,” said Orelia.

“A week!” cried Lady Lee—“a year you mean. Nuns have a noviciate.”

“And a contemptible thing it is,” said Orelia, “that hovering between two worlds, as it were—that lingering on the bridge, shilly shally. No, Hester; we won’t show any such want of confidence in ourselves—we will begin after a week’s trial. We must commence by closing up all paths to thoughts that might unsteady us—lay aside at once poetry, romance, music, except anthems and oratorios. We will prescribe for ourselves a simple dress and a uniform and disciplined life. Come, are you not anxious to begin?”

“I do almost catch a gleam of your enthusiasm,” said Hester. “To relinquish my present life will be no privation” (with a sigh). “But we must mature the idea before acting on it. We must not begin lightly.”

“Lightly!” said Orelia. “I’ve been thinking of it these four days. And, for our plan—feeding the poor—educating the ignorant—comforting the sick—there is a field! So much for our duty towards our neighbour—for ourselves, we will improve and occupy our minds with study, and I was going to say meditation; but I’m not so sure whether our meditations would be always on profitable subjects, at least not just yet. When nuns turn out not so good as they might be, who knows what share meditation may have had in it? We’ll act now, Hester, and put off meditation till we grow older.”

Now, there was something in Orelia’s proposal that was not unpleasing to Lady Lee. To banish thought which she found so wearisome—to occupy time that hung so heavy—to labour with an object and obtain a result—these were what she had long desired in a dreamy sort of way, and, now that the more energetic Orelia had struck out the path, she was ardent to follow it. Thus the mind would be provided for; and, for the heart, why shouldn’t she and Orelia, her chosen friend, be all in all to each other? which last idea was, perhaps, even more brilliant than the other.

Accordingly the noviciate commenced forthwith. They had, in Hester’s maiden days, studied together French and Italian; they now began a spirited attack upon the German language. Mathematics was desirable, as it required attention, exercised the mind, and did not excite the imagination, and they plodded away at Euclid and algebra with a perseverance praiseworthy in an ambitious freshman, but, in them, lamentable to behold. The piano remained unopened, the harp untouched, except on Sunday, when they performed a piece out of Handel. Lady Lee’s copy of Corinne was put in the fire by Orelia, who had never particularly admired the work; and, indeed, a great part of their library underwent such a weeding as Don Quixote’s suffered at the hands of the barber and curate. Both were dressed in mourning before for Julius, so no great change was needed in their attire. To crown all, they discovered, in a couple of days, some babies in the smallpox and croup, three distressed families with the fathers out of work, and a pair of rheumatic old women, so that their charitable resolutions were not likely to fail for want of objects.

It is very well known that heroines of respectability ought to be naturally benevolent. They ought, moreover, to have a happy knack of winning the hearts of all who experience their bounty. I would with pleasure bestow on my heroines all the good attributes that belong to them, but I have already said they were far from faultless, and, to say the truth, the line they had chosen was not their forte. Lady Lee’s fastidious taste was speedily revolted by misery, whose pathos was impaired by selfishness or coarseness; and Orelia, after a visit to one of the rheumatic patients, left a sovereign for the sufferer, and vowed she would never go near that horrid old grumbler again. In fact, this was one of the points in which they were both of them inferior to Rosa. Their benevolence sprang from a sense of duty, and was artificial in expression, like the conversation of one who has learnt a foreign tongue grammatically; while Rosa’s was natural, and fluent in the happiest idioms of goodness.

However, they persevered, and, though they were striving against nature, their conduct was quite natural. Women are never so enthusiastic about their duties as when they have just been disappointed in love. Your pretty Puritans are sure to have had an attachment blighted, and Devotion is called in, like a Beguine, to dress the wounds made by that rascal Cupid.

But yet, reader, if Hester and Orelia should really persist in their project, what a glimpse of the possible is here opened! Let imagination hold up the curtain for a moment.

Methinks I see Orelia, aged say about thirty-five; severe of aspect, and with what novelists call “the traces of former beauty,” though the arch of the nose has strengthened to Roman firmness, the mouth is quite stern in its decision, and the fire of the eyes has some fierceness in its sparkle. Irreproachable, but not amicable—unsparing to the indiscretion of others, and having none of her own—rigid in the performance of duties, as well as in exacting them—I see her, in fact, become that formidable being, an exemplary woman, and I should like to see anybody make love to her now.

Lady Lee, too, now getting on for forty, has changed from what we knew her. She is not called, like Orelia, an exemplary woman, but is stigmatised by the equally opprobrious epithet, a superior person. Her eyes, dimmed with long perusing of good wearisome books through a veil of tears, are still beautiful in their melancholy, but the rest of her charms have withered. She does not discharge her duties with the unfailing spirit of the more energetic Orelia, but requires a new weary effort for the performance of each; and when the old obstinate question recurs of what her business in the world may be, she silences it by a contemplation of the indurated virtues of her friend, which she nerves herself to imitate. There are no more confidences or confessions of weakness between herself and Orelia, but a friendship such as might have subsisted between the Mother of the Gracchi and Mrs Fry. They are punctual in ——, but, as Sterne says, when the idea of his captive becomes too painful, “I cannot sustain the picture that my fancy has drawn.” Fane—Onslow—to the rescue!

THE MARQUIS DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN.[25]

FRANCE IN 1853.

The name of Larochejaquelein is not an obscure one. It was once familiar to the world. It was known and venerated wherever stainless honour, fidelity proof against all temptations and suffering, chivalrous valour, and patient courage amid dangers that do not try the nerves less that they want the excitement which sustains the soldier on the battle-field, were held in reverence. The two brothers who covered that name with glory of the purest kind were noble specimens of the old chivalry of France, when chivalry had well-nigh passed away; and the chronicler of their romantic gallantry and their heroic death was the gentle female who bore their name, and who bore it high, and who shared in their sufferings, their triumphs, and their defeats. We know of few compositions more interesting than the narrative of the Marchioness de Larochejaquelein, who, we are happy to find, still survives, her form bowed by age, but her heart as true as when, in early youth and beauty, she traversed on foot the ravines of the Bocage, or forded the canals of the Marais, and witnessed the sanguinary wars waged by the insurgents of La Vendée during the wildest period of the French Republic. It is curious that the most attractive records of the great revolutions which convulsed the two kingdoms of England and France, at periods so distant from each other, should respectively be the production of a female pen. The memoirs of Mrs Hutchinson and the narrative of Madame de Larochejaquelein are companions fit to be placed side by side with each other; and though the character of the two works is different, the interest they excite is identical. They both possess all the fascination of romance, but they are valuable in a degree which few romances can pretend to. It has been remarked, that until their publication the world was strangely in error on many of the important events to which they relate, and that they have been singularly useful in diminishing a great deal of the prejudice, and in dissipating the ignorance which had existed, particularly with reference to some of the principal actors in these terrible scenes. The character of the English heroine is shadowed forth in her history; it is more unbending, more masculine, more stern, perhaps, and commands admiration which the mind cannot refuse. But the heart is led away by the tenderness of the Frenchwoman; and her pathetic touches, while they add to the interest of her story, impart to it the impress of truth.

The nobleman who has just published a defence of his own political career during the eventful changes which France has again witnessed, is the son of that lady by a second marriage. His lineage is an ancient and honourable one. Sprung from the old house of Vergier de Larochejaquelein, he counts among his ancestors a Crusader whose arms form one of the many ornaments of the rich gallery of Versailles; two warriors who fell on the hard-fought field of Pavia, when “all was lost except honour;” a brother in arms and tent-companion of Henry IV., who was left “with his back to the field and his feet to the foe” on the plains of Arques; a mestre-de-camp, who met his death while in the act of boarding a pirate off St Domingo. His uncle was the general-in-chief in the Vendean army, and it was this gallant gentleman, on whose history Froissart would have loved to linger, who spoke this last address to his army, which is still remembered by the peasants of the Morbihan—“If I advance, follow me; if I retreat, slay me; if I fall, avenge me!” Another of this heroic family was a dashing officer of carabineers under the Empire; and on the battle-field of the Moskowa he maintained the old valour of the house of Larochejaquelein. Count Louis, the father of the present Marquis, refused to serve under Napoleon. When the flight from Elba roused Europe again from its brief tranquillity, the peasant soldiers of La Vendée gathered once more round the white banner of their chief. The insurrection was, however, soon put down, and Larochejaquelein, while in the act of leading on his men against the Imperial troops, fell with a bullet in his heart. This is an ancestry of which any man may be proud.

