The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 346, August, 1844, by Various

There are those persons now living who would give their own weight in sovereigns, though drawing against thirteen to sixteen stone, that all of this dreadful subject might be swallowed up by Lethe; that darkness might settle for ever upon the insanities of Cabool; and the grave close finally over the carnage of Tezeen. But it will not be. Blood will have blood, they say. The madness which could sport in levity with a trust of seventeen thousand lives, walks upon the wind towards heaven, coming round by gusts innumerable of angry wailings in the air; voices from nobody knows where are heard clamouring for vengeance; and the caves of Jugdulloc, gorged with the "un-coffined slain," will not rest from the litanies which day and night they pour forth for retribution until this generation shall have passed away.

Are we to have justice or not?—not that justice which executes the sentence, but which points the historical verdict, and distributes the proportions of guilt. The government must now be convinced, by the unceasing succession of books on this subject, which sleeps at intervals, but continually wakens up again to new life, that it has not died out, nor is likely to do so. And for that there is good reason: a sorrow which is past decays gradually, and hushes itself to sleep; not so a sorrow which points too ominously to the future. The last book on this horrible tragedy is that of Mr Lushington;[1] and in point of ability the best; the best in composition; the best for nobility of principle, for warning, for reproach. But, for all that, we do not agree with him: we concede all his major propositions; we deny most of his minors. As for the other and earlier discussions upon this theme, whether by boots, by pamphlets, by journals, English and Indian, or by Parliamentary speeches, they now form a library; and, considering the vast remoteness of the local interest, they express sublimely the paramount power of what is moral over the earthy and the physical. A battle of Paniput is fought, which adds the carnage of Leipsic to that of Borodino, and, numerically speaking, heaps Pelion upon Ossa; but who cares? No principle is concerned: it is viewed as battle of wolves with tiger-cats; and Europe heeds it not. But let a column of less than 5000, from a nation moving by moral forces, and ploughing up for ever new soils of moral promise, betray itself, by folly or by guilt, into the meshes of a frightful calamity, and the earth listens for the details from the tropics to the arctic circle. Not Moscow and Smolensko, through all the wilderness of their afflictions, ever challenged the gaze of Christendom so earnestly as the Coord Cabool. And why? The pomp, the procession of the misery, lasted through six weeks in the Napoleon case, through six days in the English case. Of the French host there had been originally 450,000 fighting men; of the English, exactly that same amount read as the numerator of a fraction whose denominator was 100. Forty-five myriads had been the French; forty-five hundreds the English. And yet so mighty is the power of any thing moral, because shadowy and illimitable, so potent to magnify and unvulgarize any interest, that more books have been written upon Cabool, and through a more enduring tract of time, than upon Moscow. Great was the convulsion in either case; but that caused by Cabool has proved the less transitory. The vast anabasis to Moscow had emanated from a people not conspicuously careful of public morality. But that later anabasis, which ascended to the shining pinnacles of Candahar, and which stained with blood of men the untrodden snows of the Hindoo Koosh, was the work of a nation—no matter whether more moral in a practical sense, upon that we do not here dispute—but undeniably fermenting with the anxieties and jealousies of moral aspirations beyond any other people whatever. Some persons have ascribed to Blumenbach (heretofore the great Goettingen naturalist) an opinion as to the English which we have good reason to think that he never uttered—viz. that the people of this island are the most voluptuous of nations, and that we bear it written in our national countenance. But suppose him to have said this, and secondly, (which is a trifle more important,) suppose it to be true, not the less we assert the impassioned predominance of a moral interest in this nation. The intensity of this principle is such, that it works with the fury and agitation of an appetite. It urges us to the very brink of civil war. Two centuries back—yes, exactly to a month, two centuries—we were all at Marston Moor, cutting throats upon the largest scale. And why? under the coercion of principles equally sublime on both sides. Then it did urge us into war. Now it does not—because the resistance is stronger, and by no means because the impulse is less. On a May morning in 1844, a question arises in the senate as to factory labour. On one side it shows an aspect critical for the interests of human nature in its widest stratum—viz. amongst the children of toil. Immediately, as at the sound of a signal-gun, five hundred of our fervent journals open their batteries this way and that upon an inquest of truth. "All the people quake like dew." The demoniacs of Palestine were not more shaken of old by internal possessions, than the heart of England is swayed to and fro under the action of this or similar problems. Epilepsy is not more overmastering than is the tempest of moral strife in England. And a new dawn is arising upon us in the prospect, that henceforth the agitations of peace will be more impassioned for the coming generation than the agitations of war for the last. But that sympathy, almost morbid, which England feels with the condition of social man, other nations echo by a reflex sympathy with England; not always by a friendly sympathy. Like the [Greek: aerobatentes] and funambuli of ancient days, equally when keeping the difficult line of advance, or when losing it, England is regarded with a searching gaze that might seem governed by the fabulous fascination of the rattlesnake. Does she ascend on her proper line of advance? There is heard the murmur of reluctant applause. Does she trip? There arises the yell of triumph. Is she seen purchasing the freedom of a negro nation? The glow of admiration suffuses the countenance of Christendom. Is she descried entering on wars of unprovoked aggression? All faces in Europe are illuminated with smiles of prosperous malice. It is a painful preeminence which England occupies—hard to keep, dangerous to forfeit. Hit, and a million of hearts are tainted with jealousy; fail, and a million revel in malignity. Therefore it was that Cabool and its disasters drew an attention so disproportioned to their military importance. Cabool was one chapter in a transaction which, truly or not, had come to be reputed incompatible with those august principles of public justice professed and worn amongst the phylacteries of Great Britain. Therefore also it was that on this subject, as we have already said, a library of works has been accumulated.

Of these works we assert, fearlessly but not arrogantly, that all are partially in error. They are in fact, one and all, controversial works; often without the design of the writers, and not always perhaps with their consciousness—but the fact is such. Not one of them but has a purpose to serve for or against Lord Auckland, or Dost Mahommed, or the East India Company, or the government at home and at Calcutta, which replaced that of the Whigs. Some even go into such specialties of partisanship as to manage the cause chiefly as a case depending against the political agents—Mr Ross Bell, Mr Loveday, Captain Outram, or Sir Alexander Burnes. Whilst others, which might seem a service of desperation, hold their briefs as the apologists of that injured young gentleman, Akbar Khan. All, in short, are controversial for a personal interest; and, in that sense, to be controversial is to be partial. Now we, who take our station in the centre, and deliver our shot all round the horizon, by intervals damaging every order of men concerned as parties to the Affghan affair, whether by action, by sanction, by counsel, or by subsequent opinion, may claim to be indifferent censors. We have political attachments: we do not deny it; but our own party is hardly touched by the sting of the case.

We therefore can be neutral, and we shall pursue our enquiry thus:—First, What was the original motive for the Affghan expedition? We insist upon it, that the motive generally assumed and reasoned upon was absurd, in a double sense puerile, as arguing a danger not possible, and (if it had been possible) not existing, and yet, after all, not open to much condemnation from most of those who did condemn it. They might object to the particular mode of execution, but they were pledged to the principle of a war in that direction.

Secondly, When the amended form was put forward, a rational form and the true form of the motive for this expedition, in what respect was that open to criticism? Far enough are we from going along with the views of the Auckland cabinet at this juncture; but these two things we are sure of—that those views were unsound, not by any vice which has yet been exposed, and that the vice alleged argues gross ignorance of every thing oriental. Lord Auckland might err, as heavily we believe him to have done, in his estimate of Affghanistan and the Affghan condition: he had untrue notions of what the Affghans needed, and what it was that they could bear: but his critics, Indian and domestic, were not in error by default merely of philosophic views as to the state of society in Affghanistan; they erred by want of familiarity with the most prominent usages of eastern economy. Lord Auckland was wrong, only as whole masses of politicians are wrong in Europe; viz. by applying European principles to communities under feelings and prejudices systematically different. But his antagonists were wrong as to palpable facts.

Thirdly, If we pass from the motive to the execution of the motive, from the purpose to the means of effecting it, we are compelled to say that Lord Auckland's government adopted for its primary means the most extravagant that could have been devised; viz. the making itself a party to the financial torture of the land.

Fourthly, When local insurrection had arisen, whether directed (as every body assumes) against the abuses of a system introduced by ourselves, or (as we assert) proper to the land, and hereditary to the morbid condition of Affghan society—we shall expose the feeble and inadequate solution yet offered by any military guide for the tragical issue of these calamities. Kohistan, or particular cases, need not detain us; but, coming at once in medias res as to Cabool itself, we shall undertake to show, that as yet we have no true or rational account of the causes which led to the fatal result. What! four thousand five hundred regular troops, officered by Englishmen—a number which, in the last eighty years, had shown itself repeatedly able to beat armies of sixty thousand men, armies having all the appurtenances and equipments of regular warfare—was this strong column actually unable to fight its way, with bayonet and field artillery, to a fortress distant only eighty miles, through a tumultuary rabble never mustering twenty thousand heads?[1] Times are altered with us if this was inevitable. But the Affghans, you will say, are brave men, stout and stout-hearted, not timid Phrygian Bengalees. True—but at Plassy, and again, forty years after, at Assye, it was not merely Bengalees, or chiefly such, whom we fought—they were Rohillas, Patans, Goorkhas, and Arabs; the three first being of Affghan blood, quite as good as any Barukzye or Ghilzye, and the last better. No, no—there is more to tell. The calamity ascends to some elder source than the imbecility of General Elphinstone, or the obstinacy of Brigadier Shelton. Others than the direct accomplices in that disaster are included in its guilt; some of the hitherto known only as the slain who have suffered by the insurrection, and as the survivors who have denounced it. Amongst them lie some of those impeached by the circumstances. So far we might add little to the satisfaction of the public; to see the rolls of the guilty widening would but aggravate the sorrow of a calamity which now it could do nothing to diminish. But oftentimes to know the persons concerned in a great disaster, is a step to knowing something of its causes. And this we will venture to say—that, in defiance of all professional pedantry incident to military men and engineers, the reader is likely to be of opinion that we, at a distance of 7000 miles, have pointed out capital blunders, ensuring ruin and forming temptations to conspiracy, which Lieutenant Eyre, a principal artillery officer on the spot, has failed to notice; and if he failed to notice them in his book à fortiori, he must have failed to notice them officially, whilst yet it would have been in time. There were those things done in Cabool by the "fantastic tricks" of men dressed in authority, which, placed in their proper light, go far to explain all the horrors that ensued. We know not whether they made "the angels weep," or rather made the devils laugh, when hovering over Coord Cabool: but this we know, that they are likely to make the hair stand on end of all considerate men in this land of energetic foresight.

[1] "Heads," we say, because it is one amongst the grievous neglects of the military writers, that they have made it impossible for us to describe the Affghan soldiery under any better representative term, by giving no circumstantial account of the arms or discipline prevailing through the Affghan forces, the tenure of their service, &c. Many had matchlocks; but many, we presume, had only swords; and artillery the Affghans had none, but what they had been suffered to steal in Cabool.

Fifthly, It may be asked, What is the moral of this dreadful affair? What inferences in the way of warning are to be drawn from it? This is a topic untouched by all the writers on the Affghan war. But undoubtedly the Cabool reverse was not more fitted to fix attention as a judgment for the past than as a warning for the future; not more as being (or being thought) the reaction from a public wrong, authorized by English councils, than as a premonitory case, showing us what may be expected under the recurrence of similar circumstances. Circumstances altogether similar are not likely to recur in two centuries; but circumstances only in part similar, a commander-in-chief incapacitated by illness, or a second-in-command blind with infatuation, might easily recur in critical or dreadful emergencies. Such circumstances did happen in the Nepaul campaigns; imbecility in more leaders than one, as abject as that at Cabool. And though it could not lead to the same awful results where there had not been the same elaborate preparation of folly, and upon ground so much nearer to the means of rectification, still it was then sufficient to tarnish the lustre of our arms for the time, and, under worse circumstances, would menace worse misfortunes. Neither is this all; there are other infirmities in our eastern system than the vicious selection of generals.

But all the topics proper to this fifth head will fall more naturally under a paper expressly applying itself to India; and for the present we shall confine ourselves to the previous four.

I. And first, then, as regards the original motive assigned for the Affghan expedition. What profit in prospect, or what danger in reversion, moved us to so costly an enterprise? We insist singly on its cost, which usually proves a sufficient sufflamen in these days to the belligerent propensities of nations. Cicero mentions the advocate by name who first suggested the question of Cui bono, as a means of feeling backwards in a case of murder for the perpetrator. Who was it that had been interested in the murder? But the same question must be equally good as a means of feeling forwards to the probable wisdom of a war. What was the nature of the benefit apprehended, and who was to reap it? The answer to this very startling question, in the case of the Affghan expedition, stood thus for a long time on the part of our own unofficial press—that the object had been to forestall Russia, driving with headlong malice en route for the Indus, by surprising her advanced guard in Kohistan. Certainly, if the surprise were all, there might be something plausible in the idea. If the Russians should ever reach Kohistan, we will answer for their being exceedingly surprised at finding an English camp in that region for the purpose of entertaining themselves. In reality no lunatic projector, not Cleombrotus leaping into the sea for the sake of Plato's Elysium, not Erostratus committing arson at Ephesus for posthumous fame, not a sick Mr Elwes ascending the Himalaya, in order to use the rarity of the atmosphere as a ransom from the expense of cupping in Calcutta, ever conceived so awful a folly. Oh, playful Sir John Mandeville, sagacious Don Quixote, modest and ingenious Baron Munchausen!—ye were sober men, almost dull men, by comparison with the tête exaltée from some upper element of fire, or limbo of the moon, who conceived this sublime idea of leaping forward by a thousand miles, to lay salt on the tail of a possible or a conceivable enemy. The enemy—the tail—the salt—these were all in nubibus; the only thing certain was the leap, and the thousand miles. And then, having achieved this first stage on the road, why not go on to St Petersburg, and take the Czar by the beard? The enormity of this extravagance showed from what mint it came. Ever since we have harboured the Czar's rebels in England, there has been a craze possessing our newspaper press, that Russia was, or might be, brewing evil against India. We can all see the absurdity of such reveries when exemplified by our quicksilver neighbour France, bouncing for ever in her dreams about insults meditated from the perfidious England; but we are blind to the image which this French mirror reflects of our own attitude towards Russia. One hundred and fifty years ago, the incubus which lay heavy on the slumbers of England was the Pope; of whom Swift remarked, that constantly his holiness was seen incog. under one disguise or other, drinking at gin-shops in Wapping, and clearly proved to be spying out the nakedness of the land. In our days the Pope has vanished to the rear of the English phantasmagoria, and now lies amongst the [Greek: neknôn amenêna kasêna]. But not, therefore, is England without her pet nightmare; and that nightmare is now the Czar, who doubtless had his own reasons lately for examining the ground about Windsor and Ascot Heath—fine ground for the Preobasinsky dragoons. How often in this journal have we been obliged to draw upon these blockheads, and disperse them sword in hand! How, gentlemen, (we have said to them in substance,) if you must play the fool as alarmists, can you find no likelier towers for menacing Calcutta with thunder storms than those of arctic St Petersburg; between which cities lies an interspace equal to both tropics? We remember, as applicable to this case, a striking taunt reported by Dampier, that when one bucanier, on the west coast of Peru, was sailing away from the oppression of another to some East Indian port, with a weak crew in a crazy vessel, the ruffian from whom he fled told him at parting, that, by the time he saw green fields again, the boys in his vessel would be greyheaded. And we suspect that the Russian drummer-boys, by the time they reach the Khyber pass, will all have become field-marshals, seeing that, after three years' marching, they have not yet reached Khiva. But were the distance, the snows, the famine, and thirst nothing, is the bloodshed nothing? Russia is a colossus, and Bokhara, Khiva, Kokan, &c., are dwarfs. But the finger of a colossus may be no match for the horny heels of a dwarf. The Emperor Tiberius could fracture a boy's skull with a talitrum, (or fillip of his middle finger;) but it is not every middle finger that can do that; and a close kick from a khan of Toorkistan might leave an uglier scar than a fillip at arm's length from the Czar. Assuredly his imperial majesty would be stopped at many toll-bars before he would stable his horses in an Affghan caravansery; and would have more sorts of boxes than diamond snuff-boxes to give and take in approaching the Hindoo Koosh. But suppose him there, and actually sitting astride of the old Koosh in boots and spurs, what next? In our opinion, the best thing he could do, in case, he desired any sleep for the next three months, would be to stay where he was; for should he come down stairs into Affghanistan, we English can by this time give some account of the shocking roads and bad entertainment for man and horse, all the way to the Indus. Little to choose between the Khyber Pass or the Bolan: more kicks perhaps on the first, but worse, dinners on the other. And then, finally, about the costs, the reckoning, the "little account" which will be presented for payment on the banks of the Indus. Us it cost forty thousand camels, which for years could not be replaced at any price, and nine millions sterling, for a part of our time. But the Czar, who might wish to plant a still larger army on the Indus, say thirty thousand, and would have six times our length of march, could not expect to suffer by less than three times the money, and by the total generation of camels from Mecca to "Samarcand, by Oxus—Temir's throne."

Could any man rationally believe of a governor-general, left at large by his council, that, under the terrors of a phantom invasion such as this, visionary as a dream, and distant as heaven is distant, he could seriously have organized an armament which, merely by its money costs, would be likely to shake the foundations of the empire which he administered? Yet if Lord Auckland had moved upon the impulse of a panic so delirious, under what colour of reason could he have been impeached by the English press, of which the prevailing section first excited, and to this day nurses intermittingly, that miserable Russian superstition?[1] The Polish craze, adopted by the press of England and France, and strengthened by the conviction that in Russia lay the great antagonist balance to the disorganizing instincts of Western Europe, had made the Czar an object of hatred to the Liberal leaders. But to improve this hatred into a national sentiment in England, it was requisite to connect him by some relation with English "interests." Hence the idea of describing him as a vulture, (or as Sinbad's roc,) constantly hovering over our sheep-folds in India. Gog and Magog are not more shadowy and remote as objects for Indian armies, artillery, and rockets, than that great prince who looks out upon Europe and Asia through the loopholes of polar mists. Anti-Gog will probably synchronize with the two Gogs. And Lord Auckland would have earned the title of Anti-Gog, had he gone out to tilt on an Affghan process of the Himalaya, with—what? With a reed shaken by the wind? With a ghost, as did the grandfather of Ossian? With an ens rationis, or logical abstraction? Not even with objects so palpable as these, but with a Parisian lie and a London craze; with a word, with a name, nay, with a nominis umbra. And yet we repeat a thousand times, that, if Lord Auckland had been as mad as this earliest hypothesis of the Affghan expedition would have made him, the bulk of the English journals could have had no right to throw the first stone against a policy which, at great cost of truth and honesty, they had been promoting for years.

[1] "Miserable Russian superstition."—This is now, we believe, decaying. But why? Not from sounder politics, but from more accurate geography. The Affghan campaigns, with the affairs of Bokhara, of Khiva, and Khoondooz, have lighted up as with torches those worlds of wilderness and obstruction; so that, in any practical sense, people are ashamed now to talk of St Petersburg as threatening Delhi or Calcutta.

But, secondly, what was the amended hypothesis of that expedition? Not Russia was contemplated, aërial Russia, but Affghanistan for herself—that was the object present to Lord Auckland's thoughts; no phantom, but a real next-door neighbour in the flesh. The purpose was to raise Affghanistan into a powerful barrier; and against what? Not specially against so cloudy an apparition as Russia, but generally against all enemies who might gather from the west; most of all, perhaps, against the Affghans themselves. It must be known to many of our readers—that, about the opening of the present century, a rumour went traversing all India of some great Indian expedition meditated by the Affghans. It was too steadfast a rumour to have grown out of nothing; and our own belief is—that, but for the intestine feuds then prevailing amongst the Suddozye princes, (Shah Soojah and his brothers,) the scheme would have been executed; in which case, falling in with our own great Mahratta struggle under Lord Wellesley, such an inroad would have given a chance, worth valuing, that the sceptre might have passed from England—England at that time having neither steamers for the Indus, nor improved artillery against Affghan jezails, besides having her hands full of work. Between 1801 and 1838, it is true that things had altered; for the better, we admit; but also for the worse. Much stronger were we; but, on the other hand, much nearer were the Affghans. Delhi and Agra, with their vast adjacencies, had become ours. Cutch was ours, our outposts were pushed to the Sutlege; and beyond the Sutlege we had stretched a network of political relations. We therefore were vulnerable in a more exquisite sense. And on the other hand, as respected the power of the Affghans to wound, that had not essentially declined. The Affghan power, it must be remembered, had never exposed a showy front of regal pomp, such as oftentimes deceives both friend and foe, masking a system of forces hollow and curious when probed by foreign war, but had combined the popular energy arising from a rough republican simplicity, and something even of republican freedom, with the artificial energy for war of a despotism lodged in a few hands. Of all oriental races, the Affghans had best resisted the effeminacy of oriental usages, and in some respects we may say—of Mahometan institutions. Their strength lay in their manly character; their weakness in their inveterate disunion. But this, though quite incapable of permanent remedy under Mahometan ideas, could be suspended under the compression of a common warlike interest; and that had been splendidly put on record by the grandfather of Shah Soojah. It was not to be denied—that in the event of a martial prince arising, favourably situated for gaining a momentary hold over the disunited tribes, he might effectually combine them for all the purposes of an aggressive war, by pointing their desires to the plunder of India. The boundless extent of India, the fabulous but really vast magnificence of her wealth, and the martial propensities of the Affghans, were always moving upon lines tending to one centre. Sometimes these motives were stationary, sometimes moving in opposite directions; but if ever a popular soldier should press them to a convergence, there could be no doubt that a potent Affghan army would soon be thrown beyond the Punjaub. An Affghan armament requires little baggage; and if it be asked how the Affghans were to find supplies for a numerous army which they never could subsist at home, the answer is—for that very reason, because they would not be at home. The Roman principle of making war support war would be easily applied to the rich tracts of central India, which an Affghan leader would endeavour to make the theatre of his aggression. They could move faster than we could. Semi-barbarism furnishes strength in that respect; and it would be vain to think of acting politically upon Affghanistan, when all her martial children were in the act of projecting themselves upon stages of action which would soon furnish their own recompense to strength of character and to persevering courage. In fact, the slightest review of Indian history, ever since the first introduction of Mahometanism, justifies Lord Auckland's general purpose of interweaving Affghanistan with the political system of India. This was no purpose of itinerant Quixotism— seeking enemies where none offered of themselves. Affghans were always enemies; they formed the castra stativa of hostility to India. For eight hundred years, ever since the earliest invader under the Prophet's banner, (Mahommed of Ghuznee,) the Affghans had been the scourges of India; for centuries establishing dynasties of their own race; leaving behind them populous nations of their own blood; founding the most warlike tribes in Hindostan; and, not content with this representative influence in the persons of their descendants, continually renewing their inroads from the parent hives in Affghanistan. Could such a people, brought by our own advance into so dangerous a neighbourhood, have been much longer neglected?

With any safety to ourselves, certainly not. At least the outline of Lord Auckland's policy must be approved as wise and seasonable. All the great internal enemies of Indian peace had been reduced within English control by former governments; others had dealt, so far as circumstances required, with the most petulant of our outlying neighbours, Nepaul and Burmah; and sooner or later, if mischief were to be prevented, as well as healed, it would be necessary to bring Affghanistan within the general system of cautionary ties. We wanted nothing with the independence of that country, nor with its meagre finances; but reasonably we might desire that she herself should not wield either for the perpetual terror of her eastern neighbours. Westwards and northwards furnished surely an ample range for mischief; and with those quarters of the compass we had no mission to interfere. Like Hamlet, the Affghans would still have a limited license for going mad, viz.—when the wind sate in particular quarters; and along a frontier of more than a thousand miles. Still, whilst seeing the necessity of extending the Indian network of tranquillization to the most turbulent and vigorous of neighbouring powers, the reader will feel a jealousy, as we do, with respect to the time chosen for this measure:—why then in particular? After which comes a far more serious question, why by that violent machinery, that system of deposing and substituting, which Lord Auckland chose to adopt?

As to the question of time, it is too clear from the several correspondences, however garbled, which have been laid before Parliament, that Herat was a considerable element in the councils at Calcutta. This seems so far a blunder; because of what consequence to India, or even to Affghanistan, was the attack of an imbecile state like Persia upon the Affghan frontier? Here, however, occurs the place for an important distinction; and it is a distinction which may better the case of Lord Auckland. In ridiculing the idea which regarded Russia as the natural enemy of India, between which two mighty realms we may conceive a vacuum to exist so as to cut off all communication, we applied our arguments to the case of a direct attempt upon India. This we hold not only to be impossible at present, but even for centuries to come, unless Russia shall penetrate to Bokhara, and form vast colonies along the line of the river Amor; and, if ever such changes should be made, corresponding changes will by that time have established a new state of defensive energy in India. The Punjaub will by that time have long been ours: all the roads, passes, and the five great rivers at the points of crossing, will have been overlooked by scientific fortresses; but, far beyond these mechanic defences, Christianity and true civilization will, by that time, have regenerated the population, who will then be conscious of new motives for defending themselves. A native militia will then every where exist; and mere lawless conquerors, on a mission of despotism or of plunder, will have become as powerless against the great ramparts of civilization as American savages. The supposed Russian colonies indeed, in stages of society so advanced, would probably have shared by that time in the social changes; possibly would themselves form a barrier between the countries to the south and any ambitious prince in St Petersburg. Any direct action of Russia, therefore, flies before us like a rainbow as futurity expands. But in the mean time an indirect action upon India is open to Russia even at present. That action, which she is powerless to carry on for herself, she may originate through Persia. And in that we see the remarkable case realized—that two ciphers may politically form an affirmative power of great strength by combining: Russia, though a giant otherwise, is a cipher as to India by situation—viz. by distance, and the deserts along the line of this distance. Persia, though not so ill situated, is a cipher by her crazy condition as to population and aggressive resources. But this will not hinder each power, separately weak quoad hoc, from operating through the advantages of the other; as the blind man in the fable benefits by the sight of the lame man, whom, for the sake of wider prospect, he raises upon his shoulders; each reciprocally neutralizing his own defects by the characteristic endowments of the other. Russia might use Persia as her wedge for operating, with some effect, upon the Affghans; who again might be used as the wedge of Persia for operating upon ourselves, either immediately if circumstances should favour, or mediately through the Seiks and the Beloochees. On this theory we may see a justification for Lord Auckland in allowing some weight to the Persian Shah's siege of Herat. Connected with the alleged intrigues of the Russian agent, (since disavowed,) this movement of the Shah did certainly look very like a basis for that joint machinery which he and Russia were to work. Yet, on the other hand, we cannot but think that Lord Auckland might safely have neglected it; and on the following argument, that whatever influence Persia could have acquired in Affghanistan through the possession of Herat, would to a certainty have been balanced or overbalanced by an opposition growing out of that very influence. This happened to ourselves; and this will arise always in similar cases out of the incohesion essential, to say nothing of the special feuds incident to the Affghan tribes, khans, and sirdars.

Whilst, therefore, we recognize, as a policy worthy of an Indian statesman, the attempt to raise up a barrier in Affghanistan by way of defensive outwork to India, we conceive that all which should have been desired was a barrier against the Affghans themselves, by means of guarantees reposing on the structure of the Affghan government, and not any barrier against Persia as the agent of Russia; because, from the social condition of the Affghans, Persia was always sure to raise up barriers against herself, in exact proportion as she should attempt to intermeddle with Affghan affairs. The remedy was certain to grow up commensurately with the evil.

But now, quitting the question of the when, or why particularly at that time Lord Auckland interfered with Affghanistan, let us touch on the much more important question of the how, or by what machinery it was that he proposed during this interference to realize his object? Here comes the capital blunder, as we regard it, of our Affghan policy. Lord Auckland started from the principle—and in that doubtless he was right—that the security sought for Western India could be found only in a regular treaty of alliance with an Affghan government—firm at least by its tenure, if circumstances forbade it to be strong by its action. But where was such a government to be found? Who, in the distracted state of Affghan society, was the man presumptuous enough to guarantee any general submission to his authority? And, if no man could say this for himself, could we say it for him? Was there any great Affghan philosopher in a cave, for whom Lord Auckland could become sponsor that he should fulfil all the purposes of British diplomacy? We are come upon evil ground, where not a step can be taken without cutting away right and left upon friend and foe. Never, in fact, do we remember upon any subject so many untruths as were uttered upon this by our own journals, English and Indian; not untruths of evil intention, but untruths of inconsideration or of perfect ignorance. Let us review the sum of what was said, both as to the man chosen and the man rejected; premising this, however, on behalf of Lord Auckland—that, if he made an evil choice, means there were not for making a better. The case was desperate. Not if Mr Tooke's Pantheon had clubbed their forces to create an Affghan Pandorus, could the perfect creature have faced the emergency. With the shafts of Apollo clanging on one shoulder, he could not have silenced the first feud, viz. on his personal pretensions. But with the tallies of his exchequer rattling on the other—so furiously would a second feud have exploded, that as easily might you gather a hail-storm into a side-pocket, as persuade the Affghans of his right to levy taxes. Do you see the cloud of African locusts warping on the east wind? Will they suffer you to put them into Chancery? Do you see those eagles rising from Mont Blanc on the morning breeze? Will the crack of your mail-coachman's whip bring them to be harnessed? In that case you are the man to tax the Affghans. Pigs can see the wind; and it is not less certain that Affghans can scent a tax-gatherer through the Hindoo Koosh: in which case, off they go on the opposite tack. But no matter if they stay—not the less with them to be taxed is to be robbed—a wrong to be remembered on death-beds, and to be avenged were it in the fourth generation. However, as the reckoning does not come before the banquet, so the taxes do not come before the accession. Let us look, therefore, at the men, the possible candidates, simply in relation to that magnificent claim. There are two only put in nomination, Dost Mahommed and the Shah Soojah: let us bring them forward on the hustings. Or, considering them as horses entering at Epsom for the Derby, the first to be classed as a five-year old, the other as "aged," let us trot them out, by way of considering their paces.

The comments upon these men in England, whether for or against, were all personal. The Dost was the favourite—which was generous—as he had no solitary merit to plead except that he had lost the election; or, as the watchmaker's daughter so pointedly said on behalf of Nigel Lord Glenvarloch, "Madam, he is unfortunate." Searching, however, in all corners for the undiscovered virtues of the Dost, as Bruce for the coy fountains of the Nile, one man reported by telegraph that he had unkenneled a virtue; that he had it fast in his hands, and would forward it overland. He did so; and what was it? A certain pedlar, or he might be a bagman, had said—upon the not uncommon accident in Cabool of finding himself pillaged—"What! is there no justice to be had amongst you? Is Dost Mohammed dead?" Upon which rather narrow basis was immediately raised in London a glorious superstructure to the justice of the Dost. Certainly, if the Dost's justice had ever any reference to pedlars, it must have been a nervous affection of penitential panic during some fit of the cholera, and as transient as the measles; his regard for pedlars being notoriously of that kind which tigers bear to shoulders of lamb; and Cabool has since rung with his pillagings of caravans. But we believe the pedlar's mot to have been thoroughly misconceived. If we see a poor man bleeding to death in a village lane, we naturally exclaim—"What! is Dr Brown, that used to practise here, gone away?" Not meaning that the doctor could have stopped the hemorrhage, but simply that the absence of all medical aid is shocking, and using the doctor's name merely as a shorthand expression for that aid. Now in the East, down from scriptural days, the functions of a sovereign were two—to lead his people in battle, and to "sit in the gate" for the distribution of justice. Our pedlar, therefore, when invoking Dost Mahommed as the redresser of his wrongs, simply thought of him as the public officer who bore the sword of justice. "He cried to Pharaoh," or he "cried to Artaxerxes"—did not imply any reliance in their virtue as individuals, but merely an appeal to them as professionally the ministers of justice. "Are there no laws and no prisons amongst you?" was the poor man's meaning; and he expressed this symbolically under the name of him who was officially responsible for both.

But, as one throws a bone to a dog, we do not care to dispute the point further, if any man is resolute to settle this virtue upon the Dost as a life-annuity. The case will then stand thus: We have all heard of "Single-speech Hamilton;" and we must then say—"Single-virtue Dost;" for no man mentions a second. "Justice for pedlars" will then be the legend on his coin, as meaning that there is none for any body else. Yet even then the voters for the Dost totally overlooked one thing. Shah Soojah had some shadow of a pretence, which we shall presently examine, to the throne of all Affghanistan; and a king of that compass was indispensable to Lord Auckland's object. But Dost Mahommed never had even the shadow of an attorney's fiction upon which he could stand as pretender to any throne but that of Cabool, where, by accident, he had just nine points of the law in his favour. How then could we have supported him? "Because thou art virtuous," we must have said, are we to support future usurpation? Because the Dost is just to pedlars, "shall there be no more ale and cakes" for other Affghan princes? All Asia could not have held him upright on any throne comprehensively Affghan. Whether that could have been accomplished for any other man, is another question. Yet unless Lord Auckland could obtain guarantees from the unity of an Affghan government, nothing at all was done towards a barrier for the Indus.

Let us resume, however, the personal discussion. The Dost's banking account is closed; and we have carried one to his credit; but, as the reader knows, "under protest." Now let us go into the items of the Shah's little account. Strange to say, these are all on the wrong side— all marked with the negative sign. The drollest of all was the charge preferred against him by our Radicals. Possibly the Chartists, the Leaguers, and the Repealers have something in reserve against him. What the Radicals said was to this purpose: having heard of the Shah's compulsory flight more than once from Affghanistan, they argued that this never could have happened had he not committed some horrible faux pas. What could that be? "Something very naughty, be assured," said another; "they say he keeps a haram."—"Ay," rejoined a third, "but they care little about that in the East. Take my word for it, he has been playing tricks against the friends of liberty: he has violated the 'constitution' of Caboolistan." And immediately reverting to the case of Charles X. under the counsels of Prince Polignac, they resolved that he must have been engaged in suppressing the liberal journals of Peshawur; and that the Khyberees, those noble parliamentary champions of the cause for which Sidney bled on the scaffold, had risen as one man, and, under tricolor banners, had led his horse by the bridle to the frontiers of the Seiks. This was the colouring which the Radical journals gave to the Shah's part in the affair; and naturally they could not give any other than a corresponding one to ours. If Soojah were a tyrant kicked out for his political misdeeds, we must be the vilest of his abettors, leading back this saevior exul, reimposing a detested yoke, and facilitating a bloody vengeance. O gentlemen, blockheads! Silent inter arma leges— laws of every kind are mute; and as to such political laws as you speak of, well for Affghanistan if, through European neighbourhood, she comes to hear of those refinements in seven generations hence. Shah Soojah saw in youth as many ups and downs as York and Lancaster; but all in the good old honest way of throat-cutting, without any fraternal discord on questions of Habeas corpus; and had he been a luckier man in his long rough-and-tumbles for the Affghan sceptre, so as to have escaped the exile you reproach him with, he would not therefore, by one jot, have been more or less a guilty one.

The purisms of political delinquency had little share, therefore, in any remorse which Shah Soojah might ever feel; and considering the scared consciences of oriental princes in such matters, quite as little, perhaps, had the two other counts in his London impeachment. One imputed savage cruelty to him; the other, with a Johnny-rawness that we find it difficult to comprehend, profligacy and dissoluteness of life.

As to the cruelty, it has often been alleged; and the worst case, besides being the only attested case, of the Shah's propensities in that direction, is the execution of the Ghazees near the fortress of Ghuznee. We scorn to be the palliators of any thing which is bad in eastern usages—too many things are very bad—but we are not to apply the pure standards of Christianity to Mahometan systems; and least of all are we to load the individual with the errors of his nation. What wounds an Englishman most in the affair of the Ghazees, is the possibility that it may have been committed with the sanction of his own country, officially represented by the British commander-in-chief. But then that consideration leads an Englishman to suspend with a stoic [Greek: epochê], and exceedingly to doubt whether the fact could have been as it was originally reported. So said we, when first we heard it; and now, when the zeal of malice has ceased to distort things, let us coolly state the circumstances. A Mahometan Ghazee is a prededicated martyr. It is important to note the definition. He is one who devotes himself to death in what he deems a sufficient cause, but, as the old miser of Alsatia adds—"for a consideration;" the consideration being, that he wins Paradise. But Paradise he will not win, unless he achieves or attempts something really meritorious. Now, in the situation of things before Ghuznee, where a new ruler was brought in under the wing of Feringee infidels, what meritorious service was open to him? To have shot the commander-in-chief would have merely promoted some other infidel. The one sole revolutionary act appropriate to the exigency, was to shoot the Shah Soojah. There, and in one moment, would have gone to wreck the whole vast enterprize of the Christian dogs, their eight hundred lakhs of rupees, and their forty thousand camels. The mighty balloon would have collapsed; for the children of the Shah, it was naturally imagined by Affghans, would divide the support of their father's friends. That alone would have been victory to the Mussulmans; and, in the case of the British army leaving the land, (which then was looked for, at any rate, after one campaign,) the three Shahzades would, by their fraternal feuds, ensure rapid defeat to each other. Under this state of expectations, there was a bounty on regicide. All Ghazees carried the word assassin written on their foreheads. To shoot the Shah in battle was their right; but they had no thought of waiting for battle: they meant to watch his privacy; and some, even after they were captured, attempted in good earnest to sting. Such were the men— murderers by choice and proclamation—and the following were the circumstances:—On the afternoon immediately preceding the storming of Ghuznee, from the heights to the southward of that fortress descended a body of these fanatics, making right for the Shah's camp. They were anxious to do business. Upon this, a large mass of our cavalry mounted, went forward to skirmish with them, and drove them back with the loss of a standard. There the matter would have stopped; but Captain Outram, casually passing, persuaded some of the cavalry to go round the hills, to a point where they would have intercepted the retreat of the Ghazees upon that line. Seeing this, the devotees mounted the heights, whither the cavalry could not follow; but Captain Outram, vexed at the disappointment, just then remarked an English officer marching in command of some matchlocks—him he persuaded to join the chase. Outram leading, the whole party pushed on, under a severe fire, to the very topmost pinnacle of the rocks, where was flying the consecrated banner, green and white, of the fanatic Mussulmans. This was captured, the standard-bearer was shot, thirty or forty killed, and about fifty made prisoners.

The sequel we give from page 164 of the History, edited by Mr. Charles Nash:[1]—"A scene now ensued, much less pleasant to contemplate. It of course became a question what to do with the captives, and they were brought before the Shah. Some of them were released, upon their declaring that they had been forced into the ranks of the king's opponents against their will." We pause to remark, that already in this fact, viz. the cheerful dismissal of prisoners upon their own verbal assurance of friendliness, though so little reconcilable with the furious service on which they were taken, there is enough to acquit the Shah of unmerciful designs. He made an opening through which all might have escaped. "But," proceeds the author, "the majority, excited by fanaticism, were not restrained, even by the Shah's presence, from evincing their animosity towards his person, and avowing their determination to have been to seek his life. One of them, more violent than the rest, upon the interference of one of his majesty's attendants, stabbed him with his dagger; and they were then" [then? what! because one was worse than the rest?] "immediately ordered for execution. Two of them, however, were afterwards spared; one upon the plea of his being a Syud," (i.e., a descendant collaterally from the Prophet,) "and the other, because he pleaded hard for his life."

[1] History of the War in Affghanistan. Brookes: London. 1843. We cite this work, as one of respectable appearance and composition; but unaccountably to us, from page 269 for a very considerable space, (in fact, from the outbreak of the Cabool insurrection to the end of General Elphinstone's retreat,) we find a literatim reprint of Lieutenant Eyre's work. How is that?

This account is not very luminous; and it is painful to observe that the man who was abject, and the man who was lucky, were the two selected for mercy. What proportion had previously been dismissed, is not said. The affair occasioned much discussion, as we all know; and the author speaks doubtfully of the necessity[1] under which the execution took place, as not "satisfactorily ascertained." He speaks even more doubtfully of the persons supposed to be implicated, viz. the Shah and the commander-in-chief, than of the thing. Little, indeed, could have been known distinctly, where rumour ascribed to each separately the most contradictory acts and motives. Us it surprises, that Lord Keane has not publicly explained himself under such gloomy insinuations. But, in the mean time, this is plain, that the Shah is entitled to benefit by the doubts hanging over the case, not less than our own officer. The writer suggests as one reason for a favourable judgment on the Shah, "previous acts of humanity in the course of his life." Undoubtedly there are such acts, and there are none well attested in the opposite scale. In particular, he spared the eyes of his brother Mahmood, when, by all oriental policy, he had every temptation to incapacitate an active competitor for the throne. Two considerations heighten the merit of this merciful forbearance; Mahmood was the elder, a fact which slightly improved his title; and Mahmood, in a similar situation, had not spared the eyes of an elder brother.

[1] But afterwards, at page 166, there is a dreadful insinuation that such a necessity might have founded itself on the danger of taking prisoners "in a camp already subsisting on half and quarter rations." Now we, in a paper on Casuistry, (long since published by this journal,) anticipated this shocking plea, contending that Napoleon's massacre of 4000 young Albanians at Jaffa, could draw no palliation from the alleged shortness of provisions, whether true or false; and on the ground that a civilized army, consciously under circumstances which will not allow it to take prisoners, has no right to proceed. Napoleon's condition had not changed from the time of leaving Cairo. We little expected to see a Jaffa plea urged, even hypothetically, for a British army.

We may certainly, therefore, dismiss the charges of cruelty against the Shah, unless hereafter they shall be better established. But in doing this, it is right to make one remark, overlooked by all who have discussed the subject. If these Ghazees were executed as murderers elect, and as substantially condemned by the very name and character which they assumed, the usages of war in all civilized countries would sustain the sentence; though still there is a difficulty where, on one side, the parties were not civilized. But if they were executed as traitors and rebels taken in arms, such an act, pendente lite, and when as yet nobody could say who was sovereign, must be thought little short of a murder.

With the remaining charge we shall make short work. The reader would laugh heartily if we should call the Dey of Tunis a dissenter, the Pasha of Egypt an old nonconformist, or the Turkish sultan a heretic. But this way of viewing Islamism in some inconceivable relation to the Church of England, or to Protestantism, would not be more extravagant than the attempt to fasten upon an oriental prince the charge of debauchery and a dissolute life. The very viciousness of Asiatic institutions protects him from such reproaches. The effeminate delicacy of easterns, and the morbid principle of seclusion on which they build their domestic honour, will for ever secure both Hindoo Pagans and Mussulmans from blame of this kind, until they pass under the influence of a happier religion. How can they act licentiously, in a way cognizable or proveable, whom rank and usage will not permit to wander, and who cannot have a temptation to wander, from their own harems, authorized by the institutions of their country?

This last charge, indeed, being so intrinsically absurd, is hardly of a nature to have merited any answer, had it not been the one most insisted upon in England, where its ludicrousness is not so apparent, until the mind is recalled from the life of Christendom to that very different life which prevails in Asia. The charge then exhales into vapour; and a man laughs as a ship's company on the broad Atlantic would laugh, if charged with roaming abroad at night.

But why do we notice personal considerations at all, in a case where public relations to Affghanistan should naturally be paramount? We notice them, because our own press dwelt on personal qualities almost exclusively; and since this Cabool tragedy will make the whole Affghan policy immortal, we are anxious, by dispersing the cloud of calumny connected with the object of our choice, to clear the ground for a juster estimate of what was either good or erroneous in our further conduct. Not that personal accomplishments of mind or of body were unimportant in a ruler of simple half-barbarous men; nor again is it to be denied that Dost Mahommed, from advantages of age, (forty-five years against the seventy of the Shah,) and from experience more direct and personal, would, under equal circumstances, have been the better man. But the circumstances were not equal. The Dost could not have been more than a provincial ruler in the land; consequently he could not have undertaken that responsibility for the whole which formed the precise postulate of our Indian government.

Yet because the Dost could not meet our purposes, is it true that the Shah could? That is the point we are going to consider; and to have postponed this question to a question of personalities, even if those personalities had been truly stated, is specifically the error which vitiated all the speculations of our domestic press. We say then, that Shah Soojah had a primâ facie fitness for our purposes which the Dost had not; Soojah was the brother, son, and grandson of men who had ruled all Affghanistan; nay, in a tumultuary way, he had ruled all Affghanistan himself. So far he had something to show, and the Dost had nothing; and so far Lord Auckland was right. But he was wrong, and, we are convinced, ruinously wrong, by most extravagantly overrating that one advantage. The instincts of loyalty, and the prestige of the royal title, were in no land that ever was heard of so feeble as in coarse, unimaginative Affghanistan. Money was understood: meat and drink were understood: a jezail was understood but nothing spiritual or ancestral had any meaning for an Affghan. Deaf and blind he was to such impressions and perhaps of all the falsehoods which have exploded in Europe for the last six years, the very greatest is that of the Edinburgh Review, in saying that the Suddozye families were "sacred" and inviolable to Affghans. How could such a privilege clothe the species or subdivision, when even the Dooaraunee or entire genus was submitted to with murmurs under the tyranny of accident. In what way had they won their ascendency? By thumps, by hard knocks, by a vast assortment of kicks, and by no means through any sanctity of blood. Sanctity indeed!—we should be glad to see the Affghan who would not, upon what he held a sufficient motive, have cut the throat of any shah or shahzade, padishah, or caliph, though it had been that darling of European childhood—Haroun Alraschid himself.

But how could royalty enjoy any privilege of consecration in a land where it was yet but two generations old? Even those two had been generations of tumultuous struggle. Oftener had the Shah been seen racing for his life on a Arab of the Hedjas, than eating "dillecrout"[1] in peace, or dealing round a card-table grand crosses of the Dooraunee order. The very origin of Affghan royalty fathoms the shallowness of the water on which it floated. Three coincidences of luck had raised Ahmed to the throne. One dark night his master Kouli Khan, for the benefit of all Asia, had his throat cut. This Kouli, or Nadir Shah, was much more of a monster than Ahmed; but not very much less of a usurper. Riding off with his cavalry from Persia to Candahar, Ahmed these robbed a caravan! Upon which every body cried out to him, "Go it!" and his lucky connexion by birth with the best of the Dooraunee blood did the rest. A murder, a flight, and a robbery, or pretty nearly in the words of our English litany, "Battle, and murder, and sudden death," together with a silver spoon in his mouth at his natal hour, had made Ahmed a shah; and this Ahmed was the grandfather of our own pet Soojah. In such a genealogy there is not much for a poet-laureate to found upon, nor very much to make a saint out of. Ahmed, after a splendid and tumultuous reign of twenty-six years, died of cancer in 1773. His son Timour feigned distractedly for twenty years. Dying in 1793, Timour left a heap of shahzades, amongst whom our good friend Soojah was almost the youngest. As they call people Tertius, Septimus, or Vicesimus, from their station in the line of birth, let us call him—Penultimate Soojah Penultimate, if he was, he could fight as respectably as the rest: and many was the kick he bestowed on antepenultimate Mahmood. From that year 1793, the zenith of the French Revolution, in Affghanistan was nothing but fighting for some ten or fifteen years. Truly a battle royal it was; and if we cannot report to a fraction the "list of the killed and wounded," we know the main results. How many of the fraternal combatants leaped upon the throne, we are not quite sure. Four we can swear to, who were all pulled out by the ears before they had time to adjust the folds of their purple. The case of Eteocles and Polynices was a joke to it; and by the time the row or termashaw was over, and the candles were brought back amongst this happy family, the following was the state of matters—two stone blind, three (if not four) stone dead, and two in exile living upon charity; amongst which last was Penultimate Soojah. It is proper to mention, by the way, as an appendix to the adventures of this old friend, that (improving upon his grandpapa's example) he had run off from his elder brother with the crown jewels; but, like Colonel Blood in our Charles II.'s reign, he benefited only by the glory of this distinguished larceny; for soon after, falling amongst thieves, at the head of whom was our late worthy ally the Seik Maharajah, Runjeet Singh, he in his turn, was effectually cleaned out; and, in particular, his silk "wipe," in which he had wrapped up the famous Koh-i-noor, or summit of glory, was cleanly forked out of his fob by the artful dodger, old Runjeet, himself. Here was a pleasant commentary on the adage of "Diamond cut Diamond." The jewels, originally stolen by Ahmed, were passed on (as in our game of Hunt the Slipper) from thief to thief, until at least forty thieves had possessed them for a few weeks or months. All the forty are now dead; and at this moment the summit of glory, possibly never once worn by one of them, is a derelict in the hands of the latest murderer at Lahore, of course attracting by its light all hands towards his interesting throat.

[1] "Dillecrout."—This is the traditional dish of royalty at our English coronation banquet in Westminster Hall.

We have thus sketched a slender memoir for the leading family of saints amongst the Edinburgh reviewer's holy Suddozyes. Great must have been their sanctity amongst the Affghans. The reader will judge for himself whether that aureola, or supernatural glory about their heads, was altogether sufficient to guarantee the throne of King Soojah. And it must not be quite forgotten, that on the roll-call of legitimacy Penultimate Soojah did not stand next for promotion. Prince Caumraum, who commanded at Herat, stood before him equally in active qualities, and in precedence of title; for he was the son of Mahmood. The sons of Zemaun had a still higher precedency.

However, the Affghans, who are essentially democratic by the necessities of their turbulent condition, often make a compromise in their choice of khans between strict primogeniture and personal merits, where they happen to be appropriate. And they might have done so here. But we are now going, in conclusion, to bring forward one remark, which utterly prostrates Lord Auckland's scheme as a scheme of hope for Affghanistan, or of promise for his own purpose. It is this—no legitimacy of title, and no personal merits, supposing both to have met pre-eminently in the person of Soojah, had a chance of winning over the Affghans to a settled state. This truth, not hitherto noticed, reveals itself upon inspecting the policy of all the Suddozye shahs from Ahmed downwards; and probably that policy was a traditional counsel. Ahmed saved himself from domestic feuds by carrying away all the active, or aspiring, or powerful spirits to continual wars in the Punjaub, in Persia, or India. Thus he sustained their hopes, thus he neutralized their turbulence. Timour next, and his son Zemaun after him, pursued the very same policy. They have been both taxed with foolish ambition. It was not that: the historian has not perceived the key to their conduct:—it was the instinct of self-preservation. No otherwise than by exhausting the martial restlessness of the Affghans upon foreign expeditions, was durability to be had for any government. To live as a dynasty, it was indispensable to cross the Indus in pursuit of plunder. But exactly that policy it was, the one resource of prudent Affghan princes, the escape-valve for conspiracy and treason, which Lord Auckland's army had been put in motion to abolish.

Now, thirdly, let us examine the machinery by which these plans were to be executed. Under the last head we have seen that, if on the whole perhaps the best instrument at hand, and better essentially than the Dost, very soon, indeed, Shah Soojah must have learned the necessity of passing over to that aggressive system which he had been raised up to destroy. Merely for his own safety he must have done this. But now suppose this otherwise, and that Soojah had continued to be that passive instrument for the Indian cabinet which their plans required and presumed. Even on this supposition, our agent or lieutenant Soojah would have required at first some support. By what machinery was this to be given? What was to be the instrument for sustaining our instrument?

Simply taxation, energetic taxation. Yet, if that should happen to fail, what was to be the resource? Simply to fine and to amerce—i.e. more intense taxation. So, in Molière's Malade Imaginaire, the only remedy is "Saignare et Purgare." But lavemens had been known to fail. What was to be done in that case? What is to be done? shrieks the Macaronic chorus—Why, of course, "Purgare et ensuita purgare." To the present government of India, this organ of administration is all in all. And it was natural to transfer this doctrine to Affghanistan. But in that they mistook the notions of the Affghans. And, in order to understand them, it may be well to review the possible aspect and modifications under which the idea of a tax may fall.

First, there is the lawful and peaceful revenue raised in free Christian states under their noble civilization, which is paid even thankfully, as the purchase money for inappreciable social benefits. Next, and in the very opposite extreme, is the ruffian levy once raised upon central India by the ferocious Pindarree, who asked for it with the insolence of a robber, and wrenched it from the recusant with the atrocities of a devil. Here there was no pretence of equivalent given or promised: and this was so exquisite an outrage, a curse so withering, that in 1817 we were obliged to exterminate the foul horde (a cross between the Decoit and the Thug) root and branch. Now between these two poles lie two different forms of mitigated spoliation. One was the Mahratta chout, the other the black mail of the Scottish cateran. Neither of these gave any strict or absolute equivalent; but with a rude sense of justice, both, on different principles, endeavoured to indemnify the sufferer. The Mahratta generally, by a treaty with the local government, induced them to allow for the chout as twenty-five per cent advanced out of their own claim for taxes. And the cateran, if he did not go upon a convention with the government, gave the compounder a protection from other caterans, a discharge from irregular demands, and a means of recovering what might be stolen by knaves. The European case of taxation may be viewed as the fairest case of buying and selling; the Pindarree, as the vilest of robberies; and the two last as cases of compromise, (or what in Roman law was called transactio,)—as a toll or fine in fact, though too arbitrarily assessed.

Such are the categories of taxation; and, at the very best, all Affghans viewed it in the light of chout or black mail, a tribute to be thrown into the one scale if a gleaming sabre lay in the other. King Soojah levying taxes was to him a Mahratta at the least, if he was not even a Pindarree or a Thug. Indeed it is clear that, where the government does nothing for the people, nor pretends to do any thing, where no courts of justice exist, no ambassadors, no police, no defensive militia, (except for internal feuds,) title there can be none to any but a nominal tribute, as a mere peppercorn acknowledgment of superiority: going beyond that, taxation is borne only as robbery is borne.

Under these circumstances, and having a motive so strong for reconciling the Affghans to the new government, of all the incidents belonging to sovereignty on our European notions, least and last should we have suffered the Shah to exercise that of taxation. But to exercise it ourselves, that was midsummer madness! If he would have seemed a robber in such a function, what must we have seemed? Besides, it is held by some who have more narrowly watched the Affghan modes of thinking, that, even where they do submit to pay a tax, it is paid as a loan, and on the understanding that the chief receiving it is bound to refund it indirectly, by leading them at some convenient season (which many conceive to be in every alternate year) upon a lucrative foray. But this was exactly what we came to prevent. What we should have done is manifestly this. How much could the Shah have levied on all Affghanistan? A matter of L. 300,000 at most. But this was the gross sum, before deducting any thing for costs of collecting, which costs were often eighty shillings in the pound, besides counting on the little aid of our bayonets as a service wholly gratuitous. The sum netted by the exchequer must have been laughably small; and even in that respect the poor king must often have sighed for his quiet English lodgings on the left bank of the Sutlege. Now, surely this trivial revenue might have been furnished on the following plan. In a country like Affghanistan, where the king can be no more than the first of the sirdars, it is indispensable to raise his revenue, meaning the costs of his courtly establishment, as we ourselves did in England till the period of 1688. And how was that? Chiefly on crown estates, parks, forests, warrens, mines, just as every private subject raised his revenue, reserving all attempt at taxes in the shape of aids, subsidies, or benevolences, for some extraordinary case of war, foreign or domestic. Our kings, English and Scotch, lived like other country gentlemen, on the produce of their farms. Fortunately for such a plan, at that moment there must have been a fine harvest of forfeitures rising to the sickle all over the Affghan land, for rebels were as thick as blackberries. But, if any deficit had still shown itself on the Shah's rent-roll, one half of that L.30,000 a-year which we allowed to the Dost when our prisoner, or of that smaller sum[1] which we allowed to the Shah when our guest, would have made it good. Yet what if we had spent a million sterling through a period of ten years, as a sort of scaffolding for the support of our new edifice whilst yet green and rising? Even in that case, and supposing us to have taken our leave of the Dooraunee throne at the end of one year, after planting it as firmly as it ever could be planted, we should have pocketed six million of pounds sterling that now are gone; whereas we insisted on sinking three millions per annum for the first three years, in some bottomless Affghan Chatmoss, with the effect (seemingly with the intention) of enabling King Soojah to earn universal hatred by netting a few lacs of rupees.

[1] Smaller sum.—L.20,000 a-year. There was, however, a separate allowance, we believe, to Zemaun, the king's blind brother.

This was the rock on which we split. Had we restrained the king from levying taxes, all might have gone well. Had we restrained ourselves from enforcing his levies, all might have gone decently. And had we prompted the king to inaugurate some great public benefit—as, for instance, by conferring upon the people a simple system of judicial process and distributive justice—both he and we might have become popular; for, even in Affghanistan, there must be multitudes of poor men, peasants and tradesmen in towns, mothers and wives, who sigh for peace, and curse their endless agitations. Yes, even amongst their martial spirits, who now live by war and the passions of war, many are they who would relent from their angry feuds, if it were possible to get justice without them.

The sum, therefore, of that question; viz. of the How and by what machinery Lord Auckland proposed to accomplish his not unstatesmanlike object, is this—that we failed utterly, and chiefly by applying European principles to Oriental communities; and in particular,

1st, By throwing a prodigious stress on the fancied consecration of royalty in a country where it would have snapped under the weight of a L.10 note.

2dly, By enforcing (and even exercising in our own persons as principals) the odious power of taxation, under the monstrous delusion that it was the first of a king's privileges, where in fact, and with some reason, it was viewed as the last of his excesses.

The first was a negative delusion. We fancied a mighty power where simply there was none; fancied a substance where there was not even a shadow. But the second was worse: it was a positive delusion. We fancied a resource where simply there was a snare—a mooring cable where simply there was a rope for our execution—a sheet-anchor where simply there was a rock waiting for our shipwreck.

Not the less, however, we maintain, that whilst in fact our ruin was self-prepared, come it would, sooner or later, from the necessity of Affghan society, had the actual occasion of that ruin been wanting. You build a palace on the waters, and you complain that a monsoon has overthrown it. True; but had there been no monsoon, equally it would have been supplanted by the natural unsteadiness of the waves.

Now, fourthly, however, for Cabool, and the crape-bound banners "perituraque castra!" Fourthly and lastly, for the solution of that hideous calamity, whose memory is accursed for ever. But the solution— is not that plain already? If what we allege be true, if the delusions exposed under the third head are rightly stated, will not they solve the ruin of Cabool? Are not they sufficient? No, nothing will solve it—no causes are sufficient for such a result, unless a strong spirit of delusion had been inflicted from heaven, distraction, frenzy, judicial madness. No dangers from the enemy, no pressure from without, could have accomplished that wreck, had they not been aided by treachery within the counsels of our own hearts.

It is an old saying of any subject too vast or too sad to measure by hurried words—that "de Carthagine satius est silere, quam parcius dicere." And in this case, where we have left ourselves too narrow a space to turn round in, and where no space would exhaust the infinities of the affliction, it is not our purpose to heighten, or rhetorically to colour, any one feature of the dismal story. Rhetoric, and art of all kids, we forswear in a tragedy so torturing to our national sensibilities. We pass, in sympathy with the burning wrath of our readers, the madness of dallying and moping over the question—to starve or not to starve. We pass the infamy of entertaining a treaty with barbarians, commenced in this foul insult to a British army—that after we should have submitted to indignities past expression, they (the barbarians) would consider at their leisure whether it would please them to spare our necks; a villany that gallant men could not have sanctioned, an which too certainly was not hurled back in their teeth as it ought to have been. We pass the lunacy of tempting barbarians to a perfidy almost systematic in their policy, by consenting to a conference outside the British cantonments, not even within range of the British guns, not even within the overlooking of British eyes. We pass the lunacy of taking out sixteen men as an escort against a number absolutely unlimited of the enemy, and where no restraint, even of honour or mutual understanding, forbade that unlimited enemy to come armed from head to foot. It is a trifle to add—that no instructions were given to the sixteen men as to what they were to do, or in what circumstances to act; and accordingly that one man only, out of the whole sixteen, attempted any resistance; and this in defiance of warnings eight several times reiterated by English officers, and by friendly Affghans, that treachery was designed. We pass the triple lunacy of treating at all in a case where Sir William M'Naughtan well knew, and himself avowed his knowledge, that no man or party existed amongst the enemy who could pretend to have authority sufficient for ratifying, or for executing, any treat of whatsoever tenor. The Cabool forces perished eventually by the dissension of the two first in command. This is notorious. And yet, to mark the dread fatality which pursued them, the concord of these two officers was even more destructive to their victims than the worst of their disputes. In the one solitary case where they agreed, the two leaders, Elphinstone and Shelton, sealed their doom. That case was this:—Many felt at that time, as all men of common sense feel now, that the Bala Hissar, and not Jillalabad, was the true haven for the army. In resisting this final gleam of hope for the army, both General Elphinstone and Brigadier Shelton heartily concurred; and they concurred then first and then last. This also, this almost incredible fact, should be added to the anecdote—General Elphinstone, when hard pressed by the general wishes on this point, pleaded as a last reason for his obstinacy—that a particular article, essential to the army, was wanting in the Bala Hillar. Subsequently, but after all was over, it turned out that this plea had been the windiest of chimaeras. True, you reply, but perhaps he was deceived. Yes, reader, but by what manner of deception? He was distant from the Bala Hissar by less than two miles; he was then in almost daily communication with it; and yet, upon a matter confessedly one of life and death for 17,000 souls, he took no steps for ascertaining the truth!

But these things we pass, in order to reach a point most superficially treated by Lieutenant Eyre, which was, in truth, the original fountain of the whole calamity. We have said already, that, (guilty as might be the leaders by unexampled fatuity, obstinacy, and improvidence,) in our judgement, the mischief ascended to elder sources than either General Elphinstone or Shelton. And here was the main source, which (on the principle explained above) we shall barely indicate, not saying one word in aggravation. The cantonments—who was it, what man, what men, what council, on whom rests the horrible responsibility of that selection and that execution? We contend that, besides those directly responsible parties, others were so to a criminal extent; every artillery officer was so; and therefore, unless some further explanations are made, Lieutenant Eyre is so. But surely Lieutenant Eyre has exposed the vices of these cantonments. True, he has so; some of the vices, but not all, but not the worst. The ground, he tells us, was bad; the line of fortifications too extensive; the interior overlooked in parts; and (with a view to the accommodation of the envoy) the defences absolutely interrupted in their regular series. True; and therefore, night and day, it became the duty of every artillery officer to cry out, Delenda est Carthago. But all this is not the worst. Even a child knows that, under the circumstances of the case, and the known reversionary uses of such a retreat in the event of its being wanted at all, (except as a barrack,) it was of the last importance to destroy all the strong places, nay, even all the cover, strong or not strong, which could shelter an enemy. This was not attempted, or thought of, until it became too late. Next, it was of even more clamorous importance to have the corn magazine within the line of defences: no effort was made in that direction. Now, had these been the only defects of the cantonments, they were enough to argue a constructive treason in those who neglected to denounce then. We know how they operated. These three ruins issued from these most culpable negligences:—1st, Starvation fell in one day upon the British host; and that it was which placed them at the mercy of the enemy. 2dly, The troops were inadequate to the extent of the defences; so that, together with starvation, loss of sleep fell upon the fighting men. 3dly, As another effect from that cause, a perpetual Penelope's web was to be maintained; for as often as detachments went out from cantonments against the many neighbouring forts, before they could possibly have time to destroy these nests of hornets, back they were summoned to the defence of their own lares; often in broad daylight, by combined assaults of the enemy on their own ramparts, but always by the approach of night. So that all momentary advantages became idle and useless; none could be followed up, none could be maintained. Lucan says of Caesar, when besieged in the fortified palace of the Ptolemies at Alexandria, that often, whilst thrown on his most difficult defence, the matchless soldier became the assailant—

But what he did as a trophy of his superiority, we did by imbecile improvidence and for final ruin. Yet even these shocking neglects or oversights were not the worst. Let us now suggest what were. Wherefore were the cantonments placed in proximity so close to Cabool? Let that be answered, and we shall see the early commencement of our infatuation. Two considerations will clench the case, and then we shall leave it. 1st, The cantonments were never meant to act upon the city of Cabool: that task was thrown upon the Bala Hissar from its situation. And yet no trial had ever been made of the power possessed by that fortress. The private houses were known to be forts: not until rebellion commenced was it ascertained of what strength they were; and eventually the city proved more formidable to the Bala Hissar than the Bala Hissar to the city. Such a blunder of ignorance and miscalculation, we believe, was never heard of. But, 2dly, Even that was a trifle by comparison with the capital evil—and the capital evil was this. The enemy was allowed, throughout the autumn of 1841, to accumulate ad libitum in Cabool. Retainers of the chiefs, Ghilzyes and others, gathered unwatched throughout October. Now mark what followed from our choice of cantonments. Had they been fixed fifteen or even ten miles off, the impossibility of marching daily to and from Cabool would have strangled the rebellion in its first three days. The evil which crushed ourselves, of having always at sunset to go homewards, would have been thrown upon the enemy, and with as much more of ruinous effect as the distance was greater. As it never was alleged that the cantonments were meant for the overawing of Cabool, and in effect they were totally inefficient as regarded that city—it is clear that the one great advantage by which the Affghans accomplished our destruction, was coolly prepared for them by ourselves, without the shadow of any momentary benefit for our own interests. Even for provisions, the event showed that we had never looked to Cabool. And there reveals itself the last feature of our perfect madness.

ETCHED THOUGHTS BY THE ETCHING CLUB.

In the Number of Maga of January 1842, we reviewed one of the labours of the Etching Club—The Deserted Village. We congratulated the lovers of art upon the resumption of the needle, and showed the advantages which, in some important respects, it has over the graver. Etching, as it is less mechanical, is more expressive. We have from it the immediate impress of the painter's mind; that peculiar autographic character which marks every turn and shade of thought, even transition of thought and feeling, in what may, at first view, seem vagaries of lines; which, we know not how, (nor is the artist himself at the time conscious of the operation,) discriminate innumerable niceties, each having its own effect, and yet tending to one whole. We rarely come at once, uno ictu, to a decision. The operation is progressive—from conception to conception, from feeling to feeling, from many shades of uncertainty to decision. The first fresh hand upon any work is obedient to the mind in this process; and hence it is that we so value, so admire, the sketches and drawings of the great masters. We see not only the full complete sentiment of the subject, but how they came to it; we trace it back through all its varieties, and feel a sensible delight in being in possession of the very mind of the master. Were this not the case, how are we to account for the charm felt in turning over a portfolio of old drawings? How exquisitely beautiful are those of Raffaelle and Titian! The sale of the collection of Sir Thomas Lawrence proves the high estimation in which these are ever held. Thousands of pounds for a few drawings! What sums were given for Claude's "Liber Veritatis!" and why?—Because these original drawings of the old masters possess this very autographic character that we have described. And this is precisely the case with etching. Nor is it only the case with those of the Italian, but those of every school; and, singularly enough, the Flemish and Dutch painters, whose high finish and elaborate colouring give such great value to their works, were eminently successful in the free and expressive style of etching. Rembrandt we need not speak of—wondrous indeed are his works of the needle. How exquisite are the etchings of Berghem, Both and Karel du Jardin! and, to show how characteristic they are, how different are they from each other! It is to be regretted that this art is of modern invention. What treasures might we not have possessed, had this inestimable secret been known to the ancients! We should not be left to conjecture the merits of Apollodorus, Zeuxis, Parrhasius, Timanthes, Apelles. We might have had outlines—first thoughts—"etched thoughts," by Phidias himself. And, as the art of design was earlier than any of those names—even coeval with, or prior to, Homer himself—those who engraved and worked in metal their shields, might have handed down to us etchings of Troy itself, and particulars of the siege. Do we lose or gain by not having the ancient book of beauty? But we must be content with what we have, and, in the regret, see the value of the present, looking to future value. Etching, is still old enough to interest by its portraiture of ages gone by. The inventor is not known. Perhaps the earliest specimen is the well-known "Cannon" by Albert Durer, dated 1518; and there is one by him, "Moses receiving the Tables of the Law," dated 1524. The art was soon after practised by Parmegiano, and extended to general use. Yet it is clear that the real power and merit of etching was not known to the inventor, nor to those who, in its early state, applied themselves to it. The first aim seems to have been exact imitation of the graver. Le Bosse, in his treatise on engraving, makes the perfection of the art consist in the close similitude of the graver's work. It was this which at first cramped the artist, and delayed the progress of etching, and gave it not only the appearance, but the reality of inferiority—and often times the name and reputation of inferiority is as prejudicial as the thing itself, and we verily believe that it still has its effect upon the public taste. Artists have not sufficiently taken to etching. We have had more amateurs excel in it than professional artists. There was a collection of amateur etchings at Strawberry Hill, given to Walpole by the etchers. The greater part of them is excellent, though they are mostly copies from other works, but not all. There are some surprising imitations of Rembrandt. The best are by Lady Louisa Augusta Neville, afterwards Lady Carlisle.

Then, again, the union of etching and engraving has certainly retarded the art, and has given it another character. If that union has engrafted freedom on engraving, it has given to the needle too much precision—it has taken from it the working out effects. We have elsewhere noticed that the taste for the precise and labored engraving in landscape, introduced by Woollet, drove out from the field that which was very superior to it. The prints from Claude and Poussin, by Vivares Wood, Mason, and Chatelet, and published by Pond, are infinitely more characteristic of the masters than the works which succeeded them. But we speak here only of imitation. It is in the original handling of artists themselves, not in translated works, and according to the translating phraseology, "done by different hands," that we are to look for the real beauty and power of the art. It is this handwriting of the artist's original mind that constitutes the real beauty; we would not have a touch of the graver to any work professing to be an etching—the graver cannot be used with impunity. If it will admit of any adventitious aid, it may perhaps be, in a very subordinate degree, mezzotint and aquatint. But etching rather improves Prince Rupert's invention than is advantaged by it. The sootiness of mezzotint is dangerous—in bad hands it is the "black art" of Prince Rupert, though the term was applied to a metal of the prince's invention, not to his discovery of mezzotint.

Modern times have brought the art of engraving to a wonderful perfection. Its mechanical work is most exquisite, and reaches the whole effect of picture surprisingly. If the publishing public knew as well what to engrave as our engravers know how to engrave, we should not see our printsellers' windows teem with worthless works beautifully executed. We often wonder, as we stop occasionally to look at the display, where the purchasers are found for things that pain the eye and weary the mind to see—history, or landscape, or familiar life, it matters not, nearly all without feeling, elaborate nothings—obtrusions, unless we are disposed to examine only the work of the engraver; and even then we must lament to see it thrown away, or rather employed in disseminating bad taste. How rarely is it we see even a subject of any value or interest attempted! It is, as in our play-writing, not the subject, but the peculiarity of some actor, that is to be written up to; so the peculiarities of some few flashy favourite artists employ our best engravers, who ought to be far otherwise employed, in making transcripts from the best works, ancient or modern, by which taste may be improved, the mind enlarged, and the heart made to feel as it ought. If our flashy prints are the index of the public taste in this country, we have little of which to boast; and we undoubtedly keep our artists from rising to any worthy aim, by showing them how satisfied we can be with mediocrity, and even some degrees below it. There is, in etching, a lightness and playfulness of execution which excuses, if it does not quite reconcile us to a bad subject. We lose the idea of effort in the freedom. To present to the eye a laboured nothing, is to disgust by the sense of labour alone. We calculate the time and cost, and look for an object worthy the outlay in vain, and become thoroughly dissatisfied. We have a great mind to describe the process of etching, that the lovers of art who read Maga, and happen to be ignorant of it, may try their hands—it is very fascinating work, and even the uncertainty in the first attempts, and the very failures, give pleasure in the operation. There is something more pleasant in hoping our labour will turn out well, than knowing it. If there be any whose time hangs heavy on their hands, let them take up etching. Johnson lamented that men did not work with their needles, considering the employment of the hands a great aid to thought—and so it is. Now the etching-needle is the one a man may take up without becoming ridiculous. As there are so many "Handmaids" to the art, from which the whole mystery may be learned, we forbear. We have, however, turned to our friend Gerard Larresse for the purpose of setting down, secundum artem, a practical account, and find it not: but we like little old treatises better than modern, there is something unsophisticated in their manner of giving information, and there is no study of periods, which, in their music, steal away the understanding; so we refer to Faithorne. But nevertheless our friend Gerard, if he does not give information, supplies amusement. He thinks every thing best told by an emblem—so receive, reader, his pictorial account of the art; we cannot give his plate, so be content with his description of it, that is, Etching. "This beautiful virgin, sitting at a table, has before her a copperplate, lying on a sand-bag; and near it stands a little monkey, placing a lighted lamp before her. She is attended by Prudence and Diligence, and Practice is setting the tools on an oil-stone. Her chair is of ebony, adorned with figures of Sincerity and Assiduity, wrought in ivory, and mutually embracing; behind which stands Judgment, showing her a little further, Painting, accompanied by Apollo and Diana; he holding up his torch, in order to enlighten Sculpture, and she hers reversed, with purpose to extinguish it; the Genii, in the mean time, are every where busy in providing necessary materials. The eldest offers her a drawing, either redded or whited on the back, and a point or needle for tracing it on the plate; this drawing represents the design he is going about. Others, in an inner apartment, are employed in heating a plate on a chafing-dish, and laying the ground even with a feather. Here, one is etching—there, another biting a plate; others taking and reviewing proofs, with great attention and pleasure—while Fame, having a proof of a portrait in her hand, with her trumpet sounds out at a window the praises of masters or engravers. Honour, crowned with laurel, and bearing a small pyramid, is entering the room, ushering in Annona or Prosperity, who has a cornucopia, or horn filled with fruits. Round the room are set on pedestals divers busts of famous etchers and engravers; as Marc Antonio, Audlan, Edelinck, Vander Meulen, and several other Italian and French, as well as Dutch and German masters. In the off-skip, Europe, Asia, and Africa appear standing in surprise at the sound of the trumpet." There is nothing like example! Who sees in this prophetic enigma, in his "chair of ebony," other than "Ebony" himself, the "most accomplished Christopher," beaming with "sincerity," and placid in his "assiduity," with "Judgment" waiting upon him at command, wielding neither crutch nor pen, but, in affable condescension, the contemned needle etching the portrait of his own "Colonsay," and his own famous exploit, to show that one needle in the hand of genius can make a man and a horse too; though nine tailors and nine needles scarcely make up the complement of a man—yet would these nine in one, the renowned of Brentford, scarcely have matched "Christopher on Colonsay!" And as for Fame blowing out of the window, he, in spite of himself and his modesty, is his own trumpeter, and, as Maga reaches them, surprises "Europe, Asia, Africa," and America too. Such is the emblematical representation of etching, and we have embellished it with a first-rate performer.

And now let us turn to "Etched Thoughts by the Etching Club." We find a new name or two added to the list—C.G. Lewis, the renowned and best of etchers; and Severn, whose etchings are new to us, not so his other works of art. We remember his "Ship of the Ancient Mariner," and his expressive, sentimental, figures; and poor Fearnley—now no more—we remember greatly admiring a somewhat large picture of his—"A River-Scene in Norway,"—evidently painted immediately from nature, powerfully, expressively given. Somehow or other he did not take in this country, and quitted it, leaving behind him very beautiful studies strangely undervalued, and sold for little. The fact is, he was too true to the solemnity and sobriety of nature to please a public led away by gaudy display and meretricious colouring. Yet was he a man of more genius—in landscape—than any nine out of ten of our best artists that have, these last ten years, attempted to show nature or art upon our academical walls. Poor Fearnley! We have heard that elsewhere he was appreciated and successful. Stone and Herbert are good additions. Happy is it when the feelings of the artist and poet are in unison; happier still when the poet is himself the artist: and such is the case here. So that, in many cases, they are really "Etched Thoughts"—not etched translations of thoughts; and the work of the pen is not inferior to that of the needle. In the "Deserted Village" was a continuous story; every plate was in connexion with its preceding. In this publication, every artist seems to have been left to his own choice of subject, and to his free fancy.

Cope first comes under our notice. He commences the work with "Love," and a quotation from Spenser. As an etching, it is powerful, but we doubt if quite true: there should be something to account, in such a twilight scene, for the strong light upon the "Ladye-love!" Nor are we quite satisfied with the love of the lover, or the reception it meets with. The man or his guitar, one of the two, if not both, must be out of tune. His "Veteran's Return" tells its tale, and a somewhat mournful one; it is in illustration of some very good and pathetic lines by a member of the club, H.J. Townsend; and as, we believe, they are not to be met with out of "Etched Thoughts," we extract them for the gratification of the reader:—

THE VETERAN'S RETURN.

     The old yew, deck'd in even's parting beams,
       From his red trunk reflects a ruddier ray;
     While, flickering through the lengthen'd shadow, gleams
       Of gold athwart the dusky branches play.
     The jackdaws, erst so bustling on the tower,
       Have ceased their cawing clamour from on high;
     And the brown bat, as nears the twilight hour,
       Circles—the lonely tenant of the sky.

     The soldier there, ere pass'd to distant climes,
       On Sabbath morn his early mates would meet;
     There list the chant of the familiar chimes,
       And the fond glance of young affection greet.
     There, too, at eve—before the twilight grey
       Led the dark hours, when sprites are wont to walk—
     With his sweet Nancy how he joy'd to stray,
       And tell his rustic love in homely talk.

     Now, home return'd, far other thoughts he owns,
       Though still the same the scene that meets his view!
     The same sun glistens o'er the lichen'd stones—
       Scarce one year more seems to have gnarl'd the yew.
     There, too, the hamlet where his boyhood pass'd
       Sends, as of old, its curls of smoke to ken—
     So near, his stalwart arm a stone might cast
       Among the cots that deck the coppiced glen!

     But ere the joys of that domestic glade
       Can wipe the tear from off his rugged brow,
     A stone beneath the yew-tree's ebon shade
       Deep o'er his heart a heavier shade doth throw.
     (Oh! sad indeed, when thus such tidings come
       That stun, even when by slow degrees they steal,)
     That tablet tells how cold within the tomb
       Are hands whose fond warm grasp he long'd to feel.

The "Painter of the Olden Time."—"His shop is his element, and he cannot, with any enjoyment to himself, live out of it.—Dr South." This is very good. The painter has his back to you, and is at work apparently on a wall. Little wots he of the world without. He is embodying angels, and spreading angelic light; himself, slipshod and loosely girdled, centring the radiance he creates. How differently arrayed are body and mind! By the title, we presume Mr Cope means to satirize some modern fops of the profession. Of all Mr Cope's etchings in the volume, we mostly admire "Love's Enemies." It is from the well-known passage of Shakspeare, "Ah me! for aught that ever I could read," &c. The conception is excellent. War, Death, and Sickness are taking off their prisoner Cupid, chained, from the door of an aged couple willing enough to part with him, while their poor broken-hearted daughter, with disheveled hair, hides her face with her hands; and, above her, the hard father's uplifted crutch is ready to speed the departure. It is lightly etched, in very good keeping; so that the grouping is clear, and the moral is perceptible at a glance. His "Rejected Addresses" is of another cast. Here he is in the common and beggarly world: yet represents he no common beggar; for, though he be often so named, he is one of rare accomplishments. "He can write a capital letter, enough to make any of the 'quality people' cry. The begging-letter people give him a shilling for a letter. He is now on the tramp." The man was a lawyer, and so astute that he can so adjust himself and his shadow, that he will hide in it from your scrutiny any habitual expression of his villany. And Cope has been most happy in this idea.

"Morning Prayer" is introduced with a few elegant lines, we presume by Mr Cope himself. They have no name to them. The figure is graceful, the effect tender; but we confess we have been so satiated with such subjects in the Annuals, that we do not relish this as perhaps we ought. From the same cause, we do not dwell upon "The Mother." "The Wanderer— the beggar and his dog," is good. The impostor beggar was in sunshine, and which he turned to his purpose: he could cope with the world's broad glare. This is no impostor; and the atmosphere he breathes is suited to his fortunes. The rejecting hand, with its shadow of the dry skinny fingers, is well conceived.

"The Readers," from Boccaccio, is not happy. The figures are not Italian; nor is the costume of the age of the book. His "Girl and Cupid" is a little gem, reminding us of Schidoni. We presume these lines are by the etcher—

     "Love, in the virgin breast of beauty lying,
     Laughs at the fate for her he doth prepare—
     Will swiftly turn her sweetest smiles to sighing,
     And flee when she is fixed in despair."

We have seen so many ladies with up-turned eyes, called in the annual catalogues "Meditation," that we will not interrupt the calm of Mr Cope's. C.G. Lewis has but one plate, "A Woodland Dell." A quiet spot of shade and flickering sunshine—a streamlet, and a rural bridge. It is sweetly etched, true to the character.

Richard Redgrave, in more than one instance in the book, shows that he has power over the deep and solemn pathetic, as well as over the tender. His first plate is "The Survivors of the Storm." The story is from Petronius, as told by Jeremy Taylor. A floating body of one of a shipwrecked crew lies pillowed on a wave, and is met with by the survivors in their boat. Solemn and awe-stricken is their expression. The plate is of a fine tone, befitting death in that awful shape. This story of Petronius was the subject of a poetical piece, which we remember to have read in a volume of poems by Thomas Flatman, one of the "mob of gentlemen" condemned by Pope, who, nevertheless, did not care about borrowing from him pretty much of his version of the "Animula, blandula, vagula"—the Emperor Adrian's address to his soul. We remember the commencement of the piece:—

     "After a blustering tedious night,
     The winds all hush'd, and the rude tempest o'er,
     Rolling far off upon a briny wave,
     Compassionate Philander spied
     A floating carcass ride,
     That seem'd to beg the kindness of a grave.
     At near approach he thought he knew the man," &c.

His "Fairy Revels" make a light and elegant plate. A fairy group in a frame of leaves. He is here both painter and poet.

     "Hast thou not seen the summer breeze,
     The eddying leaves, and downy feather,
     Whirl round a while beneath the trees,
     Then bear aloft to heaven together?
     With just such motion, gliding light,
     These fairies vanish'd from my sight."

Poor unfortunate Dadd! some years ago he exhibited a picture of this subject, somewhat similarly treated, that was exquisitely ideal.

The "Ellen Orford," from Crabbe's Borough, is good in the effect; but it has not the pathos that usually distinguishes Redgrave. "Rizpah watching her Sons," is very fine. The night, the glaring torchlight, to scare away the approaching wolves, and the paler, more distant light in the sky, with the melancholy mourning Rizpah, are of the best conception. "The Sick Child" has quite the effect of a Rembrandt plate; yet it is very tender—a scene fit for the angelic visit, and pure and devout of thought and purpose is that angel—we do not like the mother. The best description is from Mr Redgrave's own pen.

"THE SICK CHILD.

"He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."—PSALM xci.

     "In a chamber, faintly crying,
     With its mother o'er it sighing,
     Lay a baby pale and wan;
     Ever turning—restless turning—
     Much she dreaded fever burning,
     Sickness slow or sickness hasting,
     Cough, convulsion, ague wasting.
     Bitter tears there fell upon
     The pale face of her little son.

     "The evening chimes had ceased their ringing,
     And the even song was singing
     In the old kirk grey with years;
     Through the air sweet words came welling—
     Words of peace, unto that dwelling;
     Hymns they sang, how angels shielded
     Those who ne'er to sin had yielded:—
     And her pale face lost its fears—
     That lonely mother dried her tears.

     "In her arms the babe soon slumber'd;
     That little son, whose days seem'd number'd,
     Smiled upon his mother sleeping.
     The Lord indeed had sorely tried her,
     But his angel knelt beside her;
     Heavenly breezes cool'd the fever
     Of her child—He shall not leave her!
     And this mother ceased her weeping."

    "Fancy, impatient of all painful thoughts,
     Pictured the bliss should welcome his return;
          * * * * *
     And hope and memory made a mingled joy."—SOUTHEY

This is a lovely figure; a loving and lovable gentle creature! and many such have we seen by Redgrave's hand. Not Raffaelle himself could more truly paint the pure mind—that precious jewel, innocence, in its most lovely casket.

Severn has two plates, which may be called companions; racy and good are they, and of one vintage. We are not quite satisfied with either face or figure of the maiden in the "Roman Vintage." Hers is not a face of feeling; nay, we would almost beg Mr Severn's pardon, and pronounce her a bit of a fool. The "Neapolitan" is much better. They are executed in a very bold, broad, free style of etching, and effective. Horsley's "English Peasant" might be allowed to be a little weatherbeaten; but, at first sight, we should say that he was not of the temperance society when the aquafortis was on the table. It is black, from being overbitten. Yet, after a while, we see through the darkness into the character. He is an honest fellow, but a little "disguised." His "Twilight" is very good, yet perhaps is the light a little too sharp and strong for that hour. The subject is from verses by Redgrave, and good and quaintlike old gentle rhymes they are. But how comes it that the figures are both feminine?—that does not accord with the lines.

     "Time was no more for them: the sun had gone,
     The stars from sunset glow began to peer;
     Yet 'neath those stars that pair still linger'd on,
     Unconscious of the night, fast drawing near!
     His voice to her was daylight, and her smile
     A sunny morning breaking o'er his soul:
     Such hours of bliss come only once—the while
     Long-silent love speaks forth without control,
     And of its hopes and fears first telleth out the whole."

For the credit of Wales, we hope Mr Horsley did not sketch these from nature; yet is there a fearful look of natural acrimony in the one, and sheer busybodyism in the other. The plate is beautifully etched. His "Moonlight" is not quite clear enough—there are too many sparkling lights. The "Shady Seat" is prettily designed; the lady looks rather too alarmed, and, for the subject, perhaps there is not enough of shadow— certainly not "enough for two." We at once recognize Stonhouse in the "Evening effects of Solitude," and his "Neath Abbey." The former he thus describes:—

     "There, woods impervious to the breeze,
     Thick phalanx of embodied trees—
     Here, stillness, height, and solemn shade
     Invite, and contemplation aid."

We are sure that Neath Abbey is from nature, for it has the sooty and smoked character of that manufacture-ruined ruin. But we must not pass by his "Dorothea" from Don Quixote. Nothing can be more happily expressed than the deep shady retirement of the wood; there are nice gradations of shades, which is the very character of retirement, and Dorothea is herself in it, not a bright figure in a black mass—and good is the figure too, but the feet are unfinished.

Mr Creswick is a large contributor, and least fortunate in his first: it is not the scene so well given in verse by his friend Townsend; for it is too pretty, too tight. It wants the "lane;" it is the road-side.

"THE WAYSIDE.

     "A lane, retired from noisy haunts of men,
     Whose ruts the solitary lime cart tracks,
     Whose hedge-sides, propp'd by many a mossy stone,
     Are checker'd o'er with foxglove's purple bloom,
     Or graceful fern, or snakehood's curling sheath,
     Or the wild strawberry's crimson peeping through.
     There, where it joins the far-outstretching heath,
     A lengthen'd nook presents its glassy slope,
     A couch with nature's velvet verdure clad,
     Trimm'd by the straggling sheep, and ever spread
     To rest the weary wanderer on his way.
     There, oft the ashes of the camp-fire lie,
     Marking the gipsy's chosen place of rest.
     Black roots of half-charr'd furze, and capons' bones—
     Relic of spoils from distant farmers' coop—
     Point to the revels of preceding night.
     And fancy pictures forth the swarthy group,
     Their dark eyes flashing in the ruddy glare;
     While laughter, louder after long constraint,
     From every jocund face is pealing round.

His "Summer" is a simple unaffected scene, such as may be met with any where, if you have but "eyes to see:" and pretty much like it, but inferior—for if it be not more common in subject, it is in treatment— is the "Old Farm-House," from that delighting and most natural painter with her pen, Miss Mitford. Very exquisite in his "Moonlight"—so true, with all the quivering and blending light of nature, where all things are at once lucid and in shade—as Virgil happily expresses it, "luce sub incertâ linae." Sweet, too, and in the deep solemn repose of religious eve, is the "Village Church"—from lines by Rogers. He is not so happy in his "Smithy;" neither is the scene of interest nor the effect pleasing. But he makes up for all by his "Outward Bound." The home is left in the calmest, stillest of days; though the "outward bound" has sails, they rather wait for, than feel, the wind; there is the village church still in view, and will yet be an hour and more. The sky is, though really printers' ink, like many a sooty vapour converted into light-shedding yet faint clouds—we can see the colour—it is a grey, in which is gold and ultra-marine. The boat is conveying the "outward bound" to the vessel; there is the moving and the waiting. It is poetical. "The Castle" we do not much admire; it is a villa castle, and on no agreeable river. "Low Water" is quite another thing; it is a beautiful etching. He thus describes it with his pen—

The "River Scene," illustrating lines from Southey, is delicately touched, and a pleasing scene; yet we feel sure it is not from nature. Why, we can hardly tell. Is it that there is a bridge, apparently without a bank on one side to rest upon? "The Terrace," from lines by Andrew Marvel, is a most fascinating upright plate. It is perfectly true, giving all the thousand intricacies and shades of such a scene; and there is grace in the forms, and the figures well suit the whole. All is gentleness and ease; not a light is too strong, or a shadow too deep; there is no violence—which too many are apt to express when they would give powerful effect. His "Fishing Scene on the Coast of Ireland" is not to our taste, yet is it not without meaning—it is windy and sunny. "The Oriental Palace" is solemn, with its ancient yew in the silence of the crescent moon; but the ruin is to fill up, and does no good.

We have read with pleasure, and extracted, some of Mr Townsend's poetry; let us now see his etching. "Boyhood:" those who delight in the easy, every-day, every-hour play of boyhood, will enjoy this plate. A boy is, with a peacock's feather, tickling a child asleep in the arms of a grave old lady—so sedate have we seen grimalkin look whilst encouraging her kitten, lightly and coquettishly, to play with a ball of cotton. "The Beach" is a well-sketched coast scene, and shows Mr Townsend to have an eye for nature's scenery, as well as nature's sympathies. Very good is "The Model"—an artist sketching in the figure of a Lascar. But his best plate is "Sad Tidings." It is a very sweet figure—youth, elegance, tenderness, are there—and such an even melancholy light, or rather such a mournful evenness of light and shade, that, as a whole, it is neither light nor dark, and should have no other name than melancholy. He had the judgment and forbearance to hide the face—we know it is lovely, and that is enough; it is this, in part, which separates "Sad Tidings" from such subjects as they are usually treated. There are two etchings by Frederic Tayler—"The Chase" from Somerville, and "The Auld Grey" from Burns—both are lightly etched and good; but they have not that free and certain hand which marks Mr Tayler's style in his drawings, where one wash of the brush hits off his object with great truth. "The Gypsy Boy," by Mr Knight, is very masterly in chiaroscuro, and certainly characteristic of the race. Effect of chiaroscuro seems to be his aim. It is marked in his "Old Fable" (which always means the newest) of "The Peasant and the Forest." It is thus given: "A peasant once went into an old forest of shady oaks, and humbly entreated the same to grant him a small branch to make a handle for his axe, and thereby enable him to pursue his labours at home. The forest very graciously acceded to his request, and the peasant soon formed the required handle; but presently he began to lay about him in every direction, using the very substance with which the forest had furnished him out of its own bosom, and in a short time hewed down its whole growth."

Which are we bound most to admire—John Bell's pen or John Bell's needle? It is a difficulty. "The Devil's Webbe" is admirable in both. What a spider-like wretch is he, watching the toils that he has spread!

     "This webbe our passions be, and eke the flies
       Be we poor mortals: in the centre coyles
     Old Nick, a spider grimme, who doth devyse
       Ever to catch us in his cunning toyles.
     Look at his claws—how long they are, and hooked!
       Look at his eyes—and mark how grimme and greedie!
     Look at his horrid fangs—how sharp and crooked!
       Then keep thy distance so, I this arreede ye,
     Oh sillie Flie! an thou wouldst keep thee whole;
       For an he catch thee, he will eate thy soul."

And there they are! the winged insect lovers of pleasure, and of gain and strife—in one word, of sin—entangled in the ladder webb; while such a monster is in the centre, watching his larder. John Bell is instinctively a moral weaver. Fine-spun are his philosophical threads; we stop not to enquire if they will bear the tug of life. He is trying them, however, on the "tug of war." Pen and needle are set to work philosophically, methodically, benignly. In this he is but a unit out of many thousands. His opinions are not singular. Amiable moralist!— delightful is the dream, sweetly sounding the wisdom; but is it practicable? John Bell's warfare, "The Assault," is, without a doubt, "confusion worse confounded;" it is not easy, at a view, to find legs and arms and heads in their anatomical order. We must trace the human figure as through its map. Perhaps this is purposely done to resemble a battle the more truly, where limbs are apt to fly out of their places. But John Bell thinks—

So he pours forth from his "Unpublished Play" a choice tirade against the royal play of human ninepins:—

     "And then a battle, too—no doubt it is
     A right fine thing; or rather to have been there.
     But all things have their price; and this, methinks,
     Is rather dear sometimes. Oh! glory's but
     The tatter'd banner in a cobwebb'd hall,
     Open'd not once a-year—a doubtful tomb,
     With half the name effaced. Of all the bones
     Have whiten'd battle-fields, how many names
     Live in the chronicle? and which were in the right?
     One murder hangs a man upon a rope,
     A hundred thousand maketh him a god,
     And builds him up a temple in the air
     Out of men's skulls. A loving mother bears
     A thousand pangs to bring into the world
     One child; your warrior sends a thousand out,
     Then picks his teeth."

Such was Shakspeare's momentary humour, when he put it into Falstaff's mouth to ask what honour is "to him that died o' Wednesday." It is a humour that won't last—'tis against nature—man is more than half belligerent, and has a "murder" in him (to give it a bad name) "that will out." Even the peaceable Ephraim took up the handspike, and used it too, with "friend, keep thee in thy own ship." The "friend" was hyprocrisy—the use of the handspike, natural; the very elements are at war, and were made to be so—storms are as necessary as sunshine. But excellent able John Bell likes sunshine best; and who does not like him the better for that? And sweet sunshine has he shed around "The good Mayde"—a sunshine that makes its own magic circle, within which evil spirits or evil men shall not come. Tempt on, ye wizards—she looketh upwards, yet think not she will fall or miss her way—the Unseen guideth her steps. Bell's account of the matter is, however, far better. Let him publish his quaint poem, all of it; the specimens warrant the request.

     "Thus doth the goode Mayde, with a stedfaste eye,
     Walke through the troubles vaine, and peryls dire,
     That doe beset mayde's path with haytes full slie,
     The trappes and gynnes of mischief's cunning syre.
     Ne nought to her is riches' golden shower,
     Ne gaudy baites of dresse and rich attyre,
     Ne lover's talke, ne flatteries' worthless store,
     Ne scandal's forked tongue—that ancient liar,
     Ne music's magic breath, ne giddy wheel
     Of gay lascivious daunce, ne ill-raised mirthe,
     Ne promised state doth cause her mind to reel,
     Or lure from thoughts of heaven to joys of earthe."

Our poet, a moralist etcher, reverts to the old subject; and we have "The Progresse of Warre," in a series, as part of a frieze for his Temple of Peace. This is most clear—for he who runs may read; yet, on a second view, we doubt that—for we see, what we did not at first see, writing under each tablet that is by no means intelligible. Having, with Mr Bell, seen an end of the battle, it is fit time, with Mr Herbert, to discuss "The Day after the Battle." "Next day did many widows come"— that verse of Chevy Chase is the subject. The slaughtered knight, the widow, and the dog, tell the tale, and tell it well too. The widow is the best figure. We have had enough of battle and all its horrors; let us turn to tranquillizing nature, where the undisturbed lichen may grow upon the rocks, and the branches of unpruned trees throw out their sheltering leafage, and the innocent insects know it is their home; and even in the seeming silence, if you listen, may you hear the still voice of a busy creation, a world of a few summer hours—yet seemeth it to them an eternity of enjoyment. And such a scene we have in the "Woody Scene," by Thomas Fearnley—poor Fearnley!—and is it not lightly, elegantly touched with the needle? the scene realized? Or, would you see a wilder spot, turn to his "Norwegian Scenery," and see the saw-mill, or whatever the building be, at the very entrance of the deep wood in its gloom, with the mountain torrent pouring over the rocks. In this sequestered spot, man has built him a home, and turned to human uses the rebellious waters, even on the very skirts of the wilderness; and there he is, for his hours are not all of toil, gloriously angling, for he has hooked his fish. Poor Fearnley! would he could have remained in this country! Had he been moderately patronised, he might have added an honourable name to our dictionary of painters.

And what has become of Webster? We remember well his "Boys let loose from School." Here he is—and but one plate—"Anticipation"—well named. The pie is come home, and the boy's eyes open, and his mouth waters. The story is quaintly told by Townsend thus:—Lights and shadows of boyish days! how bright and deep they are! The schoolmaster's frown may be charmed away by the gift of a new top, or a score of marbles. But what are these in the cotter's life to the stirring vicissitudes of a pie! ——Before its departure for the bakehouse, did he not ponder admiringly on the delicate tact that mingled the bony scraps with.

"Since then, imagination has been at play; and, in accordance with its suggestions, his bib and tucker have been donned, as trusty adjutants to the formidable wooden spoon. Thus armed, while sister Phillis—the creative genius of the savoury structure—regards the baker's boy with her modest glance, young Corydon, with his prophetic anticipation, is ogling the baker's burden. If his knife be as sharp as his appetite, 'twill want no whetting! We must expect that, in the afternoon, when anticipation shall have faded through the stages of its fulfilment, if no longer entranced by the pleasures of Hope, he will solace himself with those of Memory." And there, sure enough, is the grinning baker's boy, and the pie admirably baked; and the boy of the bib and tucker, and the wooden spoon, realizing it through his nostrils, and magnifying it through his eyes; and there is the neat-handed Phillis, who cares little for the eating. Feminine and gluttonous seldom come together. "The little glutton" is ever the male. This was in Webster's own way, and he has hit it off truly; he has seen it hundreds of times, and knew as well as Townsend who should have the wooden spoon. We find we have omitted to notice one plate, and that by Redgrave. We did not expect landscape by his hand. It is, however, very clever; there is a light over the dark church-tower which a little offends. Keep down that a little, and you recognize the true effect of nature. It is a view of Worcester. "A spot," says Mr Redgrave, "memorable as the scene of that battle signalized by Oliver Cromwell as the 'crowning mercy;' and whence the young Charles II. commenced the series of romantic and perilous adventures which terminated in his safety."

Our work of criticism is at an end; not so our pleasure. We shall look at this choice volume again and again; and as we have somewhat arrogantly, and with a conceit of our ability and right so to do, taken the Etching Club under our especial care, regard, and patronage, we shall think ourselves at liberty to encourage and to exhort them whenever we see fit. We therefore do exhort them to go on, to give a taste for painters' etchings, to improve themselves, too; and let each make it a rule to himself never to take the trouble to touch a subject that is not worth doing; nor to tell a story not worth telling, however such may seem to look pretty or with effect upon copper or paper; by all means to avoid "annual sentimentalities," and commonplace "acting charades;" and never to forget that expression is the soul of the art. For the present, we dismiss them with thanks—like the prudent physician, who, as Fielding says, always stands by to see nature work, and contents himself by clapping her on the back, by way of approbation, when she does well.

A LOVE-CHASE—IN PROSE.

CHAPTER I.

Bandvale Hall had lain empty for a long time—old Frank Edwards, so well known as a sportsman, had been dead for eighteen years, his horses sold, his kennels dismantled, and his son, after so absurdly long a minority, (for his father had capriciously fixed his majority at twenty-three,) only now coming of age; but whether he would reside at Bandvale, or continue in the neighbourhood of Leicester, where his guardian lived, or what he would do, nobody could tell. The estate, we were told, in spite of the economical management of four or five attorneys, and a couple of stewards, was more involved than when old Frank died; and many a time have I sighed, as I ambled past the lodges, and saw grass growing over the drive, contrasting these appearances with the jolly days I had known in the hall, "when the beards wagged all—shall we ever see the like again?" But change passes over all; and Bandvale was not the only place or the only thing that felt its influence. We were all very different from what we were; we had a railway within half an hour's drive; we had a Methodist chapel in the village; we had a clergyman who preached in his surplice, and would have had a hurl off a lame donkey if he had ventured into the saddle; the hounds were given up; you were asked to dinner at half-past seven, and got home again by ten; rather a changed state of affairs since old Frank kept the ball alive, and Parson Holt rode his grey nag over bank and fence, and we had two packs within ten miles, and no Methodists in the village, and no railroad in the county, and every thing was exactly as it ought to be; and we dined at five, and got home—when it pleased Heaven. Sometimes I turned down the avenue, and took a melancholy look at the old Hall. It is a great square house; flanked with two turrets, with fine old stone windows, and a stone porch in the middle. The Bandvale river runs through the park about three hundred yards from the front door, and is crossed by two bridges in the direction of the lodges, east and west; and beyond it rises the upland, all dotted over with clumps of elm—and at the highest part of the park is the church; a great black figure, kneeling on one knee, used to bear up the sun-dial in the centre of the sweep—his leg had given way from the weight of years and the huge globe he supported, and the poor old fellow lay on his back, kicking up the stump of his leg in a most audacious manner, in the very face of the sun. "The great globe itself had dissolved, and left not a wreck behind." They talk of Marius among the ruins of Carthage, and Coliseums unroofed, and temples of Theseus with crumbling pillars—all these are desolate enough; but then, their condition is picturesque: and I doubt whether Marius in the capitol, and the Coliseum newly finished, and the Temple at the time of its consecration, were half such interesting objects as in the days of their decline and fall. But to me the true representative of desolation was the long tufts of grass that grew in old Frank Edwards's stable-yard, the weeds that choked up the hall door, and the broken panes of the great dining-room windows—the spacious yard, the hospitable door, the jocund dining-room. And now young Frank was just coming to his legal age, and we were all forming our guesses and conjectures as to what the youth's proceedings would be when he came into possession. I made sure, if the property was really involved to the extent reported, that he would sell some of the lands he had in other counties; a farm or two he had in Sussex; a tolerable estate in the north; and a foolish marine villa somewhere in Devonshire, and pay off all incumbrances, and settle himself for life at Bandvale Hall. He would still have a very fine fortune; and it had been the family seat since the reign of Charles the Second. All the mothers and aunts in the county thought it was a seat like a Spanish saddle, and would carry double; and it certainly was amazing to see the preparations that were made to get the proper foot in the stirrup. It seemed agreed that for a young gentleman of twenty-three, seventeen was the only admissible age; and to reach that desirable date, as great cruelty was practised on the baptismal register books as on ancient travellers by the bed of Procrustes-girls of twenty-four were shortened by seven years, and little children of fourteen elongated by three. In some families there were three or four daughters all of the same age, yet not the least like twins; brothers and fathers were kept in marching order, ready to be dispatched to make poor Frank's acquaintance the moment he took possession. I also, though unendowed with any possession so valuable as either daughter, or sister, or niece, kept myself prepared to welcome my old friend's son, whenever he arrived.

The day of majority came at last—the third of June. The tenants of the Bandvale farms had a dinner at the Rose and Crown, and one of the managing attorneys proposed the young landlord's health in a speech full of amazing eloquence, but with a countenance that would have been more appropriate to a funeral oration than a toast; and it was, in fact, the funeral oration over his stewardship, as he gave notice that it was Mr Edwards's intention to take the management into his own hands—a piece of information that gave great satisfaction to every one except the firm of Goody and Fripp. But in spite of this announcement, young Frank never made his appearance—the walks continued overgrown with grass—the wounded Atlas looked proudly to heaven from his deathbed of fame-and the young ladies remained on the tiptoe of expectation.

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought I; "has he no regard for his father's neighbours, and his own birthplace?"

"What can be the matter with the boy?" thought Miss Sibylla Smith, and all the maidens young, old, and middle aged. "Has he fallen in love with his tutor's daughter, or got engaged to his guardian's niece?" for our young people had studied life so zealously in three-volume novels, that they never doubted for a moment that Frank Edwards's tutor (if he had a tutor) had a daughter, or that his guardian (and they knew he had a guardian) had a niece. But in spite of all our thoughts Bandvale Hall continued empty.