The present Marquis is the son of the Royalist chief of the Hundred Days, who had married the widow of his old companion in arms, the Marquis de Lescure. He was born in 1804, and at the early age of eleven was created a peer of France, under what is called the Second Restoration. He entered the military service in 1821, joined the army under the Duke d’Angoulême in 1823, and made the campaign of Spain. He was captain in the horse grenadiers of the Royal Guard in 1828, and, inheriting the military ardour which characterised his family, petitioned the king to be allowed to serve in the Greek war of independence, but was refused. He was permitted, however, to join the Russian army as a simple volunteer in the campaign of the Balkan against the Turks, “having nothing better to do,” as he himself said on one occasion in the Chamber of Deputies. Though a peer of France, he had not taken his seat in the Upper House when the revolution of 1830 broke out; and refusing to accept place, favour, or honours at the hands of the revolutionary government of July, he resigned his functions as peer of France. Endowed with remarkable activity of mind, he devoted himself for some time, and with much energy, to industrial pursuits, and gave up politics till 1842, when he was named a member of the Chamber of Deputies by the electoral college of Ploermel, in the Morbihan. During his parliamentary career he did not remain idle. He took a prominent part in most of the stormy discussions of the time: the various projects of replies to the addresses from the throne, the conscription reform law, prison reform, railroad bills, electoral reform, liberty of instruction, all found in him a ready, fluent, and vigorous, if not an eloquent debater. On all occasions he spoke out his mind frankly and boldly; and though on many occasions in opposition to his own party, as well as to the government, it is said that he never had a personal enemy in the Chamber. His conduct, when the paltry attempt was made by the servile adherents of the new régime to affix infamy on the Royalists who paid their homage to the descendant of their former master, on the occasion of the Count de Chambord’s visit to London in 1842, is beyond all praise. He rejected, with scornful indignation, the stigma attempted to be fixed on him by the Orleanists, who did not feel the sentiment of honour, and were incapable of appreciating it in others. He at once resigned his seat as deputy, and appealed from the outrage offered him by the Philippists to the judgment of the electors. The electors answered the appeal, and Ploermel sent him back to the Chamber, where he persevered in the same independent course. When the base arts of corruption employed by the government of July were to be dragged to the light of day, Larochejaquelein was never silent. “A corrupting and degrading selfishness pervades all parts of society,” he said, in the discussion of the budget in 1845. “I have, in common with the rest of the nation, given up all illusions about the constitutional forms of the state, and I have no longer any faith in their independence. On all sides, in all places, I behold the triumph of the base over the generous, of evil over good; and each day that passes by brings us nearer to a tremendous crisis—the future is indeed dark and threatening!” These prophetic words were destined to be soon realised—sooner, perhaps, than the speaker himself imagined.

We have said that M. de Larochejaquelein was a frequent and a forcible speaker on important occasions. Without much claim to what is termed oratory, his language is fluent and full of energy; and he has scarcely uttered a few sentences, when you feel that he is a man of profound convictions—and this we hold to be a great, as it is a rare, merit in times like the present. His portly presence, open brow, and flowing hair—his quick, earnest, and impassioned gesticulation, remind you of the tribune of revolutionary days. The haughty movement of his head, and the scornful expression of his eye, when repelling some unjust accusation, give him an appearance of pride, which certainly is not characteristic of him, for in private life no one can be gentler or more unaffected. You see before you the gentleman of the old souche, not the marquis of the salon, or that trifling race which the wit of Molière has perpetuated. Had the Marquis de Larochejaquelein not been born an aristocrat, he would have been a tribune of the people. Whatever be his merits or demerits as a speaker or a politician, he possesses, at all events, the courage, the audacity of his opinions. He was devoted to the Bourbons of the elder branch (and they have not always paid his devotedness with gratitude), not for interest, but for honour, from family traditions; and were not the days of chivalry all but extinct in what was once a nation of cavaliers, and were men again to combat for dynasties in France, we are inclined to think that he would be among the first to place his lance in rest, as his ancestors did before him; and yet, if we are to judge from recent events, neither the hereditary devotedness of his family to the cause which was so often sealed with their blood, nor the sacrifices (and we are informed they are not few) which he himself has made to it, have won him the favour of the court of Frohsdorf. On the contrary, we believe that he has been exposed to all the persecution that petty malignity can set at work; and we know that attempts have, on many occasions, been made to ruin him among the primitive peasantry of La Vendée and the Morbihan. His position with reference to his own party became so intolerable, that he has considered it necessary to publish, in a small volume, a review of the state of parties in France in 1853, and which is, at the same time, a vindication of his own conduct.

The work is curious and instructive. It notices the events which have recently occurred in France; and though the causes which led to that very decided act of vigour known as the coup-d’état of December 1851, have been long since known to the public, and appreciated by impartial men, a narrative bearing the impress of truth, and penned by one of the actors in the drama, cannot fail to be interesting. We do not concur in all the views of M. de Larochejaquelein, nor do we agree in all his deductions; but we readily admit the truth of his sketch of political parties in France previous to the month of December, of the intrigues of the Orleanist faction, their hypocrisy and selfishness, their utter recklessness of consequences, provided but a chance was afforded them, no matter at what cost to the country, of recovering the power for which they had shown themselves unfit, and of which they were deprived almost without an effort. In all this we agree; and we confess we are not a little pleased at finding the opinions we have already had occasion to express on these points fully borne out by one who has so intimate a knowledge of affairs. We believe that the French press has, with one or two exceptions, passed over in silence the work of M. de Larochejaquelein; and we are not much surprised at that silence. It is some time since all political intercourse has ended between him and the persons who compose the court of Frohsdorf. These persons, we fear, too truly represent the extravagant opinions and the intolerant conduct of the men who contributed by their evil counsels to the overthrow of the legitimate monarchy. They are the same of whom it has been said, and said truly, that they returned from their long exile, having learned nothing and forgotten nothing; and were the Count de Chambord to be restored to the throne of his ancestors, their policy would again lead to its overthrow. We desire to speak with respect of the present chief of the house of Bourbon. We admire the dignity of his bearing; the position he has assumed with respect to the Orleans family; the proud refusal to make any sacrifice of what he considered to be a principle, even though that sacrifice increased the number of his partisans; the firmness with which he maintains his superiority over those who despoiled him—the innocent victim of base intriguers, and a successful insurrection—of his rights. But we fear that he allows himself to be too much influenced in certain matters by a coterie composed of persons of antiquated notions, and who do not appear to have any conception of the progress made in the social and political world during the last half-century. The errors of that coterie are exposed by M. de Larochejaquelein; and that exposure will not narrow the distance which separates him from his party, or rather from the court of Frohsdorf. The unpalatable truth he tells will not easily be forgiven; and the Legitimist organs of the press have considered it more prudent to pass them over without notice or contradiction. The organs of what is called the Fusion have been equally discreet, and with one or two exceptions the other journals have imitated their discretion, either because they considered his sketch not sufficiently Buonapartist to merit unqualified praise, or too much so for censure. The object of the Marquis de Larochejaquelein, who still professes to be a Legitimist in principle, is to show that he has been guilty of no inconsistency in giving in his adhesion to the imperial government, and that he has not discarded the opinions he always professed; that he has not denied the name he bears, nor renounced the political faith in which he was brought up, by accepting that régime, and taking, as a member of the Senate, the oaths of allegiance to the Emperor and the constitution. It is principally in this respect that the interest of the book consists, and we have noticed briefly and impartially the conduct of the writer, and that of a certain number of his fellow-Legitimists who have, equally with himself, comprehended the imminent danger their common country was exposed to, and availed themselves of the only means of safety left at their disposal.

The offence committed by M. de Larochejaquelein, and which the more intolerant of the Royalist party do not pardon, is not of recent date. He was a Legitimist, it is true, but he was also attached to constitutional government. He preferred a sovereign who inherited a crown from his ancestors, but he was likewise the supporter of representative institutions. But so many catastrophes—so many revolutions had passed over France—so many governments had been overthrown and institutions subverted, that all notions of right and justice, as of government, were completely lost. The actors in the first Republic denounced all monarchical forms, as not only incompatible with human rights, but actually opposed to common sense itself—in fact, something monstrous and unnatural. After convulsing all Europe, and utterly changing the country where it first broke into mad violence, that Revolution became exhausted from its very excesses; the Republic fell into contempt; but the terror inspired by it was such, that then, as in more recent days, people were glad to take shelter in any government that promised security to life and property. The great object of the Consulate, as of the Empire, was to obliterate the last traces of a system which had cost France so dear. That régime was so great and so dazzling that the loss of liberty was soon forgotten; and the yoke that pressed on the nation was the less galling because it was concealed in glory; and Frenchmen consoled themselves for not being free, because their master was a hero.