"I'll take another look at the old place," I said, one day in August as I was passing the lodge, and rode at a quiet contemplative walk down the avenue. I hung my rein over one of the rails of the porch steps, and passed round into the garden. Not a flower to be seen; but the place of them famously supplied with potatoes and other useful articles—and the same evidence of absenteeism in the shape of tottering walls, and grass grown walks, and dusty fountains in all directions. What a shame!—if I knew the boy's address, I would write to him to come home at once; but that Leicestershire guardian has kept him quite separated from those who ought to have been his friends, and had the bringing up of him from his youth. If we are to have him all the rest of his life, he could not have come among us too early; and in the firm intention of carrying this resolution into effect, I determined to look out for some workman about the place, to ask where Mr Edwards was to be found. The man that has the care of the garden can't be far off;—and accordingly I went in search of him. But either the vegetables were illustrations, like Southey's butlers, of self-culture, or the gardener had gone to dinner; and in the expectation of finding him in the kitchen, I clambered into the house by an open window, and walked quietly along the passage. I thought I heard voices in the garden library, a delightful room on the ground-floor, where I had passed many an evening with old Frank; and, supposing the gardener had taken possession of it, I opened the door. Close to the window two persons were sitting, so deeply engaged in conversation that they did not remark my entrance, and I took the opportunity of observing them at leisure. They were both young men—both tall and good-looking; one remarkably dark, with great umbrageous whiskers and mustaches; the other a chestnut-haired, fresh-complexioned youth, so like poor old Frank in the set on of his head and breadth of his shoulders, that I knew in a moment it could be no one but his son. They seemed both very much excited about something; but from the whispered tone of their conversation, it was difficult to make out what it was. The dark man, who was six or seven years older than his companion, had apparently been saying something that shocked the other, for he clenched his hand, and threw his eyes despairingly to the ceiling; and no wonder, for the words I heard, as I advanced from the screen at the door, were enough to raise a shudder in any person's breast. He said—

"But why?" enquired Frank Edwards, looking less startled than could be expected.

"Recollect I had no hand in it," said Frank. "I wouldn't have agreed to it on any account, and told you so before you did it."

Great heavens! what a secret to be thrust upon me! and what an introduction to the son of my poor friend—the accomplice of a murderer—who had evidently been consulted about the crime, and though he certainly had protested against it, had allowed it to be carried into effect! I was hesitating whether I should not retire at once, when Frank turned round and saw me. He rose, and received the apologies I muttered for my intrusion with the most astonishing self-command. I determined to conceal my knowledge of their conversation from them; and really, looking at the clear open countenance of the boy, it was difficult to believe that he knew any thing of so shocking a kind. I was introduced to the other, Mr Percy Marvale, and saw so much Italian, or perhaps gipsy, blood in his dark skin, and such a fierce expression in his coal-black eyes, that I was not so much surprised at his being implicated in the fearful deed. He looked just like one of the fellows on the stage who cut throats in a heroic fashion on the slightest provocation. But both were so free in their manner, and talked so pleasantly, that if it had not been for what I had overheard, I should have taken them for two very agreeable young men. And, in spite of it all, I could hardly avoid asking them both to leave the deserted house, and take up their quarters with me. I forced myself, however, to abstain from giving them the invitation; and after a half hour of friendly conversation, I got up to go away. They accompanied me a portion of the way; and when I looked at young Frank, and listened to the tones of his voice, twenty years seemed to roll off my shoulders. I took his hand. "You must dine with me to-morrow," I said; "and—and—your friend Mr Marvale," I added with some little difficulty. They both accepted without a moment's hesitation. "Hang it, there must be some mistake after all!" I thought, as I put my foot in the stirrup; "but I'll go and ask a few of the neighbours to meet them. Old Smith of Howkey is a magistrate, with an amazing nose for a crime. We'll see what he makes of it."

CHAPTER II.

Now old Smith was the son of a great London millionaire—an alderman, or even a lord mayor, for any thing I know—who had bought Howkey, and built an enormous house, to which his son had taken the moment the old gentleman died; had cut the shop, got on the commission, and now rejoiced in a fat, jolly, good-tempered wife, and a multiplicity of sons and daughters. Such a fellow for points of law was never heard of out of Westminster Hall, nor in it either. He read Acts of Parliament as other people read novels—for his amusement; and every body thought he knew more about them than a lord chancellor. There was great rejoicing at Howkey, from the drawing-room up to the very nursery, when I told of Frank Edwards's arrival. All manner of enquiries were made, in various tones of interest, from the romantic Miss Sibylla down to the youngest of the girls, as to his appearance, manner, height, and complexion. I answered them all to the extreme satisfaction of the enquirers, but took care to make no allusion to his companion; though, at the same time, I confess I could not persuade myself that what I had overheard had the dreadful meaning I at first attached to it. He must have meant something else; for I had not become acquainted with the new style of flash language, where so many allusions are made to people's mothers and their mangles, without any real reference either to one or other. Getting a man murdered in a shooting-box might mean something equivalent to "There you go, with your eye out!" which has no meaning at all. But although I had persuaded myself of this, I made no mention at Howkey of the ferocious-looking Percy Marvale, but merely asked my friend Old Smith to come over, and help me to welcome the new neighbour. Sibylla, who had all along been of opinion that Mr Frank Edwards was engaged to his tutor's daughter, and took no interest in him accordingly, was all of a sudden seized with an uncommon affection for my wife. She felt for the awkwardness of her position so much in being the only lady among so many gentlemen, that she insisted on going over with her father, merely to bear her company; and, from the sympathizing countenance of her fair sister Monimia, I expected every moment a similar offer from her. The Williamses, and old Harry Lambert and his son, were the only others I could catch on so short a notice; but we all determined to make up in friendliness for the paucity in numbers, and give young Frank a hearty welcome to his native county.

We were all assembled in the drawing-room—that is to say, all but the party from Bandvale—and Mr Smith was laying down the law, or rather explaining it after his usual manner, when Sibylla, who had stood at the window, all of a sudden gave a slight scream, and flushed up to the eyes like a peony rose.

Sibylla lifted up her eyes to the ceiling, and said nothing; for at that moment the door opened, and Frank Edwards and Mr Percy Marvale were announced.

"No, not a ghost," whispered Sibylla to my wife, "but an apparition I as little expected to see—I knew Mr Marvale in town."

The introduction was soon over; and Mr Marvale, on being presented to Miss Sibylla, exhibited as much surprise as that young lady had done at the window. I watched him as closely as if I had been one of the detective police; but, saving an enormous amount of puppyism and affectation, I could trace nothing very unusual in his appearance. Frank, on the other hand, was a fine open-mannered fellow, that one took to at once; and it was a mystery to me how he could be so intimate with a person so different from himself. Pity such a good-dispositioned youth should fall into the hands of such an atrocious character!

"You've met Mr Marvale before?" I said to Sibylla, as I took her into the dining-room.

"Oh, yes—at my cousin Jane's, in Russell Square—a wonderful man—a perfect genius!"

"Bad enough! Oh, I doat on men of genius! Did you never hear of him? He is quite a celebrity. Cousin Jane always has him at her literary parties, for she does not know Bulwer or Dickens; and he's so handsome, too—such a wild expression."

"Wild enough to get him two months of the tread-mill, if your father lays hands on him."

But when I saw the glance of profound admiration darted by Sibylla at the interesting stranger, I felt sure she would only like him the more if he were found out to be a murderer in reality; for there is a certain school of young ladies who do not stand upon trifles in the way of their flirtations, but extract fresh reasons for glorifying the object of their preference, from facts which the unwary lay before them by way of warnings. If he is a spendthrift, it is so noble to be free and generous; if he is a gambler, he is of such a fine unsuspecting disposition, he is only the dupe of the designing. In short, whatever you say to put them on their guard, only makes them expose themselves the more; and, therefore, I made no further attempt to open the eyes of Miss Sibylla Smith. All passed off very well at dinner. Every one was kind to Frank, and, for his sake, were abundantly civil to his friend; but that individual seemed to care very little whether we were civil to him or not. He talked more than all the rest of us put together— corrected Old Smith on points of law—and put me right on the routine of crops; proved to old Lambert's own satisfaction that he knew nothing of stall-feeding, and so belaboured us with great people, with their whole birth, parentage, and connexions, that we might have fancied he was Mr Debrett. Sibylla evidently believed he was the most delightful of men; and certainly the looks she darted at him, and the looks he darted at her, were the most extraordinary phenomena of the look kind I ever happened to see. It was quite evident that the daughter's feelings were not shared by Old Smith; and I made little doubt he would have been delighted to give him seven years of the hulks, if he could have found out any act of Parliament making it penal for a good-looking young fellow to encourage a silly young woman to make a fool of herself. He found time, in spite of his apparently monopolizing the whole conversation, to whisper incessantly into Sibylla's ear. He was evidently asking questions about her household position—how many sisters she had—how many brothers—their ages, characters looks, and the state of their education. He seemed practising for an inspector of schools. Then he went off to her cousin's, where he had met her in Russell Square, and the same series of questions about family affairs was repeated. Was the man engaged in collecting the census returns?

"What a dreadful thing the death of poor Mr Mopple!" said Sibylla. "They said he wasn't kind to his wife, though I never saw any signs of it at my cousin's."

"Mopple! Mopple!" he said, as if trying to remember. "Ah! a poor man with a beautiful wife is he dead?"

"Oh, yes—quite suddenly! He was down in Scotland, on the moors. Some people say there is something wrong about it."

"He was found dead in a shooting-box. His gun had gone off and killed him; but"—

I looked at the man's face. He was trying to appear as if he scarcely attended to what she was saying.

"Some of the friends are not quite satisfied that it was accidental," continued Sibylla. "How I pity poor Mrs Mopple."

"So!" I said, and looked firmly at Mr Marvale. "Do you hear that, sir?
Her name was Isabella."

"Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage—a good thing in its time, but out of fashion now," he answered. "A curious fact, there is an incident of precisely the same kind, of which I claim the credit."

"Oh, it's no secret! Mr Edwards and I concocted it between us; that is to say, he objected to it a little at first, but I flatter myself it will make some little noise in the world when it is fairly known."

I looked again at the brazen-faced fellow, and nearly fell off my chair at hearing him make such a horrid confession.

"I don't believe a word of it, sir," I exclaimed, "as far as Frank
Edwards is concerned."

"I assure you he had very little hand in it," he replied. "The merit, as you say, is entirely my own."

"I hope so. I offered a good deal before I undertook it; and I think it will pay very well."

"Oh! it is a melodrama you're speaking of? I was not aware, I am sure, or I should"—

"My dear sir, make no apologies. I hate the fuss people make about a man because he happens to be a successful author. I assure you, the plain entertainment you have given is better than all the fêtes my friends Devonshire and Lansdowne gave me, when I published the Blasted Nun."

Sibylla looked at him with still more intense admiration, when she heard him speak of the honours his works had procured him, and he entered at once into a minute description of the festivities of Chatsworth and Bowood, that would have done honour to the Morning Post.

After the ladies had gone to the drawing-room, I took the opportunity of having a quiet conversation with Frank, while his friend was astonishing the minds of the rest of the party with an account of his having refused the Guelphic Order which the Queen had pressed upon him on the twenty-fourth night of his Blood-stained Milkmaid.

"Oh, a very good fellow!" replied Frank. "I have known him at the Club for a long time."

"A very useful ally, I can assure you. I study him as the beau ideal of vanity and impudence."

"Oh, but I have, though—a very serious object—the only object, in fact, I care for in the world!"

"Well, if your object," I said, "has any connexion with my old friend
Smith, I think he is in a fair way of securing you a confederate in Miss
Sibylla."

"She may perhaps be useful; but Marvale will find out whether she will be so or not, before he lets her go to-night."

"Well, if it's any thing where other assistance is needed, you may depend on me."

"You're very good; but I fear you have neither the vanity nor the impudence that are so invaluable in my friend Percy Marvale."

"I am sure I don't know. It is what he is known by in the Club. He dramatizes all the bloodthirsty horrors at the Surrey—pushes his way every where—puffs and praises himself wherever he goes—is very good-looking, and makes love like a French hero—and, in short, is at this moment indispensable to me."

I made no further enquiries, for Frank filled his glass, and sighed like a smith's bellows. But I was filled with wonder at all that passed, and could form no guess at the bond that united two such dissimilar men, nor at the reason so much value was attached to the services of a boastful, clattering, pushing, inquisitive vagabond like the bewhiskered dramatist.

Before I joined in the general conversation, it was evident that Mr Percy Marvale, by dint of downright categorical questions, had acquired an intimate knowledge of poor old Harry Lambert's and Williams's domestic affairs; and it is useless to say he had bound himself in the most solemn manner to visit both them and Mr Smith, though neither of them, as far as I could see, seemed much delighted with his repeated asseverations.

"It's what I always do, my dear sir," he said to Harry Lambert; "for how could a man pick up any information unless he made himself intimate with all classes? Why should I keep myself separate from good fellows, merely because I happen to have written the Frozen Island, or the Fire King of the Caucasus? I will see you the day after to-morrow. I give you my honour. Your daughters have perhaps read my works?"

"What age are they? But if they are well taught, they have studied the drama, of course. They have a governess, I suppose?

"Has she red hair? I have an idea that red-haired people are all good teachers."

"I'll come over and judge for myself. I will not disappoint you on any account. So you may be quite easy."

And the same thing he said to Mr Williams, with the slight variation of an enquiry whether his governess squinted; for he had another theory that squinting people had a peculiar faculty for speaking French.

"I'll tell you what, Frank Edwards," I said to my young guest when we were about to separate, "I was an old friend of your father's, and I wish to show my regard to his memory by kindness to you; and as I don't think you have formed the best acquaintance in the world in the person of your companion, Mr Marvale, I wish you would give me an hour to-morrow at Bandvale, and I will offer you a little advice."

He shook my hand very warmly, and thanked me; and I agreed to be with him at one o'clock.

"I'll save the poor fellow from that harpy, at any rate; and have him back to Bandvale in half a year."

"You must get him married first," said my wife, "or his life will be miserable."

"Why, there are three Miss Smiths, two Lamberts, and seven or eight others. They will set on him like a swarm of bees; and as they can't all make honey of him"—

CHAPTER III.

Next day I trotted over to the Hall. Mr Percy Marvale was busy putting the finishing stroke to his Demon of the Waste, in which the interesting incident of the murder in the shooting-box is introduced; and Frank and I had a long and confidential conversation in the garden. Miss Sibylla Smith and the students of three-volume novels were for once very nearly right in their guesses on the subject of his tutor's daughter. He certainly was in love, if not engaged, but not exactly in the way they had imagined; and it struck me that, in spite of his declaration of constancy and firmness, there was still a very reasonable chance of there being an opening for some of the bees alluded to by my wife. For my own part, I am no believer in sentiment and romance, and could not enter into Frank's feelings at all.

Not far from Frank's guardian's house, in Leicestershire, there was a small white-walled villa, surrounded by pretty pleasure grounds, and inhabited by the most enchanting family in the world. The father, a clergyman, too much of an invalid to hold a living, and only rich enough to struggle on in the quietest possible way, with a wife and a daughter. The wife, of course, was all that was amiable and wise; and the daughter, Alice, endowed with every possible perfection. As to her beauty, it was above description, and her disinterestedness almost incredible. Every week, and at least every day of every week, Frank found himself at the fireside of the Reverend Mr Elstree, and no mother and sister could be so affectionate to him as Mrs Elstree and Alice. He was only fourteen, to be sure, when the acquaintance began, and the girl nine or ten; so that when he was twenty-one, he could not recall by what means, or on what occasion, he had told Alice he was devoted to her; nor could he even recollect what method she had taken to tell him she was delighted to hear it; but the case was, nevertheless, as complete a case of engagement, and true love, as if he had made formal propositions on his knees, or signed a bond on parchment. By this time he was at Cambridge, and considered himself as much a man as undergraduates always consider themselves—and wrote twice a-week to Alice—and heard twice a-week in return—and looked at her portrait, which he kept in a secret drawer of his desk, about twenty times a-day; and (which was the only thing about it that made me think it a real instance of true love) he never mentioned her name to one of his companions. Yet Cambridge has its temptations even to people as constant as Amadis de Gaul. Frank was a gay young fellow, with a good allowance—had his father's seat on horseback, and sported a red coat whenever the hounds came within twenty miles. He was blessed also with a capacious appetite, both for solids and fluids, and occasionally astonished the waiter at the Eagle and Child, by ordering in an extra basket of magnums; but, in the main, he was steady—and looked at the little portrait with undiminished admiration. All this time poor Mr Elstree knew nothing of the engagement, but looked on Frank more as a son than as a mere acquaintance, without any thought of its being in his power to attain in reality to that degree of relationship by means of the beautiful Miss Alice. If Frank believed this, I will be bound Miss Sibylla Smith would not have given him credit for such stupidity. But there are innocent minded people in the world, and poor Elstree was one of them. The visits to the white-walled villa were continued all the vacation; love went on increasing; and nothing could be more delightful than the description Frank gave of the happiness of that youthful time. But black days were in store for them. He left Cambridge, and went to London—the great trial for country affections. The affections, by his account, continued exactly the same; but the ideas altered—he saw other people, he mixed with the world—he overlaid the passion that lay snug and powerful at the bottom of his heart, with a score or two of flirtations; but, so far from burying it, they only kept it warm. In the mean time, however, the correspondence was not so regular as before—and perhaps the expressions on both sides not quite so tender; for it is impossible for a man in the Clarendon, with a carriage at the door to carry him down to Ascot, to write about flames and arrows, which come so naturally when musing on the Cam or Isis. And in the midst of this London career—during all which, he assured me, he liked her better than ever—he was startled by hearing that Mr Elstree was very ill. He hurried down to Leicestershire, but found he was too late. The good man had died, after having learned from his daughter the secret of her engagement, and having refused his consent to it, not on the ground that he was too good a match for Alice—which would be almost as vulgar a reason as if he had been too poor—but on the ground that he was young, giddy, thoughtless, and the wasting health and wan cheek of his daughter had told him that he was fickle too. People in the country make so little allowance for young men during their first season in town; and mother and daughter, in spite of all his protestations, in spite of all the vows he made to Alice, which she believed in her heart—were firm in breaking off the connexion, and would see him no more. And this resolution seemed to be formed on the maturest deliberation, and in spite of every inducement to the contrary they kept it. He had not seen them for nearly a year. Their income, at all times small, had been annihilated by the father's death; they left the white-walled villa, and after bidding him farewell for ever in a letter, and thanking him for his friendship to her father, and some few tender recollections on her own account, Alice had begged him to forget her! And Frank thought of her, of course, every hour of his life—tried every means to find out where they had gone, that he might resume his suit, and to offer them the fortune of which he had now come into full possession—but all in vain. His friend, Mr Percy Marvale, had undertaken to find them out within six months if they were still on the habitable globe, and thought he had discovered that the scene of their retirement was in our county; and with a knowledge of nature drawn from melodramas, French and English, he had laid it down as a rule, that as they were reduced in circumstances, Alice had gone out as a governess— which accounted for his theories about squints and red hair. It was a curious story; but there was perfect sincerity in all he said; and instead of trying to dissuade him, I could not help offering my services to discover the vanished pleiad—if she twinkled in any part of our Worcestershire heavens.

During this long communication we had left the garden, and were lounging slowly by the side of the river that runs through the park. We were both engaged in the narrative, and I was no little surprised, on looking to the other side, to see my magisterial friend, Old Smith, and his two daughters, busy with fishing-rods. The girls were tastefully dressed— but more to catch admiration than fish; two very showy handsome girls they were and I could not help thinking in my secret soul that there were not much odds to be risked on the late favourite Alice, against such a spanker as Monimia Smith. As for Sibylla, she despised gold and acres in comparison with genius and mustaches; and therefore, I concluded, she intended to be the second horse to her sister, and keep out the rest of the field. A clever, dashing, creature Monimia certainly, with such a pretence at childishness that nobody felt any wonder at any thing she did. And that same childishness is a very captivating quality till a girl is rising twenty or thereabouts; but after that time it does not take. At the same time, it is only a show qualification after all, and may do for a ball-room, but has no chance any where else. We looked at them without making any remark, and all three pretended to be so busy watching, their floats, that they had no idea—not they, poor souls!—that Frank Edwards of Bandvale Hall was within a mile of them. Sibylla occasionally glanced towards the house, in hopes, I suppose, of seeing Mr Percy Marvale emerge from his literary labours; but Monimia, looking under her long beautiful eyelashes, saw very well where we were, and threw herself into twenty attitudes of expectation, hope, and disappointment, ad ran through the whole gamut of a fisher's passions, in a way that would have done for a recitation of Collins's ode; and graceful, playful, and beautiful the attitudes were— and I saw in a moment that Frank's attention was caught. He was silent all of a sudden, and said no more about Alice Elstree. Monimia had it all her own way; but when she saw that her bait had taken, she determined to play the trout a little longer. She cast herself into finer and more captivating attitudes than ever, threw back her bonnet till it hung at her back—her beautiful hair broke loose—and in her hurry to pull up her hook, though I am ready to declare the float had never moved, she pressed so vehemently on poor Old Smith, who was deep in a contention with the root of a tree, which had held his hook prisoner for half an hour, that he lost his footing and fell plump into the water. If Monimia's motions were astonishing, her screams were appalling; and though I feel sure she had no intention of drowning her father, she had put him into tremendous hazard. The water was deep—he could not swim a stroke—the banks were steep; and there stood Monimia wringing her hands, while Sibylla had taken the quieter method of showing her agitation by falling into a faint upon the grass. In a moment Frank had left my side, dashed into the stream, and half forced, half supported Old Smith to the side, with my assistance, brought him safe on dry land. The girls hurried round by the bridge, and came upon us like a charge of Cossacks, while we were attending to the half-drowned parent on the bank.

"Where is my papa?" exclaimed Monimia—"my dear papa!"—and threw herself beside him on the turf, showing her figure, I must say, to the very best advantage. "And you," she cried, "his saviour—his preserver!" —and here she actually flung herself into poor Frank's arms, and laid her head upon his shoulder, in one of the most becoming faints I ever saw. There being no other person worth fainting for, Sibylla retained her composure; and as Monimia continued insensible, and Old Smith was really chilled, and might catch his death of cold, we conveyed them both, as carefully as we could, to the house; gave Monimia in charge to the gardener's wife and her sister, and installed Old Smith in Frank's own bed. I sent off a labourer on my pony for the doctor, and went to make enquiries after Miss Monimia. She was very ill, but Sibylla hoped she would soon be well enough to attend upon her father. Mr Percy Marvale made a multitude of quotations from some of his own melodramas apropos to the occasion, and Sibylla replied in the same high-flown style. It was evident they were quite used to such incidents in the Surrey, and I left them to entertain each other. On the doctor's arrival, he pronounced it improper to remove Mr Smith after his system had undergone such a shock; and the same judgment, very nearly, was past on Miss Monimia.

"I told mamma before I left home," whispered that young lady to her sister, as she lay gracefully on the outside of the bed, "that I would make an impression on Mr Edwards, if I could. I think this will do it, if any thing will; for we sha'n't let papa be well enough to move for a week. He is a delightful, fascinating man, and we have him all to ourselves."

CHAPTER IV.

Have you?—poor girl, you never heard of Alice Elstree! But Frank, to be sure, has not heard of her for a year—and you're certainly pretty, and he's young—and has an eye for the sublime and beautiful. The betting grows nearly even. All the skill of the gardener's wife, and as many other women as could be pressed into the service, was put into requisition to prepare a dinner for such unexpected guests; but as if by some half miraculous foreknowledge of events, preparations seemed to have been made on a great scale at Howkey; and on hearing of the accident, the good-natured Mrs Smith had despatched a light luggage cart filled with cold pies, preserved soups, and joints of meat, as if in anticipation of a blockade—in this respect imitating the good French marshal who besieged Gibraltar, and supplied old Elliot with provisions. But even after dinner was provided, how were the invalids, in addition to the original garrison, to be lodged for the night? Frank and his friend would not hear of coming over to me, and it was finally arranged that they should take up their quarters at the Rose and Crown. Old Smith kept his bed, but, for an invalid, performed wonders on the veal-pies; and also, by way of recruiting his exhausted strength, and showing his regard for Lord Cardigan at the same time, kindly made a crystal decanter of his throat, and decanted a black bottle of port into it with astonishing skill. Monimia was not so weak as to be kept in her apartment, and joined us—for I stayed to see how matters would end in the dining-room—and, I am bound to say, that gratitude for a father's safety was never shown in a more captivating manner than by that pale and interesting young lady, both in words and glances, during the whole evening. Sibylla and Mr Percy Marvale were equally pleased with the unlooked-for incident that threw them together; and I could not help thinking that the spy for Mr Frank Marvale's interest had an eye kept pretty open for his own; but watching the proceedings of people who would be fifty times better pleased if the race of Paul Prys were extinct, is very tiresome, and I soon took leave. The ladies betook themselves to their room at the same time, and the young men walked alongside of my pony down to the village inn. As we went, Mr Percy Marvale was loud in his praises of all the inhabitants of Howkey—from the half-drowned sire to the youngest of the children; so it is not to be supposed that Sibylla and Monimia were omitted in his eulogies. I remarked that he made no allusion to red hair or squinting, and that Frank himself said nothing against his extravagant laudations of Monimia's beauty. As little did he say any thing in corroboration. Was silence a tribute to his old love, or the ominous commencement of a new? One whole day he had been with her—a week, perhaps, was before him, of constant association. How difficult for a young fellow to continue deaf and blind to soft tones and softer glances, that spoke in reality of herself, though professedly they were all about her father!

Next day Monimia was still further recovered, and her venerated governor not yet fit to be moved. It was so bright and sunny that it would have been a shame to stay in doors, and Frank accompanied the lively Monimia into the garden. Oh! the running to and fro, the reaching up of the white arm, and standing on tiptoe to get at the fruit-trees on the wall—the merry laugh, the conscious looks, the blushing cheek—if Frank isn't made of stone, he'll yield to a certainty. She trips over all the beds with a wicker-basket on her arm to gather flowers, and clips them off so gracefully, and arranges them so tastefully, and all to be presented to the gallant deliverer of her papa. She is already on her way back, having achieved a nosegay of surpassing sweetness, when Mr Percy Marvale hurries out of the library window with a letter in his hand.

"We've found her at last! I told you, if she was in England, I would ferret her out in no time."

Frank seized the letter, tore open the seal—a flush passed over his cheek—he devoured the words—read the over again—and did not even look up, when Monimia dropt her basket and picked it up again, with the grace of Taglioni.

"Glorious—glorious!" he said, and nearly kissed the scarcely legible scrawl. "I will go this moment—it can't be far."

"Are you going, Mr Edwards?" said Monimia, holding the nosegay in her hand. "I hope you will soon return."

"Perhaps I may—but, pray, make my excuses to your father—my friend, Mr
Marvale, will do the honours of the house."

"I can't help it—business—sudden intelligence. Can you tell me where the village of Wibbelton is?"

"If I should not return before Mr Smith is well enough to go home, will you present my compliments to your sister, and assure her"—

"Oh! she will he very sorry, I dare say," said Miss Monimia tartly, tying the strings of her bonnet, which had again fallen back and shown her beautiful ringlets.

"I wish the flowers were better," continued Frank; "and at some future time, I trust"—

"Oh, the flowers are good enough!" said the young lady. "I think the moss rose is Charles Lambert's favourite, so I have gathered this bunch for him."

You would scarcely have known the cold-voiced, calm-eyed Miss Monimia, to be the playful, graceful hoyden of five minutes before. She made Frank a stately curtsy, and, without farther parley, he hurried down to the village, and ordered the solitary post-chaise of which the Rose and Crown could boast.

"Stay you here," he said to Mr Percy Marvale, "and I will join you in two days if any thing occurs. We may be disappointed again, though the present intelligence seems authentic."

The intelligence which so suddenly altered the destination of Miss Monimia Smith's nosegay, was from one of Frank's Leicestershire correspondents; and was to the effect, that Alice had gone into a situation in the little village of Wibbleton, where she had been securely hidden from all her lover's pursuits for half a year. Wibbelton, he found, was fifteen miles from Bandvale, on the Birmingham road, and merrily away he trotted as fast as the two posters could go.

The news, the air, the motion, that had such an exhilirating effect on Frank Edwards, seemed to be equally efficacious in the case of my old friend Smith. He felt so well on being told of his host's departure, that he was able to move at once; and, without waiting for consultation with the doctor, or even for his carriage, he accompanied his daughter and the indefatigable Percy Marvale across the fields to Howkey on foot.

Meanwhile the hopeful lover drew near the hamlet of Wibbelton. He drove to the inn as the likeliest place where he could get information, and entered the common parlour, a neat little whitewashed room, with clean sanded floor, that looked out upon the village green. At a little table by the window sat a gentleman reading the newspaper, and occasionally relieving the dryness of the parliamentary debates by a sip at a little tankard of beer. He was a neatly dressed old man, with his thin long hair tied behind in a cue, a bright blue coat buttoned close up to the throat, stocking-thread pantaloons, and high Hessian boots. His upright carriage and projecting chest pointed him out at once as a military man; and the bow he had made, on Frank entering the room, showed at once he was a man of the old school—very formal and ceremonious—but was indicative of good-nature at the same time.

"A stranger in Wibbelton?" he said, laying down the paper. "Ha! I thought so—never remarked you before, though I keep my eye on any new face that appears in our parish."

"There are not many strangers, I presume, who find their way to this out-of-the-way village," replied Frank.

"I beg your pardon, my young friend. Many do. It is just the place for strangers to come to. A more complete retirement is not to be found in England."

"Then they have never been in active life. As for my step-son and me, who have been pushed about the world all our days, we find no place like Wibbelton."

The old militaire bowed. "A soldier, sir, not quite unknown to fame, if I may be allowed to say so. My step-son also."

"My step-son's house is the large white manorial mansion you see on the other side of the green. It is the noblest house in the county. Ah! there is nothing equal to the fine residences of our venerable agricultural nobility. My step-son is chief of the family; and though I had the misfortune to lose his mother in a very few years after our marriage, I always look upon him as a son. He looks on me as a father. We fight our battles over again, and only feel the want of a little addition to our pleasing intelligent society."

Frank looked towards the mansion described as one of the noblest in England, and saw a tolerably sized square house, with a range of white palings before the door, and a vine trailing over the front, but with no appearance of grandeur more than the very ordinary houses by its side.

"It would perhaps destroy the charm of the retirement you spoke of, if too many were admitted to share it," said Frank. "Has your step-son a family?"

"Four blooming girls, and an equal number of boys, not quite old enough yet to be treated as companions."

"Oh, no! My step-son hates public education. He brings them up beneath his own roof."

"You start, my friend, as if you thought it impossible; but 'tis the case I assure you—quite a young woman, too—and yet what order she keeps them in. If I had had an adjutant-general, when I had my command, with half such zeal! We military men are judges of discipline, whether it is in the school-room or the field. So is my step-son."

"About half a year; yes, I think she has introduced her system about half a year. We are quite a family party here. You see the house next to my step-son's?—the large mansion in the Tudor style of architecture? That belongs to my other step-son; a man of the purest philanthropy, who, merely to benefit the poor of his own village and the surrounding country, practises as the medical man. Next to him, again, in the turreted building with the Gothic portico, is his younger brother, who, from equally philanthropic principles, and to prevent litigation among our neighbours, acts here as an attorney. You see the brass plate on the office door? We are quite a family party, you see."

"I congratulate you on your neighbourhood," said Frank. "But the next house to the youngest of your step-sons—the lath and plaster cottage with the broken casements, and untiled roof?"

"My step-son, sir. He is head of the great family of the Chobbs, and follows the example of The O'Conor Don, The Chisholm, and other representatives of the old blood, by taking the distinction 'the' before his name. Should you like to look at the cottage ornée, sir?"

"Yes; the Marquis di Carralva left it last week. If you would like a lodging in it for a few weeks, The Chobb will be happy to put in a little furniture. You would join our circle"—

"Of course; you would immediately become one of the family. We are all united in the village; no secrets, no privacy."

"Then I take the house, sir," said Frank. "May I ask who it is I have the honour of talking to?"

"My name is General Hosham—you've heard of my being commander-in-chief in Mexico; my step-son, Colonel Chobb, fought for the glorious Isabella of Spain. Will you go and look at the villa, sir?"

"I shall take it," said Frank, "at all events. Very little accommodation will be enough for me."

"You do?" said the general, taking him by the hand. "You put me in mind of my poor aide-de-camp, Saint Rosalio; he was a perfect gentleman. I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir. I will be back in a few minutes."

And so saying, the general made a military salam, and walked in a stately manner out of the room.

"By this manoeuvre I have at all events secured admission to The Chobb's house; and if this governess is indeed poor Alice—but no—how could I think she would be connected in any way with such strange people as these? At all events, she is in the village, and by staying in it for a few days I am certain to find her out." In the midst of these and similar reflections, the general returned, and brought with him no less an individual than The Chobb in person. He was a little man, very dark in the complexion, and very fat, with the coarse look that a habit of low dissipation is sure to leave upon the best features. Small impudent eyes peeped sharply over the puffed out cheeks, and gave a look of mingled bullying and cunning to his countenance, which told a very intelligible tale of beer and tobacco. He held out his hand in the most open, unaffected manner, and echoed all his step-sire's speeches on the subject of the ornamental villa, and his pride and happiness in finding so desirable a neighbour.

"Rather worse quarters than if you came into the great house, as my poor mansion is called, but a mighty deal more comfortable than many I've had to put up with. I remember bivouacking in a wet cave on the shores of the Bay of Biscay. I was in command that day of the army of observation. Carlos was on the heights of St Sebastian, and I was tired of reconnoitring: I bivouacked, I tell you, in a cave—no blankets, no counterpane, and covered with wounds. In the middle of the night I heard a noise; looked up; it was pitch dark. I cocked my pistol, and fired into the corner where the noise was made, and went to sleep again! In the morning my aides-de-camp came in, and on groping in the cave, what do you think we found?—but you will never guess it: a boa-constrictor— an immense animal—thicker than stepfather's body. I had shot him right through the eye, for I never missed a mark in my life."

"Certainly not. You distinctly said it was light enough to see the animal. I have heard you tell the story a dozen times. It was as light as day."

Frank looked at the old gentleman with surprise, but said nothing; and they proceeded as before.

"You will have no boa-constrictors to contend with," said The Chobb. "One of the bed-rooms is splendidly furnished already. There is the tent-bed in it which the general took from Tippoo Saib in Mexico; and as to your dining-room and kitchen, why, you can dine with me." And here he held out his hand, and shook Frank's again. "You will not have far to come, and there will always be a knife and fork."

"He is certainly the most generous fellow in England," whispered the general to Frank; "a perfect gentleman, and open as the day."

"We shall get on very well, I have no doubt," pursued the colonel, who pretended not to have heard the general's remark; "but here comes the landlord with dinner. I ordered it as I came up stairs; and, by way of consolidating our friendship, I hope you will take it here to-day, instead of in the great house."

Along with dinner came in the two brothers of The Chobb, and were introduced in due form. The philanthropist who practised as attorney, brought with him an agreement for the house; and the general explaining to Frank that these business details were merely for form's sake, and that he had told his step-son that the terms they had fixed on for the cottage were for half a year at a rent of twenty pounds, Frank signed the paper, and they all sat down to dinner. The Chobb presided, and the general acted as vice.

"This is a mighty deal better than the buffalo soup we had at Pondicherry, when we were besieged by Santa Anna and the Monte Videans," said the general.

"Or the tiger broth we had at Cadiz, when we were defending the town against Don Pedro," said The Chobb. "I used to shoot the tigers myself, which was capital amusement."

The Chobb nodded, and said—"You'll think it odd, perhaps; but I give you my honour I never saw so many tigers in my life as during the whole of that bombardment. I ought to remember it well, for I was in command of the batteries—three of twelve twenty-fours, and one of six thirty-twos."

"I beg your pardon," said The Chobb; "I did not say tigers. Did I say tigers, General Hosham?"

"I will trouble you, sir," said The Chobb, twisting his mustaches, "to be a little more particular in your recollection of what I said. How could any person think I could talk such nonsense as to mention tigers in Spain?"

"There are tigers in Mexico, though," observed the general, "and we must excuse our young friend if he confused between the two places. I was generalissimo, and remember the whole thing perfectly; and very bad broth they made. The Chobb," he added in a low tone to Frank, "is very touchy if any one interrupts him in his anecdotes. He has seen an immense deal of service though he is so young, and is very instructive and entertaining."

Frank held his tongue, and listened the whole evening to the Mexican and Spanish recollections of the two warriors. His object was too nearly gained to throw it away by a quarrel with his new friends; and he played cards with them till a late hour, and lost, at the end of the evening, sixteen points.

"We played guinea points," said The Chobb, rising to go away, he having always paid his losses in shillings, "and I will thank you for sixteen."

"General Hosham," said The Chobb, "I merely appeal to you. What points were we playing?"

"Does the other party refer it to me?" said the general, blandly smiling; "you may both depend on my unbiased decision."

"You were certainly playing guinea points," said the general, "as I am a gentleman and a man of honour; but I think I know the origin of your mistake. You saw that I and my step-son George were playing shilling points; though I did most distinctly see you receive at the rate of guinea points from my friend and step-son, Colonel Chobb."

Frank paid the money, and would have given ten times the amount, rather than forego the chance of seeing Alice.

"And now good-night, my excellent friend and tenant," said the colonel; "and, by the by, will you allow me to borrow the ten-pound note of you I saw you take from your pocket? I wish to settle with the landlord as I go down stairs—I hate running up a bill at an inn; and besides, we can consider it a first instalment of your rent."

Frank gave him the ten-pound note; and the colonel, whose attentions to wine and brandy-and-water had been unremitted, stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket, and staggered out of the room. The general took leave with the most stately courtesy, and soon followed.

"Now, then," said Frank, "one day will decide my fate. Time, money, and temper will not have been wasted, if I get only half an hour's talk with Alice Elstree."

CHAPTER V.

Mr Percy Marvale, in the mean time, had not been idle at Howkey. He had established himself in the house, in spite of all the sour looks and short answers Mr Smith could bestow on him. All his attempts at a lodgment were aided by the invitations of Sibylla, whether conveyed in words or in untranslatable smiles and glances. An instantaneous friendship was established between him and the younger branches; and from some of the children, who came down to see their papa, and congratulate him on his return, he picked out a great mass of information about the affairs of the nursery and school-room. There certainly was as a governess—young, pretty, and very shy—exactly such as he supposed Miss Elstree would be; and his hopes were further raised by learning that her name was Alice. His next object was to see her—to speak to her, if possible—and satisfy himself of her identity; for, as the information contained in Frank's letter did not emanate from himself, and he had not even been admitted by his principal to a knowledge of its contents, he was not inclined to believe that the discovery could be made without him.

By dint of remaining at Howkey till it was impossible for Old Smith to avoid asking the friend of his preserver to stay all night, he managed to make good his quarters on the ground of his operations, and resolved to commence proceedings as early as possible in the morning. Sibylla lay awake half the night, revolving all the strange speeches he had made her—his allusions to the hidden treasure in the house—the lost star— the incognito goddess—and tracing in all his fine expressions one paramount idea of his anxiety to make himself master of a perfect paragon of beauty and romance, she could not avoid coming to the conclusion, that these were all metaphorical declarations of attachment to herself. And, on the following day, her manner had derived so much empressement from these cogitations, that all the efforts of Monimia on the imperturbable Frank were cast into the shade by the extraordinary evolutions of the sentimental Sibylla.

"Gads!" said Mr Percy Marvale to himself, "this beats the Surrey all to sticks. He must be shockingly rich"—he thought, looking round the splendidly furnished drawing-room; "I'll see if I can't do a little business on my own account, as well as Mr Edwards's."

"You've heard what I have been asking you, madam, about an undiscovered jewel in this elegant abode? Pity it should be left to the dimness of the rural shades!"

"Alas!" said Sibylla, casting down her eyes in modest embarrassment, "it is little fitted to meet the eye of the world."

"It needs a fresh setting, that's all; and they say there's an exquisite silversmith on the Scottish border. The railway brings him within twenty hours."

A few arguments pro and con—a few blushes—a few quotations from the love scenes of the Surrey, and it was finally arranged. At three, they were to meet at the foot of the lane, where a chaise was to be in waiting; and Frank Edwards was left by his faithless assistant to look after Alice Elstree for himself.

The village of Wibbleton had not slept all night for thinking of the new inhabitant of the cottage ornée; and the landlord of the Rose and Crown had not been backward in singing the praises of his generosity and riches.

"Them Chobbs has cotch another pigeon," said the hostler to the boots; "and a rare good thing they makes of that 'ere old house. The last tenant paid 'em two years's rent in forfeit; and this 'un will do the same."

"They are the bullyingest, meanestest, lyingest fellies as ever I heard of," replied the boots. "Tom Chobbs, the eldest one, owes me no end of money; but there aint no use asking it, for the whole kit on them—the lawyer, the doctor, and the old corporal, his stepfather—would all swear they had seen him pay it."

"They'll be found out some day, and the village cleared of them," replied the hostler; "and if they're in want of rope, I'll not grudge ere a halter in the stable."

"But there he goes, poor young gentleman!—they'll not leave him a farden of money if they get him into their clutches."

This pitying observation was made as Frank Edwards crossed over from the hotel, and knocked at the door of the great house, to pay his respects to The Chobb. Before he left the hotel, the landlord, with many apologies, had presented his bill for the dinner of the day before, which the military gentleman had forgotten to discharge. The door was opened, and he was shown into a parlour on the ground floor, and told to sit down till his arrival was announced.

"Maister's just a-coming, sir," said the slipshod maid, again putting her head into the parlour where Frank was sitting; and in a few minutes The Chobb, the general, the lawyer, and the medical man, walked into the room.

"I must say, sir," said The Chobb, touching his hat slightly, which he kept on while he spoke, "that this is rather extraordinary conduct, and needs explanation."

"But you have not apologised, sir, nor rectified the mistake, if it was a mistake," he added, looking for support to the general.

"If it was a mistake!" repeated that distinguished commander, looking very stiff and solemn.

"All about this, sir," replied The Chobb. "I am a gentleman, and I was in hopes any tenant of mine would be a gentleman also; but when you descend to such conduct as, in presence of these parties, you did last night—there is no excuse for it—even the state of intoxication you were in is no excuse—no excuse for it at all."

"No excuse for it at all!" repeated the general, looking stately and solemn, as before.

"Perhaps the gentleman did it for a joke, and will make it good," suggested the benevolent lawyer.

"Oh, that's a different matter!" said The Chobb, slightly relaxing; "and if the gentleman withdraws it, and replaces the sum correctly, I am the last man in the world to find fault with a harmless pleasantry."

"Oh, let me explain it!" interposed the general. "You offered last night to pay my step-son, Colonel Chobb, a month's rent of your cottage orné in advance. He agreed to accept it, and the ten-pound note with which you discharged the amount turns out to be a flash note on the Bank of Fashion. These are the simple facts. I regret to state that appearances are against you."

"We do not know you, you will observe," said the lawyer. "And my brother, Colonel Chobb, is always a great deal too careless in money matters. He should not have let you the cottage without a reference."

"You also raised a slight suspicion by your attempt at a wrangle on the guinea stakes," added the medical man.

"I am bound to say," observed the general, "that it would have an awkward appearance in a court of justice."

"Oh, you need not deny it!" said The Chobb. "I hate roundabout stories. I am a gentleman. Was it a joke or not? Will you pay me a good ten-pound note or not?"

"It is in the hands of my children's governess. I have lodged it with her for security, and gain her evidence if, unfortunately, the business goes further."

"Gentlemen," said Frank, "before I answer you, I must insist on seeing the lady, and the note exactly in the state it now is."

"Certainly! nothing can be fairer," said the general. "I will conduct you to the school-room at once."

"I should like, if you please, to be paid for these documents first," said the lawyer. "The agreement stamp is very high."

"And, as short accounts make long friendships," said the medical man, "I should like to receive my fee for attendance."

"What attendance, sir?" said Frank, whom even the approaching interview with Alice could scarcely keep cool.

"I visited you professionally at the inn yesterday, sir, and sat by your side till nearly twelve o'clock. Time with a medical man is money; and I think my demand moderate at five guineas."

"Very moderate, indeed!" said The Chobb. "Sir Henry Halford would have charged you five times the sum for half the time."

"But I never called this skilful physician in," said Frank, amazed in spite of himself.

"Didn't you? But here comes General Hosham. General Hosham, did this gentleman call me in professionally yesterday?"

"Most assuredly he did," replied the general. "I have a perfect recollection of the fact; but perhaps he may confuse it with something else. I thought I heard the name of Sir Henry Halford. He did not call him in. If I might advise, as an older man than any of you, and a mutual friend of both parties, I would suggest that this gentleman had better at once pay my step-son, George—Dr Chobb—five pounds—pounds instead of guineas—a compromise is always best between friends. Pay him the money, my good sir, and come up with me to the school-room."

A five-pound note instantly covered the doctor's face with smiles, and two tens had the same effect upon the lawyer's.

"Now, sir," he said, "I go with you;" and, preceded by the general, he went up a narrow flight of stairs.

"The French and Italian lessons are over," said the general, "and the music is not yet begun." He opened a door, and, at the farther end of the room, a young woman, with extraordinary breadth of back, was busy over a large washing-tub, in the act of wringing a child's shirt. Five or six dirty children were sewing and knitting, in different parts of the room, and Frank looked round, enquiringly, to discover Alice Elstree.

"This is the young lady that keeps the note," said the general. "Miss
M'Screigh, you have the evidence?"

"Tiel a toot!" said the lady thus appealed to in a broad Highland accent, turning round from her labours, and displaying a countenance as strongly redolent of Aberdeenshire as her tongue.

But Frank would wait for no further parley. He passed rapidly down stairs, but was waylaid at the foot of them by The Chobb in person. Frank was endowed with prodigious strength, and favoured the head of the distinguished family with a dig in the ribs, that left him in the condition of an exhausted air receiver.

"That's enough—assault and battery," said the philanthropist; "swinging damages at the next assizes, and a comfortable bill of costs."

But Frank, regardless of Chobbs and assizes, pursued his way. He kicked the crazy door open, and was rejoiced to find himself in the open air. His progress through the village had not been unobserved by other eyes besides those of the hostler and boots of the Rose and Crown. There was a low thatched cottage on the opposite side of the road from the residence of The Chobb; clusters of white roses clambered in all directions over the wall, and the little lawn in front was tastefully laid out, and the turf and shrubs kept in perfect order. Along the gravel walks of this little lawn, walked slowly, as if in infirm health, a middle-aged lady, leaning for support on the arm of a tall and graceful girl; and ever and anon she turned on her companion's suffering face a look of such love and sweetness—it was sure to create a smile even on the wan lips of the invalid. That girl's eyes had rested on Frank Edwards as he passed—a red flush had crossed her brow—a whiteness, as of death, had come upon her cheek—and, leading the elder lady with tottering steps to the garden bower, she had sat down beside her, and covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

At the moment Frank Edwards emerged into the road, he was nearly jammed against the railings in front of the thatched cottage, by the rapid approach of a post-chaise. While he looked in at the window, the wheel dipped into a rut, the axle instantaneously broke, and the body of the carriage bumped upon the ground. In an instant he had secured the horses, and the Chobb family, rushing out, advanced to the door of the vehicle. With some difficulty the passengers were extracted, and consisted of a tall dark-complexioned gentleman, with mustaches, looking as sheepish and uncomfortable as possible.

"What! Marvale!" exclaimed Frank, "What has brought you here? and who is the lady beside you?"

"Why, William," cried the philanthropic attorney, "do you pretend not to know us?"

"Ah! how d'ye do, George—ha'n't seen you a long time," said Percy
Marvale, looking contemptuously at the lawyer.

"You look very grand with these mustaches," continued George; "your own father would scarcely know you."

"To be sure, and here he's coming. General Hosham, here's Bill come back again."

"Has he brought back the watch and spoons?" enquired the affectionate father; "if not, I'll have him up for the theft."

The fainting lady had been carried in the mean time by the villagers into the thatched cottage, and into it Frank also proceeded to watch over her recovery. Two ladies were bending over her; and, on Frank's approach, the elder one looked up. The younger one also saw him. There was nothing more needed than that look. Frank took a hand of each. There was an end of his uncertainties. It was Alice Elstree and her mother.

While the recognitions were going on outside, and Sibylla was slowly recovering, a phaeton had driven rapidly up, and Old Smith and his son had jumped out, and laid violent hands on Percy Marvale's collar.

"I should say, sir," said General Hosham, advancing in a most polite manner, and lifting his hat—"that it is probable the person alluded to by my son is guilty of the crime, whatever it is you now charge my boy with. The person has gone into that cottage, and you can arrest him on the spot."

"Oho!" said Mr Smith, "I think I recollect your faces, my fine fellows. Haven't we met at the quarter sessions? Was not there some rumour about your extorting money from a tenant a year or two ago, by threats of accusing him of passing a forged note?"

The general made a stately bow, and The Chobb himself, who had joined the crowd, felt crestfallen, and limped back again into the house.

In the cottage all things proceeded favourably. Frank Edwards, with an adroitness that would have done honour to the hero of one of Percy Marvale's melodramas, assured the angry father that Sibylla had come, at his special request, to act as companion to his bride, and consult as to the preparations for the approaching wedding. And on that same evening Sibylla and Frank accompanied Mrs Elstree and her daughter to my house, where it was arranged they were to remain for three weeks or a month, till the ceremony took place.

A HISTORICAL ACCOUNT OF THE CANAL WHICH CONNECTED THE NILE AND THE RED SEA IN ANCIENT TIMES.

The questions relating to the different lines of communication between Europe and India have been so frequently discussed of late, and such a mass of ill-digested information on the subject has been printed, that we shall not plunge into any discussion relating to the conflicting opinions of the moderns, but proceed, without preface, to supply an accurate history of the ancient canal which connected the Nile with the Red Sea.[1] We are satisfied that any exact knowledge of what actually existed in former times, and the precise object of the ancient undertaking, are necessary, in order to form sound conclusions concerning the future.

[1] For modern information, we refer our readers to the Reports on Steam Navigation with India. Ordered by the House of Commons to be printed. 14th July 1834, and 15th July 1837.

This canal, like every other in Egypt, had its origin in the formation of a canal for irrigation, caused by an increased demand for arable land, in consequence of the augmentation of the population. It was, in its origin, one of the numerous canals which spread the waters of the Nile for the irrigation of the land of Egypt.

The country between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea is intersected in its longitude by a valley, which commences at Suez and joins the lake Menzaleh and the eastern mouth of the Nile. The level of the Red Sea is considerably higher than that of the Mediterranean. The difference at high water is about thirty-two feet, six inches; and this difference is seldom less than twenty-five feet, even at low water. The whole of this valley would be inundated, and the waters of the Red Sea would flow into the Mediterranean, through a series of lakes, were it not for a strong embankment of elevated sand which forms the shore at Suez.