That brilliant meteor, after blinding the world with its splendour, and awing it by its power, fell into darkness. The ancient line was restored; and the Restoration in turn began by proclaiming the imperial rule as a usurpation; and Louis XVIII., in the charter of 1814, dated his reign, not from his return to France and the fall of Napoleon, but from the death of his nephew, the son of Louis XVI.;—as if the imperial epoch, with all its marvellous events, had never existed, and as if the account popularly, but erroneously, attributed to the famous Father Loriquet, was exact, that there had been no such government as the Republic, and that the man who was generally believed to have ruled the French nation despotically, but not ingloriously, for fourteen years, was in reality only Monsieur le Marquis de Buonaparte, lieutenant-general in the service of his most Christian Majesty.

Next came the Revolution of July, which proclaimed that Charles X. had forfeited his right to the crown, for himself and his heirs—who, however, were admitted to have done nothing to merit that forfeiture—by the manner in which he interpreted the 14th article of the charter, which, nevertheless, authorised him “to make regulations and ordinances necessary for the execution of the laws and the safety of the state.”—(Charte Constitutionnelle de 1814.) Republican writers (Dictionnaire Politique, p. 216) admit that the aforesaid article left to the king “the dangerous privilege of being the sole judge of the necessity of the case;” though they refused to recognise that or any other article of a charter which had been octroyée, or issued by royal authority alone. The responsible advisers whom Charles X. consulted, were of opinion that his conduct in issuing the famous ordinances was legal. The Orleanist revolution denounced that act as a violation of the charter, and declared that Charles X. had broken some imaginary compact between him and his people, and had forfeited the crown. This was admitting, to all intents and purposes, the right of armed insurrection. The principle thus admitted by the new régime was often turned against itself; and the right of overthrowing the government was many times tried during the reign of Louis Philippe. Various insurrections broke forth, which were successively put down; but had any of them succeeded, Louis Philippe would long before 1848 have been accused, on equally just grounds, of a violation of the new charter, and consequent forfeiture of the crown, as his predecessor. At length his turn came; and at the very moment that most people believed the throne of July to be fixed on the surest basis, the insurrection of February in a few hours overthrew that which had already triumphed over so many previous dangers. Louis Philippe rose to power on the barricades of July;—that power was laid prostrate by the same means. He, in turn, was proclaimed a usurper of the people’s rights, a violater of public liberty, and condemned to execration. It is not strange, therefore, if the minds of men became bewildered amid so many conflicting doctrines. There no longer appeared any fixed standard by which to judge of authority. Monarchy in its absolute form was decried by some; constitutional monarchy by others. Monarchy under any denomination, or under any form whatever, was denounced by many as an outrage on human reason. Some maintained that a republican rule was hateful to the immense majority of the nation, and that France only desired a fair opportunity to declare its will. Under such circumstances what was to be done? The Royalists did not conceal that they only endured the Republic until an occasion offered for re-establishing their own form of government. Each party maintained that it, and it alone, represented the wants and wishes of the people; while the unhappy people, in whose name, and on whose behalf, all this had been done, stood by in silent dismay, and bent to the yoke which each faction that got uppermost imposed upon it. All was confusion, anarchy, chaos;—and the country, whose wellbeing was the pretext, rapidly approached the brink of ruin.

Under such circumstances, we again ask, what was to be done? The Marquis de Larochejaquelein thought that the only way of solving the problem was by an appeal to the very people in whose name every outrage was successively perpetrated; and calling upon it to declare, once for all, frankly and freely, what form of government it preferred—whether monarchy legitimate or constitutional, or a republic. From the day he took his seat in the Chamber of Deputies until the 2d December, when the National Assembly was dissolved by the coup-d’état, such was his constant theme. He denied the legitimacy of the Orleans monarchy of July, and refused to recognise the right of two hundred deputies, a portion of only one branch of the legislature, to exceed the terms of their mission, and to bestow sovereign power on any one. He expressed his belief that France would, if an occasion offered, return to the government of her legitimate sovereign, and he did not conceal that such was the motive for his appeal; but at all events he demanded that France should be consulted, and he pledged himself to abide by the issue. By such conduct he incurred the hatred of Legitimists and Orleanists;—of the former, because his doctrine was inconsistent with the principle of divine right; and of the latter, because the admission of such an appeal vitiated, ab initio, the right of the sovereign whom the two hundred deputies had, of their own sole act, given to the nation. We offer no opinion as to whether M. de Larochejaquelein would have attained his object had his plan been carried into effect, nor on the abstract fitness of such an appeal; but in so complete a dissolution of authority of every kind, and amid such a confusion of all ideas of government, it would be difficult to suggest any other experiment whereby the right of those who founded their claim on the will of the nation could be tested.

The first great offence committed by M. de Larochejaquelein consisted, as we have just seen, in his having so far deviated from the principle of divine right, as to recommend an “appeal to the nation;”—but the crime for which he can hope for no forgiveness from the court of Frohsdorf, is his having recognised the imperial government, and accepted the office of senator under it. M. de Larochejaquelein is of opinion, that after so many revolutions there was no chance for monarchy in France otherwise than by means of universal suffrage, by which the present government has been elected. He thought that the Legitimists, who had always maintained that they, and they alone, were acceptable to the nation, would run no risk in abating something of their amour propre, and in meeting the reaction half-way. If they were right, there was no fear of the result of such an appeal. The Orleanists, who were few in number and factious in conduct, would indeed be justified in shrinking from such an ordeal as the ratification of the act of two hundred deputies of the opposition; but in any case he despaired of a monarchical government in any form that attempted to establish itself on a narrower basis. “Let us now suppose,” he says (p. 190), “that monarchy were proclaimed in France otherwise than by universal suffrage, which no accredited leader of the old Royalist parties admitted. Of the three monarchical parties, two would have been in open hostility with the government, and would, as now, rely for aid on the Republicans—this time in open hostility, and with much more reason. It is, perhaps, from a feeling akin to paternal weakness that I invariably recur to this article of my political faith—If the question of Monarchy or Republic had been frankly put to the country under the Republican government, under the Republican constitution, all dynastic pretensions would vanish before traditional right, and the majority of the Republicans themselves would have submitted to the declared will of the nation. But no!—it was thought better to carry on intrigues up to the very day when the coup-d’état of the 2d December became a social and political necessity; instead of cherishing carefully that liberty which we claimed for the national will, the parties I refer to preferred reserving themselves for chances which had only the effect of prolonging our intestine divisions.”

M. de Larochejaquelein explains why he has given his adhesion to the present government, elected, as it has been, by means of that very appeal to the nation which he had, with certainly the hope of a different result, always advocated. “If I am asked,” he says (p. 214), “the reason of the humble support I give to the present government, my answer is very simple: I see before me a strong government, which has rendered real service to my country, and at this moment I do not see any other that can possibly succeed to it. The faults that have been committed are so numerous—revolutions have so exhausted our strength—events have such complete power over us—that, I confess, my reason forces me to accept the vote of eight millions of my fellow-citizens. Nevertheless, I have never been more convinced than I now am, of the excellence of the hereditary principle. Let us suppose the Emperor to have issue—he has also relations. Let us suppose the Count de Chambord to have issue—but the princes of the house of Orleans are numerous. Under such circumstances, France would be exposed for centuries to the danger resulting from the dissensions of the monarchical parties disputing among each other the possession of the crown. Hereditary right, respected by France for her own sake, saved her from the evils which perhaps were the fate of future generations, and spared us the repetition of those trials which we have already so severely felt. I will be frank. The reason that many Legitimists support the government is, that they do not wish on any account, or any terms, either Orleanism or anarchy—the one being, in their opinion, the consequence of the other. Were there no other motive than to destroy the chance of either, the persons I speak of are of opinion that they ought not to refuse taking part in the affairs of their country. Europe is equally interested with us that the principle of the Revolution should not be represented on the throne of France by a new family usurpation, for there is no sovereign that such usurpation should not alarm.”

The reign of Louis Philippe was the reign of the bourgeoisie—of the revolutionary shopkeepers of Paris. The scepticism of the eighteenth century had extended to morals—the mockery that assailed religion gradually undermined society—and all notions about virtue, honour, independence, were destroyed by a blighting incredulity. We are no believers in what is termed the perfectibility of human nature, but we do not think that, even with the most mercantile people of the world, a love of gain is incompatible with ideas of personal and national honour. The all-powerful bourgeoisie of the Orleanist régime was not a good specimen of that class; it carried into political life the characteristics of its social life. Insolent and overbearing in prosperity, it was fawning and mean in adversity. A difference is always observable between the bearing of a gentleman—and by the term we refer as much to moral as to social superiority, as the gentleman of nature may be found in all classes—and the mere upstart, and in France it was perhaps more striking than elsewhere. Dignified humility, lofty submission, obedience that implies no forgetfulness, no sacrifice of self-respect, loyalty which cannot be degraded even in political servitude, a sense of personal honour which despotism cannot wound, are far different from the pertness of the parvenu, the nervous pedantry of the doctrinaire, or the fawning of the sycophant. The one inclines low, with a consciousness of just subordination to high station; but after so inclining he stands up with erect face: the other falls to the dust prostrate. The aristocratic courtier will offer the incense of his adulation, but his censer is not rudely flung in the eyes of his royal master, and his homage is not without grace and dignity. His words may be soft and insinuating, but he will not change his nature. To use the language of one who knew both classes well, he may stoop to pick up his master’s hat or handkerchief, but it is the act of polite attention to superior rank, and not the mercenary subserviency of a valet; and there is an air of equality about it which shocks no one, and does not offend the personage to whom it is paid. We rather think that, generally speaking, a prince prefers selecting his ministers from the class of plebeians, because he believes he shall be served by them as mere mercenaries; while the others he must treat as servants of his crown, and no otherwise. It is mentioned as one of the anecdotes of the Court of Louis Philippe, whose fault was want of dignity, that, one day, wishing to gain over to some project of family interest, on which he had set his heart, one of his ministers, he offered him, in a familiar, off-hand, and half-contemptuous manner, a portion of the fruit he was at the moment eating. The minister appeared much flattered, bowed low, and accepted the royal gift. We are not aware whether the bribe produced the effect intended, but we much doubt if the citizen-king would have treated with such disdainful familiarity a Montmorency, a Noailles, or a Molé.

The effect produced by the exclusiveness of the July régime was such as might have been expected. It was inculcated that the primary object of man’s existence was the gratification of his meaner passion;—success in the pursuit of wealth without any close examination as to the means by which it was acquired, was regarded as the summum bonum; the enrichissez-vous so often repeated in the banquet and electioneering speeches of even the most eminent of Louis Philippe’s ministers (though we readily admit that no such incentive influenced the person who so spoke) were the leading maxims of that system. Fidelity to principles, faith in high and noble aspirations, were rather sneered at as the ravings of the imagination, suited perhaps to the age of romance; and strong attachment to traditions was referred to as a folly unworthy of men of sense. The bourgeois were often assured that they alone were the sovereign; that they alone were eminent in eloquence and in thought; that to them alone belonged the gifts of the earth; that they alone, provided they were men of substance, were superior in the social as in the moral scale; that to them belonged all distinctions as a matter of right; that they only were fit to occupy eminent posts in every branch of the administration, and in fact that in their hands were exclusively placed the destinies of the state. They who thus extravagantly exalted the pursuit of mere material interests, were destined to pay dearly for the lessons they had taught. Faith and reverence for the past had been held up to contempt by the new school of statesmen; but the doctrines that had been inculcated for the overthrow of the former dynasty, were equally applicable to the modern one, and the Revolution of February was the consequence. Empty and dogmatic, the real bourgeois—the bourgeois whose stupidity or conceit makes him sure good material in the hands of the revolutionists—has nevertheless pretensions to nothing less than universal knowledge. Jealous of all superior to him in social position, and insolent to those below him, he would drag down the former to his own level, but would not permit the latter to rise to it. With the examples yet before him, and the preceptors he had to guide him, he could not be a bourgeois such as July encouraged, without being somewhat of an infidel. The reverence for religious forms that characterised his fathers, was in his opinion fit for times of ignorance, but not for the enlightened nineteenth century. He had dipped here and there into the Philosophical Dictionary of Voltaire; he could sneer at the Mosaic chronology; be witty on the description of Noah’s Ark; was incredulous about the Deluge; and laughed outright at the Passage of the Red Sea. He had read the Origine de tous les Cultes of Dupuis, and could quote whole pages from Volney. He was therefore a philosopher. With those severer studies he mingled the lighter graces of wit and poetry, and for these accomplishments he was indebted to the doggrel of the “philosopher of Ferney” in Joan of Arc; the Guerre des Dieux of Parny, and the looser songs of Beranger. To show that he thoroughly appreciated these great masters, and that he was superior to popular prejudice, he would not enter the doors of a church, as the observances of religion were only fit for women and children. To prove his independence, and to give “a lesson to the government,” he would not pay the just respect, which degrades no man, to the accredited representative of authority; but he would fall on his knees to worship the merest political mountebank. He incessantly clamoured about equality, and decried the aristocracy if he happened to see a carriage, with a coronet or armorial bearings, roll by him; but his pride was up if a struggling artist or poor man of letters addressed him otherwise than with cap in hand. The noisy advocate of social and political liberty, there was no greater despot in his domestic circle. His house-porter crouched before him, and his servants grew dumb when they heard the creak of his shoe. Railing against the “upper classes,” his ambition was to scrape acquaintance with some decayed viscount, some equivocal marquis; and if he had a visit from some one who bore a title, the coroneted card lay for whole months in full view on the central table of his drawing-room, or was stuck in the most conspicuous part of the looking-glass frame. His personal pomposity was increased the more he was disposed to corpulence, and his boldness was decisive proof of the superiority of his intellect. Our worthy bourgeois was rather hard to be pleased. When the political world was tranquil, he passed his leisure hours in running down the government; and though no one had more experienced the mischief of agitation, he generally voted for its most dangerous adversaries: not because he approved of their principles, or that the ministerial candidates were not honourable men, but because he was determined to let no opportunity pass of making the king and his government feel that he, M. St Godibert, was not pleased with them, and would “give them a lesson.” These lessons occasionally cost the teacher very dear; and when agitation, warmed by himself into incipient insurrection, grew dangerous, he was sure to be the first to accuse the government of having excited it for its own special purposes. When insurrection was defeated, he again blamed the government for excessive lenity in the punishment of those who disturbed the public peace; and when all peril was over, and a complete lull ensued, then he accused the same government of excessive cruelty to those who a day or two before were the infame canaille, but who now were his frères egarés—his deluded brethren and fellow-citizens.

These were the men who served as the instruments to bring about the Revolution of July, and these were they who were feasted and flattered until they were led to believe themselves the only beings on earth worthy of consideration. Such specimens were of course to be met with as employés in the various ministerial departments. Nothing could be more insolent, or more griping, than the general run of those underlings. The recommendation “enrichissez-vous,” coming, as it did, from the first minister of the crown, was not forgotten;—he was one of the few who did not carry out for himself his own theory; but we fear that the love of power, which was in him a passion, induced him to tolerate, or at least not to prevent, the scandalous jobbing which it was known was going on—for it is not credible that such things could be done in secret. A government where such men enjoy, in consequence of their position, a great though underhand influence, is humiliating for an honourable man to live under. There is something more respectable in the audacity with which the insurgent flings out his crimson flag, and eyes, as he passes through the richest quarters of Paris, the trembling bourgeois, whose fine mansion he has already marked out, than in the system which admits as its principal instruments the rapacious and insolent underlings, who too often had the ministerial ear under the Orleans régime.

As for the representative system in France during the period of which we speak, it was a farce. Two hundred thousand electors, for a population of thirty-three or thirty-four millions, was not much better than an oligarchy, and the worst of all oligarchies, for its corruption was its bond of union, as was proved by the disclosures made to the world towards the conclusion of Louis Philippe’s reign, when some of the highest functionaries were dragged before the tribunals for mal-practices; and we believe that there were other persons who did not regret that the Revolution of February came to save them from public disgrace. A minister who wishes to be regarded as a philosopher and a statesman, should try to purify his age rather than corrupt it; and it is as immoral as impolitic to encourage the baser passions of men in order to keep yourself in power, however clean your own conscience, and virtuous your purposes. Such things might be palliated in so loose a politician as Walpole; but they would shock and disgust were they, by the remotest chance, to be found in so austere a moralist as Guizot.