The existence of the bitter lakes in the lower levels of this valley induced Aristotle,[1] and many of the ancients, to believe that Africa had once been an island—Egypt having been separated from Syria and Arabia by the union of the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. Colonel Leake, in his map of Egypt, observes, "that there is no material obstacle to a communication by lakes and inundations from Suez to the lake Menzaleh, and to Tineh—by which Africa would become an island." And some observations on the formation of a canal in this valley, will be found in the Mémoire sur la communication de la Mer des Indes à la Méditerranée par la Mer Rouge et l'Isthme de Soueys, in the great French work on Egypt.[2]

The valley running from Suez to Tineh is joined, about halfway between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, by another valley called Seba Biar, which meets it at right angles, stretching in latitude from the elevated ground on the right bank of the eastern branch of the Nile. The valley of Seba Biar was the land of Goshen.[1] When this district is first mentioned in history, it consisted of a low level, liable to partial inundation, and affording good pasturage, though hardly suited to regular cultivation. For this reason, and from its vicinity to Syria, it was given by Joseph to the children of Israel, who were a pastoral tribe. Though Joseph was the prime minister of the country, under a dynasty of foreign conquerors—the Hyksos or Nomad Arabs—still the laws and usages of a dense native population placed such restraint on the sovereign's power, that the Israelites, being a race of shepherds, would not be mixed with the Egyptians, or put in possession of any arable land. On this account, Joseph told his father and brethren to say to the king—"Thy servants' trade hath been about cattle from our youth even until now, both we and also our fathers; that ye may dwell in the land of Goshen: for every shepherd is an abomination unto the Egyptians."[2]

Yet, with this restraint on his power, Joseph succeeded in effecting the greatest change in the condition of the Egyptians which any nation ever submitted to in peace. As vizier of the country, he converted the property of all the agricultural class from a freehold inheritance into a lease from government, at a rent of one-fifth of the produce of the land.[1] The project was doubtless adopted to augment the revenues of the crown, for the purpose of improving the irrigation, and augmenting the produce and population of Egypt. We know that it made the race of Egyptians a race of warriors and conquerors, until it exhausted their resources; and then, by placing the property of the people at the mercy of the government, is prepared the way for the extermination of the native Egyptian or Coptic population.

The Nomads, or Hyksos, were driven from the throne of Egypt by the kings of Thebes, a native race; and under their government the prosperity and population of the country rapidly increased. The demand for land capable of cultivation became immense. Moeris constructed the wonderful artificial lake, for the purpose of regulating the inundation, and augmenting the productive powers of Egypt, which was always regarded as one of the most extraordinary undertakings of man. Monsieur Linant has lately discovered the traces of this lake, and has shown that it was formed by making embankments round a high level, from which the waters could be drawn off for irrigation. The absurd opinion of many travellers and geographers, that the Birket-el-Karaun, a salt lake in a deep natural basin, was the lake of Moeris, is therefore completely exploded; that lake could never have been any thing but a cess-pool for the superabundant waters of the lake Moeris, and a sink for the waste waters of the Nile.

When land became of so great value in Egypt as to cause such vast undertakings to be made for improving its fertility as the formation of the lake Moeris, it is not to be supposed that the Egyptians would overlook the capabilities of the land of Goshen. The Israelites were regarded with no favourable eye. They had been the friends of the foreign rulers of the land; and, consequently, both the people and the native princes declared against them, and resolved to drive them from the territory they occupied.[1] This was effected in the reign of Amenoph II., after they had remained in Egypt 430 years.[2]

At the time of the exodus, therefore, it is evident that no canal could have existed in the valley of Goshen. The population of Israelites and Nomads, however, which dwelt on the confines of the irrigable land, must have been very great; as the Hebrews alone exceeded 600,000 souls, and they were accompanied by "a mixed multitude," which is the phrase used in Scripture to designate the nomad Arabs. But though no canal existed at this period, we find evidence that a considerable trade in the produce of Egypt was already carried on through this district, caused by the want of agricultural produce in Arabia; and this trade induced the Egyptians to "guild for Pharaoh treasure-cities, Pithom and Raamses."[1]

As soon as the children of Israel were driven out of the land of Goshen, the new occupants would naturally commence the formation of a canal, for irrigating the land they had gained. Now, a great part of the valley of Seba Biar is lower than the level of the Nile at the height of the inundation, this was easily done. A canal from the eastern branch of the river, near Bubastes, did not require to be cut to a greater distance than seven miles, in order to allow the waters to fill the valley. By this operation, the irrigation could have been carried as far as the northern boundary of the bitter lakes, between Suez and the Mediterranean; and at least 20,000 acres of land gained for agricultural purposes. This irrigation would extend itself to the Serapeion—a distance of about forty-five miles from Bubastes, and about forty from the Red Sea.

Let us now observe the chronology of the events we have already noticed. Without pretending to offer any opinion on the disputed questions of Egyptian chronology, we shall adopt the dates given by Dr Nolan in his memoir on the use of the ancient cycles in settling the differences of chronologists, published in the Transactions of the Royal Society of Literature.[1] It must be observed, that the 430 years of the sojourning of the children of Israel in Egypt is to be computed from the call of Abraham, and not from the going down of Israel, as is explained by St Paul in the Epistle to the Galatians, chap. iii. v. 17.[2]

The administration of Joseph occurred during the reign of
the last king of the race of the Hyksos, B.C. 1687
The reign of Mephres, or Moeris, B.C. 1538
The exodus occurred in the year B.C. 1492

The Egyptians enjoyed a long period of prosperity after they had driven out the Israelites. Their national history, during a period of four hundred years, is recorded on their monuments; and, though not very intelligible in its details, it affords irrefragable proof that their country was always in a flourishing condition, and possessed a considerable commerce with other nations. The Egyptians, however, had as great an aversion to foreign traders as to shepherds; and it was long before they undertook any work for improving their commercial communications. At length, however, the canal, which had been carried as far as the longitudinal valley between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, began to excite their attention as affording a cheap means of transport for that portion of the produce of the country which was purchased by the inhabitants of Arabia and of the shores of the Red Sea. We have the testimony of Aristotle, Strabo, and Pliny, that the project of forming a canal to unite the Nile with the Red Sea was entertained by Sesostris.[1] Aristotle says, "that Egypt, the most ancient seat of mankind, was formed by the river Nile, as appears from the examination of the country bordering on the Red Sea. One of the ancient kings attempted to form a navigable communication between the river and the sea; but Sesostris, finding that the waters of the Red Sea were higher than those of the Nile, both he and Darius, after him, desisted from the attempt, lest the lower part of the delta should be inundated with salt water." It is extremely difficult to ascertain what king is meant by Sesostris, since that name seems to have been given by the Greeks to more that one of the distinguished monarchs of the country. Aristotle, however, clearly refers in his account to the king he calls Sesostris, and to an earlier monarch. The one may have been Sethosis, who reigned about B.C. 1291, and the other, Sesonchis of Bubastes, the Shishac of Scripture, in the year B.C. 976. These sovereigns may have converted the canal of irrigation into a regular commercial route; and the last may have commenced the greater work of connecting it with the bitter lakes. The fear of inundating the Delta with salt water, by cutting through the northern shore of the Red Sea, and allowing a communication with the bitter lakes to remain always open, has been shown by the French engineers, whose report is printed in the great work on Egypt, to be no idle fear.[2]

[1] Arist. Meteorol. i. 14. Strabo, lib. i. c. 2, vol. i. p. 60; lib. xvii. c. 1, vol. iii. 443.—Ed. Tauch. Plinii Natur. Hist., lib. vi. 33.

[2] Mémoire sur la communication de la Mer des Indes à la Méditerranée, par la Mer Rouge et l'Isthme de Soueys, par M.J.M. Le Père.

Several circumstances combine to show that the completion of the canal, and the importance of opening a direct navigable communication between the Nile and the Red Sea, must have occupied more particularly the attention of Sesonchis than of the preceding kings. He was a native of Bubastes; and the seat of his power was in the Delta. The importance of this navigation for enriching his fellow-citizens, and placing the whole trade of the Delta, to the eastward, under his control, was evident; but the great wealth which might be gained from sharing in the trade on the Red Sea, was also forced on his attention, by the immense riches which Solomon had been able to accumulate on acquiring a share in this trade, which had been previously in the hands of the Phoenicians. Solomon had extended the trade he carried on in the Red Sea, by means of the ports on the gulf of Eloth, (Ailath,) far beyond its former bounds.[1] Now, as the grain and provisions, required for supplying the fleets in the Red Sea, and the greater part of the commercial population on its coasts, must have been drawn from Egypt by the port of Suez, and as Egypt must have afforded one of the most valuable markets for the produce of Arabia and India, it is not surprising that Sesonchis made great endeavours to obtain a share in a branch of commerce from which he had seen Solomon derive such wealth. From some reason, he abandoned the project of completing the canal to Suez; but, in order to secure a portion of Solomon's riches, he invaded Judea, and plundered Jerusalem.[2] "So Shishak king of Egypt came up against Jerusalem: and he took away the treasures of the house of the Lord, and the treasures of the king's house; he even took away all: and he carried away all the shields of gold which Solomon had made." That this Shishak, or Sesonchis of Bubastes, was the Sesostris alluded to by Aristotle, Strabo, and Pliny, though it cannot perhaps be positively proved, can nevertheless hardly admit of a doubt.

Thus far we have only been able to draw a few inferences relating to the canal, from historical facts connected with the subject; but from this period we become furnished with materials for a consecutive history. Herodotus is the earliest author who affords direct testimony of the completion of the canal, and its employment for carrying on a navigable communication between the Nile and the Red Sea. His description requires to be cited in his own words, in order to testify the sagacity of his enquiries and the accuracy of his information. "Psammetichus had a son, whose name was Nekos. This prince first commenced that canal leading to the Red Sea, which Darius, king of Persia, afterwards continued. The length of the canal is equal to a four days' voyage, and it is wide enough to admit two triremes abreast. The water enters it from the Nile, a little above the city of Bubastes. It terminated in the Red Sea, not far from Patumos, an Arabian town. In the prosecution of this work, under Nekos, no less than 120,000 Egyptians perished. He at length desisted from his undertaking, being admonished by an oracle, that all his labour would turn to the advantage of a barbarian." As soon as Nekos discontinued his labours with respect to the canal, he turned all his thoughts to military enterprise. He built vessels of war, both on the Mediterranean and in that part of the Arabian gulf which is near the Red Sea.[1]

This statement of Herodotus is confirmed by Diodorus Siculus, another Greek historian, who had visited Egypt, and, like Herodotus, paid great attention to its history and antiquities. The words of Diodorus are—"A canal has been dug from the Pelusiac branch of the Nile to the gulf of Arabia and the Red Sea. It was commenced by Nekos, son of Psammetichus, and afterwards continued by Darius, king of the Persians, who made some progress with the work, but abandoned it when he learned that, if the isthmus was dug through, all Egypt would be inundated, as the level of the Red Sea is higher than that of the soil of Egypt. At last Ptolemy II. (Philadelphus) completed the undertaking; having adapted an ingenious contrivance to the ingress of the canal, which was opened when a vessel was about to enter, and afterwards closed. Experience proved the utility of this invention. The waters which flow in this canal are called the river of Ptolemy, the king who executed this great work. The town of Arsinöe is constructed at its mouth."[1]

[1] Diodorus Siculus, i. 33. Nekos reigned B.C. 616 to 601. See also 2 Kings, chap. xxiii. ver. 29.

It must be recollected that Diodorus wrote about four hundred years after Herodotus; and his information concerning the earlier events, from want of precision, appears to be deficient in accuracy. These two passages make it evident that Nekos had commenced some great improvements on the canal of Sesostris; and it appears to have been his intention to have made use of it in order to secure a naval superiority in the Red Sea. It is plain, too, from the statement of Herodotus, that Darius had completed the canal, in so far as that was possible, without the invention of locks, for forming an immediate communication with the Red Sea. And from the account of Diodorus, it seems that he viewed the canal of Darius, which for ages had served for a commercial route, as incomplete; because the actual junction of the waters of the canal and the Red Sea had not taken place until Ptolemy Philadelphus, by applying the invention of locks, had enabled vessels to quit the canal in order to navigate the sea.

Strabo, who was also well acquainted with Egypt, from personal residence, mentions the locks constructed by Ptolemy. After saying that even Darius had left the junction of the canal with the Red Sea incomplete, from the danger of inundating the country, he adds—"During the government of the Ptolemies, the isthmus was cut through, and a closed passage (a euripus) formed, so that a ship, whenever it was required, could enter the outer sea or pass into the canal."[1]

Though the canal constructed by Darius had been in general use for commercial purposes, and was regarded by Herodotus, when he visited Egypt, as a work in every way complete, still there can be no doubt that its importance would be greatly increased by the locks connecting it with the Red Sea. The augmentation in the trade, and the improvement in the class of vessels which navigated the canal, induced Ptolemy to make the changes in the whole course, from which it received the name of the river of Ptolemy. A very great addition was thus made to the prosperity of Egypt, as the canal would remain navigable for four months annually, from the end of August to the end of December. During this season of the year, the people of the Delta had little to attend to but the exportation of their surplus produce, and clearing their granaries for a new harvest, by selling all that portion of their grain which was neither required for seed nor for the maintenance of their families.

It has been supposed very generally, but on no adequate authority, that Ptolemy Philadelphus constructed this canal, with a view of making it the route of the Indian trade; but this was by no means the case. Even Robertson, in his historical disquisition concerning ancient India, falls into this error, to which he adds the greater mistake of declaring, "that the work was never finished."[1] On the other hand, he points out with accuracy the real direction which Ptolemy gave to the trade with India, by Berenice and Coptos, and the great works he constructed for the convenience of transporting goods from the Nile across the desert to the Red Sea; and it may be remarked, that the Indian trade always kept this route, or one similar, until the discovery of that by the Cape of Good Hope—the great route of the merchants being either by Coptos and Berenice, or by Coptos and Myos Hormos, or, at a later period, by the Vicus Apollinis to Philotera. Ptolemy was perfectly aware of all the difficulties of the navigation of the northern part of the Red Sea, during the summer months, against the north wind. The great object of the canal was, the export of produce from the Delta, for which there was a great demand in the countries on the northern shores of the Red Sea. But there can be no doubt that ships would often sail from Arsinöe to India, disposing of their Egyptian cargo on the way, and returning with their Indian goods to Berenice, and sometimes to Arsinöe. Lucian, indeed, mentions, that "a young man, having sailed up the Nile to Clysina, and finding a ship ready to depart for India, was induced to embark."[2]

The fact that the ancients found the navigation of the Nile more commodious and cheaper than that of the Red Sea, even though it entailed on them the burden of transporting their merchandise from Coptos by caravan, for six or seven days, to Berenice or Myos Hormos, should not be lost sight of in examining the objects for which the ancient canal to Arsinöe was constructed. The immense extent of the Indian trade, by Berenice and Myos Hormos, is attested by many passages in the Greek and Roman classics.[1]

[1] Compare Strabo, xii. c. 5, vol. i. p. 187, ed. Tauch.; xviii. i. vol. iii. p. 461. Plinii Hist. Nat. vi. 23; xii. 18. Arriani Perip. maris Erythr. in Hudson's Geog. min. Tom. i. 32. Athenaeus, v. p. 201.

The opinion which prevails very generally concerning the great inferiority of the ancients in naval skill, requires also to be confined strictly to nautical knowledge, and should not lead us to underrate their mechanical powers, or their means of transporting objects of as great bulk as ourselves by sea. The parade which was made at Paris about transporting the obelisk from Egypt, and erecting it in the Place de Concorde, caused our neighbours to overlook the fact, that there are several larger obelisks still existing at Rome, which were brought from Egypt, and there is one at Constantinople. The largest obelisk at Rome was brought there from Alexandria in the tine of Constantius, when the arts and sciences are generally supposed to have been in a declining state.[1]

[1] The height of the Parisian obelisk is 76 feet 6 inches, that of the Lateran, 105 feet 6 inches; of the Piazza del Popolo, 87 feet 6 inches; of the Piazza San Pietro, 83 feet. Only about 50 feet of the obelisk in the Atmeidan at Constantinople is now in existence, but its proportions indicate that it must originally have exceeded 80 feet. We have two obelisks in the British Museum, but we cannot boast much of our mechanical or naval skill in transporting them, as they are only eight feet each in length.

That the Romans found little difficulty in transporting the largest obelisks and columns by sea, is not wonderful, when we attend to the great size of some of the vessels which were constructed in ancient times. Our ignorance of the manner in which forty banks of oars were disposed in vessels larger than our three-deckers, in such a way as to enable them to make long voyages, does not authorize us to doubt the fact, with such proofs as exist. Our ideas of ancient navies are generally derived from our recollections of the battle of Salamis, as described by Herodotus, and of the engagements between the Romans and Carthaginians, in Polybius. This, however, was the infancy of the navel art, though the Romans had made great advances beyond the Athenians. Polybius, in noticing the improvement, observes that they never made use of vessels like the small triremes of the Greek states, but constructed only quinqueremes for war; and that of these they lost seven hundred in the first Punic war, while the Carthaginians lost five hundred.[1]

It may not, however, be superfluous to mention the measurement of some of the largest ships constructed by the ancients. A very large ship was built for Hiero, king of Syracuse, under the direction of Archimedes. We ought, therefore, to pause before we decide, that any deficiency in scientific skill rendered it a useless and unwieldy hulk. That it was not calculated to keep the sea when an English frigate would be sailing under close-reefed topsails, there can be no doubt; but we must know the intentions with which the ancients constructed their enormous ships, before we decide on their insufficiency. The ship constructed by Archimedes had twenty banks of oars, and was built as a man-of-war. It was sent from Syracuse to Egypt, as a present to Ptolemy Philopater, and was laid up in the docks of Alexandria.

But the largest vessel on record was a ship constructed for Ptolemy Philopater, which had forty banks of oars. This vessel was rather a royal yacht, built to gratify the vanity of the court, than a ship intended for any useful purpose. It was 424 feet in length, and 58 broad. The height of the forecastle from the water was 60 feet. The longest oars were 58 feet, and their handles were loaded with lead to facilitate their motion. The equipage consisted of 4400 men, of whom 4000 were rowers. A ship constructed for the voyages of the court on the Nile, was 330 feet long, and 45 feet wide.[1]

These passages are sufficient to show the immense size of ancient ships, and to prove that their system of naval architecture could not have been directed to contend against contrary winds, but was calculated to transport the largest burdens.

[1] A modern first-rate is about 205 feet long, 54 feet broad, and draws 25 feet water. Its weight is about 4600 tons, when the guns and provisions are on board. Of course, the weight even of Ptolemy's immense ship could not have approached this. Athen. Deipnosophistae, lib. v. § 37, (p. 203.) Our skill in transporting large blocks of marble is so small, that we have been compelled to cut in two some of the Lycian monuments of no great size.

We must now notice the passages which have been supposed to controvert the account we have given of the completion of the canal between the Nile and the Red Sea. The first is a passage of Pliny the Elder, which asserts that Ptolemy Philadelphus only carried the canal to the bitter lakes. "Ex quo navigabilem alveum perducere in Nilum, qua parte ad Delta dictum decurrit, sexagies et bis centena mill. passuum intervallo, (quod inter flumen et Rubrum mare interest,) primus omnium Sesostris Aegypti rex cogitavit: mox Darius Persarum: deinde Ptolemaeus sequens: qui et duxit fossam latitudine pedum centum, altitudine XL, in longitudinem XXXVII mill. D passuum usque ad Fontes amaros." It is needless to remind the reader that Diodorus and Strabo, who lived before Pliny, and had both resided long in Egypt, had seen the canal finished, and described the lock by which it communicated with the Red Sea. It appears, indeed, that the passage, as it stands, has arisen from some inadvertence of Pliny, or perhaps from some blunder of his copyists; for he contradicts his statement, that the canal of Ptolemy terminated at the bitter lakes, in a subsequent passage, in which he mentions that Philadelphus constructed the branch which reached Arsinöe, and was called the river of Ptolemy.—"Eae viae omnes Arsinöen ducunt, conditam sororis nomine in sinu Charandra, a Ptolemaeo Philadelpho, qui primus Troglodyticen excussit, et amnem qui Arsinöen praefluit, Ptolemaeum appellavit."[1]

The other passage is contained in Plutarch's life of Antony; and to a casual reader, who forgets that the canal could only have been navigable during the season of the inundation, in consequence of the high level of the waters of the Red Sea, a difficulty in explaining the passage will immediately occur, and an inference will be drawn against the existence of the canal at the time. Monsieur Letronne, with his usual critical sagacity, has, however, pointed out the combination of facts which render the anecdote in Plutarch a confirmation of the ordinary employment of the canal, rather than an argument against its existence at the time.[1] Cleopatra, when alarmed at the result of the war between Antony and Augustus, had sent her son Caesario, the reputed child of Julius Cesar, with a considerable amount of treasure, through Ethiopia into India.[2] "When Antony returned to Alexandria after the battle of Actium, he found Cleopatra engaged in a very stupendous and bold enterprise. She was endeavouring to transport her fleet over the isthmus between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, which, in the narrowest part, is three hundred stades, and by this means, with her fleet in the Arabian gulf, and with her treasures, to escape from slavery and war."[3] Letronne has pointed out, that the battle of Actium having been fought on the 2nd of September, B.C. 31, it is evident from the subsequent events, that Antony could not have rejoined Cleopatra in Egypt before the month of February, or perhaps even later, in the ensuing year. Now, this period coincides with that at which the low state of the waters of the Nile must have rendered the canal useless for the passage of Cleopatra's fleet. Her extreme terror would not allow her to wait until the rise of the Nile again rendered the canal navigable, and she resolved on transporting her fleet to the Red Sea by land. It must be observed, however, that the project could hardly have occurred to Cleopatra as feasible, unless she had been well aware that vessels often passed from the Mediterranean into the Red Sea. The project was abandoned, as the Arabs of Petra burned the first ships that Cleopatra attempted to transport; and Antony soon persuaded her that his affairs were by no means so desperate as she supposed.

[1] Mémoire sur l'Isthme de Suez, dans la Revue des deux Mondes, tom. xxvii. 223.

The canal was of far too great importance to the prosperity of Egypt, and the revenues of the country were too immediately connected with its existence, as one of the highways for exporting the produce of the Delta, for the Romans to neglect its conservation. It is true that the Romans never paid much attention to commerce, which they despised; and during the long period they governed their immense empire in comparative tranquillity, they did less to improve and extend its relations than any other people of antiquity. But they were always peculiarly attentive to preserve every undertaking which was connected with the agricultural industry and land revenue of their provinces. Unless, therefore, their attention had been directed to the canal of Suez, either as an important military line of communication, or as an instrument for displaying the pride and power of the empire, it would have undergone no improvement under the Roman emperors.

It happened, however, that when Trajan became anxious to display his magnificence in adorning Rome with new buildings, that the fashion of the times rendered the granite and the porphyry in the neighbourhood of the Red Sea indispensable. To obtain the immense columns, and the enormous porphyry vases, which were then admired, with sufficient celerity and in sufficient quantity, it became necessary to render the canal navigable for a longer period of time every year. In order to effect this, Trajan constructed a new canal from the vicinity of Babylon, and connected it with the ancient canal through the valley of Seba Biar.[1] This new work is called the river of Trajan by Ptolemy the geographer; and as it gave an additional elevation of thirteen feet to the stream which fed the canal, it may have supplied the means of keeping the navigation open for about six months yearly.[2]

The quarries of granite and porphyry which supplied the Romans in the time of Trajan, were discovered by Sir Gardner Wilkinson and Mr Burton, in the years 1821-22, at Djebel-Fattereh and Djebel-Dokhan; and Monsieur Letronne has pointed out the connexion of these quarries with the improvements made by Trajan in the canal.[1] Many large works of porphyry exist, which must have been worked in the quarries of Djebel-Dokhan. We need only enumerate the great porphyry vase in the Vatican, which exceeds fourteen feet in diameter—that of the museum at Naples, which is cut out of a block nearly as large—the tombs of St Helen in the Vatican, and of Benedict XIII. in St John Lateran—and the blocks of the porphyry column at Constantinople. It is evident that the masses could never be conveyed from Djebel-Dokhan to the Nile by land; but no great difficulty would be found in transporting them to Myos Hormos on the Red Sea, and embarking them there for Arsinöe; from whence their conveyance to Alexandria, by the canal and the Nile, was easy. It is well known that the quarries of porphyry in Egypt could not have grown into importance until after the reign of Claudius, as Vitrasius Pollio sent the first porphyry statues which had been seen at Rome as a present to that emperor.[2] The chief, if not the only quarries of red porphyry known to the ancients were in the Thebaid, at Djebel-Dokhan.

At the granite quarries of Djebel Fattereh, Sir Gardner Wilkinson found many columns in various stages of completion, some ready to be removed; and of these there were several of the enormous size of fifty-five feet long, and nearly eight feet in circumference. These quarries are at least thirty miles distant from the Red Sea; but, as the ground affords a continual descent, and some traces of the road exist, there cannot be a doubt that these immense columns were destined to be carried to Philotera, and there shipped for Arsinöe, and that, like the porphyry vases, they were to find their way to Rome, by the canal, the Nile, and the port of Alexandria. Sir Gardner Wilkinson has shown that these granite quarries were abandoned not long after the reign of Hadrian; and an inscription, quoted by Letronne, proves that the granite quarries at Syene were first worked about the years A.D. 205-209. The great facilities afforded by the Nile for transporting the largest columns from Syene to Alexandria, appears to have caused the immediate abandonment of the quarries of Djebel Fattereh; as the expense of transporting the columns already finished was doubtless greater than the cost of working and conveying new ones from Syene to Alexandria.

The canal of Trajan continued to be kept open, after the building mania, to which it owed its origin, had ceased. It had extended the sphere of the export trade of the Delta; and it continued to serve as the means of transporting the blocks of porphyry—for which there was a constant demand at Rome and Constantinople, and, indeed, in almost every city of wealth in the Roman empire. Eusebius, in his ecclesiastical history, mentions that the porphyry quarries of the Thebaid were worked during the time of the great persecution, in the reign of Dioclesian. He says, "that one hundred martyrs were selected from the innumerable crowd of Christians condemned to labour in the Thebaid, in the place called Porphyritis, from the marble which was quarried at the spot."[1]

In the reign of Justinian, we find these quarries still worked on a considerable scale, as they are alluded to more than once by Paul the Silentiary, in his description of the Church of St Sophia at Constantinople. He affords evidence that the porphyry still continued to be transported by the Nile to Alexandria; and though his words contain no express mention of the canal, it is evident that the workmen of Justinian would always prefer the easier road by Myos Hormos and Arsinöe, to the almost impracticable task of conveying the blocks across the desert.[1] In the reign of Justin I., the trade of the Red Sea was of great importance, and must have created an immense demand for the agricultural produce of Egypt. The King of Ethiopia, resolving to attack Dunaan, the Jewish king of the Homerites in Arabia, collected, during the winter, a fleet of seven hundred Indian vessels, and six hundred trading ships, belonging to the Roman and Persian merchants who visited his kingdom.[2]

After the reign of Justinian, it is not improbable that the repairs necessary for maintaining the navigation of the canal open began to be neglected, as we know that the population and industry of Egypt began to decline. The tribute of grain to Constantinople, and the public distributions to the people of Alexandria, appear to have exhausted all the surplus produce of the country; and to facilitate their collection, Justinian forbade the exportation of grain from any part of Egypt but Alexandria, except under great restrictions.[1] This edict, doubtless, ruined both the canal and the trade in the Red Sea, and may be looked upon as one of the proximate causes of the increasing power of the Arabs about the time of the birth of Mohammed. The Arabian caravans became possessed of the commerce formerly carried on in the northern part of the Red Sea; and as the wealth and civilization of the Arabs increased, a demand for a new religion, and a more extended empire, arose.[2] Had the complete abandonment of the canal not taken place shortly after the publication of Justinian's edict, it must have been completed during the universal anarchy which prevailed while Phocas reigned at Constantinople. Shortly after Heraclius delivered the empire from Phocas, the Persians invaded Egypt, and kept possession of it for ten years; nor is it probable that Heraclius could have made any efforts to restore the canal during the time he ruled Egypt, after recovering it from the Persians. When the Saracens conquered Egypt, they found the canal filled with sand.

[2] Transport, in some states of civilization, is cheaper by caravan than by sea.

The principle of all Mohammedan governments places the supreme power of the state in the person of the sovereign; and these sovereigns, in the simplicity or barbarism of their political views, have always considered the construction of wells, fountains, caravanseries, and mosques, as the only public works, except palaces, (if palaces can be properly so called,) worthy of a monarch's attention. Ports and canals they have always utterly despised, and roads and bridges have been barely tolerated. It is as difficult to civilize the mind of a true Mohammedan, as it is to wash the skin of a negro white. But the earlier caliphs were not moulded into true Mussulmans; they had been witnesses to the making of their religion; and, when they forsook the rude superstitions of their forefathers of the desert, they had admitted some gleams of common sense and sound reason into their minds, along with the sermons of Mohammed.

And in the early ages of the caliphate, Syria and Egypt were inhabited by a numerous Christian population of the Nestorian and Jacobite heresies, firmly attached to the Saracen power, on their hatred to the orthodox Roman emperors at Constantinople. The importance of the canal of Suez to the well-being of these useful subjects of the Arab empire, could not escape the attention of the caliphs. The native population of Egypt had, with the greatest unanimity, joined the Saracens against the Romans; and the Caliph Omar would have been led by policy to restore the canal, in order to enrich these devoted partisans, as he was induced to burn the library of Alexandria to diminish the moral influence of the Greeks.

The Arabian historians and geographers contain numerous passages relating to the re-opening of the canal, and many of these will be found translated at the end of the Mémoire sur le Canal des Deux Mers. They state that Omar ordered the canal of Trajan to be cleared out in its whole extent. The necessity of securing a greatly increased supply of grain for the holy cities of Medina and Mecca, whose population had been suddenly augmented by their becoming the capitals of all Arabia, and the centres of the Mohammedan power, could not be overlooked. But the mind of Omar was particularly directed to the subject, in consequence of a famine which prevailed in Arabia in the eighteenth year of the Hegira, (A.D. 639,) which was afterwards called the year of the mortality. In that year, the caliph's attention was also more especially called to the fertility of Egypt, as Amron, at his pressing demand for provisions, sent such an immense caravan, that the Arabian writers, with their usual exaggeration, declare, that the convoy was so numerous as to extend the whole way from Medina to Cairo; the first camel of the train entering the Holy City with its load, as the last of the uninterrupted line quitted Misr. The descriptions of the abundance this supply spread among the Arabs are indeed less miraculous, though such eloquence is displayed in painting the gastronomic delights of the hungry Mussulmans, in devouring the savoury food cooked with the fat of the beasts of burden which had transported it.[1]

The account of the canal given by the geographer Makrizy, requires to be transcribed in his own words, from the accurate summary which it contains of the later history of this great monument of civilization. "When the Most High," says the writer, "gave Islamism to mankind, and Amrou-Ben-el-A'ss conquered Egypt by the order of Omar-ben-âl-Khatâb, chief of the Faithful, he cleared out the canal in the year of the mortality. He carried it to the sea of Qolzoum, from which ships sailed to the Hedjâz, to Yemen, and to India. This canal remained open until the time when Mohammed-ben-Abdoullah-ben-El-Hosseïn-ben-Aly-ben-Aby-Thâleb revolted in the city of the Prophet (Medina) against Abou-dja'far-Abdoullah ben-Mohammed Al-Manssour, then caliph of Irâk. This prince immediately wrote to his lieutenant in Egypt, ordering him to fill up the canal of Qolzoum, that it might not serve to transport provisions to Medina. The order was executed, and all communication was cut off with the sea at Qolzoum. Since that time, matters have remained in the state we now see them."[1] As the rebellion of Mohammed Abdoullah against the caliph, Al Manssour, occurred between the 145th and the 150th years of the Hegira, (A.D. 762-767,) the canal had remained open for about 125 years under the Arab government.

[1] See the extracts of Makrizy in the work on Egypt, and in the Notice par Langlès dans les notices et extraits des Manuscrits de la Bibliothèque du Roi, vi. 334.

We have now traced the history of the canal to its close; and we believe our readers will allow that we have proved, by incontrovertible evidence, that a continued navigation from the Nile to the Red Sea existed from the time of Darius (B.C. 500) to the time of Al-Manssour, (A.D. 765,) with the interruption of a short period preceding the extinction of the Roman power in the east. It hardly requires any proof to establish that system of navigation, and a commercial route, which remained in use for nearly 1300 years, must have been based on the internal sources of Egypt, and been regarded as absolutely necessary, under every vicissitude of foreign trade, to the prosperity of the country. The great object of the canal was to afford a high-road for the exportation of the produce of Egypt; and its connexion with the Indian trade was merely a secondary and unimportant consideration. Its connexion with the existence of the agricultural, Egyptian, or Coptic population, was more immediate.

At present, the question of restoring the canal is solely connected with the Indian trade. We own we have very great doubts whether its re-establishment, if destined only to connect our lines of steam-packets from India to Suez, and from Southampton to Alexandria, would be found a profitable speculation. The tedious navigation of the Red Sea, and, we may almost add, of the Mediterranean, would render the route by the Cape preferable for sailing vessels; and we have not yet arrived at such perfection in the construction of steamers, as to contemplate their becoming the only vessels employed in the Indian trade. It appears to us, that before any reasonable hope of restoring the canal can be entertained, or, at least, before it can ever be kept open with profit, that Egypt must be again in a condition to employ the irrigable land on the banks of the canal for agricultural purposes. Unless the country be flourishing, the population increasing, and the canal constantly employed, it would be half-filled with the sand of the desert every year. On the other hand, as soon as a demand for more irrigable land is created by an augmented population, a canal of irrigation would soon be carried through the valley of Seba Biar; and the surplus produce of the Delta would again seek for a market on the shores of the Red Sea and in Arabia. Until these things happen, even should a canal be excavated, whether from Cairo to Suez, or from Suez to Tineh, during some pecuniary plethora in the city, we venture to predict that the Suez canal shares, or Mohammedan bonds, will be as disreputable a security as honest Jonathan's American repudiated stock, or the Greek bonds of King Otho not countersigned by Great Britain.

We cannot close this article without alluding to two able pamphlets, which have been recently published, recommending the formation of a canal from Suez to Tineh, as that line might be kept always open, from the elevation of the Red Sea above the Mediterranean.[1] The subject has been ably treated by the French engineers in the great work on Egypt, and Monsieur Linant has since examined the question; but the information we possess on the effect of the currents and winds at Tineh, is not sufficient to enable any engineer to decide on the works which would be necessary to enable ships to enter the canal in bad weather. It is clear that a bar would immediately be formed; and almost as certain that any break-water but a floating one would soon be joined to the continent by a neck of sand. If it be possible to form any part at this point on the Egyptian coast, it could only be done at an enormous cost; and our information is at present too imperfect to warrant our entering on the subject. The question requires a more profound scientific examination than it has yet undergone.

[1] Enquiry into the Means of Establishing a Ship Navigation between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, with a Map. By Captain Veitch, R.E., F.R.S. Communications with India, China, &c.; Observations on the Practicability and Utility of Opening a Communication between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, by a Ship Canal through the Isthmus of Suez, with Two Maps. By Arthur Anderson.

One of the ablest scholars who has written on the subject of this canal, has advanced the opinion, that Nekos, the king of Egypt, who, Herodotus mentions, undertook the completion of this work, borrowed the idea of his project from the Greeks. Monsieur Letronne conjectures that he only imitated the plan, which is attributed to Periander, of having designed to cut through the isthmus of Corinth. Willing as we are to concede a great deal to Grecian genius, we are compelled to protest against the probability of the Egyptians having borrowed any project of canalization from the Greeks. We own we should entertain very great doubts whether Periander had ever uttered so much as a random phrase about cutting through the isthmus of Corinth, were it not that there are some historical grounds for believing that he was a professed imitator of Egypt. He had a nephew named Psammetichus, who must have been so called after the father of Nekos.[1] All projects for making canals in Greece had a foreign origin, from the time Periander imitated Egyptian fashions, down to the days of the Bavarian regency, which talked about making a ship canal from the Piraeus to Athens, and instructed a commission to draw up a plan of canalization for the Hellenic kingdom, where every thing necessary is wanting—even to the water. The earlier projectors who proposed to cut through the isthmus of Corinth, after Periander, were the Macedonian adventurer Demetrius Poliorcetes, and the Romans, Julius Caesar, Caligula, Nero, and Herodes Atticas.[2] We should not be surprised to see this notable project revived, or to hear that the Greeks were on the point of sinking new shafts at the silver mines of Laurium. A joint-stock company, either for the one or the other, would be quite as profitable to the capitalists engaged as the scheme of making sugar from beet-root at Thermopylae, which has found some unfortunate shareholders, both at Athens and Paris. Travellers, scholars, and antiquaries, would undoubtedly take more interest in the progress of the canal, and of the silver mine, than in the confection of the sugar.

[2] A collection of the classic authorities for the different attempts at cutting the canal through the isthmus of Corinth, may be interesting to some of our readers. PERIANDER'S Diogenes Laertius, i. 99—DEMETRIUS POLIORCETES, Strabo, vol. i. p. 86, ed. Tauch.—JULIUS CAESAR, Dion Cassius, xliv. 5. Plutarch in Caesar, lviii. Suetonius in Caesar. xliv.—CALIGULA, Suetonius in Calig. xxi.—NERO, Plinii, N.H. iv. 4. Lucian, Nero. Philostratus in vit. Apollon. Tyan. iv. 24. Zonaras, i. 570, ed. Paris.—HERODES ATTICUS, Philostratus in vit. Sophist. ii. 26.

There was another canal in Greece which proved a sad stumbling-block to the Roman satirist Juvenal, whose unlucky accusation of "lying Greece," is founded on his own ignorance of a fact recorded by Herodotus and Thucydides.

                       —"Creditur olim
     Velificatus Athos, et quicquid Graecia mendax
     Audet in historia."

The words of Herodotus and Thucydides, would leave no doubt of Xerxes having made a canal through the isthmus to the north of Mount Athos, in the mind of any but a Roman.[1] But since there are modern travellers as ready to distrust the ancients, as a gentleman we once encountered at Athens was to doubt the moderns, we shall quote better evidence than any Greek. Our acquaintance of the Athenian inn, who had a very elegant appearance, appealed to us to confirm the Graecia mendax, saying, he had just returned from Marathon, and his guide had been telling him far greater lies than he ever heard from an Italian cicerone. "The fellow had the impudence to say, that his countrymen had defeated 500,000 Persians in the plain he showed me," said the gentleman in green. "Let alone the number—that fable might be pardoned—but he thought me such an egregious ass as not to know that the war was with the Turks, and not with the Persians at all." We bowed in amazement to find our English friend more ignorant than Juvenal. We shall now transcribe the observations of Colonel Leake, the most sharp-sighted and learned of the modern travellers who have visited the isthmus of Mount Athos:—"The modern name of this neck of land is próvlaka, evidently the Romanic form of the word [Greek: proaulax], having reference to the canal in front of the peninsula of Athos, which crossed the isthmus, and was excavated by Xerxes. It is a hollow between natural banks, which are well described by Herodotus as [Greek: kolônoi ou megaloi], the highest points of them being scarcely 100 feet above the sea. The lowest part of the hollow is only a few feet higher than that level. About the middle of the isthmus, where the bottom is highest, are some traces of the ancient canal; where the ground is lower, it is indicated only by hollows, now filled with water in consequence of the late rains. The canal seems to have been not more than sixty feet wide. As history does not mention that it was ever kept in repair after the time of Xerxes, the waters from the heights around have naturally filled it in part with soil in the course of ages. It might, however, without much labour, be renewed; and there can be no doubt that it would be useful to the navigation of the Egean, such is the fear entertained by the Greek boatmen of the strength and uncertain direction of the currents around Mount Athos."[2]

THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER.

     I'll sing you a new song, that should make your heart beat high,
     Bring crimson to your forehead, and the lustre to your eye;—
     It is a song of olden time, of days long since gone by,
     And of a Baron stout and bold, as e'er wore sword on thigh!
         Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

II.

     He kept his castle in the north, hard by the thundering Spey;
     And a thousand vassals dwelt around, all of his kindred they.
     And not a man of all that clan had ever ceased to pray
     For the Royal race they loved so well, though exiled far away
         From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, all of the olden time.

III.

     His father drew the righteous sword for Scotland and her claims,
     Among the loyal gentlemen and chiefs of ancient names,
     Who swore to fight or fall beneath the standard of King James,
     And died at Killiecrankie pass, with the glory of the Graemes,
         Like a true old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

IV.

     He never own'd the foreign rule, no master he obey'd,
     But kept his clan in peace at home, from foray and from raid;
     And when they ask'd him for his oath, he touch'd his glittering
     blade,
     And pointed to his bonnet blue that bore the white cockade,
         Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

     At length the news ran through the land—THE PRINCE had come again!
     That night the fiery cross was sped o'er mountain and through glen;
     And our old Baron rose in might, like a lion from his den,
     And rode away across the hills to Charlie and his men,
         With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, all of the olden time!

VI.

     He was the first that bent the knee when THE STANDARD waved abroad,
     He was the first that charged the foe on Preston's bloody sod;
     And ever, in the van of fight, the foremost still he trod,
     Until, on bleak Culloden's heath, he gave his soul to God,
         Like a good old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

VII.

     Oh! never shall we know again a heart so stout and true—
     The olden times have pass'd away, and weary are the new:
     The fair White Rose has faded from the garden where it grew,
     And no fond tears but those of heaven the glorious bed bedew
         Of the last old Scottish cavalier, all of the olden time!

W.E.A.

TRADITIONS AND TALES OF UPPER LUSATIA.

THE DWARF'S WELL.

We have been shown, in our two preceding pieces from Ernst Willkomm, Pathetic Fairies, and Fairies merry to rioting. Here we have, not without merriment either, Working Fairies. In the mines of the Upper Lusatian Belief, the tale of THE DWARF'S WELL strikes into a vein which our author has promised us, but of which we have not heretofore handled the ore. Here we shall see the imagination touching in some deeper sterner colours to the sketches flung forth by the fancy; and in the spirit of unreal creation, a wild self-will which rejoices to waft into the presence of the beautiful, and of unbridled laughter, cold blasts from the region of pure affright. There is in this, however, no prostration of strength—quite the reverse! Not a nervous and enfeebled sensibility, yielding itself up to a diseased taste for pain.—No child fascinated with fear, and straining its eyes to take in more horror. But here the unconquerable consciousness of strong life throws itself with an unmastered glee of battle, right into the thick of its mortal adversaries, to slay, and strip, and bind to its own triumphant chariot-wheels.

The Upper Lusatian Highlander, turned poet, dreaming at his discretion, amuses himself with converting terror and madness into merriment, and reconciles conflicting elements of invention—with an overpowering harmony?—No. But, by subjugating them all alike to one imperious lord, viz. to himself;—to his own pleasure. Hence, in the Traditions and Tales, in which he embodies his illusory creed of the Invisible, there is engendered an esthetical species, which waits, perhaps, for a name with us, and might accept that of the Ghastly, or at least, of the Ghostly-Humorous, the Gay-Horrible. The story of the PRIEST'S WELL soars boldly upon this pinion; that of the WILL-O'-THE-WISP HUSSAR has gone stark-raving in the same grimly-mirthful temper. The mind in which Burns imagined and chaunted his TAM-O'-SHANTER, is right down Upper Lusatian, in this key. Our Elves, however, are not yet witches.

The kinds of the spirits confine, upon every side, with one another, and the boundary lines vanish. Within the circumscription of the Fairy domain, an indeterminable difference appears betwixt the truest Fairies and the Dwarfs. The two sorts, or the two names, are sometimes brought into glaring opposition. Again, like factions made friends, they blend for a time indistinguishably. So, in the Persian belief, the ugly Dios, who may represent the Dwarfs of our west, are—under one aspect of the Fable—the implacable cannibal foes—under another,—the loving spouses of the beautiful Peris. Comparing the Fairies of our two former tales, and the Dwarfs of this, the reader will probably see in THOSE, the daintier, the more delicate: in THESE, a little more hardness of nature.

The great length of the story precludes all thoughts (be the opportunities what they may, and these are not deficient) of bringing its illustration from other expositors—Teutonic or otherwise-of the Fairy Lore.

THE DWARF'S WELL.

"Nicholas Stringstriker was the most popular ale-house fiddler for a good twenty miles round, and consequently quite indispensable at all christenings, marriages, and wakes. Klaus knew this as well as every body else, and, like a wise man, did the best he could to turn his popularity to account—the more so, poor fellow! because he was obliged to put up with all kinds of ridicule and teasing. Stringstriker, you must know, was a most comical little fellow, with very small thin bandy legs, that had to bear the burden of a huge square trunk, which, in its turn, supported a big head that was for ever waggling to and fro, without affording the slightest indication of a neck. The entire little man measured exactly three feet five inches and an eighth, and he was best known to his acquaintance by the name of Dwarf-fiddler or Dwarf-piper; for the little gentleman smoked away for his life, and liked nothing better.

"So misshapen a figure, it may readily be supposed, made a very good target for the shafts of mockery. Nicholas, however, troubled himself but little about them; and it was small complaint you heard from him so long as he was well paid, got his savoury morsel, and, above all, a liberal supply of his choice favourite—Tobacco. True, folks might now and then, as the saying is, draw the cord too tight and be too hard upon the scraper; and then Klaus, like most deformed creatures, had wit and venom enough at his command, and could rid himself right easily of his tormentors.

"The Dwarf—it might be to render himself thoroughly independent, or, more likely still, to surround his diminutive individuality with an air of mystery—had abandoned his birth-place, and established himself about two miles away from it, near a singularly-formed sandstone rock, situated in a small but exceedingly pretty fir-wood, and commonly known by the name of the Bear's church. Here he spent his quiet life, wholly engaged in the practice of his art. Travellers taking their road by night, and in calm weather, from Bertsdorf to Hörnitz or over the Breitenberg to Gross-schönau were arrested by the exquisite strains, now touchingly plaintive, now joyously merry, that poured from Klaus's magical instrument; and many a happy soul, allured by the enchanting melody, lingered within sound of it, until wholly subdued and rendered powerless by awe and superstitious fear. Although by day the fiddler was visible to none, yet by night he was often seen waddling out of the wood and over the fields, on his way to a clear spring, whence he drew water for his housekeeping, which—to add to the mystery that he delighted to create—he doggedly looked after himself. This spring belonged to a substantial farmer in Bertsdorf, named Michael Simon, though called by the people Twirling-stick Mike, in commemoration of his cutting down yearly in his wood a handsome quantity of young trees, which he afterwards manufactured into twirling-sticks. Simon not only was master of a good farm, but proprietor likewise of the village tavern, in which he gave a dance every Sunday, taking care to secure for the festivity the services of Stringstriker, to whose fiddle, it was well known, the lads and lasses invariably danced an hour longer than to that of any other scraper in the country.

"The visits of Stringstriker to the well were a continual vexation to the farmer. The Dwarf asked no man's permission to draw his water, but helped himself as often and as liberally as he thought proper, without the slightest regard to the wants of other people, which were often left unsatisfied by his wantonness and extravagance. It was in consequence of this audacious appropriation, that the spring by degrees acquired the name of THE DWARF'S WELL. Countless were the complaints and menaces of Mike—numberless the promised threshings, if he did not give up his thieving; but the effect of them all upon Klaus was to make him laugh outright, fill his pipe, and strike up a jolly tune upon his fiddle.

"Now it happened that Twirling-stick Mike held a christening, and he not only asked the Dwarf as a guest to the feast, but actually went so far as to invite the creature to stand godfather to his child. Klaus was mightily pleased with the honour, and behaved like a gentleman on the occasion. He made his godson a handsome present, and promised to do a good deal more for him, stipulating only that the child, being a boy, should be named Nicholas after himself.

"There was a merry party at the christening, and at first matters went on smoothly and comfortably enough; but as the eating, and drinking, and dancing advanced, quips and cranks became very plentiful, and the greater number, as might be expected, were flung, and not very lightly, at the head of poor Stringstriker. The fiddler for a time received his cuffs very manfully—but they grew intolerable at last. First, his legs were criticised—then his lank withered arms; even his fiddling was disparaged, and he himself pronounced highly indecorous, because he persisted in smoking his pipe all the while he scraped.

"'Klaus, Klaus!' said the master of the house, his sides shaking with laughter, 'if you don't forswear smoking this very instant, your sponsorship sha'n't stand. As sure as my name is Twirling-stick Mike, I won't allow it; and the boy shall be called Michael after his father.'

"'Did you hear what I said, you bandy-legged Dwarf-piper?' bawled Simon, in continuation.

"'Gossip!' said he, in a tone of meaning, 'keep within bounds—within bounds, I say—and don't force me for once to fiddle to an ugly tune. I am your boy's godfather; his name is Klaus, and Klaus he shall be called amongst my children!'

"The whole company simultaneously broke out into loud laughter, and exclaimed with one voice—

"'Why, where have you left your respectable better-half, then?' asked
Simon, 'and what wench ever gave herself up to two such noble shanks?
Where, in Heaven's name, Klaus, was the parson ordained that trusted a
poor woman to you for better or worse?'

"The Dwarf smoked away, and could hardly be seen through the cloud that enveloped him.

"'Idiots!' he murmured to himself, 'as if we lived like mere human
Creatures'—

"'What's that you say?' asked Simon, interrupting him. 'Don't talk blasphemy, you heathenish imp, or'—

"'Be quiet, gossip!' returned the Dwarf, with a savage frown. 'Don't put me up, or I and my children may be troublesome to you and yours yet. You had better give me some more tobacco, for I love smoking, and so do my people!'

"'If he isn't cracked, I am a Turk!' exclaimed Simon. 'Pride has turned that added head of his quite round. Well, Heaven preserve me from a cracked godfather, any how!'

"'Body of me!' interposed an old boor, one of the party, 'what the crab says is true.'

"'Yes! What, have you never heard of the Spirits and Dwarfs who, for thousands of years, have carried on their precious games in all kinds of underground pits and holes? Now, take my word for it, he has something to do with them. Klaus is just the fellow for the rogues. They make choice of a king once every fifty years—one of flesh and blood, like ourselves. His majesty must be shaped like a dwarf—that's quite necessary; but when he is lifted to the throne, the creatures heap upon him all sorts of wondrous gifts. They teach him to play the fiddle, flute, and clarinet like an angel. They put him up to the art of manufacturing wonderful clocks—of eclipsing the sun and moon, and all that kind of thing. They once had a dwarf king, a shoemaker, and that fellow never had his equal. Whenever he took it into his head, he would sit down, call for seventy thousand skins, and then set to work. How long do you suppose he was getting them out of hand? Why, in just one hour and a half the whole stock was manufactured. Shoes, gaiters, spatterdashes, jack-boots and bluchers for five hundred thousand men, and all their wives and children. You may believe it. There never was a chap that flung the things about as he did. And you may take my word for it, Klaus Stringstriker could do something too, if he chose. Why do you think he is so insolent and conceited, and presumes so much upon his playing and smoking? Why—just because these little earthmen are his familiars, and back him up in every thing!'

"'Oh, that's it—is it?' said Simon dryly. 'Klaus is King of the Dwarfs, is he? Then if that's the case, he shall perform a trick for us directly. Now I give you all warning, young and old, not to stop his pipe, or fill his glass again, till he fiddles himself into a fit, and glass and pipe replenish themselves!'

"Klaus remonstrated against the proceeding—but the guests were brimful of fun and mischief, and wouldn't listen to him. It was evident that nothing would satisfy the company but the exhibition of the misery to which they resolved to subject the unhappy knave forthwith. The Dwarf implored, threatened, cursed; he struck about him like a madman, screamed, roared, and struggled to escape; all in vain. The untractable little fellow was held fast, and then, amidst the jokes and gibes of the assembly, securely tied, with his fiddle in his hand, against the roof-tree of the room. Once pinned, there was no use in further resistance. The poor deformed creature had nothing better to do than to play, as commanded.

"And he did play, so touchingly and heartbreakingly, that the listeners were very soon in agonies before him. The eyes of the Dwarf rolled like little fire-balls in their cells—his cheeks grew paler and paler, and cold sweat poured down in a stream from his forehead. Nevertheless, he fiddled away incessantly—now merrily, now mournfully, now slowly, now quicker than ever. Every dancer had reason that night to thank his stars, if he left off without having thrown himself into a phthisic; for, when he once began, it was as easy for him to fly into the air as to come to a stand-still, until it pleased Klaus Stringstriker to make a pause with his fiddle.

"The horrible jest lasted till towards midnight, and then the tormentors were willing to grant their victim some indulgence. The fiddler was unbound, and he would have had to eat and drink, and his own dear pipe of tobacco would have been restored to him, had not the company immediately perceived to their astonishment that both his pipe and glass stood already filled before him, although not a single soul amongst them had lifted or touched either one or the other. If the guests had been riotous before, they were hushed and quiet enough now. And Klaus, too, struck up another tune instanter. He bowed ironically to the assembly, emptied his glass, lit his pipe, and tucked his fiddle under his arm.

"'Thank you, gossip!' said he, 'thank you kindly for your christening. I have enjoyed every thing—thoroughly; your compliments, your beer, your tobacco, and your sport! Rest assured, Mike, I shall quit scores with you, in good time, for all. As to my little godchild, you'll be pleased to call the boy Nicholas, that is to say, if you are not tired of your life. For yourself, Twirling-stick Mike,' he continued with a frown, 'depend upon it, you shall be settled, all in good time, very comfortably amongst my children. Meanwhile, Fare-you-well!'

"And with these words, the little fellow, repeating his scornful obeisance, hobbled away. He was heard to strike up a lively air, and some of the guests, whose curiosity took them out of doors, averred that he cut across the fields with supernatural swiftness, whilst there glittered around him a bright tremulous light, in which at times the tiniest phantoms were distinguishable.

"Whether this statement were really true, or whether a mere imagination, came never to be rightly known; and it is most likely that nothing more would have been said about it, if, on the following morning, the report had not run like a fire through the village, that the Dwarf-piper, in the night, had come to an untimely end, and was then lying as dead as mutton on Twirling-stick Mike's farm and field, with his fiddle jammed under his broad chin, and the bow still resting on the strings. Half the village, headed by the authorities, sallied forth upon the intelligence. Simon, you may be certain, was not long in following—and sure enough, there lay the poor Dwarf, dead upon the ground. His head was half immersed in the Dwarf's Well, which, in the dark, he had probably not observed. But whether or not, Klaus Stringstriker had been upset, and had stumbled, poor wretch, upon his death!

"It was very natural for Twirling-stick Mike to repent him suddenly of his wanton cruelty. The scoffing words of the dwarf rang in his ears, and he felt by no means easy. To make what amends he might to the deceased, he had him sumptuously buried at his own expense, with funeral oration, psalms, prayer, and benediction; and what is more, put up a very pretty monument to his memory, which, in very legible characters, made known the talents and virtues of the fiddler, and carried them down to remote posterity. The Dwarf, however, was scarcely in his grave, before all manner of strange reports were whispered about in the neighbourhood. In the first place, Twirling-stick Mike's garden was said to be haunted o' nights. Noises were heard and lights seen on the path crossing his fields; and you had only to stray into the vicinity of the Dwarf's Well to be forsaken at once of seeing and hearing. If Simon enquired more particularly into these worrying rumours, every body professed to know nothing at all of the matter. One man referred him to his neighbour, and he to the next; who, in his turn, protested that the whole was a heap of lies; or said any thing that seemed most likely to appease the farmer's anxious state of mind. Simon, troubled as he was by the absurd babbling of the people, was nevertheless unable to suppress it, or prevent its growth. Indeed there was a small chance of its diminishing, when, in less than two months, there was not a soul in the neighbourhood who could not swear that he had been a witness to most unearthly doings. There was no need of further mystery, of doubtful head-shaking, and ominous whispers—every one had seen Klaus Stringstriker near Twirling-stick Mike's house, playing his fiddle in the clear light of the moon. It was true, none could aver that he had heard a single note; but it was impossible to mistake his figure, and that had been seen, time after time, gliding in from the adjoining field, making the tour of Simon's house, and exhibiting all the gesticulations of a violin-player. Many affirmed, too, that the fiddler was followed by a swarm of fluttering lights causing an odd noise, like nothing so much as the multitudinous clacking of little hammers. If the Dwarf and his luminous retinue encountered any one, he stood still until the latter had passed, and then quietly pursued his road. The more inquisitive who had ventured to steal after the apparition, swore deep and high that the Dwarf and his lights had gone hissing into the well that stood upon Twirling-stick Mike's land, and then the ghostly procession altogether ceased.

"Simon gave himself a deal of trouble to witness some of these remarkable things; but he met with nothing; and accordingly, seeing that the ghost of the dead sponsor in no way molested him, he permitted the people to chatter on as they would. His indifference, indeed, had nearly reduced all disagreeable rumours to silence, when another very sensible unpleasantness took rise under his own roof.

"Young Klaus could hardly run alone before he manifested a most undesirable faculty of seeing spirits. It grew with his years; and at last it came to pass that no day or night went by upon which he had not something very extraordinary to relate. The occurrences certainly were chiefly of that nature that it required a most resolute and unbounded— an absolute Christianly-simple faith to believe them: and since the majority of Klaus's auditors were not excessively that way disposed, the accounts of the boy were held for so much downright swagger; and the poor ghost-seer acquired, to the no small vexation of his parent, the unenviable nickname of Mike's Lying Klaus. It was very singular, however, and could not fail to be remarked by every reflecting mind, that all the stories related by young Nicholas were in close connexion with the notorious well belonging to his father. There it was that he saw prodigious flames blazing forth, gold burning, and dances performed by the most grotesque and strangely-shaped little creatures. Passing this spot, earth, sand, glass, and even silver-pieces, would strike him on the head, without doing him the slightest injury. If he led his waggon by the spring, his good horses had to strain and torture themselves for a full quarter of an hour before they could draw the empty wain from the spot. The wheels seemed to have been locked and set fast, and yet the slightest hindrance could not be detected.

"Even to these incidents the ageing Simon had, by degrees, accustomed himself; but at length, and all on a sudden, it became his own frightful lot to perceive that his fine property was diminishing—yes, daily and hourly dropping and dropping away from him. He lived economically, as he had always done, even to parsimoniousness. The produce of his land, the income from his twirling-stick trade, were as satisfactory as could be— both improving! How could it happen then? Simon made known his misery to his neighbours, craved counsel from his pastor. Each chucked in his farthing's worth of wisdom; but it availed him nothing. In the meanwhile, the strapping youth grew every day more and more a ghost-seer; and the Dwarf was said to beset the premises of the farmer nightly. Simon, at all events to show a reason in his complaints, building upon these facts, boldly cast upon his son the imputation of robbing him. Violent scenes ensued between the two—they quarrelled and wrangled from morning till night; and at length, upon Simon's refusing his assent to the marriage of his hulking boy with a very honest, but at the same time somewhat uncouth and very poor girl—went bodily to law.

"Whilst father and son were valiantly tugging against each other in court, the lawyers gleefully rubbing their hands over the case, and many a good joint flying into their larders from the stalls of Twirling-stick Mike, the substance of the honest farmer underwent rapid decay. His neighbours, soon aware that Simon had falsely taxed his son, cleared up the question, as folks in such cases are fain to do, with suppositions and surmises. They gave out that the Dwarfs were gnawing away his fortune; every body believed it, and from that moment forward, he was a marked and doomed man.

"As the belief became general, Simon grew irritable and wild. He cursed, and stormed, and raved, till his people trembled for their master's reason. Vexation ate his flesh away, and Avarice, which had gained entire possession of His soul, drove him restlessly about in the endeavour to save and to secure as much as still remained to him. At night, with his sullenly-burning lamp, he sped from room to room, bearing in his two quivering hands leathern purses of money; then shutting himself up in the most secret of his hiding-places, he counted his dollars again and again—and with such haste and fear, that the cold sweat dropped from him as he laboured. Horrible to relate, as often as he added the same sums together, so often he found the total less. Oh, it was like nothing else than the devil's own game; for the money, unperceived by mortal eye, melted in the pure air!

"Unfortunately for Simon, he was a man of violent passions, and on one occasion his fury betrayed him into blasphemous exclamations. Sadly beside himself, he swore, with a most fearful oath, that he was ready and willing to make over body and soul to the devil, or even to his old gossip the fiddler, provided either of them would undertake to restore to him the mass of wealth that had so unaccountably escaped from him.

"There is an old proverb that runs—'Give the devil your little finger, and he will take your whole hand.' And the truth of this saying Simon was now about to experience; for he had scarcely brought his impious words to a close, before the fiddler popped into his presence, too willing to enter into any arrangement which the reckless farmer was silly enough to propose. 'Here I am, gossip!' said the cunning little rascal with well-assumed affability, 'and ready to do your will. Not that I shall ask your body and soul. I am not so greedy. Bequeath me your head at your death, you shall have all you ask, and I'll be satisfied.'

"'Go to the devil, you bandy-legged monster!' screamed Michael in his fury, poking his lamp at the same time under the Dwarf's beard, so that the vapoury phantom was nigh being in a blaze.

"'Don't put yourself out, Mike; don't put yourself out!' said Klaus patronizingly, seating himself upon a chest, and then tuning his fiddle. 'Getting into a passion won't bring the shiners back! What do you say, gossip, to a tune? Will you dance if I play? I have improved wonderfully, I can tell you, since I left this half-and-half sort of a world. Nobody dances now to my touch who doesn't praise it to the skies. You can't care much for dancing at your time of life, I know; and yet, if you could get a ducat for every step, and one or two for every hop, you would put your best foot forward, and try to do something any how— wouldn't you?'

"'What, what, what? What's that you say?' cried Simon, squeezing his empty money-bags. 'A ducat for every step! two for a hop! Kremnitz or Dutch, my dear old friend?'

"'Kremnitz, old gentleman, and full weight too!' replied the Dwarf. 'But,' added the little monster, 'about the head, Mike—what do you say, am I to get it?'"

"'Oh! I am no Turk, gossip!' said the fiddler. 'I sha'n't scalp you. I'll gild every hair that you have on your crown; but your pate I must have, or else I can say nothing about the ducats.'

"'But what do you mean to do with it, dear ducat—dear Klaus, I mean?' asked the bewildered Mike.

"'That's my concern. I promise you not to hurt a hair; and your noddle shall be kept warm enough,' added the creature with a hideous chuckle. 'I engage myself to that, by all the Kremnitz ducats in the world!'

"Hesitation seldom prospers. It was fatal to poor Mike. He couldn't bring himself to answer. 'What,' he kept saying to himself—'what can I want with my head when I am dead? What matters who gets it?'

"'Have you settled?' enquired the Dwarf. 'Don't keep me, Mike; there are plenty of fellows who'll jump to get the ducats.'

"'Ducats! ducats!' continued Simon, still arguing with himself.—'What's a dead head in a scale with ducats? Nothing at all!—precious ducats! How many I have lost! one for a step, two for a hop. I had better close the bargain!'

"'You won't have them, then!' exclaimed the Dwarf. "'Yes! Done—agreed!' cried Simon eagerly. 'I'll consent, dear Klaus!' "'Very well!' replied the Dwarf. 'We'll to business, then!'

"'You recollect the terms, dear gossip! One for a step, two for a hop; and you are to have my head as soon as I die, and have no further use for it. Now, play a very slow waltz, there's a good Klaus—very slow, if you love me! Don't fiddle too long, and let the ducats come down prettily!'

"The Dwarf made no reply; but simply laughed like a growling bear. He cocked his fiddle under his chin, however, as quick as lightning; scraped a little by way of timing, and then broke out. Klaus Stringstriker had fiddled for a very few minutes before Simon was springing about, and cutting such capers as no professional performer had ever attempted, whilst the beams and rafters of the house quivered again. The impoverished farmer held in his hands about twenty large empty money-bags, which he grasped very tightly. It was quite wonderful to see how at every caper, at every kick of the foot, there fell at least two dozen real and true Kremnitz ducats, right down from his head straight into the pockets. Down they came faster and faster, so thick that before the dance was half over, the bags were all chokeful, and the dancer himself hardly able to bear the weight of all his treasure. But, mad with joy at the unexpected rushing back of all his wealth, he burst into the wildest laughter, flung himself about like a lunatic, and devoured with greedy gluttonous eyes the clinking, twinkling gold, that in starry showers discharged itself around him.

"At the end of a short quarter of an hour, the bags were bursting in Simon's hands. The Dwarf wriggled with delight, and played on—on—on; and the old farmer, intoxicated and insane, jumped till his hoary and fated skull struck against the ceiling. Now his joints cracked under the weight of gold that he bore; but he could not put it from him, for the bags stuck to his hands, as though they had grown to them. His strength decayed; his thoughts languished. He tried to speak; but he could not stammer out a word.

"The Dwarf kicked his feet with pleasure, and laughed again like a bear. He never played in right earnest until now. He scraped with all his might and main. Poor Twirling-stick Mike groaned, and his unhappy head dropped exhausted upon his breast. Miserable man, his last capers were cut! His dancing was no longer worth mentioning. He went up a little way, like a baby's shuttlecock, and came down again feebly and dull. The ducats poured out. The bags swelled; playing and dancing—dancing, such as it was—went forward, and one terrible hour passed away. At last the wrists of the farmer snapped asunder; his hands and the bags of gold fell to the ground together. The dancer gave one desperate and convulsive leap into the air. Klaus stopped his violin; and, in the next instant, Simon lay dead upon the floor. Will it be believed that the rascally Dwarf had fiddled every hair of the poor devil's head, and brought them all down to his feet in the shape of ducats! Simon's skull was as smooth and clean as if it had been shorn.

"The Dwarf put his fiddle up; quietly possessed himself of the money-bags, and then grinned at the corpse before him.

"'Well, you old fool!' said he. 'Have I shaved your ugly jobber-nowl clean enough? I don't want any of your tiresome barbers to do my work! Are we quits, gossip? Can we wipe off the old scores yet, friend Simon? No, no! We have something to do still! Let your boy look well to himself, and get reconciled to my people whilst there is yet time!'"

Early in the morning, Simon was found lying dead on the floor. The hairs of the unfortunate man, plucked out, and scattered over the boards, in part confirmed the vehement declaration of the servants; viz. that their master had wrestled with the devil, and had got the worst of the bout. Young Klaus, however, shaken as he was by the unexpected sight, at once guessed the true history. Returning home the night before, from a nocturnal visit to his sweetheart, he had passed his father's house, and here he had not only heard the playing of the fiddler, but, looking through a crevice of the garret-door, he had likewise discerned the very form of the Dwarf-spirit, and heard his laughter, as well as the noisy leaping of his unhappy parent. In his first grief at the frightful termination of his father's career, Klaus hurled the bitterest execrations at the head of the revengeful Stringstriker; cursed him over and over again, and himself no less, on account of his plaguing, ghost-seeing faculty. Raving over the handless body of Simon, he vowed at length, that if ever again the shadow of the fiend crossed his path, he would double him up in a sack, and hang him on the first tree that he came to.

This excited state of mind did not last very long with the volatile youth; for, truth to say, the sudden dereliction of mortality on the part of his quarrelsome old father, did not come altogether amiss to him. What hindered him now from wedding the girl of his heart, and leading as jolly a life as any? According to good old custom, he put on his dress and looks of mourning, donned his three-cornered hat, pulled it deep over his forehead, and walked decently and soberly up the church-path to the parson's house.

'Reverend sir!' said the precious youth to the minister, 'the Lord has been very gracious to my father, and this night he has taken him to himself. May the Lord comfort us! If you please, reverend sir, he shall be buried on Friday next; and I should like him to have a funeral oration and a parentation. He was a good man, sir, and I know I shall miss him at every turn and corner. But God's name be praised, sir, he always sends us what's best!' And so saying, Klaus wiped the tears on his eyes.

In due time old Simon was put under ground, and there was not a word to be said by his many followers against either the deceased father or the living son; for the latter gave a capital feast in honour of the occasion, which, setting aside two bloody heads, passed off in the most satisfactory manner. On the evening of the funeral, Klaus got very impatient to look over his lawful inheritance. Bethinking him of the avarice of his father, he had made up his mind to routing out no end of wealth; for as to the old man's continual complaints and grumblings, he had always looked upon them as so much flummery. To his great astonishment and dismay, however, he found every chest and coffer empty. Money-bags there were in plenty; but torn and moneyless, and the very little ready cash that remained in the house was by no means sufficient to satisfy the disappointed lawyers, whose bills, drawn out respectively to the loss which they had suffered through the sudden demise of Mike, were large enough, as you may believe.

This discovery and turn of affairs sensibly interfered with the rejoicings of Klaus; and no wonder! For whilst he was still warm with the idea of bringing his bride home to a well-stocked property, he had to learn that he was actually as poor as a church-mouse. What could he do? He was not long in forming a resolution. House and farm, field and coppice, were in pretty good condition; no mortgages, as far as he knew, cumbered the estate. Surely, till better times came, there would be no difficulty in borrowing? At all events, the effort should be made. Klaus went to Zittau to beg the loan of a thousand dollars from the trustees of pious legacies. He stammered out his request to the board with as much confidence as he could command; but whether his awkward way and manner, or his unsteady look, or the wealth which it was supposed he possessed, or the nickname which he bore—whether one or all of these gave rise to suspicion and alarm, it is very certain that although friend Nicholas received fine words enough to tear his pocket open, not one farthing of money did he catch, but was fain to return home as rich as he had come.

This was a heavy blow to the young farmer. As usual with him in seasons of trouble, he thought of the Dwarf, and cursed him. Then he prayed for a sight of the monster, only till he had wreaked his vengeance on him; and then he went like a drunken man homeward. To his intense vexation, as often as he relieved himself of an execration, his ear was assailed with a scornful peal of laughter. It escorted him to his very door, and there left him mad with rage, because he could by no means perceive whence the mockery proceeded. Once at home again, he repeated the rummaging of rooms, cellars, and corners, in the still unextinguished hope of finding something, were it only paper bonds, of which he had known his father, at one time, to possess several. His search availed him nothing—the chests were empty—there was not an atom of money left. As if this were not misery enough, he perceived, with inexpressible grief, that the rafters of the house, the wainscoting of the rooms, were beginning to totter and crack so fearful, that it would be impossible to reside much longer beneath them. And oh, sorrow upon sorrow! those unpleasant gentlemen, the lawyers, were daily asking payment, and threatening an execution. Klaus grew very wretched. Breathing time, at all events, was necessary, and so he sold the tavern and a considerable portion of his land. With part of the proceeds he appeased the blood-suckers; and with what remained, he purposed repairing his cracked and rickety tenement.

Accustomed from his youth upwards to go to work with a full pocket, the thrifty way of life to which he was obliged to conform, was any thing but pleasant to him; but worse than all, and more difficult to support, were the evidences of disrespect which poor Nicholas observed in the conduct of the neighbouring farmers—and which every day became more palpable. Before his poverty was known, as the son of his father, he had been treated with some regard—and if folks did call him Lying Klaus, it was more by way of joke than to give him pain. Now, however, the neglect of him was bare-faced; and the meanest of the village learnt to make their ill-natured remarks, and to fling his nickname over meadow and field after him as he went. He was welcome nowhere—deserted and forsaken on every side. Even in his work, he was the most unfortunate of labourers. Ill-luck ever attended it. If he ploughed, either the ploughshare would go to pieces, or the furrows would turn over so often, that he could not stir. If he sowed in the serenest weather, when not a breath of air was moving, a whirlwind would arise as soon as he had begun, carrying the grain to some one distant spot, and rendering it there perfectly useless. Sometimes he would find that he held a handful of mere husks, and then if, in the bitterness of his soul, he began to curse and tear his hair—he would all at once espy in those very husks— eyes that fleered at him, whilst a horrible laughter echoed from every side.

These were Klaus's out o' doors troubles. Those within were still worse. His sound, strong horses perished one after another—till at last he had nothing left in his stables but one old gaunt mare called Blässel. A distemper broke out amongst his horned stock, and before a month passed, destroyed every thing in his stalls, with the exception of an old goat and a gormandizing and insatiable porker.

A much more sedate man than Klaus would have been ready to jump out of his skin in the midst of so much disaster. Once more he had recourse to a sale. With a heavy heart he put up his inheritance, and with inexpressible dismay he received the first buyers. Upon their close inspection of house and farm, it soon became too apparent that the whole of the woodwork was thoroughly worm-eaten, and, in the ground-floor, destructive fungus hard at work. Those who came inclined to buy, shook their heads and wished him good-morning: and in less than four-and-twenty hours after their departure, every soul in the parish knew that Lying Klaus was as good as a bankrupt; that his house was already tumbling about his ears; and that he himself would be forced to go from house to house, and practise the art of lattice-tapping.[1]

[1] The more ancient village houses have still, for the most part, before the house door, a kind of lattice, upon which the beggar taps, by way of announcing himself to the dwellers.

"Rumour in this case proved a true prophet. The end of the summer found Klaus's homestead all to pieces. The wind whistled through the broken windows. Rats frolicked about the floor: a lease of the rafters was taken by a society of martens, and Klaus was left the choice of making friends with the vermin, or being dislodged from his miserable den altogether.

"When a poor man suddenly becomes rich, there is no lack of good words thrown away; but when a rich man suddenly comes to beggary, all that is said is—that he is a deplorable wretch—that everybody expected it—and that it serves him right. Klaus led a horrid life. He was shunned by universal consent. The youngest urchins of the parish threw dirt at him, made faces, called him Lying Klaus, and trotted after him, imitating the gait and gestures of an ill-conditioned dwarf. If Klaus entered the tavern—so lately his own property—the boors shrunk from him as though he were a leper—the landlord lazily shoved a dirty glass before him, and looked at the piece of money which he got in exchange, a dozen times before he put it into his till. The most abandoned criminal, who had undergone his ten years of imprisonment and hard labour, could not have been treated more ignominiously. Had Klaus not lived on in a sort of mental intoxication, he must have committed murder or manslaughter, if, in his desperation, he had not even laid unholy hands upon himself.

"All help cut away, every means of support dried up, and the beggar denied even the bread of charity, Klaus at length resolved upon abandoning his birthplace, and seeking his fortune in the open world. He had all along carried on his stick trade without being able to earn even salt to his porridge. A small piece of copse-wood, of little value, for which he had been unable to find a purchaser, he could yet call his own—the lean and bony Blässel was also spared him. With sticks and steed, therefore, he quitted his native place, and began to take his rounds abroad, scarcely hoping to gather what was denied him amongst his own people—a scanty pittance. It was little that poor Nicholas got to break and bite upon his road; he made amends for the deficiency by consulting the brandy flask, from which the deserted one sucked his temporary solace. With the hot liquor in his head, he could whistle and sing, forget his misery, and boldly face mankind.

"Late one evening, Klaus returned from a distant business tour. Blässel had not a leg to stand upon, Klaus himself had eaten nothing the whole day, and he was besides parched with thirst. To satisfy the cravings of nature, he stepped, unwillingly enough, into The Sun at Herwigsdorf. The parlour was full of boors, one of whom, in a gruff voice, read aloud the Weekly Intelligencer, whilst the rest remarked upon its contents. Klaus edged himself into a corner to avoid observation, and mine host brought him, for his two or three pence, a very melancholy supper. The reading came at length to a close, and the stage then became alive. The farmers discussed and argued the news that had been delivered to them, until they grew very warm, and had exhausted all their eloquence, when they commenced knocking the table with their doubled fists, for want of better arguments. In the height of the dispute, a neighbouring miller—a very learned gentleman—entered the apartment. He was at once unanimously appealed to for a decision, and then nobody would abide by his verdict. A general tumult ensued; in the midst of it, unlucky Klaus was detected, and then politics and the welfare of mankind were immediately lost sight of.

"'Devil take me!' cried one, advancing towards the wretched man, 'If there doesn't sit Lying Klaus from Starving Castle!'

"Klaus was surrounded in an instant. The whole assembly hooted him, and he for shame and rage would gladly have buried himself for ever in the earth.

"Well, I will say," continued the unfeeling boor, "the rich Klaus has become the very careful and thrifty. I wonder if the churchwarden means to give him the bell-purse money for ever!"[1] Well, Liar, how gets on the stick trade? Will you soon be able to patch your coat out of your earnings? If you happen now to have a sixpence more than you want, I think we may do a little business together. I have some four-year-old straw that will come in well for your palace. It is eaten away a little by the mice, but that doesn't matter. Why, what are you thinking of, you nincompoop? Don't you know when Klaus wants straw, or money, or an honest name, he has only to go to his couch-grassed stubble-fields, and sneeze three times into the Dwarf's wall, and then he gets directly what he asks for? Who wouldn't have a Dwarf for his godfather! a fellow just three cheeses high, and a fiddle-scrapper A pretty scrape he has made of it for you—only scraped your precious soul into hell, as he would have done if Holy Peter had bound it three times round his key-bit. It is a great pity though, that Dwarf-piper don't fiddle money into his darling's pocket, as well as out of it. Kick the blackguard out, pull his ears for him—I say he isn't honest. He can't be, for he has dealings with the devil!'

[1] The churchwardens go about the church during the service, and collect alms from the congregation in a purse with a bell.—TRANSLATOR.

"Many sinewy arms were stretched out at the moment to grasp the weak defenceless man, who sat gnashing his teeth, and awaiting the assault, whilst in his heart he cursed himself and all the world besides. The miller called upon the company to desist, and they retreated a stop or two, whilst he stepped forth, and placed himself at the side of the unprotected wanderer.

"'Come, come!' said the unexpected friend, 'this isn't fair. Klaus is a very worthy fellow, though things are going against him, because, as I believe, his old father bore too hard upon that imp Stringstriker. If Klaus were only a clever fellow, and knew how to say a private word or so to his godfather, he would soon make it all right with him again. Dwarfs must be managed. Bless you, I have one in my own mill. Every ninth night he hammers away on the twenty-first cog of the third wheel; and as soon as he begins, three honey cells must be put upon the millstone for him, if I don't wish the mill to stand still immediately, and all the grain to breed worms. It is nothing but Dwarf's roguery, and so I say let Klaus go quietly his way. I'll wager what you like, if the fellow asks the Dwarf's pardon, and makes it up with him, he'll be as rich as ever again. For you see, masters, Dwarfs must sometimes play all sorts of pranks with poor mortals, that they may so have occasion to help them at a future time, and secure for themselves a place in Heaven at last.'

"This learned address so dumbfoundered the peasants, that they retreated by degrees further and further from their intended victim, who, like a shrewd fellow, seized his opportunity, and made his escape. He was not long in harnessing his hack, mounting his cart, and driving from the inhospitable spot. The words of the miller had made a deep impression on his mind. The wish to hold communion by any means with the world of spirits, which had been closed upon him from the moment that he had hurled his curse against one of them—grew strong and lively within him. His miserable condition subdued him into sorrow and repentance, and, in a loud and earnest voice, he implored his godfather to take pity upon him, to forgive him, and to show him the means by which he might be reconciled again to him, and made worthy of the regard and consideration of his people.

"He had reached Hörnitz when his stricken heart indulged itself in such outpourings. Breiteberg arose at a short distance before him, with the few acres of land that still belonged to him lying waste for want of hands. Klaus threw a look of sullen discontent towards the land, and lo—he beheld there the figure of the Dwarf gliding along, and surrounded by countless sparkling lights. The lad stood still, and stared with astonishment at the apparition. Dissevered tones, as of a violin, floated in the disturbed air; and when the phantom lifted his fiddlestick, it seemed as if he sent a recognising nod towards his godchild. Klaus urged his beast forward, and at the same moment the Dwarf turned off at a cross-road, and with the speed of an arrow swept towards the neighbourhood of the Dwarf's well.

"Klaus lay awake half the night dwelling upon this encounter, and when he fell to sleep, it was the subject of his dreams. 'The miller,' thought he, 'is right, after all! Godfather may be pacified yet, if he is properly and becomingly spoken to. How kindly he nodded to me! O, if I could get only half my fortune back!' Before Klaus was out of bed again, he resolved to have a trial, and, on the very next day, humbly to present himself to his godfather, if that great personage would deign him an interview. He had to go to the wood for sticks, and time and place were both favourable to a meeting with the spirit.

"The road to the wood lay hard by the Dwarf's well. Klaus, arriving there, reined his horse up, and looked upon the spring with profoundly cogitative eyes. It was clear and still. Pearly bright the water ascended from the rent basaltic bottom, and rippled in a small thread-like rill through whispering rushes, across meadows and fields, until it reached the village.

"'Now, this is the strangest well!' quoth Klaus, knocking out the ashes from his short stump of a pipe—'always humming and brumming when I take my way by it—and when I have passed it, it is just as though I had loaded on another hundred-weight. The poor thing regularly gasps, and plants her hoof as if she were pulling the church after her. Now, wo-ho, Whiteface!—wo-ho!"

As Klaus spoke, the horse snorted, gasped, and stamped, without making any way. It was as though the devil had tied a hair about the spokes. After fearful struggling and long agony, the wood was at length reached. Klaus fell manfully to work. A sheaf of young trees were presently down before his axe. In the haste of the felling, he cut down some shrubbery, of no use in the manufacture of twirling-sticks, but trees and shrubs were heaped together on his cart; he stopped his pipe, and with provision at least for the next week, he gaily pushed towards home.

"It was a fine warm evening of autumn. The moon stood in the cloudless heavens above the blue hills, and the rich region lay in her splendour. Klaus hummed a careless tune; smoked and hummed, hummed and smoked. In the swampy marsh meadows to the right and left of him, number of social frogs joined in the concert; the streams were steaming in the valleys, and silvery mists strayed, catching the radiance, along the mountain forests.

"'Wo-ho, Blässe!' growled Klaus, as his favourite began to snort and caracole. 'No shying, Whiteface! It is only the night-fog bubbling up a bit. 'Twon't singe thy poor bones, wo-ho!' and then he cracked his whip, and made it sing about the ears of the mulish beast. At the same moment, a bright flame sprang up before him—but only like a flash of lightning; for in an instant all was again hushed, dim, and lonely. The moon was visible through the mist, and in Hörnitz the lights were seen glimmering.

"'Oho!' thought Klaus, 'godfather is lighting his pipe, is he? We shall soon see, then, how the world wags with him. Hollo! Godfather Stringstriker, be good and kind to your child, and show yourself. Tell me, dear godfather, how I am to fill my money-bags again; for you know who had the emptying of them! There's a nice dear old gentleman, come out to me—I do so long to see you!'

"It was all very proper for Klaus to evince such amiability, but it had not the effect intended. Not a sound could he hear in reply. He waited for a space; then bellowed again into the open air—waited again, and holloed again. But all was quiet save the water of the spring which purled amongst the pebbles, and the grassy reeds that rustled and sighed through the mist, now reeking thicker and thicker around the speaker and his sorry jade. Klaus waxed spiteful.

"'Godfather!' he cried, striking poor Whiteface in his wrath, 'thou art a thick-lipped, crooked-legged lubber; that's what you are! Every question is worth an answer; it is a rule that holds good with man and beast; and why not amongst ghosts? Why did you beckon to me yesterday if you did not mean to show? You invited me here, and now that I have come, the tortoise creeps into his hole. You are a cruel, hard-hearted godfather. But never mind—good-night, Dwarf-piper Here's a present for thee. I bear thee no malice!'

"So speaking, Klaus threw a pocket-knife into the well, which he passed at the moment. The knife dropped into the water; a flame shot suddenly up, and was as quickly out. Klaus pressed his nag again; but the poor beast reared, snorted, and dragged at the gearing, without being able to move the cart an inch. The fog severed a little, and the moonbeams lay in great beauty upon a hundred acres. Klaus attempted to give his animal ease; but let Whiteface tug as she would, the cart stood still as if it had been frost-bound.

"'That ugly thick head of godfather's has certainly caught amongst the felloes," said Klaus, almost worried to death, and looking about him half-curiously, half-timorously. It wanted very little to pitch him backwards out of the vehicle, so astonished and affrighted was he with all that he beheld. The ghost-seer had seen many sights, but this beggared them all. His cart, in length and breadth, was covered with millions of dwarfs; every fir-spray, every dark green spike of a leaf, every pole, nay, even wheels and wheelspokes to the nave itself, were beset with the creatures. And what were they all about? Tiny, miraculous beings! labouring with unexampled diligence at the prettiest dancing-pumps ever seen! The Lilliput shoelings glistered like Spelt in the tiny brown hands of the workmen, as, turned to and fro, they came under the numerous and almost invisible hammers and awls. Every brilliant pair finished, and out of hand, was briskly strung up on cobwebs, with which the cart, vaultwise, was overwoven; and upon which, at the very first glance, Klaus himself could count more than three hundred thousand finished shoes. The astounded waggoner could for a long time do nothing more than fold his arms, and stare on in silence. The little rogues looked inexpressibly comical, it must be confessed. They were exactly half an inch in length, with great thick heads, on which were fixed leathern-coloured caps, at least six times the size, every one being decorated in front, by way of clasp, with a tiny glow-worm. Their legs were very slender and very crooked, although their feet were delicate and beautifully formed. Their little bodies, endowed in excess with high shoulders, were clad in fine dark-brown satin jackets, and about the waist were girdles of glistening silver, from which jingled the needful workman's apparatus. As soon as one of the little fellows had to hammer a sole, he adroitly tucked round his left leg, and, upon his tiny heel, beat out the bit of leather into order.

"'This must be profitable work any how!' quoth Klaus, breaking out at length, and, at the instant, the busy workers raised their headikins, and goggled so drolly at the young boor, that the latter was seized with a laughter which he found it impossible to control. The Dwarfs were set off also, and for some time they roared together; that is to say, Klaus roared, but the voicelets of the Dwarfs sounded only like a light whisper. Their laughing, however, did not prevent the smoking of their twirling-stick pipes, which they seemed to take much delight in; each Dwarf, it must be known, carrying in his mouth the strangest little twirling-stick, the four little arms of which reeked like pipe-heads.

"'If it is quite allowable, gentlemen!' said Klaus, taking off his hat— a politeness which was immediately responded to by every dwarf—'I should be glad to have a minute's chat with you; and to ask, first and foremost, for whom all this tremendous stock is that you are finishing off so busily and magnificently?'

"One of the cordwainers fastened the shoe that he had just finished, close before the young boor's eyes, upon the cobweb; then he folded his arms in imitation of Klaus, stared at him roguishly, and answered,

"'Ah, my pretty shoemakers, that's a long way off, I fear. Annie has no great longing to milk the spiders in my stalls, and who can blame her? But who gave you the order? Who took the measures? I guess our Marthas and Marys will want a considerable shoe-horn to get the pumps on, if the greater number don't prove misfits!'

"The Dwarfs laughed and clapped their hands for joy, nodding to one another with such vivacity, that the glow-worms upon their bonnets flew one amongst another.

"'Don't believe it, gossip—don't believe it,' rejoined the spokesman. 'We work for ourselves only. We mean to dance at thy wedding—every one of us, regularly one after the other, with thy virtuous bride."

"'Thank you for nothing!' returned Klaus. 'Why, you would make me a widower before my wedding was over. Annie is a good strapping girl I know, and she carries her bushel of winter wheat, in defiance of Geordie, the miller's man, up three flights without stop or sigh; and that, from old time, has always been with us a sign of sound lungs: but a man can't drink, my little cobblers, beyond his thirst. You understand? Now would it not be better—mind you I am much obliged to you for the honour, all the same—if you sent a few delegates, say two or three; wouldn't that be more considerate to the lady, and show your politeness just as well?'

"'Not a bit of it, not a bit of it!' screamed the broad-bonnets. 'We must all eat, and all dance!'

"'Just like all the world!' muttered Klaus to himself. 'If you invite one of the townsfolk to a church ale he'll take three cakes for one, and stuff himself till the steps groan as he goes down again. I say, gentlemen,' he continued, turning to the Dwarfs, 'are you aware that I am your king's godson, and on the most intimate terms with him?'

"'And that thy father made him fiddle himself to death?' answered the little one resentfully; 'and that thou hast grown a good-for-nought, ready to bung up our whole gracious kingdom in a mouse-hole, had'st thou thy will? Eh, Master Nicholas?"

'Ah, don't be too hard now! Recollect what your king did to my father, and all that I have suffered for the last six months. Look at me! Hasn't Gossip Crookleg stripped me of money, field, and house?'

'Ha, Klaus!' said the speaker, "Tell us, now, wouldn't you like to see all that went out at the doors fly in again, ere to-morrow, at the windows?"

'Only tell me,' said Klaus quickly, 'how to fill my bags again, and I invite you all, every man Jack of you, to the wedding. There's nothing like shaking hands and being friends again. Forget and forgive, say I!'

'And Annie dances with us?' interposed the Dwarf with eagerness, swinging a pair of newly-made shoes at the same time so impetuously that they slipped out of his hand, and dropped just into the young boor's lap.

'Hollo! I didn't say that!' cried Klaus. 'I'll turn that over in my mind, and give you an answer in the morning.'

A marvellous kind of whining interrupted the discourse. The innumerable band of dwarfs pulled the drollest faces, folded their handikins, and made the most lamentable gesticulations; but the speaker slid like a spider, upon one of the threads which canopied over the cart, down into Klaus's lap; thence he clambered up his jacket, and mounted until he reached the youngster's hand—'Give me the shoes!' he exclaimed maliciously, snatching and catching at the lost property.

"'Not so, not so, dear cousin Broadcap. This bit of workmanship will I hoard up against my marriage, when I promise to put them on you myself, if you will visit me.'

"'No, no, no—give me the shoes!' said the Dwarf fiercely, stamping with both feet, and lifting his manikin fists in menace against Klaus. 'I must and will have the shoes!'

"The remaining dwarfs again set up their sorrowful whine; and then Klaus became aware that an accident had happened which, with prudence, might be turned to great account.

"'Now, fine fellows, listen to me!' said he. 'The shoes you don't have back. But if you will promise to set me to rights again with your king and people, and to give me only the neediest livelihood, then are you welcome to my wedding, to eat and dance as much as you like.

"'Well, Klaus!' answered the Dwarf, 'I see thou hast the best of us; and we have no time to spend in disputation. In thirteen hours from this, we must breathe upon the silver veins of the earth, that they may keep nicely fresh, and in good growth. But an thou wilt hold faith with us, hear my proposal. Come hither again to-morrow evening, and strike with that sprig of yew, that hangs down below thee, into the well water. So, perchance, shalt thou learn what is best to do. Quick, yea or nay?'

"'Brrrr——!' snarled and whizzled behind him all over the cart. The dwarfs tumbled down from every twig, bough, spoke, and felloe, and vanished in one large pointed flame, that could be seen for a second blazing from the well.

"Baldface took fright, tore from the spot, and galloped as if for life and death, over stock and stone, until the village was reached. As for Klaus, he did not recover his senses until he found himself again in his own farmyard.

"It was with solicitude and a beating heart that Nicholas awaited the arrival of the next evening. In the meanwhile, he took another and more exact survey of his already half-ruined house; and the result was so melancholy that he felt he must stake life itself for the chance of bettering his fortune. There was not a beam, a board, a rafter, a lath, in the whole house that was not ready, upon the slightest assault, to go to wreck. Of glass windows the rumour was long since extinct. All stood open; and had Klaus been a student of meteorology, a better observatory than his loopholed, tumble-down homestead could not have been to be had. He returned from his tour of inspection more firmly resolved than ever to risk his adventure; and as soon as the sun was set, and the moon traced darker shadows upon the ground, he took his yew-branch and dwarfs' shoes, and set out.

"Klaus made a long circuit, and lingered a long time in the fields, before he could summon courage to approach the spring. He plucked up a heart at last, struck a light, and lit his pipe. Thus armed, he advanced to the well. The yew-twig struck the bright motionless water, and strongly agitated it. The stream exundated on every side; kindled as it mounted, and, tumbling and commingling, in a few seconds, like an enormous flame of fire, rolled forwards and backwards round the margin of the fountain.

"Klaus steadily regarded the mysterious phantasm. The flame enringed the whole well, and at length falling back, in an incomprehensible manner, into itself, began to darken, and to emit vapour. In the midst of the smoke, the young boor recognized Godfather Stringstriker. He was sitting upon a crystal throne, a-squat, with his crooked legs tucked under him, smoking with exquisite complacency a pipe as thick as his arm, terminating in a bowl as large as his head. He seemed wholly occupied in tracing the progress of the massive curls of smoke, which gushed abundantly from his capacious mouth, and took no notice of his godchild. It was left to young Nicholas, therefore, to commence the colloquy.

"'Good even, godfather!' said the lad, not quite at ease. 'I hope you enjoy your evening pipe. You need something to keep yourself warm and comfortable. The air strikes chilly hereabouts!'

"A smile diffused itself over the whole breadth of the dwarf's face, and he puffed away for his life.

"'You're i' th' right, Godson Klaus. I like my bit of pipe! That I can say, and honestly. It's good tobacco, too; a little dear, no doubt, but fairly earned. Wilt try a Whiff?'

"'I—I—I am much obliged, Godfather Stringstriker, but I am no great smoker, and I like to stick to one sort—Porto-rico—threepence a packet. Would you like to taste it?'

"'Cabbage!' rejoined the Dwarf, contemptuously. 'Tobacco, to be good, must smell like mine. Here, put your nose to it. It's Hungarian of the best!'

"The Dwarf pushed out his broad hand, and Klaus stooped towards it. His heart leaped into his throat as he gazed upon a dozen or two of the purest Kremnitz ducats. He darted at them like a tiger; but the Dwarf was prepared for him.

"'Not so, not so!' replied the latter, drawing his hand back. 'Ere thou have them, we must strike a bargain.'

"And with these words the Dwarf took up his pipe, which only a moment before he had laid aside. The attention of young Nicholas was drawn more closely to it by the movement, and he perceived, for the first time, that the colossal bowl was neither more nor less than a bald, smooth, and perfectly white human skull. A closer inspection convinced him that it was that of his own deceased and venerated parent. Above, upon the forehead, there was a moveable clapper, through which the superfluous smoke ascended; the tube was fixed in the mouth, and the eye-holes were continually supplied with gold pieces by a couple of thousand of indefatigable dwarfs, twenty or thirty of whom tugged along one ducat, and were sorely put to it to bring it to the proper place. Klaus was almost unsettled by the discovery.

"'I see,' he said with an unsteady, tremulous voice—'I see, godfather, you have quite a new-fashioned headpiece there. Is it your own particular fancy, or a new French mode?'

"'Quite my own private and individual goût, godson Klaus!' answered the Dwarf proudly. 'The flavour is perfect out of an old rogue's skull, that has been danced to death. When it is thoroughly smoke-seasoned, I expect the Grand Turk will give me a million piasters for it. Before then I must look about, and get me another. Heark'ee, godson! how clear it rings already!' And before Klaus could get in a word, the Dwarf gave the well-smoked skull a dozen unmerciful kicks with his heavy topboots.

"'For God's sake, godfather Stringstriker,' exclaimed Klaus, 'have some discretion, or I shall forget myself, and fall foul of you! What! do you think a child has no feeling for his dead parents? and is that a respectable way of treating your friends?'

"'Spare your breath, child!' interposed the Dwarf; 'talking makes no headway with men of my stamp. Let us come to an understanding! Tell me, Klaus—art thou content that, in ten years' time, when this pipe-head is handed over to the Grand Turk, to give up thy numskull for my evening pipe? I own to thee, I envy it. It is of first-rate thickness, and would smoke a pretty while, for thou dost hold, I think, a good quantity.'

"'Come to an end—out with it all, godfather!' said Klaus in a tone of wretchedness. 'What do you wish me to do? I am willing to fast till I die of hunger, and whatever is humanly possible to perform, I will do; but as to your cursed head-smoking, I tell you, once for all, it's out of the question. The thing must be put an end to; for it is a disgrace to me, and a shame to all Christendom!'

"As Klaus spoke in sheer vexation, he smote several times with his yew-slip into the water of the well, without noticing that the clear flood swelled over upon all sides like a lightning fire-glow; whilst a whining moan was plainly audible. The Dwarf put on a very serious countenance, his pipe slipped from his mouth, and, in a completely altered tone, he rejoined—

"'Godchild Klaus, take heed to me! I like your ways, and will make you a well-meant offer. As for this head here,' and he knocked the ducat-ashes out of Simon's skull—'it shall be transferred to thee, and thou shalt keep thine own too, provided thou wilt give me back the two shoes which yesterday one of my merry pages lost. What say you to it?'

"'Now look you, godfather!' said Klaus determinedly, 'what if I accept your proposal! Here are your shoes, and you are welcome to them. But I ask you, is life worth having, if I am to be for ever a poor eschewed, scoffed, and scorned castaway? The devil a bit you care for what the world says; but one of us, who is a mere man, spitted upon by a whole village, feels what it is to be poor and contemned. I tell you boldly, godfather, and on my very heart, you must put an end to my misery—for you can do it. Give me back my money and land, and make me honourable amongst my neighbours. I can't sit alone like a night-owl in my hovel. I like to have my fellow-creatures about me, to eat bread and drink water, or it may be a draught of beer with me. I can't live the life of a blessed hermit. I am, as you know, but a simple plain fellow, a boor, a foolish forlorn lad, the unhappy son of poor Mike, danced to death for his sins.'

"Here Nicholas stopped, sobbing piteously, and dropping big and heavy tears, that found their way to the well beneath him.

"'I have nothing more to say, godfather,' sighed the lad; 'only be kind, and put all to rights again. I have paid dearly for cursing you upon occasion, and now I humbly ask your pardon for my fault. Give me a handful or two of ducats, that I may get my barn repaired, marry my poor Annie, and again set up for an honest boor. If you will do this, Godfather Stringstriker, your children shall dance at my marriage, and here are your shoes!'

"'A bargain, godson!' said the Dwarf. 'Thou art a right sort of lad, and I will help thee. My children must have their shoes too; for by the loss of them they have gone already a great stride back in their education. Thou canst hear how they cry and beg, the poor things! Come here, and dip into thy father's head. The poor dog no longer feels it. So! that'll do. For the skull, concern thee no further. In a quarter of an hour, it shall be where it should be. But now, I rede thee, look that thou art presently ready to marry, and neglect not bidding good plenty of guests; but invite especially those that have hitherto tightly toused, mocked, and scorned thee. If thou hast lack of coin, thou wottest where Godfather Stringstriker dwells. On thy wedding-day, send hither thy three largest waggons, and to each a team of four strong horses, for I shall load them heavily—and hear'st, Godson Klaus? they shall drive nice and slowly round about the springlet, and then away again at a good gallop back to thy farm-yard. As to thyself, mark me, Klaus! upon thy wedding-day thou shalt stick a yew-leaf in thy left ear, and, as soon as I sign to thee, throw some handfuls of the like upon all the tables. Now, at once, good-night!'

"The shoes were already delivered up. There was a hissing in the air, the water in the well moved in luminous circles, and a hearty laughter seemed to force its way out of all the fissures of the earth. All was then still. The moon burst forth, and shone so brightly that one might have looked for a pin. Klaus felt his good gold in his pockets, and returned gleesome, and in ease of heart, back to his ruinous house.

"After a night spent in pleasant dreams, Klaus reckoned up his cash, and found it sufficient to procure some horses, a few cows, waggon, and gearing. As to the repairs of the mansion, his notion was to do at first only the indispensable, clearly discerning that, in order to live comfortably in future, an entire pulling down and rebuilding was inevitable. He was much more bent upon reappearing as a man of money and estate in the eyes of his fellow farmers. His first care, accordingly, was to hire domestics, male and female, to rig himself out a little, and then, without delay, to push on the preparations for his marriage.

"In less than a fortnight, every thing requisite was done, and the neighbours opened their eyes to thrice their usual size as they suddenly saw life moving again in Nicholas's farmhouse—active labourers once more in his fields. Their astonishment increased upon hearing, next Sunday, the banns published from the pulpit. But when, a week afterwards, the functionary whose office it was, with silver-headed cane, velvet waistcoat and frill, to bid the guests to the approaching wedding, appeared upon the farms of those who, a little before, were Klaus's most memorable calumniators, and invited all, without exception, to the merry-making, then indeed, as if by magic, did the despised Lying Klaus become 'a worthy creature after all,' 'a capital fellow at last,' and have his praises echoed from every beer-bench in the parish. Nobody ever thought of asking how Klaus got possessed of his new money. He had it; that fact was all-sufficient for the multitude. One or two might itch to make their comments upon the quick metamorphosis, but self-love kept them quiet; for every man already licked his lips in anticipation of the marriage-feast that awaited all.

"The preparations for the wedding were busily pushed on. Joiners and carpenters were closing windows, and fastening tottering beams from morning till night. Walls were broken down, and kitchens built up. Nothing had been seen like it by 'the oldest inhabitant.'

"Well, time ran on, and the banns were three times called; there was the spousal at the parsonage, the fetching of the bride by the bridegroom, with an escort of musicians, and at length there was the marriage ceremony itself—all happily got through. The guests, men and women, were numerous, and amongst them not a few who, for a sennight, had lived on half-allowance, the better and more steadily to devour at Klaus's marriage.

"In due time, orders were given to take the three largest waggons to the Dwarf's well, to drive slowly round this thrice, and then to push back at a gallop. The servants did not dare to refuse their master's bidding; but they shook their heads significantly when they received their strange commission, and suspected, firm and fast, that Klaus, in his excessive joy, had already drunk a cup or two beyond his thirst.

"The pastor, sitting at the right hand of the bride, had said grace, and the schoolmaster and the marriage-entreater were about commencing the distribution of the enormous masses of carp, beneath which the tables fairly groaned, when the rattle of the three returning waggons made known to Klaus the arrival of his subterranean guests. His heart beat violently, for at the same instant a well-known whispering and humming met his ear. In obedience to command, he secured the yew-leaf in his left ear, and prepared himself for what might follow. He expected much, but what he saw almost threw him from his seat with astonishment.

"Wherever there was an aperture, a split, or a rent in walls, windows, doors, there came in the dwarfs by hundreds: so as that in a few minutes the whole space was swarming with the little ones. They were most smartly dressed, just as Klaus had previously seen them, only that now, instead of the top boots, they wore those delicate dancing-pumps, upon which the young husbandman had at first caught them at work.

"Klaus attentively noted whether any of his guests had a suspicion of the apparition of these earth mannikins, but there was not a sign of it. The gentlemen forked away gallantly, and the tankards were not running over. As the bridegroom saw the spiritual company still gliding in, so that their number amounted already to hundreds of thousands, and stove-cornices, window-sills, joint-stools, and backs of chairs were thickly beset with the comical companions, he began to be uneasy. He feared lest the brothers of the bride, who were waiting upon the guests, might trample the small brood into fine dust; and in order to divert at least all blame from himself, he addressed himself to his godfather, then approaching him.

"'You do me great honour, respected godfather, by your presence—but please remember, I cannot answer for dwarf slaughter—and murderous crushings. Only look at the quantity of spruce vermin you have done me the favour to bring with you!'

"Stringstriker waved his hand magnanimously, and told his godson that it was of little consequence. Then with a bold leap, the king mounted the long table, picked his way to the middle of it, and there, with legs astride, fast planted himself. Not one of all the guests perceived the larger Dwarf, any more than they could see the countless little ones. Even Annie and the clergyman were stone-blind: so that Klaus, speaking unintelligibly at every turn, had to bear the jokes of all; for young and old, woman and man, chimed readily in with the tone of sportive raillery, as soon as it was once pitched.

"The company indeed persisted in laughing and rioting so loudly at the bridegroom's expense, that the pastor of the flock at length felt himself called upon to assume his face of office—to put a damper, as it were, upon the unseemly proceeding. Just as he began, a new dish, soup with crabs' noses, (hotchpotch,) engaged exclusively the regard of the whole of the guests. A full plate was set before every visitor, but scarcely set before him, before, with the speed of lightning, from chair-backs, window-sills, stove-cornices, nay, from the floor itself, innumerable dwarfs bounded on to the table, and, taking their places by all the plates, in three seconds consumed the savoury viand. To complete the astonishment, the confusion, the wrath, the fury of the voracious boors, Stringstriker himself galloped up and down the whole length of the table, breaking all the vessels, and draining all the beer and brandy with wonderful celerity.