Some time previous to the coup-d’état of 1851, a new scheme was formed by the Orleanists, who were tired of the forced leisure to which the successful imitation, in February 1848, of the example set by themselves in 1830, condemned them. The object of this new project was the complete reconciliation of the elder and younger branches of the Bourbon family, and of the two important sections of the Royalist party, with a view to a restoration, on the expiry of the presidential power in May 1852, by a coup-d’état on the part of the majority of the National Assembly, a successful rising of the people or the army, or, in fact, any other means that offered. None of those eventualities were, it is true, expressed in the journals that acted as organs of the party, but they were so understood by all the initiated. Each party looked forward to the term fixed by the constitution for Louis Napoleon to lay down his power, for the triumph of its cause. The Mountain took no pains to conceal its designs; and not unfrequently, amid the stormy debates which raged in the Assembly, the “second Sunday in May” 1852 was declared to be the date when full vengeance was to be exacted from Legitimists, Orleanists, Buonapartists, and “reactionists” of every kind and colour. As that fatal term approached, the Orleanists, who surpass all others in intrigue, and such of the Legitimists as were credulous enough to trust them, and simple enough to be led by them, did their utmost to rouse the revolutionary demon in the Chamber, and on several occasions openly coalesced with the Terrorists. The Republicans suspected, as every one who knew him must have suspected, the sincerity of M. Thiers; and though they were fully aware of his real motive for seeking admittance into their ranks, their passions would not allow them to refuse the co-operation of any ally, and they relied, besides, on their own courage and energy against treachery when the important moment arrived. On the other hand, the Royalists were full of confidence in their success, if the preliminary and indispensable condition of reconciliation were adopted, and they agreed that France would not again submit to the brutal tyranny of some three hundred Socialists. Their ordinary language was, that, even at the worst, the “promised land” would at length be reached through the Red Sea—the “promised land” being, of course, the Royalist restoration; and the “Red Sea” the massacre and pillage it would be necessary for France to traverse before it was attained. The leaders of the Royalists, superior in all the arts of intrigue to their more brutal rivals, were vastly inferior to them in energy of action. During a brief régime of terror they would disappear, if necessary, and remain in some place of safety until France, exhausted and panic-stricken, threw herself into their arms, when they would at once establish a dictatorship. Louis Napoleon was, in their opinion, the obstacle easiest to be got rid of; they would leave his account to be settled by the Republicans, in case they themselves had not previously got him out of the way. As for any difficulties on this latter point, they considered that it was absurd to think of them. Louis Napoleon had, according to them, fallen into such contempt with the army and the nation, that not a finger would be raised to save him. M. Thiers, and other great statesmen like him, had, not merely in the saloons of Paris, and in his own particular circle, but openly in the Salle des pas Perdus, and the corridors of the National Assembly, sneered at him as “a poor creature;” and the redoubted General Changarnier himself—on whom, by the way, the eyes of the whole world were fixed—had more than once insulted him in the Chamber, and in his official quarters in the Tuileries. Louis Napoleon, therefore, was so utterly scorned as to be made the butt for continual sarcasm in the saloons of an old foreign intriguante, long resident in Paris; and this was his last degradation. The only doubt was, whether imprisonment at Vincennes would not be investing such a miserable being with too much importance. The ditch of Vincennes would be much better, and if a few ignorant persons thought him of consequence, why, an ounce of lead would quiet their fears. Some of the more judicious and far-seeing of the political leaders of the day, very properly considered that the main object they had in view would be materially advanced, if, as we have said, a reconciliation could be effected between the partisans of the Count de Chambord and the Orleanists. The idea originated with the latter. A meeting was held of about a dozen persons at first, in order to explain the plan which had been formed, and to organise what was termed a “fusionist agitation.” Other meetings, more numerously attended, were held at brief intervals; and it was resolved to send out agents to influential persons in the departments to win them over to the cause of the fusion—the fusion having for object the restoration of the Bourbons; and the parties who were engaged in it were precisely the same men who, in the press and in the Assembly, expressed their preference for the government as established in February, and who denounced the man who was suspected of an intention to attack the immaculate purity of the young and as yet innocent Republic. The first step of the fusionists was directed to the chief of the house of Bourbon and the princes of Orleans. But the Count de Chambord refused to sacrifice a particle of what he considered to be his just rights. He was King of France, and the only representative of legitimate royalty of his family, and he would consent to no divided allegiance. The princes of Orleans had been princes of the blood before their father had usurped the crown, and they must remain so. Past wrongs and injuries he was not unwilling to forgive; he would not be very exacting in matters of secondary importance, but on the great principle that the sovereignty resided in him since the abdication of the Duke d’Angoulême, which followed that of Charles X., he would hear of no compromise. On the other hand, the princes of Orleans would not admit of any act which had the effect of making their father a usurper; they were the more induced to do so that they were receiving from their agents in France, and particularly in Paris, assurances that great popular sympathy existed for them; and in fact, that to the house of Orleans alone the nation was looking for salvation! At the same time it was known that the Prince de Joinville was doing something on his own account with reference to the presidency of the Republic. Relying on the popularity he enjoyed to a greater degree than any of his family, he seems to have entertained some hopes of success. With the prudence which characterised his father, he would not, however, commit himself to any declaration; would neither deny nor admit that he was a candidate for the presidency; would neither avow nor disavow the acts of his friends; he might profit by their exertions, but if they failed, he would leave them to all the consequences of their defeat, and, in the latter case, would very probably disavow them. This, it will be admitted, was not very frank, or straightforward, or princely. It can scarcely be believed that the Prince de Joinville had all at once become a Republican; and it is not unfair to conclude, that, if successful, he would have employed his position as President to the restoration of his family. The mistrust of the house of Orleans that had characterised the elder Bourbons—and its history proves how their mistrust was justified—was increased by that conduct; and the Count de Chambord was disgusted with the policy which permitted, without disavowal, the name of his cousin to be spoken of by his partisans in Paris as the candidate for the future presidency of the Republic. M. Thiers did not, after all, approve of the fusion. It was sufficient that the suggestion of a reconciliation had proceeded from a rival of whom he had been always jealous, for that clever and restless intriguer to set his face against it. His utmost energies were devoted to secure the establishment of a regency in the person of the Duchess of Orleans, mother of the Count de Paris, whose confidential adviser he was, and whose minister he hoped to be. A restoration by means of the fusion would seriously interfere with his private plans, and he gave it therefore his most decided opposition. To secure at any cost the services of the man who at that time commanded the army of Paris, and whose influence over the vast military force of the Republic was long believed to be unbounded, was a great object. That man had unquestionably rendered services to order. But his head had been turned by adulation arising from gratitude for past and hopes of future services; and he at length came to believe that on him alone depended the fate of France. He was flattered with the idea that the part of Monk was reserved for him; and to enhance the value of his co-operation, he coquetted with both parties, and affected an air of mysterious reserve, which rendered him equally impenetrable to all. That reserve was carried on so long that it began to be whispered that General Changarnier would, when matters came to the point, declare neither for the one party nor the other, but would offer himself as candidate for the Presidency. This rumour was absurd; and the silence of the general, who was Legitimist by tradition rather than from principle, and an Orleanist from interest and habit, was nothing more than the usual coquetry in which he apparently took much delight. In fact, he remained dreaming away till the coup-d’état rudely woke him and others from their slumber. Of the possibility of a fusion of interests between these parties, or of a sincere reconciliation between the elder and younger branches of the royal family, we entertain very serious doubts.