"Had the most precious jewels of the Holy Roman Empire been plundered by the Turks, there could not have been a greater commotion than arose among the wedding-guests. Every man jumped up, turned in anger and disgust towards his neighbour, sate down again, and again began to reach after the food, without being able, of course, to get a morsel. Then every man swore his neighbour was making a fool of him, and, from the coarsest words, it came, without loss of time, to dreadful menaces and blows. So greedy were some after the liquorish cookery that they gave themselves good smart punctures in lip and tongue; inasmuch as the mischievous dwarfs, as soon as any in his haste forked up a piece of meat, incontinently had it down their own throats. With such provocation, the blows, on all sides, came down in showers; more ears were peppered, backs thumped, ribs punched, than the prize-ring of England had ever seen. And, as if it were not enough for the men to be sparring, the women, seeing their husbands covered with blood and bruises, must needs take up the cudgels, and fall to fighting too! A hundred arms were a-kimbo in a twinkling. Caps were dragged off, and nails shown with amazonian spirit. There was a general mêlée; every soul at the table was engaged in the contest. Marriage and bridal pair were forgotten; and Klaus roared at the droll uproar till his throat smarted again: for, not much to his regret, he soon enough became aware that his enemies and his calumniators were the parties who were coming off second best.

"This mutual threshing had lasted a good quarter of an hour, when a sign from Stringstriker directed the bride-groom to scatter the yew-leaves. In an instant the table was covered with them; and the guests, as if bewitched, dispersed in grotesque groups, and remained transfixed. Every eye was on the busy dwarfs. Klaus's godfather, crossing his legs, seated himself upon the table, and began to scrape his fiddle. The earth mannikins then arranged themselves in order, swung their broad hats gracefully, and, one stepping upon the shoulder of another, built up a living pyramid above the bride. A number clambered up to the very top of her tinsel crown, where, still two and two, they took possession of a spangle, fixed themselves upon it, and rocking to and fro, set up a soft and tender song. The bride danced to its tune, the pyramid of dwarfs along with her; and it was enchanting to see how their shining silvery girdles, and the bright clasps upon their caps, flashed and sparkled in the varying figure. Three times the dwarfs changed in the building of this pyramid, and three times, attended by it, must the bride dance round the table, through the gaping groups of guests. This done, Stringstriker played a lively march, broke through a window with his fiddlestick, and leapt out through the opening—whilst the whole dwarf brotherhood, waltzing, laughing, tumbling, in a countless crowd, prepared to follow him. For a time the procession fluctuated through the air, where the girdles yet sparkled. Soon, like a dissolving gleam, all vanished!

"The stupified boors were now able to stir themselves again. Doubtless there were many bumps, black and blue faces, and bloody noses: but the sight of all could not suppress the most extravagant merriment. All that had happened was looked upon as a prank of the fiddler, and many in their hearts felt that they had only received a just punishment for their coarse and unchristian calumnies.

"Klaus Stringstriker's fame lived upon every tongue. The dwarfs obtained no mean eulogies: and when it was at last discovered that the small mannikins had, close before the window, one and all thrown down their broad brown capkins with the brilliant clasps, the company for joy was almost mad. The bridegroom was importuned, in remembrance of this marvellous festival, to bestow upon each guest one such dwarf-hatkin, and Klaus did not need a long begging. Each one acquired a hatkin with its agraffe: some of a greedy nature, by stealth, possessed themselves of two. The presents given, the company returned to the board, and drank and uproared far into the night.

"Upon the morrow, Klaus found the Dwarf-hatkins turned into so many Kremnitz double ducats, and upon each there lay, glittering in the sunshine, a fine diamond. As he gathered them, a delicate voice from unseen lips whispered to him that these were his father's hairs. All the gift-receivers had the same wonder to tell. Those, however, who had secretly taken away the second dwarf's cap were punished for the theft— for they got nothing from the transformation but a wet and worthless beech-leaf.

"From that hour all haunting upon Klaus's estate ceased. Even at the Dwarf's well nothing remarkable was seen, save once a-year—upon the anniversary of the young boor's wedding-day—when a great gamboling flame appeared upon the waters, in which a singing and ringing might be heard, like the voices of the smallest beings. The fortunate Klaus built himself a great house, repurchased the tavern, and upon the pillar where Stringstriker, tied up by his father, had had to fiddle so long, he carved an inscription which published the Dwarf's praise to every guest And his father's grave he surrounded with a fair iron grating. As for himself, his intercourse with the Dwarf had made him prudent. He ruled his substance discreetly, helped the poor, and cautioned the light-witted by the relation of his own history. So he became the richest and most respected man of the whole neighbourhood; and at length acquired the name of the Dwarf's advocate: because, as Klaus maintained, and as it was generally believed, a most important service had been rendered, by the passages of Klaus's history, to these singular and benevolent earth-spirits themselves."

SOME REMARKS ON SCHILLER'S MAID OF ORLEANS.

Perhaps there is no play of Schiller's which is read with more general pleasure than the Maid of Orleans, nor one against which so many critical objections have been raised. Some of these we wish to examine, in order either to remove, or with greater accuracy to re-state them. It will be seen at once that we have no intention of entering into any general review or estimate of this great dramatic poet. Too much has been written, and especially in this place, on Schiller, to permit us to be tempted into any such design. We shall not wander from the single play we have selected for our criticism.

On recalling to mind the story of Joan d'Arc, what is the point of view in which that singular person presents herself to us? Joan d'Arc—whom we shall call, after her title in the play, Johanna—a village maiden, and a fugitive from her home, turned the tide of victory in the great war which, in her time, was raging in France. As she effected this through the influence which a belief in her supernatural power and celestial inspiration exerted upon the army of Charles; and as, on the other hand, the cruel fate she herself personally encountered from her enemies, was the consequence of an opposite belief in her witchcraft, or possession by the devil; the unhappy maiden presents herself to us, in a strictly historical point of view, as one of those wild visionaries whom solitude occasionally rears, become suddenly the sport of the tumultuous feelings of two rival hosts, elevated by the one to a saint and the companion of angels, and by the other blackened into a witch and the associate of demons. History has relieved her moral character from the aspersions thrown upon it, and philosophy has quite denuded her of the least claims to supernatural power, whether derived from above or from below: nothing remains but the enthusiast and the visionary, and the strange position into which circumstances conducted her. And this position of the thought-bewildered maid is rendered the more striking, when we consider that it was her own countrymen who judged of her in so contradictory a manner; for the war which raged around her was rather a civil war, in which one of the parties had formed an alliance with England, than a national war between France and England. It was by Frenchmen that she was extolled and reverenced, and by Frenchmen that she was condemned and executed: it was under the auspices, and with the blessings, of the church that she conquered; it was the church that execrated her, and sent her as an abomination to the stake.

This point of view is not only historically true, but replete, we think, with poetic interest. The maiden is not, indeed, invested with any supernatural attributes; we see her here neither more nor less than the pious and day-dreaming enthusiast; but an enthusiast for her country—an enthusiast for a young prince whom she has been taught to honour, and whose reverse of fortune has deeply affected her. We see this young enthusiast—her imagination swarming with visions, her heart beating with generous aspirations—thrown out from her village retirement upon the tumult of war; we see her snatched up, as by a whirlwind, by the fanaticism of the multitude, who bear her, as she bears her banner, onwards in their career, and conquer under this new standard they have reared. We see her arriving at a success which, notwithstanding her own prophecies, must have astonished herself. When the king has been crowned at Rheims, something whispers to her that she ought now to retreat into her native village, or, what was the only fitting termination for her course, into some religious house, and find there a harbour from the tempest on which she is tossing. But the selfish men around her will not let her go. She may guide them a little yet. They bear the torch while there is an ember left. Then comes the changeful fortune of war, defeat and imprisonment; and now we see the same poor human heart, its visions soiled and clouded, its courage beaten down, surrounded only by enemies and scoffers, beginning even to suspect itself of imposture and impiety. She who had felt as a saint, hears herself exorcised as a sorcerer; and, by and by, a crowd of men, churchmen and civilians, stand round in triumph to see her burnt and consumed as a thing unholy and impure, whose life had been, not, as she had deemed, a perpetual devotion, but a perpetual blasphemy.

But although it appears to us that this, which is the true historical point of view, is also the most replete with poetic interest, it may not be an interest so well adapted to the drama as to other species of poetry. The heroine is here made the prey of the two rival factions, who appear to contend, not only for the possession of her person, but for the domination over her mind; not enough is attributed to her individual will and character; the action of the piece does not immediately flow from her; and the people, with its strange faiths and monstrous caprices, becomes the veritable hero. It was for this reason, we presume, that Schiller rejected what, in our days, is the simple and natural manner of considering his subject, and adopted a different point of view. Designating his play as a romantic tragedy, he resolved to represent the maid as really inspired by Heaven—as veritably commissioned by the Virgin—as endowed, bonâ fide, with miraculous powers. She is thus the living centre of the action. Whatever is effected by the appearance of the Maid of Orleans, is effected by her individual prowess, or the aid of heaven administered through her.

This was a bold attempt, and very boldly has Schiller executed it. He has stopped at no middle point. He has not scrupled to represent the fabulous miracles of a superstitious age as actually taking place before us. Johanna gives proofs of her faculty of second-sight; she sees, while at the camp of the Dauphin, the death of Salisbury before Orleans; she performs in our presence those miracles by which she is said to have first established her reputation at the court—recognising the Dauphin at once, although he had purposely resigned his post of dignity to another, and reciting to him the secret prayer which he had, the night before, offered up to God in the solitude of his own chamber. And not only are the fables, which the chronicles of the times have handed down to us, enacted as veritable facts, but the poet has added miracles and prodigies of his own invention; and in particular, a certain spectre of a black knight—who appears to us to have been introduced as much for the sake of supporting the supernatural character of the piece as for any other purpose.

This hardihood of the poet has by some critics been censured. For ourselves, we have a lingering and obstinate regret that Schiller ever thought it necessary to forsake the true for the fabulous; that he did not restrict himself to representing the faith of the age in the dialogue of his personages; that he did not content himself with marvels related only in the imitated conversation of superstitious persons. The most sceptical of men admit the reality and fervour of superstitious beliefs; and in depicting them in all their vitality, the poet is still adhering rigidly to truth: it is for the reader to sympathize with them or not at his pleasure. But Schiller having resolved to represent as fact the superstitious faith of the times, instead of building upon that faith as his fact; having determined that Johanna should be verily inspired, and see visions, and be the champion of the Holy Virgin for the salvation of France—we think he was quite right in casting aside all timidity, all remaining scruples of reason, and freely giving up his scene to prodigies and marvels. If you must lie, lie boldly—is a good maxim for poets as well as rogues. Above all, do we dislike that dubious and pitiful position which a narrator of supernatural events sometimes falls into, where the reader is perpetually asking himself whether the author seriously intends to task his credulity or not.

We must here, however, remark that, even when the poet represents the supernatural as the faith only of others, he must still, in order to do this effectively, awaken some degree of superstitious feeling in ourselves. To understand the belief or delusion of another without more or less participating in it, is a state of mind in which the philosopher might be very well content to place us, but which by no means suits the purposes of the poet. We must be made to partake for the moment, to some slight degree, in the superstitious feelings of the past age which is brought before us, or we can no longer feel that sympathetic interest which the poet seeks to create. The spectacle presented to us becomes one of mere curiosity. As well might we look through a microscope, and watch the world of animalculae it reveals. Very curious that little world; but we take no part in any of its proceedings, violent as they evidently are. And here lies the reason, we apprehend, why dramatic representations of insanity are so generally unsuccessful. We cannot participate in the capricious delusions of the maniac, who becomes, therefore, a mere object of wonder or curiosity. The moment when the lunatic affects us most deeply is, when he approaches nearest to the ordinary current of human thought—it is the moment when he comes back to reason, and its too frequent companion, the sense of pain.

We make this observation, because it probably had its weight in determining the poet in the course he pursued. Schiller probably reflected that, whether he related his marvels in the dialogue of his personages, or represented them as facts in his drama, he must in both cases depend, for the impression he should produce, on a successful appeal to the superstitious feelings of his contemporaries. In whatever era a poet may find his materials, his authority for using them must lie in the age he writes for—in the interest they are capable of exciting in that age. His success as a dramatic poet required that he should kindle the love of the marvellous; and he may have thought that, in an artistical point of view, the question resolved itself into one of policy, of means to an end—whether it were better to assail our credulity by open force, and so take it by storm, or to content himself with a less advantage, gained by more insidious but surer approaches.

With all his boldness, and all his genius, has Schiller succeeded in his treatment of the miraculous? We hesitate to reply. There is a peculiar difficulty in deciding how far a poet has been successful in an appeal to superstitious feelings; it is this, that in such cases every intelligent reader feels that he must be aidant and assistant in the subjection of his own rebellious reason, prompt at every moment to turn with impatience and derision from the utterly incredible. This necessity to be a party concerned in the business, leaves him in doubt how far he has been compelled by the poet, and how far he has, or ought to have, voluntarily surrendered. After all, the use of the marvellous in poetry is not so much itself to impress us with awe and astonishment, as to supply novel and striking situations for the display of human feelings. When Johanna, for instance, describes the visitation by the Virgin, and declares her sacred mission, we listen unmoved. Not so, when, having felt the touch of human passion, she sighs to re-enter into the common rank of mortals, and laments the dreadful honour that has been imposed upon her. Yet this latter sentiment, so natural and so affecting, could not be separated from the previous fable. In this lies the difference between the poetry of a rude and a cultivated age. In the first, the supernatural is for itself sought for and admired; in the second, it is admitted for the sake of the singular opportunities it affords for the display of natural and powerful emotions.

There is another point in the tragedy of The Maid of Orleans, on which we feel no hesitation whatever in expressing a decisive opinion— namely, the violent departure from history in the catastrophe. But in order to make our remarks on this and some other points intelligible, we must enter a little further into the plot of the drama. Our detail shall be as brief as possible.[1]

[1] In the few extracts we shall have occasion to make, we would have willingly had recourse at once to an English translation, if such had been within our reach. That not being the case, the reader must accept our own attempts at translation.

The drama opens with a scenic prologue. The scene is the village of Dom Remi; on the left is the Druid oak—on the right, the image of the Virgin in a small chapel. Thibaut d'Arc enters with his three daughters, Margaret, Louison, and Johanna, together with their three suitors, Etienne, Claude Marie, and Raimond. Thibaut deplores the state of his fatherland. Young Henry VI. of England has just been crowned at Paris, and Charles, the hereditary prince, is wandering a fugitive through his own kingdom. They themselves are in danger every day of seeing the enemy pour down into their own quiet valleys. Nevertheless, partly from this very cause, he determines upon giving his daughters in marriage without further delay. He bestows Margaret upon Etienne. Then, turning to the second daughter, Louison, and to her suitor, who, it seems, can lay little claim to worldly possessions, he says—

     "Shall I, because ye proffer me no wealth,
     Sunder two hearts that seem so well attuned?
     Who has wealth now? Home and homestead now
     Are booty for the robber and the flames:
     The strong heart of a brave and constant man
     Is the sole roof-tree which these stormy times
     Must pass unshaken."

Hitherto father Thibaut seems an amiable personage, but he turns out to be one of the most disagreeable atrabilious parents that ever made his appearance on the stage. He next addresses and reproaches his daughter Johanna, who is beloved by Raimond, but who rejects the ties of earthly affection. He has taken an exceedingly morose view of the character of his daughter; a circumstance which becomes of great importance in the progress of the piece; for Johanna's reverse of fortune is brought about by the strange intervention of this dark and sinister parent. He believes his child more prone to ally herself with evil spirits, through a vain and sinful ambition, than, inspired by piety, to emulate the lives of saints. Raimond combats this gloomy notion. He thinks that the love of Johanna, like the most costly fruits, is only late in ripening.

       "Raimond.—As yet she loves to dwell upon the hills,
     And trembles to descend from the free heath
     To man's low roof, beset with narrow cares.
       Thibaut.—Ay, that it is displeases me. She flies
     Her sisters' frolicsome companionship
     For the bare hills—deserts her sleepless couch
     Before the cock-crow—in that fearful hour
     When man so willingly his shelter seeks,
     Housed with his kind, within familiar walls,
     She, like a solitary bird, hies forth
     Into the gloomy, spirit-haunted, night,
     Stands on the cross-way, holding with the air
     Mysterious intercourse. Why will she choose
     Perpetually this place? Why will she drive
     Her flocks for ever here? I've seen her sit
     Musing whole hours together underneath
     This Druid oak, which all good Christians shun;
     There's nothing blest beneath it; a foul spirit
     Has made his refuge in it ever since
     The old and sinful times of Paganism.
     The old men of the village can relate
     Horrible tales of this same tree: one hears
     Oft, in its thick dark branches, whisperings
     Of strange unearthly voices. I, myself,
     As once my way led past the tree at night,
     Saw sitting at its trunk a spectral woman,
     Who slowly, from her wide enfolding robe,
     Stretch'd a thin hand and beckon'd me."

Raimond points to the sacred image of the Virgin, which stands opposite the oak, and replies that it is the attraction which brings Johanna to this spot. But the old man persists in his own interpretation. Because his daughter is more beautiful than any other maiden in the valley, she is proud, and disdains her humble condition. He has had, moreover, ominous dreams. The entrance of Bertrand, a countryman just arrived from the neighbouring town of Vaucouleurs, interrupts the conversation. He carries a helmet in his hand, which has been forced upon him, in the marketplace, by a strange woman. Johanna, who has all this while remained quite silent, not answering a word to the rebuke of her parent, comes suddenly forward, and claims the helmet as having been sent for her. Through the interposition of her lover, it is granted to her. Bertrand, being asked what news of the war he has heard at Vaucouleurs, gives a desponding account of the king's cause, and brings the report that Orleans, pressed by the besiegers, is on the point of surrendering. Johanna now breaks forth:—

     "Of treaty, of surrender not a word!
     A saviour comes and arms her for the fight.
     At Orleans wrecks the fortune of the foe!
     His measure full, he is for harvest ripe,
     And with her sickle shall the virgin come,
     And reap the rank luxuriance of his pride.
     Down from the heavens she tears that blazon'd fame
     These English knights have hung about the stars.
     Fly not! droop not!
     Before the corn is yellow in the fields,
     Before this moon has fill'd her globe of light,
     There shall not drink an English horse
     Of the sweet-flowing waters of the Loire.
       Bertrand.—Alas! the age of miracles is past.
       Johanna.—Not past! ye shall behold a miracle.
     Lo! a white dove with eagle courage flies
     Down on the vulture that still rends his prey,
     Our mangled country. The traitor Burgundy,
     The haughty Talbot that would storm the skies,
     This Salisbury, scandal of the Temple's order,
     And all these insolent proud islanders
     Shall fly before her like a herd of lambs."

Of this prologue it has been justly said, that it might as well have been the first scene of the first act: for it is as essential to the progress of the piece as any one scene in the play; and the speakers re-appear, and for very important purposes, in the body of the drama. For our part, we look upon prologues of this description as little else than a device of the poet to gain more space than his five acts afforded him. When it has no connexion with the action of the piece, we wish to know what claim it has to be there at all; and when it is so connected, we are at a loss to perceive what end it answers, which could not be as legitimately prosecuted under the old title of Act I. Scene 1.

The nominal first act opens with the little court of Charles at Chinon. Here all is verging towards a state of desperation. Finances exhausted, troops threatening to disband, and a deputation from Orleans to inform the king that the town had agreed to surrender, if, within fourteen days, effectual succour was not sent to relieve it. Charles answers in despair:—

             "Can I by stamping with my feet
     Raise armies from the ground? Can I
     Pour granaries from this bare and naked palm?
     Rend me in pieces! Tear me out this heart,
     And coin it for gold! Blood have I for you,
     But silver have I none, nor corn, nor soldiers."

Agnes Sorel enters with a casket of jewels in her hand. Although she has always refused to accept of the king any more costly present than a rare flower, or an early fruit, she now comes to devote all her wealth and possessions to his service. But her aid affords him little more than a noble proof of her love and generosity: it can effect nothing to the restoration of his shattered fortunes. He dismisses the deputies from Orleans with permission to make the best terms they can for themselves. Dunois, the bastard of Orleans, who has eloquently protested against this desponding desertion, as he deems it, of his own cause, quits the king in anger. Sorel dispatches La Hire after him to persuade him to return. La Hire re-enters.

     "Sorel. You come alone, you bring him not with you.
             [then observing him more closely.
     La Hire! What is it? What means this kindled look?
     Alas! Some new misfortune.

La Hire. Haste! call them back! Thy fortunes change, A battle has been fought, and thine the victory.

Charles. La Hire, Some fabulous report has cheated you. Victory! I believe no more in victories.

La Hire. You will believe—in greater wonders still Here comes the archbishop, and with him Dunois.

And with them comes also a knight, who relates how this victory has been won by the sudden appearance of an armed virgin, who scattered dismay and terror amongst their enemies. Shouts are heard from without, and Johanna enters. Here the course of history is followed in the account the maid gives of herself, and the proofs she affords of her divine mission.

At the opening of the second act, we find that Orleans has been relieved by the inspired Johanna. Talbot and Lionel, the English leaders, attribute the late defeat to the Burgundians; the Duke of Burgundy retorts. These angry chiefs are on the point of separating, and terminating their alliance, when the queen-mother Isabeau enters, and reconciles them. But when Isabeau, who, from her unnatural hatred to her son Charles, and a certain coarseness of temper, is altogether a very disagreeable personage, offers, woman against woman, to lead her own party against Johanna, they all unite in bidding her return forthwith to Paris. The army, they say, is dispirited when it thinks it fights for her cause—the cause of the mother against the son. Isabeau says:—

     "Ye know not, weak souls, that ye are the rights
     Of a wrong'd mother. I, for my part, love
     Who honours me; who injures me, I hate;
     And should this be my own begotten son,
     He is for this more hateful. I gave life,
     And I will take—if he, with shameless rage,
     Scandal the womb that bore him. Ye proud nobles
     Who war against my son, ye have no right
     To pillage him. What injury has he done
     To you? what duty violated?
     Ambition and low envy spur ye on:
     I, who begot him, have a right to hate."

While the English are still in their camp, little dreaming of surprise, the maiden rushes on them, conquers and disperses them. Here passes a scene between Johanna and Montgomery, a young Welsh knight, who begs for his life in a truly Homeric manner—pleading his youth, the anguish of his mother, and the sweet bride he had left upon the Severn. It is quite Homeric, professedly and successfully so, and therefore quite out of place. The Welsh knight speaks in a most unknightly strain. And the change of metre that is adopted assists in giving to the whole the air of a mere poetical exercise. The scene is not, however, without its purpose in the development of the character of the maid, because it shows how utterly she is at this time engrossed in her warlike mission; she is not a moment affected by the entreaties of Montgomery, and dooms him to death without pity.

The war still continues fatal to the English. Talbot is slain. In the next scene, the ghost of this warrior appears to Johanna, under the form of a black knight with the visor closed. The apparition lures her away from the heat of the contest, and then addresses to her this solemn warning:—

                         "Johanna d'Arc!
     Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou been borne
     Upon the wings of victory. Now pause.
     Content thee with the fame that thou hast won.
     Let fortune go, whom thou hast held in bonds,
     Ere it in anger shall break loose from thee;
     For never is it constant to the end."

Johanna, however, who can hear of nothing, and think of nothing, but of fighting for her country, and who has a particular detestation for this black knight, strikes at it with her sword. It vanishes with the appropriate accompaniments of thunder and lightning.

The apparition of the black knight has occasioned some embarrassment and discussion among the critics. It was at first quite plain that it was the ghost of Talbot; and when there was no longer any doubt on this head, it was not easy to decide what brought the ghost of Talbot there, and why he should give what, knowing as we do the history of Johanna, has the appearance of very sound advice. But in that lay the very snare of Satan. It was wise counsel that the devil, through this ghost, gave to Johanna; but it was worldly wise. It was well suited to some ambitious person engaged in a career of conquest. Had such a black knight appeared, for example, to Napoleon, on the eve of entering on his war with Russia, and warned him to furl his banner of conquest, it would have been a friendly and intelligent ghost, though we do not believe it would have been listened to for a moment. A human passion is stronger than a whole regiment of ghosts. But such advice addressed to Johanna, the missionary of heaven, who fought from duty, not ambition, could have no other effect than to infuse into her mind ideas of vain-glory and love of fame, a selfish regard to personal consequences, and a distrust of the protection of her divine mistress. The ghost of Talbot, therefore, was evidently in league with her enemies, the devils, in the insidious counsel it gave. But the counsel was rejected with disdain, and Johanna went on still victorious over all.

But the maiden next encounters a more pernicious apparition than the black knight. She contends with the gallant Lionel. Here, as elsewhere, she is the victor; she raises her sword to strike, but, fatally for her peace, she looks twice before she deals the blow. She cannot strike.

Now follows—but in vain for Johanna—the full accomplishment of her glorious enterprise, in the coronation of the king at Rheims. Contrary to the obligation of her high mission, she has received into her heart a human passion. Her peace is gone. Here the poet, in order to express the rapid alternations of feeling to which she is a prey, breaks from the even tenor of blank verse into a lyrical effusion of remarkable beauty and pathos. She is sought for to take her part in the ceremony of the coronation; it is now with a feeling of horror that she receives into her hands the sacred banner, which she had borne triumphantly to so many victories.

Amongst the crowd who have flocked from all parts to witness the ceremony, are the family of Johanna, and her old lover Raimond. Her father Thibaut is also there. He has come to save, if yet possible, his child from perdition, whom he still persists in thinking under the influence of wicked spirits, and to have wrought all her wonders by the aid of diabolic enchantments. Now, therefore, when the king, after his coronation, turns towards Johanna, and, in the presence of all his nobility, addresses her as the deliverer of France, this melancholy father rushes forward to reproach and to blaspheme his child. She, heartstricken, and conscious of a secret error, though of a quite different kind from what is laid to her charge, receives in submissive silence, as the chastisement of heaven, the strange inculpations of her parent:—

"Thibaut, to the King. Thou deem'st thyself deliver'd by God's power. Thou art abused—this people of France are blinded! Thou art deliver'd by the devil's craft!

Thibaut. Not I, but thou art raving; All these, the wise archbishop at their head, Rave, in believing that the voice of heaven Speaks in this wicked girl. Mark, if she dare Maintain, before her father's face, the juggle With which she cheats the people and her king. In the name of the Holy Trinity! Speak! I conjure thee! Dost thou serve with saints, And with the pure in heart?

[A universal silence. Every eye is strained towards Johanna, who stands motionless.

Thibaut. So must she be before that awful name Which, in the depth of hell itself, is fear'd. She—she a saint! she sent from God! No, in a cursed spot—our magic tree Where devils from of yore their Sabbath keep—Has all this been contrived; there did she sell Her soul to the eternal Fiend, to be With brief vain-glory honour'd in this world. Bid her stretch forth her arm, and ye will see The punctures by which hell has mark'd its own.

Burgundy. Horrible! Yet must the father be believed Who thus against his own child testifies.

Dunois. No, no, the madman shall not be believed Who in his own child vilifies himself.

Sorel to Johanna. O speak! break this disastrous silence! we Believe in thee. We have firm trust in thee. One word from thy own mouth, one only word, Shall be enough. But speak! Denounce, confound This hideous accusation. Do but say That thou art innocent, and we believe it.

La Hire. She is amazed! Astonishment and terror Have closed her mouth. Before such hellish charge Must purity itself recoil with fright.

Take courage! Be thyself! The innocent Have their own proper language, and their look Is lightning to consume foul calumny. In noble scorn, arouse thyself—look up—Confound with shame this most unworthy doubt, Which wrongs thy sacred virtue.

[Johanna remains motionless. La Hire steps back. The general horror increases.

Dunois. What scares the people? What dismays the king? Oh, she is innocent! I pledge myself, I pledge for her my honour as a prince. Here do I throw my gauntlet down. Who dares To slander her with guilt?

Thibaut. God answers! God, Who thunders from above. Pronounce thyself, Child of perdition, guiltless, if thou dar'st—

Archbishop to Johanna. In the name of God, I speak to thee. Art silent From pride of innocence, or shame of guilt? If now this voice of thunder testify For thee,—in sign thereof embrace this cross.

[Johanna remains motionless. Repeated peals of thunder. All leave the church except Dunois.

       Dunois. Thou art my own bride, Johanna! I
     Have from the first believed, and still believe.
     Thee will I rather trust than all these signs,
     Than even this thunder speaking from above.
     'Tis noble pride withholds thee, thou disdain'st
     Wrapt in thy sacred innocence, these mad
     Outrageous charges to refute.
     Disdain so still; confide alone in me,
     Who of thy purity have doubted never,
     I ask no word; place but thy hand in mine,
     In token that thou wilt confide in me,
     In this arm and thy own good cause.

       Du Chatel. Johanna d'Arc! The king permits
     That undisturb'd you quit the town of Rheims.
     The gates stand open; no man shall molest you.
     Count Dumois, follow me—you gain no honour in lingering here.

Under the guidance of Raimond, the prophetess and champion, deserted it seems by man and heaven, enters a wood, where she is taken prisoner by a party of English. She is sent a captive to Lionel. But adversity has now reinstated her in all the primitive austerity of her heart; the weakness she has so severely expiated, has left her; she has no heart now but for her country. In vain Lionel promises all—for Lionel, as well as Dunois, loves her; she answers only by denouncing the enemies of France.

A battle is joined under the walls of the tower in which she is imprisoned; she has been bound in fetters of threefold strength; Lionel has gone forth to lead his army, and the fierce Isabeau is her jailer. She holds a drawn dagger over her head. If the king of France conquers, Johanna dies. Nevertheless, she ceases not to pray for his success; and when she hears that the king is so closely beset by his enemies that he is in danger of his life, she implores heaven with such fervour, that power is given her to rend asunder her chains. Snatching a sword from one of her guards, she makes from the tower, and appears on the field of battle in time to rescue her monarch. But she herself has received a mortal wound; she sinks on the ground, and expires in the moment of victory. They cover her with the banners of the victorious army. The curtain falls.

Now, this violent departure from history, in the latter part of the play, is what we chiefly regret in the tragedy of Schiller. The melancholy fate of Joan d'Arc is so inseparably connected with her memory, that we cease to identify the portrait of Schiller with the personage of history. As the tragedy proceeds, we feel that it is no longer our Joan d'Arc that it concerns—so impossible is it for us to forget, that the village maiden of Dom Remi expiated her pious and visionary patriotism in the flames at Rouen. Only half her tragedy has been written; the other half remains for some future Schiller. Nor can we conceive of a better opportunity for the display of the peculiar powers of this poet, than would have been afforded by that catastrophe he has chosen to alter. Was the opportunity felt to be too great? Had the poet become wearied and exhausted with his theme, and did he feel indisposed to nerve himself afresh for scenes which called for the strenuous efforts of his genius? We know that it was not his original intention to make this violent departure from history, and that he came to the determination with regret.

We wish to state distinctly on what grounds we make our objection; because there is current among a class of critics a censure for the mere departure from historical truth—made, it would seem, out of a sensitive regard for history—in which we by no means acquiesce. We have no desire to bind a poet to history, merely because it is history. He has his own ends to accomplish, and by those shall he be judged. As, assuredly, we should not accept it as the least excuse for the least measure of dulness, on the part of the poet, that he had followed faithfully the historical narrative, so neither do we impose upon him a very close adherence to it. We censure the course which Schiller has here pursued, not because he has marred history, but because he has marred his own poem. The objection lies entirely within the boundary of his own art. He has selected a personage for his drama with whom a certain fate is so indissolubly associated, that it is impossible to think of her without recalling it to mind; and this ineffaceable trait in her history he has attempted, for the time, to obliterate from our memory. By this procedure, the imagination of the reader is divided and distracted. The picture presented by the poet is and is not a portrait of the historical figure which lives in our recollection. There are many points of resemblance; but the chief is omitted. And we always feel that it is omitted; for history here is too strong for the poet: he cannot expel her from the territory he wishes to enclose for himself. As well might one describe a Socrates who did not drink the hemlock—as well a Napoleon who did not die at St Helena, as a Joan d'Arc who did not suffer in the flames of Rouen.

Von Hinrich, in his critical work upon Schiller, gives a curious defence of this departure from history:—"The martyrdom," he says, "of the forlorn maiden could hardly satisfy us on the stage. In history it is different; we see these events in their connexion with the past and the future, and we do not abstract some single fact, and judge of it apart from all others. The history of the world is the tribunal of the world. It has justified Johanna; posterity has restored to her the fame and honour of which a malicious fate had for a season deprived her. The poet was obliged to change his catastrophe, in order to introduce, in his own epoch, that finger of justice which, in reality, revealed itself only at a subsequent period."[1]

But who sees not that, in all such cases, the poet sufficiently and completely reverses the unjust sentence of contemporaries, by representing the sufferer as undeserving of it?—that, by depicting her as innocent, he anticipates and introduces the equitable judgment of posterity? When Schiller had described the Maid of Orleans as pious in heart—as the chosen of Heaven, he had at once reversed the sentence of the court of Rouen. It was assuredly not necessary that he should conceal the fact of any such sentence having been passed, in order to exculpate Johanna: and to exculpate, or to spare, the august judges, was no part of the business of the poet. Socrates dies in prison, denounced as a corrupter of youth. He himself is sufficiently vindicated when he is shown to be no corrupter of youth. Is there any sentiment of equity that would prompt us to suppress the fact, that he died by the public executioner of Athens? Or would it be doing honour to history—to this great tribunal of appeal—to stifle our indignation against the unjust and criminal sentences which she has had to repeal?

No doubt the poet would have had difficulties to contend with, in following the course of history. In particular, as he had chosen to represent Johanna as veritably inspired, he would have been tasked to reconcile this severity of her fate, on the one hand, with the justice of Heaven towards its own missionary; or on the other, with the unblemished character of his heroine. Either Heaven must appear forgetful of Johanna, or Johanna must be represented as having forfeited a right to its protection. But this difficulty Schiller has not entirely escaped in his own plot, and he has shown how it may be encountered. Johanna might well yield to the tenderness of a human passion without forfeiting our sympathy, or incurring a stain upon her moral character; and yet this aberration of heart—this dereliction from the austere purity required by her sacred mission—might, in a theological point of view, be supposed to have forfeited her claim to the miraculous interposition of Heaven in her behalf. So that, in the closing scenes, though Johanna might have no claim on the miraculous favours of Heaven, she would still be a saint at heart, and entitled to our deepest sympathy; and Heaven would receive back, if not its prophetess and champion, yet a noble child of earth, still further purified by more than expiatory sufferings.

This species of difficulty meets us, in one instance, in the tragedy of Schiller, in an unexpected and unnecessary manner. How are we to understand the thunder which is heard in apparent confirmation of the cruel accusation of Thibaut? As a mere coincidence, as a mere natural phenomenon, we can hardly view it; appearing as it does in this atmosphere of wonders. The archbishop seems to think that possibly the thunder might testify for Johanna. But as the effect is to produce her condemnation, it is impossible it could have been intended by Heaven for her acquittal. And yet, if we are to look upon it as corroborating the accusation of the father, it not only passes a very severe sentence upon Johanna, but it sanctions the gross falsehood of this atrabilious parent.

Amongst the continental critics, Schiller's Maid of Orleans has been especially commended as a vindication of the character of Johanna from the vile representation it had endured from the hands of Voltaire. But here, in England, La Pucelle was never more popular than it deserved to be—was never popular at all; no one had taken his impression of Joan d'Arc from this tawdry performance; and we find a difficulty in understanding how Schiller, writing to Wieland, could represent the poem of Voltaire as a great obstacle in his way. As little had we received our impression of Joan d'Arc from Shakspeare's tragedy of the First Part of Henry VI., where she is represented as a mere witch and courtesan, represented, in fact, in the vulgar aspect in which she still probably appeared to an English populace. The subject was with us, when Schiller wrote, new and open; we had received our impression only from history, and history had spoken well of Johanna.[1]

[1] It is thus that Hume concludes his account of her:—"This admirable heroine, to whom the more generous superstition of the ancients would have erected altars, was, on pretence of heresy and magic, delivered over alive to the flames, and expiated by that dreadful punishment the signal services she had rendered to her prince and her native country."

Madame de Staël, after applauding Schiller's tragedy for the restoration it effected of the character of the French heroine, adds:—"The French alone have consented to this degradation of the character of the maiden; even an Englishman, Shakspeare, represents her in the beginning as inspired by Heaven, and afterwards led astray by the demons of ambition." The delineation of the Maid of Orleans, in the first Part of Henry VI., is associated with the greatest name in our literature, and therefore, we presume, must be treated with respect; but it is the only title to respect we can discover in it. We cannot, with Madame de Staël, trace the inspired maid in any part of the play. La Pucelle gives us, it is true, in the commencement, a very good account of herself; as she was playing the part of an impostor, it was not probable she would do otherwise: but her own manner very soon betrays the courtesan; and, when alone, we find her in the Company of no other spirits than such as witches are accustomed to raise.

We were still more surprised to find Schlegel describing the Maid of Orlean of Henry VI. as more historical than the portraiture of Schiller. There is the same amount of fable in both. In Henry VI., we have an echo of the coarse superstition and vulgar scandal of the English camp—in Schiller, the fable is beautiful, and assists to develop a character of exquisite purity.

THE STOLEN CHILD.

A TRUE TALE OF THE BACK-WOODS.

It was towards the commencement of the month December 1825, that I was going down the Mississippi in the steam-boat Feliciana. We had arrived in the neighbourhood of Hopefield, Hampstead county, when one of our paddles struck against a sawyer,[1] and was broken to pieces. We were obliged in consequence to cast anchor before the town.

[1] The local name for large tree-trunks which get partially buried in the mud, one end sticking, up just below the surface of the water. They cause frequent accidents to the steam-boats on the Mississippi.

Hopefield is a small town on the west bank of the river, about six hundred miles above New Orleans, and five hundred below the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi. It consisted, at the time of which I speak, of about fifteen houses, two of which were taverns and shops of the usual kind found in such places—their stock in trade consisting of a cask or two of whisky, a couple of dozen knives and forks, a few coloured handkerchiefs, some earthenware, lead, powder, and the like. Our party was composed of ten ladies, the same number of young men, and several elderly gentlemen. Nothing appears so desirable, during a long voyage in a river steam-boat, as a stroll upon shore; and, as there was nothing to be done at Hopefield, the proposal of one of our number to take a ramble in the forest, was met with unqualified approbation by all the young men. We equipped ourselves each with a rifle, and a bottle of wine or brandy, to keep the vapours of the swamps out of our throats; the son of one of the tavern-keepers, who offered himself for a guide, was loaded with a mighty ham and a bag of biscuits, which we procured from the steam-boat; and, thus provided, we sallied forth on our expedition, attended by the good wishes of the ladies, who accompanied us a few hundred yards into the wood, and then left us to pursue our march.

I have often had the occasion to notice, that the first entrance into one of our vast American forests is apt to reduce the greatest talker to silence. In the present instance, I found the truth of this remark fully confirmed. Whether it was the subdued half-light of the luxuriant wilderness through which we were passing, the solemn stillness, only broken by the rustling of the dead leaves under our feet, or the colossal dimensions of the mighty trees, that rose like so many giants around us, that wrought upon the imagination, I cannot say; but it is certain that my companions, who were mostly on the northern states, and had never before been beyond Albany or the Saratoga springs, became at once silent, and almost sad. The leaves of the cotton-tree, that giant of the south-western forests, had already assumed the tawny hues of latter autumn; only here and there a streak of sunbeam, breaking through the canopy of branches that spread over our heads, brought out the last tints of green now fast fading away, and threw a strange sparkling ray, a bar of light, across our path. Here was a magnolia with its snow-white blossoms, or a catalpa with its long cucumber-shaped fruit, amongst which the bright-hued red birds and paroquets glanced and fluttered.

We walked for some time through the forest, amused more than once by the proceedings of two young clerks from Boston, who saw a wild animal in every thicket, and repeatedly leveled their guns at some bear or panther, which turned out to be neither more nor less than a bush or tree-stump. They pestered our guide with all sorts of simple questions, which he, with a true backwoodsman's indifference, left for the most part unanswered. After about an hour, we found ourselves on the borders of a long and tolerably wide swamp, formed by the overflowings of the river, and which stretched for some five miles from north to south, with a broad patch of clear bright-green water in the centre. The western bank was covered with a thick growth of palmettos, the favourite cover of deer; bears, and even panthers; and this cover we resolved to beat. We divided ourselves into two parties, the first of which, consisting of the New Englanders, and accompanied by the guide, was to go round the northern extremity of the swamp, while we were to take a southerly direction, and both to meet behind the marsh, on a certain path which led through a thicket of wild plum-trees and acacias. Our guide's instructions were not of the clearest, and the landmarks he gave us were only intelligible to a thorough backwoodsman; but as too many questions would probably have puzzled him, without making matters clearer to us, we set off, trusting to our eyes and ears, and to the pocket-compasses with which several of us were provided.

After another hour's walk, during which we had seen nothing but wild pigeons and squirrels, and a few mocassin snakes warming themselves in the sunbeams, which latter, on our approach, drew hastily back under the heaps of dry leaves, we arrived at the southern extremity of the swamp. Proceeding a short distance westward, we then took a northerly direction, along the edge of the palmetto field, with the marsh upon our right hand. It was a sort of cane-brake we were passing through, firm footing, and with grass up to our knees; the shore of the swamp or lake was overgrown with lofty cedars, shooting out of water four or five feet deep, which reflected their circular crowns. The broad streak of water looked like a huge band of satin, and the slightest motion of the leaves was immediately perceptible in the mirror beneath them. From time to time, the least possible breeze rustled through the trees, and curled the water with a tiny ripple. The water itself was of the brightest emerald-green; and the forest of palmetto stems that grew along the edge, was reflected in it like myriads of swords and lances. In the small creeks and inlets, flocks of swans, pelicans, and wild geese, were sunning themselves, and pluming their feathers for their winter flight. They allowed us to come within a score of paces of them, and then flew away with a rushing, whirring noise.

We had been for some time plodding patiently along, when our attention was suddenly attracted by a slow but continued rustling amongst the palmettos. Something was evidently cautiously approaching us, but whether panther, stag, or bear we could not tell—probably the last. We gave a glance at our rifles, cocked them, and pressed a few paces forward amongst the canes; when suddenly a bound and a cracking noise, which grew rapidly more distant, warned us that the animal had taken the alarm. One of our companions, who had as yet never seen a bear-hunt, ran forward as fast as the palmettos would allow him, and was soon out of sight. Unfortunately we had no dogs, and after half an hour's fruitless beating about, during which we started another animal, within sight or shot of which we were unable to get, we became convinced that we should have to meet our friends empty-handed. It was now time to proceed to the place of rendezvous, on the further side of the palmetto field, which was about half a mile wide. The man who had gone after the bear, had rejoined us, and from him we learned that the brake was bordered on the western side by a dense thicket of wild-plum, apple, and acacia trees, through which there was not the least sign of a path. On arriving there we saw that his account was a correct one; and, to add to our difficulties, the nature of the ground in our front now changed, and the cane-brake sank down into sort of swampy bottom, extending to the northern extremity of the lake. Our situation was an embarrassing one. Before us, an impassable swamp; to our right, water; to our left, an impenetrable thicket; and four hours out of the eight that had been allotted to us already elapsed. There seemed nothing to be done but to retrace our steps; but, before doing so, we resolved to make a last effort to find a path. To this end we separated, taking different directions, and for nearly half an hour we wandered through the thicket, amongst bushes and brambles, tearing and scratching ourselves to no purpose. At last, when I for one was about to abandon the search in despair, a loud hurrah gave notice that the path was found. We were soon all grouped around the lucky discoverer; but to our considerable disappointment, instead of finding him at the entrance of the wished-for road, we beheld him gravely contemplating a cow, which was cropping the grass quite undisturbed by our approach. Nevertheless, this was no bad find, if we could only ascertain whether it was a strayed cow that had wandered far from its home, or a beast of regular habits that passed each night in its master's cow-house. An Ohioman solved the question, by pointing out that the animal had evidently been milked that morning; and as we were debating how we should induce Brindle to proceed in the direction of its domicile, he settled that difficulty also, by firing off his rifle so close to the beast's tail, that the bullet carried off a patch of hair, and grazed the skin. The cow gave a tremendous spring, and rushed through a thicket, as if a score of wolves had been at its heels. We followed, and the brute led us to a tolerably good path through the wilderness, which we had thought impenetrable. It was doubtless the path that was to take us to the appointed place of meeting; and we now slackened our pace, and followed the cow's trail more leisurely. We had proceeded about a mile, when a strong light in the distance made us aware that we were coming to a clearing; and on arriving at the place, we found several maize fields enclosed by hedges, and a log-house, the smoking chimney of which bespoke the presence of inhabitants.

The dwelling was pleasantly situated on a gentle slope, roofed with clapboards, and having stables and other out-houses in its rear, such as one usually finds in backwood settlements of the more comfortable kind. Peach-trees were trailed against the house, in front of which stood some groups of papaws. The whole place had a rural and agreeable aspect.

We were scarcely within the hedge that surrounded the domain, when a brace of bull-dogs rushed upon us with open jaws. We were keeping off the furious brutes with some difficulty, when a man came out of the barn, and, upon seeing us, again entered it. After a few moments, he appeared for a second time, in company with two negroes, who were leading by the horns the very same cow which we had so unceremoniously compelled to become our guide. We greeted the man with a "good-morning;" but he made no answer, merely gazing hard at us with a cold sullen look. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man, with an expressive but extraordinarily sad, gloomy, and almost repulsive countenance. There was a restless excitement of manner about him, which struck us at the very first glance.

No answer. The man was holding the cow by one horn, and staring at the tail, from which a drop or two of blood was falling.

"Far enough for you never to get there, if it's you who've been drivin' my cow," was the threatening reply.

"And if we had driven your cow," said I, "you would surely not take it amiss? It was a mere accident."

"Such accidents don't often happen. People don't shoot cows, if they haven't a mind to eat other folk's beef."

"You do not suppose," said the Ohioman, "that we should wish to hurt your cow—we, who have no other intention but to shoot a few turkeys for the voyage. We are passengers by the Feliciana—one of our paddles is broken; and that is the reason that our boat is at anchor in front of Hopefield, and that we are here."

This circumstantial explanation seemed to produce little effect on the backwoodsman. He made no reply. We walked towards the house, and, on stepping in, found a woman there, who scarcely looked at us, or seemed aware of our entrance. There was the same appearance of fixed grief upon her countenance that we had remarked in the man; only with the difference, that the expression was less morose and fierce, but on the other hand more mournful.

"The other party cannot be far off," said one of my companions. "We will give them a sign of our whereabout." And so saying, he passed out at the door and walked a few paces in the direction of a cotton field.

"Stop!" cried the backwoodsman, suddenly placing himself before him. "Not a step further shall you go, till you satisfy me who you are, and where from."

"Who and where from?" replied our comrade, a young doctor of medicine from Tennessee. "That is what neither you nor any other man shall know who asks after such a fashion. If I'm not mistaken we are in a free country." And as he spoke he fired off his rifle.

The report of the piece was echoed so magnificently from the deep forests which surrounded the plantation, that my other companions raised their guns to their shoulders with the intention of firing also. I made them a sign in time to prevent it. Although there could hardly be any real danger to be apprehended, it appeared to me advisable to hold ourselves prepared for whatever might happen. The next moment a shot was heard—the answer to our signal.

"Keep yourself quiet," said I to the backwoodsman; "our companions and their guide will soon be here. As to your cow, you can hardly have so little common sense as to suppose that five travellers would shoot a beast that must be perfectly useless to them."

As I left off speaking, there emerged from the forest our other detachment and the guide, the latter carrying two fat turkeys. He greeted the backwoodsman as an old acquaintance, but with a degree of sympathy and compassion in the tone of his salutation which contrasted strangely with his usual rough dry manner.

The backwoodsman made no reply, but his rigid sturdy mien softened, and his eyes, as I thought, glistened with moisture.

"Mistress Clarke," said our guide to the woman, who was standing at the house-door, "these gentlemen here wish for a snack. They've plenty of every thing, if you'll be so good as to cook it."

The woman stood without making any reply: the man was equally silent. There was a sort of stubborn surly manner about them, which I had never before witnessed in backwoodspeople.

"Well," said the doctor, "we need expect nothing here. We are only losing time. Let us sit down on a tree-trunk, and eat our ham, and biscuits."

The guide made us a significant sign, and then stepping up to the woman, spoke to her in a low and urgent tone. She did not, however, utter a word.

"Mistress," said the doctor, "something must have happened to you or your family, to put you so out of sorts. We are strangers, but we are not without feeling. Tell us what is wrong. There may be means of helping you."

"What is it that troubles you?" said I, approaching her. "Speak out.
Help often comes when least expected."

The woman made me no answer, but stepped up to our guide, took a turkey and the ham from him, and went into the house. We followed, sat down at the table, and produced our bottles. The backwoodsman placed glasses before us. We pressed him to join us, but he obstinately declined our invitation, and we at last became weary of wasting good words on him. Our party consisted, as before mentioned, of ten persons: two bottles were soon emptied and we were beginning to get somewhat merry whilst talking over our morning's ramble, when our host suddenly got up from his seat in the chimney-corner, and approached the table.

"Gemmen," said he, "you mus'n't think me uncivil if I tell ye plainly, that I can have no noise made in my house. It aint a house to larf in— that it aint, by G—!" And having so spoken he resumed his seat, leant his head upon both hands, and relapsed into his previous state of gloomy reverie.

"We ask pardon," said we; "but really we had no idea that our cheerfulness could annoy you."

The man made no reply, and half an hour passed away in whisperings and conjectures. At the end of that time, a negro girl came in to spread the table for our meal.

After much entreaty, our host and hostess were prevailed on to sit down with us. The former took a glass of brandy, and emptied it at a draught. We filled it again, he drank it off, and it was again replenished. After the third glass, a deep sigh escaped him. The cordial had evidently revived him.

"Gemmen," said he, "you will have thought me rough and stubborn enough, when I met you as you had been huntin' my cow; but I see now who I have to do with. But may I be shot myself, if, whenever I find him, I don't send a bullet through his body; and I'll be warrant it shall hinder his stealin' any more children."

"One of my niggers, man! My son, my only son! Her child!" continued he pointing to his wife. "Our boy, the only one remaining to us out of five, whom the fever carried off before our eyes. As bold and smart a boy as any in the back woods! Here we set ourselves down in the wilderness, worked day and night, went through toil and danger, hunger and thirst, heat and cold. And for what? Here we are alone, deserted, childless; with nothin' left for us but to pray and cry, to curse and groan. No help; all in vain. I shall go out of my mind, I expect. If he were dead!—if he were lyin' under the hillock yonder beside his brothers, I would say nothing. He gave, and He has a right to take away! But, Almighty God!"—-And the man uttered a cry so frightful, so heartrending, that the knives and forks fell from our hands, and a number of negro women and children came rushing in to see what was the matter. We gazed at him in silence.

"God only knows," continued he, and his head sank upon his breast; then suddenly starting up, he drank off glass after glass of brandy, as fast as he could pour it out.

The woman had left the table, and now sat sobbing and weeping upon the bed. It was really a heartbreaking scene. The doctor got up, and led her to the table. We waited till she became more composed, anxiously expecting her account of this horrible calamity.

"It was four weeks yesterday," she began; "Mister Clarke was in the forest; I was in the fields, looking after the people, who were gathering in the maize. I had been there some time, and by the sun it was already pretty near eleven; but it was as fine a morning as ever was seen on the Mississippi, and the niggers don't work well if there's not somebody to look after them—so I remained. At last it was time to get the people's dinner ready, and I left the field. I don't know what it was, but I had scarcely turned towards the house, when it seemed as if somebody called to me to run as fast as I could; a sort of fear and uneasiness came over me, and I ran all the way to the house. When I got there I saw little Cesy, our black boy, sitting on the threshold, and playing all alone. I thought nothing of this, but went into the kitchen, without suspecting any thing wrong. As I was turning about amongst the pots and kettles, I thought suddenly of my Dougal. I threw down what I had in my hand, and ran to the door. Cesy came to meet me:" "Missi," said he, "Dougal is gone!"

"With a man on horseback?" said I. "In God's name, where can he be gone to? What does all this mean, Cesy?"

"No! he didn't go willingly!" said Cesy: "but the man got off his horse, put Dougal upon it, and then jumped up behind him, and rode away."

"Think again, Cesy," cried I; "for God's sake, remember. Don't you know the man?"

"Gracious God!" cried I. "What is this? What is become of my poor child?" I ran backwards and forwards into the forest, through the fields. I called out. I looked every where. At last I ran to where the people were at work, and fetched Cesy's mother. I thought she would be able to make him tell something more about my child. She ran to the house with me, promised him cakes, new clothes, every thing in the world; but he could tell nothing more than he had already told me. At last Mister Clarke came.

"When I came home," continued the latter, "the woman was nearly distracted; and I saw directly that some great misfortune had happened. But I should never have guessed what it really was. When she told me, I said, to comfort her, that one of the neighbours must have taken the child away, though I didn't think it myself; for none of the neighbours would have allowed themselves such a freedom with my only child. I shouldn't have thanked 'em for it, I can tell you. I called Cesy, and asked him again what the man was like; if he had a blue or a black coat? He said it was blue. 'What sort of horse?' 'A brown one.' 'What road he had taken?' 'That road!' answered the boy, pointing to the swamp. I sent all my niggers, men, women, and children, round to the neighbours, to seek for the child, and tell them what had happened. I myself followed the path that the robber had taken, and found hoof-prints upon it. I tracked them to the creek, but there I lost the trail. The man must have got into a boat, with his horse and the child, had perhaps crossed the Mississippi, or perhaps gone down the stream. Who could tell where he would land! It might be ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred miles lower down. I was terribly frightened, and I rode on the Hopefield. There nothing had been seen or heard of my child; but all the men got on their horses to help me to find him. The neighbours came also, and we sought about for a whole day and night. No trace or track was to be found. Nobody had seen either the child or the man who had carried him off. We beat the woods for thirty miles round my house, crossed the Mississippi, went up as far as Memphis, and down to Helena and the Yazoo river; nothing was to be seen or heard. We came back as we went out, empty-handed and discouraged. When I got home, I found the whole county assembled at my house. Again we set out; again we searched the forest through; every hollow tree, every bush and thicket, was looked into. Of bears, stags, and panthers there were plenty, but no signs of my boy. On the sixth day I came home again; but my home was become hateful to me— every thing vexed and disgusted me. My clothes and skin were torn off by the thorns and briers, my very bones ached; but I didn't feel it. It was nothing to what I suffered in my mind."

On the second day after my return, I was lying heart and body sick in bed, when one of the neighbours came in, and told me that he had just seen, at Hopefield, a man from Muller county, who told him that a stranger had been seen on the road to New Madrid, whose description answered to that which Cesy had given of the child-stealer. It was a man with a blue coat and a brown horse, and a child upon his saddle. I forgot my sickness and my sore bones, bought a new horse—for I had ridden mine nearly to death—and set out directly, rode day and night, three hundred miles, to New Madrid, and when I arrived there, sure enough I found the man who had been described to me, and a child with him. But it was not my child! The man belonged to New Madrid, and had been on a journey with his son into Muller county.

I don't know how I got home again. Some people found me near Hopefield, and brought me to my house. I had fever, and was raving for ten days; and during that time the neighbours advertised the thing in all the papers in Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. We had ridden altogether thousands of miles, but it was no use. "No!" continued he, with a deep groan; "if my child had died of the fever, if he had fallen in with a bear or panther, and been killed, it would be bitter, bitter sorrow—he was my last child. But, merciful God—stolen! My son, my poor child, stolen!"

And the man cried aloud, sprang from his seat, and wrung his hands and wept like an infant. Even his wife had not shown such utter agony of grief.

"When I go to work," continued he after a pause, "my little Dougal seems to stand before me, and my hands fall by my sides, as stiff and heavy as though they were lead. I look round, but no Dougal is there. When I go to bed, I put his bed beside mine, and call him, but no one answers. Sleeping or waking, my poor boy is always before me. Would to God I were dead! I have cursed and sworn, prayed and supplicated, wept and groaned, but all—all in vain!"

I have seen many persons suffering from distress of mind, but never did I meet with one whose sorrow was so violent and overpowering as that of this backwoodsman. We did our utmost to console him, and to inspire him with new hope, but he was inconsolable; his eyes were fixed, he had fallen into a sort of apathy, and I doubt if he even heard what was said to him. We ourselves were so affected that our words seemed almost to choke us. Time pressed, however; it was impossible for us to remain any longer, nor could we have done any good by so doing. We shook the unfortunate couple by the hand, promised to do all in our power to learn something of their child's fate, and took our departure.

It was six weeks after the time above referred to, that I found myself compelled by business to make a journey to Natchez. I had often thought of poor Clarke's misfortune, and, in conjunction with my friends, had done all in my power to discover the villain who had robbed him of his child. Hitherto all our endeavours had been fruitless. The facts were circulated in every newspaper, were matter of conversation at every teatable in the country; rewards were offered, researches made, but not the smallest trace of the boy or his stealer was to be found.

It was a bright January afternoon when I landed at Natchez. In company with some acquaintances, I was ascending the little hill between the lower and upper town, when we heard an unusual noise and bustle; and on reaching the summit, we saw a crowd assembled before the door of Justice Bonner's house. Upon going to see what was the matter, we found that the mob consisted of the better class of people in Natchez, both women and men, but especially the former. Every face wore an expression of interest and anxiety; and upon making enquiry, we learned that the child-stealer had been at length discovered—or rather, that a man had been taken up on strong suspicion of his having stolen Mr Clarke's son, of Hampstead county. I was heartily rejoiced at the news and endeavoured to press forward through the throng, in hopes of hearing some particulars; but the crowd was so dense that it was impossible to get through. I stood there for nearly two hours, the concourse all the while increasing, none stirring from the places they occupied, while every adjacent window was filled with eager, anxious faces.

At last the door opened, and the prisoner, guarded by two constables, and followed by the sheriff, came out of the house, and took the direction of the town prison. "That is he!" whispered the women to one another, with pale faces and trembling voices, clasping their children tighter, as though fearful they would be snatched from them. The countenance of the culprit was the most repulsive I had ever seen—a mixture of brutal obstinacy and low cunning, with a sort of sneering, grinning, expression. His small green-grey eyes were fixed upon the ground; but as he passed through the lane opened by the crowd, he from time to time partially raised them, and threw sidelong and malicious glances at the bystanders. He was rather above the middle height, his complexion of a dirty greyish colour, his cheeks hollow, his lips remarkably thick and coarse, his whole appearance in the highest degree wild and disgusting. His dress consisted of an old worn-out blue frock, trousers of the same colour, a high-crowned shabby hat, and tattered shoes. The impression which his appearance made might be read in the pale faces of the spectators. They gazed after him with a sort of hopeless look as he walked away. "If that is the man who stole the child," murmured several, "there is no hope. The boy is lost!" I extricated myself from the throng, and hastened to Justice Bonner, with whom I was acquainted, and who gave me the following particulars.

About four weeks after our excursion in the neighbourhood of Hopefield, Clarke had received a letter, signed Thomas Tully, and stamped with the Natchez postmark. The contents were to the effect that his child was still living, that the writer of the letter knew where he was, and that, if Mr Clarke would enclose a fifty-dollar bank-note in his answer, he should receive further information. On receipt of the said sum, the writer said he would indicate a place to which Mrs Clarke might repair, unaccompanied, and there, upon payment of two hundred dollars more, the child should be delivered up.

Upon receiving this letter, the unfortunate father consulted with his friends and neighbours; and, by their advice, he wrote immediately to the postmaster at Natchez, informing him of the circumstances, and requesting that the person who applied for his answer might be detained. Four days afterwards, a man came to the window of the post-office, and enquired if there was any letter to the address of Thomas Tully. The postmaster pretended to be searching for the letter amongst a pile of others, and meanwhile a constable, who was in attendance, went round and captured the applicant. Upon the examination of the letter, it appeared that he was an Irishman, who had some time previously been hanging about Natchez, and had endeavoured to establish a school there. As he, however, had been unable to give any satisfactory account of himself, of where he came from, or what he had been doing up to that time, and as his manner and appearance were moreover in the highest degree suspicious and repulsive, he had not succeeded in his plan, and the few parents who sent their children to him had speedily withdrawn them. He was known at Natchez by the name of Thomas Tully, nor did he now deny that that was his name, or that he had sent the letter, which was written in a practised schoolmasterlike hand. It was further elicited that he was perfectly acquainted with the paths and roads between Natchez and Hopefield, and in the neighbourhood of those two places, as well as with the swamps, creeks, and rivers there adjacent. He was fully committed, till such time as the father of the stolen child should be made acquainted with the result of the examination.

In five days Clarke arrived with the negro boy Caesar. The whole town showed the greatest sympathy with the poor man's misfortune, the lawyers offered him their services free of charge, and a second examination of the prisoner took place. Every thing possible was done to induce the latter to confess what had become of the child; but to all questions he opposed an obstinate silence. The negro boy did not recognize him. At last he declared that he knew nothing of the stolen child, and that he had only written the letter in the hope of extorting money from the father. Hardly, however, had this been written down, when he turned to Clarke, with an infernal grin upon his countenance, and said, "You have persecuted and hunted me like a wild beast, but I will make you yet more wretched than you are able to make me." He then proceeded to inform him of a certain place where he would find his child's clothes.

Clarke immediately set out with a constable to the indicated spot, found the clothes, as he had been told he would do, and returned to Natchez. The accused was again put at the bar, and said, after frequently contradicting himself, that the child was still alive, but that, if they kept him longer in prison, it would inevitably die of hunger. Nothing could persuade him to say where the boy was, or to give one syllable of further explanation.

Meantime the quarter-sessions commenced, and the prisoner was brought up for trial. An immense concourse of persons had assembled to witness the proceedings in this remarkable case. Every thing was done to induce the accused to confess, but all in vain. Promises of free pardon, and even of reward, were made to him, if he told where the child was; but the man maintained an obstinate silence. He at last again changed his story, retracted his previous declaration as to his knowledge of where the boy was, said he had found the clothes, which he had recognised by the descriptions that had been every where advertised, and that it was that which had put it into his head to write to the father, in hopes of making his profit by so doing. In the absence of witnesses, although there was strong suspicion, there could be no proof of his having committed the crime in question. In America, circumstantial evidence is always received with extreme caution and reluctance; and even the fact of the child's clothes having been found in the place the prisoner had pointed out, was insufficient to induce the jury to find the latter guilty of the capital charge brought against him. Many of the lawyers, indeed, were of opinion, that the man's last story was true, that he had found the clothes, and, being a desperate character and in needy circumstances, had written the letter for purposes of extortion. Of this offence only was he found guilty, and condemned, as a vagrant and impostor, to a few months' imprisonment. By the American laws no severer punishment could be awarded. The one, however, was far from satisfying the public. There was something so infernal in the malignant sneer of the culprit, in the joy with which he contemplated the sufferings of the bereaved father, and the anxiety of the numerous friends of the latter, that a shudder of horror and disgust had frequently run through the court during the trial. Even the coolest and most practised lawyers had not been free from this emotion, and they declared that they had never witnessed such obduracy.

The inhabitants of Natchez, especially of the upper town, are, generally speaking, a highly intelligent and respectable class of people; but upon this occasion they lost all patience and self-control, and proceeded to an extreme measure, which only the peculiar circumstances of the case could in any degree justify. Without previous notice, they assembled in large numbers upon the night of the 31st of January, with a firm determination to correct for once the mildness of the laws, and to take the punishment o the criminal into their own hands. They opened the prison, brought out the culprit, and after tying him up, a number of stout negroes proceeded to flog him severely with whips of bullock's hide.

For a long time the man bore his punishment with extraordinary fortitude, and remained obstinately silent when questions were put to him concerning the stolen child. At last, however, he could bear the pain no longer, and promised a full confession. He named a house on the banks of the Mississippi, some fifty miles from Natchez, the owner of which, he said, knew where the child was to be found.

The sheriff had, of course, not been present at these Lynch-law proceedings, of which he was not aware till they were over, but of which he probably in secret did not entirely disapprove. No sooner, however, was he told of the confession that had been extorted from the prisoner, than he set off at once in the middle of the night, accompanied by Clarke, for the house that had been pointed out. They arrived there at noon on the following day, and found it inhabited by a respectable family, who had heard of the child having been stolen, but, beyond that, knew nothing of the matter. The mere suspicion of participation in such a crime, seemed in the highest degree painful and offensive to them. It was soon made evident that the prisoner had invented the story, in order to procure a cessation of his punishment of the previous night.

The fatigues and constant disappointments that poor Clarke had endured, had worn him out, and at last again stretched him on a bed of sickness. His life was for a long time despaired of, but he finally recovered, and shortly afterwards the term of imprisonment to which the child-stealer (for such the public persisted in considering Tully) had been condemned, expired. There was no pretext for detaining him, and he was set at liberty. Clarke was advised to endeavour to obtain from him, by money and good treatment, some information concerning the child. Both father and mother threw themselves at the man's feet, implored him to name his own reward, but to tell them what had become of their son.

"You have flogged and imprisoned me," replied the man, with one of his malicious grins; "you would have hung me if you could; you have done all in your power to make me miserable. It is now my turn."

And he obstinately refused to say a word on the subject of the lost child. He left town, accompanied by Clarke, who clung to him like his shadow, in the constant hope that he would at last make a revelation They crossed the Mississippi together, and on arriving behind Concordia, the bereaved father once more besought Tully to tell him what had become of his son, swearing that, if he did not do so, he would dog him day and night, but that he should never escape alive out of his hands. The man asked how long he would give him. "Six-and-thirty hours" was the reply Tully walked on for some time beside Clarke and his wife, apparently deep in thought. On a sudden he sprang upon the backwoodsman, snatched a pistol from his belt, and fired it at his head. The weapon missed fire. Tully saw that his murderous attempt had failed, and apprehensive doubtless of the punishment that it would entail, he leaped, without an instant's hesitation, into the deepest part of a creek by which they were walking. He sank immediately, the water closed over his head, and he did not once reappear. His body was found a couple of hours afterwards, but no trace was ever discovered of the Stolen Child.[1]

[1] Various particulars of the above incident may be found in the Mississippi newspapers, of the years 1825-6.

M. GIRARDIN.

A word, before we speak of the lectures of M. Saint-Marc Girardin, on a topic which stands at the threshold of dramatic criticism. What is the nature of that imitation of life at which the drama aims, and of that illusion which it creates?

Before the time of Dr Johnson, the learned world were accustomed to insist upon the observance of the unities, on the ground that they were necessary to uphold the illusion of the theatre. The doctor, in his preface to Shakspeare, demolished this argument, by showing that the illusion they were declared so necessary to support, does not, in fact, exist. No man really believes that the stage before him is Rome, or that he is a contemporary of the Caesars. To insist, therefore, upon the unities of time and place, is to sacrifice to a grave make-belief the nobler ends of the drama—the development of character and passion. "The objection," says Dr Johnson, "arising from the impossibility of passing the first hour at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes that, when the play opens, the spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and believes that his walk to the theatre has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this may imagine more. He that can take the stage at one time for the palace of the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for the promontory of Actium."

If the delusion of the theatre, we will add, should, at certain moments, reach such a point that we may be said to believe ourselves transported to the place represented on the stage, this, not being a continuous delusion, cannot be disturbed by the mere changing of the scene; it will not the less take place at the promontory of Actium, because we had felt it, five minutes before, in the city of Alexandria.

Since the appearance of the celebrated preface to Shakspeare, it has been the habit of critics to speak, not of a delusion, but of an imitation, which is felt to be an imitation, and which pleases us in great part by this perceived resemblance to an original. "It will be asked," continues Dr Johnson, "how the drama moves, if it is not credited? It is credited with all the credit due to a drama. It is credited wherever it moves, as a just picture of a real original—as representing to the auditor what he would himself feel if he were to do or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The reflection that strikes the heart is not that the evils before us are real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed."[1] * * * The delight of tragedy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction; if we thought murders and treasons real, they would please no more. Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to mind.

[1] Cours de Littérature Dramatique; ou de l'Usage des Passions dans le Drame. Par M. SAINT-MARC GIRARDIN, Professeur à la Faculté des Lettres de Paris, &c. &c.

This appears to us a very indifferent account of the matter. In the far greater number of instances, we can never have formed any conception of an original of which the actor and the scene are supposed to present us a picture. Who that witnesses the play of Venice Preserved, has formed any other image of Jaffier or Pierre than what the actors are presenting to him, or may already, on some previous occasion, have presented to him? Even when the characters are strictly historical, the imagination is little better provided. The spectator does not refer to any faint conception in his own mind of a Brutus, or a Mark Antony, and then derive his pleasure from watching how closely the mimic representation imitates the original. Very often the scene must present something entirely new to the imagination, and yet the pleasure is not diminished on this account. A simple man, who has never seen the interior of a palace, never looked on royalty, never beheld even a veritable courtier, feels no embarrassment when he is suddenly called to witness the pomps and miseries of "imperial tragedy."

The imitation of the drama is not that of any specific original; it is a mimic scene, having human nature for its type. It has a life of its own, constructed from the materials which the records and observations of real life have supplied. In order to move us, it needs no reference to any recognised original. It is there in virtue of the vesture of humanity in which it is clothed, and makes its appeal at once and directly.

It is usual to speak of all the fine arts as imitative arts. The term is not always applicable, and, when most applicable, requires explanation. What does the poetry of sentiment imitate? What does a song imitate? How can the term be applied to all that class of poetry where the writer pours out his own reflections and feelings? The poetry of Wordsworth or of Burns can no more be said to be imitative, than the conversation of the same men, when, in their hours of intimate intercourse, the one may have given expression to his philanthropy, and the other to his friendship. But where the term is most applicable, it requires to be used guardedly. Even in painting and sculpture, the artist does not imitate the object in its totality—does not strive to make an approximation to a fac-simile—but he selects certain qualities of the object for his imitation. The painter confines himself to colour and outline; the sculptor abstracts the form, and give it us in the marble.

Accordingly, when we stand before a statue, we do not think of a man, and then of the statue as the imitation of this original; but the statue is itself clothed with some of the qualities of the human being, which give to the cold marble that half-life which we feel the moment we look upon it. In the same manner, when the dramatist puts his characters on the stage, they are not imitations of any definite originals, but they are invested with certain accidents and attributes of humanity, which give them at once the interest we feel in them, and set them living and moving in their own mimic world.

And this mimic world is capable of creating an illusion—not such as Dr Johnson combated—but of a kind he does not appear to have taken into account. The doctor is triumphant when he denies the existence of that theatrical delusion presupposed as a ground for the unities. We do not, as soon as the curtain rises, believe ourselves transported to Rome, nor do we take the actor upon his word, and believe him to be Caesar the moment he proclaims his imperial dignity. The illusion of the theatre springs directly from the passion with which we are infected, not from the outward pomp and circumstance of the stage. These, even on the most ignorant of spectators, produce barely the sentiment of wonder and surprise, never a belief in their reality. The real illusion of the drama begins, so to speak, not at the beginning, but at the end; it is the last result, the result of the last vivid word which sprung from the lips of the actor; and it diffuses a momentary reality over all that stage apparatus, animate and inanimate, which was there only as a preparation for that vivid word of the poet.

When the curtain rises, we see very plainly—quite unmistakeably—the boarded stage before us. It may fill with men and women most gorgeously attired, and these may proceed to declare their rank and condition, and the peculiar dangers which environ them, and still there is nothing better before us than the boarded stage and the talking actor. But, by and by, the word of passion is uttered, and the heart beats, and the wooden stage is seen no more, and the actor is forgotten in his griefs or his anger, and the fictitious position is a real life, and the pomp and circumstance of the scene, if not believed in, are no longer questioned. We are not perhaps at Rome, nor is that Mark Antony—for we never knew Mark Antony to recognise him—but this mimic world has assumed an independent life and reality of its own. When, indeed, the passion subsides, and the eloquence of the poet is mute, things revert to their matter-of-fact condition, the actor is again there, and the boards of the stage again become visible.

To the passage we last quoted from Dr Johnson, some other objections suggest themselves; but, as we have not quoted it in a polemical spirit, but merely to illustrate our own position, we have no wish to enter upon them. One remark only we will make, and that because it admits of a general application. Dr Johnson describes the sympathy we feel at the theatre, as the result of a reference to what our own personal feelings would be in the situation we see represented on the stage. The auditor represents to himself "what he would himself feel, if he were to do or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The reflection that strikes the heart is not, that the evils before us are real evils, but that they are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed." We do not think that, in order to sympathize with what takes place on the stage, or in real life, there is any necessity for this circuitous proceeding. We do not detect in ourselves this constant reference to our own personality, and, least of all, in those moments when we are most moved. It is enough that there be a vivid conception of any passion, for this passion to become for a moment our own. If this reference to our probable feelings, in such or such a position, were necessary, how is it that we men sympathize so promptly and so keenly in the distresses of the heroine? We certainly do not, for instance, set to work to imagine ourselves women and mothers—which would be a difficult exercise of the imagination—before we feel the grief of Constance for the loss of her child. In short, we at once assume to ourselves the passions of another; we do not wait, as it were, to try them on; to make experiment how we, with all our dispositions, natural and acquired, should feel in the supposed predicament.

It is far from our intention to give a full and methodical account of the lectures of M. Saint-Marc Girardin, the perusal of which led us to a reconsideration of some of our critical principles. They are far above mediocrity, distinguished by strong sense and vivid expression. Their principal feature is the just and animated protest they contain against the literary taste of the present day in France; a taste for the perverted, the horrible, the monstrous; a taste that welcomes Victor Hugo with outstretched arms, and retains but a frigid recollection of Racine. With this literary taste is intimately connected an unhealthy and feverish condition of the moral sentiments, against which the lecturer directs his most eloquent attacks; so that his book may be commended for its sound ethical as well as critical instruction. The circumstance that the lectures were delivered before the University of Paris, renders this strain of remark still more appropriate and useful.

Such a strain of remark, based as it is upon general principles, cannot be useless in our own country; although we do not suspect that the same perverted taste which meets its reproof in these lectures is common amongst us. Were we called upon to describe the malady under which our countrymen labour in respect to literary taste, we should describe it as a state of torpor and lethargy, rather than of virulent disease. It is indifference, more than any morbid taste, which an imaginative work would have to struggle against in this country. There is little necessity here to guard the public against any species of literary enthusiasm; certain writers of very dubious merit may be extensively read, but they are not esteemed. It is only necessary to listen to the conversation that goes on around us, to be convinced that the extensive circulation of a book has ceased to be a decisive proof even of its popularity. We seem too idle, or too busy, to give attention to a thoughtful literature which is not at the same time professional—and we have too much good sense amongst us to admire the sort of clever trash we are contented to read and to talk about. For something in leisure hours must be read. A book must be had, if only as a companion for the sofa, if only to place in the hand, as we place the ottoman under our feet, to steady and complete our repose.

We will at once introduce a striking quotation from the author before us, which has immediate reference to the Lucrèce Borgia of Victor Hugo. To those who have not read the play it is only necessary to observe, in order to understand what follows, that Victor Hugo, with that violent effort after a moral novelty which distinguishes him, has chosen to represent the infamous Lucretia Borgia as under the influence of maternal love, while in all other respects she fully sustains her odious and infernal reputation.

The author wished, he tells us in his preface, to retrieve the moral deformity of Lucretia Borgia by the beauty of the maternal sentiment; he wished, according to his own energetic expression, 'to place the mother in the monster.' Here let us make a distinction. I admire the tenderness which the most ferocious animals have for their offspring, and when the dying lioness covers her young with her wounded and bleeding body, I admire and am moved. But a woman who is a mother ought, in her tenderness to her children, to have more intelligence, more of elevation of thought, than the lioness. Instinct is not enough; there must be a sentiment, a sentiment which does not exclude, but perfects and purifies the instinct. Thus, when in Florence, a mother cast herself in desperation before the lion who had taken her child, and the lion, astonished at her despair, or perhaps comprehending it, replaced the infant at her feet, it was instinct which impelled the mother, and it was probably instinct in the lion which responded to her. But good instincts, whatever admirable actions they may occasionally produce, are but the germ and commencement of human virtues; they are indeed radically distinguished from human virtue by this, that, of themselves, however strong, they are sterile: a good instinct dwells by the side of a bad without effort to reform or to purify it, and equally without danger of being itself perverted. One virtue only in a vicious character might convert it entirely to virtue, as one vice only in a virtuous might lead it to utter depravation. But an instinct, however good, supports without disquietude the neighbourhood of evil, and it is thus that, in Lucretia Borgia, the mother and the monster are placed side by side, without affecting, without combating each other. Now there is nothing less natural, and nothing less dramatic than this mutual toleration. Characters wherein good and evil are mixed together, are dramatic, only because the conflict of opposite sentiments which takes place in the mind, is brought before the view of the spectator. But where, in Lucretia, is the struggle between good and evil? At what moment does the maternal virtue enlighten and purify this soul lost in darkness? When does this transfiguration take place, so marvellous and yet so natural? * * *

It is singular, and marks the change which has taken place in our moral notions. Formerly poets gave to their personages one only vice or passion, taking care in other respects to render them virtuous, in order that they should be worthy of interest; at the present day, our poets give their personages I know not how many passions and vices, with one only virtue as a counterpoise. And this virtue, weak and solitary, is by no means charged with the task of purifying the corrupted mind in which it has by chance been preserved. It carefully respects the independence of those vices which permit it to dwell with them. Neither is it commissioned to inspire an interest in the spectator; because it is vice which now inspires all our interest, thanks to a certain noble and proud bearing which has been assigned to it, and which has been imitated from the heroes of Lord Byron.

M. Girardin, it will have been remarked from the above extract, is disposed to reproach our Lord Byron as the source from which some of his countrymen have drawn their dark inspiration. This may be true. But without defending our Byron from charges to which he is manifestly exposed, let us say thus much for him, that in his poetry he was still too much a classic not to be a worshipper of the beautiful; that he did not court for itself the monstrous, the ugly; his mind did not willingly associate with what was revolting in outward form or human passion. If there was any thing Satanic, as some were pleased to express it, in his poetry, he was not, at all events, of the hobgoblin or demoniac school. It was the Satan of Milton, with its ruined beauty and clouded dignity, that had taken possession of his imagination. He delighted to depict the pride, the love, the generosity, of hearts at war with man, and not on too good terms with heaven; but still it was their pride, their love, their generosity, that occupied his imagination. They are bad men; he takes care to tell us so himself; but he has not the heart to make them act otherwise than as noble fellows while they are under his guidance. The Corsair, from his very name and profession, is a declared criminal; but this once said, the poet occupies himself and his reader with nothing but what is generous and heroic in Conrad. Byron had no disposition, had a certain antipathy, to paint the virtuous man; but it was a virtue, nevertheless, that attracted his pencil. He felt it necessary, as a preliminary condition, to remove his hero from the category of good men; but this being fairly done, he resigned himself to the natural bent for what is good and great. A Borgia, whether male or female, in all its native deformity, was not the subject to allure him.

Nowhere is the rebuke of M. Girardin of certain of his contemporaries, more dignified, or more justly merited, than where, discoursing on the manner in which the moderns have delineated paternal love, he reproves that exaggeration and falsification which has represented the father describing the affection he bears to his daughter in a style of language devoted to another species of love. Nothing can be more odious and offensive than to transgress, even in language, the bounds between the two affections, and to put into the mouth of a parent, as Victor Hugo and Balzac have done, a style appropriate to the lover speaking of his mistress. But we will not quote these passages from M. Girardin, because they will require long quotations in order to justify the censure contained in them. At the close of the lecture upon paternal love, we find the following general remarks on the composition of a modern French drama; and the slightest acquaintance with this drama will enable the reader to appreciate their justice and analytic accuracy:—

Formerly a dramatic character was an assemblage of qualities good and bad, which, on the one hand, were in conflict amongst themselves, and, on the other, were subjected to some superior law of religion, of honour, or of patriotism. This twofold struggle constituted the interest of the person brought upon the scene, and this superior law, which he strove to accomplish, constituted the morality of his character. According to the incidents of the piece, each passion might take the ascendant, none being represented as irresistible; and the moral law which predominated over the drama, did not prevent this play of the passions—it being visibly suspended during the whole piece over the heads of the personages, and receiving its fulfilment only at the close. In the present day dramatic characters are composed differently. Instead of representing the whole of the character, and the struggle between its good and evil passions, one only passion is selected, which is made violent, irresistible, fatal, the absolute mistress of all the others; that is to say, a part is taken instead of the whole. At the same time the moral law which, in the ancient drama, (i.e. the drama of Racine and Corneille,) sustained also a struggle against the passions—this law which those even avowed who transgressed it, which had always its place in the piece, whether through virtue or remorse—this law also disappears before the ascendency of the sovereign passion. No counterpoise of any kind, whether on the side of rival passions or on the side of duty. What remains, then, to struggle against this arbitrary passion? Nothing but chance—circumstance—the hazard of events. And thus it is that, in the modern drama, the interest resides rather in the strange complication of events than in the shock of opposite passions. The poet has only the power of chance, a power sovereignly capricious, to contend against the passion he has chosen to represent. And thus it is that the modern drama has something also of arbitrary and fantastic. Incidents and theatrical effects are accumulated, but the incidents do not spring from the natural movement of the passions brought upon the stage; they have no longer their cause in the characters of the drama; they issue from the fancy of the poet, who, feeling the necessity of arousing his spectators from time to time, complicates the action after a strange fashion, and aims always at surprise.

M. Girardin has a lecture upon suicides, in which he attacks that sentimentality—a mixture, in reality, of weakness and impatience—which in modern literature, and in modern life, often conducts to suicide. The following passage will be acknowledged to be eloquent, and even poetic, unless our translation of it shall have entirely obscured its beauty. After having described the proud and philosophical suicides of ancient Rome, he adds:—

There is another species of suicide more in credit in our days, which is rather occasioned by the weakness and impatience of men than by the violence of their passions, or the eccentricity of their philosophies. This species of suicide is so much the peculiar malady of our times, that we are tempted to think that men are now for the first time infected by it. But no; there exists a literature which has already expressed this our state of restlessness and disquietude, which has described men consuming with melancholy in the midst of riotous joys, and seeking suicide rather as the natural termination of their career than the remedy of their evils. It is the literature of the fathers of the church.

I find amongst the homilies of St Chrysostom a certain Stagyra who was possessed by a demon. To be possessed by a demon is certainly not a malady of our times; but yet we do not wander from our theme. For the demon of Stagyra—it is melancholy, despondency, or, in the much more powerful expression of the Greek, it is athumia—exhaustion of all energy, all vitality of the soul. This is the demon of Stagyra. He is one of those sick and agitated souls who think they belong to the selected portion of mankind, because they want the energy of the vulgar; who contrive for themselves pleasures and afflictions apart from the rest of the world, and who (last trait of weakness and impatience) at once despise and envy the simplicity and the calm of those whom they call little souls. Stagyra, in order to deliver his spirit from its disquietudes, had entered into a monastery; but neither there did he find the peace and lightness of heart which he craved; for man finds at first, in solitude, that only which he brings to it. Stagyra complains to the saint—and the complaint is curious, for it indicates the knowledge of a cure for the evils which torment him, and shows that Stagyra, like many other patients, had neither resolution to support his disease, nor to accept its remedy. 'You complain,' says St Chrysostom, 'that while you, with all your fasts, and vigils, and monastic austerities, have failed to appease your disquietudes, others who, like yourself, had been tormented by the demon of melancholy, while living in the midst of idle pleasures and luxurious indulgence, have found a remedy in marriage, and felt themselves cured the moment they became fathers.' A sentence this full of sound instruction. It is not, then, because life is devoid of pleasure, that men are the prey of melancholy. That demon pierced, it is true, like a gnawing worm, through all the luxuries of the Roman world; there was no resource against it, either in beautiful slaves, or Ionian dances, or magnificent repasts, or the combats of gladiators, or Milesian tales, or the voluptuous pictures which garnish the walls of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Athumia poisoned all, and the demon possessed the voluptuary in the midst even of the debauch. But if, fatigued with these alternate pleasures and disgusts, he adopted regular and simple manners, married and had had children, then, as if by enchantment the demon quitted him. No more despondency, no more bitterness. The spirit of the possessed was revived, refreshed, renewed by the caresses of his children. There is no demon, not even the demon of melancholy, which dares to encounter the presence of a little child. There is in the innocent fresh breathing of these creatures, something mortal to evil spirits, and a cradled infant in the house is sure talisman against all demoniac possession.

What is it, in fact, which man requires, in order to escape from this athumia, this exhaustion of the heart? Hope—a future. He must have a faith in the future. This is the nourishment of his soul; without it he cannot live, he despairs and dies. Well, the very charm of children, that which has ranked them, from of old, amongst the blessings of God, is this, that they form the future of every family— that they sustain in every house that sentiment by which the soul of man lives. Children represent the future, and in a form the most joyous and attractive. It is this which constitutes their irresistible fascination—it is this which sheds around their little heads that light of happiness and joy which reflects itself on the countenances of the parents—which warms the heart—which gives to the poor the force to labour, and to the miserable the force to live. Blessed be infancy, which chases the demon!—Blessed be infancy, which keeps alive in each family the sentiment of hope, indispensable to run as the air and the light!

Amongst the faults of his contemporaries, M. Girardin remarks a disposition to materialize the expression of passion, depicting it constantly by violent physical distortions; and also, a tendency to carry that expression to the extremity of rage, where, as he finely observes, all distinction between the various passions is lost, and man deserts his rational nature.

According to the ancient classic imagination, when passion becomes excessive, the man disappears; and this, he adds, is the foundation of what we call the philosophy of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.

In the course of this censure he makes use of a common-place expression, which, we think, includes a common-place error, and therefore we pause for a moment to take notice of it. "It is the pretension of modern art," he tells us, "to say all. What then is left to the imagination of the public? It is often well to trust to the spectator to complete the idea of the poet or the statuary."

This is a mode of expression frequently made use of. Even Lessing has sanctioned it, when in his Laocoon, he speaks of "the highest expression leaving nothing to the imagination."

The leaving something to the imagination can mean this only, that the expression of the artist is suggestive, and kindles thought, and in fact conveys more than is found in its literal interpretation. Now, whatever is highest in art, and especially in poetry, is pre-eminently suggestive; and the highest expression does in fact leave most, or, in other words, suggest most, to the imagination. M. Girardin, in common with many others, speaks of this suggestive quality, the characteristic of the highest form of art, as if it were the result of a voluntary surrender of something by the poet to the reader, as if it were an act of moderation on his part. Surely the poet does not proceed on the principle of saying half, and permitting us to say the other half—out of compliment, perhaps, to our understanding, and as a little bribe to our vanity. The more vivid and powerful his expressions, the more must he leave, or rather the more must he give, indirectly as well as directly, to the imagination of the reader. He will sometimes even bestow what he himself never possessed. The great poet, in pouring out his feelings, must always give something less and something more than was in him at the time.

It has been the fashion to illustrate the principle of leaving something to the imagination, by the ancient picture of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, where we are told that Agamemnon, the father, was painted hiding his face in his robe. The expression of grief and horror had been given in the countenance of the other bystanders, and it was left to the imagination to divine what passion would have been seen depicted on the face of Agamemnon if that robe had been torn aside. Lessing, and after him M. Girardin, have indeed given a different account of the intention of the painter. The Greek artist, say they, sedulously avoided that distortion of features through excessive grief, which was incompatible with beauty of form. They would tone down the expression, as Lessing argues that the sculptor did in the features of Laocoon, until it became consistent with the lines of beauty. Timanthes, therefore, finding that, in order to render with fidelity the expression of Agamemnon, he must admit such a distortion of the features as would violate the rule, chose rather to veil the countenance. But we would suggest that something else must have weighed with the artist; for if it was an acknowledged principle of Greek art rather to sacrifice a portion of the passion, so to speak, than to admit a distortion of the features, why should Timanthes have felt any scruple, in this instance, in modifying the expression of the father's countenance in obedience to a known rule of art? Why should he have thought himself obliged to resort to the expedient of concealing the face?

We make bold to adopt neither one account nor the other. We neither believe that Timanthes concealed the expression of the father's face upon some principle of "leaving it to the imagination of the reader," nor that he acted in obedience to the rule of art which Lessing lays down with so much ingenuity. We are persuaded that Timanthes painted Agamemnon in the attitude he did, simply because it was the most natural—because it was, in fact, the only attitude in which it was possible to conceive a father present at the sacrifice of his own daughter. Other spectators might have looked on with different degrees of grief or horror, but we feel that the father could not look; he must veil his head. This natural attitude, bespeaking the grief it only seemed to hide, was no doubt highly expressive.

And in this point of view, it may afford no bad illustration of that suggestive language of poetry, which sometimes throws the veil, not to conceal the passion, or to leave it to another imagination to discover, but as the best means of betraying it.

We repeat that we do not profess to give any thing approaching to an analytical review of the lectures of M. Girardin; the illustrations, being taken from the poetry of another nation, would often require a length of explanatory detail quite inconsistent with our limits. We persist, therefore, in regarding them in the one point of view already indicated-namely, as a protest against certain vitiated tastes and deleterious sentiments which prevail at the present day.

We again revert, therefore, to the lecture upon suicide, for the sake of a remark that we find there upon Werther, and on its celebrated author. It is rarely that we hear any one speak out so plainly upon Goethe. After speaking of the "moral vitality" which supports the fatigues and inures us to the self-denials of life, he says:—

There are characters, on the contrary, who we perceive, at first sight, are predestined to die. Ardent and enthusiastic, wanting force and patience—life is evidently not made for them. Such is Werther. Goethe had not created him to live, and he knew this well; so that when some German author, I know not whom, undertook to correct the catastrophe of the romance, and make Werther live instead of committing suicide, Goethe said—'The poor man has no idea that the evil is without remedy, and that a mortal insect has stung our Werther in the flower of his youth.'

What is this mortal insect that has stung the youth of Werther? Mistake it not, it is the spirit of doubt, the spirit of the eighteenth century; and it is not Werther only that the insect has stung—it is Goethe himself. Goethe belongs to the eighteenth century; he is its disciple, its heir; he is, like it, the sceptic, but he is also the poet. It is this which conceals his universal doubt. Besides, as he perceived, with that admirable tact which accompanies his genius, that his scepticism would injure his poetry, he has laboured to correct its influence, and, for this purpose, has called to his aid all the resources of art and science. He has adored nature, he has been a pantheist, he has distributed God everywhere, to compensate for not having him in his own heart; he has adored Greece, and rendered a sort of worship to beauty such as the Greeks conceived it, and endeavoured to find an enthusiasm in the arts; he has adored the south, and sung the Land of the orange grove, because the south is the region of strong faiths, and is repugnant to scepticism; he has adored the middle ages, because they were ignorant of doubt, everywhere he has sought to cure the wound of that insect which had stung his youth. But no; his scepticism pierces through all his enthusiasm, and the very variety of his inspirations proves his indifference. He is neither philosopher, nor devotee, nor Christian, nor pagan, nor courtier, nor citizen, nor of times ancient or modern, nor of the north, nor of the south-or rather, he is all these at once. He is the echo of nature, he repeats to us all her harmonies; but he fails to add that utterance, which unites so well with the harmonies of the world the utterance of his own heart. Ask of Goethe to represent man and nature in all their variety and extent, and he will do it. There is one thing you must not ask of him—himself. This self fails in Goethe; not the self which knows it is a great poet, and will to be one; but that other self, which has a thought, a principle to contend for, which, in short, believes in something. It is there the insect stung; both in Goethe and in Werther.

After discussing the character of modern French literature, there remains the important question to determine, how far the state of literature represents the state of society—how far the one is a faithful picture of the other. Upon this subject M. Girardin concludes his volume with some excellent remarks; but here we must also conclude our notice of this interesting work.

LORD ELDON.

In a free country, if there ever was or will be a truly free country besides our own, the life of every public man ought to be written. All would supply a lesson of more or less value; and it is upon lessons of that order that the vigour of the rising generation can alone be trained. Undoubtedly, in the mixed qualities of human nature, there might now and then be formidable displays; the development of the heart might often startle the eye which looked to it for healthy action; the machinery of the mind would require to be examined with the hand of charity as well as the hand of science: but the general result must be knowledge—always interesting, and often of the highest value; for the tendency of manners is, to disappoint that research. The habits, the associations, almost the general peace of society, unite in covering the actual nature of man with a uniform aspect. The unquestionable effect of civilization is, not merely to smooth the inequalities of the surface, but to conceal the actual material—the rough, the hard, the cold, or the pernicious within. But there is no one operation of man, by which human nature is so deeply and so distinctly penetrated and tested, as a true narrative of the career of men acting a prominent part in the world. History is comparatively feeble to this powerful searcher. Its heroes and heroines are placed so palpably on a stage; its dramatis personae are so distant and so disciplined; its positions are so openly arranged for effect, that the nearest approach is only conjecture, as the nearest approach to reality is only illusion. Courts and campaigns are not human life. Kings and ministers, in their court pageantry, are scarcely more entitled to the name of human beings. They are factitious forms, showy spectacles, glittering effigies. But strip off the state costume; stand beside them while they are unconscious of a spectator; enter into their minds; seize their motives; measure their impulses: it is only then that we discover their affinity to the family of man, and by their vigour and virtue model our own.

The life of the Earl of Eldon is an important addition to public biography. Written by a lawyer, it has the advantage of professional knowledge—by a man of a certain experience in public, and even in official life, it exhibits that practical knowledge of affairs which nothing but practice can gain—and by a man of literary accomplishment, it adds, to its more solid merits, those graces of style which supply the last attraction to a work of manly utility. We feel even, in some degree, an uncritical, yet a not less authentic satisfaction in giving our tribute to the work of one connected with a family, whose name brings to the public mind such deep recollections of fine ability finely employed—of talents combined with the noblest triumphs of past genius and of forms and countenances eminently fitted to represent the grand and beautiful of the classic drama of England.

The father of Lord Eldon was William Scott, a merchant of good means and good repute at Newcastle, his principal business being connected with the coal trade. He lived to be seventy-nine years old, and his wife (a second marriage) to be ninety-one. By her he had thirteen children, of whom John (Lord Eldon) was the eighth. William (Lord Stowell) was born in 1745, the year of the Scottish invasion, in Heworth, where his mother had been sent for her accouchement, to avoid the perils, Newcastle then expecting a siege. After her return to Newcastle, she gave birth to John, June 4, 1751. The house was situated at the end of one of those narrow streets, which in the native dialect are called chares, the extremity being a "chare-foot." A bar story is told of a judge on circuit, who hearing a witness depose that he had seen three men come out of a "chare-foot," desired the jury to disregard his evidence altogether, as none but a madman could say that he saw three men come out of the "foot of a chair." Lord Eldon appears to have been so fond of the jest, that he once stated in the Court of Chancery, that "he had been born in a chair-foot." At the suitable age, John and his brothers were sent to the Foundation Grammar School of Newcastle, then under the headship of one Moises, fellow of Peterhouse. His predecessor had been Dawes, the well-known author of the "Miscellanea Critica"—an able scholar, but only an additional example of the frequent insufficiency of scholars to teach. Dawes was eccentric, and injured the reputation of the school. His predominant propensity while in Newcastle was bell-ringing. On his leaving that place he adopted a new taste, that of rowing. If Moises had any peculiar taste, it seems to have been flogging.

"I was once," said Lord Eldon, "the seventeenth boy whom Moises flogged, and richly did we merit it. There was an elderly lady who lived in Westgate Street, whom we surrounded, and would not allow her to go either backward or forward. She complained, and he flogged us all. When he came to me, he exclaimed, 'What, John Scott! were you there too?' And I was obliged to say, 'Yes, sir.' 'I will not stop,' said he, 'you shall all have it.' But I think I came off best, for his arm was rather tired with the sixteen who went before me."

A flogging may be all very well in its recollection fifty years after. But the impression of the moment was, we presume, not quite so favourable. The inevitable consequence of this habit was to spoil both master and scholars. It made the timid boy pusillanimous, while it made the fierce more indignant and resentful. What could be the feelings of the master who could inflict almost agony on seventeen mere children, let the offence be what it might? Yet the offence was trifling; troublesome behaviour to an old woman in the street. A slight reprimand, or trivial fine, would have properly finished the affair; but then comes the flagellation.

But our great public schools exhibit another offence; the system of fagging alike foolish and mischievous. It only teaches the elder boys to be tyrants, and the younger to be liars and slaves. In practice, it promises to correct itself, by destroying the great schools. The proprietary schools, and other institutions for the education of the people, have uniformly discountenanced this abominable nuisance; and we know none whose abolition would do more credit to the heads of the church, or, if they should remain indolent on the subject, to the heads of the legislature.

William Scott, in 1761, was sent to Oxford as a candidate for a Durham scholarship, which he obtained, but which was perilled by a blunder of the head of Corpus Christi college. This worthy person delivered his opinion in this style:—"I think, gentlemen, there can be no doubt that young Scott is by far the best scholar of them. But he has told us that his father is a fiddler, and I do not quite like to take the son of a fiddler into the college." The doctor was an ass for his dictum; and it is only to be regretted that he did not live to express this impudent opinion in our day. England is certainly growing more rational, whatever colleges may be. Language of that sort, used in a country which boasts that no artificial impediment can be suffered to exist in the career of genius and virtue, would quickly meet the reception merited by its arrogant absurdity. The "fiddler" was a blunder of the doctor for "fitter," the local name of the coal trade.

William, in his twentieth year, became a tutor; John was intended for a coal-merchant, but his brother desired that he should be sent to Oxford. "Send Jack up to me," were the words; "I can do better for him here." He was then under fifteen.

A striking anecdote marks his first starting in life. "When I left school to go to Oxford," said Lord Eldon, "I came up from Newcastle to London in a coach, then denominated, on account of its quick travelling, 'a Fly,' being three or four days and nights on the road. On the panels were the words, Sat cito, si sat bene, (Fast enough, if well enough,) which made a most lasting impression on my mind, and have had their influence on my conduct in all subsequent life." He then exhibits a specimen of that sly humour which characterized him to the last.

"A Quaker fellow-traveller stopped the coach at the inn at Tuxford to give the chambermaid a sixpence, telling her that he had forgotten it when he slept there two years before. I was a very saucy boy, and I said to him, 'Friend, have you seen the motto on the coach?' 'No.' 'Then look at it, for I think giving her only sixpence now is neither sat cito nor sat bene."

On his arrival in London, he was overturned, with his brother, in a sedan chair. "This," thought he, "is more than sat cito, and it certainly is not sat bene." He concludes more gravely by saying, "It was this impression which made me that deliberative judge, as some have said too deliberative. And reflection upon all that is past, will not authorize me to deny, that while I have been thinking, 'Sat cito, si sat bene,' I may not have sufficiently remembered whether 'Sat bene, si sat cito' has had its due influence."

The chief feature of this portion of the biography is its recollections of remarkable persons. We have heard this one of Johnson before: but the names and place are now first given from Lord Eldon's anecdote-book.

"I had a walk in the New Inn Hall garden with Dr Johnson, Sir Robert Chambers, and some other gentlemen, (Chambers was principal of the Hall, and Vinerian professor of law. He was at this period on the point of proceeding to India as judge.) Sir Robert was gathering snails, and throwing them over the wall into his neighbour's garden. The doctor attacked him roughly, and charged his conduct as being unneighbourly. 'Sir,' said Sir Robert, 'my neighbour is a dissenter.' 'Oh,' said the doctor, 'if so, toss away, toss away as hard as you can!'"

This was evidently one of Johnson's odd freaks, a piece of his growling humour; for though no man disliked sectarianism more, no man had a stronger sense of charity to all.

His manners now and then exhibited strange absence. Lord Eldon says that he had seen him standing for a considerable time, with one foot on each side of the kennel of the High Street of Oxford, gazing at the water.

It was proverbially dangerous to contradict him. Dr Mortimer, head of Lincoln college, happened occasionally to interrupt him, by saying, "I deny that," while Johnson was holding forth. At length he said, "Sir, sir, you must have forgotten that an author has said, (he then repeated in Latin,) one ass will deny more in one hour, than a hundred philosophers will prove in a hundred years."

During the year 1774 and 1775, John Scott held the office of a tutor of University college; but he appears to have left the duty to Fisher and William Scott, his brother, those two dividing the emoluments. However, he was more importantly employed when he gave lectures on the law as deputy to Sir Robert Chambers, for which he had L.60 a-year. His first essay was sufficiently ridiculous. The law professor sent him his first lecture, which he was to read immediately to the students, and which he began, without knowing its contents. It happened to be on the statute 4th and 5th, Philip and Mary, on young men running away with young women. "Fancy me," said his lordship, "reading with about 140 boys and young men giggling at the professor." While Scott was eating his terms at the Middle Temple, he had some opportunities of seeing Mr Sergeant Hill, the great lawyer of his day, eminent for learning, and scarcely less so for eccentricity. Hill one day stopped Scott in the hall, and said, "Pray, young gentleman, do you think herbage and pannage rateable to the poor's rate?" Scott replied "that he could not presume to give an opinion to so learned a personage." "Upon my word," said the sergeant, "you are a pretty sensible young gentlemen—I don't often meet with such. If I had asked Mr Burgess, a young leader upon our circuit, the question, he would have told me that I was an old fool." Hill began an argument in the King's Bench thus:—"My Lord Mansfield and judges, I beg your pardon."—"Why brother Hill, do you ask our pardon?"—"My lords," said he, "I have seventy-eight cases to cite."—"Seventy-eight cases!" said Lord Mansfield; "you can never have our pardon if you cite seventy-eight cases!" After the court had given its decision, which was against the sergeant's client, Lord Mansfield said, "Now, brother Hill, that the judgment is given, you can have no objections, on account of your client, to tell us your real opinion, and whether you do not think we are right; you know how we all value your opinion and judgment." Hill wished to be excused; but as he always thought it his duty to do what the court desired, "Upon my word," said he, "I did not think that there were four men in the world who could have given such an ill-founded judgment as you four, my lords, have pronounced." This style, however, must have been now and then intolerable.

When Baron Hotham was placed in the Exchequer, he gave a dinner, as is usual on those occasions, at Sergeant's Inn, to the judges and sergeants. Hotham had been unsuccessful at the bar. Hill, in drinking his health, called him Baron Botham. Somebody whispered the real name to him. Hill said aloud, "I beg your pardon, Mr Baron Hotham; but none of us ever heard your name in the profession before this day." In justice to the baron, however, Lord Eldon adds the following note:—"The Baron made an extremely good judge. He had not much legal learning; but he had an excellent understanding, great discretion, unwearied patience, and his manners were extremely engaging; and those qualities ensuring to him in a very large measure the assistance of the bar, he executed his duties as a judge with great sufficiency."

Shortly after his commencing the profession, Scott reduced himself into a state of invalidism by excessive study. In 1774, when he and Cookson, another invalid, were returning to Oxford from Newcastle, where they had gone to vote at the general election, the good-natured cook of the inn at Birmingham, where they arrived at eleven at night, insisted on dressing something hot for them, saying that she was sure neither of them would live to see her again. A medical friend remonstrated with him on the severity of his studies. "It is not matter," answered Scott, "I must either do as I am now doing, or starve." He rose at four in the morning, observed a careful abstinence at his meals, and, to prevent drowsiness, read at night with a wet towel round his head. At last it became necessary, as the time of being called to the bar approached, to provide a dwelling in London. In his latter days, he pointed out a house in Cursitor Street. "There," said he, "was my first perch. Many a time have I run down from that house to Fleet Market, to get sixpennyworth of sprats for supper." At this period, in mentioning to his brother the kindness of a great conveyancer, Mr Duane, whom he attended as a gratuitous pupil, he says—"This conduct of his has taken a great load of uneasiness off my mind; as, in fact, our profession is so exceedingly expensive that I almost sink under it. I have got a house barely sufficient to hold my small family, which will, in rent and taxes, cost me L.60. I have been buying books, too, for the last ten years; but I have got the mortification to find that, before I can settle, that article of trade—for so I consider it—will cost me near L.200." Of Duane's service to him, he said, a little more than a fortnight before his death, "The knowledge I acquired of conveyancing in his office, was of infinite service to me during a long life in the Court of Chancery."