The house of Orleans had been, from the time of the Regent, of infamous memory, fatal to the elder Bourbons. It was the evil genius that haunted them from the cradle to the grave. The government of Louis Philippe repaid the benefits conferred on the house of Orleans with ingratitude. One of its earliest acts was the introduction of a measure for the perpetual banishment of the elder Bourbons, and for the compulsory sale of the property they held in France. They who have been shocked, and, we readily admit, justly shocked, at the decree of the 22d January 1852, confiscating to the state the appanages which, according to the usages of the French monarchy, should have reverted to the state at the accession of a prince of the royal family, and at the compulsory sale of the Orleans property, may have forgotten that that decree was but an imitation of the legislative enactment of the 10th April 1832. We condemn, on principle, such acts of confiscation; they are replete with injustice; but we cannot help feeling that the decree of the 22d January 1852, all bad as it was, was an act of retribution. Signal ingratitude is seldom left unpunished; and while we reprobate the conduct of Louis Napoleon, we cannot say that the house of Orleans was wholly undeserving of the treatment it met with. The sentence of perpetual exile, and confiscation of property, was passed by the Restoration on the Buonaparte family. That family owed no gratitude to the Bourbons; but the princes of Orleans were bound by the strongest ties of gratitude to them. On the 10th April 1832, the law was promulgated relative to the elder branch of the Bourbons and the family of Napoleon. The law bore, of course, the signature Louis Philippe, and the counter-signature of M. Barthe, Louis Philippe’s Minister of Justice. The 1st, 2d, 3d, and 6th articles were as follows: “1st, The territory of France and of its colonies is interdicted for ever to Charles X., deposed as he is from the royal dignity in virtue of the declaration of the 7th August 1830; it is also interdicted to his descendants, and to the husbands and wives of his descendants. 2d, The persons mentioned in the preceding article shall not enjoy in France any civil rights; they shall not possess any property real or personal; they shall not acquire any, gratuitous or otherwise. 3d, The aforesaid persons are bound to sell, in a definitive manner, the whole of the property, without exception, which they possess in France. That sale shall be effected, for the unencumbered property, within the year dating from the promulgation of the present law; and for the property susceptible of liquidation, within the year dating from the period at which the right of possession shall have been irrevocably fixed. 6th, The provisions of the first and second articles of the present law are applicable to the ascendants and descendants of Napoleon, to his uncles and aunts, his nephews and nieces; to his brothers, their wives and their descendants; to his sisters and their husbands.” This law against the benefactors and the kinsmen of Louis Philippe was not enacted in the first heat of animosity, and the first impulse of revenge for real or fancied wrongs, which, immediately following a great revolution, might have been alleged as a palliation. It was enacted one year and nine months after the Revolution of July, when the passions of political parties, so far as they affected the unfortunate Charles X. and his family, had time to cool down. A high-minded man would have preferred forfeiting even the crown of France, glorious though it be, to putting his signature to such a document. The public and private virtues of the Orleans family have been enlarged upon even to satiety. State reasons may be alleged as an excuse for things which morality condemns; but the vaunted qualities of that family should have placed them above any such justification. State reasons may be alleged for the perpetration of any enormity. We have no doubt that Catherine II. could allege them for the partition of Poland; and the Emperor Nicholas justifies his present conduct towards the Ottoman Empire quite as satisfactorily. Pretensions to virtues far superior to those of ordinary men should, however, place those who are so gifted out of ordinary rules. We have said that we reprobate the decree of the 22d January 1852, but we have no doubt that Louis Napoleon justified that arbitrary act by the law of 1832. The house of Orleans renewed the sentence of perpetual banishment against the family of Napoleon, and of incapability to possess property in the French territory. Louis Philippe owed a heavy debt of gratitude to Charles X. and his family; we have seen how that debt was paid off; no such obligation bound the Buonapartes to the house of Orleans.

But there existed another obstacle in the way of reconciliation between the elder and younger branches of the Bourbons—another outrage which it is scarcely in human nature to forget. The Orleanist party had protested in 1820 against the legitimacy of the present Count de Chambord. In that year a document appeared in London, entitled “Protest of the Duke of Orleans.” It was headed as follows: “His Royal Highness declares that he protests formally against the minutes of the 29th September last, which pretend to establish that the child named Charles Ferdinand Dieu-Donné is the legitimate son of the Duchess of Berri. The Duke of Orleans will produce, in fitting time and place, witnesses who can prove the origin of that child and its mother. He will produce all the papers necessary to show that the Duchess of Berri has never been enceinte since the unfortunate death of her husband, and he will point out the authors of the machination of which that very weak-minded princess has been the instrument. Until such time as the favourable moment arrives for disclosing the whole of that intrigue, the Duke of Orleans cannot do otherwise than call attention to the fantastical scene which, according to the above-mentioned minutes, has been played at the Pavilion Marsan (the apartment of the Duchess of Berri at the Tuileries.)” The paper then repeats the whole of the account of the accouchement as it appeared in the Journal de Paris, the confidential journal of the government, and shows the alleged contradictions in it, with the view of proving that the whole was an imposture. The Protest and the accompanying details to which we have alluded, were republished in the Courrier Français of the 2d August 1830; and the Courrier Français was devoted to the Orleanist dynasty.

But those are not the only humiliations which the elder Bourbons have suffered from the family of Orleans; and when we are told that the son of the Duchess of Berri is about to take to his bosom the sons of the man who laid bare to the world’s mockery the weakness of his mother, we are called upon to believe that that son has become lost to every manly sentiment. We doubt much if this be the case. There can be no sincerity on the part of the Orleanists who first suggested the fusion. They well know that, in the event of a Legitimist restoration, the men who overthrew the throne of his grandfather and drove him into exile, who resisted all attempts to restore them to their country, can never be his advisers—if he be what we hope he is. Could the Duchess of Berri receive at her levee the purchasers of the Jew Deutz, or those who signed and gave to publication the medical report of Blaye? It is a vile intrigue, got up for the sole benefit of the Orleanists. It was not out of love for the house of Bourbon, but from hatred to Louis Napoleon, that the fusion originated; and we agree with M. de Larochejaquelein when he says that “the Orleanists and Legitimists, not being able to effect a fusion of love, try to effect one of hatred, with the predetermined resolution to tear each other to pieces hereafter, and with a violence all the greater from the consciousness that one party was tricked by the other, if indeed both were not tricked.”

The Legitimists are no match for their rivals in cunning—in the lower arts of Machiavellism—in what is vulgarly but expressively termed la politique de cuisine. In 1848 the former occupied a much better position than the latter. The régime they had combated for eighteen long years was at length overthrown, and the comparison between the fall of their sovereign and that of the “citizen” king was infinitely in favour of the former.

Charles X. retired slowly before his enemies, and with all the dignity of a defeat which is not dishonourable, nor dishonouring. In the most critical moments, and when menaced with great danger, he never forgot who and what he was. He assumed no disguise; he put on no menial livery; and to the last moment of his embarkation for the land of his exile, his friends had no cause to blush for him. He was throughout a king—“Ay, every inch a king!” Whatever the faults he may have committed when on the throne—and we are free to admit that his rule was far from faultless—there was no loss of personal dignity in his descent from it. If the revolution of February succeeded without the co-operation of the Legitimists, it was not against them that it was directed, nor was it the Legitimists who were to be conquered. And yet, in the course of a very few months, the party became completely subordinate to their more clever and more unscrupulous rivals. It is true that in the first movement, when anarchy was wildest, the instinct of self-preservation from the evils which menaced society itself, bound all men of order, without reference to party, against the common enemy, Socialism. But it is difficult to understand, when the impossibility of a Republican system was recognised, when the necessity of substituting another form of government was evident to all, how the Legitimists allowed themselves to be seduced by their enemies. A snare in the form of the “fusion” was laid for them, and they easily fell into it. It would be a waste of time to detail all the manœuvres, the negotiations, the conferences, the schemes for the realisation of that idea. There was nothing positive or real at bottom. Everything was left to chance. It was soon evident that neither of the parties was sincere; each tried to deceive the other. Some of the more confident, or the more audacious, suggested that propositions should be made to Louis Napoleon himself; and among the Legitimists there were found persons silly enough to believe that he would, notwithstanding all the chances in his favour, derived from the spontaneous election of the 10th December 1848, gladly co-operate in the restoration of a prince of the house of Bourbon. The name of General Changarnier was proposed as the person to whom the dictatorship was to be intrusted until such time as the Royalist restoration was accomplished. A dictatorship was the great object with all parties: the Socialists, in order that France should be regenerated according to their peculiar ideas; the “moderate Republicans” would have selected General Cavaignac, as they did after the insurrection of June, and would have tried once more to force their system on a terrified population; the Legitimists and Orleanists looked to a dictatorship as the surest means toward a Royalist restoration, though it was not decided among them who was to be the future sovereign. The Orleanists counted much on their cleverness to beat their allies out of the field—allies in the moment of uncertainty and danger, but foes to be got rid of at any cost when the booty came to be divided. “In 1849,” says M. de Larochejaquelein, “I was one of those who wished at least to maintain the Republic, in order to insure the union of all that was reasonable and patriotic in the country; to call on France to put an end, once for all, to revolutions; and our object was to form the electoral committee, known afterwards by the name of the Committee of the Rue de Poitiers. I had been chosen by the Legitimists; but when we met, I requested to have it explained to me for what reason the committee was only composed of Orleanists and Legitimists. It appeared to me fitting and proper that the more judicious and moderate Republicans should form at least a third part of our committee, as we had at heart hopes of a different kind. I was told that the committee did not wish for Republicans, simply because it did not wish for the Republic. I demanded why, out of sixty members of the committee, forty-five belonged to the Orleanists, and only fifteen to the Legitimist party. An ex-minister replied that, though the party of legitimacy was, no doubt, honourable, yet that it formed a very small minority, while the other was in fact the nation. Not being of that opinion, I withdrew, and I declined being made use of as an instrument for the restoration to the throne of France of the revolutionary monarchy of 1830.” The division and weakness of those parties is further illustrated in this passage: “There remained another means of which the intimate confidants of the Count de Chambord were dupes—a plan which was never admitted except by them, and the impossibility of which was evident—namely, to bring about a restoration through the instrumentality of the Legislative Assembly itself. Without understanding what they were doing, the parliamentary Legitimists of 1850 directed all their efforts to renew the act of 1830, when 219 deputies, without right of any kind, and with the most flagrant disregard of their duty, presumed to change the form of Government. The Assembly was divided into so many parties that it was in vain to hope for a majority for that object. It is true that towards the close of the Assembly all parties made a desperate attempt to combat Buonapartism; but the moment that a serious proposition was made to substitute a government for that of the President, it was found that concord did not and could not exist between two of the great parties who composed that Assembly.”