In Hilary Term 1776, Scott was called to the bar by the Society of the Middle Temple. When we recollect what a leviathan of wealth the Lord Chancellor was in his latter days, it is amusing to read the statement of his early struggles, however painful they must have been at the time. "When I was called to the bar," said he, "Bessy (his wife) and I thought all our troubles were over. Business was to pour in, and we were to be almost rich immediately. So I made a bargain with her, that, during the following year, all the money that I should receive during the first eleven months should be mine, and whatever I should get in the twelfth month should be hers. What a stingy dog I must have been to make such a bargain! I would not have done so afterwards. But, however, so it was— that was our agreement; and how do you think that it turned out? In the twelfth month I received half-a-guinea. Eighteen-pence went for fees, and Bessy got nine shillings. In the other eleven months I got not one shilling." This was but sorry encouragement; but such is the profession. Men must wait. Property, or perhaps life, will not trust themselves to inexperience; and thus, from the very nature of the Bar, a long period of probation must be borne by all.

There had been an old and invidious conception which represented the Lord Chancellor as the son of a coal-heaver. It appears from the memoir that his father was, on the contrary, possessed of property very considerable in those days. He was what we should now call a broker in the coal-trade—technically, a coal-fitter or factor—who transacted business between the coal-owner and the ship-owner. He was intelligent and industrious, and prospered accordingly; leaving, at his death, property worth L.25,000 to his eldest son William; another L.1000 to John; making, in the whole, L.3000, and respectable sums to his other children. He appears to have realized above L.30,000—a sum equal to nearly double at the present day.

Lord Eldon, though all gravity on the bench, and seldom indulging in any sportiveness in parliament, was a humorist at table, and fond of humorous recollections. His story of Dunning on his travels has got into print; but, in the hands of a genuine humorist, it must have been an incomparable ground for burlesque. Dunning, when solicitor-general, had gone to see the Prussian reviews. Some of these were profoundly secret, and were presumed to be experiments in those tactical novelties with which Frederick dazzled Europe. But others were showy displays, to which the king invited the princes and generals of the Continent. Dunning had announced himself as Solicitor-General of England. Frederick, either knowing nothing of solicitors, though much of generals, or what is more probable—for he was the most deliberate wag in existence—determining to play the lawyer a trick, ordered him to be received as a general officer, and provided him with a charger for his presence at the grand display. Dunning, long unused to ride, soon found that he had his master under him. The charger, as well disciplined as one of his majesty's grenadiers, and delighting, like the horse of Joab, in the "trumpets and the shouting" of the captains, rushed every where with his unwilling rider; and it was not till after a day of terror, in which his cavalry exploits must have exposed him to frequent laughter, that the lawyer escaped from the din of battles, and rejoiced to find himself with unfractured bones, resolved never to play the general officer again.

There may be "some things new under the sun," in contradiction to the proverb; but they are not many, at least in wit. The story of the celebrated cardinal, who proved that the sun went round the moon, and vice versa, is sufficiently wall known. Dunning's pleading pro and con. is vouched for from Scott's personal experience. Dunning led in a cause in which Scott was junior counsel. The leader so evidently reasoned against his own client, that Scott, after long amazement, at last touched his arm, and whispered that he was speaking on the wrong side. Dunning instantly perceived his mistake, and gave him a rough reprimand (we may presume sotto voce) for having suffered him to go on so long. He then recovered himself with his habitual dexterity; said that he had stated all that could be urged against his client, and that he would then proceed to show how utterly futile was the argument.

A good deal of his early life on the circuit was passed with Lee, then the leader of the northern circuit, and a man of great vigour of mind. A curious question once rose between them on professional morality. At supper one night, Scott made the remark, that Lee always exerted himself to gain a verdict by a display of his great legal knowledge; but not always with a regard to the accuracy of either his law or his facts. Lee contended that it was the duty of counsel to state what the party himself would have stated, and get a verdict if he could. He, however, pondered on it; and, as they were retiring for the night, said, "Scott, I have been thinking of the question you asked me; and I am not quite sure that the conduct you represented will bring a man peace at the last."

Lord Eldon quotes Johnson's opinion, which had been referred to—and which stated that it was the duty of counsel, after having stated the law and the facts exactly, to exert his abilities to the utmost to gain his cause—the judge being supposed the abler lawyer, and the reasoning of the bench amending what was erroneous in that of the bar. Lord Eldon adds, in his rather too dubious way—"It may be questioned whether even this can be supported." Of course it may. The object of law is to do justice; and justice is not done if the ingenuity of an able advocate is entitled to gain a false verdict. For how is this to be gained? Either by a suppression of the truth in part, or by a colouring of the falsehood, or by an invention of facts, aided by a misinterpretation of law; all palpably against conscience. The true rule appears to be—the lawyer stands in the place of the client, to do what the client would and could have done, if he had equal skill in exhibiting the circumstances, and equal knowledge of the law which bore upon them. But as the client has no right to tell an untruth of any kind for himself, so neither has the lawyer the right to tell it for him. The lawyer's taking a brief in a cause of which he has a bad opinion, is wholly a different matter. The custom of the bar justly decides that he must not refuse the brief, because he cannot be sure that he knows the whole cause; for facts unexpected, and even unknown, may start up; he may be mistaken in his personal conception of the facts, the motives, and the law: new facts may come out on the trial. There is a judge to decide on hearing both sides, and the counsel has no right to assume the office of the judge. Of course, if he is made aware of any fraud in the conduct of the case, or even suspects it, he must abandon his brief at once.

Lee's manner was of that rough and ready kind which always tells with a jury. Once, after a very keen cross-examination, the witness charged him with severity to one who was his relation. "Why, how do you make that out," said Lee. The man stated the genealogy. "Well," said Lee, "I believe you are right. I only wish, my good fourth or fifth cousin, you would speak a little truth for the honour of the family; for not one word of truth have you spoken yet."

Even this able man had gone many years to York without a single brief; and even then began only on a burlesque case, fabricated by his brother barristers.

Accuracy of recollection is obviously of peculiar importance at the bar; but the profession has sometimes exhibited surprising instances of this faculty. Lord Eldon spoke of Chief Justice De Grey's powers of memory as extraordinary. De Grey suffered so much from the gout, the he used to come into court with both hands wrapped in flannel. He thus could not take a not. "Yet I have known him," said Lord Eldon, "try a cause that lasted nine or ten hours, and then, from memory, sum up all the evidence with the greatest correctness. When counsel offered any intimation of his inaccuracy, his answer was—'I am sure I am right; refer to your short-hand writer's notes;' and he was invariably found to be right." A similar faculty is possessed by that very distinguished person, Lord Lyndhurst.

It is remarkable that none of the lucky accidents which have raised so many inferior men into prosperity ever occurred to Scott, who was yet destined to rise to such opulence and eminence. His first steps in life might be regarded as all but ruin. He abandoned his college, where he had secured at least existence; and he abandoned it for a profession proverbially hazardous, and in which, for whole years, he made nothing. At this period, too, when scarcely able to support himself, he ran away with a portionless wife; and thus began the world not merely helpless, but with a new weight which has broken down many a strong mind. The opinion of every one who took an interest in him was, that this marriage was fatal to all his prospects. It necessarily compelled him to give up all collegiate objects; and we recollect to have seen in print a fragment of a letter from his elder brother (afterwards Lord Stowell) to a friend, in these words—"Have you seen what my foolish brother has done? He has made a runaway match; he is utterly ruined." The opinion of Moises, his schoolmaster, was equally decided. "Jack Scott has run off with Bessy Surtees, and the poor lad is undone."

Scott entered as a student of the Middle Temple in January 1773. In six years after, what was his progress? We have this letter from Lord Stowell about 1779. "Business is very dull with poor Jack, very dull indeed, and of consequence he is not very lively. I heartily wish that business may brighten a little, or he will be heartily sick of his profession. I do all I can to keep up his spirits, but he is very gloomy. But mum, not a word of this to the wife of your bosom."

At length, however, day began to dawn, and his powerful understanding and solid knowledge found the opportunity, which to such means is generally all that is wanting. A conversation with an old friend lets us into a curious trait of Lord Mansfield. "Was the Court of Chancery your object when you first came to the bar?" asked Farrar. "Certainly not," answered Lord Eldon. "I first took my seat in the King's Bench; but I soon perceived, or thought I perceived, a preference in Lord Mansfield (the Chief Justice) for young lawyers who had been bred at Westminster School and Christ Church; and so, as I had belonged to neither, I thought I could not have fair chance with my fellows, and therefore I crossed over to the other side of the hall. (The Courts of King's Bench and Chancery were at that time on the opposite sides of Westminster Hall.) Lord Mansfield, I believe, was not conscious of the bias; he was a good man." Mansfield's goodness was sufficiently questioned by his contemporaries; yet if he exhibited this bias, he could not have been a just man. The cause which first made Scott known was Acroyd v. Smithson. The question was—whether, in a property willed in fifteen shares to fifteen people, one of them dying in the testator's lifetime, the lapsed share did not belong to the heir at law. He argued the case before the Master of the Rolls, Sir Thomas Sewell. "He has argued it very well," said Sewell. But he gave it against Scott. An appeal came before Lord Thurlow. Scott argued his point. Thurlow took three days to consider, and then gave his decision in favour of the heir-at-law—a decision which has settled all similar questions ever since. He then had an omen of his prosperity. As he left the hall, a solicitor of some note touched him on the shoulder, and said, "Young man, your bread and butter is cut for life."

He then had another golden opportunity. Fatigued with waiting for fortune, he was on the point of leaving London, and taking up his abode at Newcastle, of which he was offered the recordership. A house was even taken for him, when, one morning at six o'clock, Mr, afterwards Lord, Curzon, and four or five other gentlemen, came to his door, mentioning that the Clitheroe election case was to come on that morning at ten before a committee of the Commons; that one of their counsel was detained at Oxford by illness, and their second was unprepared and would not appear; and that they were sent to him as a young and promising counsel. Scott told them that, on so short a notice, all he could do would be to give a dry statement of facts. The cause thus put into his hands went on for fifteen days. "It found me poor," said Lord Eldon, "but I was to be rich before it was done. They left me fifty guineas at the beginning; then there were ten guineas every day, and five guineas every evening, for a consultation—more money than I could count. But, better still, the length of the cause gave me time to make myself thoroughly acquainted with the law." After all this, the side on which Scott was, was beaten by a single vote. But Mansfield, (afterwards Sir James,) on hearing his speech in the committee, came up to him in Westminster Hall, and strongly advised him to remain in London. Scott answered that an increasing family compelled him to leave London. Wilson, a barrister, advised as Mansfield had done, and even generously offered to make up his income to L.400 a-year. He received the same answer. "However," said the chancellor, with natural selfgratulation, "I did remain, and lived to make Mansfield chief justice of the common pleas, and Wilson a judge." Moreover, his sagacity gave him additional triumphs on the northern circuit, where he soon took the lead. He was counsel in a cause which depended on his being able to make out who was the founder of an ancient chapel in the neighbourhood. "I went to view it," said Lord Eldon. "There was nothing to be observed which gave any indication of its date or history. However, I remarked that the ten commandments were written on some old plaster, which, from its position, I conjectured might cover an arch. Acting on this, I bribed the clerk with five shillings to allow me to chip away a part of the plaster; and after two or three attempts, I found the keystone of an arch, on which were engraved the arms of an ancestor of one of the parties. This evidence decided the cause. Here was an instance of good-luck, undoubtedly, but also of great diligence and great sagacity. A negligent counsel would never have thought of examining the chapel in person; a dull counsel would never have thought of examining the arch; but it happens that the sagacious are generally lucky, and that, therefore, the first quality is sagacity."

Another remarkable case occurred at Durham. On this occasion, Scott, though a junior counsel, was appointed to lead by his seniors, the case being relative to collieries, and he being a Newcastle man. When Buller the judge, who was a coarse man, and fond of saying abrupt things, saw him, he said, "Sir, you have not a leg to stand upon." Scott answered, "My lord, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, I should sit down on hearing the judge so express himself; but so persuaded am I that I have the right on my side, that I must entreat your lordship to allow me to reply, and I must also express my expectation of gaining a verdict." He replied, and the jury, after consulting six or eight hours, gave the verdict in his favour. When he went to the ball that evening, he was received with open arms by every one.

When he went to Carlisle, Buller sent for him, and told him that "he had been thinking over that case on his way from Newcastle, and that he had come to the conclusion that he was entirely wrong, and that I was right. He had, therefore, sent for me to tell me this, and to express his regret for having attempted to stop me in court. This cause," said Lord Eldon, "raised me aloft."

Yet this man, with all his ability, had already attended the Cumberland assizes for seven years without receiving a brief. After the celebrity of this cause, when he next attended, he received seventy guineas in fees at Carlisle.

So much has been said in parliament, and in the newspapers lately, of Gentlemen of the Turf, and the very dubious nature of that appellation, that the following case comes curiously in point. A question arose as to the winner of the stakes in a race—there having been a condition, that the horses should be ridden by gentlemen; and it was disputed whether the winning horse had been ridden by a gentleman or not. The judge finally addressed the jury in these words—"Gentlemen of the jury, when I see you in that box I call you gentlemen, for I know you are such. Custom has authorized me, and, from your office there, you are entitled to be called gentlemen; but out of that box, I do not know what may be deemed the requisites that constitute a gentleman—therefore I can give you no direction," (a laugh.) The jury returned a verdict that he was not a gentleman. The next morning he challenged the two counsel, Law and Scott. They answered, they could not possibly fight one who had been pronounced by the verdict of a jury to be no gentleman.

Politics now began to rise in the prospects of this intelligent and indefatigable mind. The condition of the English lawyer forms as striking a contrast to that of the Continental jurisconsult, as the English constitution to the despotisms of Europe. Abroad, the lawyer may be a man of whatever extent of attainment, but his sphere is strictly professional; within that range he lives, makes a scanty income, with a still more scanty fame, disputes for forty or fifty years, and dies. France, of late years, is partially an exception, for France now extends the range of her professions; but in all the rest, the existence of the lawyer closely resembles the existence of the quadruped in the mill. In England all is of a different and a higher order. The bar itself is but a step; distinction in the courts is only the first stage of an ascent which may raise the individual to eminence in government, as well as dignity in the high places of his profession—it is the preparative for wearing those honours which form a family, and give a pledge to fortune. As the ancients said of the eagle, that, before he takes his flight for the day, he prepares his wings by plunging them in the mountain stream, the great lawyer has plunged in the depths of his profession only to ascend into a higher range of power and prospect, and there to steer his strong flight to the possession of all that man can desire.

On the formation of the Coalition ministry under North and Fox in 1783, the great seal being in commission, Scott was appointed king's counsel; but in this instance, so important to a young barrister, he yet showed manliness. Saturday was the day on which he was to receive this honour; but on ascertaining the Erskine and Pigot, both his juniors, and who were also to have silk gowns, were to be sworn in on the Friday, he instantly retracted his acceptance, as, "he could not submit to any waiver of his professional rank." The lords-commissioners called him before them, and argued the matter pressingly. But he would not give way. At last, as the patents for the two other counsel had already passed the great seal, they were sworn in on the Friday; but a patent of precedence was given to Scott, by which he took rank before them. The day of his patent was the 4th of June 1783: he was then thirty-two years old. Late in life, a friend asked whether he thought it was important thus to insist on retaining his rank. Eldon, with the experience of half a century, answered with great earnestness, "It was every thing. I owed my future success to it." There is a moral in the words of Wiseman—"The man who begins by humiliation, will soon find that the world will judge of him by his own deed."

Lord Eldon, in one of those conversations, strikingly remarked a similar conduct in the celebrated Lord Collingwood, who had been his schoolfellow. "Medals were given," said his lordship, "on the 1st of June, but not to him. When the medal was sent to him for Cape St Vincent, he returned it, saying that he felt conscious he had done his duty as well on the 1st of June as at Cape St Vincent; and that, if he did not merit the first medal, neither could he merit the second. He was quite right," said Lord Eldon, "he would have both or neither. Both were sent to him."

Parliament now opened to his ambition. Lord Thurlow, at Lord Weymouth's request, offered him Weobly, a borough in his patronage, (extinguished by the Reform Act of 1832.) Scott accepted the offer, on the condition that he should be left independent in his opinions. Thurlow said the "he had stipulated that already." Scott went down to the borough accordingly, made a "long speech," which the electors said they expected from him, "as he was a lawyer: it being also a treat which they had not enjoyed for thirty years." Lord Surrey, (afterwards Duke of Norfolk,) a prodigious reformer—a profession which, however, did not prevent him from constantly dabbling in the intrigues of electioneering—had harangued against him at Hereford, while Scott retorted at Weobly by smartly saying—"That though then unknown to them, he hoped he should entitle himself to more of their confidence, than if, being the son of the first Duke of England, he had held himself out to them as a reformer, whilst riding, as the Earl of Surry rode, into the first town of the county, drunk, upon a cider-cask, and talking in that state of reform!" Lord Surrey had been his client, and on meeting him in France afterwards, good-humouredly said—"I have had enough of meddling with you; I shall trouble you no more."

An odd incident, valuable to those who value foresightedness in this world's affairs, occurred at the time Scott was lodged at the vicar's, Mr Bridges. He had a daughter, a young child, and he said—"Who knows but you may come to be chancellor. As my girl can probably marry nobody but a clergyman, promise me you will give her husband a living when you have the seals." His answer was, "My promise is not worth half-a-crown; but you may have my promise." In after life, the child, then in womanhood, walked one morning into the chancellor's drawing-room, and claimed the fulfilment of his promise. It was duly performed, and she married.

There is perhaps no subject of human interest more entitled to an anxious and solemn curiosity, than the sentiments of a man of powerful and fully furnished mind in the immediate prospect of death. The coming change is so total and so tremendous, alarm and a sense of the unknown are so natural, that to find unpresuming confidence, and virtuous constancy of heart, in that awful time, cheers human nature. William Scott, always distinguished for great capacity and remarkable acquirements, about this period being seized with an illness, which he thought mortal, writes these memoranda on the verge of the grave:—

My great comfort is, to write on to my dearest Jack, and about my wife.
Act for me. Wife, child. She knows I recommend her to your care.

Protect my memory by your kindness. Life ebbs very fast with me. My dying thoughts are all kindness and fraternal love about you.

While sensation remains, I think on my dearest brother, with whom I have spent my life. I die with the same sentiments. As the hand of death approaches, it is a consolation to think of him. Oh, cherish my wife! If you loved me, be a brother to her. You will have trouble about my affairs; you will not grudge it. Oh, take care of her! I leave you that duty. It is the last relief of my failing mind. Cherish my memory. Keep ——- from ruin, if you can, by any application of any part of my child's fortune that is reasonable. Once more, farewell! God bless you.

These are affecting testimonials, and show singular tenderness of heart and truth of attachment; for they were written, to be transmitted only in case of death. Those who in after times saw Lord Stowell on the bench, the solemn, and even the stern depository of justice, could scarcely imagine, in that searching glance and compressed lip, the softness of heart which those fragments indicate. Death may be a great subduer of the fierce spirit of man as it approaches; but their language is not the phrase of puling softness, or pusillanimous alarm; it is at once calm and fond, collected and fervid. The writer's natural and honourable feelings are all alive at the moment when the last pang might seem to be at hand; and though nothing is said of his Christian hopes, (probably because the care of his family demanded more urgent consideration than his personal conceptions,) language like theirs could scarcely have come but from a Christian. His disorder was a violent bilious fever, which exhausted him so much that his recovery was slow. But to those who are in the habit of consigning their friends to "inevitable death" on every infliction of disease, it may excite some useful doubt of their own infallibility, to know that this dying man, then thirty-eight, survived for half a century, dying in his ninety-first year.

But the whole biography is a warning—especially against despondency. Who could suppose that, after Lord Eldon's success up to this point; his distinction on the principal circuit; the compliments of the judges; the respect of his seniors in the profession, some of them very remarkable men; his silk gown in the days of Erskine; his seat in Parliament; and, more than all, the consciousness which men of large faculties naturally have of their suitableness, and almost their certainty, to command fortune at some tine or other; we should find the future peer and chancellor desponding? Yet what but deep complaints of his cloudy prospects could have produced this reply from his clever friend Lee, (who, within three weeks' became Attorney-General?)

DEAR SCOTT—Your letter, which I received this minute, was a very cheering one to me. But keep up your spirits, and let it not be said that a good understanding, and an irreproachable life, and an uncommon success, and every virtuous expectation, are insufficient to support tranquility and composure of mind. If you are cast down who is to hold up? In a few days I hope to meet you in good health and good heart; and, in the mean time, remain your faithful and affectionate.

On the opening of the session, great popular feeling was excited against the coalition. The furious invectives which Fox had been for some years heaping on Lord North's luckless head, were now flung upon his own. Traitor, liar, swindler, were "house-hold words;" and Fox, with all his ability, and that happiest of all ability for the crisis, great constitutional good-humour, found himself suddenly overwhelmed. In the House he was still powerful; but, outside its doors, he was utterly helpless. Like the witches recorded in some of the German romances, though within the walls chosen for their orgies they could summon spirits, and revel in their incantations uncontrolled, yet, on passing the threshold, they turned into hags again. But as if to make the coalition still more odious in the popular eye, there was presented the most resistless contrast to both its chiefs in the young and extraordinary leader of the Opposition, Pitt; with the ardour of youth and the wisdom of years, at once master of the most vigorous logic, and the loftiest appeal to the public feelings; honoured as the son of Chatham; and yet, even at that immature period of his life and his career, still more honoured for the promise of talents and services which were to throw even his own eminent predecessor into the shade.

But North, apart from the cabinet, was always delightful. He had more of easy pleasantry in his manner than any favourite of English recollection. Lord Eldon, in his anecdotal book thus tells—"Lord North had gone, at the Prince of Wales's desire, to reconcile the King to him. He succeeded, and called on the Prince to inform him of his success. 'Now,' said he, 'let me beseech your Royal Highness in future to conduct yourself differently. Do so, on all accounts; do so, for your own sake; do so, for your excellent father's sake; do so, for the sake of that good-natured man, Lord North; and don't oblige him again to tell the King, your good father, so many lies, as he has been obliged to tell him this morning'"

Lord Eldon's personal narrative is a sort of comment on the whole public history of his time. Why did not such a man write his own "Life and Times?" Intelligent as are the Volumes before us, the personal conceptions arising on the personal knowledge, would have been invaluable as experience. His view of transactions in their embryo, in their full growth, and in their impression on the general policy and progress of the government, would have formed an important lesson for statesmanship to come. But what an indulgence must it have furnished to the national curiosity, which, seeing the origin of all things in individual character, justly regards the eminent characters of that day as the founders of every remarkable change which has shaped the constitution in our own! Public life has never before or since abounded in such variety, strength, and brilliancy of character. A combination of talents of the very highest order was exhibited in both the Lords and Commons; and it would actually seem as if this combination were preparatory to the tremendous demands which, before the close of the century, were to be made upon the wisdom, the courage, and the constancy of the British legislature. And why should there not be such preparation? We see preparation a principle in the whole course of nature. We see, in the formation of individual character, a preparative, and sometimes a most distinct and powerful one, for the duty which the coming crisis is yet to demand; and why shall not legislatures, as well individuals, be placed in that condition of effectiveness, and trained to that exertion of power, which is subsequently to be required for the providential deliverance of nations? It is remarkable that the discussions in which parliament at this period was engaged, though local, and of course altogether inferior to those comprehensive struggles which were to follow, were yet of a nature singularly calculated to call forth practical ability. There never was a period since the Revolution of 1688, in which party was so vigorously brought into conflict, in which personal interests gave so strong a stimulus to the association of principles, in which office so rapidly shifted hands, and power was so much the creature of reputation. Thus the whole character of this period was an appeal to popularity; an appeal of all others the most calculated to bring out every latent faculty of the orator, the constitutionalist, and the statesman. A still greater period, unknown and unexpected by every man, was to have the advantage of this preparation. The French Revolution, which burst with such irresistible violence over the Continent, was to find the ramparts of public principle and legislative wisdom repaired and strengthened in England, and those ramparts manned with defenders who had learned the use of their weapons in the mock conflicts of peace, and, when the day of danger came, showed themselves invincible.

The India bill broke down the Coalition ministry; it was the most insolent experiment ever made on the constitution—a compound of republican daring and despotic power. It would have made the king a cipher, and parliament a slave. The exclusive patronage of India would have enabled the minister to corrupt the legislature. The corruption of the legislature would have made the minister irresponsible: the constitution would thus have been inevitably suspended, and the national liberties incapable of being restored except by a national convulsion. But those evils were happily avoided by the manliness of the king and the loyalty of the lords. The India bill was thrown out in the House of Lords on the 17th of December. The king lost no time in giving effect to this discomfiture. At the extraordinary hour of twelve o'clock on the following night, an order was sent to the two secretaries of state, North and Fox, that they should deliver up the seals by his majesty's command; adding the contemptuous injunction, that they should send them by the under-secretaries, the king not suffering a personal interview.

Pitt was placed at the head of the new administration as first lord of the treasury and chancellor of the exchequer. Thurlow was again made lord chancellor, and Kenyon and Arden attorney and solicitor-generals. In the debates on the India bill, one of Sheridan's pleasantries is recorded. As Fox's majorities declined, it was hinted by his party that John Robinson, the secretary of the treasury, was purchasing the votes. On Sheridan's making the charge without naming the supposed culprit, a great outcry arose in the House of "Name him, name him!" "Sir," said Sheridan, addressing the Speaker, "I shall not name the person; it is an invidious and unpleasant thing to do; but don't suppose that I could find any difficulty in naming him: I could do it as soon as you could say Jack Robinson."

Pitt having waited with consummate judgment, though against the advice of all his supporters, until Fox had worn down his majorities in the House, and totally disgusted the nation, dissolved the parliament. The measure was triumphant; an unequaled Tory majority was returned in the next session, and the Whigs were extinguished as a party for nearly twenty years. Lord Eldon records a curious acknowledgment of Fox with respect to the power of the pencil. "Sayers's caricatures," said he, "did me more mischief than the debates in Parliament or the attacks of the press." Lord Eldon observes that the prints of Carlo Khan; Fox running away with the India House; Fox and Burke quitting Paradise when turned out of office, and similar publications, had certainly a vast effect on the public mind. Let HB triumph on this, and make his claim on the ministry. Scott was again returned for Weobly, and gives a curious instance of the slight incidents by which elections are sometimes determined. In crossing the country from Lancaster to the hustings at his borough, he stopped at the last stage to have his hair dressed. The hairdresser asked him whether Sir Gilbert Elliott was not one of the seven kings—a name of ridicule given to Fox's seven proposed commissioners for India. "Because," said the man, "there is a Sir Gilbert Elliott a candidate for the borough; and we are all agreed that, if he is one of the seven kings, we will have nothing to say to him; and as we wish to be sure about it, and as you must know, sir, excuse my freedom in asking whether he really is one of the seven kings." Scott answered that he certainly was. The hairdresser immediately made proclamation of the fact, and Sir Gilbert was totally defeated.

Very curious instances of character occur in the experience of counsel. Lord Eldon gives one of them as occurring to himself. "Once," said he, "I had a very handsome offer made to me. I was pleading for the rights of the inhabitants of the Isle of Man. Now I had been reading in Coke, and I found there that the people in the Isle of Man were no beggars," (the words are, 'The inhabitants of this Isle are religious, industrious, and true people, without begging or stealing.') "I therefore do not beg their rights, I demand them. This so pleased an old smuggler who was present, that when the trial was over, he called me aside and said, 'Young gentleman, I tell you what, you shall have my daughter if you will marry her, and one hundred thousand pounds for her fortune.' That was a very handsome offer, but I told him that I happened to have a wife who had nothing for her fortune, therefore I must stick to her." In December of this year 1784, Johnson died. "He was a good man," said Lord Eldon; "he sent me a message on his death-bed, to request that I would make a point of attending public worship every Sunday, and that the place should be the Church of England."

An excellent anecdote, illustrative of the advantages of knowing some thing of every thing, is given on a trial at Carlisle. Bearcroft, a celebrated advocate, was brought down on a special retainer of three hundred guineas, in a salmon fishery cause. Scott led on the other side; and at a consultation held the evening before, it was determined to perplex Bearcroft, by examining all the witnesses in the dialect of Cumberland, and, as it appears, in the patois of the fishermen. Accordingly, when Scott began to cross-examine his first witness, who said a good deal out the salmon good and bad, he asked whether they were obliged to make ould soldiers of any of them. Bearcroft asked for an explanation of the words, which Scott would not give him. He then asked the judge, who answered that he did not know. After a squabble, the phrase was explained; but nearly every other question produced a similar scene. The jury were astonished that neither judge nor Bearcroft understood what they all understood so well, and they inferred from Bearcroft's ignorance that he had a rotten cause. The consequence was, that Bearcroft lost the cause; and he swore that no fee should ever tempt him to come among such a set of barbarians as the Cumberland men again.

An ould soldier is made by hanging up in a chimney a salmon caught out of season, when the fish is white instead of red, and it acquires by hanging the colour of an old red coat.

Cross-examination may sometimes produce peril to the performer. At the assizes, Scott once examined a barber severely. The barber got into a great passion, and Scott desired him to moderate his anger, and that he should employ him to shave him as he passed through Kendal to the Lancaster assizes. 'The barber said, with great indignation, "I would not advise you, lawyer, to think of that, or risk it."

Scott's reputation was now rising year by year, in both Parliament and his profession; and Lord Mansfield's resignation, in 1788, of the chief-justiceship of the King's Bench making a general move in the higher orders of the bar, Scott was appointed solicitor-general, Kenyon being appointed to the chief-justiceship, and the attorney-general, Arden, succeeding to the Rolls. On this occasion he was knighted. A melancholy event soon gave him the most public opportunity for the display of his official faculties. In the autumn of 1788, the king was attacked with disorder of the mind, and the great question of the regency necessarily came before Parliament. The Whigs, who regarded the Prince of Wales as their dependent, if not as their dupe, insisted on his succession to the unlimited prerogatives of the sovereign; the Tories insisted, on the other hand, that Parliament alone had a right to confer the regency and to assign its powers, though they admitted that the choice, in the present instance, ought to fall upon the Prince of Wales. A question of this importance naturally brought out all the ability on both sides. Pitt and the solicitor-general took the lead on the side of limitation, and the prince ultimately accepted the regency on their terms. It became unnecessary, however; for, while the bill was in the House of Lords, a communication was made by the chancellor, that the king's health was in a favourable state.

Lord Thurlow had been universally charged with carrying on an intrigue with the Opposition, for the purpose of continuing in office under the regency. Lord Eldon's belief is introduced against that charge; but there can be no doubt whatever that the charge was universally rumoured at the time; that anecdotes confirmatory of the fact were told in every direction; that no known attempt was ever made to answer them; and that, from the period of the regency, an alienation arose, which finally determined his dismissal by the minister. The well-known boast of the chancellor's loyalty to the incapacitated king, which produced such animadversion in the House, and such burlesque out of it—Burke's ridicule of his official sensibilities, "the iron tears down Pluto's cheeks," were all founded on the public belief of this intrigue. And it is certainly no answer, at the end of half a century of uncontradicted opinion, to say that no formal accusation on the subject was made on the king's recovery, when the whole subject of the regency had become alike distasteful to both sides of the House—to Ministers, from delicacy to the king; and to Opposition, from a sense of failure.

Soon after Scott became solicitor-general, the king, at Weymouth, said, "Well, I hope your promotion has been beneficial to you?" He asked his majesty if he meant his professional income. "Yes," said the king, "in that and in other respects." Scott told him that he must lose by it about £2000 a-year; and on the king expressing surprise, he said "That the attention of the law-officers was called to matters of international law, public law, and revenue law—matters which, as they were not familiar to them, took up a good deal of their time, and that the fee usually given to the solicitor-general with the government cases was only three guineas, while those from private cases were from ten to twenty-five." "Oh!" said the king, "then for the first time I comprehend what I never could understand, why it has always been so difficult to get any opinion from my law-officers."

At the close of the session of 1792, Lord Thurlow gave up the great seal. "What it was," said Lord Eldon afterwards, "that occasioned the rupture between Lord Thurlow and his colleagues, I never could find out." We here see an instance of the ignorance in which a high official was content to remain, on a subject which might naturally and fairly excite his curiosity. It is obvious that he wished to keep himself out of the mêlée and took the best probable way of doing so, by asking no questions. But a dilemma arose out of this resignation to Scott himself. Pitt sent for him, and said, "I have a circumstance to mention to you, which, on account of your personal and political connexion with Lord Thurlow, I wish that you should first hear from myself. Lord Thurlow and I have quarreled, and I have signified to him his Majesty's commands that he should resign the great seal." Scott replied, that he was not at all surprised at the event which had taken place; but added, that he owed too great obligations to Lord Thurlow to reconcile it to himself to act in political hostility to him, and he had also been too long in political connexion with the minister to join any party against him; so that nothing was left but to resign his office, and make his bow to the House of Commons. Pitt argued against this, and finally induced him to consult Lord Thurlow. Thurlow at once told him, that to resign would be a foolish thing; adding in the spirit of a prediction, which was afterwards strikingly realized, "it is very possible that Mr Pitt, from party and political motives, at this moment may overlook your pretensions; but, sooner or later, you, must hold the great seal. I know no man but yourself qualified for its duties."

If the ex-chancellor was complimentary to Scott, it notoriously was not his habitual style; the fierceness of his tone was well known. His language of Loughborough, who succeeded him, was savagely contemptuous. On one occasion, when the latter was speaking with considerable effect on a subject on which Lord Thurlow had an adverse opinion, though he did not regard himself as sufficiently master of it for direct refutation, he was heard to mutter, "If I was not as lazy as a toad at the bottom of a well, I could kick that fellow Loughborough heels over head, any day in the week."

Thurlow told the Prince that though Loughborough "had the gift of the gab in a marvellous degree, he was no lawyer;" and added, "in the house of Lords I get Kenyon or somebody to start some law doctrine, in such a manner that the, fellow must get up to answer it, and then I leave the woolsack, and give him such a thump in his bread-basket that he cannot recover himself."

The solicitor-general was now growing rich, and he purchased for L.22,000 the manor of Eldon, a property of about 1300 acres in the county of Durham. He was an "improving landlord," and for several years he expended the income of the estate on planting—which at once much increased its value, and added to the beauty of that part of the county of Durham.

In 1793, he ascended another step in his profession, by his appointment to the great office of attorney-general, in succession to Sir Archibald Macdonald, who was made chief baron of the exchequer. The new attorney-general was soon summoned to the highest exercise of his abilities, his learning, and his courage; he commenced office in the midst of national convulsion.

The Revolution of France, which had been growing violence and havoc for the last four years, had now arrived at its height. The change, beginning with popular reform in 1789, had, in 1793, been consummated in regicide. The republic proclaimed in the year before, within three months had darkened into a democracy. The general alarm of the continental kings; combined them in an attempt to overthrow a government which threatened them all; the attempt was found to result only in consolidating its power; and, in the first year of war, France presented to the disaffected of all nations, the tempting spectacle of a land in which the foremost prizes of power had fallen into the hands of men of the humblest condition; and in which those men humbled to the dust the proudest diadems of Europe. Obscure pamphleteers, country advocates, monks, and editors of struggling journals, were suddenly seen in the first offices of state, wielding the whole power of the mightiest kingdom of the Continent, absorbing its revenues, directing its armies, and moving in the rank of princes among the proud hereditary sovereignties of the world. To the crowd of unprincipled men, engendered by the habits of European life, and their consciousness of abilities fully equal to those which had won such opulent enjoyments and lofty distinctions in France, the success of the Revolution was an universal summons to conspiracy. On the Continent that conspiracy was, according to the habits of the people, crafty and concealed. In England, equally according to the habits of the people, it was bold and public, daring and defying. Great meetings of the population were held in the open air; committees of grievance were appointed; correspondences were spread through the country; the whole machinery of overthrow was openly erected, and worked by visible hands. Even where secresy was deemed useful by the more cautious or the more fearful, it was of a different character from the assassin-like secresy of the foreign insurgent; it was more the solemn and regulated observance of a secret tribunal. The papers which have transpired of those secret committees have all the forms of diplomacy, combined with a determination of language, and an intensity of purpose, which would do honour to a nobler cause. But the contest was now at hand, and on three men in England depended the championship of the monarchy. These three were the King, the Minister, and the Attorney-General. There were never three individuals more distinctly, and we shall scarcely hesitate to say, more providentially, prepared to meet the crisis. George III., a sovereign of the most constitutional principles, and of the most unshaken intrepidity; William Pitt, the most sagacious and the most resolute statesman that England had ever seen, formed by his manly eloquence to rule the legislature, and, by his character for integrity, to obtain the full confidence of the empire; and Sir John Scott, at once wise, calm, and bold, profoundly learned in his profession, personally brave, and alike incapable of yielding to the menaces of party or the corruptions of power. It is not to be forgotten, as a portion of that genuine public respect which in England is always withheld from even the most shining personal gifts, when stained by private profligacy, that those three were wholly and alike above the breath of slander. The king, eminent for domestic virtue; Pitt, unstained by even an imputation; and Scott, fondly attached to his wife and family.

In January 1793, the cruel murder of the innocent and unfortunate Louis XVI. had been perpetrated by the National Convention—an act which Napoleon long afterwards pronounced "a grand political error; sufficient to stamp the government not merely with guilt, but with infatuation." The French minister at the Court of St James's was ordered to leave the country, and war was proclaimed. The revolutionary committees in England now assumed increased activity. Communications were established between them and the Jacobin government; and while France prepared for War, English republicanism prepared for revolution. The time of the struggle was fully come. The English minister now buckled on his armour. A succession of vigorous measures employed the legislature during the whole period; they were fiercely combated, but they were all ultimately carried. Opposition never exhibited more brilliant parliamentary powers. Fox was matchless in declamation, alternately solemn and touching; Sheridan, Grey, and a long list of practised and indefatigable talent, were in perpetual debate; but Pitt, "with huge two-handed sway", finally crushed them all. The classic illustration of Hercules destroying the Hydra, was frequently used to express the solitary prowess of this extraordinary man in resisting the multiplied, wily, and envenomed attacks of his opponents; and he realized the fable to the full—he not merely crushed the heads, but he seared them. He extinguished that principle of evil increase, by which all the efforts of foreign governments had been baffled in their contests with Jacobinism; and in the midst of an empire at all times inclined to look with jealousy on power, and at that moment nervous for the suspended privileges of its constitution, Pitt utterly extinguished the Whigs. Fox was defeated so hopelessly, that he gave up Parliament altogether, and his party followed his example. Pitt had not merely cut down the statelier trunks of Opposition, but he had swept away the brushwood, and smote the ground with sterility. His bold enterprise had not merely taken the citadel Of faction by storm, and driven its defenders, faint-hearted and fugitive, over the face of the land, but he had sown the foundations with salt. The total solitude of the Opposition benches, during the greater part of the minister's political life, was the most unequivocal and striking evidence ever given to ministerial supremacy.

The services of the attorney-general were in another less wide, but not less important province. On the Continent, the conspirators against the state would have been thrown into dungeon for life, or shot. In France, the idol of the revolutionist of all countries, they would heave been carried before a mob tribunal, their names simply asked, their sentences pronounced, and their bodies headless within the first half hour. In England, they had the benefit of the law in all its sincerity, the assistance of the most distinguished counsel, the judgment of the most impartial tribunal, and the incalculable advantage of a trial by men of their own condition, feelings, and passions. On the 28th of October, at the Old Bailey, commenced the trial of Hardy, one of the secretaries of the chief treasonable society. The bill brought in by the grand jury had included twelve. The charges were those of "compassing the death of the king, and the subversion of the government." Hardy was a shoemaker, a man of low attainments, but active, and strongly republican. His activity had made him secretary to the London Corresponding Society, and by its direction a member of a similar body, named the Society for Constitutional Information. The direct object of all those societies was the same—to summon a national convention, which must, of course, supersede Parliament. As those societies grew more mature, instead of becoming more rational they exhibited more savage ferocity. Placards were distributed in the form of a playbill, announcing, "For the Benefit of John Bull, La Guillotine," or, "George's Head in a Basket." The airs of their meetings were Ca Ira and the Marseillaise. Attempts were made to corrupt the army. It was openly declared in their harangues, that it was "impossible to do any thing without some bloodshed, and that Pitt's and the King's heads would be upon Temple Bar." The sentiment was general, but at the conclusion of the especial harangue in which this atrocious language was first used, the whole meeting rose up, and shook hands with the madman by whom it was uttered.

The attorney-general's speech on this occasion was masterly; English jurisprudence had never before witnessed so striking a combination of refined knowledge with clear arrangement and unanswerable facts. It had one disadvantage, it was overwhelmingly long; it lasted nine hours, a period, if not beyond the strength of the advocate, palpably beyond any power of attention in the jury. But even this disadvantage arose from an honourable public feeling. The judges who examined the papers declared them to be high treason. The warrants of commitment had declared them to be high treason. Lord Eldon, in his "anecdotes" of this period, says, that, "after this, he did not think himself at liberty to let down the character of the offence." An additional and still stronger reason is given, that "unless the whole evidence was laid before the jury, it would have been impossible that the country should have ever been made fully acquainted with the danger to which it was exposed. And it appeared to him more essential to the public safety that the whole of those transactions should be published, than that any of these individuals should be convicted." This was a sentiment which does honour to the memory of a great man. He had been urged by his fellow counsel, and probably by others, to bring the accused to trial only for a misdemeanour, in the expectation of thus being sure of a verdict. But he determined to bring the case before the jury in its true shape, be the result what it might. It has been rumoured that this, too, was the opinion of Pitt, in contradiction to that of some of the cabinet. With that pre-eminent man the blood of these criminals could never have been the object. No servant of the British crown was ever less chargeable with cruelty. But the true object was, to expose the treason; to prove to the nation the actual hazards of revolutionary intrigue, and to extinguish conspiracy, however the conspirators might escape. The consequence amply justified this bold and candid determination. The conspiracy was crushed; all conspiracy was crushed. Nothing of the same degree of guilt, nor even of the same shape of guilt, ever recurred. The lesson was not the less complete, for its sparing the country the sight of the abhorred scaffold. The conspirators, though successively acquitted, were so warned by their peril that they never sinned again. All, if not converted, sank into total obscurity. The nation, freed from this nightmare, started up in fresh vigour, and began, with a unanimity in its heart, and irresistible strength in its hands, that illustrious battle for Europe, which accomplished the liberation of mankind.

The attorney-general had now given such undeniable proofs of fitness for the highest rank of his profession, that office seemed to fall to him by right of universal acknowledgment; and on a vacancy in the Common Pleas, he was promoted to the chief-justiceship in 1799, and at the same time raised to the peerage by the title of Baron Eldon. It is an instance of the dutiful and affectionate nature, which long connexion with the world and the pride of success—the two strongest temptations to heartlessness—could not extinguish, that he made a point of writing the first letter which he signed with his title to his aged mother. In this interesting document, after mentioning his double promotion, and attributing it, "under the blessing of Providence," to the lessons of virtue which he had received from his parents; he adds—"I hope God's grace will enable me to do my duty in the station to which I am called. I write in some agitation of spirits; but am anxious to express my love and duty to my mother, and affection to my sisters, when I first subscribe myself, your loving and affectionate son, ELDON."

Lord Kenyon, then chief-justice of the King's Bench, pronounced a panegyric on this promotion, congratulating the profession, and especially those who practised in the Common Pleas, on the appointment of one who would probably be found "the most consummate judge that ever sat in judgment."

The step from the office of attorney-general to the presidency of one of the courts, has been not unusual; but, as modern experience has shown, it is by no means a necessary procedure. In Lord Eldon's instance, it received the universal approval of the bar. But he held the chief-justiceship only for a year and a half, when he was raised to the summit of the bar, and sat down lord chancellor.

We hasten over the melancholy details of the following period. The labours of the attorney-general were light and cheerful compared with the toils and responsibilities of the chancellor; the disturbed state of the king's mind; the growing difficulties of that millstone round the neck of English legislation, the Popish claims; the retirement of Pitt, and the general alarm of the nation at its external hazards, formed a trial of unexampled severity to all public men. The death of the Great Minister in 1806, (23d of January,) at length broke up the Tory administration; the Whigs assumed power, and Lord Eldon, of course, resigned the Seals.

But the mere official routine of a chancellor's life is tremendous. Lord Eldon's account of one of his days, shows at what a price the honour of the Seals must be purchased. In one of his letters he says—"Mine has been no easy life. I will tell you what once happened to me. I was ill with the gout, it was in my feet, and so I was carried into my carriage, and from it was carried into court. There I remained all the day, and delivered an arduous judgment. In the evening, I went straight from my court to the House of Lords. There I sat until two in the morning, when some of the lords came and whispered to me, that I was expected to speak. I told them that I really could not, that I was ill, and could not stand. It was an important question, (the peace of Amiens,) I forgot my gout, and spoke for two hours. Well, the House broke up, I was carried home, and at six in the morning I prepared to go to bed. My poor left leg had just got in; when I recollected that I had important papers to examine; so I put on my clothes, and went to my study. I examined the papers; they related to the Recorders' Report, which had to be heard that day. I was again carried into court, where I had to deliver another arduous judgment. Again went to the House of Lords, and it was not till the middle of the second night that I got into bed!" Such desperate performances do not occur every day in the life even of lord chancellors; but the judicial labours, combined with the political, are too heavy a task for the body or the mind of any man.

The Whigs are never destined to a long supremacy. They have never come into power but in some perverted state of the public feelings. There must be some terror, or some infatuation, in the public mind, before it calls in the quack; but the moment that sees quiet succeed to disturbance, and the nation has recovered its composure, always sees the Whigs driven out of office. The death of Fox, in 1806, unquestionably deprived the party of a great popular name, but the whole strength of Whiggism survived. It was in full possession of power, and the late dissolution had filled Parliament with its adherents; still its old fate prevailed. Like ships floating over the land only by the help of an inundation, when the waters return to their channel the ships remain, only to be broken in pieces, the Whig government was broken up never to be restored, until a new convulsion in France, producing a corresponding convulsion in England, brought them into office, after a lapse of another quarter of a century.

In March 1807, a bill having been prepared as a preliminary to the Popish concession, the king pronounced it contrary to his coronation oath, and insisted on its withdrawal; the Whigs consented; but the king further insisting on a pledge that they would attempt no similar measure, they demurred, and his majesty instantly dismissed them, amidst the general rejoicing of the empire. The Duke of Portland was placed at the head of a new ministry, and Lord Eldon received the Seals.

We have now seen his lordship secure in that station which he was to retain until the close of his useful and vigorous life; we shall, therefore, abandon politics, and turn to his more numerous recollections of incident and character.

Lord Eldon as a warrior. "During the war," says his lordship, "I became one of the Lincoln's Inn volunteers—Lord Ellenborough, at the same time, being one of the corps. It happened, unfortunately for the military character of both of us, that we were turned out of the awkward squad for awkwardness! I think Ellenborough was more awkward than I was; but others thought that it was difficult to determine which was the worse." His brother William, however, was a smart officer, and commanded a corps.

Of Chief-Justice Eyre, whom he succeeded in the Common Pleas, he told—"Eyre once demanded of Wilkes, why he abused him so unmercifully in his speeches to the Livery while he was Recorder, though in private he expressed a regard for him?"—"So I have," said Wilkes, "and it is for that reason I abuse you in public. I wish to have you promoted to a judgeship."

"When Sir Robert Henley was keeper of the Great Seal, and presided in the House, he was often indignant at seeing his decrees reversed, while, not being a peer, he was not entitled to support his decisions. In the famous case of Drury and Drury, his decision having been reversed, though the bar then and still pronounced it valid, the lord keeper was very angry; and, in driving home, his coachman checked the horses. He asked—'Why he did not drive on?' The man saying—'My lord, I can't. If I do, I shall kill an old woman.'—'Drive on,' cried Henley; 'if you do kill her, she has nothing to do but to appeal to the house of Lords.' He was afterwards made lord chancellor, and this habit of reversals came to an end."

On his quitting the chancellorship, and accepting the inferior office of lord president, the Archbishop of Canterbury congratulating him on his removal from an office of unceasing fatigue to one of so much quiet, the ex-chancellor not being at all satisfied with the difference of the emoluments, answered very sulkily, "I suppose, now, you would think I was extremely civil and kind if I were to congratulate your grace on a transition from Canterbury to Llandaff."

Taylor, an extravagant personage who called himself a chevalier, and who professed extraordinary skill in the diseases of the eye, dining one day with the bar on the Oxford circuit, related many wonders which he had done. Bearcroft, a little out of humour at his self-conceit, said—"Pray, Chevalier, as you have told us a great many things which you have done, try to tell us something which you cannot do." "Nothing so easy," said Taylor; "I cannot pay my share of the dinner-bill; and that, sir, I must beg of you to do."

Lord Thurlow's oddity and abruptness, both sometimes amounting to brutality, were the constant source of amusement—at least to all but the sufferers. On a trial in which an attorney gave evidence respecting the will of a man whose death was in question, the attorney, after some puzzling, said—"My lord, hear me, the man is dead; I attended his funeral; he was my client." "Why, sir," said Thurlow, "did you not mention that at first? a great deal of time and trouble might have been saved. That he was your client is some evidence that he was dead; nothing was so likely to kill him."

At Buxton, Thurlow lodged with a surgeon, opposite to a butcher's shop.
He asked his landlord whether he or his neighbour killed the most.

Thurlow, on being asked, how he got through all his business as a chancellor, answered—"Just as a pickpocket gets through a horse-pond. He must get through." Dunning, when a similar question was put to him, answered in much the same spirit, though in a more professional style. "I divide my business into three parts: one part I do; another does itself; and the third I leave undone."

In 1807, Lord Eldon purchased the estate of Encombe in the Isle of Purbeck, for which he paid between £52,000 and £53,000, comprising a mansion with 2000 acres, a fertile valley, with a fine sea view.

In 1809, the charges brought by Colonel Wardle against the Duke of York excited great public interest. The very sound of malversation in high employments excites all the feelings of a nation with whom character is the first requisite; and the rumour that the Duke had been a party to the sale of commissions in the army by Mrs Clarke, with whom he had formed an unfortunate connexion, produced a public uproar. After discussions and examination of witnesses, which lasted six weeks, and brought infinite obloquy on the Duke and his defenders, the House of Commons resolved, by 278 to 196, that the charge of corruption, or even of connivance, against the Duke, was wholly without foundation. Upon this clearance of his character, the Duke resigned the command of the army; a subsequent motion for a censure on his conduct, was negatived without a division. The Duke of York was, beyond all question, clear of any knowledge of the practices of the very ingenious person with whom he associated, but few men have ever paid more dearly for their offence. The storm of public abuse which poured on him for months, must have been torture; and his resignation of office must have stung every feeling; and even his pecuniary sacrifice during the three years of his retirement, must have been severely felt by a prince with a narrow income for his rank. That loss could not have been less than £50,000. In 1811 he resumed the command. We must hasten to the conclusion. Lord Eldon, after witnessing the two great changes of the constitution, the Popish bill of 1829—which he calls the "fatal bill," and which he had resisted with all his vigour and learning for a long succession of years—and the Reform bill of 1832, at length found that period coming to him which comes to all. Retiring from public life, he devoted himself to his study, the society of a few old friends, and those considerations of a higher kind which he had cultivated from early life, and which returned to him, as they return to all who reverence them, with additional force when their presence was more consolatory and essential. But old age naturally strips us of those who gave an especial value to life; and after seeing his brother Lord Stowell, and Lady Eldon—his Elizabeth, for whom he seems to have always retained the tenderness of their early years—taken from him, he quietly sank into the grave, dying in 1838, January 13th, aged 87. He deserved to rest in peace—for he had lived in patriotism, integrity, and honour.

The three volumes exhibit a research which does much credit to the intelligence and industry of Mr Twiss, their author. They abound in capital anecdotes, but a few of which we have been able to give—possess passages of very effective writing—and form a work which ought to be in the library of every lawyer, statesman, and English gentleman.

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