M. de Larochejaquelein gives some interesting details of the secret intrigues of the Orleanists to win over the Legitimists to the “fusion;” and it is amusing to find how both parties were deeply engaged in the duty of allotting crowns and imposing conditions on pretenders, up to the very eve of the coup-d’état. We had already become acquainted, through the channel of the public press, with the intrigues which made the presidency of Louis Napoleon one continued agitation, and we are not sorry to have the testimony of one who was an eye and an ear witness of the whole. “I appeal,” says M. de Larochejaquelein, “to the good faith of all political men—Is it, or is it not, true, that the idea of the most confidential advisers of the house of Orleans was to induce the Count de Chambord to abdicate in favour of the Count de Paris? Is it, or is it not true, that they urged the adoption of the Count de Paris by the Count de Chambord, even to the prejudice of the issue of the latter, supposing that he had any? Is it, or is it not true, that on the eve of the 2d December, certain persons who were the most influential, who stood highest in favour at Claremont, made that monstrous proposition in the Salle des Conferences of the National Assembly, and that it produced a great effect on the Legitimist members of the Assembly? Is it, or is it not true, that the Sceptics of the party replied, with surprising impertinence, Yes, no doubt we earnestly desire the fusion! What then? But it is not our interest to oppose it. You (the Legitimists) have for a long time kept yourselves apart from public affairs. The country belongs to us. Your principle is the best; we do not dispute the fact; but, above all, it is certain that your principle (legitimacy) is necessary for us to adopt. Your prince (the Count de Chambord) may return with our royal family. He is its chief; agreed. But at the end of six months he will see what his position really is. He will see that it is impossible for him to govern with you, and without us. He has no children; he has too deep a sense of religion to be ambitious; he loves France too much to wish her to be given up to commotions which would expose her to new revolutions. He will prefer the castle of Chambord as a residence to the Tuileries. You may be certain that we shall treat him well, and we shall all be contented. The principle itself will be respected, and we shall govern France.” Such were the propositions, and such the language of the partisans of the Orleans family to the Legitimists. Not a word, of course, was said of Louis Napoleon; and these profound statesmen were thus disposing in sure confidence of the fruit of their schemes only a few hours before they were scattered like chaff before the wind by the man on whom they disdained even to pass a thought! The Orleanists were still tormented by one fear; they trembled lest the proposition so often presented to the Assembly by M. de Larochejaquelein should again be renewed at that critical moment which preceded the expiration of the presidency of Louis Napoleon. The President of the Assembly, M. Dupin, the principal agent of the Orleans family, urged, and with more than usual energy, that body to refuse its authorisation for the printing of M. Leo de Laborde’s proposition, namely, that France should, at the important moment when every faction was struggling for supremacy, be consulted as to whether she desired, or not, the re-establishment of her traditional monarchy. M. Dupin treated the question as if it were one of life or death to himself. He threw off all restraint, and resisted with his utmost efforts any measure resembling an appeal to the nation, or embodying the principle of legitimacy. “And even at the present moment,” says M. de Larochejaquelein, “the language of the Orleanists is this: ‘We find that the fusion is the best instrument of hostility against the government of Louis Napoleon, and for that object we must effect it. But if the Count de Chambord should ever become a widower, he must not think of forming a new matrimonial engagement. Should he happen to have children, he must no longer count on our support.’”

One of the hallucinations under which the Orleanists laboured was, that Louis Napoleon was in his heart devoted to them exclusively; and that when the fusion was consummated, he would transfer his power to them. That delusion survived even the coup-d’état. M. de Larochejaquelein admits, in common with all rational men, that the coup-d’état was the salvation of society itself, and they who were loudest in their applause of it were the Orleanists. “The most ardent in their approbation,” the noble writer remarks, “were the Orleanists, because they were convinced that the President was, perhaps without meaning it, working for them. The decrees of the 22d January undeceived them. From that moment they became divided into two camps, that of the extreme opponents, and that of the men who accept the government, but who yet cherish a spirit of hostility to it, more or less openly declared.”

We have often thought it extraordinary why those Legitimists who had freely taken the oaths of allegiance to Louis Philippe refused them to Louis Napoleon; and on what grounds those who yielded prompt obedience to a revolutionary system, established by some two hundred deputies, should, while demanding an appeal to the people, decline to recognise a power which is the issue of the national will. M. de Larochejaquelein professes to be unable to account for the fact. “It would be curious,” he says, “to find out the reasons on which they found that refusal. I confess that I cannot explain a proceeding of the kind, and which is so advantageous to the revolution of July. It is true that the Legitimists must be pained at seeing their hopes baffled once more; but were it only in a social point of view, they ought to give their co-operation to the government. By keeping apart, they leave the place open to the men whom they had for so many years combated, and they commit the injustice of placing on an equality the usurpation of 1830 with the election of the Emperor successively by six, by seven, and by eight millions of suffrages. Prince Louis Napoleon had overthrown nothing which was endeared to us; it was not he who had persecuted the princes who were the object of our reverence and of our devotedness; it was not he who placed the revolution on a throne; but it was he who combated the revolution. He had, in the opinion of the immense majority of the people, rendered a signal service to France by effacing beforehand the fatal term of May 1852. He made an appeal to all honest men, without distinction of party, to aid him in saving the country. The majority of Legitimists could not well disregard the will of the nation; they submitted to the verdict without sacrificing their principles.” We need not say that we approve of the policy which has preferred the good of their country to the mere gratification of party feeling or personal ambition; and we see no inconsistency in the accepting a government that has fulfilled the conditions which, in the eyes of these persons, alone justified their adhesion.

As for the Orleanists, they began in intrigue, have continued in it, and we have no reason to suppose that they will ever change. Place and power are, with very few exceptions, their object. The Palais Royal was, during the Restoration, the favourite resort, the headquarters of all the malcontents of the day: all who stirred up opposition to the government, all who intrigued against Louis XVIII. or Charles X., were welcome to the palace of “our cousin of Orleans.” They were not true even to the government of their own choice; they had overthrown one dynasty, and because M. Thiers or M. Odillon Barrot wanted the place, which M. Guizot preferred exposing the country to convulsion rather than be torn from, another dynasty was flung down after it. The tactics of the party have been always pretty much the same; revolution was evoked by them to the hypocritical cry of Vive la Charte, or Vive la Constitution. They were the men who organised, in 1829, the formidable associations against the payment of the taxes. At that time, also, as twenty years later, banquets were got up; and at one of those scenes of feasting, 221 crowns, in honour of the 221 deputies of the opposition, adorned the hall; and that nothing should be wanting to complete the resemblance, it was M. Odillon Barrot who made the speech on the 4th July 1830, which was the prelude to the fall of Charles X.—the same great citizen whose banquettings and whose orations helped to destroy the throne of Orleans in 1848—the same demagogue whose conceit led him to suppose that he alone could lay the fiend he had evoked. There was nothing too low for them to stoop to, no instrument too mean for them to reject. It was that faction that brought about the revolution of July, it was the same that helped on that of February, and it was the coalition of the fusionists with the Mountain that provoked the coup-d’état of December 1851. Where were all those eminent statesmen, those solemn orators, those sour pedants, those profound thinkers, those philosophers, those great citizens, when the widowed Duchess of Orleans faced the mob, who had been rendered infuriate by the men who were afterwards unable or afraid to control them?

It has been made a matter of reproach to Louis Napoleon, that the persons who enjoy his confidence, or preside at his councils, are obscure adventurers, of no moral or social influence; and that no man of eminence, worth, or standing, will accept either power or place in a government so degraded. This, we rather think, is too sweeping an assertion. We should like to know what was the social, moral, or political eminence of M. Thiers, when the Revolution of July brought him first into notice. If we cast our eye over the list of senators under the imperial régime, we find names there that may stand a comparison with many in the late Chamber of Peers; and as for corruption, we may point to the events that immediately preceded the Revolution of February, when some of the highest had to answer for acts which were anything but moral. It is true that some of the leading men who directed the policy of the country under Louis Philippe have taken no active part in public affairs under the imperial government. But when we hear all this talk about “eminent men” refusing office, and declining all participation in the government of the day, we are tempted to ask how had those “eminent men” managed the business of the country when they had its sole direction and control? Their government, with immense resources at its command, and after eighteen years of profound peace, was upset in a few hours by a contemptible street row.

We are not aware that M. de Larochejaquelein has been answered by any of the parties whose intrigues he has exposed. We think it would be difficult to answer him; his sketch carries with it internal evidence of its correctness. It is no answer, so far as the truth of his allegations is concerned, that he has abandoned the party with which he had been connected. We believe that he has had to undergo the petty persecutions of the coterie of Frohsdorf, who have resorted to every stratagem to destroy whatever influence his name may still carry with it in La Vendée; and, judging from his present production, he is of opinion that that coterie is not worth any man’s making any extraordinary sacrifices for them. But whatever be the motives that have influenced his conduct, or whatever the value of his “appeal to the people,” we are bound to admit, that so far he has acted consistently with his theory.

Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh.

1. The Elements of Materia Medica and Therapeutics. By Jonathan Pereira, M.D., F.R.S. Third Edition. London, 1849–50. Pp. 1538.

2. The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. Fifth Edition. London.

3. M‘Culloch’s Commercial Dictionary, edit. 1847, p. 1314.

4. Madden, Travels in Turkey, vol. i. p. 16.

5. The effects, real or imaginary, of this “juice” are thus described:—

“Sleeping within mine orchard,
My custom always of the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of mine ears did pour
The leperous distilment: whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man,

That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through

The natural gates and alleys of the body;
And, with a sudden vigour, it doth posset
And curd, like eager droppings into milk,
The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine;
And a most instant tetter bark’d about,

Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust,

All my smooth body.”—Hamlet, Act i. scene v.

6. Pereira, p. 1427.

7. English edition, p. 278, quoted in M‘Culloch’s Commercial Dictionary, p. 1314.

8. Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry. London edition of 1812, p. 167.

9. Ale was the name given to unhopped malt liquor before the use of hops was introduced. When hops were added, it was called beer, by way of distinction, I suppose, because we imported the custom from the Low Countries, where the word beer was, and is still, in common use. Ground ivy (Glechoma hederacea), called also alehoof and tunhoof, was generally employed for preserving ale before the use of hops was known. “The manifold virtues in hops,” says Gerard in 1596, “do manifestly argue the holesomeness of beere above ale, for the hops rather make it physicall drink to keep the body in health, than an ordinary drink for the quenching of our thirst.”

10. Voyage dans le Nord de la Bolivie, et dans les parties voisines du Perou. Par H. A. Weddell, M.D., &c. &c. Paris, Bertrand; London, Baillière. 1853.

Scènes et Récits des Pays d’Outre-Mer. Par Théodore Pavie. Paris, Lévy. 1853.

11. Blackwood’s Magazine, No. CCCCXXX., for August 1851.

12. The occupants of the pit at a theatre are called in Spain the mosqueteria.

13. “Be not so well pleased, Juana, to see how I suffer for thee; that which is my fate to-day, to-morrow may chance to be thine.”

14. This arm, which the gauchos throw to a distance of twenty paces, consists of three balls fastened to the same number of cords. The one held in the hand is longer than the two others.

15. History of the Captivity of Napoleon at St Helena. By John Forsyth, M.A. 3 vols. London: Murray.

16. Notes and Emendations to the Text of Shakespeare’s Plays, from Early MS. Corrections in a Copy of the Folio, 1632, in the possession of J. Payne Collier, Esq., F.S.A.; forming a Supplemental Volume to the Works of Shakespeare, by the same Editor.

The Text of Shakespeare vindicated from the Interpolations and Corruptions advocated by J. P. Collier, Esq., in his Notes and Emendations. By Samuel Weller Singer. 1853.

Old Lamps or New? A Plea for the Original Editions of the Text of Shakespeare, forming an Introductory Notice to the Stratford Shakespeare. Edited by Charles Knight. 1853.

A Few Notes on Shakespeare, with Occasional Remarks on the Emendations of the MS. Corrector in Mr Collier’s Copy of the Folio, 1632. By the Rev. Alexander Dyce. 1853.

A Few Remarks on the Emendation “Who smothers her with Painting,” in the Play of Cymbeline, discovered by Mr Collier in a Corrected Copy of the Second Edition of Shakespeare. 1852.

New Illustrations of the Life, Studies, and Writings of Shakespeare, supplementary to all Editions. By Joseph Hunter. In 2 vols. 1845.

17. A Few Notes on Shakespeare, &c., p. 22.

18. This expression, “to cry aim,” occurs, in a serious application, in the following lines from “King John,” Act II. Scene 1:—

“K. Philip.—Peace, lady; pause or be more temperate:

It ill beseems this presence, to cry aim

To these ill-tuned repetitions”—

that is, to give encouragement to these ill-tuned wranglings.

19. A Few Notes, &c., p. 50.

20. The Text of Shakespeare Vindicated, &c., p. 24.

21. Molesworth’s edition, vol. iv. p. 46.

22. See New Illustrations, &c., vol. i. p. 356.

23. L’Insurrection en Chine, depuis son Origine jusqu’à la Prise de Nankin. Par MM. Callery et Yvan. Avec une Carte topographique, et le Portrait du Prétendant. Paris: 1853.

24. Painted upon the bucklers of the Chinese soldiers are all manner of ferocious animals;—the tiger is the one most frequently seen, hence the surname. On behalf of his Celestial friend, and in extenuation of this ridiculous custom, Dr Yvan maintains that, in many of our European military equipments, the same intention of terrifying by a fierce aspect is manifest—as, for instance, in the bear-skin caps of grenadiers, hussars, &c. The Spaniards, who bear little love to any foreigners, and who are particularly given to laughing at their Portuguese neighbours, assert that there was formerly in use, in the Portuguese army, the word of command, “Rosto feroz a o enimigo!”—Ferocious face to the enemy!—upon receiving which, the soldiers looked excessively savage, showed their teeth, and made a threatening gesture. This must have been a base imitation of the Chinese. To this day the tigers, who are often faint-hearted enough, go into action making horrible grimaces. Dr Yvan gives a very curious account of the Chinese army, in which sound of gong is used instead of word of command, and the officers are stationed behind their men to prevent their running away—an exercise to which they are extremely addicted. Silence in the ranks is far from being enjoined; on the contrary, when approaching an enemy, the tigers and other wild beasts roar in character—their sweet voices, with a gong accompaniment, combining in a discord that is truly infernal. There exists a Chinese treatise on the art of war, in twenty-four volumes, entitled Ou-Pi-Tche. Its perusal is not allowed to civil mandarins below the third rank, or to military mandarins below the fourth, nor, of course, to persons of inferior degree. It is not admitted in China that a private person, a literary man, a merchant, an agriculturist, can have any good motive in studying such a work. Booksellers are permitted to keep but one copy at a time, and are compelled to register the names of purchasers. “Before beginning the war with the Celestial Empire,” Dr Yvan says, “the English procured several copies of this treatise. One day, at Canton, an American merchant mentioned this fact to a mandarin of very high rank. The mandarin struck the palm of his left hand with his fan: ‘I no longer wonder,’ he cried, ‘that the red-haired barbarians vanquished us!’”—L’Insurrection en Chine, chap. ix. pp. 119–124.

25. La France en 1853. Par Le Marquis De Larochejaquelein. Paris: 1853.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

- Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

- Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter.

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Table of Contents

- BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE. No. CCCCLIV. AUGUST, 1853. Vol. LXXIV.

- CONTENTS.
- THE NARCOTICS WE INDULGE IN.[1][2]
- SOUTH AMERICAN TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.[10]
- NAPOLEON AND SIR HUDSON LOWE.[15]
- NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.[16]
- THE INSURRECTION IN CHINA.[23]

- LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.

- PART VIII.—CHAPTER XXXVII.

- CHAPTER XXXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXXIX.

- CHAPTER XL.

- CHAPTER XLI.

- CHAPTER XLII.

- THE MARQUIS DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN.[25]

- FRANCE IN 1853.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE