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Title: Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 366, April, 1846

Author: Various

Release date: September 1, 2009 [eBook #29883]
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOODS EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOLUME 59, NO. 366, APRIL, 1846 ***




Produced by Brendan OConnor, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Library of Early Journals.)









  BLACKWOOD'S

  EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

  No. CCCLXVI.     APRIL, 1846.  VOL. LIX.




  CONTENTS.

  THE MARQUESS WELLESLEY,                                            385

  LETTER TO EUSEBIUS,                                                408

  THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. PART VI.,                                419

  HOW THEY MANAGE MATTERS IN "THE MODEL REPUBLIC,"                   439

  ANTONIO PEREZ,                                                     450

  RECOLLECTIONS OF A LOVER OF SOCIETY,                               463

  THE "OLD PLAYER,"                                                  473

  THE CRUSADES,                                                      475

  THE BURDEN OF SION. BY DELTA,                                      493

  RHYMED HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS,                                 496

  THE SURVEYOR'S TALE,                                               497


  EDINBURGH:

  WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;

  AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

  _To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._

  SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.


  PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.




  BLACKWOOD'S

  EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

  No. CCCLXVI   APRIL, 1846.   VOL. LIX




THE MARQUESS WELLESLEY.


The revival of noble recollections, the record of great actions, and the
history of memorable times, form one of the highest services which a
writer can offer to his country. They mould the national Character, and
upon the character depends the greatness of every nation. Why have the
mighty kingdoms of the East perished without either general reverence or
personal value, but from the absence of Character in their people; while
Greece in all its ancient periods, and Rome throughout the days of its
republic, are still the objects of classic interest, of general homage,
and of generous emulation, among all the nobler spirits of the world? We
pass over the records of Oriental empire as we pass over the ruins of
their capitals; we find nothing but masses of wreck, unwieldy heaps of
what once, perhaps, was symmetry and beauty; fragments of vast piles,
which once exhibited the lavish grandeur of the monarch, or the colossal
labour of the people; but all now mouldered and melted down. The mass
essentially wants the interest of individuality. A nation sleeps below,
and the last memorial of its being is a vast but shapeless mound of
clay.

Greece, Rome, and England give us that individuality in its full
interest. In their annals, we walk through a gallery of portraits; the
forms "as they lived," every feature distinct, every attitude preserved,
even the slight accidents of costume and circumstance placed before the
eye with almost living accuracy. Plutarch's _Lives_ is by far the most
important work of ancient literature; from this exhibition of the force,
dignity, and energy attainable by human character. No man of
intelligence can read its pages without forming a higher conception of
the capabilities of human nature; and thus, to a certain extent,
kindling in himself a spirit of enterprise.

It is in this sense that we attach a value to every work which gives us
the biography of a distinguished public character. Its most imperfect
performance at least shows us what is to be done by the vigorous
resolution of a vigorous mind; it marks the path by which that mind rose
to eminence; and by showing us the difficulties through which its
subject was compelled to struggle, and the success by which its gallant
perseverance was crowned, at once teaches the young aspirant to struggle
with the difficulties of his own career, and cheers him with the
prospect of ultimate triumph.

Of the general execution of these volumes, we do not desire to speak.
They have been professedly undertaken as a matter of authorship. We
cannot discover that the author has had any suggestion on the subject
from the family of the late Marquess, nor that he has had access to any
documents hitherto reserved from the public. He fairly enough states,
that he derived his materials largely from the British Museum, and from
other sources common to the reader. His politics, too, will not stand
the test of grave enquiry. He adopts popular opinions without
consideration, and often panegyrizes where censure would be more justly
bestowed than praise. But we have no idea of disregarding the labour
which such a work must have demanded; or of regretting that the author
has given to the country the most exact and intelligent biography which
he had the means of giving.

The Wellesley family, rendered so illustrious in our time, is of remote
origin, deriving its name from the manor of Welles-leigh, in the county
of Somerset, where the family had removed shortly after the Norman
invasion. A record in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, traces the
line up to A.D. 1239, to Michael de Wellesleigh. The family seem to have
held high rank or court-favour in the reign of Henry I., for they
obtained the "grand serjeanty" of all the country east of the river
Perrot, as far as Bristol Bridge; and there is a tradition, that one of
the family was standard-bearer to Henry I. in the Irish invasion. In
England, the family subsequently perished; the estates passing, by a
daughter, into other families.

The Irish branch survived in Sir William de Wellesley, who was summoned
to Parliament as a baron, and had a grant by patent, from Edward III.,
of the castle of Kildare. In the fifteenth century, the family obtained
the Castle of Dangan by an heiress. The _de_ was subsequently dropped
from the family name, and the name itself abridged into Wesley--an
abbreviation which subsisted down to the immediate predecessor of the
subject of this memoir; or, if we are to rely on the journals of the
Irish Parliament, it remained later still. For in 1790 we find the late
Lord Maryborough there registered as Wesley (Pole,) and even the Duke is
registered, as member for the borough of Trim, as the Honourable Arthur
_Wesley_.

Richard Colley Wesley, the grandfather of the Marquess, having succeeded
to the family estate by the death of his cousin, was in 1746 created a
peer. He was succeeded by his son Garret, who was advanced to the
dignities of Viscount Wellesley of Dangan Castle, county Meath, and Earl
of Mornington. He was a privy councillor in Ireland, and _custos
rotulorum_ of the county of Meath. He married Anne, eldest daughter of
Arthur Hill Trevor, first Viscount Duncannon, by whom he had six sons
and two daughters.

The Earl was a man of accomplished tastes; he had travelled, adopted
_dilettante_ habits, and expended more money in the decoration of his
mansion and demesne than his fortune could well bear. But he would have
been eminent if he had been compelled to make music his profession; his
glee of "Here, in cool grot and mossy cell," has no rival in English
composition for the exquisite feeling of the music, the fine adaptation
of its harmony to the language, and the general beauty, elegance, and
power of expression. He died on the 22d of May 1781.

Richard Colley Wellesley, afterwards the Marquess Wellesley, was born on
the 20th of June 1760, in Ireland. At the age of eleven he was sent to
Eton, under the care of the Rev. Jonathan Davis, afterwards head-master
and provost of Eton. He soon distinguished himself by the facility and
elegance of his Latin versification. He was sent to Oxford, and
matriculated as a nobleman at Christ Church, in December 1778. In his
second year at the college, he gained the Latin verse prize on the death
of Captain Cook. His tutor was Dr William Jackson, afterwards Bishop of
Oxford. In 1781, on the death of his father the Earl of Mornington, the
young lord was called away to superintend the family affairs in Ireland,
without taking his degree. On his coming of age, which was in the
ensuing year, his first act was to take upon himself the debts of his
father, who had left the family estates much embarrassed. His mother,
Lady Mornington, survived, and was a woman of remarkable intelligence
and force of understanding. To her care chiefly was entrusted the
education of her children; and from the ability of the mother, as has
been often remarked in the instance of eminent men, was probably derived
the talent which has distinguished her memorable family. At the period
of their father's death, the brothers and sisters of the young Earl
were, William Wellesley Pole, (afterwards Lord Maryborough,) aged
eighteen; Anne, (afterwards married to Henry, son of Lord Southampton,)
aged thirteen; Arthur, (the Duke of Wellington,) aged twelve; Gerald
Valerian, (prebendary of Durham,) aged ten; Mary Elizabeth, (Lady
Culling Smith,) aged nine; and Henry, (Lord Cowley,) eight years old.

The period at which the young Earl took his seat in the Irish House of
Lords was one of remarkable anxiety. The success of the American revolt
had filled the popular mind with dreams of revolution. The success of
opposition in the Irish Parliament had fixed the national eyes upon the
legislature; and the power actually on foot in the volunteer force of
Ireland, tempted the populace to extravagant hopes of national
independence and a separation from England, equally forbidden by sound
policy and by the nature of things. Ireland, one thousand miles removed
into the Atlantic, might sustain a separate existence; but Ireland,
lying actually within sight of England, and almost touching her coasts,
was evidently designed by nature for that connexion, which is as
evidently essential to her prosperity. It is utterly impossible that a
small country, lying so close to a great one, could have a separate
government without a perpetual war; and, disturbed as Ireland has been
by the contest of two antagonist religions, that evil would be as
nothing compared with the tremendous calamity of English invasion.
Fortunately, the peaceful contest with the English minister in the year
1780, had concluded by recognizing the resolution, "that the King's most
excellent Majesty, and the Lords and Commons of Ireland, are the only
power competent to make laws to bind Ireland." It is unnecessary now to
go further into this topic than to say, that this was a mere triumph of
words so far as substantial advantages were regarded, while it was a
triumph of evil so far as the existence of a national Parliament was a
benefit. It gained no actual advantage whatever for Ireland; for all
that Ireland wanted for progressive prosperity was internal quiet. On
the other hand, it inflamed faction, even by its nominal success; it
told the multitude that every thing might be gained by clamour, and in
consequence clamour soon attempted every thing.

The orators of Opposition will never be without a topic. Public
disturbance is the element in which they live. They must assault the
government, or perish of inanition; and they must stimulate the mob by
the novelty of their demands, and the violence of their declamation, or
they must sink into oblivion. The Irish opposition now turned to another
topic, and brought forward the Roman Catholics for the candidateship of
the legislature.

It is not our purpose to go into the detail of a decision of which
England now sees all the evil. But there can be no question whatever,
that to bring into the legislature a man all whose sentiments are
distinctly opposed to the Church and the State--who in the instance of
the one acknowledges a foreign supremacy, and in the instance of the
other anathematizes the religion--is one of the grossest acts that
faction ever committed, or that feebleness in government ever complied
with. Self-defence is the first instinct of nature; the defence of the
constitution is the first duty of society; the defence of our religion
is an essential act of obedience to Heaven. Yet the permission given to
individuals, hostile to both, to make laws for either, was the second
triumph at which Irish action aimed, and which English impolicy finally
conceded.

As an evidence of the royal satisfaction at the arrangements adopted by
the lords and commons of Ireland, the king founded an order of
knighthood, by the title of the Knights of the Illustrious Order of St
Patrick, of which the king and his heirs were to be sovereigns in
perpetuity, and the viceroys grand masters. The patent stated as the
general ground of this institution, "that it had been the custom of wise
and beneficent princes of all ages to distinguish the virtue and loyalty
of their subjects by marks of honour, as a testimony to their dignity,
and excellency in all qualifications which render them worthy of the
favour of their sovereign, and the respect of their fellow-subjects;
that so their eminent merits may stand acknowledged to the world, and
create a virtuous emulation in others to deserve such honourable
distinctions." All this may be true, and marks of honour are undoubtedly
valuable; but they can be only so in instances where distinguished
services have been rendered, and where the public opinion amply
acknowledges such services. Yet, in the fifteen knights of this order
appointed in the first instance, there was not the name of any one man
known by public services except that of the Earl of Charlemont, an
amiable but a feeble personage, who had commanded the volunteers of
Ireland. The Earl of Mornington was one of those, and he had but just
come into public life, at the age of three-and-twenty; before he had
done any one public act which entitled him to distinction, and when all
his political merits were limited to having taken his seat in the House
of Lords.

In the course of the year we find the young lord occupying something of
a neutral ground in the House, and objecting to the profusion of the
Irish government in grants of money for public improvements; those
grants which we see still about to be given, which are always clamoured
for by the Irish, for which they never are grateful, of which nobody
ever sees the result, and for which nobody ever seems to be the better.
It is curious enough to see, that one of the topics of his speech was
his disapproval of "great sums given for the ease and indolence of great
cotton manufacturers, rather than the encouragement of manufacture."
Such has been always the state of things in Ireland, concession without
use, conciliation without gratitude, money thrown away, and nothing but
clamour successful. But while he exhibited his eloquence in this
skirmishing, it was evident that he by no means desired to shut himself
out from the benefits of ministerial friendship. The question had come
to a point between the government and the volunteers. The military use
of the volunteers had obviously expired with the war. But they were too
powerful an instrument to escape the eye of faction.

Ireland abounded with busy barristers without briefs, bustling men of
other professions without any thing to do, and angry haranguers, down to
the lowest conditions of life, eager for public overthrow. The
volunteers were told by those men, that they ought not to lay aside
their arms until they had secured the independence of their country.
With the northern portion of Ireland, this independence meant
Republicanism, with the southern, Popery. The heads of the faction then
proceeded to hold an assembly in the metropolis, as a rival and
counterpoise to the parliament. This was then regarded as a most
insolent act; but the world grows accustomed to every thing; and we have
seen the transactions of the League in London, and of Conciliation Hall
in the Irish capital, regarded as matters of perfect impunity.

But more vigorous counsels then prevailed in Ireland. The volunteers
were put down by the determination of government to check their factions
and foolish assumption of power. They were thanked for their offer of
services during the war; but were told that they must not be made
instruments of disturbing the country. This manliness on the part of
government was successful, as it has always been. If, on the other hand,
government had shown any timidity, had for a moment attempted to coax
them into compliance, or had the meanness to compromise between their
sense of duty and the loss of popularity; they would have soon found the
punishment of their folly, in the increased demands of faction, and seen
the intrigues of partisanship inflamed into the violence of
insurrection. The volunteers were speedily abandoned by every friend to
public order, and their ranks were so formidably reduced by the
abandonment, that the whole institution quietly dissolved away, and was
heard of no more.

In 1784, the young nobleman became a member of the English Parliament,
as the representative of Beeralston, in Devonshire, a borough in the
patronage of the Earl of Beverley--thus entering Parliament, as every
man of eminence had commenced his career for the last hundred years; all
being returned for boroughs under noble patronage. In 1786, he was
appointed one of the Lords of the Treasury.

The period of his introduction into the English Parliament was a
fortunate one for a man of ability and ambition. The House never
exhibited a more remarkable collection of public names. He nightly had
the opportunity of hearing Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, Grey; and others,
who, if not equal, followed with vigorous emulation. He took an
occasional part in the debates, and showed at least that he benefited by
example. In 1788, he was elected for the royal borough of Windsor. The
great question of the regency suddenly occurred. The royal malady
rendered a Parliamentary declaration necessary for carrying on the
government. The question was difficult. To place the royal power in any
other hands than the King's, even for a temporary purpose, required an
Act of Parliament. But the King formed an essential portion of the
legislature. He, however, now being disabled by mental incapacity from
performing his royal functions, where was the substitute to be found?
Fox, always reckless, and transported with eagerness to be in possession
of the power which would be conferred on him by the regency of the
Prince of Wales, was infatuated enough to declare, that the Prince had
as express a right to assume the reins of government, and exercise the
powers of sovereignty, during the royal incapacity, as if the King had
actually died. This doctrine, so contrary to common sense, and even to
Whig principles, astonished the House, and still more astonished the
country. Pitt fell upon him immediately, with his usual vigour. The
leader of Opposition had thrown himself open to attack, and his
assailant was irresistible. Pitt dared him to give a reason for his
doctrine; he pronounced it hostile to the law of the land, contradictory
to the national rights, and, in fact, scarcely less than treason to the
constitution.

On the other hand, he laid down with equal perspicuity and force the
legal remedy, and pronounced, that where an unprovided difficulty of
this order arose, the right of meeting it reverted to the nation, acting
by its representatives the two Houses of Parliament, and that, so far as
personal right was in question, the Prince had no more right to assume
the throne than any other individual in the country.

Such is the blindness of party, and passion for power, that Fox, the
great advocate of popular supremacy, was found sustaining, all but in
words, that theory of divine right which had cost James II. his throne,
whose denial formed the keystone of Whig principles, and whose
confirmation would have authorized a despotism.

The decision was finally come to, that the political capacity of the
monarch was constitutionally distinguished from his personal; and that,
as in the case of an infant king, it had been taken for granted that the
royal will had been expressed by the Privy Council, under the Great
Seal; so, in the present instance of royal incapacity, it should also be
expressed by the Privy Council, under the Great Seal. The question of
right now being determined, the Chancellor was directed to affix the
Great Seal to a bill creating the Prince of Wales Regent, with limited
powers.

Those limitations were certainly formidable; and the chief matter of
surprise now is, that the Whigs should have suffered the Regent to
accept the office under such conditions. They prevented him from
creating any peerage, or granting any office in reversion, or giving any
office, pension, or salary, except during the royal pleasure, or
disposing of any part of the royal estate. They took from him also the
whole household, and the care of the King's person, his majesty being
put in charge of the Queen, with power to remove any of the household.
But the whole question has now passed away, and would be unimportant
except for its bearing on the position of Ireland.

In 1789, the zeal of the Irish opposition, and the flexibility of some
members of the Government combining, the Irish Parliament voted the
regency to the Prince without any limitation whatever. This naturally
directed the attention of ministers to the hazard of a collision between
the two Parliaments. The King's fortunate recovery prevented all
collision; but the danger was so apparent if the royal incapacity had
continued, and opinion became so strongly inflamed in Ireland, that from
this period must be dated the determination to unite both Parliaments in
one legislature. For it was justly argued, that if the Irish Parliament
might invest one individual with powers different from those intrusted
to him by the English Parliament, it might in the same manner invest a
different individual, the result of which might be a civil war, or a
separation.

This rash resolution was, however, strongly opposed. Twenty-three of the
peers, among whom was Lord Mornington, signed a protest against it, and
the viceroy, the Marquess of Buckingham, refused to transmit the address
to England. This increased the confusion: not only were the two
legislatures at variance, but the Irish legislature passed a vote of
censure on the viceroy.

The King's recovery extinguished the dissension at once, and the hand of
government fell with severe but well-deserved penalty on its deserters
in the season of difficulty. The rewards of the faithful were
distributed with equal justice. Lord Mornington's active support of the
viceroy was made known to the monarch, and he was evidently marked for
royal favour. From this period he took a share in all the leading
questions of the time. He supported Mr Wilberforce's motions for the
abolition of the slave-trade.

The bold and sagacious conduct of Pitt, in protecting the royal rights
in the Regency, had established his power on the King's recovery. The
Whigs had lost all hope of possession, and they turned in their despair
to the work of faction. Their cry was now Parliamentary Reform. No cry
was ever more insincere, more idly raised, carried on in a more utter
defiance of principle, or consummated more in the spirit of a juggler,
who, while he is bewildering the vulgar eye with his tricks, is only
thinking of the pocket. The Reform Bill has since passed, but the moral
of the event is still well worth our recollection. The Whigs themselves
had been the great boroughmongers; but boroughmongering had at length
failed to bring them into power, and they had recourse to clamour and
confederacy with the rabble. Still, in every instance when they came in
sight of power, the cry was silenced, and they discovered that it was
"not the proper time." At length, in 1830, they raised the clamour once
more; the ministry, (rendered unpopular by the Popish question,) were
thrown out; the Whigs were, for the first time, compelled to keep their
promise, and the whole system of representation was changed. But the
change was suicidal: the old champion of Reform, Lord Grey himself, was
the first to suffer. The Reform ministry was crushed by a new power, and
Lord Grey was crushed along with it. Whiggism was extinguished; the Whig
of the present day has no more resemblance to the Whig of Fox's day,
than the squatter has to the planter. The rudeness and rashness of
Radicalism supplies its place, and the stately and steady march of the
landed interest exists no more.

Lord Mornington's speech, in 1793, placed the question in its true point
of view. He declared that the consequence of the proposed measure of
Reform must be, to change the very genius and spirit of the British
government; to break up the combination of those elementary principles
of monarchy, aristocracy and democracy, which, judiciously associated,
formed the constitution. He then referred, with great force, to the
practical working of that constitution which this measure was intended
to overthrow. "Never," said he, and his language was at once eloquent
and true, "have the natural ends of society been so effectually
accomplished, as under the government which is thus to be subverted.
Under the existing constitution, the life of every individual is sacred,
by the equal spirit of the law; by the pure administration of justice;
by the institution of juries; and by the equitable exercise of that
prerogative which is the brightest ornament of the crown--the power of
mitigating the rigour of criminal judgments, and of causing justice to
be executed in mercy."

He forcibly pronounced the constitution to contain all "the principles
of stability; for it could neither be abused by the subject, nor invaded
by the crown." It provided, in an unexampled degree, for the protection
of life, liberty, and property. In its legislative action it impartially
allowed every public interest to have its representative in Parliament;
in its national action it insured the prosperity of the empire; for that
prosperity had never been so distinguished as since the constitution had
assumed full power; and, by protecting every man in the exercise of his
industry, it had given a spur to national and intellectual enterprise
and activity, of which the world had never before seen an example. And
was this all to be hazarded for the sake of gratifying a party, who
always shrank from the measure when in power, and who always renewed it
only as a means of recall from their political exile?

His biographer rashly denies the reality of those dangers, and says,
that the Reform Act has not produced any of the calamities which his
lordship then saw in such ominous prospect. But to this the natural
answer is, that the Reform Bill is little more than a dozen years old;
that though the power of property in so great a country as England, and
the voice of common sense in a country of such general and solid
knowledge, could not be extinguished at once; and though the national
character forbade our following the example and the rapidity of a French
revolution; still, that great evil has been done--that a democratic
tendency has been introduced into the constitution--that Radicalism has
assumed a place and a shape in public deliberations--that faction beards
and browbeats the legitimate authorities of public counsel--that low
agitators are suffered to carry on the full insolence of intrigue with a
dangerous impunity--and that the pressure from without too often becomes
paramount to the wisdom from within.

At the same time, we fully admit that there were abuses in the ancient
system, offensive to the natural sense of justice; that the sale of
seats was contrary to principle; and that the dependence of members on
individual patrons was a violation of legislative liberty. But whose was
the criminality? not that of the constitution, but of the faction; not
that of the enfeebled law, but of the local supremacy of Whig influence.
Property is the true, and in fact the only safe pledge of legislative
power; and if Manchester and the other great manufacturing towns had
possessed, five hundred years ago, the property which they have acquired
within the last fifty there can be no doubt that representatives would
have been allotted to them. There can be as little doubt, that in 1830,
or in a quarter of a century before, they ought to have had
representatives; but the true evil has been in the sweeping nature of
the change. Still, we will hope the best; we have strong faith in the
fortunes of England, and shall rejoice to see that our fears have been
vain.

The young senator's exertions, on this occasion, confirmed the opinion
already entertained of him in high quarters. He was shortly after sworn
in as a member of the Privy Council in England, and was made one of the
commissioners for the affairs of India. Pitt's memorable India Bill, in
1784, had appointed a board of six commissioners for Indian affairs, who
were to be privy councillors, with one of the secretaries of state at
their head. The board were to be appointed by the King, and removable at
his pleasure. They were invested with the control of all the revenue,
and civil and military officers of the Company. The directors were
obliged to lay before them all papers relative to the management of
their affairs. The commissioners were to return the papers of the
directors within fourteen days, if approved of, or if not, to assign
their reasons. The despatches so agreed on, were then to be sent to
India.

It seems not improbable that this appointment was intended as the
preparative of the Earl for higher objects in the same department. At
all events, it directed his attention to Indian topics, and gave him the
due portion of that practical knowledge, without which genius only
bewilders, and enterprise is thrown away.

We have to fight our way against this biographer, who takes a rambling
and revolutionary view of all the chief transactions of the time. In
this spirit, he denies or doubts the necessity of the French war. We
deny that it was possible to avert it. It may be true, that if England
had been faithless to her compacts, and had suffered her allies to be
trampled on, she might, for awhile, have avoided actual collision. But,
could this have been done with honour; and what is national honour but a
national necessity? Holland, the old ally of England, was actually
invaded; and the first English troops that set foot upon the Continent,
were sent in compliance with our treaty, and for the simple protection
of our ally. No one will contend, and no one has ever contended, that
England had a right to make a government for France; or that the fury of
her factions, however they might startle and disgust mankind, was a
ground for teaching morality at the point of the sword. But there can be
no more legitimate cause of war than the obligations of treaties, the
protection of the weak against the powerful, and the preservation of the
general balance of European power.

In the instance of Holland, too, there was the additional and most
efficient reason, viz. that the possession of her ports and arsenals by
France must largely increase the danger of England. But when it is
further remembered, that France declared the determination to make war
upon all monarchies, that she aimed at establishing an universal
republic, that she pronounced all kings tyrants and all subjects slaves;
and that, offering her assistance to every insurrectionary people, she
ostentatiously proclaimed her plan of revolutionizing the world--who can
doubt that national safety consisted in resisting the doctrines, in
repelling the arms, and in crushing the conspiracies which would have
made England a field of civil slaughter, and left of her glory and her
power nothing but a name?

It is, however, a curious instance of personal zeal, to find the
biographer applauding as the sentiments of his hero, the opinions which
he deprecates as the policy of England; and admitting that the war was
wise, righteous, and inevitable; that it raised the name of England to
the highest rank: and that it preserved us from "the pest of a godless,
levelling democracy."

It has been the habit of writers like the present, to conceive that the
French Revolution was hailed with general joy by England. Even before
the death of the king, the contrary is the fact: the rabble, the
factions, and the more bustling and bitter portion of the sectaries,
unquestionably exulted in the popular insurrection, and the general
weakening of the monarchy. But all the genuinely religious portion of
the people, all the honest and high-minded, all the travelled and
well-informed, adopted a just conception of the whole event from the
beginning. The religious pronounced it atheistic, the honest illegal,
and the travelled as the mere furious outburst of a populace mad for
plunder and incapable of freedom. But the death of the king excited a
unanimous burst of horror; and there never was a public act received
with more universal approbation than the dismissal of the French
ambassador, M. Chauvelin, by a royal order to quit the country within
eight days. The note was officially sent by Lord Grenville, but was
stamped with the energy of Pitt. It was as follows:--

     "I am charged to notify to you, sir, that the character with which
     you have been vested at this court, and the functions of which have
     been so long suspended, being now utterly terminated by the fatal
     death of his most Christian Majesty, you have no more any public
     character here, the King can no longer, after such an event, permit
     your residence here; his Majesty has thought fit to order that you
     should retire from this kingdom within the term of eight days. And
     I herewith transmit to you a copy of the order, which his Majesty,
     in his Privy Council, has given to this effect. I send you a
     passport for yourself and your suite, and I shall not fail to take
     all the necessary steps, in order that you may return to France
     with all the attentions which are due to the character of
     minister-plenipotentiary, which you have exercised at this court. I
     have the honour to be, &c.

                                                           "GRENVILLE.
       "Dated Whitehall, Jan. 4, 1793."



On the opening of Parliament, in January 1794, a debate of great
importance commenced on the policy of the war. On this occasion, Lord
Mornington and Sheridan took the lead in the debate, and both made
speeches of great effect. Lord Mornington's speech was published under
his own inspection immediately after, and it still remains among the
most striking records of the republican opinions, and the mingled
follies and blasphemies of a populace suddenly affecting the powers of a
legislature. Every thing in France, at this period, was robbery; but
even the robbery exhibited the national taste for "sentiment." Their
confiscation of property was pronounced to be, "not for the sake of its
possession," but for their abhorrence of the precious metals. Lord
Mornington, in the course of his speech, read extracts of a letter from
Fouché, afterwards so well known as the minister of imperial police, but
then commissioner in the central and western departments. In this
sublime display of hypocrisy, Fouché pronounces gold and silver to have
been the causes of all the calamities of the republic. "I know not,"
says he, "by what weak compliance those metals are suffered to remain in
the hands of suspected persons. Let us degrade and vilify gold and
silver, let us fling those deities of monarchy in the dirt, and
establish the worship of the austere virtues of the republic," adding,
by way of exemplification of his virtuous abhorrence, "I send you
seventeen chests filled with gold, silver, and plate of all sorts, the
spoil of churches and castles. You will see with peculiar pleasure, two
beautiful crosiers and a ducal coronet of silver, gilt." But the portion
of his speech which attracted, and justly, the deepest attention, was
that in which he gave the proofs of the dreadful spirit of infidelity,
so long fostered in the bosom of the Gallican church. An address, dated
30th of October, from the Rector of Villos de Luchon, thus expatiates in
blasphemy:--"For my part, I believe that no religion in any country in
the world is founded on truth. I believe that all the various religions
in the world are descended from the same parents, and are the daughters
of pride and ignorance." This worthy ecclesiastic finished by declaring,
that thenceforth "he would preach in no other cause than that of liberty
and his country." The Convention decreed, that this and all similar
addresses of renunciation should be lodged with the Committee of Public
instruction, evidently as materials for training the rising generation.
A motion then followed, that all those renunciations of religion should
be "translated into the languages of all foreign countries."

Then followed a scene, which gave reality to all those hideous
declarations. The Archbishop of Paris entered the hall of the
Convention, accompanied by a formal procession of his vicars, and
several of the rectors of the city parishes. He there addressed the
Assembly in a speech, in which he renounced the priesthood in his own
name, and that of all who accompanied him, declaring that he acted thus
in consequence of his conviction, that no national worship should be
tolerated except the worship of Liberty and Equality! The records of the
Convention state, that the archbishop and his rectors were received with
universal transport, and that the archbishop was solemnly presented with
a red cap, the day concluding with the worthy sequel, the declaration of
one Julien, who told the Assembly that he had been a Protestant minister
of Toulouse for twenty years, and that he then renounced his functions
for ever. "It is glorious," said this apostate, "to make this
declaration, under the auspices of reason, philosophy, and that sublime
constitution which has already overturned the errors of superstition and
monarchy in France, and which now prepares a similar fate for all
foreign tyrannies. I declare that I will no longer enter into any other
temple than the sanctuary of the laws. Thus I will acknowledge _no other
God_ than liberty, _no other worship_ than that of my country, _no other
gospel_ than the republican constitution."

Then followed a succession of addresses and letters from the various
commissioners in the departments, blaspheming in the same atrocious
strain. The municipality of Paris, which was one of the chief governing
powers, if not the actual ruler of France, followed this declamation by
an order, that all the churches should be shut, let their denomination
of worship be what it might, and that any attempt to reopen one should
be punished by arrest. The decree was put into immediate effect. The
church of Notre Dame and all the other churches of the capital were
closed. The popular measures were now carried on in a kind of rivalry of
destruction. The "Section of the Museum," a portion of the populace,
announced that they had done execution on all Prayer-books, and burnt
the Old and New Testaments. The Council-General of Paris decreed that a
civic feast should be held in the cathedral of Notre Dame, and that a
patriotic hymn should be chanted before the statue of liberty. The
Goddess of Reason was personated by a Madame Momarro, a handsome woman
of profligate character, who was introduced into the hall of the
Convention, received with "the fraternal embrace" by the president and
secretaries, and was then installed by the whole legislature in the
cathedral, which was called the "Regenerated Temple of Reason." In this
monstrous profanation, the apostate archbishop officiated as the high
priest of Reason, with a red cap on his head, and a pike in his hand;
with this weapon he struck down some of the old religious emblems of the
church, and finished his performance by placing a bust of Marat on the
altar. A colossal statue was then ordered to be placed "on the ruins of
monarchy and religion."

This desperate profanation was emulated in the provinces. Fouché, in
Lyons, ordered a civic festival in honour of one Chalier. An ass, with a
mitre on its head, and dragging a Bible at its tail, formed a
characteristic portion of the ceremony; the Bible was finally burnt, and
its ashes scattered to the winds.

"Thus Christianity," said the noble speaker, "was stigmatized, through
the president of the Convention, amid the applauses of the whole
audience, as a system of murder and massacre, incapable of being
tolerated by the humanity of a republican government. The Old and New
Testaments were publicly burnt, as prohibited books. Nor was it to
Christianity that their hatred was confined; the Jews were involved in
this comprehensive plan. Their ornaments of public worship were
plundered, and their vows of irreligion were recorded with enthusiasm.
The existence of a future state was openly denied, and modes of burial
were devised, for the express purpose of representing to the popular
mind, that death was nothing more than an everlasting sleep; and, to
complete the whole project, doctrines were circulated under the eye of
the government, declaring that 'the existence of a Supreme God was an
idea inconsistent with the liberty of man.'"

In England, we are verging on democracy from year to year. We have begun
by unhinging the national respect for the religion of the Scriptures, in
our zeal to introduce the religion of the Council of Trent into the
constitution. The malecontents in the Established Church are
contributing their efforts to bring Protestantism into contempt, by
their adoption of every error and every absurdity of the Papist. The
bolder portion of these malecontents have already apostatized. The
Church once shaken, every great and salutary support of the constitution
will follow, and we shall have a government impelled solely by faction.
When that time arrives, the minister will be the mere tool of the
multitude; the faction in the streets will have its mouthpiece in the
faction of the legislature. Property will be at the mercy of the idle,
the desperate, and the rapacious--Law will be a dead letter--Religion a
mockery--Right superseded by violence--and the only title to possession
will be the ruffian heart and the sanguinary hand.

We are perfectly aware, that a large portion of the country cannot be
persuaded that it is necessary for them to disturb their own comfort,
quiet, and apathy, for any possible reason--that they believe all change
to be of too little moment to demand any resistance on their part; and
that, at all events, they trust that the world will go on smoothly for
their time, whatever may be the consequence of their scandalous and
contemptible apathy hereafter. But, such thinkers do not deserve to have
a country, nor to be protected, nor to be regarded as any thing but as
the cumberers of the earth. On such men no power of persuasion can act;
for no argument would convince. They wrap themselves up in their snug
incredulity, leave it to others to fight for them, and will not hazard a
shilling, nor give a thought, for the salvation of their country! Yet
even they are no more secure than the rest. The noble, the priest, and
the man of landed wealth, are not those alone on whom the heavy hand of
rabble robbery will fall. We give them, on this head, a fragment from
the report of the well-known Barrère, from the "Committee of Public
Welfare," constituting, in fact, the rule of conduct to the Republic. It
begins by declaring the "necessity of abandoning the idea of _mercy_ in
republican government." It pronounces the necessity of the law to act,
for the "arrest of _suspected_ persons." It declares every "remnant of
the _gentry_ of France to be an object of suspicion." It declares the
"_business of bankers_ to render them objects of suspicion." It declares
"their reluctance to receive assignats, and their sordid _attachment to
their own interests_," to make all merchants objects of suspicion. It
declares "all the _relatives_ of emigrants" to be objects of suspicion.
It declares "all the clergy who have refused the constitutional oath,
and all the former magistracy," to be objects of suspicion. All those
classes of society are to be sentenced at once, "_without being heard_."
Let us strike at once, says this desperate document, "_without trial_
and _without mercy_. Let us banish all compassion from our bosoms. Oh!
what innumerable mischiefs may be produced by a false sentiment of
pity?"

This decree, which made every man a victim who had any thing to lose,
instantly crowded the French prisons with the merchants, the bankers,
and the whole monied class in France. Those who could be plundered no
longer, were sent to execution. In Paris alone, within six months, a
thousand persons of the various professions had been murdered by the
guillotine. During the three years of the democracy, no less than
eighteen thousand individuals, chiefly of the middle order, perished by
the guillotine.

This frightful catalogue closed with a remark on the belligerent
propensities which such a state of society must produce. "It must be the
immediate interest of a government, founded on principles wholly
contradictory to the received maxims of all surrounding nations, to
propagate the doctrines abroad by which it subsists at home; to
assimilate every neighbouring state to its own system; and to subvert
every constitution which even forms an advantageous contrast to its own
absurdities. Such a government must, from its nature, be hostile to all
governments of whatever form; but, above all, to those which are most
strongly contrasted with its own vicious structure, and which afford to
their subjects the best security for the maintenance of order, liberty,
justice, and religion."

Sheridan made a speech, of great beauty and animation, in reply. But his
whole argument consisted in the sophism, that the French had been
rendered savage by the long sense of oppression, and that the blame of
their atrocities, (which he fully admitted,) should be visited on the
monarchy, not on the people.

Lord Mornington's was acknowledged to be the ablest speech on the
ministerial side; and though eclipsed by the richness and power of
Sheridan--and what speaker in the records of English eloquence ever
excelled him in either?--it yet maintained a distinguished superiority
in the force of its reasoning, and the fulness of its statements.
Sheridan, in his peroration, had thrown out some bitter pleasantries on
the ministerial favours, whose prospect he regarded as the only motive
of those abandonments which had left the Whig party suddenly so feeble.
"Is this a time," exclaimed the orator, "for selfish intrigues and the
little traffic of lucre? Is it intended to confirm the pernicious
doctrine, that all public men are impostors, and that every politician
has his price? Nay, even for those who have no direct object, what is
the language which their actions speak? 'The throne is in danger'--'we
will support the throne; but let us share the smiles of royalty.' 'The
order of nobility is in danger'--'I will fight for nobility,' says the
viscount. 'But my zeal would be much greater, if I were made an earl.'
'Rouse all the marquess within me!' exclaims the earl, 'and the peerage
never turned out a more undaunted champion in the cause.' 'Stain my
green riband blue,' cries out the gallant knight, 'and the fountain of
honour will have a fast and faithful servant.' But, what are the people
to think of our sincerity? What credit are they to give to our
professions? It there nothing which whispers to that right honourable
gentleman, that the crisis is too big, that the times are too gigantic,
to be ruled by the hackneyed means of ordinary corruption?"

Wyndham pronounced, that the speech of the noble lord had recapitulated
the conduct of France in a manner so true, so masterly, and so alarming,
"as to fix the attention of the House and the nation." Pitt spoke in
terms still more expressive. "The speech of my noble friend," said he,
"has been styled declamatory; on what principle I know not, unless that
every effort of eloquence, in which the most forcible reasoning was
adorned and supported by all the powers of language, was to be branded
with the epithet declamatory." This debate was decisive; two hundred and
seventy-seven voted for the vigorous prosecution of the war: for Fox's
amendment, _only_ fifty-seven. We have now to follow the career of the
noble lord to another quarter of the globe, where his presence was more
essential, and where his capabilities had a still wider field.

The resignation of Sir John Shore had left the government of India
vacant; and the conspicuous exertions of Lord Mornington in the late
debates had placed him in a high position before the ministerial eye. He
was now fixed on for the Governor-generalship. His connexion with Indian
affairs as a member of the Board of Control, had given him official
knowledge; his education had given him the accomplishment suited to
diplomatic distinction; and his abilities, his ardour, and his time of
life, rendered him the fittest man for the arduous government of India.
The period demanded all the qualities of government. France was
notoriously intriguing to enlist the native princes in a general attack
on the British power; a large French force was already organized in the
territories of the Nizam, and Tippoo Saib had drawn together an army
with seventy guns in the Mysore. The Indian princes, always jealous of
the British authority, which had checked their old savage depredations
on each other, and had presented in its own dominions a noble contrast
to the ravaged and wretched condition of their kingdoms were all
preparing to join the alliance of the French; and the first shock of a
war, now almost inevitable, would probably involve all India. At this
period Lord Mornington, who had been raised to an English barony, was
appointed governor-general in October 1797; and such was his promptitude
that he sailed on the 7th of the month following. In the April of 1798,
he arrived on the coast of Coromandel, and landed at Madras, accompanied
by his brother, the Hon. Henry Wellesley, as private secretary, (now
Lord Cowley.) On the 17th of May he arrived at Calcutta, where he found
his brother, since so memorable, Colonel Arthur Wellesley, and Sir
Alured Clarke, the commander-in-chief.

Lord Mornington had been sent to India in anticipation of French
attempts on the British dominions, and there could be no doubt of the
intentions of the French Directory. But the blow came sooner, and was
more openly struck than an European public man could have surmised. It
exhibited all that arrogant contempt of an enemy which once
characterised Eastern supremacy; and would have been worthy of Gengis,
proclaiming his sovereign will. It was a proclamation from the French
governor of the Mauritius, on the 30th of June; announcing, without any
attempt at disguise, that two ambassadors from Tippoo Sultaun had
arrived there with letters for the governor, and despatches for the
government of France; and that the object of the embassy was, to form an
alliance, offensive and defensive, with France, and to demand a
subsidiary force, for the purpose of expelling the English from India.
The proclamation further invited all Frenchmen, in the isles of France
and Bourbon, to volunteer for the sultaun's service, and promised to
secure them pay under the protection of the Republic.

The daring insolence of this proclamation, and the palpable rashness of
making the designs of Tippoo public, before any direct preparation for
attack, were so unlike the usual forms of diplomacy, that the
governor-general, in the first instance, was inclined to doubt its
authenticity. But it awoke his vigilance, and he wrote without delay to
General Harris, then commanding at Madras, and governor for the time, to
be on his guard. "If Tippoo," said his letter, "should choose to avow
the objects of his embassy to be such as are described in this
proclamation, the consequences may be very serious, and may ultimately
involve us in the calamity of war. I wish you to be apprised of my
apprehensions on the subject, and to prepare your mind for the possible
event. You will, therefore, turn your attention to the means of
collecting a force, if necessity should unfortunately require it. But it
is not my desire that you should proceed to take any public steps
towards the assembling of the army, before you receive some further
information from me."

The governor-general has been charged with precipitancy in making war on
Tippoo. But the charge is refuted by dates. The French proclamation was
dated 10th Pluviose, sixth year of the Republic, (30th January 1798.)
Its truth or falsehood was carefully enquired into, until the evidence
was completed by despatches from the British governors of the Cape and
Bombay, the admiral at the Cape, the testimony of prisoners, and finally
by the actual landing of a corps of French volunteers from the
Mauritius. It was not till six months after the date of the
proclamation, that the governor-general wrote thus (20th of June) to
General Harris:--"I now take the earliest opportunity of acquainting you
with my final determination. I mean to call upon the allies without
delay, and to assemble the army upon the coast with all possible
expedition. You will receive my public instructions in the course of a
few days. Until you have received them, it will not be proper to take
any public steps for the assembling of the army. But whatever can be
done without a disclosure of the ultimate object, I authorize you to do
immediately; intending to apprise you, by this letter, that it is my
positive resolution to assemble the army upon the coast."

The Mysore dynasty was one of the natural productions of Indian
sovereignty. They had each been founded by a successful soldier, had
made conquests of prodigious extent, had devastated the land with
frightful rapidity; and then, after a generation or two of opulent
possession, had seen their provinces divided by rebellious viceroys;
until some slave, bolder than the rest, sprang up, broke down the
tottering viceroyalties, and seized the supreme throne. Hyder Ali, the
father of Tippoo, had been a common trooper in the service of the Rajah
of Mysore--by his intrepidity he became the captain of one of those
bands, half soldier and half robber, which form the irregulars of an
Asiatic army. By his address as a courtier, he rose into favour with the
rajah, who gave him the command of his army. By the treachery which
always surrounds and subverts an Asiatic throne, he finally took the
sovereign power to himself. Disputes of the new rajah with the Company's
agents produced a war, and the cavalry of this daring adventurer rode
up to the gates of Madras. Peace was at length proclaimed, and Hyder
acquired a vast reputation among the natives as the champion of India.
In 1770, an invasion of the Mahrattas, a robber nation, but the most
renowned of Indian plunderers, determined to crush the new power, and
poured down upon Mysore. Hyder now applied for assistance to Madras; but
the settlement had no assistance to give, and Hyder was forced to make a
disadvantageous treaty. He now loudly protested against the failure of
the English contingent, which he declared to have been the subject of a
treaty, and resolved on revenge. The plunder of the merchants' stores at
Madras was the more probable motive to his next desperate attack. The
half military, half commercial government of the Company, at that
period, paralyzed all measures of effective resistance; and while the
garrison urged vigorous proceedings, and the inhabitants dreaded
mercantile loss, the plains surrounding Madras were deluged by an
invasion from the Mysore. Hyder ranged in line seventy thousand horse
and twenty thousand regular infantry! with all the marauders of India in
his train, and all the Indian sovereigns ready to rise. At Madras all
was confusion. Some detachments of Europeans and Sepoys, scattered
through the country, were surrounded, fought gallantly, and were cut to
pieces. Warren Hastings, the most indefatigable of Indian governors, now
came in person to the seat of war; but such was the feebleness of the
British means, that he could bring with him but five hundred Europeans
and five hundred Sepoys. But he brought the more effectual aid of an
officer of decision and sagacity, the celebrated Sir Eyre Coote. This
brave man, struggling with difficulties of every kind, was, in almost
all instances, victorious, and the last hours of Hyder's daring career
were embittered by defeat at Arriee. In a few months after, at the age
of eighty-two, this great chieftain, but barbarous and bloody warrior,
died; leaving his son Tippoo, who had commenced his warfare at eighteen,
and had followed him in all his battles, the possessor of his throne.

Tippoo was the heir of his father's bravery, but not of his
intelligence. Hyder had a mean opinion of his understanding, and
evidently regarded him as little better than a royal tiger. "That boy,"
said he, "will overthrow all that it has cost me a life to raise, and
will ruin himself."

The war continued, carried on by detachments on the part of the English,
and by marauding expeditions on the part of Tippoo; time, life, and
treasure were thus thrown away on both sides. But at length the news of
peace between England and France reached India, and peace was concluded
between the Company and the Mysore on the 11th of March 1784.

Some conception of the resources of India may be formed from the
military means which the single state of Mysore was able to accumulate,
under all the pressure of a long war. At the peace, the treasure of
Tippoo was calculated at eighty millions sterling; he had six hundred
thousand stand of arms, two thousand cannons, with a regular force of
artillery, cavalry, and infantry, of little less than one hundred
thousand men!

The history of the Mysore dynasty would form a brilliant poem; and, if
India shall ever have a poet again, he could not choose a more varied,
animating, and splendid theme. Tippoo, in peace, turned saint, and,
following the example of his prophet, forced one hundred thousand
Hindoos, at the sword's point, to swear by the Koran. We pass over the
remaining features of his fierce history. Restless with ambition, and
plethoric with power, in 1790 he invaded Travancore. The rajah called
upon his English allies for protection. The war began by the appearance
of Tippoo in the field at the head of another deluge of cavalry. But the
genius of Hyder was in the tomb; and the English army, under Cornwallis,
forced its way to the ramparts of Seringapatam. A peace stripped the
Mysore of half its territory, of three millions and a half for the
expenses of the war, and of the two sons of Tippoo as hostages. But the
rajah constantly looked for revenge; and the successes of the French
Republic urged him to a contest, in which every thing was to be lost to
him but his daring name.

The first step of the governor-general exhibited singular decision, and
was attended with singular success. The Nizam had raised a regular corps
of eleven thousand men, disciplined by French officers. It was
ascertained that those officers held a correspondence with Tippoo, and
there was every probability of their either forcing the Nizam into his
alliance, or of their marching to join him. A British force was now
ordered to move towards the capital of the Nizam, without any intimation
of its object or its approach. On its arrival, a distinct demand was
made for the dismissal of the French. The Nizam hesitated; but the
officer commanding the British declared, that if there was any further
delay, he would attack the battalions in their camp. The Nizam then gave
his consent, and the battalions were informed that hesitation would
expose them to the penalties of treason. A negotiation then began, in
the presence of the British troops and the Nizam's horse. The French
officers were promised protection, the possession of their personal
property, their arrears, and a passage to France; the battalions were
promised pay and future employment. The terms were accepted, and the
British officer had the satisfaction to see the eleven thousand lay down
their arms! This event struck all India with surprise. The measure had
been conducted so noiselessly, that the result was wholly unexpected. It
gave a prodigious _prestige_ to the character of the governor-general
throughout the "golden peninsula."

The war began. The seizure of Egypt by Bonaparte had inflamed Tippoo
with the hope of conquest; and, on the 13th of February 1799, he crossed
his own frontier at the head of 12,000 horse, and attacked the Bombay
force, of six thousand men, under General Stuart. He was repulsed after
some charges, and recrossed his frontier. This battle occurred _five
days_ before General Harris's invasion of Mysore. But another eminent
soldier was here to acquire his first distinction. Tippoo, manoeuvring
to prevent the junction of Generals Harris and Stuart, fell upon the
British at the lines of Malavelly. "Colonel Arthur Wellesley" there
commanded the 33d regiment, and the Nizam's force. A strong body of
horse charged the 33d. The soldiers were ordered to reserve their fire
till within pistol-shot; they then fired, and charged with the bayonet.
A general charge of the British dragoons took place, and the Mysore
troops were routed, with the loss of two thousand men.

On the 30th of April the breaching battery opened against Seringapatam.
Terms had been offered to Tippoo, by which he was to cede half his
territories, to pay two millions sterling, to renounce the French
alliance, and to give up four of his sons, and four of his generals, as
hostages. Those terms were merciful, for he was now reduced to his last
extremity, and it was palpable that there could be no hope of peace
while he retained the power of making war. His conduct, at this period,
seems to have been the work of infatuation. It was said that he had some
superstitious belief, that as the English had before retired from the
walls, the city was destined never to be taken. It had provisions for a
long defence, and a garrison of twenty-two thousand regular troops. But,
by shutting himself up in the fortress, he transgressed one of the first
rules of national war--that the monarch should never be compelled to
stand a siege. Tippoo, in the field, might have escaped, to wait a
change of fortune; but within walls he must conquer, or be undone.

On the 4th of May, at one in the afternoon, the stormers, commanded by
Baird, advanced. He, with some other officers of the 71st, had once been
a prisoner, and been cruelly treated in the fortress. The column
consisted of two thousand five hundred English, and one thousand eight
hundred Sepoys. They crossed the Cavery, the river of Seringapatam; and
in ten minutes the British flag was on the top of the rampart! The
column now cleared the ramparts to the right and left, and after a
gallant but confused resistance by the garrison, this famous fortress
was taken. Tippoo, after having his horse killed under him, and
receiving two wounds, attempted to make his escape on foot. A soldier,
attracted by his jewels, rushed to seize him; Tippoo gave him a cimeter
wound in the knee, the soldier then fired, and Tippoo fell dead. The
fortress was strongly provided. Its works mounted two hundred and eighty
guns. In its arsenal were found four hundred and fifty-one brass guns,
and four hundred and seventy-eight iron guns. Stores of every kind were
found in abundance. The storm scarcely exceeded an hour. Thus fell the
dynasty of the great Hyder Ali; and thus was extinguished a dream of
conquest, which once embraced the Empire of Hindostan.

Thus, by promptitude of action and sagacity of council, this formidable
war was extinguished in little more than eight weeks; a territory
producing a million sterling a-year was added to the Company's
dominions; and the whole fabric of a power which it had cost the genius
of Hyder a life to raise, and which once threatened to overthrow the
empire of the English in India, was broken down and dismantled for ever.
But Mysore was given to the family of its former Hindoo Rajah, and
simply reduced to the limits of its original territory; the conquests of
Hyder having been alone lopped away.

In England, the thanks of Parliament were given to the governor-general
and the army, and the former was made a marquess. The treasure taken in
Seringapatam, with the various arms and stores, was subsequently valued
at forty-five millions of star pagodas, (the pagoda being about eight
shillings sterling;) General Harris, as commander-in-chief, receiving an
eighth of the whole, or three hundred and twenty-four thousand nine
hundred and seven pagodas. His right to this sum was afterwards disputed
at law, but the claim was ultimately allowed. One hundred thousand
pounds was offered by the army to the Marquess, but honourably declined
by him as encroaching on the general prize-money. But the Court of
Directors, in recompense, voted him five thousand pounds a-year for
twenty years.

We now come to another important period in the career of this
distinguished servant of the crown. The French expedition to Egypt had
been expressly aimed at the British power in India. The Marquess
Wellesley instantly conceived the bold project of attacking the French
in the rear, by the march of an Indian army to Egypt, to co-operate with
an army from home.

The question of occupying Aden, at the mouth of the Red Sea, was then
discussed; and objected to by the marquess, on the several grounds of
its unfitness for a naval station, for a commercial station, and for
maintaining an influence on the coast. The admiral's opinion was
strongly against it, and the design was abandoned. It has been since
adopted; but the difference of circumstances must be remembered. We had
then no regular overland communication, no steamers on the Red Sea, and
thus no necessity for either a harbour or a depot of coals. Aden as a
garrison may be of little comparative value, but as a rendezvous for the
steam navy, it is of obvious importance, and not less as a means of
guarding the overland communication for the general benefit of Europe.
The advantages of this station may be the more appreciated, from the
following letter of the governor-general to the chairman of the Court of
Directors, (October 6, 1800,)--"In the present year I was nearly _seven
months_ without receiving one line of authentic intelligence from
England. My distress and anxiety of mind were scarcely supportable.
Speedy, authentic, and _regular_ intelligence from Europe, is
_essential_ to the trade and government of this empire. If the sources
of information be obstructed, no conscientious man can undertake this
weighty charge."

In 1800, the army under Abercromby landed in Egypt, and defeated the
French under Menou. General Baird, at the head of six thousand of the
Indian army, reached Egypt. General Belliard surrendered in Cairo with
thirteen thousand men. The Indian army then joined the British, and the
siege of Alexandria was begun. Menou immediately capitulated, and thus
the whole French expedition was undone--the fleet having been destroyed
by Nelson, and the army having been captured by Hutchinson--the French
army, amounting in the whole to twenty-four thousand men, and their
captors only to nineteen thousand British; the Indian army making up
the general number to twenty-five thousand six hundred and eighteen.

In July 1801, the Addington cabinet was formed. Peace with France was
signed at Amiens, March 27, 1802. Orders were now sent out to India to
restore the French possessions. But the Marquess, by his personal
sagacity, anticipated another war; and delayed the measure until he
should receive further intelligence. The result was, that when Linois
arrived with a French squadron to take possession of Pondicherry, Lord
Clive answered, "that he had not received any orders from the
governor-general." A despatch from Downing Street, of the 18th of March
1803, communicated to him the King's message to parliament declaring
war!

It is beyond our limits to enter into the disputes with the directors,
which preceded the return of the governor-general to Europe. He was
charged with lavishness of living, with the affectation of being the
director of the directors, with extravagance in the erection of the
palace at Calcutta, and with equal extravagance in the establishment of
the Indian college. But these charges have long since been forgotten;
they speedily vanished; investigation did justice to the character of
the Marquess; and the only foundation for those vague and wandering
charges actually was, that he was a man of high conceptions, fond of the
sumptuousness belonging to his rank, adopting a large expenditure for
its effect on the native mind, and justly thinking that the noblest
ornament of an empire is accomplished by literature.

He returned to England in January 1806, and found the great minister
dying. On his arrival he wrote to Pitt, who replied by the following
letter, dated from Putney:--

     "MY DEAR WELLESLEY,

     "On my arrival here last night I received, with inexpressible
     pleasure your most friendly and affectionate letter. If I was not
     strongly advised to keep out of London till I have acquired a
     little further strength, I would have come up immediately, for the
     purpose of seeing you at the first possible moment. As it is, I am
     afraid I must trust to your goodness to give me the satisfaction of
     seeing you here, the first hour you can spare for the purpose. If
     you can, without inconvenience, make it about the middle of the
     day, (in English style between two and four,) it would suit me
     rather better than any other time, but none can be inconvenient.

     "I am recovering rather slowly from a series of stomach complaints,
     followed by severe attacks of gout; but I believe I am in the way
     of real amendment. Ever most truly and affectionately yours,

                                                       "W. PITT."


The great minister was unfortunately lost to his country and mankind
within a week!

Lord Brougham, in his _Memoirs of British Statesmen_, records the
testimony of the Marquess against the common report, that Pitt died of a
broken heart in consequence of the calamities of Austria and the
breaking up of the continental coalition. The Marquess declares, that
Pitt, though emaciated, retained his "gaiety and constitutionally
sanguine disposition" to the last, expressing also "confident hopes of
recovery."

The biographer gives a passing touch of disapproval to Pitt's
administration, though he imputes all his ministerial delinquencies "to
sordid and second-rate men round him." But this is wholly contrary to
the character of the man--never individual less acted on the suggestions
of others than Pitt. The simple fact is, the biographer knows nothing on
the subject, and would have much more wisely avoided giving us his
opinions altogether.

We shall notice but one charge more against the Marquess on his return.
It was made by a low fellow of the name of Paul, who had been a tailor,
but had by some means or other obtained an office in India. No man could
have held the highest power in India so long without making enemies
among the contemptible; and this Paul, determined to figure as a public
accuser, attacked the character of the Marquess with respect to his
compelling the Nabob of Oude to pay his debts to the Company. Every one
knows the degraded state of Indian morality, especially in pecuniary
transactions; and the measures necessary in this instance were charged
as the extreme of tyranny. But those charges were never substantiated;
they came before the House of Commons in the shape of resolutions, and
were negatived by a large majority, 182 to 31. Paul, in a struggle to
become a popular character, and as a candidate for Westminster, involved
himself in an unfortunate duel with Sir Francis Burdett, in which both
were wounded; but Paul's wound, suddenly turning to mortification, he
died.

After the vote on the resolutions, Sir John Anstruther, who had been
chief-justice in Bengal, moved "that the Marquess's conduct in Oude was
highly meritorious." The resolution was triumphantly carried.

We are now to regard the Marquess in the character of a British
statesman. In 1808, Napoleon invaded Spain. His purpose was, to make
Spain the basis of an invasion of England. No act of the French Emperor
exhibited more of the mingled subtlety and ferocity of his nature; and
yet it should be remembered, for the benefit of mankind, that no act
more distinctly exhibited the rashness with which avarice or power
overlooks obstacles, and the folly with which the desire of entrapping
others frequently outwits itself. Napoleon already, through the weakness
of the king and the treachery of his minister, had all the resources of
Spain at his disposal. But, not content with the reality, he resolved to
arrogate the title; and he thus eventually lost the Peninsula. Under the
pretext of settling the disputes of the royal family, the Emperor, in
1808, marched ninety thousand men into Spain, obtained possession of its
principal fortresses, and established a garrison in the capital. The
Spanish nation, always disdaining a foreign master, and yet accustomed
to foreign influence, was roused by the massacre of Madrid on the 2d of
May. Every province rose in arms, elected a governing body, and attacked
the French. On the 6th of June 1808, Joseph Bonaparte was appointed King
of Spain and the Indies.--On the same day, the Supreme Junta at Seville
proclaimed war against France! Deputations from the provinces were sent
to England, and they were answered by the dispatch of an army, under Sir
Arthur Wellesley, to the coast of Portugal. The British general then
commenced that series of victories which finished only in the
capitulation of Paris, and the downfall of Napoleon.

On the 21st of August Sir Arthur Wellesley beat the French army of
Portugal at Vimeira, and would have inevitably forced the French marshal
to capitulate on the field, but for the singular and unfortunate blunder
by which two officers, superior in rank, had been inadvertently sent to
join the expedition, by whom he was of course superseded; General
Burrard arriving during the action, though he did not take the command
until the day was over; and General Dalrymple arriving within a few
days, to supersede General Burrard. The consequence was, that the whole
operation was paralysed, and the French army, instead of being
extinguished on the field, was allowed by a convention to retire from
the country. Sir John Moore then, superseding them all, took the
command. In the mean time, Austria had renewed the war, and been
defeated in the decisive battle of Wagram. Napoleon now threw the whole
force of France upon the Peninsula.

It was obvious that Spain was the field in which the great battle of
Europe was now to be fought; but the inefficiency of public men in
Spain, and the divisions of the provincial governments, rendered it
necessary that some superintending mind should be sent to conduct the
national affairs. Early in 1809, Mr Canning, then secretary for foreign
affairs, received the royal commands to propose the appointment of
ambassador-extraordinary to the Marquess Wellesley. On the 1st of April,
Sir Arthur Wellesley was appointed commander of the British forces in
the Peninsula. The Marquess arrived in Cadiz on the 4th of July, four
days after the battle of Talavera.

The first year of the Spanish campaign was, in one sense of the word,
disastrous. Sir Arthur Wellesley, after fighting the desperate battle of
Talavera, was forced to retire into Portugal, through the neglect of the
Spanish government to supply his troops with the means of subsistence.
They were actually starved out of the field. The Spanish armies had now
been utterly broken; the great expedition of Walcheren had terminated in
the capture of a fishing town, and the loss of some thousand men by the
marsh fever. At this period, Spain seemed utterly helpless; Austria had
been forced into peace; Russia was on the closest terms of alliance with
France; and in England the two cabinet ministers, Lord Castlereagh and
Mr Canning, had fought a duel with each other. The cabinet was now
broken up, and reconstructed, the three secretaries of state being, the
Marquess of Wellesley for foreign affairs, Lord Liverpool for the
colonies, and the Hon. R. Ryder for the home department; Mr Perceval,
first lord of the treasury and prime minister.

In the year 1810, on the invasion of Portugal by Marshal Massena at the
head of eighty thousand men, while Wellington had but thirty thousand,
the declaimers of Opposition had produced so depressing an effect on
public opinion, that a cabinet despatch actually left it to the decision
of the British general, then Lord Wellington, whether the army should
remain or return to England! On that occasion, the British general
returned the following gallant and decisive answer:--"From what I have
seen of the objects of the French government, and the sacrifices they
make to accomplish them, I have no doubt, that if the British army were
for any reason withdrawn from the Peninsula, and the French government
were relieved from the pressure of military operations on the Continent,
they would incur all risks to land an army in his Majesty's dominions.
Then, indeed, would commence an expensive contest, then would his
Majesty's subjects discover what are the miseries of war, of which, by
the blessing of God, they have hitherto had no knowledge; and the
cultivation, the beauty, and the prosperity of the country, and the
virtue and happiness of its inhabitants, would be destroyed, whatever
might be the results of military operations. God forbid that I should be
a witness, much less an actor, in the scene! And I only hope that the
King's government will consider well what I have stated to your
lordship; will ascertain, as it is in their power, the actual expenses
of employing a certain number of men in this country, beyond that of
employing them at home or elsewhere; and will keep up their force here
on such a footing, as will, at all events, ensure their possession,
without keeping the transports; if it does not enable their commander to
take advantage of events, and assume the offensive." This letter decided
the fate of the Peninsula. Massena was driven out of Portugal before the
close of the year, and the question of French conquest was at an end!

In 1811, the Marquess Wellesley retired from the cabinet. He had
expressed opinions on the abilities of Mr Perceval, which rendered it
necessary that either one or other should resign. The nominal cause of
difference was the Roman Catholic question; on which Perceval was as
well-informed and principled, as the Marquess was ignorant and fanciful;
his chief argument being, that the Protestant Church in Ireland was
feeble--an argument which should have led him to look for the remedy in
giving it additional strength. But the only view which reasoners like
the Marquess have ever taken on the subject is, the force of
numbers--"The Roman Catholics are three times as numerous as the
Protestants." An argument which would have been equally valid against
the original attempt to spread Christianity among the heathen nations,
and would be equally valid still, for Paganism is still more populous
than Christendom. In fact, the argument would be equally valid against
any attempt whatever to enlighten mankind; for the ignorant are always
the overwhelming majority. The true enquiry would have been, are the
opinions of the Roman Catholics consistent with a Protestant throne? is
their divided allegiance perilous or not to a Protestant government? are
their religious prejudices consistent with the rights of the national
religion? We have now the melancholy proof of the shallowness of all the
declamation on the subject. We see that power has been used only for
public disturbance; that pledges are scoffed at; and that, in the
fifteenth year of this boasted conciliation, Ireland is more turbulent,
faction more violent, prejudice more envenomed, and life more in hazard
than ever.

The unfortunate death of Mr Perceval by the hand of a half-frantic
ruffian, who was resolved to shoot one of the ministry, and in whose
way the prime minister unhappily came, threw open the cabinet once more.
A long negotiation followed, in which Lords Wellesley and Moira having
failed to form an administration, Lord Liverpool was finally appointed
premier, and retained power until 1827; a period of fifteen years, when
he was struck by apoplexy, and died in December of the following year.

The policy towards Ireland was now sinking into that feeble and flexible
shape, which has always characterised the predominance of Whig councils.
The Marquess Wellesley had made some showy speeches on emancipation; and
in 1822, and as if with the object of showing him the utter vanity of
attempting to reform the bitterness of Popish faction by any measures of
concession, the Popish advocate was sent to govern Ireland. He found the
country in a state of the most frightful disturbance; half a century of
weak and unstatesmanlike compliances had produced their natural effect,
in party arrogance; and demands and conspiracy at once threw the
ministry into confusion, and set the law at defiance. But the Marquess
was received with national cordiality by the people. The city was
illuminated on his arrival; the different public bodies gave him
banquets; and, known as his opinions were on the Popish question, the
Protestants forgot his prejudices in the recollection that he was an
Irishman. But there was a faction still to be dealt with, which, having
no real connexion with the substantial interests of the country, and
living wholly on public credulity, uttered its ominous voice in the
midst of all those acclamations. A paper from that faction lost no time
in "reminding the Irish Catholics of the tantalizing and bitter
repetition of expectations raised only to be blasted, and prospects of
success opened to close on them in utter darkness;" finishing by a
significant warning, "not to rely too much on the liberal intentions of
the Marquess Wellesley."

The result of his lordship's government may be easily told. His personal
favours to the Papists were received in the usual style of instalments;
while the Protestant corporation stood aloof, and drank with renewed
potations "the glorious and immortal memory of William III." Such is the
dignity of politics in Irish deliberations. At length the unlucky
conciliator had his eyes opened by the nature of things, and was
compelled to apply to parliament for the insurrection act. The
Attorney-general Plunket, the ablest advocate of the Papists, was
compelled, by a similar necessity, to write a long official letter, in
which he stated--"That he feared in five or six counties, great numbers
indeed of the lower classes had been involved in the conspiracy; some of
them from a love of enterprise and ready disposition for mischief; some
of them on a principle of counteraction to associations of an opposite
description; but most of them, he should hope, from terror on the one
hand, and the _expectation of impunity_ on the other." There was the
point, which no man comprehended better in theory than this clever
law-officer, and none better in practice than the Popish peasant. "This
_expectation_, however," he observes, "must now be effectually removed,
and the terror of the law, I trust, be substituted in place of the
terror of the conspirators." Adding, "your Excellency will observe with
regret, that the association has been founded on a principle of
_religious exclusion!_"

Such had been the fruit of concession. The opposite plan, so often
suggested, and so essentially necessary, was then tried; and its fruits
too followed. Almost the whole of Ireland became instantly
tranquillized; men were no longer murdered in open day; cattle no longer
maimed; houses no longer burned. The Marquess thus writes the English
government:--"During the summer and autumn of 1822, the measures
sanctioned by Parliament for the restoration of tranquillity, combined
with other causes, have produced such a degree of quiet, that no
necessity existed for my _usual_ communications."

We pass rapidly over the contemptible squabbles of the party mobs which
fill up the modern history of Irish politics, and which must have deeply
disgusted a statesman who had seen public life on the stately scale of
Indian government and English administration. But he was now far
advanced in years, and he was betrayed into the absurdity of suffering
these squabbles to reach to himself. The decoration of the statue of
William the Third, in one of the principal streets of the city, on his
birthday, the 4th of November, had been an annual custom for upwards of
a hundred years. But now the Papists resolved to regard the placing of a
few knots of orange riband on this equestrian figure as a matter of
personal offence, and prohibited the decoration. A patrol of horse
surrounded the statue, and the decoration could not be accomplished. A
letter from the secretary approved of the conduct of the civic
authorities. Unluckily, within a few days after, the Marquess went in
state to the theatre. The public disapprobation now vented itself in
unmeasured terms. The uproar was incessant, and, in the height of the
disturbance, a bottle was thrown by some drunken ruffian from the
gallery into the viceregal box, but with so direct an aim, that it
glanced close to the Marquess's head. A watchman's rattle, and several
other missiles, were said to have followed the bottle. The unlucky
result was, an indictment against several individuals for conspiracy by
the Attorney-general; but the grand jury having ignored the bills, the
case fell to the ground.

At this period, the Marquess, who had in early life married a
Frenchwoman, fixed his regards on an American, the widow of Mr Patterson
of America. In matters of this order public opinion can have no direct
right to interfere. But the bride was a Roman Catholic. The marriage was
solemnized by a Romish bishop, as well as by the Irish primate. The
royal equipages were seen in regular attendance, subsequently, at her
ladyship's place of worship; and, when the critical balance of public
opinion at that period is considered, there was evidently more of the
ardour of the lover than the wisdom of the statesman, in suffering that
marriage to take place, at least _before_ his retirement from the
viceroyalty of Ireland.

On the formation of the Wellington cabinet, the illustrious brothers
differing on the Romish question, the Marquess retired. In the debate on
that occasion, the Duke of Wellington made one of those strong,
_declaratory_ speeches and renewed those pledges to the Protestant
constitution in Church and State, which he made so solemnly before. The
duke, after gracefully expressing his regret at being compelled to
differ on the sentiments of his distinguished relative, said, "I wish,
as much as my noble relation can do, to see this question brought to an
amicable conclusion, although I do not see the means of bringing it to
that conclusion by this resolution, (Lord Lansdowne's motion on the
Catholic claims.) I _agree with_ the noble and learned Earl (Eldon) who
has recently addressed your lordships, that we ought to see _clear and
distinct securities_ given to the state, before we can give our vote in
the affirmative of the question. My noble relative says, that our
security will be found in the removal of the securities which now exist.
I say, that the securities which we now enjoy, and which for a length of
time we have enjoyed, are _indispensable to the safety of Church and
State!_ I should be glad to see the disabilities of the Roman Catholics
removed; but before I can consent to their removal, I must see something
in their stead which will _effectually protect our institutions_."

Yet, within one twelvemonth! the Popish Bill was carried by the
Wellington ministry! Its immediate result was, to introduce into the
legislature a party whose aid to the Whigs carried the Reform Bill. The
Reform Bill, in its turn, introduced into influence a party who demand
implicit obedience from every minister, and whose declared object, at
this hour, is the abolition of the whole system of commercial,
manufacturing, and agricultural laws, under which England has become the
greatest commercial, manufacturing, and agricultural country in the
world. All power now threatens to fall into the hands of the populace;
and, if that result shall follow, England will be revolutionized. With
all our knowledge of the strength of England, of the vigour of educated
opinion, of the gallant principle existing among our nobles and
gentlemen, and, above all, of the religious integrity of a large portion
of the empire, we still cannot disguise our apprehension of general
change. The ferocity, recklessness, and insatiability of the democratic
spirit, have been hitherto withheld from the sight of our fortunate
country, by the vigour of our government and the wisdom of our laws. But
they exist; they lie immediately under the surface of the soil; and,
once suffered to be opened to the light, the old pestilence will rise,
and poison the political atmosphere.

The agriculture of England is the true treasury of England. We may exist
with diminished manufactures, and we must prepare for their diminution,
from the universal determination of other countries to manufacture for
themselves. But we cannot exist without food; and, from the moment when
the discouragement of tillage shall leave England in necessity, we shall
see the cheap corn of Russia and Poland taxed by the monarch, raised to
a famine price, all the current gold of the country sent to purchase
subsistence in Russia, and our only resource a paper currency, followed
with an enormous increase of expense in every common necessary of life.
Throw a fourth of the land of England out of cultivation, and what must
become of the labourers? They now complain of low wages; then they will
have none. What must be the condition of Ireland, wholly agricultural,
and ruined by a flood of foreign corn, at half the price for which the
Irish farmer can bring it to market? These consequences are so
notorious, that nobody attempts to dispute them. They are coolly taken
as inevitable things; and the whole dependence, even of the mob
advocates, is upon chance: "Oh, something will turn up! Things won't be
so bad as you think!"

But the true conspirators see deeper. They know, that a revolution in
the food of the people is the immediate forerunner of a revolution in
the state. From the moment when foreign corn is admitted free of
restraint, the confidence of the farmer must be shaken. From the farmer,
the shock will instantly reach the landlord; his rent must be
diminished. To one-half of the great proprietaries of the kingdom, a
diminution of rent, even by a third, would make their possessors
personally bankrupt. Their mortgages and loans must be repaid; and
nothing would remain. The landlord now pays the Church. If he is ruined,
the whole Church income, independent of the small portions of glebe
land, must perish with him.

Then will come the agitation for a still more daring purpose. It will be
asked why must the system of English life be artificial?--Because we
have twenty-eight millions sterling of interest to pay, and for this we
must have taxes. But, why not sweep the national debt away, as France
did in her day of royal overthrow? A single sitting of the Convention
settled that question. Why not follow the example? Then will come the
desperate expedient, and all will be ruin on the heads of the most
helpless of the community; for the national debt is only a saving bank
on a larger scale, and nine-tenths of its creditors are of the most
struggling order of the empire.

Of course, we do not anticipate this frightful catastrophe under the
existing government, nor, perhaps, under its immediate successors, nor
under any government which knows its duty. But, let the "pressure from
without" be once an acknowledged principle; let agitation be once
suffered as a legitimate instrument of public appeal; let the clamour of
the streets be once received with the slightest respect, and the game is
begun; property is the chase, the hounds are in full cry, and the prey
will be torn down.

We believe that the majority of the empire are honest and true, but we
know that faction is active and unscrupulous; we believe that there is
in the country a genuine regard for the constitution, but we know that
there are men within the circumference of England, whose nature is as
foul as that of the blackest revolutionist of France in 1793; whose
craving for possession is treacherous and tigerish, whose means are
intrinsic and unadulterated mischief, whose element is public
disturbance, and whose feverish hope of possession is in general
overthrow. Against those we can have no defence but in the vigour, the
caution, and the sincerity of the national administration.

The Marquess Wellesley, on the formation of Lord Grey's cabinet in 1830,
accepted the office of Lord Steward. He had begun his political life as
a high Tory, and the friend and follower of Pitt.--In 1793, he had
fought boldly against the Reform question. This was at the period when
he retained the generosity of youth, and the classic impressions of his
university; but he had now been trained to courts, and he became a
reformer, with a white rod in his aged hand! In 1833, he was
re-appointed to the government of Ireland; he returned full of the same
innocent conceptions which had once fashioned Ireland into a political
Arcadia. But he was soon and similarly reduced to the level of
realities. He found confusion worse confounded, and was compelled to
exert all his power to suppress "agitation," and exert it in vain; a
Coercion Bill alone pioneered his way, a quarrel in which the Irish
Secretary was involved with the Agitator, produced the resignation of
the secretary, Littleton, though the Marquess's son-in-law.--Lord Grey,
like Saturn, rebelled against by his own progeny and overthrown by the
impulse of Reform, resigned, (July 9, 1834.) The Whig government fell
within the year, and the Marquess left Ireland. In England he
condescended to accept the office of Lord Chamberlain; but, within a
month, retired altogether from public life. It was full time: he was now
seventy-five.

The East India Company, in 1837, voted him £20,000, and in 1841
honourably proposed to place his statue in the India House. His
remaining years were unchequered. He died in Kingston House, Brompton,
on the 26th of September 1842, in his eighty-third year.

The Marquess Wellesley, on the whole view of his qualifications, was an
accomplished man; and, on a glance at his career, will be seen to have
been singularly favoured by fortune. Coming forward at a period of great
public interest, surrounded by the most eminent public men of the last
hundred years, and early associated with Pitt, the greatest of them all;
he enjoyed the highest advantages of example, intellectual exercise, and
public excitement, until he was placed in the government of India.
There, the career of every governor has exactly that portion of
difficulties which gives an administrator a claim on public applause;
with that assurance of success which stimulates the feeblest to
exertion. All our Indian wars have finished by the overthrow of the
enemy, the possession of territory, and the increase of British
power--with the single exception of the Affghan war, an expedition
wholly beyond the natural limits of our policy, and as rashly undertaken
as it was rashly carried on. The Marquess returned to Europe loaded with
honours, conspicuous in the public eye, and in the vigour of life. No
man had a fairer prospect of assuming the very highest position in the
national councils. He had the taste and sumptuousness which would have
made him popular with the first rank of nobility, the literature which
gratified the learned and intelligent, the practical experience of
public life which qualified him for the conduct of cabinets and
councils, and the gallantry and spirit which made him a favourite with
general society. He had, above all, a tower of strength in the talents
of his illustrious brother. Those two men might have naturally guided
the councils of an empire. That a man so gifted, so public, and so
ambitious of eminent distinction, should ever have been the subordinate
of the Liverpools, the Cannings, or the Greys, would be wholly
incomprehensible, but for one reason.

In the commencement of his career, he rashly involved himself in the
Catholic question. It was a showy topic for a young orator; it was an
easy exhibition of cheap patriotism; it gave an opportunity for
boundless metaphor--and it meant nothing. But, no politician has ever
sinned with Popery but under a penalty--the question hung about his neck
through every hour of his political existence. It encumbered his English
popularity, it alienated the royal favour, it flung him into the rear
rank of politicians. It made his English ambition fruitless and
secondary; and his Irish government unstable and unpopular. It
disqualified him for the noblest use of a statesman's powers, the power
of pronouncing an unfettered opinion; and it suffered a man to
degenerate into the antiquated appendage to a court, who might have been
the tutelar genius of an empire.

     _Memoirs and Correspondence of the Most Noble Richard Marquess
     Wellesley._ By ROBERT B. PEARCE, Esq. 3 vols. London: Bentley.




LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.


MY DEAR EUSEBIUS,--I have received yours from the hands of the bearer,
and such hands! Why write to consult me about railroads, of all things?
I know nothing about them, but that they all seem to tend to some
Pandemonium or another; and when I see of a dark night their
monster-engines, with eyes of flame and tongues of fire, licking up the
blackness under them, and snuffing up, as it were, the airs from Hades,
I could almost fancy the stoker a Mercury, conducting his hermetically
sealed convicts down those terrible passages that lead direct to the
abominable ferry. I said, "I know nothing of them;" but now I verily
believe you mean to twit me with my former experiment in railway
knowledge, and have no intention to purchase shares in the La Mancha
Company (and I doubt if there be any such) to countenance your Quixotic
pleasantry. I did speculate once, it is true, in one--London and
Falmouth Scheme--with very large promises. I was then living at W----,
when one day, just before I was going to sit down to dinner, a chaise
stops at my door, out steps a very "smart man," and is ushered into my
library. When I went into the room, he was examining, quite in a
connoisseur attitude, Eusebius, a picture; he was very fond of pictures,
he said; had a small but choice collection of his own, and I won't say
that he did not speak of the Correggiosity of Correggio. I was upon the
point of interrupting him, with the intimation that I did not mean to
purchase any, when, having thus ingratiated himself with me by this
reference to my taste, he suddenly turns round upon me with the most
business-like air, draws from under his cloak an imposingly official
portfolio, takes out his scrip, presenting me with a demand for fifty
pounds, the deposit of so many shares, looking positively certain that
in a few seconds the money would be in his pocket. People say, Eusebius,
that the five minutes before a dinner is the worst time in the world to
touch the heart, or to get any thing out of a man's pocket for
affection; but I do not know if it be not the best time for an attack,
if there be a speculation on foot which promises much to his interest,
for at that time he is naturally greedy. Had Belisarius, with his dying
boy in his arms, himself appeared at my gate, as seen in the French
print, crying, "Date obolum Belsario," I should have pronounced him at
once an impostor, and given him nothing, and, indeed, not pronounced
wrongly, for the whole story is a fiction. But at this peculiar moment
of hunger and of avarice, I confess I was too ready, and gave a check
for the amount. I had no sooner, however, satisfied myself with what
Homer calls [Greek: edêtnos êde potêtos], and we moderns, meat and
potatoes--than I began to suspect the soundness of the scheme, or the
company, who had gone to the expense of a chaise for eight miles merely
to collect this subscription of mine; and I was curious the next day to
trace the doings of this smart gentleman, when I found he had dined at
the inn at B---- on turtle, ducks, and green peas, and had recruited the
weariness of his day's journey with exhilarating champagne. I knew my
fate at once, and from that day to this have heard nothing of the London
and Falmouth project. Now, Eusebius, as you publish my letters, if this
should catch the eye of any of the directors of that company still
possessing any atom of conscience, I beg to remind them that I am still
minus fifty pounds; and as all claim seems to be quite out of the
question, excepting on their "known and boundless generosity," I beg to
wind up this little narrative of the transaction in the usual words of
the beggar's petition, "The smallest donation will be thankfully
received."

But the bearer, who was to consult me for your benefit--he hadn't a word
to say to me on the subject, but that he would call and consult with me
to-morrow. I found it in vain to question him, and I suspect it is a
hoax. But what a rural monster you have sent me! "Cujum pecus?--an
Melibei?" He cannot possibly herd with Eusebius; he had no modest
bearing about him. I had just opened your letter, and found you called
him a friend of yours, who had many observations to make about
poetry--so, as we were just going to tea, he was invited. It was most
fortunate I did not offer him a bed, for I should then have been bored
with him at this moment, when I am sitting down to write to you some
little account of his manners and conversation, which you know very
well, or you would not have sent him to me. I only now hope I shall not
see him to-morrow; and should I learn that he shall have departed in one
of those Plutonian engines to the keeping of Charon himself, I should
only regret that I had not put an obol into his hand, lest he should be
presented with a return-ticket. What did he say, and what did he not
say? He called my daughter "Miss," and said he should like music very
well but for the noise of it; and as to his ideas of poetry, that you
speak of, he treated it with the utmost contempt, and as a "very
round-about-way of getting to matter of fact." What else could I have
expected of him?--with his tight-drawn skin over his distended cheeks,
from which his nose scarcely protruded, as defying a pinch, with a
forehead like Caliban's, as villanously low, with his close-cut hair
sticking to it, and his little chin retiring, lest a magnanimous thought
should for a moment rest upon it. Such was never the image that
Cassandra had in her mind's eye when she cried, "O, Apollo--O, Apollo!"
And this was your friend, forsooth, with his novel ideas upon poetry!
Yet this vulgar piece of human mechanism is not without a little cunning
shrewdness, characteristically marked in his little pig-eye; and I must
tell you one piece of criticism of his, and an emendation, not unworthy
the great Bentley himself. Yet I know not why I tell you, for you know
it well already, I suspect; for he told me he had been talking with you
about a letter which you had published, and told him was written by me,
and which he had read while waiting in your library till you could see
him. He said he thought a little common sense, observation, and plain
matter of fact, would often either throw light upon or amend many
obscure passages of poets; for that even those of most name either made
egregious blunders, or they were made for them. I could not deny that
truth, Eusebius, and yet he wasn't a man to grant any thing to, if you
could help it; but I saw there was something rich to come, so I
encouraged him; and this remark of his, Eusebius, reminded me of a
misery occasioned in the mind of a very sensitive and reverend poet, who
preached weekly to a very particular congregation, by the printer's
devil mistaking an erasure for a hyphen, which gave to his sonnet a most
improper expression. It made him miserable then, and will ever give him
a twinge lest he should have suffered in reputation. He has so much
reason to be happy now, that to remind him of it, should he happen to
read this, is only to make his happiness the greater, by somewhat
reducing its quality; as the very atmosphere must be tempered for man's
use and health, by somewhat of a noxious ingredient. But I must return
to your friend. His cheeks seem ready to burst with common sense, and
polished with ruddy conceit. "Do you remember," said I, "any particular
passage upon which your observations will bear?" "Why," said he, "there
was one in that paper which first struck me as utter nonsense; but a
little alteration easily sets it to rights. There was a quotation from
Milton: I wasn't very well acquainted with his poems, but I have read
since, with much trouble to understand it, that whole scene and passage;
it is in a play of his called 'Comus;'--and, by the by, all that part of
the prose in the letter relating to the seashore and its treasures, is
all stuff; all the roads about the country are made and mended with
those pebbles--they are worth nothing. What Milton is supposed to have
said, when they wrote down for him, that the billows of the Severn "roll
ashore"--"the beryl and the golden ore"--never could have been written
by any one who knew the Severn. A beryl is a clear crystal, isn't it?
and if the billows should roll one ashore in the muddy Severn, I should
like to know who could find it! There are no billows but from the
Bristol Channel, and that's mud all the way, miles and miles up;--pretty
shores for a beryl to be _rolled_ on. Besides, now, what man of common
sense would talk of rolling a bit of a thing, not half so big as a
nutmeg, and that upon mud, in which it would sink like a bullet? _He_
would have said 'washed ashore;' but I'll tell you what it was: I
understand Milton was blind, and his daughters wrote what he dictated:
they say, too, he had a good deal of knowledge of things, and, without
doubt, knew very well the trade of the Bristol Channel, and from the
Severn into the Avon; and certainly meant '_barrel_ and the golden ore,'
and this word suggested the precious ornament which most women like to
think of, and as she, his daughter, minced it in her own mouth, a beryl
dropped from her pen. Now, only consider what was the great trade in
those parts; the West India and the African trade were both at their
height, and didn't one bring _barrels_ of sugar, and the other gold
dust--what can be clearer? There you see how proper the word _rolling_
is, for you must have often seen them rolling their _barrels_ from their
ships upon planks, and so on their quays; and the golden ore speaks for
itself, as plain as can be, gold dust; and there you have a reading that
agrees with fact. I don't exactly know _when_ Milton wrote; but I dare
say it was at the very time of that notorious merchandize; and don't you
think, sir, that the next edition of Milton ought to have this
alteration? I do. I forgot to say that the gold dust came over in little
barrels too; for no man in his senses would have thought of rolling or
washing dust ashore, excepting in a keg or barrel, and so it was, I make
no doubt."

I perfectly assented to every thing he said, Eusebius, by which happy
concession on my part, having no food for an obstinate discussion, he
soon withdrew. I sat awhile thinking, and now write to you. At least
make a marginal note in your Milton of this criticism; and when
posterity shall discover it, and forget that _Comus_ was written when
Milton was a young man, and had no daughters to write for him, then it
will be adopted, and admired as a specimen of the critical acumen of the
great and learned Eusebius.

It reminds me to tell you, that being the other day at the sea-side, and
wanting a Horace, I borrowed one from a student of Cambridge. It was a
Paris edition. I never should have dreamed of seeing an expurgated or
emasculated edition from French quarters; but so it was. I looked for
that beautiful little piece, the quarrel between Lydia and Horace. It
was not there.

  "Donec gratus eram tibi,
  Nec quisquam potior brachia candide
  Cervici juvenis dabat."

I suppose the offence lay in these lines, which appear no worse than
that old song, (the lovers' quarrel too,)

  "I've kiss'd and I've prattled with fifty fair maids."

An American lady must not be shocked with the word _leg_, and we are
told they put flounces upon those pedestals of pianofortes; but that a
lover throwing his arms around his mistress's neck should offend a
Frenchman, is an outrageous prudery from a very unexpected quarter. We
can imagine a scholar tutored to this affected purity, who should escape
from it, and plunge into the opposite immoralities of our modern French
novels, like him

  "Qui frigidus Ætnam
  Insiluit."

  "Plunged cold into Ætnean fires."

There were many emendations, most of which I forget; but I could not
help laughing at an absurdity in the following ode:--

  "Vixi puellis nuper idoneus."

The word _puellis_ is altered to _choreis_, which nevertheless, as a
mark of absurdity, ought to be supposed to contain the _puellis_; for to
say,

  "I lately lived for dances fit,"

surely implies that the sayer had some one to dance with; or is there
any dancing sect of men in France so devoted to celibacy that they will
only dance with each other? We are certainly improved in this country,
where it should seem that once a not unsimilar practice was compulsory
upon the benchers, as will be seen from the following quotation from
_The Revels at Lincoln's Inn_:--

"The exercise of dancing was thought necessary, and much conducing to
the making of gentlemen, more fit for their books at other times; for by
an order (_ex Registro Hosp. sine._ vol. 71, 438 C) made 6th February, 7
Jac., it appears that the under barristers were, by decimation, put out
of Commons for example sake, because the whole bar offended by not
dancing on Candlemas-day preceding, according to the ancient order of
this Society, when the judges were present; with this, that if the like
fault was committed afterwards, they should be fined or disbarred."--(D,
_Revels at Lincoln's Inn_, p. 15.) Eusebius, you would go on a
pilgrimage, with unboiled peas, to Pump Court or more favourable
locality, for these little "brief authorities."

  "To see how like are courts of law to fairs,
  The dancing barristers to dancing bears;
  Both suck their paws indulgent to their griefs,
  These lacking provender, those lacking briefs."

Shame to him who does not agree with our own delightful Robert Burns, of
glorious memory, who "dearly lo'ed the lasses O!" So only "Let the merry
dance go round."

And now, as the dancers are off the stage, and it is the more proper
time for gravity and decorum, I feel that irresistible desire to be as
wicked as possible--a desire which I have heard you say tormented you in
your childhood; for, whenever you were admonished to be remarkably good,
you were invariably remarkably bad. So I yield to the temptation, and
voluntarily, and with "malice prepense" throw myself into the wickedness
of translating (somewhat modernizing I own) the "Tabooed" ode, in
defiance of, and purposely to offend, the Parisian, or other editor or
editors, who shall ever show themselves such incomparable ninnies as to
omit that or any other ode of Horace. Accept the following.

  "Vixi puellis nuper idoneus."

  CARMEN, 26, lib. iii.

  For maiden's love I once was fit,
  But now those fields of warfare quit,
  With all my boast, content to sit
      In easy-chair;
  And here lay by (a lover's lances)
  All poems, novels, and romances.
  Ah! well a-day! such idle fancies
      I well might spare.

  There--on that shelf, behind the door,--
  By all those works of Hannah More
  And Bishop Porteus--Let a score
      Of lectures guard them;
  Take Bulwer, Moore, and Sand, and Sue,
  The Mysteries, and the Wandering Jew;
  May he who gives to all their due,
      The Deil, reward them.

  And Venus, if thou hast, as whilom,
  For parted lovers an asylum,
  To punish or to reconcile 'em,
      Take Chloe to it;
  And lift, if thou hast heart of flint,
  Thy lash, and her fair skin imprint--
  But ah! forbear--or, take the hint,
      And let me do it.

Not a word, Eusebius, I know what you are going to say,--no shame at
all. You have all your life acquitted Horace; and if he never intended
Chloe to have a whipping, you may be quite sure the little turn that I
have ventured to give the affair, won't bear that construction; and
there will be no occasion to ask the dimensions of the rod, as the
ladies at the assize-town did of Judge Buller, requesting of him, with
their compliments, to send them the measure of his thumb.

Why should I not attempt this rejected ode? Here goes for the honour of
Lydia. "Kiss and be friends" be ever the motto to lovers' quarrels.

  _"Donec gratus eram tibi."_


  HORACE.
  When I was all in all to you,
    Nor yet more favour'd youthful minion
  His arms around your fair neck threw;
  Not Persia's boasted monarch knew
    More bless'd a state, more large dominion.

  LYDIA.
  And whilst you loved but only me,
    Nor then _your_ Lydia stood the second,
  And Chloe first, in love's degree;
  I thought myself a queen to be,
    Nor greater Roman Ilia reckon'd.

  HORACE.
  Now Cretan Chloe rules me quite;
    Skill'd in the lyre and every measure,
  For whom I'd die this very night,
  If but the Fates, in death's despite,
    Would Chloe spare, my soul's best treasure.

  LYDIA.
  Me Caläis, Ornytus' young heir!
    (The flame is mutual _we_ discover,)
  For whom to die _two_ deaths I'd dare,
  If the stern Fates would only spare,
    And _he could_ live, my youthful lover.

  HORACE.
  What--if our former love restore
    Our bonds, too firm for aught to sever,--
  I shake off Chloe; and the door
  To Lydia open flies once more;
    Returning Lydia, and for ever.

  LYDIA.
  He, though a beauteous star--you light
    As cork, and rough as stormy weather,
  That vexes Adria's raging might,
  With you to live were my delight,
    And willing should we die together.

So this is the offending ode! Was the proposition to be constant not
quite agreeable to the French editor? Or was he in Horace's probable
condition, getting a little up in years? See you, it is a youthful
rival, Juvenis, who troubles him. And Lydia takes care to throw in this
ingredient, the "sweet age." He is not _old_ Ornytus--a hint of
comparison with Horace himself--but his son; indeed, he is hardly
Juvenis, for she soon calls him her dear boy, as much as to say, "_You_
are old enough to be his father!" She carries out this idea, too,
seeming to say, "You may love Chloe--I dare say you do; but, does Chloe
love you? Whereas _our_ passion is mutual."

Our poet, delightful and wise as he generally is, was not wise to match
his wit against that of a woman, and an offended beauty. How miserably
he comes off in every encounter! He would die, forsooth! once--she would
die twice over! There is a hit in his very liver! And as to the
survivorship of Chloe, that she suggests, considering their ages, might
be very natural--but she doubts if her youth _could_ survive should
_she_ die; though she even came to life again, a second time to die, it
would be of no use. What could the foolish poet do after that?
Nothing--but make up the quarrel in the best way he might. He drops his
ears, is a little sulky still--most men are so in these affairs--seldom
generous in love. To pretend to be so is only to encroach on woman's
sweet and noble prerogative, and to assume her great virtue. No man
could keep it up long; he would naturally fall into his virile sulks. So
Horace does not at once open his arms that his Lydia may fall into
them--but stands hesitatingly, rather foolish, his hands behind him, and
puts forward the supposition _If_--that graceless peace-maker. Lydia, on
the contrary--all love, all generosity, is in his arms at once; for he
must at the moment bring them forward, whether he will for love or no,
or Lydia would fall. It is now she looks into his very eyes, and only
playfully, as quizzing his jealousy, reminds him of her Caläis, her star
of beauty; thus sweetly reproving and as sweetly forgiving the temper of
her Horace--for he is her Horace still--and who can wonder at that? She
will bear with all--will live, will die with him. I look, Eusebius, upon
this ode as a real consolation to your lovers of an ambiguous and
querulous age. Seeing what we are daily becoming, it is a comfort to
think that, should such untoward persons make themselves disagreeable to
all else of human kind, there will be, nevertheless, to each, one
confiding loving creature, to put them in conceit with themselves, and
make them, notwithstanding their many perversities, believe that they
are unoffending male angels, and die in the bewildering fancy that they
are still loveable.

I have little more to say, but that, having been lately in a versifying
mood, I have set to rhyme your story of the cook and the lottery ticket;
and herein I have avoided that malicious propensity of our numerous
tellers of stories, whose only pleasure, as it appears to me, lies in
the plunging the heroes and heroines of their tales into inextricable
troubles and difficulties, and in continuing them in a state of
perplexity beyond the power of human sufferance; and who slur over their
unexpected, and generally ill-contrived escape, as a matter of small
importance; and with an envy of human happiness, like the fiend who sat
scowling on the bliss of Eden, either leave them with sinister
intentions, or absolutely drive them out of the Paradise which they have
so lately prepared for them.

I have lately been reading a very interesting, well conceived in many
respects, and pathetic novel, which, nevertheless, errs in this; and I
even think the pathos is injured by the last page, which is too painful
for _tenderness_, which appears the object of the able author. A
monumental effigy is but the mockery of all life's doings, which are
thus, with their sorrows and their joys, rendered nugatory; and all that
we have been reading, and are interested about, is unnecessarily
presented to us as dust and ashes. Such is the tale of Mount Sorrel.

Perhaps, too, I might say of this, and of other novels of the same kind,
that there is in them an unhealthy egotism; a Byronism of personal
feelings; an ingenious invention of labyrinth meandering into the mazes
of the mind and of the affections, in which there is always
bewilderment, and the escape is rather lucky than foreseen. Such was not
the mode adopted heretofore by more vigorous writers, who preferred
exhibiting the passions by action, and a few simple touches, which came
at once to the heart, without the necessity of unravelling the mismazes
of their course. If Achilles had made a long speech in Elysium about his
feelings, and attempted to describe them, when his question, if his son
excelled in glory, was happily answered, we should have thought less of
him for his egotism, and had much less perfect knowledge of the real
man's heart and soul. Homer simply tells us, that he walked away, with
great strides, greatly rejoicing. I can remember, at this moment, but
one tale in which this style of descriptive searchings into the feelings
is altogether justifiable--Godwin's "_Caleb Williams_;" for there the
ever instant terror, varying by the natural activity and ingenuity of
the mind, which, upon the one pressing point, feverishly hurries into
new, and all possible channels of thought, requires this pervading
absolutism. It is the Erynnis of a bygone creed, in a renovated form of
persecuting fatalism, brought to sport with the daily incidents and
characters of modern life.

I do not wish to be tempted by this course of thought into lengthened
criticism; which I should not have touched upon, had I not thought it
proper to tell you that I have added a conclusion to your tale. Ever
wishing a continuation of the happiness of two human beings, beyond that
location in the story, where most spiteful authors leave them, the
Church door.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have been reading, too, over again two of Sir Walter Scott's novels,
"Guy Mannering" and "Ivanhoe." How different they are, both in design
and execution! The former, in all respects perfect--the latter, in
design common-place, and but little enlarged from the old ballad tales
of Robin Hood, and histories of the Crusaders; very slovenly in diction,
and lengthened out by tiresome repetitions; the same things being told
in protracted dialogues which had been previously narrated in the
historic course. Then there are very ill-timed interruptions, and
wearisome disquisitions, just where they should not be. Yet are there
passages of perfect excellence, that prove the master-hand of the
author. The novel of "Ivanhoe" seems to resemble some of those plays
which, though doubtful, are called Shakspeare's, because it is evident
that the master-hand has passed over them, and left touches both of
thought and character which justify the position which they enjoy.
Rebecca is all in all. The other characters somewhat fail to interest.
Ivanhoe himself says but little, and is in fact not much developed. We
are disgusted, and unnecessarily, at every turn with Athelstane--there
was no occasion for making him this degraded glutton. It seems a clumsy
contrivance to break off his marriage with Rowena; and surely the boast
of his eating propensities, when he shows himself to his astonished
mourners escaped from the death and tomb prepared for him, is unnatural,
and throws a contempt and ridicule over the whole scene. Richard and
Robin Hood (or Locksley) are not characters of Sir Walter's
creation--Richard is, we may suppose, truly portrayed. My friend S----,
Eusebius, who, while I was suffering under influenza, read these novels
out to me, was offended at a little passage towards the end, where the
author steps out of the action of his dramatic piece, to tell you that
King Richard did not live to fulfil the benevolent promises he had a
line or two before been making; and I entirely agree with S----, and
felt the unseemly and untimely intelligence as he read it. This would
scarcely be justifiable in a note, but in the body of the work it shocks
as a plague-spot on the complexion of health. This practice, too common
in novelists, especially the "historical," becoming their own marplots,
deserves censure. To borrow from another art, it is like marring a
composition, by an uncomfortable line or two running out of the picture,
and destroying the completeness. I know not if that fine scene, perhaps
the most masterly in Ivanhoe, has ever been painted, where, after the
defeat of De Bois-Guilbert, and after that Richard had broken in upon
the court, the Grand Master draws off in the repose of stern submission
his haughty Knights Templars. The slow procession finely contrasts with
the taunting violence of Richard; and what a background is offered to
the painter--the variously moved multitude, the rescued Rebecca, and the
dead (though scarcely defeated) Templar!

Sir Walter, although an antiquarian, was not perhaps aware that he was
somewhat out in his chronology in connecting Robin Hood and his men with
Richard the First. It is made very clear in an able essay in the
_Westminster Review_, that Robin Hood's name and fame did not commence
till after the defeat of Simon de Montfort in the battle of Evesham. In
fact, Robin Hood was more of a political outlaw--one of the outlawed,
after that defeat, than a mere sylvan robber. Sir Walter Scott has taken
advantage of the general belief, gathered from many of our old ballads,
in an intercourse between Robin Hood and England's king. But according
to the oldest of the ballads, (or rather poems, for it is too long for a
ballad, and composed of many parts,) _The Lyttel Geste of Robin Hood_,
this king of England was Edward the First; so that the existence of the
"bold outlaw" is antedated by the author of _Ivanhoe_ upwards of seventy
years. This, however, does not affect the story, excepting to those who
entertain the fond fancy, that when they read an historical novel they
read history.[1] Do you wonder, Eusebius, at my chronological learning?
You well may; it must appear to you a very unexpected commodity. The
truth is, my attention has been directed to this very matter by my
antiquarian friend M'Gutch of Worcester, who not only pointed out to me
the essay in the _Westminster_, but, finding my curiosity excited, sent
me many of the ballads, Robin Hood's garlands, and _The Lyttel Geste_,
together with an able introduction of his own to a new edition of the
collection he is about to produce, with which you will be delighted, and
learn all that is to be known; and it is more than you would expect to
meet with about this "gentle robber."

S----, to whom I read the foregoing remarks on _Ivanhoe_, said, I ought
to do penance for the criticism. I left the penance to his choice; and,
like a true friend, he imposed a pleasure; I do not say, Eusebius, that
if left to myself I should have been a Franciscan. He took up _Marmion_,
and read it from beginning to end. It is indeed a noble poem. Will not
the day come, when Sir Walter's poems will be more read than his novels,
good though they be?

In his poetry Scott always reminds me of Homer. There is the same energy
ever working to the one simple purpose--the same spontaneity and belief
in its own tale; and diversity of character for relief's sake is common
to both. In reading Homer we must discard all our school notions; we
began to read with difficulty; the task was a task, though it was true
we warmed in it--the thread was broken a thousand times; and we too
often pictured to ourselves the old bard in his gravity of beard and
age--not in that vigour, that freshness of manhood, which is conspicuous
in both poems, at whatever age they were composed.

I have had the curiosity, Eusebius, to enquire of very many real
scholars, who have professed to keep up their Greek after leaving the
universities, if they have re-read Homer in Greek, and almost all have
confessed that they had not. They read him in Pope and Cowper. Let them
read him offhand, and fluently, continuously, as they do _Marmion_, or
the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, and I cannot but think they will be
struck with the Homeric resemblance in the poems of Sir Walter Scott.
Both great poets had, too, the same relish for natural scenery, the same
close observation; did we not pass over such passages lightly, we
should, I am persuaded, find in both the same nice discriminations in
characters of outward scenes, that we do in those of men. In both there
is the same kind of secret predominance of female character the same
delicacy, tenderness, (a wondrous thing in the age of Homer, or rather,
perhaps, showing we know nothing about that age, not even so much as we
do about those ages which we choose to call dark.) It must, however, be
noted, that Sir Walter Scott has limited himself to more confined
fields. There is not the same room for genius to work in--the production
is, therefore, in degree less varied, and less complete; but is there
not a likeness in kind? Is it too bold, is it merely fanciful, Eusebius,
to say, too, that there is a something not dissimilar in the measures
adopted by these ancient and modern poets. Homer possibly had no choice;
but in the hexameter there is the greatest versative power. How
different, for instance, are the first lines of the "Tale of Troy
Divine," and the more familiar adventures of Ulysses. The _ad libitum_
alternation of dactyl and spondee make the lively or the grave; and the
whole metrical glow is all life and action, without hitch or hindrance.

Our heroic measure is at once too long and too short--for, take the
cæsura as a division of the line, (and what is it if not that?) and the
latter part of the line is too short for any effective power--a fault
that does not exist in the Greek hexameter. Without the cæsura, or with
a very slight attention to it, the line is too long, and made tiresome
by the monotony which the necessary pause of the rhyme imposes. Besides,
how do we know, after all, that the Greeks did not read their one
hexameter like two lines, with a decided pause at the cæsura, with the
additional grace of the short syllable at its end often passing the
voice into the second part, or, as we may call it in the argument, the
second line? Try, Eusebius; read off a dozen lines any where in Homer
with this view, and tell me what you think of the _possible_ short
measure of Homer. It is true our measures are of the iambic character,
which Horace says is the fittest for action--and therefore, in the
Greek, the dramatic. The trimeter iambic is a foot longer than our
heroic measure. But then it has the double ictus; and, as the word
implies, is divisible into three parts, thus giving a quickness and
shortness where wanted. Take away, however, the first cæsura, rest only
on the second, (and then you have exactly one short measure, that of
"Marmion,") and how superfluous the last division of the trimeter
appears! as weak and ineffective as the latter part of our long measure,
if we read it as wanting the additional foot of the hexameter. For
example,

"[Greek: ô techna thô palou]"--

There is the measure of Scott--the Greek iambic, however, is lengthened
by two feet--[Greek: nea trophê]; so that to the Greek the three ictuses
(at least to English ears, accustomed to our short measure) are
necessary. That this short measure wants not power in any respect,
_Marmion_ alone sufficiently shows. I, however, wished only to show that
it had something of an Homeric character; and the facility with which
you can read the hexameter of Homer as two lines, you will, perhaps,
more than suspect, tends to confirm this opinion. I think, somewhere,
Sir Walter Scott recommends the translating Homer into short
measure--you forget, perhaps, my making the trial upon the two first
books of the Odyssey which I sent to you, and you returned, _condemned_;
although, to tell you the truth, I was not displeased with my attempt,
and expected your flattering commendation, and would even now deceive
myself into a belief that you were not prepared for the novelty. Admire
the candour that proclaims the failure. It is enough that Eusebius
admitted my other Homeric translations.

You will easily detect that this letter is written at intervals. I told
you what a kind reader I have found in S----, during my indulgence in
the luxurious indolence for which influenza apologizes, and a growing
convalescence renders a pleasing hypocrisy. He has been repeating, from
memory, some lines of his favourite Collins. I remembered them not. He
could not put his hand on an edition of Collins, but referred to the
"Elegant Extracts," and could not find his admired stanza. He remembered
reading it in "The Speaker." The lines are in the Ode to "Evening." In
the "Elegant Extracts" we have--

  "Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
  Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
    Whose walls more awful nod
    By thy religious gleams."

These lines are substituted for the better lines--

  "Then lead, dear votress, where some sheety lake
  Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,
    Or upland fallows grey
    Reflect the last cool gleam."

Why should this beautiful stanza be lost? Is the substitute to be
compared with it? Ask the landscape painter! He will admire the one--he
will enjoy the other. Who substituted the one for the other? Did Collins
write both, and was dubious which should stand; or do you discover the
hand of an audacious emendator? Who would lose the sheety lake in which
nothing is reflected but evening's own sky, and the "upland fallows
grey," and the last _cool_ gleam!

Odious, odious politics! While I am writing, there is an interruption, a
sad interruption, to thoughts of poetry and snatches of criticism. It is
like a sudden nightmare upon pleasant and shifting dreams. Here are
three visitors new from reading Sir Robert Peel's speech. Two very
indignant--one a timid character--apologetic. What, cries one--a
statesman so egotistical and absolute in his vanity, as, at such a time
as the present, to throw the many interests of this great country into
peril, and some into sure difficulty, lest, as he himself confesses, he
should be thought to have borrowed on Lord John Russell? What business
has a statesman to think of himself at all? It is frightful, said
another. There are two astounding things--one, that a minister should
suddenly turn round upon the principles and the party who brought him
into power upon them, confessing he had been changing his opinion three
years, and yet last July he should have spoken against the measure
which, at the time of speaking, in his heart he favoured, and which he
now forces upon a reluctant Parliament; the other astounding thing is,
that a Parliament created to oppose this very measure, should show such
entire subserviency as to promise a large majority to the minister. May
we not expect one who so changes may suddenly some day join O'Connell
and grant Repeal? We are to be governed by a minister, not by King,
Lords, and Commons. The apologetic man urges expediency, public
(assumed) opinion--any thing for peace sake, and to get rid of
agitation. So, to avoid agitation, Eusebius, I scrambled up my papers
and this letter to you, and left the room; and now, in one more quiet,
resume my pen. With a mind not a little confused between politics,
poetry, and classical reminiscences, I, however, rested a while to give
scope to reflection; and meditation upon this "corn question," brought
to mind the practical advice of the tyrant of Syracuse to Periander, to
get rid of his aristocracy, which was shown by the action of cutting off
the heads of the grain that grew highest in the field. A tyranny was the
result, (not in the Greek sense of the word,) and it matters little
whence the tyranny comes. With this idea prevalent, I looked for a copy
of a Greek MS., taken from a palimpsest discovered in the Ambrosian
library, and sat down to translate it for you--you may have the Greek
when you like. In the meanwhile, be content with the following version
of the apologue, and be not too critical.


THE STORY OF PERIANDER.

"When Periander had now reigned some years at Corinth, the Tyrant of
Syracuse sent thither an ambassador, a man of great penetration, to
enquire how the maxims of government, in which he had instructed him,
had answered.

"The ambassador found Periander in the midst of his courtiers. After
receiving him in such manner as it became him to receive a messenger
from so excellent a friend, from whom he had obtained the best advice,
and after hearing the object of his embassy:--'See,' said Periander, 'to
what degree I have prospered. These gentlemen,' pointing to his
courtiers, 'have been telling me that my people, and the universal
opinion of mankind, enrol me one of the seven wise men of Greece.'

"'Indeed!!!' quoth the ambassador; 'that will delight the king, my
master, exceedingly; who will, without doubt, enquire if I have seen
with my own eyes the happiness of a people who are so fortunate, and are
possessed of so sound a judgment. As yet, I have seen none but those who
immediately conducted me hither.'

"'We will take a short circuit,' said Periander, 'and these gentlemen
shall accompany us, and we shall see if what they report be true,'
looking a little suspiciously at his courtiers, as if to say, 'I verily
think you are but flattering knaves.'

"As they passed through the great hall, the officers of state, and the
officers of the household, shouted, 'There are but seven wise men, and
Periander is the wisest.'

"Periander, the ambassador, and the courtiers, soon left the vestibule,
and found themselves in the streets of Corinth. Not a citizen was to be
seen. On, and on they went--and still no one was in sight. 'Your
majesty's subjects are somewhat more scarce than they were wont to be,'
said the ambassador of Syracuse. Periander bit his lips. On, and on they
went--and still no one was to be seen--till, turning the corner of
another street, they saw, for an instant only, the backs of a few
people, who suddenly disappeared into their houses, and a fierce dog
flew out upon them, barking furiously, and would have bitten Periander
by the leg had he not been rescued by the ambassador.

"'Am I to tell my lord the King of Syracuse,' said the ambassador, 'that
I have seen one class of your majesty's subjects, and heard their
opinion?' Periander knit his brows, and looked daggers at his courtiers.

"They went on a little further, when a laden ass, whose owner had fled,
stood directly in their way. The ass put out his ugly head and brayed in
the very face of Periander.

"'Do I hear,' said the ambassador, 'the voice of another class of your
majesty's subjects?'

"Periander now could not forbear smiling, as he struck the ass, who
kicked at him as he beat him out of the path.

"Well! they went on still a little further, and had now reached the
suburbs, where they met a boy driving a flock of geese and goslings into
a pond. The boy, as all the rest had done, fled.

"But the big gander, as they approached, waddled up with extended wings
to Periander, and hissed at him.

"'The voice of your people,' said the ambassador, 'is indeed unanimous.'

"'At least,' said Periander, 'I will show my wisdom here, by roasting
that fellow and eating him for supper.' Whereupon one of his courtiers,
who, in matters of this kind take slight hints for mandates, ran the
poor gander through the body; and Periander, in reward he said for so
brave an action, bade him throw the creature round his neck[2] as a
trophy, and carry him home for supper.

"But by this time the old goose, too, fearing for her goslings, came
furiously upon Periander, and flapping and beating him with her wings,
put him into a sad straight. On this occasion one of his courtiers came
to his rescue, and he escaped; and seeing what a ridiculous figure he
made, leaned against a wall, and burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter.

"'It is enough,' said the ambassador from the Tyrant of Syracuse; 'I am
now enabled to inform the king, my master, of the character, manners,
and perfect felicity of your majesty's people, from my own observation.
That they are of three classes. The first are dogs, the second are
asses, and the third are geese; only I perceive that the geese are the
more numerous.'

"They returned to the palace, but did not enter by the great vestibule,
as Periander made use of a key for a private entrance, which led him
into the interior of the building, at the end of the great hall.
Hereupon, the officers of state, and the officers of the household who
stood near the vestibule, waiting their return, seeing Periander, the
ambassador, and the courtiers at the other end, hastened towards them,
shouting as before--'There are but seven wise men, and Periander is the
wisest.' Periander ordered them to be beaten with stripes; then,
retiring into his private apartment with the ambassador, he conversed
freely with him, and dismissed him with many and large presents.

"The ambassador returned to Syracuse, and was immediately ordered into
the royal presence, where he narrated, amidst the laughter of the
courtiers, and of the Tyrant himself, the whole affair as it had
happened. When the laughter had a little subsided, the king said, 'Let
it be written in a book, how one of the seven wise men had wellnigh been
beaten by a goose, who certainly had been too much for him, had not
another come to the rescue. Truly a goose is a foolish bird, too much
for one, but not enough for two.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

N.B.--Hence it will be seen that this saying is of more antiquity than
is generally believed, and has no relation to modern gluttony, and was
in fact a saying of the Tyrant of Syracuse, when he heard the story told
by his ambassador. This story, which will be Greek to many, will,
perhaps, be no Greek at all to you. In that case go yourself to the
Ambrosian library; or, in criticising what I may send, you may be as
unfortunate as the great scholar who unconsciously questioned the Greek
of Pindar. But, both for the moral and Greek, I will but add--

  "Verbum sat sapienti."

           Dear Eusebius, ever yours,
                                  ----.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: It is a dangerous thing to touch upon chronology. It is
said of the great Duke of Marlborough, that in a conversation respecting
the first introduction of cannon, he quoted Shakspeare to prove that it
was in the reign of John.

  "O prudent discipline from north to south,
  Austria and France _shoot_ in each other's mouth."

Yes, said his adversary, but you quote Shakspeare, not history.]

[Footnote 2: Is it possible that Coleridge may have seen this apologue
when he wrote his "Ancient Mariner," and introduced a similar incident
of the albatross?]




THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA.

Part VI.

  A la lid, nacionales valientes!
  Al combate á la gloria volad!
  Guerra y muerte á tiranos y esclavos,
  Guerra y despues habra paz!

  _Himno de Valladolíd._


It still wanted an hour of daybreak, on the 16th day of July 1835, when
the stillness, that during the previous four or five hours had reigned
undisturbed in the quiet streets of Artajona, was broken by the clang of
the _diana_. But a few notes of the call had issued from the brazen
throats of bugle and trumpet, when a notable change took place in the
appearance of the town. Lights, of which previously only a solitary one
had here and there proceeded from the window of a guard-room, or of some
early-rising orderly-sergeant, now glimmered in every casement; the
streets were still empty, save of the trumpeters, who stood at the
corners, puffing manfully at their instruments; but on all sides was
audible a hum like that of a gigantic bee-hive, mingled with a slight
clashing of arms, and with the neighing of numerous horses, who, as well
as their masters, had heard and recognized the well-known sounds. Two or
three minutes elapsed, and then doors were thrown open, and the deserted
streets began to assume a more lively appearance. Non-commissioned
officers, their squad-rolls in their hands, took their station in front
of the houses where their men were billeted; in the stables, dragoons
lighted greasy iron lamps, and, suspending them against the wall,
commenced cleaning and saddling their horses; the shutters of the
various wine-houses were taken down, and drowsy, nightcapped
_taberneros_ busied themselves in distributing to innumerable applicants
the tiny glassful of _anisado_, which, during the whole twenty-four
hours, is generally the sole spirituous indulgence permitted himself by
the sober Spanish soldier. A few more minutes passed; the _revéille_ had
ceased to sound, and on the principal square of the town a strong
military band played, with exquisite skill and unison, the beautiful and
warlike air of the hymn of Valladolid.

  "A la lid, nacionales valientes!
  Al combate, á la gloria volad!"

"To the strife, brave nationals; to the strife, and to glory!" sang many
a soldier, the martial words of the song recalled to his memory by the
soul-stirring melody, as, buckling on sabre or shouldering musket, he
hurried to the appointed parade. The houses and stables were now fast
emptying, and the streets full. The monotonous "_Uno, dos_," of the
infantry, as they told off, was drowned in the noise of the horses' feet
and the jingle of accoutrements of the cavalry-men clattering out of
their stables. By the light of a few dingy lanterns, and of the stronger
illumination proceeding from the windows, whole battalions were seen
assembled, resting on their arms, and presently they began to move out
of the town. Outside of Artajona, the right wing of the army, under
command of General Gurrea, formed up, and marched away in the direction
of Mendigorria.

The sun had but just risen when this division, after driving in the
Carlist cavalry pickets, which had been pushed up to within half a
league of Artajona, halted and took position to the right of the
high-road between that town and Mendigorria. The ground thus occupied is
level, and opposite to nearly the centre of a line of low hills, which,
after running for some distance parallel to the Arga, recedes at either
extremity, thus forming the flattened arc of a circle, of which the
river is the chord. Between the hills, which are inconsiderable and of
gradual slope, and the river, runs the high-road from Puente de la Reyna
to Larraga; and in rear of their more southerly portion, known as La
Corona, opposite to the place where the road from Artajona passes
through a dip or break in their continuity, are the town and bridge of
Mendigorria. Upon these hills the Carlists, who had passed the night in
the last-named town, now formed themselves, their main body upon the
eastern slope, their reserves upon the western or reverse side. They
were still bringing their masses into position, when the Christino right
came upon the ground, and for awhile, although the distance between the
hostile forces was not great, no shot was fired on either side. By and
by, however, the dark figures of the Carlist guerillas were seen racing
down the hills, the Christino skirmishers advanced to meet them, and
soon a sharp irregular fire of musketry, and the cloud of smoke which
spread over the middle ground between the armies, announced that the
fight, or at least the prelude to it, had begun. This desultory sort of
contest was of short duration. Several Carlist battalions moved forward,
a gallant attack was made on the Christino position, and as gallantly
repelled: commanded by a brave and skilful officer, and favoured by a
judicious choice of ground, the Queen's troops, although opposed to
vastly superior numbers, and without their cavalry, which had remained
with the reserve, repulsed repeated assaults, and held their own without
serious loss, until, towards ten o'clock, the heads of columns of the
centre of the army, under the commander-in-chief himself, made their
appearance from the direction of Artajona. Almost at the same time, the
left wing, with Espartero at its head, arrived from Larraga, where it
had slept. Some little manoeuvring took place, and then the whole
Christino army appeared formed up, Cordova on either side of the
high-road, Espartero on his left, nearer to the Arga, Gurrea on his
right. By a rather singular arrangement, the whole force of cavalry,
under General Lopez, was left in reserve, considerably in rear of the
left wing, and at a full mile and a half from the centre; with the
exception of one squadron, which, as well as his habitual escort, had
accompanied General Cordova. That squadron was commanded by Luis
Herrera.

A stranger who, on the morning referred to, should, for the first time,
have walked through the ranks of the Carlist army, would have found much
that was curious and interesting to note. The whole disposable military
force of what the Christinos called the Faction, was there assembled,
and a motley crew it appeared. Had stout hearts and strong arms been as
rare in their ranks as uniformity of garb and equipment, the struggle
would hardly have been prolonged for four years after the date we write
of. But it would be difficult to find in any part of Europe, perhaps of
the world, men of more hardy frame, and better calculated to make good
soldiers, than those composing many of the Carlist battalions. Amongst
them the Navarrese and Guipuzcoans were pre-eminent; sinewy,
broad-chested, narrow-flanked fellows, of prodigious activity and
capacity for enduring fatigue. The Guipuzcoans especially, in their
short grey frocks and red trousers, their necks bare, the shirt-collar
turned back over their shoulders, with their bronzed faces and wiry
mustaches, leathern belts, containing cartridges, buckled tightly round
their waists, and long bright-barrelled muskets in their hands, were the
very _beau-idéal_ of grenadiers. Beside these, the Biscayans and some of
the Castilians, undersized and unsoldierly-looking, showed to much
disadvantage. Other battalions were composed in great part of Christino
prisoners, who, having had the choice given them between death and
service under Don Carlos, had chosen the latter, but who now seemed to
have little stomach for a fight against their former friends. The whole
of the Carlist cavalry, even then not very numerous, was also there. The
grim-visaged priest Merino, ever the stanchest partisan of absolutism,
bestrode his famous black horse, and headed a body of lancers as fierce
and wild-looking as himself; Pascual Real, the dashing major of
Ferdinand's guard, who in former days, when he took his afternoon ride
in the Madrid prado, drew all eyes upon him by the elegance of his
horsemanship, marshalled the Alavese hussars; and, in a third place,
some squadrons of Navarrese, who had left the fat pastures of the valley
of Echauri to be present at the expected fight, were ranged under the
orders of the young and gallant Manolin.

But whoever had the opportunity of observing the Carlist army on that
day and a month previously, saw a mighty difference in the spirit
pervading it. He who had been its soul, whose prestige gave confidence
to the soldier, and whose acknowledged superiority of talent prevented
rivalry amongst the chiefs, was now no more; his death had been followed
by a reverse, the only really serious one the Carlists had yet
encountered, and dissension was already springing up amongst the
followers of the Pretender. Intrigue was at work, rival interests were
brought into play; there was no longer amongst the officers that unity
of purpose which alone could have given the cause a chance of success;
nor amongst the men that unbounded confidence in their leader, which on
so many occasions had rendered them invincible. The spring of '35 had
been a season of triumph for the Carlists; the summer was to be one of
disasters.

Subsequent events sufficiently proved that Cordova was not the man to
command an army. Diplomacy was his forte; and he might also, as a
general, claim some merit for combinations in the cabinet. It was during
his command that the plan was formed for enclosing the Carlists within
certain fortified limits, in hopes that they would exhaust the resources
of the country, and with a view to preserve other provinces from the
contagion of Carlism.[3] Great credit was given him for this scheme,
which was carried out after many severe fights, and at great expense of
life; but neither of the advantages expected from it was ever realized.
In the field, Cordova was not efficient; he lacked resource and
promptitude; and the command of a division was the very utmost to which
his military talents entitled him to aspire. As before mentioned,
however, his confidence and pretensions were unbounded, his partisans
numerous, and the event of this day's fight was such as greatly to
increase the former, and raise the admiration of the latter.

It was eleven o'clock before the two armies were drawn up opposite to
each other in order of battle, and even then neither party seemed
inclined immediately to assume the offensive. Clouds of skirmishers were
thrown out along the whole line, bodies of troops advanced to support
them, the artillery began to thunder, but still a fight was for a short
time avoided, and, like wary chess-players at the commencement of a
game, the two generals contented themselves with manoeuvres.
Presently, however, from the Carlist centre a column of cavalry
advanced, and forming front, charged a regiment of the royal guard, the
foremost of Cordova's division. The guards were broken, and suffered
considerably; those who escaped the sabres and lances of the horsemen
being driven back, some to the centre and some upon the left wing. The
cavalry seemed, for a moment, disposed to push their advantage; but the
steady fire with which they were received by several squares of
infantry, thinned their ranks, and, in their turn, they retreated in
disorder. They had scarcely rejoined the main body when the advance was
sounded along the whole Christino line, and the army moved forward to a
general charge. At first the Carlists stood firm, and opened a
tremendous fire upon the advancing line, but the gaps that it caused
were speedily filled up; the Christinos poured in one deadly volley,
gave a fierce cheer, and rushed on with the bayonet. The Carlists
wavered, their whole army staggered to and fro; first companies, then
battalions disbanded themselves, and pressed in confusion to the rear,
and at last the entire line gave way; and the numerous host, seized with
a panic, commenced a hasty and tumultuous retreat. The reserves on the
opposite side of the hill were broken by the stream of fugitives that
came pouring down upon them; the cavalry, who endeavoured to make a
stand, were thrown into disorder, and pushed out of their ranks in the
same manner. In vain did the Carlist officers exert themselves to
restore order--imploring, threatening, even cutting at the soldiers with
their swords. Here and there a battalion or two were prevailed upon to
turn against the foe; but such isolated efforts could do little to
restore the fortune of the day. The triumphant tide of the Christinos
rolled ever forwards; the plunging fire of their artillery carried
destruction into the ranks of the discomfited Carlists; the rattling
volleys of small-arms, the clash of bayonets, the exulting shouts of the
victors, the cries of anguish of the wounded, mingled in deafening
discord. Amidst this confusion, a whole battalion of Carlists, the third
of Castile, formed originally of Christino prisoners, finding
themselves about to be charged by a battalion of the guard, reversed
their muskets, and shouting "Viva Isabel!" ranged themselves under the
banners to which they had formerly belonged, taking with them as
prisoners such of their officers as did not choose to follow their
example. Generals Villareal and Sagastibelza, two of the bravest and
most respected of the Carlist leaders, were severely wounded whilst
striving to restore order, and inspire their broken troops with fresh
courage. Many other officers of rank fell dead upon the field while
similarly engaged; the panic was universal, and the day irretrievably
lost.

"The cavalry! the cavalry!" exclaimed a young man, who now pressed
forward into the _mêlée_. He wore a long, loose civilian's coat, a small
oilskin-covered forage cap, and had for his sole military insignia an
embroidered sword-belt, sustaining the gilt scabbard of the sabre that
flashed in his hand. His countenance was pale and rather sickly-looking,
his complexion fairer than is usual amongst Spaniards; a large silk
cravat was rolled round his neck, and reached nearly to his ears,
concealing, it was said, the ravages of disease. His charger was of
surpassing beauty; a plumed and glittering staff rode around him; behind
came a numerous escort.

"The cavalry! the cavalry!" repeated Cordova, for he it was. "Where is
Lopez and the cavalry?"

But, save his own escort and Herrera's squadron, no cavalry was
forthcoming. Lopez remained unpardonably inactive, for want of orders,
as he afterwards said; but, under the circumstances, this was hardly an
extenuation. The position of the Carlists had been, in the first
instance, from the nature of the ground, scarcely attackable by horse,
at least with any prospect of advantage; but now the want of that arm
was great and obvious. Cordova's conduct in leaving his squadrons so far
in the rear, seems, at any rate, inexplicable. It was by unaccountable
blunders of this sort, that he and others of the Christino generals drew
upon themselves imputations of lukewarmness, and even of treachery.

An aide-de-camp galloped up to Herrera, whose squadron had been
stationed with the reserve of the centre. His horse, an
Isabella-coloured Andalusian, with silver mane and tail, of the kind
called in Spain _Perla_, was soaked with sweat and grey with foam. The
rider was a very young man, with large fiery black eyes, thin and
martially-expressive features, and a small mustache shading his upper
lip. He was a marquis, of one of the noblest families in Spain. He
seemed half mad with excitement.

"Forward with your squadron!" shouted he, as soon as he came within
earshot. The word was welcome to Herrera.

"Left wheel! forward! gallop!"

And, with the aide-de-camp at his side, he led his squadron along the
road to Mendigorria, which intersects the hills whence the Carlists were
now being driven. They had nearly reached the level ground on the other
side, when they came in sight of several companies of infantry, who made
a desperate stand. Their colonel, a Navarrese of almost gigantic
stature--his sword, which had been broken in the middle, clutched firmly
in his hand, his face streaming with blood from a slash across the
forehead, his left arm hanging by his side, disabled by a severe
wound--stood in front of his men, who had just repulsed the attack of
some Christino infantry. On perceiving the cavalry, however, they showed
symptoms of wavering.

"Steady!" roared the colonel, knitting his bleeding brow. "The first man
who moves dies by my hand!"

In spite of the menace, two or three men ventured to steal away, and
endeavoured to leave the road unobserved. The colonel sprang like a
tiger upon one of them.

"_Cobarde! muera!_" cried the frantic Carlist, cleaving the offender to
the eyes with the fragment of his sword. The terrible example had its
effect; the men stood firm for a moment, and opened a well-aimed fire on
the advancing cavalry.

"_Jesus Cristo!_" exclaimed the young aide-de-camp. Herrera looked at
him. His features were convulsed with pain. One more name which he
uttered--it was that of a woman--reached Herrera's ears, and then he
fell from his saddle to the earth; and the dragoons, unable to turn
aside, trampled him under foot. There was no time for reflection.
"Forward! forward!" was the cry, and the horsemen entered the smoke. On
the right of the Carlists, in front, stood their dauntless colonel,
waving his broken sabre, and shouting defiance. Firm as a rock he
awaited the cavalry. Struck by his gallantry, Herrera wished to spare
his life.

"_Rinde te!_" he cried; "yield!"

"_Jode te!_" was the coarse but energetic reply of the Carlist, as he
dealt a blow which Herrera with difficulty parried. At the same moment a
lance-thrust overthrew him. There were a few shouts of rage, a few cries
for mercy; here and there a bayonet grated against a sabre, but there
was scarcely a check in the speed; such of the infantry as stood to
receive the charge were ridden over, and Herrera and his squadron swept
onwards towards the bridge of Mendigorria.

Now it was that the Carlists felt the consequences of that enormous
blunder in the choice of a position, which, either through ignorance or
over confidence, their generals had committed. With the Arga flowing
immediately in their rear, not only was there no chance of rallying
them, but their retreat was greatly embarrassed. One portion of the
broken troops made for the bridge, and thronged over it in the wildest
confusion, choking up the avenue by their numbers; others rushed to the
fords higher up the stream, and dashing into the water, some of them,
ignorant of the shallow places, were drowned in the attempt to cross.
Had the Christino cavalry been on the field when the rout began, the
loss of the vanquished would have been prodigious; as it was, it was
very severe. The Christino soldiery, burning to revenge former defeats,
and having themselves suffered considerably at the commencement of the
fight, were eager in the pursuit, and gave little quarter. In less than
two hours from the beginning of the action, the country beyond the Arga
was covered with fugitives, flying for their lives towards the mountains
of Estella. Narrow were the escapes of many upon that day. Don Carlos
had been praying during the action in the church at Mendigorria; and so
sudden was the overthrow of his army, that he himself was at one time in
danger of being taken. A Christino officer, according to a story current
at the time, had come up with him, and actually stretched out his hand
to grasp his collar, when a bullet struck him from his saddle.

Dashing over the bridge, Herrera and his squadron spurred in pursuit.
Their horses were fresh, and they soon found themselves amongst the
foremost, when suddenly a body of cavalry, which, although retiring,
kept together and exerted itself to cover the retreat, faced about, and
showed a disposition to wait their arrival. The Carlists were superior
in numbers, but that Herrera neither saw nor cared for; and, rejoicing
at the prospect of opposition to overcome, he waved his sword and
cheered on his men. At exactly the same moment the hostile squadrons
entered the opposite sides of a large field, and thundered along to the
encounter, pounding the dry clods beneath their horses' hoofs, and
raising a cloud of dust through which the lance-points sparkled in the
sunlight, whilst above it the fierce excited features of the men were
dimly visible. Nearer they came, and nearer; a shout, a crash, one or
two shrill cries of anguish--a score of men and horses rolled upon the
ground, the others passed through each other's ranks, and then again
turning, commenced a furious hand-to-hand contest. The leader of the
Carlists, a dark-browed, powerful man, singled out Herrera for a fierce
attack. The fight, however, lasted but a few moments, and was yet
undecided when the Christino infantry came up. A few of the surviving
Carlists fled, but the majority, including their colonel, were
surrounded and made prisoners. They were sent to the rear with an
escort, and the chase was continued.

It was nightfall before the pursuit entirely ceased, and some hours
later before Herrera and his dragoons, who, in the flush of victory,
forgot fatigue, arrived at Puente de la Reyna, where, and at
Mendigorria, the Christino army took up their quarters. Sending the
squadron to their stables, Herrera, without giving himself the trouble
to demand a billet, repaired to an inn, where he was fortunate enough to
obtain a bed--no easy matter in the crowded state of the town. The day
had been so busy, that he had had little time to reflect further on the
intelligence brought by Paco, of whom he had heard nothing since the
morning. And now, so harassed and exhausted was he by the exertions and
excitement of the day, that even anxious thoughts were insufficient to
deprive him of the deep and refreshing slumber of which he stood in such
great need.

The morning sun shone brightly through the half-closed shutters of his
apartment, when Herrera was awakened by the entrance of Paco. In the
street without he heard a great noise and bustle; and, fearful of having
slept too long, he sprang from his bed and began hastily to dress.
Without saying a word, Paco threw open the window and beckoned to him.
He hastened to look out. In front of the inn was an open _plaza_, now
crowded with men and horses. A large body of troops were drawn up under
arms, officers were assembled in groups, discussing the victory of the
preceding day; and in the centre of the square, surrounded by a strong
guard, stood several hundred Carlist prisoners. On one side of these
were collected the captured horses both of men and officers, for the
most part just as they had been taken, saddled and bridled, and their
coats caked with dry sweat. Paco drew Herrera's attention to a man in
officer's uniform, who stood, with folded arms and surly dogged looks,
in the front rank of the prisoners. His eyes were fixed upon the ground,
and he only occasionally raised them to cast vindictive glances at a
party of officers of the Christino guards, who stood at a short distance
in his front, and who seemed to observe him with some curiosity.

"You see yonder colonel?" said Paco to Herrera. "Do you know him?"

"Not I," replied Herrera. "Yet, now I look again--yes. He is one of my
prisoners of yesterday. He commanded a body of cavalry which charged
us."

"Likely, likely," said Paco. "Do you know his name?"

"How should I?" answered Herrera.

"I will tell it you. It is Baltasar de Villabuena."

Herrera uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Impossible!" said he.

"Certain; I have seen him too often to mistake him."

Herrera made no reply. His hasty toilet finished, he bade Paco remain
where he was, and descended to the street. He approached the group of
guardsmen already mentioned.

"Your next move, gentlemen?" said he, after the usual salutation.

"To Pampeluna with the prisoners," was the reply. "A reconnoissance _en
force_ has gone out, but it may go far, I expect, before meeting with a
Carlist. They are completely broken, and at this moment I doubt if there
is one within a day's march."

"Yes," said another officer, "they are far enough off, if still running.
Caremba! what legs the fellows have! We caught a few, though, yesterday
afternoon, in spite of their powdering along. Old acquaintances, too,
some of them," he added.

"Indeed!" said Herrera.

"Yes; fellows who have served and marched side by side with us. Look
there, for instance; do you see that sullen, black-looking dog squinting
at us with such a friendly expression?"

"Who is he?" enquired Herrera.

"Baltasar de Villabuena, an old captain of our's before the war. He
resigned when Zumalacarregui took the field, and joined the Carlists,
and it seems they've made him a colonel. A surly, ill-conditioned cur he
always was, or we should not be standing here without a word of kindness
or consolation to offer him."

To the surprise of the guardsmen, Herrera, before the officer had done
speaking, walked up to the prisoner in question.

"Colonel Villabuena?" said he, slightly touching his cap.

"That is my name," replied the prisoner, sullenly.

"We met yesterday, I believe," said Herrera, with cold politeness. "If I
am not mistaken, you commanded the squadron which charged mine in the
early part of the retreat."

Baltasar nodded assent.

"Is your horse amongst those yonder?" continued Herrera.

"It is," replied Baltasar, who, without comprehending the drift of these
questions, began to entertain hopes that his rank and former comradeship
with many officers of the Christino army were about to obtain him an
indulgence rarely accorded, during that war, to prisoners of any
grade--the captured Carlists being looked upon by their adversaries
rather as rebels and malefactors than as prisoners of war, and treated
accordingly. He imagined that his horse was about to be restored to him,
and that he would be allowed to ride to Pampeluna.

"Yonder bay stallion," said he, "with a black sheepskin on the saddle,
is mine."

Herrera approached the officer commanding the guard over the prisoner,
spoke a few words to him, and returned to Baltasar.

"You will please to accompany me," said he.

Baltasar complied, and captive and captor advanced to the horses.

"This is mine," said Colonel Villabuena, laying his hand upon the neck
of a powerful bay charger.

Without saying another word, Herrera raised the sheepskin covering the
holsters, and withdrew from them a brace of pistols, which he carefully
examined. They were handsomely mounted, long-barrelled, with a small
smooth bore, and their buts were inlaid with a silver plate, upon which
a coronet and the initials E. de V. were engraved.

"These pistols, I presume, are also yours?"

"They are so," was the answer.

"You will observe, sir," continued Herrera, showing the pistols to the
officer on guard, who had followed him, "that I have taken these pistols
from the holsters of this officer, Colonel Baltasar de Villabuena, who
acknowledges them to be his. Look at them well; you may have to
recognise them on a future day. I shall forthwith explain to the
general-in-chief my motives for taking possession of them."

The officer received the pistols, examined them carefully, and returned
them to Herrera. Baltasar looked on with a perplexed and uneasy air.
Just then the brigadier, who was to command the column proceeding to
Pampeluna, rode into the plaza. The drums beat, and the troops stood to
their arms.

"Return to your place," said Herrera, sternly, to the prisoner. "We
shall shortly meet again."

And whilst Baltasar, alike disappointed and astonished at the strange
conduct of the Christino officer, resumed his place in the captive
ranks, Herrera betook himself to the quarters of the commander-in-chief.

This time Torres made no difficulty about introducing his friend into
the general's apartment. Cordova was lying at length upon a sofa in a
large cool room, a cigar in his mouth, a quantity of despatches on a
table beside him, two or three aides-de-camp and secretaries writing in
an adjoining chamber. He received Herrera kindly, complimented him on
his conduct in the preceding day's fight, and informed him that
particular mention had been made of him in his despatch to Madrid. After
an interview of some duration, Herrera left the house, with leave of
absence for a fortnight, signed by Cordova himself, in his pocket.
Proceeding to the barracks, he made over the squadron to his second in
command; and then mounting his horse, attended by Paco, and followed by
half a dozen dragoons, he took the road to the Ebro.

In a street of Logroño, not far from the entrance of the town, stands
one of those substantial and antiquated dwellings, remnants of the
middle ages, which are of no unfrequent occurrence in Spain, and whose
massive construction seems to promise as many more centuries of
existence as they have already seen. It is the property, and at times
the abode, of the nobleman whose arms are displayed, elaborately carved
on stone, above the wide portal--a nobleman belonging to that section of
the Spanish aristocracy, who, putting aside old prejudices, willingly
adhered to the more liberal and enlightened order of things to which
the death of Ferdinand was the prelude. In a lofty and spacious
apartment of this mansion, and on the evening of the first day after
that of Herrera's departure from Puente de la Reyna, we find Count
Villabuena reclining in an easy-chair, and busied with thoughts, which,
it might be read upon his countenance, were of other than a pleasant
character. Since last we saw him, full of life and strength, and still
active and adventurous as a young man, encountering fatigues and dangers
in the service of his so-called sovereign, a great and sad change had
taken place in the Count, and one scarcely less marked in his hopes and
feelings. The wound received by him in the plains of Alava, although
severe and highly dangerous, had not proved mortal; and when Herrera
sought his body with the intention of doing the last mournful honours to
the protector of his youth, and father of his beloved Rita, he
perceived, to his extreme joy, that life had not entirely fled. On a
litter, hastily and rudely constructed of boughs, the Count was conveyed
to Vittoria, where he no sooner arrived, than by the anxious care of
Herrera, half the surgeons in the town were summoned to his couch. For
some days his life was in imminent peril; but at last natural strength
of constitution, and previous habits of temperance, triumphed over the
wound, and over the conclave of Sangrados who had undertaken his case.
The Count recovered, gradually it is true, and without a prospect of
ever regaining his former firm health; but still, to Herrera's great
delight, and owing in a great measure to the care he lavished upon him,
his life was at last pronounced entirely out of danger.

Upon arriving at Vittoria with his sorely wounded friend, duty had
compelled Herrera to report his capture; but although the prisoner was
considered a most important one, his state was so hopeless, that Luis
had little difficulty in obtaining permission to become his sole jailer,
pledging himself to reproduce him in case he should recover. When the
Count got better, and became aware of his position, he insisted upon
Herrera's informing the authorities of his convalescence, and of his
readiness to proceed to any place of confinement they might appoint.
Herrera's high character and noble qualities had made him many friends,
some of them persons of influence, and he now successfully exerted
himself to obtain a favour which was probably never before or afterwards
conceded to a prisoner during the whole course of that war. Count
Villabuena was allowed his parole, and was moreover told, that on
pledging himself to retire to France, and to take no further share,
direct or indirect, in the Carlist rebellion, he should obtain his
release. One other condition was annexed to this. Two colonels of the
Queen's army, who were detained prisoners by the Carlists, were to be
given up in exchange for his liberty.

When these terms, so unexpectedly favourable, were communicated to the
Count, he lost no time in addressing a letter to Don Carlos, informing
him of his position, and requesting him to fulfil that portion of the
conditions depending on him, by liberating the Christino officers. With
shattered health, he could not hope, he said, again to render his
Majesty services worth the naming; his prayers would ever be for his
success, but they were all he should be able to offer, even did an
unconditional release permit him to rejoin his sovereign. In the same
letter he implored Don Carlos to watch over the safety of his daughter,
and cause her to be conducted to France under secure escort. This letter
dispatched, by the medium of a flag of truce, the Count sought and
obtained permission to remove to the town of Logroño, where an old
friend, the Marquis of Mendava, had offered him an asylum till his fate
should be decided upon.

Long and anxiously did the Count await a reply to his letter, but weeks
passed without his receiving it. Three days before the battle of
Mendigorria, the Christino army passed through Logroño on its way
northwards, and the Count had the pleasure of a brief visit from
Herrera. A few hours after the troops had again marched away, a courier
arrived from Vittoria, bringing the much wished-for answer. It was cold
and laconic, written by one of the ministers of Don Carlos. Regret was
expressed for the Count's misfortune, but that regret was apparently not
sufficiently poignant to induce the liberation of two important
prisoners, in order that a like favour might be extended to one who
could no longer be of service to the Carlist cause.

Although enveloped in the verbiage and complimentary phrases which the
Spanish language so abundantly supplies, the real meaning of the
despatch was evident enough to Count Villabuena. Courted when he could
be of use, he was now, like a worthless fruit from which pulp and juice
had been expressed, thrown aside and neglected. It was a bitter pang to
his generous heart to meet such ingratitude from the prince whom he had
so much loved, and for whose sake he had made enormous sacrifices. To
add to his grief, the only answer to his request concerning his daughter
was a single line, informing him that she had left Segura several weeks
previously, and that her place of abode was unknown.

Depressed and heartsick, the Count lay back in his chair, shading his
eyes with his hand, and musing painfully on the events of the preceding
two years. His estates confiscated, his health destroyed, separated from
his only surviving child, and her fate unknown to him, himself a
prisoner--such were the results of his blind devotion to a worthless
prince and a falling principle. Great, indeed, was the change which
physical and mental suffering had wrought in the Conde de Villabuena.
His form was bowed and emaciated, his cheek had lost its healthful
tinge; his hair, in which, but a short three months previously, only a
few silver threads were perceptible, telling of the decline of life
rather than of its decay, now fell in grey locks around his sunken
temples. For himself individually, the Count grieved not; he had done
what he deemed his duty, and his conscience was at rest; but he mourned
the ingratitude of his king and party, and, above all, his heart bled at
the thought of his daughter, abandoned friendless and helpless amongst
strangers. The news of the preceding day's battle had reached him, but
he took small interest in it; he foresaw that many more such fights
would be fought, and countless lives be sacrificed, before peace would
revisit his unhappy and distracted country.

From these gloomy reflections Count Villabuena was roused by the sudden
opening of his door. The next instant his hand was clasped in that of
Luis Herrera, who, hot with riding, dusty and travel-stained, gazed
anxiously on the pale, careworn countenance of his old and venerable
friend. On beholding Luis, a beam of pleasure lighted up the features of
the Count.

"You at least are safe!" was his first exclamation. "Thank Heaven for
that! I should indeed be forlorn if aught happened to you."

There was an accent of unusually deep melancholy in the Count's voice
which struck Herrera, and caused him for an instant to imagine that he
had already received intelligence of his cousin's treachery, and of
Rita's captivity. Convinced, however, by a moment's reflection, that it
was impossible, he dreaded some new misfortune.

"You are dejected, sir," he said. "What has again occurred to grieve
you?--The reverse sustained by your friends"--

"No, no," interrupted the Count, with a bitter smile--"not so. My
friends, as you call them, seem little desirous of my poor sympathy.
Luis, read this."

As he spoke, he held out the letter received from the secretary of Don
Carlos.

"It was wisely said," continued the Count, when Herrera had finished its
perusal, "'put not your trust in princes.' Thus am I rewarded for
devotion and sacrifices. Hearken to me, Luis. It matters little,
perhaps, whether I wear out the short remnant of my days in captivity or
in exile; but my daughter, my pure, my beautiful Rita, what will become
of her--alas! what has become of her? My soul is racked with anxiety on
her account, and I curse the folly and imprudence that led me to
re-enter this devoted land. My child--my poor child--can I forgive
myself for perilling your defenceless innocence in this accursed war!"

His nerves unstrung by illness, and overcome by his great affliction,
the usually stern and unbending Villabuena bowed his head upon his
hands and sobbed aloud. Inexpressibly touched by this outburst of grief
in one to whose nature such weakness was so foreign, Herrera did his
utmost to console and tranquillize his friend. The paroxysm was short,
and the Count regained his former composure. Although dreading the
effect of the communication, Herrera felt it absolutely necessary to
impart at once the news brought by Paco. He proceeded accordingly in the
task, and as cautiously as possible, softening the more painful parts,
suggesting hopes which he himself could not feel, and speaking
cheeringly of the probability of an early rescue. The Count bore the
communication as one who could better sustain certain affliction than
killing suspense.

"Something I know," said he, when Herrera paused, "of the convent you
mention, and still more of its abbess. Carmen de Forcadell was long
celebrated, both at Madrid and in her native Andalusia, for her beauty
and intrigues. Her husband was assassinated by one of her lovers, as
some said, and within three years of his death, repenting, it was
believed, of her dissolute life, she took the veil. Once, I know,
Baltasar was her reputed lover; but whatever may now be his influence
over her, I cannot think she would allow my daughter to be ill treated
whilst within her walls. No, Herrera, the danger is, lest the villain
may remove my Rita, and place her where no shield may stand between her
and his purposes."

"Do not fear it," replied Herrera, in his turn reassured by the Count's
moderation. "Your cousin was taken in the action of the 16th, and is now
a prisoner at Pampeluna."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Count, his face brightening with satisfaction.
"It is good news, indeed."

"Better than you even think, perhaps. You have preserved the ball that
was extracted from your wound?"

"I have," replied the Count, "at your request. What of it?"

"So long," said Herrera, "as no advantage could be gained from my
communication, I would not shock you with a statement that even now will
cause you serious pain. You remember, sir, that at the time of receiving
your wound you were at a very short distance from me, and that your
cousin was at a still less one from you, in your rear. As you advanced
towards the intervening stream, my eyes, conducted by chance, or
something better, fixed on your cousin, who at the moment drew a pistol
from his holster. You were but a few paces from him, when I saw him
deliberately--I could not be mistaken--deliberately vary his aim from
myself to you. The pistol was fired--you fell from your horse, struck by
his hand. You seem surprised. The deed was as inexplicable to me until
from your own lips I heard who the officer was--that there had been
serious disagreement between you--and that his temper was violent, and
character bad. Coupled with what my own eyes saw, the bullet itself, far
too small for a carbine ball, convinced me that it had proceeded from a
pistol. Instinctively, rather than from any anticipation of its being
hereafter useful, I requested you to preserve the ball, and to-day an
extraordinary chance enables me to verify my suspicions. Let the bullet
be now produced."

Astounded by what he heard, but still incredulous, the Count summoned
his attendant.

"Bring me the bullet that I bade you keep," said the Count.

"And desire my orderly," added Herrera, "to bring me the brace of
pistols he will find in my valise."

In a few moments both commands were obeyed. The bullet was of very small
calibre, and, not having encountered any bone, had preserved its
rotundity without even an indentation.

"Do you recognize these pistols?" said Herrera, showing the Count those
which he had taken from Baltasar's holsters. "This coronet and initials
proclaim them to have been once your own."

"They were so," replied the Count, taking one of them in his hand--"a
present to my cousin soon after he joined us. I remember them well; he
carried them on the day that I was wounded."

"Behold!" said Herrera, who placed the bullet in the muzzle of the
pistol, into the barrel of which it slid, fitting there exactly.
Shocked and confounded by this proof of his kinsman's villany, the Count
dropped the other pistol and remained sad and silent.

"You doubt no longer?" said Herrera.

"May it not have been accident?" said the Count, almost imploringly. "No
Villabuena could commit so base and atrocious a crime."

"None but he," said Herrera. "I watched him as he took his aim, not
twenty paces from you. With half a doubt, I would have bitten my tongue
from my mouth before an accusation should have passed it against the man
in whose favour indeed I have no cause to be prejudiced. Count
Villabuena, the shot was fired with intent. For that I pledge my honour
and salvation."

There was a pause.

"But my daughter," said the Count; "you forget her, Luis. She must be
rescued. How does this fiend's imprisonment render that rescue easier?"

"Thus," replied Herrera. "Yesterday I had an interview with Cordova, and
told him every thing; the abduction of Rita, and Baltasar's attempt on
your life. Of the latter I engaged to furnish ample proofs. Cordova, as
I expected, was indignant, and would have shot the offender had I
consented to the act. Upon reflection, however, he himself saw
reasonable objections to a measure so opposed to the existing treaty for
exchange of prisoners, and feared retaliation from the enemy. After some
discussion it was agreed that the proof of Baltasar's attempt upon your
life should be submitted, and, if found satisfactory, that the prisoner
should be placed at my disposal. In that event his liberty, nay, his
life, must depend upon his consenting, unreservedly, to write to the
convent, to desire the abbess to set Rita at liberty, and to provide for
her safe conduct into France. Until then, Baltasar, by the general's
order, remains in solitary confinement at Pampeluna."

"Good," said the Count approvingly.

"I had a threefold object in coming hither," continued Herrera. "To
obtain proof of Baltasar's guilt, to comfort you with the hopes of
Rita's safety, and to take you with me to Pampeluna. Baltasar of course
believes you dead; he will the more readily abandon his designs when he
finds that you still live."

"Rightly reasoned," said the Count. "Why should we now delay another
instant? Your news, Herrera, has made me young and strong again."

"We will set out to-morrow," said Herrera. "A column of troops march at
daybreak for Pampeluna, and we can avail ourselves of their escort."

His hopes revived and energies restored by the intelligence Luis had
brought, the Count would have preferred starting without a moment's
delay; but Herrera, although not less impatient, insisted on waiting
till the next day. Although the principal force of the Carlists had been
driven back into Western Navarre, the road to Pampeluna was not safe
without a strong escort, and Herrera himself had incurred no small risk
in traversing it as he had done, with only half a dozen dragoons. Count
Villabuena yielded to his representations, and the following morning
witnessed their departure.

Three days' marching brought the Count and Herrera to Pampeluna, whither
Cordova and his victorious army had preceded them. Count Villabuena had
reckoned too much upon his lately recovered strength; and, although the
marches had not been long, he reached Pampeluna in a very exhausted
state. It was evening when they arrived, and so crowded was the town
with troops that they had some difficulty in obtaining quarters, which
they at last found in the house of one of the principal tradesmen of the
place. Leaving the Count to repose from his fatigues, Herrera went to
visit Cordova, whom he informed of the positive certainty he had now
obtained of Baltasar's culpability. The proofs of it might certainly, in
a court of law, have been found insufficient, but Cordova took a
military view of the case; his confidence in Herrera was great, his
opinion of Baltasar, whom he had known in the service of Ferdinand, very
bad; and finally, the valid arguments adduced by Luis left him no moral
doubt of the prisoner's guilt. He gave the necessary orders for the
admission of Herrera and Count Villabuena into the prison. The next
day, however, the Count was still so fatigued and unwell from the
effects of his journey, that it was found necessary to call in a
physician, who forbade his leaving the house. The Count's impatience,
and the pressing nature of the matter in hand, would have led him to
disregard the prohibition, and at once proceed to the prison, which was
at the other extremity of the town, had not Herrera, to conciliate his
friend's health with the necessity for prompt measures, proposed to have
the prisoner brought to him. An order to that effect was readily granted
by Cordova, and, under proper escort, Don Baltasar was conducted to the
Count's quarters.

It would be erroneous to suppose, that, during the late war in Spain,
adherents of Don Carlos were only to be found in the districts in which
his standard was openly raised. In many or most of the towns best
affected to the liberal cause, devoted partisans of the Pretender
continued to reside, conforming to the established order of things, and
therefore unmolested. In most instances their private opinions were
suspected, in some actually known; but a few of them were so skilful in
concealing their political bias and partialities, as to pass for steady
and conscientious favourers of the Queen's government. Here was one and
no unimportant cause of the prolongation of the war; the number of spies
thus harboured in the very heart of the Christino camp and councils. By
these men intelligence was conveyed to the Carlists, projected
enterprises were revealed, desertion amongst the soldiery and
disaffection amongst the people, stimulated and promoted. Many of these
secretly-working agents were priests, but there was scarcely a class of
the population, from the nobleman to the peasant, and including both
sexes, in which they were not to be found. Innumerable were the plans
traversed by their unseen and rarely detectable influence. On many a
dark night, when the band of Zurbano, El Mochuelo, or some other
adventurous leader, issued noiselessly from the gates of a town, opened
expressly for their egress, to accomplish the surprise of distant post
or detachment, a light in some lofty window, of no suspicious appearance
to the observer uninformed of its meaning, served as a beacon to the
Carlists, and told them that danger was abroad. The Christinos returned
empty-handed and disappointed from their fruitless expedition, cursing
the treachery which, although they could not prove it, they were well
assured was the cause of their failure.

One of the most active, but, at the same time, of the least suspected,
of these subtle agents, was a certain Basilio Lopez, cloth-merchant in
the city of Pampeluna. He was a man past the middle age, well to do in
the world, married and with a family, and certainly, to all appearance,
the last person to make or meddle in political intrigues of any kind,
especially in such as might, by any possibility, peril his neck. Whoever
had seen him, in his soberly cut coat, with his smooth-shaven, sleek,
demure countenance and moderately rotund belly, leaning on the half-door
of his Almacen de Paños, and witnessed his bland smile as he stepped
aside to give admission to a customer or gossip, would have deemed the
utmost extent of his plottings to be, how he should get his cloths a
real cheaper or sell them at a real more than their market value. There
was no speculation, it seemed, in that dull placid countenance, save
what related to ells of cloth and steady money-getting. Beyond his
business, a well-seasoned _puchero_ and an evening game at loto, might
have been supposed to fill up the waking hours and complete the
occupations of the worthy cloth-dealer. His large, low-roofed, and
somewhat gloomy shop was, like himself, of respectable and business-like
aspect, as were also the two pale-faced, elderly clerks who busied
themselves amongst innumerable rolls of cloth, the produce of French and
Segovian looms. Above the shop was his dwelling-house, a strange,
old-fashioned, many-roomed building, with immensely thick walls, long,
winding corridors, ending and beginning with short flights of steps,
apartments panneled with dark worm-eaten wood, lofty ceilings, and queer
quaintly-carved balconies. It was a section of a line of building
forming half the side of a street, and which, in days of yore, had been
a convent of monks. Its former inmates, as the story went, had been any
thing but ascetics in their practices, and at last so high ran the
scandal of their evil doings, that they were fain to leave Pampeluna and
establish themselves in another house of their order, south of the Ebro.
Some time afterwards the convent had been subdivided into
dwelling-houses, and one of these had for many years past been in the
occupation of Basilio the cloth-merchant. Inside and out the houses
retained much of their old conventual aspect, the only alterations that
had been made consisting in the erection of partition walls, the opening
of a few additional doors and windows, and the addition of balconies.
One of the latter was well known to the younger portion of the officers
in garrison at Pampeluna; for there, when the season permitted, the two
pretty, black-eyed daughters of Master Basilio were wont to sit, plying
their needles with a diligence which did not prevent their sometimes
casting a furtive glance into the street, and acknowledging the
salutation of some passing acquaintance or military admirer of their
graces and perfections.

In this house was it that Herrera and the Count had obtained quarters,
and thither, early upon the morrow of their arrival at Pampeluna,
Baltasar was conducted. The passage through the streets of a Carlist
prisoner, whose uniform denoted him to be of rank, had attracted a
little crowd of children and of the idlers ever to be found in Spanish
towns; and some of these loitered in front of the house after its door
had closed behind Baltasar and his escort. The entrance of the prisoner
did not pass unnoticed by Basilio Lopez, who was at his favourite post
at the shop-door. His placid physiognomy testified no surprise at the
appearance of such unusual visitors; and no one, uninterested in
observing him, would have noticed that, as Baltasar passed him, the
cloth-merchant managed to catch his eye, and made a very slight, almost
an imperceptible sign. It was detected by Baltasar, and served to
complete his perplexity, which had already been raised to a high pitch
by the different circumstances that had occurred during his brief
captivity. He had first been puzzled by Herrera's conduct at Puente de
la Reyna; the importance attached by the Christino officer to the
possession and identification of his pistols was unaccountable to him,
never dreaming of its real motive. Then he could not understand why he
was placed in a separate prison, and treated more as a criminal than as
a prisoner of war, instead of sharing the captivity and usage of his
brother officers. And now, to his further bewilderment, he was conducted
to a dwelling-house, before entering which, a man, entirely unknown to
him, made him one of the slight but significant signs by which the
adherents of Don Carlos were wont to recognise each other. He had not
yet recovered from this last surprise, when he was ushered into a room
where three persons were assembled. One of these was an aide-de-camp of
Cordova, Herrera was another, and in the third, to his unutterable
astonishment and consternation, Baltasar recognized Count Villabuena.

There was a moment's silence, during which the cousins gazed at each
other; the Count sternly and reproachfully, Baltasar with dilated
eyeballs and all the symptoms of one who mistrusts the evidence of his
senses. But Baltasar was too old an offender, too hardened in crime and
obdurate in character, to be long accessible to emotion of any kind. His
intense selfishness caused his own interests and safety to be ever
uppermost in his thoughts, and the first momentary shock over, he
regained his presence of mind, and was ready to act his part. Affecting
extreme delight, he advanced with extended hand towards the Count.

"Dare I believe my eyes?" he exclaimed. "A joyful surprise, indeed,
cousin."

"Silence, sir!" sternly interrupted the Count. "Dissimulation will not
serve you. You are unmasked--your crimes known. Repent, and, if
possible, atone them."

Baltasar recoiled with well-feigned astonishment.

"My crimes!" he indignantly repeated. "What is this, Count? Who accuses
me--and of what?"

Without replying, Count Villabuena looked at Herrera, who approached the
door and pronounced a name, at which Baltasar, in spite of his
self-command, started and grew pale. Paco entered the apartment.

"Here," said the Count, "is one witness of your villany."

"And here, another," said Herrera, lifting a handkerchief from the table
and exhibiting Baltasar's pistols.

The Carlist colonel staggered back as if he had received a blow. All
that he had found inexplicable in the events of the last few days was
now explained; he saw that he was entrapped, and that his offences were
brought home to him. With a look of deadly hate at Herrera and the
Count, he folded his arms and stood doggedly silent.

In few words Herrera now informed Baltasar of the power vested in him by
Cordova, and stated the condition on which he might yet escape the
punishment of his crimes. These, however, Baltasar obstinately persisted
in denying; nor were any threats sufficient to extort confession, or to
prevail with him to write the desired letter to the abbess. Assuming the
high tone of injured innocence, he scoffed at the evidence brought
against him, and swore solemnly and deliberately that he was ignorant of
Rita's captivity. Paco, he said, as a deserter, was undeserving of
credit, and had forged an absurd tale in hopes of reward. As to the
pistols, nothing was easier than to cast a bullet to fit them, and he
vehemently accused Herrera of having fabricated the account of his
firing at his cousin. A violent and passionate discussion ensued, highly
agitating to the Conde in his then weak and feverish state. Finding, at
length, that all Herrera's menaces had no effect on Baltasar's sullen
obstinacy, Count Villabuena, his heart wrung by suspense and anxiety,
condescended to entreaty, and strove to touch some chord of good
feeling, if, indeed, any still existed, in the bosom of his unworthy
kinsman.

"Hear me, Baltasar," he said; "I would fain think the best I can of you.
Let us waive the attempt on my life; no more shall be said of it. Gladly
will I persuade myself that we have been mistaken; that my wound was the
result of a chance shot either from you or your followers. Irregularly
armed, one of them may have had pistols of the same calibre as yours.
But my daughter, my dear poor Rita! Restore her, Baltasar, and let all
be forgotten. On that condition you have Herrera's word and mine that
you shall be the very first prisoner exchanged. Oh, Baltasar, do not
drive to despair an old man, broken-hearted already! Think of days gone
by, never to return; of your childhood, when I have so often held you on
my knee; of your youth, when, in spite of difference of age, we were for
a while companions and friends. Think of all this, Baltasar, and return
not evil for good. Give me back my Rita, and receive my forgiveness, my
thanks, my heartfelt gratitude. Your arm shall be stronger in the fight,
your head calmer on your pillow, for the righteous and charitable act."

In the excitement of this fervent address, the Count had risen from his
chair, and stood with arms extended, and eyes fixed upon the gloomy
countenance of Baltasar. His lips quivering with emotion, his trembling
voice, pale features, and long grey hair; above all, the subject of his
entreaties--a father pleading for the restoration of his only child--and
his passionate manner of urging them, rendered the scene inexpressibly
touching, and must have moved any but a heart of adamant. Such a one was
that of Baltasar, who stood with bent brow and a sneer upon his lip,
cold, contemptuous, and relentless.

"Brave talk!" he exclaimed, in his harshest and most brutal tones;
"brave talk, indeed, of old friendship and the like! Was it friendship
that made you forget me in Ferdinand's time, when your interest might
have advanced me? When you wanted me, I heard of you, but not before;
and better for me had we never met. You lured me to join a hopeless
cause, by promises broken as soon as claimed. You have ruined my
prospects, treated me with studied scorn, and now you talk, forsooth, of
old kindness and friendship, and sue--to me in chains--for mercy! It has
come to that! The haughty Count Villabuena craves mercy at the hands of
a prisoner! I answer you, I know nothing of your daughter; but I also
tell you, Count, that if all yonder fellow's lies were truth, and I held
the keys of her prison, I would sooner wear out my life in the foulest
dungeon than give them up to you. But, pshaw! she thinks little enough
about you. She has found her protector, I'll warrant you. There are
smart fellows and comely amongst the king's followers, and she won't
have wanted for consolation."

It seemed as if Baltasar's defenceless condition was hardly to protect
him from the instant punishment of his vile insinuation. With a deep
oath, Herrera half drew his sword, and made a step towards the
calumniator of his mistress. But his indignation, great though it was,
was checked in its expression, and entirely lost sight of, owing to a
sudden outbreak of the most furious and uncontrolled anger on the part
of the Count. His face, up to that moment so pale, became suffused with
blood, till the veins seemed ready to burst; his temples throbbed
visibly, his eyes flashed, his lips grew livid, and his teeth chattered
with fury.

"Scoundrel!" he shouted, in a voice which had momentarily regained all
its power--"scoundrel and liar! Assassin, with what do you reproach me?
Why did I cast you off, and when? Never till your own vices compelled
me. What promise did I make and not keep? Not one. Base traducer,
disgrace to the name you bear! so sure as there is a God in heaven, your
misdeeds shall meet their punishment here and hereafter!"

During this violent apostrophe, Baltasar, who, at Herrera's threatening
movement, had glanced hurriedly around him as if seeking a weapon of
defence, resumed his former attitude of indifference. Leaning against
the wall, he stood with folded arms, and gazed with an air of insolent
hardihood at the Count, who had advanced close up to him, and who,
carried away by his anger, shook his clenched hand almost in his
cousin's face. Suddenly, however, overcome and exhausted by the violence
of his emotions, and by this agitating scene, the Count tottered, and
would have fallen to the ground, had not Herrera and Torres hurried to
his support. They placed him in his chair, into which he helplessly
sank; his head fell back, the colour again left his cheeks, and his eyes
closed.

"He has fainted," cried Herrera.

The Count was indeed insensible. Torres hastened to unfasten his cravat.

"Air!" exclaimed Torres; "give him air!"

Herrera ran to the window and threw it open. Water was thrown upon the
Count's face, but without reviving him; and his swoon was so deathlike,
that for a moment his anxious friends almost feared that life had
actually departed.

"Let him lie down," said Torres, looking around for a sofa. There was
none in the room.

"Let us place him on his bed," cried Herrera. And, aided by Torres and
Paco, he carefully raised the Count and carried him into an adjoining
room, used as a bedchamber. Baltasar remained in the same place which he
had occupied during the whole time of the interview, namely, on the side
of the room furthest from the windows, and with his back against the
wall.

It has already been said that Baltasar de Villabuena had few friends. In
all Pampeluna there was probably not one man, even amongst his former
comrades of the guard, who would have moved a step out of his way to
serve or save him; and certainly, in the whole city, there were scarcely
half a dozen persons who, through attachment to the Carlist cause, would
have incurred any amount of risk to rescue one of its defenders. Most
fortunately for Baltasar, it was in the house of one of those rare but
strenuous adherents of Don Carlos that he now found himself. Scarcely
had the Count and his bearers passed through the doorway between the two
rooms, when a slight noise close to him caused Baltasar to turn. A
pannel of the chamber wall slid back, and the sleek rotund visage of the
man who had exchanged signs with him as he entered the house, appeared
at the aperture. His finger was on his lips, and his small grey eyes
gleamed with an unusual expression of decision and vigilance. One
lynx-like glance he cast into the apartment, and then grasping the arm
of Baltasar, he drew, almost dragged him through the opening. The pannel
closed with as little noise as it had opened.

Ten seconds elapsed, not more, and Herrera, who, in his care for the
Count, had momentarily forgotten the prisoner, hurried back into the
apartment. Astonished to find it empty, but not dreaming of an escape,
he ran to the antechamber. The corporal and two soldiers, who had
escorted Baltasar, rose from the bench whereon they had seated
themselves, and carried arms.

"And the prisoner?" cried Herrera.

They had not seen him. Herrera darted back into the sitting-room.

"Where is the prisoner?" exclaimed Torres, whom he met there.

"Escaped!" cried Herrera. "The window! the window!"

They rushed to the open window. It was at the side of the house, and
looked out upon a narrow street, having a dead wall for some distance
along one side, and little used as a thoroughfare. At that moment not a
living creature was to be seen in it. The height of the window from the
ground did not exceed a dozen feet, offering an easy leap to a bold and
active man, and one which, certainly, no one in Baltasar's circumstances
would for a moment have hesitated to take. Herrera threw himself over
the balcony, and dropping to the ground, ran off down a neighbouring
lane, round the corner of which he fancied, on first reaching the
window, that he saw the skirt of a man's coat disappear. Leaving the
Count, who was now regaining consciousness, in charge of Paco, Torres
hurried out to give the alarm and cause an immediate pursuit.

But in vain, during the whole of that day, was the most diligent search
made throughout the town for the fugitive Carlist. Every place where he
was likely to conceal himself, the taverns and lower class of posadas,
the parts of the town inhabited by doubtful and disreputable characters,
the houses of several suspected Carlists, were in turn visited, but not
a trace of Baltasar could be found, and the night came without any
better success. Herrera was furious, and bitterly reproached himself for
his imprudence in leaving the prisoner alone even for a moment. His
chief hope, a very faint one, now was, that Baltasar would be detected
when endeavouring to leave the town. Strict orders were given to the
sentries at the gates, to observe all persons going out of Pampeluna,
and to stop any of suspicious appearance, or who could not give a
satisfactory account of themselves.

The hour of noon, upon the day subsequent to Baltasar's disappearance,
was near at hand, and the peasants who daily visited Pampeluna with the
produce of their farms and orchards, were already preparing to depart.
The presence of Cordova's army, promising them a great accession of
custom, and the temporary absence from the immediate vicinity of the
Carlist troops, who frequently prevented their visiting Christino towns
with their merchandise, had caused an unusual concourse of
country-people to Pampeluna during the few days that the Christino army
had already been quartered there. Each morning, scarcely were the gates
opened when parties of peasants, and still more numerous ones of
short-petticoated, brown-legged peasant women, entered the town, and
pausing upon the market-place, proceeded to arrange the stores of fowls,
fruit, vegetables, and similar rustic produce, which they had brought on
mules and donkeys, or in large heavy baskets upon their heads. Long
before the sun had attained a sufficient height to cast its beams into
the broad cool-looking square upon which the market was held, a
multitude of stalls had been erected, and were covered with luscious
fruits and other choice products of the fertile soil of Navarre. Piles
of figs bursting with ripeness; melons, green and yellow, rough and
smooth; tomatas; scarlet and pulpy; grapes in glorious bunches of gold
and purple; cackling poultry and passive rabbits; the whole intermingled
with huge heaps of vegetables, and nose-gays of beautiful flowers, were
displayed in wonderful profusion to the gaze of the admiring soldiers,
who soon thronged to the scene of bustle. As the morning advanced,
numerous maid-servants, trim, arch-looking damsels, with small
neatly-shod feet, basket on arm, and shading their complexion from the
increasing heat of the sun under cotton parasols of ample dimensions,
tripped along between the rows of sellers, pausing here and there to
bargain for fruit or fowl, and affecting not to hear the remarks of the
soldiers, who lounged in their neighbourhood, and expressed their
admiration by exclamations less choice than complimentary. The day wore
on; the stalls were lightened, the baskets emptying, but the market
became each moment more crowded. Little parties of officers emerged from
the coffee-houses where they had breakfasted, and strolled up and down,
criticizing the buxom forms and pretty faces of the peasant girls; here
and there a lady's mantilla appeared amongst the throng of female heads,
which, for the most part, were covered only with coloured handkerchiefs,
or left entirely bare, protected but by black and redundant tresses, the
boast of the Navarrese maidens. Catalonian wine-sellers, their
queer-shaped kegs upon their backs, bartered their liquor for the copper
coin of the thirsty soldiers; pedlars displayed their wares, and
_sardineras_ vaunted their fish; ballad-singers hawked about copies of
patriotic songs; mahogany-coloured _gitanas_ executed outlandish, and
not very decent, dances; whilst here and there, in a quiet nook, an
itinerant gaming-table keeper had erected his board, and proved that he,
of all others, best knew how to seduce the scanty and hard-earned
maravedis from the pockets of the pleasure-seeking soldiery.

But, as already mentioned, the hour of noon now approached, and
marketing was over for that day. The market-place, and its adjacent
streets, so thronged a short time previously, became gradually deserted
under the joint influence of the heat and the approaching dinner hour.
The peasants, some of whom came from considerable distances, packed up
their empty baskets, and, with lightened loads and heavy pockets,
trudged down the streets leading to the town gates.

At one of these gates, leading out of the town in a northerly direction,
several of the men on guard were assembled, amusing themselves at the
expense of the departing peasantry, whose uncouth physiognomy and
strange clownish appearance afforded abundant food for the quaint jokes
and comical remarks of the soldiers. The market people were, for the
most part, women, old men, and boys; the able-bodied men from the
country around Pampeluna, having, with few exceptions, left their homes,
either voluntarily or by compulsion, to take service in the Carlist
ranks. Beneath the projecting portico of the guard-house, sat a
sergeant, occupied, in obedience to orders given since the escape of
Baltasar, in surveying the peasants as they passed with a keen and
scrutinizing glance. For some time, however, this military Cerberus
found no object of suspicion in any of the passers-by. Lithe active
lads, greyhaired old men, and women whose broad shoulders and brawny
limbs might well have belonged to disguised dragoons, but who,
nevertheless, were unmistakeably of the softer sex, made up the
different groups which successively rode or walked through the gate.
Gradually the departures became less numerous, and the sergeant less
vigilant; he yawned, stretched himself in his chair, rolled up a most
delicate cigarrito between his large rough fingers, and lighting it,
puffed away with an appearance of supreme beatitude.

"Small use watching," said he to a corporal. "The fellow's not likely to
leave the town in broad daylight, with every body on the look-out for
him."

"True," was the answer. "He'll have found a hiding-place in the house of
some rascally Carlist. There are plenty in Pampeluna."

"Well," said the first speaker, "I'm tired of this, and shall punish my
stomach no longer. Whilst I take my dinner, do you take my place. Stay,
let yonder cabbage-carriers pass."

The peasants referred to by the sergeant, were a party of half a dozen
women, and nearly as many lads and men, who just then showed themselves
at the end of the street, coming towards the gate. Most of them were
mounted on rough mountain ponies and jackasses, although three or four
of the women trudged afoot, with pyramids of baskets balanced upon their
heads, the perspiration streaming down their faces from the combined
effects of the sun and their load. The last of the party was a stout
man, apparently some five-and-forty years of age, dressed in a jacket
and breeches of coarse brown cloth, and seated sideways on a scraggy
mule, in such a position that his back was to the guard-house as he
passed it. On the opposite side of the animal hung a pannier, containing
cabbages and other vegetables; the unsold residue of the rider's stock
in trade. The peasant's legs, naked below the knee, were tanned by the
sun to the same brown hue as his face and bare throat; his feet were
sandalled, and just above one of his ankles, a soiled bandage,
apparently concealing a wound, was wrapped. A broad-brimmed felt hat
shaded his half-closed eyes and dull stolid countenance, and the only
thing that in any way distinguished him from the generality of peasants
was his hair, which was cut short behind, instead of hanging, according
to the usual custom of the province, in long ragged locks over the coat
collar.

Occupied with his cigar and gossip, the sergeant vouchsafed but a
careless and cursory glance to this party, and they were passing on
without hindrance, when, from a window of the guard-house, a voice
called to them to halt.

"How now, sergeant!" exclaimed the young ensign on guard. "What is the
meaning of this? Why do these people pass without examination?"

The negligent sergeant rose hastily from his chair, and, assuming an
attitude of respect, faltered an excuse.

"Peasants, sir; market-people."

The officer, who had been on guard since the preceding evening, had been
sitting in his room, waiting the arrival of his dinner, which was to be
sent to him from his quarters, and was rather behind time. The delay had
put him out of temper.

"How can you tell that? You are cunning to know people without looking
at then. Let them wait."

And the next moment he issued from the guard-house, and approached the
peasants.

"Your name?" said he, sharply, to the first of the party.

"José Samaniego," was the answer. "A poor _aldeano_ from Artica, _para
servir á vuestra señoria_. These are my wife and daughter."

The speaker was an old, greyhaired man, with wrinkled features, and a
stoop in his shoulders; and, notwithstanding a cunning twinkle in his
eye, there was no mistaking him for any thing else than he asserted
himself to be.

The officer turned away from him, glanced at the rest of the party, and
seemed about to let them pass, when his eye fell upon the sturdy,
crop-headed peasant already referred to. He immediately approached him.

"Where do you come from?" said he, eyeing him with a look of suspicion.

The sole reply was a stare of stupid surprise. The officer repeated the
question.

"From Berriozar," answered the man, naming a village at a greater
distance from Pampeluna than the one to which old Samaniego claimed to
belong. And then, as if he supposed the officer inclined to become a
customer, he reached over to his pannier and took out a basket of figs.

"Fine figs, your worship," said he, mixing execrably bad Spanish with
Basque words. "_Muy barato_. You shall have them very cheap."

When the man mentioned his place of abode, two or three of the women
exchanged a quick glance of surprise; but this escaped the notice of the
officer, who now looked hard in the peasant's face, which preserved its
former expression of immovable and sleepy stupidity.

"Dismount," said the ensign.

The man pointed to his bandaged ankle; but on a repetition of the order
he obeyed, with a grimace of pain, and then stood on one leg, supporting
himself against the mule.

"I shall detain this fellow," said the officer, after a moment's pause.
"Take him into the guard-room."

Just then a respectable-looking, elderly citizen, on his return
apparently from a stroll outside the fortifications, walked past on his
way into the town. On perceiving the young officer, he stopped and shook
hands with him.

"Welcome to Pampeluna, Don Rafael!" he exclaimed. "Your regiment I knew
was here, but could not believe that you had come with it, since I had
never before known you to neglect your old friends."

"No fault of mine, Señor Lopez," replied the officer. "Three days here,
and not a moment's rest from guards and fatigue duty."

"Well, don't forget us; Ignacia and Dolores look for you. Ah, Blas! you
here? How's your leg, poor Blas? Did you bring the birds I ordered?"

These questions were addressed to the lame peasant, who replied by a
grin of recognition; and an assurance that the birds in question had
been duly delivered to his worship's servant.

"Very good," said Lopez. "Good morning, Don Rafael."

The young officer stopped him.

"You know this man, then, Señor Lopez?" inquired the ensign.

"Know him? as I know you. Our poultry-man; and if you will sup with us
to-night, when you come off guard, you shall eat a fowl of his
fattening."

"With pleasure," replied the ensign. "You may go," he added, turning to
the peasant. "Let these people pass, sergeant. May I be shot, Don
Basilio, if I didn't mean to detain your worthy poulterer on suspicion
of his being a better man than he looked. There has been an escape, and
a sharp watch is held to keep the runaway in the town. It would have
been cruel, indeed, to stop the man who brings me my supper. Ha, ha! a
capital joke! Stopping my own supplies!"

"A capital joke, indeed," said Lopez, laughing heartily. "Well, good
bye, Don Rafael. We shall expect you to-night."

And the cloth-merchant walked away, his usual pleasant smile upon his
placid face, whilst the peasants passed through the gate; and the
officer, completely restored to good-humour by the prospect of a dainty
supper and pleasant flirtation with Don Basilio's pretty daughters,
proceeded to the discussion of his dinner, which just then made its
appearance.

Crossing the river, the party of peasants who had met with this brief
delay, rode along for a mile or more without a word being spoken amongst
them. Presently they came to a place where three roads branched off, and
here the lame peasant, who had continued to ride in rear of the others,
separated from them, with an abrupt "adios!" Old Samaniego looked round,
and his shrivelled features puckered themselves into a comical smile.

"Is that your road to Berriozar, neighbour?" said he. "It is a new one,
if it be."

The person addressed cast a glance over his shoulder, and muttered an
inaudible reply, at the same time that he thrust his hand under the
vegetables that half filled his panniers.

"If you live in Berriozar, I live in heaven," said Samaniego. "But fear
nothing from us. _Viva el Rey Carlos!_"

He burst into a shrill laugh, echoed by his companions, and, quickening
their pace, the party was presently out of sight. The lame peasant, who,
as the reader will already have conjectured, was no other than Baltasar
de Villabuena, rode on for some distance further, till he came to an
extensive copse fringing the base of a mountain. Riding in amongst the
trees, he threw away his pannier, previously taking from it a large
horse pistol which had been concealed at the bottom. He then stripped
the bandage from his leg, bestrode his mule, and vigorously belabouring
the beast with a stick torn from a tree, galloped away in the direction
of the Carlist territory.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: The blockade system, as it was called, much extolled at the
time, did not prevent the occurrence of various Carlist expeditions into
Castile and Arragon, any more than it hindered large bodies of rebels
from establishing themselves, under Cabrera and others, in Catalonia and
Arragon, where they held out till after the pacification of the Basque
provinces. If any hope was really entertained of starving out the
Biscayan and Navarrese Carlists, or even of inconveniencing them for
supplies of food, it proved utterly fallacious. Although two-thirds of
Navarre, nearly the whole of Guipuzcoa, and a very large portion of
Alava and Biscay Proper, consist of mountains, so great is the fertility
of the valleys, that the Carlists never, during the whole struggle,
experienced a want of provisions, but were, on the contrary, usually far
better rationed than the Christino troops; and, strange to say, the
number of sheep and cattle existing at the end of the war, in the
country occupied by the Carlists, was larger than at its commencement.
Money was wanting, tobacco, so necessary to the Spanish soldier, was
scarce and dear, but food was abundant, although the number of mouths to
be fed was much greater, and of hands to till the ground far less, than
in time of peace. This, too, in one of the most thickly populated
districts of Spain, and in spite of the frequent foraging and
corn-burning expeditions undertaken by the Christinos into the Carlist
districts, especially in the plains north of Vittoria and the valleys of
southern Navarre.]




HOW THEY MANAGE MATTERS IN "THE MODEL REPUBLIC."


In the present doubtful state of our relations with the American
Republic, many anxious eyes are of course being directed across the
Atlantic, and much speculation excited as to the present policy and
ultimate designs of that anomalous and ambitious people. Since increased
facilities of communication have brought the two continents into closer
union, and afforded their respective inhabitants more frequent
opportunities of observing each other's political and social
arrangements, it cannot, we think be said with truth, that those of the
United States have risen in favour with the enlightened minds of Europe,
least of all with those of England. For the obvious failings of that
Republic are of a kind eminently adapted to shock minds cast in the
European mould; while her virtues, however appropriate to the
transatlantic soil in which they flourish, do not either so readily
suggest themselves to the notice of the Old World, or, when fully
realized, command a very extraordinary degree of respect. We do not very
highly appreciate the liberty which appears to us license, nor the
equality which brings with it neither good manners nor good morals, nor
the vast material progress which occupies the energies of her people, to
the exclusion of more elevating pursuits. There are moreover griefs
connected with the United States which come peculiarly home to British
interests and prejudices; the existence of slavery, for instance, in its
most revolting form, in direct opposition to the spirit of their
institutions, and to the very letter of that celebrated declaration
which is the basis of all their governments; the repudiation or
non-payment of debts contracted for the purposes of public works, of
which they are every day reaping the advantages; and the unprincipled
invasion of our Canadian frontier by their citizens during the late
disturbances in that colony. Within the last few months, more
particularly, they have committed many and grievous offences against
their own dignity, the peace of the world, and the interests of Britain.
We have heard their chief magistrate defy Christendom, and inform the
world that the American continent is, for the future, to be held as in
fee-simple by the United States; we have seen Texas forcibly torn from
feeble Mexico, and the negotiations on the subject of Oregon brought to
a close by a formal declaration, that the American title to the whole of
it is "clear and unquestionable." They have displayed, in the conduct of
their foreign relations during the past year, a vulgar indifference to
the opinion of mankind, and an overweening estimate of their own power,
which it is at once ludicrous and painful to behold. Nor is there reason
to believe that these blots on the escutcheon of a nation, so young and
so unembarrassed, are either deeply regretted or will be speedily
effaced. We see no reaction of national virtue against national
wrongdoing. For the cause of this great Republic is not, as in other
countries, dependent upon the will of the one man, or the few men, who
are charged with the functions of government, but on the will of the
great mass of the people, deliberately and frequently expressed. The
rule of the majority is in America no fiction, but a practical reality;
and the folly or wisdom, the justice or injustice of her public acts,
may, in ordinary times, be assumed as fair exponents of the average good
sense and morals of the bulk of her citizens.

We are not of those who charge the democratic institutions of the United
States as a crime upon their people, or who think that, in separating
themselves from the British crown, they were guilty of a deliberate
wickedness which has yet to be expiated. Whether that separation was
fully justified by the circumstances of the time, is a question upon
which we do not propose to enter: but having so separated, it does not
appear that any course was left open to them but that which they have
pursued. Through the negligence of the mother country, no pains had been
taken to plant even the germs of British institutions in her American
colonies, and the War of Independence found them already in possession
of all, and more than all, of the democratic elements of our
constitution; while the feeling of personal attachment to the sovereign
had died out through distance and neglect, and the influence of the
aristocracy and the church was altogether unknown. Even in Virginia,
where, in consequence of the existence of domestic slavery on a large
scale, and the laws of primogeniture and entail, a certain
aristocratical feeling had sprung up, a jealousy of the British crown
and parliament showed itself from first to last, at least as strongly as
elsewhere; and the ink of the Declaration of Independence was scarcely
dry, before those laws of property were repealed, and every vestige of
an Established Church swept away. Nothing then remained, in the absence
of Conservative principles and traditions, but to construct their
government upon the broadest basis of Democracy; accordingly, the
triumph of that principle was complete from the first. The genius of
progressive democracy may have removed some of the slender barriers with
which it has found itself accidentally embarrassed; but it has not been
able to add any thing to the force of those pithy abstractions which
were endorsed by the most respectable chiefs of the Revolution, and
which remain to sanctify its wildest aspirations.

All men, therefore, in America--that is, all _white_ men--are "free and
equal;" and every thing that has been done in her political world for
the last half century has gone to illustrate and carry out this somewhat
intractable hypothesis. Upon this principle, the vote of John Jacob
Astor, with his twenty-five millions of dollars, is neutralized by that
of the Irish pauper just cast upon its shores. The _millionaire_ counts
one, and so does the dingy unit of Erin, though the former counts for
himself, and the latter for his demagogue and his priest. The exclusion
of women and negroes from this privilege remains, it is true, a _hiatus
valde deflendus_ by the choicer spirits of the democracy. It is thought,
however, that the system will shortly be completed by the addition of
these new constellations. At this moment, in prospect of a convention to
re-tinker the constitution, two agitations are going on in the state of
New York--one to secure the "Political Rights of Women;" the other to
extend those which negroes, under certain grievous restrictions, already
enjoy. The theory of virtual representation has been held up to these
two classes of citizens with as little success as to our own Radicals.
Both negroes and women throw themselves upon the broad fact of their
common humanity, and indignantly demand wherefore a black skin or a
gentle sex should disqualify their possessors from the exercise of the
dearest privilege of freemen.

Now, however absurd this system may appear to us in the abstract, and
however strongly we should resist its application to our own political
case, we believe, as we said before, that the Americans have no choice
in the matter but to make it work as well as possible, and that it is
for the interest of the world, as well as for their own, that it should
so work. The preservation of peace, and our commercial relations with
the United States, are far more important to us than the triumph of an
idea. We are quite content, if they will permit us, to remain on the
best of terms with our transatlantic descendants, and to see them happy
and prosperous in their own way. We even think it fortunate for mankind
that the principle of self-government is being worked out in that remote
region, and under the most favourable circumstances, in order that the
civilized world may take note thereof, and guide itself accordingly. It
is, we know, a favourite theme with their demagogues, that the glory and
virtue and happiness of Yankee-doodle-doo have inspired the powers of
the rotten Old World with the deepest jealousy and hatred, and that
every crown in Europe pales before the lustre of that unparalleled
confederacy. Nothing can be wider of the truth, pleasing as the illusion
may be to the self-love of the most vainglorious people under the sun.
The _prestige_ which America and her institutions once undoubtedly
enjoyed in many parts of Europe is rapidly fading away, as each
successive post brings fresh evidence of her vices and her follies. We
can, indeed, recollect a time when the example of the model Republic was
held up for admiration in the most respectable quarters, and was the
trump-card at every gathering of Radical reformers. But now the scene is
changed--now, "none so poor to do her reverence." Even Chartist and
Suffrage-men, Mr Miall and the Northern Star, have at last

  ---- "forgot to speak
  That once familiar word."

They turn from her, and pass away as gingerly as the chorus in the Greek
play from the purlieus of those ominous goddesses--

  [Greek: as tremomen legein
  chai parameibometh
  aderchtôs aphôtôs]--

Mr O'Connell himself can find no room in his capacious affections for
men who repudiate their debts, burn convents, "mob the finest pisantry,"
and keep a sixth of their population in chains in the name of liberty!

If "the great unwashed" on the other side of the Atlantic, will only
consent to send men to their councils of moderately pure hearts and
clean hands, they may rest assured that any conspiracy which the united
powers of kings, nobles, and priests may devise against them, will take
little by its motion. But they do just the reverse, as we shall
presently show. The profligacy of their public men is proverbial
throughout the states; and the coarse avidity with which they bid
against each other for the petty spoils of office, is quite
incomprehensible to an European spectator. To "make political capital,"
as their slang phrase goes, for themselves or party, the most obvious
policy of the country is disregarded, the plainest requirements of
morality and common sense set aside, and the worst impulses of the
people watched, waited on, and stimulated into madness. To listen to the
debates in Congress, one would think the sole object of its members in
coming together, was to make themselves and their country contemptible.
Owing to the rantings of this august body, and the generally unimportant
character of the business brought before it, little is known of its
proceedings in Europe except through the notices of some passing
traveller. But its shame does not consist merely or chiefly in the
occasional bowie-knife or revolver produced to clinch the argument of
some ardent Western member, nor even in the unnoted interchange of
compliments not usually current amongst gentlemen. Much more deplorable
is the low tone of morality and taste which marks their proceedings from
first to last, the ruffian-like denunciations, the puerile rants, the
sanguinary sentiments poured forth day by day without check or censure.
This is harsh language, but they shall be judged out of their own
mouths. We have before us a file of the _Congressional Globe_, the
official record of the debates in both Houses, extending from December
12 to January 15. During this period the Oregon question was called up
nearly every day, and we propose to give some specimens, _verbatim et
literatim_, of the spirit in which it has been discussed. We shall give
notices of the speakers and their constituents as we go along, to show
that the madness is not confined to one particular place or party, but
is common to Whig and Democrat, to the representatives of the Atlantic
as well as of the Western states. Most of our European readers will, we
think, agree with us, that, considering the entire absence of
provocation, and the infinitely trivial nature of the matter in dispute,
these rhetorical flourishes are without parallel in the history of
civilized senates.

What is commonly called Oregon, is a strip of indifferent territory
betwixt the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean. It is separated from
both the American and British possessions by an arid wilderness of great
extent, or by many thousands of miles of tempestuous navigation, _via_
Cape Horn. Since 1818, the claims of both parties to this region have
been allowed to lie in abeyance under a convention of joint occupancy,
if the advantages enjoyed in common by a handful of traders and trappers
of both nations can be so called. The settlers from both countries are
still numbered by hundreds, and the soil is very ill adapted to
agricultural purposes; in short, it is the last thing in the world that
a decent nation would get into a passion about. Still, as the previous
administration had gained much glory by completing the robbery of Texas
from Mexico, Mr Polk has thought fit to illustrate his by an attempt to
squeeze and bully the sterner majesty of England. Accordingly, in his
message, he boasts of having offered less favourable terms than his
predecessors; and these being of course rejected, retires with dignity
upon the completeness of the American title, and intimates that the time
is at hand when the rights of his country must be asserted, if
necessary, by the sword. All this is new light to all the parties
concerned; this tempest in a tea-pot is of Mr Polk's own particular
brewing; the real Oregon being a little political capital, as aforesaid,
for himself. So far he has been eminently successful, for the fierce
democracy howls forth its applause upon the floor of Congress, in manner
and form as followeth:--

Mr Cass, _Democratic_ senator from Michigan, an _insolvent_ western
state, opened the ball on the 12th of December. He is said to aspire to
the presidential chair, and is already a full general of militia. We
give him his civil title, however, because we find him so set down in
the _Globe_, which knows best what the military one is worth. There is
nothing remarkable in his speech, except the fuss which he makes about
national honour. He may find it lying in the ditch, much nearer home
than Oregon--

     "As to receding, it is neither to be discussed nor thought of. I
     refer to it but to denounce it--a denunciation which will find a
     response in every American bosom. Nothing is ever gained by
     national pusillanimity. The country which seeks to purchase
     temporary security by yielding to unjust pretensions, buys present
     ease at the expense of permanent honour and safety. It sows the
     wind to reap the whirlwind. I have said elsewhere what I repeat
     here, that it is better to fight for the first inch of national
     territory than for the last. It is better to defend the doorsill
     than the hearth-stone--the porch than the altar. _National
     character is a richer treasure than gold or silver_, and exercises
     a moral influence in the hour of danger, which, if not power
     itself, is it surest ally. _Thus far ours is untarnished!_" &c.

This statement of the relative value of "national character" as compared
with the precious metals, will be very edifying to the creditors of
Michigan.

Mr Serier, _Democratic_ senator from Arkansas, another _insolvent_
western state, is a still richer representative of the majesty of the
American senate. This state is the headquarters of the bowie-knife,
revolver, and Judge Lynch _regime_, and Mr S.'s education in these
particulars does not appear to have been neglected.

     "It has been her (Great Britain's) bullying that has secured for
     her the respect of all Europe. _She is a court-house bully; and in
     her bullying, in my opinion, lies all her strength._ Now, she must
     be forced to recede; and _like any of our western bullies, who,
     when once conquered, can be kicked by every body, from one end of
     the country to the other_, England will, in case she do not recede
     from her position on this question, receive once more that salutary
     lesson which we have on more than one occasion already taught her."
     * * "I should like very much indeed to hear any one _get on the
     stump_, in my part of the country, sir, and undertake to tell us
     that the President had established our claims to Oregon, and made
     it as plain as the avenue leading to the White House; but inasmuch
     as there is great danger that Great Britain may capture our ships,
     and burn our cities and towns, it is very improper for us to give
     notice that we will insist upon our claim. _I need hardly say that
     such a one, if he could be found, would be summarily treated as a
     traitor to his country._" * * * *

No doubt of it. Furthermore, Mr Serier cannot think of arbitration,
because--

     "When I see such billing and cooing betwixt France and England, and
     when I think the Emperor of Russia may not desire to have so near
     his territory a set of men who read _Paine's Rights of Man_, and
     whistle 'Yankee doodle,' I feel disposed to settle the matter at
     once by force of gunpowder. I consider the President acted
     wisely--very wisely--in keeping the case in its present position,
     and in giving intimation of taking possession after twelve months'
     notice, and then to hold it. Yes, sir, to hold it by the force of
     that rascally influence called gunpowder. That's my opinion. These
     are plain common-sense observations which I have offered."

What a love of a senator! We put it to the House of Lords--have they any
thing to show like unto this nobleman of the woods?--We will now, with
the permission of our readers, introduce them for a few moments to the
House of Representatives. Mr Douglas, a _Democratic_ representative from
Illinois, another _insolvent_ western state, wants to know why Great
Britain should not be bullied as well as Mexico.

     "He did hope that there would be no dodging on this Oregon
     question. Yes; that there would be no dodging on the Oregon
     question; that there would be no delay. There was great
     apprehension of war here last year--but of war with Mexico instead
     of Great Britain; and they had found men brave, and furious in
     their bravery, in defying Mexico and her allies, England and
     France, who now had an awful horror in prospect of a war with Great
     Britain. He (Mr D.) had felt pretty brave last year with reference
     to Mexico and her allies, and he felt equally so now. He believed
     if we wished to avoid a war upon this Oregon question, _the only
     way we could avoid it was preparing to give them the best fight we
     had on hand_. The contest would be a bloodless one; we should avoid
     war, for the reason that Great Britain knows too well: if she had
     war about Oregon, farewell to her Canada."

Our next extract will be from the speech of Mr Adams, a _Whig_
representative from, we regret to say, Massachusetts, which is in every
respect the pattern state of the Union. We are willing to believe that
in this single case the orator does not represent the feelings of the
majority of his constituents. Mr Adams has filled the Presidential
chair, and other high offices; and, while secretary of state, permitted
himself to say on a public occasion, that the madness of George the
Third was a divine infliction for the course that monarch had pursued
towards the United States. The ruling passions of his life are said to
be, hatred to England and to his southern brethren; and he thinks that
war would gratify both these malignant crotchets at once, as the former
would, in that contingency, lose Canada, and the latter their slaves. He
urges that notice to terminate the convention of joint occupation should
be given, and then observes--

     "We would only say to Great Britain, after negotiating twenty odd
     years under that convention, we do not choose to negotiate any
     longer in this way. We choose to take possession of our own, and
     then, if we have to settle what is our own, or whether any portion
     belongs to you, we may negotiate. _We might negotiate after taking
     possession. That was the military way of doing business. It was the
     way in which Frederick II. of Prussia had negotiated with the
     Emperor of Austria for Silesia._ [Here Mr A. gave an account of the
     interview of Frederick the Great with the Austrian minister, and of
     the fact of Frederick having sent his troops to take possession of
     that province the very day that he had sent his minister to Vienna
     to negotiate for it.] Then we should have our elbows clear, and
     could do as we pleased. It did not follow as a necessary
     consequence that we should take possession; but he hoped it would
     follow as a consequence, and a very immediate one. But whether we
     give the notice or not, it did not necessarily draw after it
     hostility or war. If Great Britain chose to take it as an
     indication of hostility, and then to commence hostilities, why, we
     had been told that there would be but one heart in this country;
     and God Almighty grant that it might be so! If this war come--which
     God forbid! and of which, by the way, he had no apprehension
     whatever--he hoped the whole country would go into it with one
     heart and one mighty hand; and, if that were done, he presumed the
     question between us and Great Britain would not last long, neither
     Oregon, nor any country north of this latitude would long remain to
     Great Britain. Strong as was his moral aversion to war, modern war
     and military establishments, then, if he should have the breath of
     life at the time when the war commences, he hoped he should be able
     and willing to go as far in any sacrifices necessary to make the
     war successful, as any member of that house. He could say no more."

This profligate drivel is uttered by the Nestor of the commonwealth, an
infirm old man, with one foot in the grave. In order, however, to make
the course pursued by this gentleman and the next speaker intelligible
to the English reader, we may explain that, by the annexation of Texas,
the Southern States have a majority of votes in Congress; the Northern
States are therefore indifferent about war for Oregon, and the
abolitionists among them frantic for it, in order that their domestic
balance of power may be restored. Mr Giddings, a _Whig_ representative
from Ohio, and a red-hot abolitionist, indulges in the following most
wicked and treasonable remarks:--

     "This policy of adding territory to our original government is the
     offspring of the south. They have forced it upon the northern
     democracy. Their objects and ends are now answered. Texas is
     admitted. They have now attained their object, and now require the
     party to face about--to stop short, and leave the power of the
     nation in their hands. _They now see before them the black
     regiments of the West India islands landed on their shores. They
     now call to mind the declarations of British statesmen, that a war
     with the United States will be a war of emancipation. They now see
     before them servile insurrections which torment their imaginations;
     murder, rapine, and bloodshed, now dance before their affrighted
     visions. Well, sir, I say to them, this is your policy, not mine.
     You have prepared the cup, and I will press it to your lips till
     the very dregs shall be drained. Let no one misunderstand me. Let
     no one say I desire a slave insurrection; but, sir, I doubt not
     that hundreds of thousands of honest and patriotic hearts will
     laugh at your calamity, and mock when your fear cometh. No, sir;
     should a servile insurrection take place, should massacre and blood
     mark the footsteps of those who have for ages been oppressed--my
     prayer to God shall be that justice--stern, unalterable
     justice--may be awarded to the master and the slave!" ... "A war
     with England in the present state of the two nations must
     inevitably place in our possession the Canadas, Nova Scotia, and
     New Brunswick. Six states will be added to the northern portion of
     the union, to restore the balance of power to the Free States.... I
     demand of you not to leave the nation in its present state of
     subjugation to the south. I will vote to give you the means of
     doing so," &c._

We hold up the ferocious cant of this mock philanthropist to the scorn
of all good men, whether in Europe or America. So, because "the domestic
institution" of his happy land is not to the taste of this Giddings,
thousands of white men are to imbrue their hands in each other's blood,
and England, the great champion of the negro race, at her own expense,
is to be driven by force of arms out of Oregon. It is consoling,
however, to find at last by their own confession, that there is a weak
place--and a very weak one too--in "the area of freedom."

Besides the acquisition of Canada, which is put down on all hands as a
"gone 'coon," other brilliant results are to ensue from the possession
of Oregon. Mr Ingersoll, (_Whig_,) "a drab-coloured man" from
Pennsylvania--"flattered himself that two years would not elapse before
the Chinese and Japanese--sober, industrious, and excellent
people--would be attracted there to settle. It was only a short voyage
across the Pacific Ocean. Millions of those starving workmen who, in
point of sobriety, industry, and capacity, were among the best in the
world--workmen from every isle in the Pacific--men able to outwork the
English, would flock there."

In the same fine strain of prophecy, Mr Darragh, another "_drab_" of the
_Democratic_ school, observes--

     "He was one of those who believed that there were men now here, who
     might yet live to see a continuous railroad extending from the
     mouth of the Columbia to the Atlantic. The country would soon be
     filled with a dense population, and would eventually control the
     China trade, and affect the whole commerce of the Pacific. He
     trusted in God there would be a beginning of this end. He trusted
     that this government would say to the despotisms of Europe--Stay on
     your own side of the water, and do not attempt to intermeddle with
     the balance of power on this continent. He believed it to be the
     design of God that our free institutions, or institutions like
     ours, should eventually cover this whole continent--a consummation
     which could not but affect every part of the world, and the
     prospect of which ought to fill with joy the heart of every
     philanthropic man!"

But it won't till you've paid your debts, O Darragh!

Mr Baker, (_Whig_,) another _insolvent_ from Illinois, is very rich and
rapacious--

     "He (Mr B.) went for the whole of Oregon; for every grain of sand
     that sparkled in her moonlight, and every pebble on its wave-worn
     strand. It was ours--all ours; ours by treaty, ours by
     discovery.... There was such a thing as destiny for this American
     race--a destiny that would yet appear upon the great chart of
     human history. It was already fulfilling, and that was a reason why
     we could now refuse to Great Britain that which we had offered her
     in 1818 and 1824. Reasons existed now in our condition, which did
     not exist then. Who at that time could have divined that our
     boundary was to be extended to the Rio del Norte, if not to
     Zacatecas, to Potosi, to California? No, we had a destiny, and Mr
     B. felt it." ... "Cuba was the tongue which God had placed in the
     Gulf of Mexico to dictate commercial law to all who sought the
     Carribbean Sea. And England was not to be allowed to take Cuba or
     hold Oregon, _because we, the people of the United States, had
     spread, were spreading, and intend to spread, and should spread,
     and go on to spread_!" ... "Mr Speaker, if from this claim an echo
     shall come back, it may not come from Oregon, but it will come from
     the Canadas. Sir, it will be 'the last echo of a host o'erthrown.'
     The British power will be swept from this continent for ever, and
     though she may, 'like the sultan sun, struggle upon the fiery verge
     of heaven,' she must yield at last to the impulses of freedom, and
     to the touch of that destiny which shall crush her power in the
     western hemisphere!"

This may be considered bad to beat; yet, in our opinion, a choice spirit
from Missouri, SIMS by name, does it--

     "It is so common on this floor, for inexperienced members to make
     apologies for their embarrassment, that I will not offer any for
     mine. I find some difficulty in getting along with all the
     questions that may be raised by the north or by the south, and by
     lawyers, and by metaphysicians, and learned doctors who abound
     here, that I shall be slow in getting along. I hope, therefore,
     that gentlemen will keep cool, and suffer me to get through." ...

Certainly, Sims--there is no false modesty, you will observe, in this
good Sims. He thus defines his position.

     "I wish it to be distinctly understood what banner I fight under.
     _It is for Oregon, all or none, now or never!_ Not only _I myself_,
     but all my own people whom I represent, will stand up to this
     motto. Around that will we rally, and for it will we fight, _till
     the British lion shall trail in the dust. The lion has cowered
     before us before. Talk of whipping this nation?_ Though not, sir,
     brought up in the tented field, nor accustomed to make war an
     exercise, and do not so much thirst for martial renown as to desire
     to witness such a war, yet I cannot fear it, nor doubt its
     success."

A touching episode in the life of Sims!--

     "When I was a boy, sir--a small boy--in 1815, I was with my father
     in church where he was offering his prayers to the Almighty, and it
     was then that the news of the victory of New Orleans was brought to
     the spot. _I never felt so happy, sir, as at that moment._ At that
     moment my love of country commenced, and from that hour it has
     increased more and more every year; and I shall be ever ready to
     peril every thing in my power for the good of my country. Still, _I
     am for the whole of Oregon, and for nothing else but the whole, and
     in defence of it I will willingly see every river, from its
     mountain source to the ocean, reddened with the blood of the
     contest. Talk about this country being whipped! The thing is
     impossible! Why did not Great Britain whip us long ago, if she
     could?_" * * * * * * "I shall lose as much as any one in a war--_I
     do not mean in property_--but I have a wife and children, and I
     love them with all the heart and soul that I possess. No one can
     love his family more than I do mine unless a stronger intellect may
     give him more strength of affection; and my family will be exposed
     to the merciless savages, who will as ever become the allies of
     Great Britain in any war. But still, sir, my people on the frontier
     will press on to the mouth of the Columbia, and fight for Oregon.
     _I am not sure but I will go myself._"

The feelings of the female Sims, and all the little Simses, on reading
that last sentence! We shudder to think of it. Sims, however, has made
up his mind that the exploit is no great matter after all.

     "It was said that the route to Oregon was impracticable, and that
     it was beset with dangerous enemies, and that we could not send
     troops over to Oregon, nor provisions to feed them. _Now, sir, we
     of Missouri can fit out ten thousand waggon-loads of provisions for
     Oregon, and ten thousand waggon-boys to drive them, who, with their
     waggon-whips, will beat and drive off all the British and Indians
     that they find in their way._"

The peroration of this harangue is, perhaps, the funniest part of it
all, but want of space compels us to omit it. We let Sims drop with
great reluctance, and pass over several minor luminaries who are quite
unworthy to follow in his wake. Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are about
to introduce to you Mr Kennedy, a _Democratic_ representative from
Indiana--a _very insolvent_ Western state, and a celebrated "British or
any other lion" tamer.

     "Sir, (says Mr K.,) when the British lion, or any other lion, lies
     down in our path, we will not travel round the world in blood and
     fire, but will make him leave that lair." * * * *

After this mysterious announcement, he enquires--

     "Shall we pause in our career, or retrace our steps, because the
     British lion has chosen to place himself in our path? Has our blood
     already become so pale, that we should tremble at the roar of the
     king of beasts? We will not go out of our way to seek a conflict
     with him; but if he cross our path, and refuses to move at a
     peaceful command, _he will run his nose on the talons of the
     American eagle, and his blood will spout as from a harpooned whale.
     The spectators who look on the struggle may prepare to hear a
     crash, as if the very ribs of nature had broke!_" ...

Once more into the lion--or lioness--for it does not appear exactly
which this time!

     "We are one people and one country, and have one interest and one
     destiny, which, if we live up to, _though it may not free us to
     follow the British lion round the world in blood and slaver_, will
     end in _her_ expulsion from this continent, which _he_ rests not
     upon but to pollute!"

Mr Kennedy's solicitude for the rising generation is very touching--

     "Where shall we find room for all our people, unless we have
     Oregon? What shall we do with all those little white-headed boys
     and girls--God bless them!--that cover the Mississippi valley, as
     the flowers cover the western prairies?"

In order to show the truly awful and more than Chinese populousness of
this ancient State of Indiana, which was admitted into the Union so long
ago as 1816, we may observe that its superficial extent is thirty-six
thousand square miles, or twenty-three millions and forty thousand
acres. The population in 1840, black and white all told, amounted to the
astounding number of six hundred and eighty-five thousand eight hundred
and sixty-six, or about one-third of that of London! The adjoining
states of Illinois and Missouri are still less densely peopled.

Mr Kennedy's opinions touching the British government--

     "Cannibal-like, it fed one part of its subjects upon the other. She
     drinks the blood and sweat, and tears the sinews of its labouring
     millions to feed a miserable aristocracy. England is now seen
     standing in the twilight of her glory; but a sharp vision may see
     written upon her walls, the warning that Daniel interpreted for the
     Babylonish king--'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!'"

We cannot help the confusion of genders. It's so writ down in the
_Globe_, as are all our quotations--_verbatim_. Here comes a fine "death
or glory" blast--

     "Why is it that, after all, we should so dread the shock of war? We
     all have to die, whether in our beds or in the battle-field. _Who
     of you all, when roused by the clangour of Gabriel's trump, would
     not rather appear in all the bloom of youth, bearing upon your
     front the scar of the death-wound received in defence of your
     country's right, than with the wrinkled front of dishonoured age?_"

Hoorra!--Only one more quotation from Kennedy, and that because it
permits us to take a last fond look at Sims, who re-appears, for a
moment, like a meteor on the scene of his past glories!

     "Was it not a burning, blistering, withering shame that the cross
     of St George should be found _floating_ on American _soil_?" [Here
     Mr L. H. SIMS exclaimed, "Yes, and it will blister on our foreheads
     like the mark of Cain!"]

Mr Hamlin, a Democratic representative from Maine, one of the pattern
New England states, is not far behind his Western brethren--

     "Their progress was as certain as destiny. He could not be mistaken
     in the idea, that our flag was destined to shed its lustre over
     every hill and plain on the Pacific slope, and on every stream that
     mingles with the Pacific. What would monarchical institutions
     do--what would tyrants do--in this age of improvement--_this age of
     steam and lightning? The still small voice in our legislative
     halls_ and seminaries of learning, would soon be re-echoed in
     distant lands. Should we fold our arms and refuse, under all these
     circumstances, to discharge our duty? No; let us march steadily up
     to this duty, and discharge it like men;

  'And the gun of our nation's natal day
       At the rise and set of sun,
  Shall boom from the far north-east away
       To the vales of Oregon.
  And ships on the seashore luff and tack,
  And send the peal of triumph back.'"



Mr Stanton, a Democratic representative from the slave state of
Tennessee--Polk's own--observes, that war about Oregon

     "Would be another crime of fearful magnitude added to that already
     mountainous mass of fraud and havoc by which England has heretofore
     extended her power, and by which she now maintains it. _Did some
     gentlemen say that her crimes were represented by a vast pyramid of
     human skulls? I say, sir, rather by a huge pyramid of human hearts,
     living, yet bleeding in agony, as they are torn from the reeking
     bosoms of the toiling, fighting millions._"

Peace, this person observes, is rather nearer his heart than any thing
else, but

     "If she must depart, if she is destined to take her sad flight from
     earth to heaven again, then welcome the black tempest of war.
     Welcome its terrors, its privations, its wounds, its deaths! We
     will sternly bare our bosoms to its deadliest shock, and trust in
     God for the result."

After all this, our readers will be little surprised to find that a Mr
Gordon, from the rich and partially civilized state of New York, whose
commercial relations with us are of such magnitude and importance, makes
an ass of himself with the best of them.

     "The next war with Great Britain will expel her from this
     continent. Though a peace-loving people, we are, when aroused in
     defensive warfare, the most warlike race ever clad in armour. Let
     war come, if it will come, boldly and firmly will we meet its
     shock, and roll back its wave on the fast anchored isle of Britain,
     and dash its furious flood over those who raised the storm, but
     could not direct its course. In a just war, as this would be on our
     part, the sound of the clarion would be the sweetest music that
     could greet our ears!... _I abhor and detest the British
     Government._ Would to God that the British people, the Irish, the
     Scotch, the Welsh, and the English, would rise up in rebellion,
     sponge out the national debt, confiscate the land, and sell it in
     small parcels among the people. _Never in the world will they reach
     the promised land of equal rights, except through a red sea of
     blood._ Let Great Britain declare war, and I fervently hope that
     the British people, at least the Irish, will seize the occasion to
     rise and assert their independence.... I again repeat, that _I
     abhor that government; I abhor that purse-proud and pampered
     aristocracy, with its bloated pension-list, which for centuries
     past has wrung its being from the toil, the sweat, and the blood of
     that people._"

Mr Bunkerhoff, from Ohio, and his people--

     "Would a great deal rather fight Great Britain than some other
     powers, for _we do not love her_. We hear much said about the ties
     of our common language, our common origin, and our common
     recollections, binding us together. But I say, _we do not love
     Great Britain at all; at least my people do not, and I do not_. A
     common language! It has been made the vehicle of an incessant
     torrent of abuse and misrepresentation of our men, our manners, and
     our institutions, and even our women--it might be vulgar to
     designate our plebeian girls as _ladies_--have not escaped it; and
     all this is popular, and encouraged in high places."

Mr Chipman, from Michigan, thus whistles Yankee-doodle, with the usual
thorough-base accompaniment of self-conceit:--

     "Reflecting that from three millions we had increased to twenty
     millions, we could not resist the conclusion, that Yankee
     enterprise and vigour--he used the term Yankee in reference to the
     whole country--were destined to spread our possessions and
     institutions over the whole country. Could any act of the
     government prevent this? He must be allowed to say, that wherever
     the Yankee slept for a night, there he would rule. What part of
     the globe had not been a witness of their moral power, and to the
     light reflected from their free institutions?" * * * *

Your Yankee proper can no more "get along" without his spice of cant,
than without his chew of tobacco and his nasal twang. What follows,
however, took even us by surprise:--

     "Should we crouch to the British lion, because we had been thus
     prosperous? He remembered the time when education, the pride of the
     northern Whigs, was made the means of opposition to the democracy.
     He recollected the long agony that it cost him to relieve his mind
     from federal thraldom. EDUCATION WAS AN INSTRUMENT TO RIDICULE AND
     PUT DOWN DEMOCRACY."


What Mr Chipman would do--_if_--

     "I appeal to high Heaven, that if a British fleet were anchored off
     here, in the Potomac, and demanded of us one inch of territory, or
     one pebble that was smoothed by the Pacific wave into a child's
     toy, upon penalty of an instant bombardment, I would say fire." * *
     * * "Now he (Mr C.) lived on the frontier. He remembered when
     Detroit was sacked. Then we had a Hull in Michigan; but now, thank
     God, we had a Lewis Cass, who would protect the border if war
     should come, which, in his opinion, would not come. There were
     millions on the lake frontier who would, in case of war, rush over
     into Canada--the vulnerable point that was exposed to us. _He would
     pledge himself, that, upon a contract with the government, Michigan
     alone would take Canada in ninety days; and, if that would not do,
     they would give it up, and take it in ninety days again._ The
     Government of the United States had only to give the frontier
     people leave to take Canada."

Though Michigan has the benefit of this hero's councils, he is at the
pains to inform us that Vermont, a New England state, claims his birth,
parentage, and education--a fact which we gladly record on the enduring
page of Maga for the benefit of the future compiler of the Chipman
annals. He closes an oration, scarcely, if at all, inferior to that of
Sims, with a melodious tribute to the land of his nativity.

     "If Great Britain went to war for Oregon, how long would it be
     before her starving millions would rise in infuriated masses, and
     overwhelm their bloated aristocracy! He would say, then, if war
     should  come--

  'Hurrah for Vermont! for the land which we till
  Will have some to defend her from valley and hill;
  Leave the harvest to rot on the field where it grows,
  And the reaping of wheat for the reaping of foes.

  'Come Mexico, England! come tyrant, come knave,
  If you rule o'er our land, ye shall rule o'er our grave!
  Our vow is recorded--our banner unfurl'd,
  _In the name of Vermont, we defy all the world!_'"


_Magnifique--superbe--pretty well!_ Would not the world like to know
something of the resources of this unknown anthropophagous state which
throws down the gauntlet so boldly? Well, in this very year of grace,
the population of Vermont amounts to no less than 300,000 souls of all
ages, sexes, and colours! She pays her governor the incredible sum of
£150 a-year. Her exports in 1840 amounted to £60,000. Every thing about
her is on the same homoeopathic scale, except her heroes!

We have by no means exhausted our file, but our patience is expended,
and so we fear is that of our readers. We write this in the city of New
York, in the first week of February, and the debate is still proceeding
in a tone, if possible, still more outrageous and absurd. The most
astounding feature of the whole is, that the "collective wisdom" of any
country professing to be civilized, can come together day after day and
listen to such trash, without censure--without even the poor penalty of
a sneer.

The Americans complain that they have been grievously misrepresented by
the British press. Mrs Trollope, Mr Dickens, and other authors, are no
doubt very graphic and clever in their way; but in order to do this
people full justice, they must be allowed to represent themselves. A
man must go amongst them fully to realize how hopeless and deplorable a
state of things is that phase of society which halts betwixt barbarism
and civilization, and is curiously deficient in the virtues of both. If
he wishes to form a low idea of his species, let him spend a week or two
at Washington; let him go amongst the little leaders of party in that
preposterous capital, watch their little tricks, the rapacity with which
they clutch the meanest spoils and wonder how political profligacy grows
fat upon diet so meagre and uninviting. He will come away with a
conviction, already indorsed by the more respectable portion of the
American community, that their government is the most corrupt under the
sun; but he will not, with them, lay the flattering notion to his soul,
that the people of whom such men are the chosen representatives and
guides, are likely to contribute much to the aggregate of human
happiness, freedom, and civilization.

As to the denunciations of Great Britain, so thickly strewn through
these _carmina non prius audita_ of the Congressional muse, we are sure
they will excite no feeling in our readers but that of pity and
contempt, and that comment upon them is unnecessary. The jealousy of
foreign nations towards the arts and arms of his country, is no new
experience to the travelled Englishman. Still, as the Americans have no
reason to be particularly sore on the subject of our arms, and as they
appropriate our arts, at a very small expense, to themselves, they might
afford, we should think, to let the British lion alone, and glorify
themselves without for ever shaking their fists in the face of that
magnanimous beast. In a political point of view, however, the
deep-seated hostility of this people towards the British government, is
a fact neither to be concealed nor made light of. From a somewhat
extended personal observation, the writer of this is convinced that war
at any time, and in any cause, would be popular with a large majority of
the inhabitants of the United States. It is in vain to oppose to their
opinion the interests of their commerce, and the genius of their
institutions, so unsuited to schemes of warlike aggrandizement. The
government of the United States is in the hands of the mob, which has as
little to lose there as elsewhere, by convulsion of any kind.

We are willing to believe that the person who at present fills the
Presidential chair at Washington, is fully alive to the responsibilities
of his situation, and would gladly allay the storm which himself and his
party have heretofore formed for their own most unworthy purposes. He
knows full well that the dispute is in itself of the most trumpery
nature; that the course of Great Britain has been throughout moderate
and conciliatory to the last degree; that the military and financial
position of the United States is such as to forbid a warlike crisis; and
that, if hostilities were to ensue betwixt Great Britain and his
country, no time could be more favourable to the former than the
present. Yet, with all these inducements to peace, we fear he will find
it impossible to bring matters to a satisfactory termination. But should
an opportunity occur of taking us at disadvantage--should we find
ourselves, for instance, involved in war with any powerful European
nation--we may lay our account to have this envious and vindictive
people on our backs. We are not, therefore, called upon to anticipate
the trial, and to take the course of events into our own hands; but
still less ought we to make any concessions, however trifling, which may
retard, but will eventually exasperate, our difficulties. Much is in our
power on the continent of North America, if we are but true to our own
interests and to those of mankind. We should cherish to the utmost that
affectionate and loyal spirit, which at present so eminently
distinguishes our flourishing colony of Canada; we should look to it,
that such a form of government be established in Mexico as shall at once
heal her own dissensions, and guarantee her against the further
encroachments of her neighbours; and we should invite other European
nations to join with us in informing the populace of the United States,
that they cannot be indulged in the gratification of those predatory
interests, which the public opinion of the age happily denies to the
most compact despotisms and the most powerful empires.




ANTONIO PEREZ.


As often as we revisit the fair city of Brussels, an irresistible
attraction leads us from the heights crowned with its modern palaces,
down among the localities of the valley beneath, the seat and scene of
so many of the old glories of the capital of the Netherlands. On these
occasions our steps unconsciously deviate a little from the direct line
of descent, turning off on the left hand towards the Hotel d'Aremberg.
But it is not to saunter through the elegant interior of this princely
mansion, and linger over exquisite pictures and rare Etruscan vases,
that we then approach it. Our musing eye sees not the actual walls
shining with intolerable whiteness in the fierce summer-sun, but the
towers of an ancient edifice, long ago demolished by the pitiless Alva,
which once, as the Hotel de Cuylembourg, covered the same site. Beneath
its roof the Protestant Confederates, in 1566, drew up their memorable
"Request" to Margaret of Parma; and at one of its windows these
"Beggars," being dismissed with such contumelious scorn from the
presence of the Regent, nobly converted the stigma into a war-cry; and,
with the wallet of the "Gueux" slung across their shoulders, drank out
of wooden porringers a benison on the cause of the emancipation of the
United Provinces. So prompted to think of these stirring times, we are
carried by the steep declivity of a few streets to that magnificent Town
Hall, where, only eleven years before the occurrences in the Hotel
Cuylembourg, Charles V. had resigned into the hands of his son Philip
the sovereignty of an extensive and flourishing empire. All that could
be achieved by the energy of a mind confident of its own force and
clearness--by a strong will wielding enormous resources of power--by
prudence listening to, and able to balance, cautious experience, and
fearless impetuosity--and by consummate skill in the art of government,
had been laboriously and successfully achieved by Charles. To Philip he
transferred the most fertile, delightful, opulent, and industrious
countries of Europe--Spain and the Netherlands, Milan and Naples. His
African possessions included Tunis and Oran, the Cape Verd and Canary
islands. The Moluccas, the Philippine and Sunda islands heaped his
storehouses with the spices, and fruits, and prolific vegetable riches
of the Indian Ocean; while from the New World, the mines of Mexico,
Chili, and Potosi poured into his treasury their tributary floods of
gold. His mighty fleet was still an invincible armada; and his army,
inured to war, and accustomed to victory under heroic captains, upheld
the wide renown of the Spanish infantry. But neither the abilities nor
the auspicious fortunes of Charles were inherited with this vast
dominion by Philip. It is almost a mystery the crumbling away during his
reign of such wealth and such strength. To read the riddle, we must know
Philip. The biography which we shall now hurriedly sketch, of one of his
most eminent favourites and ministers, who was, also, one of the most
remarkable men that ever lived, enables us to see further into the
breast of the gloomy, jealous, and cruel king, than we could hope to do
by the less penetrating light of general history.

It was in the course of the year 1594, that the mother of the great Lord
Bacon wrote bitterly to his brother Anthony--"Tho' I pity your brother,
yet so long as he pities not himself, but keepeth that bloody PEREZ,
yea, as a coach-companion and bed-companion, a proud, profane, costly
fellow, whose being about him I verily fear the Lord God doth mislike,
and doth less bless your brother in credit, and otherwise in his health,
surely I am utterly discouraged, and make conscience further to undo
myself to maintain such wretches as he is, that never loved your
brother but for his own credit, living upon him."

This dark portrait, even from the pencil of maternal anxiety, is not
overcharged with shade. A few words, which could not have been uttered
by the Lady Bacon except as a prophetess, we may add in reference to the
meeting of the famous Englishman and the notorious Spaniard. At that
moment the public life of Francis Bacon was faintly dawning. The future
Minister of State and Chancellor of England had just entered the House
of Commons, and was whining for promotion at the gate of the royal
favourite. The mean subservience of his nature was to be afterwards
developed in its repulsive fulness. His scheming ambition saw itself far
away from the ermine of justice, doomed to be spotted by his corruption.
He had not then betrayed, and brought to the scaffold, and slandered his
benefactor. The power and honours of which he was to be stripped, were
yet to be won. His glory and his shame alike were latent. He was
beginning hazardously a career of brilliant and dismal vicissitudes, to
finish it with a halo of immortal glory blazing round his name.

But such a career along a strange parallelism of circumstances, although
with a gloomier conclusion, Antonio Perez had already run. The
unscrupulous confidant and reckless tool of a crafty and vindictive
tyrant, he had wielded vast personal authority, and guided the movements
of an immense empire.

     "Antonio Perez, secretary of state," said one of his
     contemporaries, "is a pupil of Ruy Gomez. He is very discreet and
     amiable, and possesses much authority and learning. By his
     agreeable manners, he goes on tampering and disguising much of the
     disgust which people would feel at the king's slowness and sordid
     parsimony. Through his hands have passed all the affairs of Italy,
     and also those of Flanders, ever since this country has been
     governed by Don Juan, who promotes his interests greatly, as do,
     still more, the Archbishop of Toledo and the Marquis de Los Valez.
     He is so clever and capable that he must become the king's
     principal minister. He is thin, of delicate health, rather
     extravagant, and fond of his advantages and pleasures. He is
     tenacious of being thought much of, and of people offering him
     presents."

To gratify, by one dreadful blow, a cruel king and a guilty passion, he
murdered his friend. The depth of his misery soon rivalled and exceeded
the eminence of his prosperity. Hurled from his offices and dignities,
deprived of the very title of nobility, condemned by the civil, and
excommunicated by the ecclesiastical tribunals, cast into prison, loaded
with irons, put to the torture, hunted like a wild beast out of his own
country and many a nook of refuge in other lands, Perez, who had been
"the most powerful personage in the Spanish monarchy," was, when we
first meet him in the company of Bacon, an exile in penury. And so he
died, an impoverished outcast, leaving to posterity a name which befits,
if it cannot adorn, a tale, and may well point a moral.

The "bloody" Perez was the natural son of Gonzalo Perez, who was for a
long time Secretary of State to Charles V. and Philip II. Of his mother
nothing is known. The conjectures of scandal are heightened and
perplexed by the fact that he was ennobled when a child, and that,
amidst all the denunciations of his overbearing behaviour and
insufferable arrogance, he is never reproached with the baseness of his
maternal lineage. Legitimated in infancy by an imperial diploma, Antonio
was literally a courtier and politician from his cradle.

     "Being of a quick understanding, an insinuating character, and a
     devotedness which knew neither bounds nor scruples, full of
     expedients, a nervous and elegant writer, and expeditious in
     business, he had gained the favour of Philip II., who had gradually
     given him almost his entire confidence. He was, with Cayas, one of
     the two secretaries of the council of state, and was charged
     principally with the _despacho universal_; that is, with the
     counter-sign and the conduct of the diplomatic correspondence and
     the royal commands. Philip imparted to him his most secret designs,
     initiated him into his private thoughts; and it was Perez who, in
     deciphering the despatches, separated the points to be communicated
     to the council of state for their opinion, from those which the
     king reserved for his exclusive deliberation. Such high favour had
     intoxicated him. He affected even towards the Duke of Alva, when
     they met in the king's apartments at dinner, a silence and a
     haughtiness which revealed at once the arrogance of enmity and the
     infatuation of fortune. So little moderation in prosperity, coupled
     with the most luxurious habits, a passion for gaming, a craving
     appetite for pleasures, and excessive expenses, which reduced him
     to receive from every hand, excited against him both envy and
     animosity in the austere and factious court of Philip II.; and, on
     the first opportunity, inevitably prepared his downfal. This event,
     too, he himself hastened by serving too well the distrustful
     passions of Philip, and, perhaps, even by exciting them beyond
     measure against two men of his own party, Don Juan of Austria and
     his secretary Escovedo."

It is impossible to imagine that the character of Philip was not
fathomed by Perez. The peril of his position, as the depositary of the
innermost secrets of the king, could not have escaped his acute mind.
The treachery of his daily services, to which, in the words we have
quoted, allusion is made, must have perpetually reminded him how
probably he was preparing for himself the ruin which before his own eyes
had struck and destroyed more than one of his predecessors. At the same
time, the bent of his disposition carried him readily enough into
intrigue, deceit, and cool remorseless villany. He was not retarded by
any scruple, or abashed by any principle. But he did not lack sagacity.
The power which he loved and abused was acquired and retained easily,
because the exercise of his talents had always been quite in harmony
with the natural flexion of his mind. In the conduct of public affairs,
Philip never had a minister who more dexterously conformed reasons and
actions of policy to the will, or prejudices, or passions of the
sovereign. All the extravagance, and even towards so terrible an enemy
as Alva, all the insolence of Perez, could hardly have shaken his
security. From what he knew, and what he had done, Philip, it is true,
might at any moment be tempted to work his downfal, if not his death;
but, in consequence of that very knowledge and his very deeds, the value
of such an adviser and such a tool was almost sure to protract and avert
his doom. The disgrace and misfortune, therefore, of Perez, however
enveloped afterwards in the mantle of political delinquency, are to be
traced to more strictly personal causes. It is a curious, interesting,
and horrible story.

The memorable struggle of the Netherlands against the domination of
Spain was at its height. The flames kindled by the ferocity of Alva had
not been extinguished by his milder but far less able successor, the
Grand Commander Requesens, who sank under the harassing pressure of the
difficulties which encompassed him. Upon his death, the Spanish court,
alive to the momentous issues of the contest, invoked the services of
one of the most celebrated men of the age. Don John of Austria, who
saved Europe and Christianity at the Gulf of Lepanto, and had repeatedly
humbled the Crescent in its proudest fortresses, was chosen to crush the
rebellious Flemings. The appointment was hardly made, when clouds of
distrust began to roll over the spirit of Philip. The ambition of his
brother was known and troublesome to him, as he had baffled but two
years before a project which Don John took little pains to conceal, and
even induced the Pope to recommend, of converting his conquest of Tunis
into an independent sovereignty for himself. Believing these alarming
aspirations to be prompted by the Secretary Juan de Soto, whom Ruy Gomez
had placed near his brother, Philip removed Soto and substituted
ESCOVEDO, on whose fidelity he relied, and who received secret
instructions to divert, as far as possible, the dreams of Don John from
sceptres and thrones. But a faithless master taught faithlessness to his
servants. Escovedo, neglecting the counsels of Philip, entered cordially
into the views and schemes of Don John, until the sagacious vigilance of
Antonio Perez startled the jealousy of the Spanish monarch by the
disclosure, that Don John intended, and was actually preparing to win
and wear the crown of England. Such a prospect, there can be no doubt,
tore his sullen soul with bitter recollections, and made him resolve,
more sternly than ever, that the haughty island should groan beneath no
yoke but his own. The mere subjugation of England by Spanish arms, and
the occupation of its throne by a Spaniard, not himself, were
insufficient to glut the hatred, and avenge the insulted majesty of
Philip. For his own hands and his own purposes he reserved the task; and
at a later period, the wreck of the Armada strewed the shores of Britain
with memorials of his gigantic and innocuous malignity. Dissembling,
however, his displeasure, he permitted Don John to expect, when the
Netherlands had been pacified, his approval of the invasion of England.

     "At the same time, to become acquainted with all his brother's
     designs, and watch the intrigues of Escovedo, he authorized Perez,
     who was the confidant of the one and the friend of the other, to
     correspond with them, to enter into their views, to appear to gain
     his favour for them, to speak even very freely of him, in order to
     throw them the more off their guard, and afterwards to betray their
     secrets to him. Perez sought, or, at the very least, accepted this
     odious part. He acted it, as he himself relates, with a shameless
     devotion to the king, and a studied perfidy towards Don Juan and
     Escovedo. He wrote letters to them, which were even submitted to
     the inspection of Philip, and in which he did not always speak
     respectfully of that prince; he afterwards communicated to Philip
     the bold despatches of Escovedo, and the effusions of Don Juan's
     restless and desponding ambition. In forwarding to the king a
     letter from Escovedo, he at once boasts, and clears himself of this
     disloyal artifice. 'Sire,' says he, 'it is thus one must listen and
     answer for the good of your service; people are held much better
     thus at sword's length; and one can better do with them whatever is
     conducive to the interest of your affairs. But let your majesty use
     good precaution in reading these papers; for, if my artifice is
     discovered, I shall no longer be good for any thing; and shall have
     to discontinue the game. Moreover, I know very well that, for my
     duty and conscience, I am doing, in all this, nothing but what I
     ought; and I need no other theology than my own to comprehend it.'
     The king answers--'Trust, in every thing, to my circumspection. My
     theology understands the thing just as yours does, and considers
     not only that you are doing your duty, but that you would have been
     remiss towards God and man, had you not done so, in order to
     enlighten my understanding, as completely as is necessary, against
     human deceits and upon the things of this world, at which I am
     truly alarmed."

The laurels of the conqueror of the Turks drooped and withered in
Flanders.

     "This young and glorious captain found, in the provinces
     confederated at Ghent, an incurable distrust both of the Spaniards
     and himself. The profound and skilful policy of the Prince of
     Orange raised obstacles against him which he could not surmount. In
     spite of the moderate conditions which he offered to the assembled
     States-General, he was received by them much less as a pacificator
     than as an enemy. They refused to authorize the departure of the
     Spanish troops by sea, fearing they might be employed against the
     provinces of Holland and Zealand, and they required that they
     should repair to Italy by land. Don Juan saw his designs upon
     England, on this side, vanishing. Without authority, money, or any
     means of establishing the domination of the king, his brother, and
     of supporting his own renown, he took a disgust to a position which
     offered him no issue. Accustomed, hitherto, to rapid and brilliant
     enterprises, he desponded at his impotency; and already a prey to
     gnawing cares, which were leading him slowly to the tomb, he
     demanded his recall."

To enforce his complaints, Don John sent Escovedo to Spain. Redress was
not granted, and his messenger never returned to him. The deadly
correspondence between Perez and himself--the outpourings of an ardent
and daring temper, swelling with lofty designs, and pining beneath an
apparently irremediable inaction, into the ears of a frigid and false
winnower of unguarded words and earnest feelings--was continued
unremittingly. M. Mignet, it seems to us, shows very satisfactorily,
that Perez, in his abominable office of an unjust interpreter of the
wishes and intentions of Don John, drugged Philip copiously with
calumnious reports and unwarrantable insinuations. Be that as it may,
we are inclined to believe, among other matters of a very different
complexion, that, without repugnance on the part of Philip, there was a
tossing about for a time, in the lottery of events, a marriage between
Don John and our beautiful and unfortunate Mary. There is a pleasure and
a grace sometimes in idle speculation; but to the leisure of a happier
fancy than ours we commit the picture of the consequences of an union
between the heroic Don John and the lovely Queen of Scotland. "_Money,
more money, and Escovedo_," became at length, in his perplexity and
anguish, the importunate clamour of the governor of the Netherlands.
Then it was, _as Perez tells us_, that Philip and his obsequious
counsellors meditated on the course best fitted for what was evidently a
serious conjecture. Then it was, we learn from the same authority, that
the king determined ON THE DEATH OF ESCOVEDO.

     "They took a review of the various schemes that had been planned in
     favour of Prince Don Juan, ever since his residence in Italy,
     without the king having any communication or perfect knowledge of
     them; they called to mind the grievous disappointment experienced
     by the authors of these projects, at the expedition to England not
     taking place according to their first idea; the attempt they made a
     second time, for the same object, with his Holiness, when they were
     in Flanders, and always without giving the king any account; the
     design of deserting the government of Flanders, when once the
     expedition to England was abandoned; the secret understandings
     formed in France without the king's knowledge; the resolution they
     had formed, to prefer going as adventurers into France, with six
     thousand foot and one thousand horse, to filling the highest
     offices; lastly, the very strong language with which the prince, in
     his letters, expressed his grief and despair. The result of all
     this seemed, that there was reason to fear some great resolution,
     and the execution of some great blow or other which might trouble
     the public peace, and the tranquility of his majesty's states, and,
     moreover, that Prince Don Juan might himself be ruined, if they let
     the secretary, Escovedo, remain any longer with him."

What a gap there is in the whole truth in this story, on which Perez
subsequently built his defence, we shall now briefly explain. With one
considerable exception, historians concur in their belief of the amours
of Perez with the Princess of Eboli. Ranke, who is satisfied with the
political explanation given by Perez of the murder of Escovedo,
discredits the notion of Perez being a lover of the princess, because
she was old, and blind of one eye, and because his own wife, Dona Juana
Coëllo, evinced towards him, throughout his trial, the most devoted and
constant affection.

"The last reason," says our author, with perfect truth, "goes for
nothing." The love of woman buries her wrongs without a tear. "As to the
objection," M. Mignet proceeds to remark, "derived from the age and
appearance of the Princess of Eboli, it has not much foundation either.
All contemporary writers agree in praising her beauty (_hermosura_.)
Born in 1540, she married Ruy Gomez at the age of thirteen, and was only
thirty-eight years old at the present period. She was not one-eyed, but
she squinted. There was nothing in her person to prevent the intimacy
which Ranke discredits, but which numerous testimonies place beyond any
doubt. I quote only the most important, waiving the presents which Perez
had received from the princess, and which he was condemned to give back
by a decree of justice."

It is too late now, we join M. Mignet in believing, to doubt or even to
decry the personal charms of the Princess of Eboli, which the misty
delirium of the poet may have magnified, or the expedient boldness of
the romancer too voluptuously emblazoned, but which more than one grave
annalist has calmly commemorated.[4] We shall not, however, venture to
decide the nice question which oscillates between an obliquity and a
loss of vision. The Spanish word "tuerto" means, ordinarily, "blind of
one eye." And there is an answer which M. Mignet probably considers
apocryphal, as he does not allude to it, said to have been made by Perez
to Henry IV. of France, who expressed surprise that he should be so much
the slave of a woman that had but one eye. "Sire," replied the
ingeniously gallant Perez, "she set the world on fire with that; if she
had preserved both, she would have consumed it." It is of little
consequence. Any slight physical blemish or imperfection was more than
counterbalanced by the wit and accomplishments of this seductive woman,
whose enchantments, like those of Ninon de l'Enclos, defied the
impairing inroads of old age.

It is unnecessary here to repeat or analyse the powerful concatenation
of proofs by which her criminal intimacy with Perez is established. We
may frankly admit, nevertheless, that the first perusal of the evidence
did not convince us. The probability was strong that much would be
exaggerated, perverted, and invented, before a partial tribunal, in
order to annihilate a disgraced courtier, a fallen and helpless enemy.
But the reasons which appear conclusively to fix culpability, will be
better understood when the facts of the case are stated. Every witness
must be branded with perjury to entitle us to doubt that the familiarity
of Perez with the princess had attracted observation. Escovedo was aware
of it, saw it, and denounced it. He remonstrated with both parties on
their guilt and on their danger. The appeals to conscience and to fear
were of unequal force. The guilt of their conduct was not likely to
excite, in a couple abandoned to the indulgence of a mutual and violent
passion, any emotion except anger against the honesty and audacity which
rebuked them. By a grave discourse on breaches of decorum and morality,
Escovedo ran the risk of being considered--what the princess actually
declared him to be--a rude fellow and a _bore_. But the danger of their
profligacy was a more delicate and ominous text for censure. In the
peril of any public exposure was involved an additional complication of
guilt. Perez was not the only favoured votary of the versatile siren.
His rival, or rather his partner, was--Philip of Spain! The revelation
of promiscuous worship, threatened by Escovedo, sounded like a knell to
Perez and the princess. Was it a mad defiance, or a profound prescience,
of the consequences, which, when Escovedo, stung on one occasion beyond
forbearance by the demonstration of iniquity which Othello in his agony
demands of Iago, declared loudly his purpose of divulging every thing to
the king?--was it, we say, the fury or the shrewdness of despair which
then drew _from the lady_ a reply of outrageous and coarse effrontery?
The irrecoverable words being spoken, we think, with M. Mignet, that
"the ruin of Escovedo, whose indiscretions were becoming formidable, was
doubtless sworn, from this moment, by Perez and the princess."

We shall now, with some consciousness of superiority over the German,
Feuerbach, whose common-place murders are flavourless for us, (who were
fellow-citizens of Burke, and rode in an omnibus with Greenacre, just as
Bacon had Perez for a coach-companion,) transcribe the minute continuous
narrative of the assassination of Escovedo, taken down from the lips of
Antonio Enriquez, the page and familiar of Antonio Perez:--

     "'Being one day at leisure in the apartment of Diego Martinez the
     major-domo of Antonio Perez, Diego asked me whether I knew any of
     my countrymen who would be willing to stab a person with a knife.
     He added, that it would be profitable and well paid, and that, even
     if death resulted from the blow, it was of no consequence. I
     answered, that I would speak of it to a mule-driver of my
     acquaintance, as in fact I did, and the muleteer undertook the
     affair. Afterwards, Diego Martinez gave me to understand, with
     rather puzzling reasons, that it would be necessary to kill the
     individual, who was a person of importance, and that Antonio Perez
     would approve of it; on this I remarked that it was not an affair
     to be trusted to a muleteer, but to persons of a better stamp. Then
     Diego Martinez added, that the person to be killed often came to
     the house, and that, if we could put any thing in his food or
     drink, we must do so; because that was the best, surest, and most
     secret means. It was resolved to have recourse to this method, and
     with all dispatch.

     "'During these transactions, I had occasion to go to Murcia. Before
     my departure, I spoke of it to Martinez, who told me I should find,
     in Murcia, certain herbs well adapted to our purpose; and he gave
     me a list of those which I was to procure. In fact, I sought them
     out and sent them to Martinez, who had provided himself with an
     apothecary, whom he had sent for from Molina in Aragon. It was in
     my house that the apothecary, assisted by Martinez, distilled the
     juice of those herbs. In order to make an experiment of it
     afterwards, they made a cock swallow some, but no effect followed;
     and what they had thus prepared, was found to be good for nothing.
     The apothecary was then paid for his trouble, and sent away.

     "'A few days after, Martinez told me he had in his possession a
     certain liquid fit to be given to drink, adding that Antonio Perez,
     the secretary, would trust nobody but me, and that, during a repast
     which our master was to give in the country, I should only have to
     pour out some of this water for Escovedo, who would be among the
     guests, and for whom the preceding experiments had already been
     tried. I answered, that unless my master himself gave me the order,
     I would not have a hand in poisoning any body. Then the secretary,
     Anthony Perez, called me one evening in the country, and told me
     how important it was for him that the secretary Escovedo should
     die; that I must not fail to give him the beverage in question on
     the day of the dinner: and that I was to contrive the execution of
     it with Martinez; adding, moreover, good promises and offers of
     protection in whatever might concern me.

     "'I went away very contented, and consulted with Martinez as to the
     measures to be taken. The arrangement for the dinner was as
     follows: entering the house by the passage of the stables, which
     are in the middle, and advancing into the first room, we found two
     side-boards, one for the service of plates, and the other for that
     of the glasses, from which we were to supply the guests with drink.
     From the said room, on the left, we passed to that where the tables
     were laid, and the windows of which looked out on the country.
     Between the room where they were to dine, and that where the
     side-boards stood, was a square room, serving as an antechamber and
     passage. Whilst they were eating, I was to take care that every
     time the secretary Escovedo asked for drink, I should be the person
     to serve him. I had thus the opportunity of giving him some twice;
     pouring the poisoned water into his wine at the moment I passed
     through the antechamber, about a nutshell-full, as I had been
     ordered. The dinner over, secretary Escovedo went away, but the
     others remained to play, and Antonio Perez having gone out for a
     moment, rejoined his major-domo and me in one of the apartments
     over the court-yard, where we gave him an account of the quantity
     of water that had been poured into secretary Escovedo's glass;
     after which, he returned to play. We heard, afterwards, that the
     beverage had produced no effect.

     "'A few days subsequent to this ill success, secretary Antonio
     Perez gave another dinner in what is called Cordon House, which
     belonged to the count of Punoñ Rostro, where secretary Escovedo,
     Dona Juana Coëllo, the wife of Perez, and other guests, were
     present. Each of them was served with a dish of milk or cream, and
     in Escovedo's was mixed a powder like flour. I gave him, moreover,
     some wine mixed with the water of the preceding dinner. This time
     it operated better, for secretary Escovedo was very ill, without
     guessing the reason. During his illness, I found means for one of
     my friends, the son of captain Juan Rubio, governor of the
     principality of Melfi, and formerly Perez's major-domo (which son,
     after having been page to Dona Juana Coëllo, was a scullion in the
     king's kitchens), to form an acquaintance with secretary Escovedo's
     cook, whom he saw every morning. Now, as they prepared for the sick
     man a separate broth, this scullion, taking advantage of a moment
     when nobody saw him, cast into it a thimble-full of a powder that
     Diego Martinez had given him. When secretary Escovedo had taken
     some of this food, they found that it contained poison. They
     subsequently arrested one of Escovedo's female slaves who must have
     been employed to prepare the pottage; and, upon this proof, they
     hung her in the public square at Madrid, though she was innocent.

     "'Secretary Escovedo having escaped all these plottings, Antonio
     Perez adopted another plan, viz., that we should kill him some
     evening with pistols, stilettoes, or rapiers, and that without
     delay. I started, therefore, for my country, to find one of my
     intimate friends, and a stiletto with a very thin blade, a much
     better weapon than a pistol for murdering a man. I travelled post,
     and they gave me some bills of exchange of Lorenzo Spinola at
     Genoa, to get money at Barcelona, and which, in fact, I received on
     arriving there.'

     "Here Enriquez relates, that he enticed into the plot one of his
     brothers, named Miguel Bosque, to whom he promised a sum of gold
     and the protection of Perez; that they arrived at Madrid the very
     day Escovedo's slave was hanged; that, during his absence, Diego
     Martinez had fetched from Aragon, for the same object, two resolute
     men, named Juan de Mesa and Insausti; that the very day after his
     arrival, Diego Martinez had assembled them all four, as well as the
     scullion Juan Rubio, outside Madrid, to decide as to the means and
     the moment of the murder; that they had agreed upon this, that
     Diego Martinez had procured them a sword, broad and fluted up to
     the point, to kill Escovedo with, and had armed them all with
     daggers; and that Antonio Perez had gone, during that time, to pass
     the holy week at Alcala, doubtless with the intention of turning
     suspicion from him when the death of Escovedo was ascertained. Then
     Antonio Enriquez adds:--

     "'It was agreed, that we should all meet every evening upon the
     little square of Saint James (Jacobo), whence we should go and
     watch on the side by which secretary Escovedo was to pass; which
     was done. Insausti, Juan Rubio, and Miguel Bosque, were to waylay
     him; while Diego Martinez, Juan de Mesa, and I, were to walk about
     in the neighbourhood, in case our services should be required in
     the murder. On Easter Monday, March 31, the day the murder was
     committed, Juan de Mesa and I were later than usual in repairing to
     the appointed spot, so that, when we arrived at St James's Square,
     the four others had already started to lie in ambush for the
     passing of secretary Escovedo. Whilst we were loitering about, Juan
     de Mesa and I heard the report that Escovedo had been assassinated.
     We then retired to our lodgings. Entering my room, I found Miguel
     Bosque there, in his doublet, having lost his cloak and pistol; and
     Juan de Mesa found, likewise, Insausti at his door, who had also
     lost his cloak, and whom he let secretly into his house.'"

The quiet pertinacity which characterizes this deliberate murder adds a
creditable chapter to the voluminous "Newgate Calendar" of the sixteenth
century. The murderers--first, second, third, and fourth--having
executed their commission, were rewarded with a dramatic appreciation of
their merits. Miguel Bosque received a hundred gold crowns from the hand
of the clerk in the household of Perez. Juan de Mesa was presented with
a gold chain, four hundred gold crowns, and a silver cup, to which the
Princess of Eboli added, in writing, a title of employment in the
administration of her estates. Diego Martinez brought to the three
others brevets, signed nineteen days after this deed of blood, by Philip
II. and Perez, of _alfarez_, or ensign in the royal service, with an
income of twenty gold crowns. They then smilingly dispersed, as the play
directs, "you that way, I this way."

Such blood will not sink in the ground. Instantly, at a private audience
granted to him by Philip, the son of Escovedo, impelled by a torrent of
universal suspicion, charged his father's death home to Perez. On the
same day, Philip communicated to Perez the accusation. No pictorial art,
we are sure, could exhibit truly the faces of these two men, speaking
and listening, at that conference. This, however, was the last gleam of
his sovereign's confidence that ever shone on Perez. His secret and
mortal enemy, Mathew Vasquez, one of the royal secretaries, having
espoused the cause of the kinsmen of Escovedo, wrote to Philip, "People
pretend that it was a great friend of the deceased who assassinated the
latter, because he had found him interfering with his honour, and _on
account of a woman_." The barbed missile flew to its mark, and rankled
for ever.

Our limits preclude the most concise epitome of the next twelve years of
the life of Perez, of which the protracted tribulations, indeed, cannot
be related more succinctly and attractively than they are by M. Mignet.
During this weary space of time, Perez, single-handed, maintained an
energetic defensive warfare against the disfavour of a vindictive
monarch, the oppression of predominant rivals, the insidious
machinations and wild fury of relentless private revenge, the most
terrific mockeries of justice, the blackest mental despondency, and
exquisite physical suffering. Philip II. displayed all his atrocious
feline propensities--alternately hiding and baring his claws--tickling
his victim to-day with delusions of mercy and protection, in order to
smite him on the morrow with heavier and unmitigated cruelty. The truth
is, he did not dare to kill, while he had no desire to save. Over and
over again, in the course of the monstrous burlesques which were enacted
in judicial robes as legal inquiries, did Philip privately, both orally
and in writing, exonerate and absolve the murderer. Prosecutors and
judges were bridled and overawed--kinsmen were abashed--popular
indignation was quelled by reiterated assurances and reports, that the
confidential secretary of state had been the passive and faithful
executioner of royal commands. Even Uncle Martin, the privileged
court-fool, when the flight ultimately of Perez gave general
satisfaction, though not to the implacable Philip, exclaimed
openly--"Sire, who is this Antonio Perez, whose escape and deliverance
have filled every one with delight? He cannot, then, have been guilty;
rejoice, therefore, like other people." But the lucky rival--the happy
lover, could not expiate his rank offence by any amount of sacrifice in
person or estate. According to our view of these lingering scenes of
rancorous persecution, Philip gradually habituated himself to gloat over
the sufferings of Perez with the morbid rapture of monomania. So long as
the wretched man was within his reach, he contemplated placidly the
anguish inflicted on him by the unjust or excessive malevolence of his
enemies. He repeatedly checked the prosecutions of the Escovedo family,
and sanctioned their revival with as little difficulty as if he had
never interposed on any former occasion. He relaxed at intervals the
rigorous imprisonment under which Perez was gasping for the breath of
life, granting him for nearly a twelvemonth so much liberty as to
inflate a naturally buoyant temperament with inordinate hope; but, in
that very period, instigated and approved of investigations and actions
at law, which resulted in reducing Perez, in so far as wealth and
honours were concerned, to beggary and rags. He threw into a dungeon
Pedro de Escovedo, who talked unreservedly of his desire to assassinate
Perez; and refused the fervent entreaties of Perez himself to remove,
for a temporary relief, the fetters with which, when his ailing body
could scarcely support its own weight, his limbs had been loaded. He
sent Perez compassionate and encouraging messages, writing to him, "I
will not forsake you, and be assured that their animosity (of the
Escovedos) will be impotent against you;" while he regularly transmitted
to Vasquez and the Escovedos the information which nourished and
hardened their hatred. And finally, having constantly enjoined Perez to
take heed that no one should discover the murder to have been
perpetrated by the king, Philip, on the ground that he obstinately
refused to make a full confession, imperturbably consigned him "to that
dreadful proof, the revolting account of which," says M. Mignet, "I will
quote from the process itself:"--

     "At the same instant, the said judges replied to him that the
     proofs still remaining in all their force and vigour ..., they
     ordered him to be put to the torture to make him declare what the
     king required; that if he lost his life, or the use of some limbs,
     it would be his own fault; and that he alone would be responsible.
     He repeated, once more, his former assertions, and protested,
     moreover, against the use of torture towards him, for these two
     reasons: first, because he was of a noble family; and secondly,
     because his life would be endangered, since he was already disabled
     by the effects of his eleven years' imprisonment. The two judges
     then ordered his irons and chain to be taken off; requiring him to
     take an oath and declare whatever he was asked. Upon his refusal,
     Diego Ruis, the executioner, stripped him of his garments, and left
     him only his linen drawers. The executioner having afterwards
     retired, they told him once more to obey the king's orders, on pain
     of suffering torture _by the rope_. He repeated once more that he
     said what he had already said. Immediately the ladder and apparatus
     of torture having been brought, Diego Ruis, the executioner,
     crossed the arms of Antonio Perez, one over the other; and they
     proceeded to give him one twist of the rope. He uttered piercing
     cries, saying: _Jesus! that he had nothing to declare; that he had
     only to die in torture; that he would say nothing; and that he
     would die._ This he repeated many times. By this time they had
     already given him four turns of the rope; and the judges having
     returned to summon him to declare what they wanted of him, he said,
     with many shrieks and exclamations, _that he had nothing to say;
     that they were breaking his arm. Good God! I have lost the use of
     one arm; the doctors know it well._ He added with groans: _Ah!
     Lord, for the love of God!... They have crushed my hand, by the
     living God!_ He said, moreover: _Señor Juan Gomez, you are a
     Christian; my brother, for the love of God, you are killing me, and
     I have nothing to declare._ The judges replied again, that he must
     make the declarations they wanted; but he only repeated: _Brother,
     you are killing me! Señor Juan Gomez, by our Saviour's wounds, let
     them finish me with one blow!... Let them leave me, I will say
     whatever they will; for God's sake, brother, have compassion on
     me!_ At the same time, he entreated them to relieve him from the
     position in which he was placed, and to give him his clothes,
     saying, he would speak. This did not happen until he had suffered
     eight turns of the rope; and the executioner being then ordered to
     leave the room where they had used the torture, Perez remained
     alone with the licentiate Juan Gomez and the scrivener Antonio
     Marquez."

The impunity of tyranny was over-strained. The tide of sympathy
fluctuated, and ebbed with murmuring agitation from the channel in which
it had flowed so long with a steady current. Jesters and preachers
uttered homely truths--the nobles trembled--and the people shuddered.
With a few intelligible exceptions, there was a burst of general
satisfaction when, on the 20th April 1591, two months after his torture,
Perez, by the aid of his intrepid and devoted wife--(and shall we be too
credulous in adding, with the connivance of his guards?)--broke his
bonds, fled from Castile, and set his foot on the soil of independent
Aragon.

Let us now, for a moment, reconsider the motives which solve, as they
guided, at once the indefensible guilt of Perez, and the malignant
perfidy of Philip. The King of Spain unquestionably ordered the murder
of Escovedo, and confided its perpetration to the docile secretary. But
the death-warrant slumbered for a while in the keeping of the
executioner. It was not until Escovedo acquired his perilous knowledge
of the debaucheries of Perez and the Princess of Eboli, and had avowed
his still more perilous resolution of publishing their frailty in a
quarter where detection was ruin, that Perez plied with inflexible
diligence artifice and violence, poison and dagger--to satisfy,
coincidently, himself and his sovereign. By a similar infusion of
emotions, roused by later occurrences, the feelings of Philip towards
Perez underwent, after the murder, a radical change. He at first
unhesitatingly joined, as we have seen, in rewarding the actual
murderers. The tale of the preference lavished by beauty on his minion
had not seared his heart-strings. With that revelation came the mood of
inexpiable hate. A word from him, uttered with unequivocal emphasis,
would have cleared and rescued Perez. Such words, indeed, he pronounced
more than once; but never as he would have done, if their effect had
been to screen merely the faithful minister of state. The object in
their occasional recurrence was one of profound dissimulation. Philip's
design was to lull the alarm of Perez, and to recover out of his hands
every scrap of written evidence which existed, implicating himself in
the death of Escovedo. And it was under an erroneous impression of his
efforts having been at length completely triumphant, that he sent Perez
to the torture, with a foregone determination of killing him with the
sword of justice, as a slanderous traitor, who could not adduce a tittle
of proof to support his falsehood.

But the wit of Perez was as penetrating as Philip's, and had avoided the
snare. Retaining adroitly, in authentic documents, ample materials for
his own defence, and the inculpation of the king, Perez fought
undauntedly and successfully his battle, on the charge of Escovedo's
murder, before the tribunals of Aragon, which were either ignorant of,
or indifferent to, the scandals and personal criminalities inseparably
mixed up with the case at Madrid. The retributive justice which had
overwhelmed Perez in his person and circumstances in Castile, now
descended on the reputation of Philip in Aragon, who was likewise not
only obliged to hear of the acquittal of his detested foe by the supreme
court there, but necessitated, by the tremendous statements promulgated
by Perez as his justification, founded on unimpeachable writings in his
possession, to drop and relinquish all legal proceedings.

The bitterness of the cup of woe, however, it had still been in the
power of the fierce despot otherwise to deepen. Infuriated by the flight
of Perez, the king caused the wife, then pregnant, and the children of
the fugitive, to be arrested and cast into the public prison, dragging
them "on the day when it is usual to pardon the very worst of criminals,
at the very hour of the procession of the penitents on Holy Thursday,
with a reckless disregard of custom and decency, among the crosses and
all the cortèges of this solemnity, in order that there might be no lack
of witnesses for this glorious action." These words we have cited from a
famous narrative subsequently published by Perez in England, from which
we are also tempted to extract, in relation to the same occurrence, the
following passage, full of that energetic eloquence which contributed,
among other causes, to win over general commiseration to the writer:--

     "'The crime committed by a wife who aids her husband to escape from
     prison, martyred as he had been for so many years, and reduced to
     such a miserable condition, is justified by all law--natural,
     divine and human--and by the laws of Spain in particular. Saul,
     pursuing David, respected Michal, though she was his daughter, and
     had even saved her husband from the effects of his wrath.
     Law--common, civil, and canonical--absolves woman from whatever she
     does to defend her husband. The special law of Count Fernan
     Gonzalès leaves her free; the voice and the unanimous decree of all
     nations exalt and glorify her. If, when her children are in her
     house, in their chamber, or their cradle, it be proved that they
     are strangers to every thing, by that alone, and by their age,
     which excludes them from such confidences, how much more must that
     child be a stranger to all, which the mother bore in her bosom, and
     which they thus made a prisoner before its birth? Even before it
     could be guilty, it was already punished; and its life and soul
     were endangered, like one of its brothers who lost both when they
     seized his mother a second time, near the port of Lisbon.' He
     finishes with these noble and avenging threats:--'But let them not
     be deceived; wherever they put them, such captives have, on their
     side, the two most powerful advocates in the whole world--their
     innocence and their misfortune. No Cicero, no Demosthenes can so
     charm the ear, or so powerfully rouse the mind, as these two
     defenders; because, among other privileges, God has given them that
     of being always present, to cry out for justice, to serve both as
     witnesses and advocates, and to terminate one of those processes
     which God alone judges in this world: this is what will happen in
     the present case, if the justice of men be too long in default. And
     let not the debtors of God be too confident about the delay of His
     judgment; though the fatal term be apparently postponed, it is
     gradually approaching; and the debt to be paid is augmented by the
     interest which is added to it down to the last day of Heaven's
     great reckoning."'

It was not till eight years later, in 1599, when Philip III. sat on the
throne of Spain, that the wife and children of Perez regained their
liberty, and not till nearly twenty-five later, in 1615, that his
children, who had passed their youth in prison, and been legally
attainted with their father's degradation without having participated in
his offences, were restored to their rank and rights as Spanish nobles.

Baffled in his pursuit of vengeance by the sturdy independence of the
civil courts of Aragon, Philip turned his eyes for assistance to a
tribunal, of which the jurisdiction had apparently no boundary except
its exorbitant pretensions. At the king's bidding, the Inquisition
endeavoured to seize Perez within its inexorable grasp. It seized, but
could not hold him. The free and jealous Aragonese, shouting "Liberty
for ever!" flew to arms, and emancipated from the mysterious oppression
of the Holy Office the man already absolved of crime by the regular
decrees of justice.

The Inquisition having renewed its attempt, the people, headed and
supported by leaders of the highest lineage, condition, and authority in
Aragon, increased in the fervour and boldness of their resistance. Their
zealous championship of Perez--a most unworthy object of so much
generous and brave solicitude--drove them into open insurrection against
Philip. The biographer narrates, that when the storm raised by him, and
on his account, drew near, Perez escaped across the Pyrenees into
France; and the historian records, that when the sun of peace again
re-emerged from the tempest, Philip had overthrown the ancient
constitution of Aragon, crushed its nobility, destroyed its
independence, and incorporated its territory with the Spanish monarchy.

Perez, although compelled to fly, bade farewell for ever to his native
land with reluctance. There is something touching in the familiar image
which he uses to describe his own condition: "He was like a dog of a
faithful nature, who, though beaten and ill-treated by his master and
household, is loth to quit the walls of his dwelling." He found at
Béarn, in the court of the sister of Henry IV. of France, a
resting-place from hardship, but not a safe asylum from persecution.
During his brief residence there, three separate attempts to assassinate
him were detected or defeated; nor were these the only plots directed
against his person. M. Mignet quotes a pleasant variety of the species
from the lively pen of Perez himself.

     "'When Perez was at Pau, they went so far as to try to make use of
     a lady of that country, who lacked neither beauty, gallantry, nor
     distinction; a notable woman, an Amazon, and a huntress; riding, as
     they say, up hill and down dale. One would have thought they wanted
     to put to death some new Samson. In short, they offered her ten
     thousand crowns and six Spanish horses to come to Pau, and form an
     intimacy with Perez; and, after having charmed him by her beauty,
     to invite and entice him to her house, in order, some fine evening,
     to deliver him up, or allow him to be carried off in a hunting
     party. The lady, either being importuned, or desirous, from a
     curiosity natural to her sex, to know a man whom authority and his
     persecutors considered of so much consequence, or, lastly, for the
     purpose of warning the victim herself, feigned, as the sequel makes
     us believe, to accept the commission. She travelled to Pau, and
     made acquaintance with Perez. She visited him at his house.
     Messengers and love-letters flew about like hail. There were
     several parties of pleasure; but, in the end, the good disposition
     of the lady, and her attachment for Perez, gained the victory over
     interest, that metal of base alloy, which defiles more than any act
     of love; so that she herself came and revealed to him the
     machinations from beginning to end, together with the offers made,
     and all that had followed. She did much more. She offered him her
     house and the revenue attached to it, with such a warmth of
     affection, (if we may judge of love by its demonstrations,) that
     any sound mathematician would say there was, between that lady and
     Perez, an astrological sympathy.'"

His restless spirit of intrigue, and perhaps a nascent desire, provoked
by altered circumstances, of reciprocal vengeance against Philip,
hurried Perez from the tranquil seclusion of Béarn to the busy camp of
Henry IV. After a long conference, he was sent to England by that
monarch, who calculated on his services being usefully available with
Queen Elizabeth in the common enterprise against Spain. Then it was that
he formed his intimate acquaintance with the celebrated Francis Bacon,
in whose company we first introduced him to our readers, and with many
other individuals of eminence and note.

     "It was during the leisure of this his first residence in London
     that Perez published, in the summer of 1594, his _Relaciones_,
     under the imaginary name of _Raphael Peregrino_; which, far from
     concealing the real author, in reality designated him by the
     allusion to his wandering life. This account of his adventures,
     composed with infinite art, was calculated to render his ungrateful
     and relentless persecutor still more odious, and to draw towards
     himself more benevolence and compassion. He sent copies of it to
     Burghley, to Lady Rich, sister of the Earl of Essex, to Lords
     Southampton, Montjoy, and Harris, to Sir Robert Sidney, Sir Henry
     Unton, and many other personages of the English court, accompanying
     them with letters gracefully written and melancholy in spirit. The
     one which he confided to the patronage of the Earl of Essex was at
     once touching and flattering:--'Raphael Peregrino,' said he, 'the
     author of this book, has charged me to present it to your
     Excellency. Your Excellency is obliged to protect him, since he
     recommends himself to you. He must know that he wants a godfather,
     since he chooses such as you. Perhaps he trusted to his name,
     knowing that your Excellency is the support of the pilgrims of
     fortune.'"

The dagger of the assassin continued to track his wanderings. And it is,
probably, not commonly known, that upon one of the city gates of London,
near St Paul's, there might be seen, in 1594, the heads of two Irishmen,
executed as accomplices in a plot for the murder of Antonio Perez.

In England, where he was supported by the generosity of Essex, he did
not remain very long, having been recalled, in 1594, to France by Henry,
who had recently declared war against Philip. At Paris, Perez was
received with great distinction and the most flattering attentions,
being lodged in a spacious mansion, and provided with a military
body-guard. The precaution was not superfluous. Wearing seemingly a
charmed life, the dusky spectre of premature and unnatural death haunted
him wherever he went or sojourned. Baron Pinilla, a Spaniard, was
captured in Paris on the eve of his attempt to murder Perez, put to the
torture, and executed on the Place de Grève--thus adding another name to
the long catalogue of people, to whom any connexion with, or implication
in, the affairs of Perez, whether innocently or criminally, for good or
evil, attracted, it might be imagined as by Lady Bacon, from an angry
Heaven the flash of calamitous ruin.

His present prosperity came as a brilliant glimpse through hopeless
darkness, and so departed. Revisiting England in 1596, he found himself
denied access to Essex, shunned by the Bacons, and disregarded by every
body. The consequent mortification accelerated his return to France,
which he reached, as Henry was concluding peace with Philip, to
encounter cold distrust and speedy neglect from the French King. All
this was the result of his own incurable double-dealing. He had been
Henry's spy in the court of Elizabeth, and was, or fancied himself to be
Elizabeth's at Paris. But the omnipotent secretary of state and the
needy adventurer played the game of duplicity and perfidy with the odds
reversed. All parties, as their experience unmasked his hollow
insincerity, shrunk from reliance on, or intercourse with an
ambidextrous knave, to whom mischief and deceit were infinitely more
congenial than wisdom and honesty. "The truth is," wrote Villeroy, one
of the French ministers, to a correspondent in 1605, "that his
adversities have not made him much wiser or more discreet than he was in
his prosperity." We must confess ourselves unable to perceive any traces
of even the qualified improvement admitted by Villeroy.

The rest of the biography of this extraordinary man is a miserable diary
of indignant lamentations over his abject condition--of impudent
laudations of the blameless integrity of his career--of grovelling and
ineffectual efforts and supplications to appease and eradicate the
hatred of Philip--and of vociferous cries for relief from penury and
famine. "I am in extreme want, having exhausted the assistance of all my
friends, and no longer knowing where to find my daily bread," is the
terrible confession of the once favourite minister of the most powerful
monarch in Europe. He never touched the ground, or even gazed on the
distant hills of Spain again. In one of the obscure streets of Paris, in
solitude and poverty, he dragged the grief and infirmities of his old
age slowly towards the grave; and at length, in the seventy-second year
of his age, on a natural and quiet deathbed, closed the troubles of his
tempestuous existence.

Such is "this strange eventful history." Such was the incalculable
progeny of misery, disgrace, disaster, and ruin, involving himself, his
family, countless individuals, and an entire nation, which issued from
the guilty love of Perez and the Princess of Eboli.

     _Antonio Perez and Philip II._ By M. MIGNET. Translated by C.
     COCKS, B.L. London: 1846.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: "Dona Ana de Mendoza y de la Cerda," observes the historian
of the house of Silva, "the only daughter of Don Diego de Mendoza and
the Lady Catalina de Silva, was, from the blood which ran in her veins,
from her beauty, and her noble inheritance, one of the most desirable
matches (_apeticidos casamientos_) of the day!"]




RECOLLECTIONS OF A LOVER OF SOCIETY.

No. II.

1802.


All the great people of London, and most of the little, have been kept
in a fever of agitation during the last fortnight, by the preparatives
for the grand club ball in honour of the peace. Texier had the direction
of the fête, and he exhibited his taste to the astonishment of _les
sauvages Britanniques_. Never were seen such decorations, such chaplets,
such chandeliers, such bowers of roses. In short, the whole was a Bond
Street Arcadia. All the world of the West End were there; the number
could not have been less than a thousand--all in fancy dresses and
looking remarkably brilliant. The Prince of Wales, the most showy of men
every where, wore a Highland dress, such, however, as no Highlander ever
wore since Deucalion's flood, unless Donald was master of diamonds
enough to purchase a principality. The Prince, of course, had a separate
room for his own supper party, and the genius of M. Texier had contrived
a little entertainment for the royal party, by building an adjoining
apartment in the style of a cavern, after the Gil Blas fashion, in which
a party of banditti were to carry on their carousal. The banditti were,
of course, amateurs--the Cravens, Tom Sheridan, and others of that
set--who sang, danced, gambled, and did all sorts of strange things. The
Prince was delighted; but even princes cannot have all pleasures to
themselves. Some of the crowd by degrees squeezed or coaxed their way
into the cavern, others followed, the pressure became irresistible;
until at last the banditti, contrary to all the laws of melodrame, were
expelled from their own cavern, and the invaders sat down to their
supper. Lords Besborough, Ossulston, and Bedford were the directors of
the night; and the foreign ministers declared that nothing in Europe,
within their experience, equalled this Bond Street affair. Whether the
directors had the horses taken from their carriages, and were carried
home in an ovation, I cannot tell; but Texier, not at all disposed to
think lightly of himself at any time, talks of the night with tears in
his eyes, and declares it the triumph of his existence.

       *       *       *       *       *

George Rose has had a narrow escape of being drowned. All the wits, of
course, appeal to the proverb, and deny the possibility of his
concluding his career by water. Still, his escape was extraordinary. He
had taken a boat at Palace Yard to cross to Lambeth. As he was standing
up in the boat, immediately on his getting in, the waterman awkwardly
and hastily shoved off, and George, accustomed as he was to take care of
himself, lost his balance, and plumped head foremost into the water. The
tide was running strong, and between the weight of his clothes, and the
suddenness of the shock, he was utterly helpless. The parliamentary
laughers say, that the true wonder of the case is, that he has been ever
able to keep his head above water for the last dozen years; others, that
it has been so long his practice to swim with the stream, that no one
can be surprised at his slipping eagerly along. The fact, however, is,
that a few minutes more must have sent him to the bottom. Luckily a
bargeman made a grasp at him as he was going down, and held him till he
could be lifted into his boat. He was carried to the landing-place in a
state of great exhaustion. George has been, of course, obnoxious to the
Opposition from his services, and from his real activity and
intelligence in office. He is good-natured, however, and has made no
enemies. Sheridan and the rest, when they have nothing else to do in the
House, fire their shots at him to keep their hands in practice, but none
of them have been able to bring him down.

       *       *       *       *       *

A remarkable man died in June, the well-known Colonel Barré. He began
political life about the commencement of the American war, and
distinguished himself by taking an active part in the discussion of
every public measure of the time. Barré's soldiership impressed its
character on his parliamentary conduct. He was prompt, bold, and
enterprising, and always obtained the attention of the House. Though
without pretensions to eloquence, he was always a ready speaker; and
from the rapidity with which he mastered details, and from the boldness
with which he expressed his opinions, he always produced a powerful
effect on the House. Though contemporary with Burke, and the countryman
of that illustrious orator, he exhibited no tendency to either the
elevation or the ornament of that distinguished senator; yet his
speeches were vigorous, and his diligence gave them additional effect.
No man was more dreaded by the minister; and the treasury bench often
trembled under the force and directness of his assaults. At length,
however, he gave way to years, and retired from public life. His party
handsomely acknowledged his services by a retiring pension, which Mr
Pitt, when minister, exchanged for the clerkship of the pells, thus
disburdening the nation by substituting a sinecure. For many years
before his death, Barré was unfortunately deprived of sight; but, under
that heaviest of all afflictions, he retained his practical philosophy,
enjoyed the society of his friends, and was cheerful to the last. He was
at length seized with paralysis, and died.

       *       *       *       *       *

The crimes of the French population are generally of a melodramatic
order. The temperament of the nation is eminently theatrical; and the
multitude of minor theatres scattered through France, naturally sustain
this original tendency. A villain in the south of France, lately
constructed a sort of machinery for murder, which was evidently on the
plan of the trap-doors and banditti displays of the Porte St Martin.
Hiring an empty stable, he dug a pit in it of considerable depth. The
pit was covered with a framework of wood, forming a floor, which, on the
pulling of a string, gave way, and plunged the victim into a depth of
twenty feet. But the contriver was not satisfied with his attempt to
break the bones of the unfortunate person whom he thus entrapped. He
managed to have a small chamber filled with some combustible in the side
of the pit, which was to be set on fire, and, on the return of the
platform to its place, suffocate his _detenu_ with smoke. Whether he had
performed any previous atrocities in this way, or whether the present
instance was the commencement of his profession of homicide, is not
told. By some means or other, having inveigled a stout countrywoman,
coming with her eggs and apples to market, into his den, she no sooner
trod upon the frame, than the string was pulled, it turned, and we may
conceive with what astonishment and terror she must have felt herself
plunged into a grave with the light of day shut out above. Fortunately
for her, the match which was to light the combustibles failed, and she
thus escaped suffocation. Her cries, however, were so loud, that they
attracted some of the passers-by, and the villain attempted to take to
flight. He was, however, seized, and given into the hands of justice.

       *       *       *       *       *

An action was lately brought by an old lady against a dealer in
curiosities, for cheating her in the matter of antiques. Her taste was
not limited to the oddities of the present day, and, in the dealer, she
found a person perfectly inclined to gratify her with wonders. He had
sold her a model of the Alexandrian library, a specimen of the original
type invented by Memnon the Egyptian, and a manuscript of the first play
acted by Thespis. These had not exhausted the stock of the dealer: he
possessed the skin of a giraffe killed in the Roman amphitheatre; the
head of King Arthur's spear; and the breech of the first cannon fired at
the siege of Constantinople. The jury, however, thought that the
virtuoso having ordered those curiosities, ought to pay for them, and
brought in a verdict for the dealer.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French consul has been no sooner installed, than he has begun to
give the world provocatives to war. His legion of honour is a military
noblesse, expressly intended to make all public distinction originate in
the army; for the few men of science decorated with its star are not to
be compared with the list of soldiers, and even they are chiefly
connected with the department of war as medical men, practical chemists,
or engineers.

His next act was to fix the military establishment of France at 360,000
men; his third act, in violation of his own treaties, and of all the
feelings of Europe, was to make a rapid invasion of Switzerland, thus
breaking down the independence of the country, and seizing, in fact, the
central fortress of the Continent. His fourth act has been the seizure
of Piedmont, and its absolute annexation to France. By a decree of the
Republic, Piedmont is divided into six departments, which are to send
seventeen deputies to the French legislature. Turin is declared to be a
provincial city of the Republican territory; and thus the French armies
will have a perpetual camp in a country which lays Italy open to the
invader, and will have gained a territory nearly as large as Scotland,
but fertile, populous, and in one of the finest climates of the south.
Those events have excited the strongest indignation throughout Europe.
We have already discovered that the peace was but a truce; that the
cessation of hostilities was but a breathing-time to the enemy; that the
reduction of our armies was precipitate and premature; and that, unless
the fears of the French government shall render it accessible to a sense
of justice, the question must finally come to the sword.

       *       *       *       *       *

Schiller's play of the "Robbers" is said to have propagated the breed of
highwaymen in Germany. To ramble through the country, stop travellers on
the highway, make huts in the forest, sing Bedlamite songs, and rail at
priests and kings, was the fashion in Germany during the reign of that
popular play. It was said, a banditti of students from one of the
colleges had actually taken the road, and made Carl Moor their model.
All this did very well in summer, but the winter probably cooled their
enthusiasm; for a German forest, with its snow half a dozen feet deep,
and the probability of famine, would be a formidable trial to the most
glowing mysticism.

But an actual leader of banditti has been just arrested, whose exploits
in plunder have formed the romance of Germany for a considerable period.
The confusion produced by the French war, and the general disturbance of
the countries on both sides of the Rhine, have at once awakened the
spirit of license, and given it impunity. A dashing fellow named
Schinderhannes, not more than three-and-twenty years of age, but loving
the luxuries of life too well to do without them, and disliking the
labour required for their possession, commenced a general system of
plunder down the Rhine. He easily organized a band, composed, I believe,
of deserters from the French and Austrian troops, who preferred
wholesale robbery to being shot in either service at the rate of
threepence a-day; and for a while nothing could be more prosperous than
their proceedings. Their leader, with all his daring, was politic,
professing himself the friend of the poor, standing on the best terms
with the peasantry, scattering his money in all directions with the
lavishness of a prince, and professing to make war only on the nobility,
the rich clergy, and the Jew merchants especially--the German Jews being
always supposed by the people to be the grand depositories of the
national wealth. But this favouritism among the peasantry was of the
highest service to his enterprizes. It gave him information, it rescued
him from difficulties, and it recruited his troop, which was said to
amount to several hundreds, and to be in the highest state of
discipline. After laying the country under contribution from Mayence to
Coblentz, he crossed the river into Franconia, and commenced a period of
enterprize there. But no man's luck lasts for ever. It was his habit to
acquire information for himself by travelling about in various
disguises. One day, in entering one of the little Franconian towns in
the habit of a pedlar, and driving a cart with wares before him, he was
recognized by one of the passers-by, whose sagacity was probably
sharpened by having been plundered by him. An investigation followed,
in which the disguised pedlar declared himself an Austrian subject, and
an Austrian soldier. In consequence, he was ordered to the Austrian
depôt at Frankfort, where he met another recognition still more
formidable. A comrade with whom he had probably quarrelled; for this
part of the story is not yet clear, denounced him to the police; and, to
the astonishment of the honest Frankforters, it was announced that the
robber king, the bandit hero, was in their hands. As his exploits had
been chiefly performed on the left bank of the Rhine, and his revenues
had been raised out of French property in the manner of a forced loan,
the Republic, conceiving him to be an interloper on their monopoly,
immediately demanded him from the German authorities. In the old
war-loving times, the Frankforters would probably have blown the trumpet
and insisted on their privilege of acting as his jailers, but experience
had given them wisdom, they swallowed their wrath, and the robber king
was given up to the robber Republic. If Schinderhannes had been in the
service of France, he would have been doing for the last ten years, on
its account, exactly what he had been doing on his own. But unluckily
for himself, he robbed in the name of Schinderhannes, and not in the
name of liberty and equality; and now, instead of having his name
shouted by all France, inserted in triumphant bulletins, and ranked with
the Bonapartes and Cæsars, he will be called a thief, stripped of his
last rixdollar, and hanged.

       *       *       *       *       *

An extraordinary instance of mortality has just occurred, which has
favoured the conversation of the clubs, and thrown the west end into
condolence and confusion for the last twenty-four hours. Colonel
O'Kelly's famous parrot is dead. The stories told of this surprising
bird have long stretched public credulity to its utmost extent. But if
even the half of what is told be true, it exhibited the most singular
sagacity. Not having seen it myself, I can only give the general report.
But, beyond all question, it has been the wonder of London for years,
and however willing John Bull may be to be deluded, there is no instance
of his being deluded long. This bird's chief faculty was singing, seldom
a parrot faculty, but its ear was so perfect, that it acquired tunes
with great rapidity, and retained them with such remarkable exactness,
that if, by accident, it made a mistake in the melody, it corrected
itself, and tried over the tune until its recollection was completely
recovered. It also spoke well, and would hold a kind of dialogue almost
approaching to rationality. So great was its reputation that the colonel
was offered £500 a-year by persons who intended to make an exhibition of
it; but he was afraid that his favourite would be put to too hard work,
and he refused the offer, which was frequently renewed. The creature
must have been old, for it had been bought thirty years before by the
colonel's uncle, and even then it must have had a high reputation, for
it was bought at the price of 100 guineas. Three remarkable bequests had
been made by that uncle to the colonel,--the estate of Canons, the
parrot, and the horse Eclipse, the most powerful racer ever known in
England; so superior to every other horse of his day, that his
superiority at length became useless, as no bets would be laid against
him. In the spirit of vague curiosity, this parrot was opened by two
surgeons, as if to discover the secret of his cleverness; but nothing
was seen, except that the muscles of the throat were peculiarly strong;
nothing to account for its death was discovered.

       *       *       *       *       *

Andreossi, the French ambassador, has arrived. He is a rude and rough
specimen even of the Republican, but a man of intelligence, an engineer,
and distinguished for his publications. Still the bone of contention is
Malta, and the difficulty seems greater than ever. The French consul
insists on its abandonment by England, as an article of the treaty of
Amiens; but the answer of England is perfectly intelligible,--You have
not adhered to that treaty in any instance whatever, but have gone on
annexing Italian provinces to France. You have just now made a vassal
of Switzerland, and to all our remonstrances on the subject you have
answered with utter scorn. While you violate your stipulations, how can
you expect that we shall perform ours? But another obstruction to the
surrender of Malta has been produced by the conduct of France herself.
She has seized the entire property of the Order in France, in Piedmont,
and wherever she can seize it. Spain, probably by her suggestion, has
followed her example, and the Order now is reduced to pauperism; in
fact, it no longer exists. Thus it is impossible to restore the island
to the Order of St John of Jerusalem; and to give it up at once to
France, would be to throw away an important security for the due
performance of the treaty. Government are so determined on this view of
the case, that orders have been sent to Malta for all officers on leave
to join their regiments immediately.

Malta is one of the remarkable instances in which we may trace a kind of
penalty on the rapaciousness of the Republic. While it remained in the
possession of the Order, it had observed a kind of neutrality, which was
especially serviceable to France, as the island was a refuge for its
ships, and a depôt for its commerce, in common with that of England. But
Bonaparte, in his Egyptian expedition, finding the opportunity
favourable, from the weakness of the knights, and the defenceless state
of the works, landed his troops, and took possession of it without
ceremony. No act could be more atrocious as a breach of faith, for the
knights were in alliance with France, and were wholly unprepared for
hostilities. The place was now in full possession of the treacherous
ally. Contributions were raised; the churches were plundered of their
plate and ornaments; the knights were expelled, and a French garrison
took possession of the island. What was the result? Malta was instantly
blockaded by the British, the garrison was reduced by famine, and Malta
became an English possession; which it never would have been, if the
knights had remained there; for England, in her respect for the faith of
treaties, would not have disturbed their independence. Thus, the
Republic, by iniquitously grasping at Malta, in fact threw it into the
hands of England. It is scarcely less remarkable, that the plunder of
Malta was also totally lost, it being placed on board the admiral's
ship, which was blown up at the battle of the Nile.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of the first acts of the French consul has been to conciliate the
Italian priesthood by an act which they regard as equivalent to a
conversion to Christianity. The image of our Lady of Loretto, in the
French invasion of Italy, had been carried off from Rome; of course, the
sorrows of the true believers were unbounded. The image was certainly
not intended to decorate the gallery of the Louvre, for it was as black
as a negro; and, from the time of its capture, it had unfortunately lost
all its old power of working miracles. But it has at length been
restored to its former abode, and myriads of the pious followed the
procession. Discharges of cannon and ringing of bells welcomed its
approach. It was carried by eight bishops, in a species of triumphal
palanquin, splendidly decorated, and placed on its altar in the Santa
Casa with all imaginable pomps and ceremonies. The whole town was
illuminated in the evening, and the country was in a state of exultation
at what it regards as an evidence of the immediate favor of heaven.

       *       *       *       *       *

A singular and melancholy trial has just taken place, in which a colonel
in the army, with several of the soldiery and others, have been found
guilty of a conspiracy to overthrow the government, and kill the king on
the day of his opening Parliament. The 16th of November 1802, had been
the day appointed for this desperate deed; but information having been
obtained of the design through a confederate, the whole party of
conspirators were seized on that day by the police at a house in
Lambeth, where they arrested Despard and his fellow traitors. On the
floor of the room three printed papers were found, containing their
proclamation.

They were headed, "_Constitution_, the independence of Great Britain and
Ireland, an equalization of civil and religious rights, an ample
provision for the wives of the heroes who shall fall in the conquest, a
liberal reward for distinguished merits; these are the objects for which
we contend, and to obtain these objects we swear to be united in the
awful presence of Almighty God." Then follows the oath: "I, A.B., do
voluntarily declare that I will endeavour to the utmost of my power to
obtain the objects of this union, viz. to recover those rights which the
Supreme Being, in his infinite bounty, has given to all men; that
neither hopes, fears, rewards, nor punishments, shall ever induce me to
give any information, directly or indirectly, concerning the business,
or of any member of this or any similar society, so help me God."

One of the witnesses, a private in the Guards, gave evidence that the
object of the conspiracy was to overturn the present system of
government; to unite in companies, and to get arms. They subscribed, and
the object of the subscription was, to pay delegates to go into the
country, and to defray the expense of printing their papers. All persons
belonging to the subscription were to be divided into ten companies,
each consisting of ten, with an eleventh who was called captain. The
next order was, that the oldest captain of five companies took the
command of those fifty men, and was to be called colonel of the
subdivision. Every means was to be adopted to get as many recruits as
possible. There was to be no regular organization in London, for fear of
attracting the eye of government. But the system was to be urged
vigorously in the great manufacturing towns; the insurrection was to
commence by an attack on the House of Parliament; and the king was to be
put to death either on his way to the House, or in the House. The
mail-coaches were then to be stopt, as a signal to their adherents in
the country that the insurrection had triumphed in the metropolis. An
assault was then to be made on the Tower, and the arms seized. At
subsequent meetings, the question of the royal seizure was more than
once discussed; and Despard had declared it to be essential to the
success of the plot, that no effect could be produced unless the whole
royal family were secured. The first plan for the seizure of the king
was to shoot his carriage horses, then force him out of the carriage,
and carry him off. A second plan was then proposed, viz. that of loading
the Egyptian gun in St James's Park with chain shot, and firing it at
the royal carriage as it passed along.

Lord Nelson and General Sir Alured Clarke were brought as evidence to
character. Lord Nelson said, that he and Colonel Despard had served
together on the Spanish Main in 1799, and that he was then a loyal man
and a brave officer. Lord Ellenborough strongly charged the jury. He
declared that there was no question of law, and that the whole case
resolved itself into a question of fact. The jury, after retiring for
half an hour, brought in a verdict of guilty.

In a few days after, Despard, with six of his accomplices, were executed
in front of the new jail in the Borough. The men were chiefly soldiers
whom this wretched criminal had bribed or bewildered into the commission
of treason. Despard made a speech on the scaffold, declaring himself
innocent, and that he was put to death simply for being a friend to
truth, liberty, and justice. How he could have made this declaration
after the evidence that had been given, is wholly unintelligible except
on the ground of insanity, though of that there was no symptom, except
in the design itself. What prompted the design except narrow
circumstances, bad habits, and the temptations of a revengeful spirit,
was never discovered.

       *       *       *       *       *

A trial, which exhibited extraordinary talent in the defence, by a
counsel hitherto unknown, has attracted an interest still more general,
though of a less melancholy order. Peltier, an emigrant, and supposed to
be an agent of the French emigrant body, had commenced a periodical
work, entitled _L'Ambigu_; the chief object of which was to attack the
policy, person, and conduct of the First Consul of France. His assaults
were so pointed, that they were complained of by the French government
as libels; and the answer returned was, that the only means which the
ministry possessed of punishing such offences, was by the verdict of a
jury. The Attorney-general, in opening the case, described the paper. On
its frontispiece, was a sphinx with a crown upon its head, the features
closely resembling those of Bonaparte. A portion of the paper was
devoted to a parody of the harangue of Lepidus against Sylla. It asks
the French people, "Why they have fought against Austria, Prussia,
Italy, England, Germany, and Russia, if it be not to preserve our
liberty and our property, and that we might obey none but the laws
alone. And now, this tiger, who dares to call himself the Founder, or
the Regenerator of France, enjoys the fruit of your labours as spoil
taken from the enemy. This man, sole master in the midst of those who
surround him, has ordained lists of proscription, and put in execution
banishment without sentence, by which there are punishments for the
French who have not yet seen the light. Proscribed families, giving
birth out of France to children, oppressed before they are born. In
another part, the paper urged to immediate action. It says, "Citizens,
you must march, you must oppose what is passing, if you desire that he
should not seize upon all that you have. There must be no delays, no
useless wishes; reckon only upon yourselves, unless you indeed have the
stupidity to suppose that he will abdicate through shame of tyranny that
which he holds by force of crime." In another part, he assails the First
Consul on the nature of his precautions to secure his power. He charges
him with the formation of a troop of Mamelukes, composed of Greeks,
Maltese, Arabians, and Copts, "a collection of foreign banditti, whose
name and dress, recalling the mad and disastrous Egyptian expedition,
should cover him with shame; but who, not speaking our language, nor
having any point of contact with our army, will always be the satellites
of the tyrant, his mutes, his cut-throats, and his hangmen. The laws,
the justice, the finances, the administration; in fine, the liberty and
life of the citizens, are all in the power of one man. You see at every
moment arbitrary arrests, judges punished for having acquitted citizens,
individuals put to death after having been already acquitted by law,
sentences and sentences of death extorted from judges by threats.
Remains there for men, who would deserve that name, any thing else to
do, but to avenge their wrongs, or perish with glory?"

Another portion of this paper contained an ode, in which all things were
represented as in a state of convulsion, all shaken by a tremendous
storm; but nature, either blind or cruel, sparing the head of the tyrant
alone:--still carrying on the parody of the Roman speech, it pronounces
that a poniard is the last resource of Rome to rescue herself from a
dictator. It asks, is it from a Corsican that a Frenchman must receive
his chains? was it to crown a traitor that France had punished her
kings? In another, a libel, which traced the rise of Bonaparte, and
charged him with the intention of assuming imperial power, concluded in
these words:--"Carried on the shield, let him be elected emperor;
finally, (and Romulus recalls the thing to mind,) I wish that on the
morrow he may have his 'apotheosis.'" This the Attorney-general
certainly, with every appearance of reason, pronounced to be a palpable
suggestion to put the First Consul to death; as history tells us that
Romulus was assassinated.

The defence by Mackintosh was a bold and eloquent performance. He
commenced by a spirited animadversion on the Attorney's speech, and then
extended his subject into a general defence of the liberty of the press,
which he pronounced to be the true object of attack on the part of the
First Consul. He followed the history of its suppression through all the
states under French influence, and then came to the attempt at its
suppression here. He then invoked the jury to regard themselves as the
protectors of the freedom of speech on earth, and to rescue his client
from the severity of an oppression which threatened the universal
slavery of mankind.

This speech has been strongly criticised as one in which the advocate
defended himself and his party, while he neglected his client. But the
obvious truth is, that unless the suggestion of assassination is
defensible, there could be no defence, and unless the laws of nations
justify the most violent charges on the character of foreign sovereigns,
there could be no justification for the language of the whole paper.
Mackintosh evidently took the best course for his cause. He made out of
bad materials a showy speech; he turned the public eye from the guilt of
the libel to the popular value of the press; where others would have
given a dull pleading, he gave a stately romance; where the jury, in
feebler hands, would have been suffered to see the facts in their savage
nudity, he exhibited them clothed in classic draperies, and dazzled the
eye with the lofty features and heroic attitudes of ancient love of
country. All the skill of man could not have saved Peltier from a
verdict of guilty; but the genius of the orator invested his sentence
with something of the glory of martyrdom. The breaking out of the war
relieved Peltier from the consequences of the verdict. But there can be
no question that, if he had been thrown into prison, he would have been
an object of the general sympathy; that the liberty of the press would
have been regarded as in some degree involved in his sufferings; that he
would have found public liberality willing to alleviate his personal and
pecuniary difficulties; and that his punishment would have been
shortened, and his fine paid by the zeal of the national sympathy. Such
are the triumphs of eloquence. Such is the value of having a man of
genius for an advocate. Such is the importance to the man of genius
himself, of resolving to exert his highest powers for his client.
Mackintosh has been called an indolent man; and he has been hitherto but
little known. But he has at last discovered his own faculties, and he
has only to keep them in action to achieve the highest successes of the
bar; to fill the place of Erskine; and if no man can make Erskine
forgotten, at least make him unregretted. This speech also has taught
another lesson, and that lesson is, that the bar can be the theatre of
the highest rank of eloquence, and that all which is regarded as the
limit of forensic excellence, is a gratuitous degradation of its own
dignity. The sharp retort, the sly innuendo, the dexterous hint, the
hard, keen subtlety, the rough common sense, all valuable in their
degree, and all profitable to their possessor, are only of an inferior
grade. Let the true orator come forth, and the spruce pleader is
instantly flung into the background. Let the appeal of a powerful mind
be made to the jury, and all the small address, and practical skill, and
sly ingenuity, are dropped behind. The passion of the true orator
communicates its passion; his natural richness of conception fills the
spirit of his hearers; his power of producing new thoughts and giving
new shapes to acknowledged truths; his whole magnificence of mind
erecting and developing new views of human action as it moves along,
lead the feelings of men in a willing fascination until the charm is
complete. But after such a man, let the mere advocate stand up, and how
feebly does his voice fall on the ear, how dry are his facts, how
tedious his tricks, how lacklustre, empty, and vain are his contrivances
to produce conviction!

Mackintosh wants one grand quality for the jury,--he speaks like one who
thinks more of his argument than of his audience; he forgets the faces
before him, and is evidently poring over the images within. Though with
a visage of the colour, and seemingly of the texture of granite, he
blushes at a misplaced word, and is evidently sensitive to the error of
a comma. No man ever spoke with effect who cannot hesitate without being
overwhelmed, blunder without a blush, or be bewildered by his own
impetuosity, without turning back to retrace. _En avant_ is the precept
for the orator, as much as it is the principle of the soldier.
Mackintosh has to learn these things; but he has a full mind, a classic
tongue, and a subtle imagination, and these constitute the one thing
needful for the orator, comprehend all, and complete all.

       *       *       *       *       *

The late Lord Orford, the relative of the well-known Horace Walpole, is
one of the curious evidences that every man who takes it into his head
to be conspicuous, right or wrong, may make for himself a name. Lord
Orford, while his relative was writing all kinds of brilliant things,
collecting antiquities, worshipping the genius of cracked china, and
bowing down before fardingales and topknots of the time of Francis I.,
in the Temple of Strawberry Hill, was forming a niche for his fame in
his dog-kennel, and immortalizing himself by the help of his hounds.
Next to Actæon, he was the greatest dog-fancier that the world has ever
seen, and would have rivalled Endymion, if Diana was to be won by the
fleetest of quadrupeds. He was boundless in his profusion in respect of
his favourite animals, until at last, finding that his ideas of
perfection could not be realized by any living greyhounds, he speculated
on the race unborn, and crossed his dogs until, after seven summers, he
brought them to unrivalled excellence. He had at various times fifty
brace of greyhounds, quartering them over every part of his county
Norfolk, of which he was lord-lieutenant, probably for the sake of
trying the effect of air and locality.

One of his lordship's conceptions was, that of training animals to
purposes that nature never designed them for; and, if lions had been
accessible in this country, he would probably have put a snaffle into
the mouth of the forest king, and have trained him for hunting, unless
his lordship had been devoured in the experiment. But his most notorious
attempt of this order, was a four-in-hand of stags. Having obtained four
red deer of strong make, he harnessed them, and by dint of the infinite
diligence which he exerted on all such occasions; was at length enabled
to drive his four antlered coursers along the high-road. But on one
unfortunate day, as he was driving to Newmarket, a pack of hounds, in
full cry after fox or hare, crossing the road, got scent of the track.
Finding more attractive metal, they left the chase, and followed the
stags in full cry. The animals now became irrestrainable, dashed along
at full speed, and carried the phaeton and his lordship in it, to his
great alarm, along the road, at the rate of thirty miles an hour.
Luckily they did not take their way across the country, or their
driver's neck must have been broken. The scene was now particularly
animating; the hounds were still heard in full cry; no power could stop
the frightened stags; his lordship exerted all his charioteering skill
in vain. Luckily, he had been in the habit of driving to Newmarket. The
stags rushed into the town, to the astonishment of every body, and
darted into the inn yard. Here the gates were shut, and scarcely too
soon, for in a minute or two after the whole dogs of the hunt came
rushing into the town, and roaring for their prey. This escape seems to
have cured his lordship of stag-driving; but his passion for coursing
grew only more active, and the bitterest day of the year, he was seen
mounted on his piebald pony, and, in his love of the sport, apparently
insensible to the severities of the weather; while the hardiest of his
followers shrank, he was always seen, without great-coat or gloves, with
his little three-cocked hat facing the storm, and evidently insensible
to every thing but the performances of his hounds.

His lordship was perhaps the first man who was ever made mad by country
sports, though many a man has been made a beggar by them; and none but
fools will waste their time on them. His lordship at length became
unquestionably mad, and was put under restraint. At length, while still
in confinement, and in a second access of his disorder, having
ascertained, by some means or other, that one of his favourite
greyhounds was to run a match for a large sum, he determined to be
present at the performance. Contriving to send his attendant from the
room, he jumped out of the window, saddled his piebald pony with his own
hands, all the grooms having gone to the field, and there being no one
to obstruct him, and suddenly made his appearance on the course, to
universal astonishment. In spite of all entreaties, he was determined to
follow the dogs, and galloped after them. In the height of the pursuit,
he was flung from his pony, fell on his head; and instantly expired.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fluctuations of the public mind on the subject of the peace, have
lately influenced the stock market to a considerable degree. The
insolence of the First Consul to our ambassador, Lord Whitworth,
naturally produces an expectation of war. Early this morning, a man,
calling himself a messenger from the Foreign Office, delivered a letter
at the Mansion-house, and which he said had been sent from Lord
Hawkesbury, and which was to be given to his lordship without delay. The
letter was in these words:--"Lord Hawkesbury presents his compliments to
the Lord Mayor, and has the honour to acquaint his lordship, that the
negotiation between this country and the French republic is brought to
an amicable conclusion. Signed, Downing Street, eight o'clock, May 5,
1803."

The Lord Mayor, with a precipitancy that argued but little for the
prudence of the chief magistrate, had this letter posted up in front of
the Mansion-house. The effect on the Stock Exchange was immediate; and
consols rose eight per cent, from 63 to 71. The delusion, however, was
brief; and the intelligence of the rise had no sooner reached Downing
Street in its turn, than a messenger was dispatched to undeceive the
city, and the city-marshal was employed to read the contradiction in the
streets. The confusion in the Stock Exchange was now excessive; but the
committee adopted the only remedy in their power. They ordered the Stock
Exchange to be shut, and came to a resolution, that all bargains made in
the morning should be null and void. Immediately after, another attempt
of the same kind was made; and the Lord Mayor was requested by the
people of the Stock Exchange to inquire into its reality from the
government. The inquiry was answered by Mr Addington, of course denying
it altogether, and finishing with this rebuke to civic credulity:--"I
feel it my duty distinctly to caution your lordship against receiving
impressions of the description alluded to, through any unauthorized
channel of information." The funds immediately fell to 63 once more.

And yet it remains a delicate question, whether any committee can have
the power of declaring the bargains null and void. Of course, where the
inventors of the fraud have been parties, they have no right to gain by
their own fraud; but where individuals, wholly unacquainted with the
fraud, have gained, there seems no reason why a _bonâ fide_ transaction
should not stand.

       *       *       *       *       *

The question of war is decided. On the 17th of May, an Order in Council,
dated yesterday, has appeared in the _Gazette_, directing general
reprisals against the ships, goods, and subjects of the French Republic.
The peace, which rather deserves the name of a suspension of arms, or
still more, the name of a prodigious act of credulity on the part of
well-meaning John Bull, and an act of desperate knavery on the part of
the First Consul and his accomplices, has lasted exactly one year and
sixteen days,--England having occupied the time in disbanding her troops
and dismantling her fleets; and France being not less busy in seizing on
Italian provinces, strengthening her defences, and making universal
preparations for war. Yet the spirit of England, though averse to
hostilities in general, is probably more prepared at this moment for a
resolute and persevering struggle than ever. The nation is now convinced
of two things: first, that it is unassailable by France--a conviction
which it has acquired during ten years of war; and next, that peace with
France, under its present government, is impossible. The trickery of the
Republican government, its intolerable insolence, the exorbitancy of its
demands, and the more than military arrogance of its language, have
penetrated every bosom in England. The nation has never engaged so
heartily in a war before. All its old wars were government against
government; but the First Consul has insulted the English people, and by
the personal bitterness and malignant acrimony of his insults, has
united every heart and hand in England against him. England has never
waged such a war before; either party must perish. If England should
fail, which heaven avert, the world will be a dungeon. If France should
be defeated, the victory will be for Europe and all mankind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Nelson has sailed in the _Victory_ from Portsmouth to take the
command in the Mediterranean. A French frigate has been taken; and a
despatch declaring war has been received from France, ordering the
capture of all English vessels, offering commissions to privateers, and
by an act of treachery unprecedented among nations, annexed to this
order is a command that all the English, from eighteen to sixty,
residing in France, should be arrested; the pretext being to answer as
prisoners for the French subjects who may have been made prisoners by
the ships of his Britannic Majesty, previously to any declaration of
war.

This measure has excited the deepest indignation throughout London; and
an indignation which will be shared by the empire. The English in France
have been travelling and residing under French passports, and under the
declared protection of the government. No crime has been charged upon
them; they remained, because they regarded themselves as secure, relying
on the honour of France. Their being kept as pledges for the French
prisoners captured on the seas, is a mere trifling with common sense.
The French subjects travelling or residing in England have not been
arrested. The mere technicality of a declaration of war was wholly
useless, when the ambassador of France had been ordered to leave
England. The English ambassador had left Paris on the 12th; the French
ambassador had left London on the 16th. The English order for reprisals
appeared in the _Gazette_ of the 17th. The English declaration of war
was laid before Parliament on the 18th; and the first capture, a French
lugger of fourteen guns.




THE "OLD PLAYER."

IMITATED FROM ANASTASIUS GRÜN.

BY A. LODGE.


  Aloft the rustling curtain flew,
  That gave the mimic scene to view;
  How gaudy was the suit he wore!
  His cheeks with red how plaster'd o'er!

  Poor veteran! that in life's late day,
  With tottering step, and locks of gray,
  Essay'st each trick of antic glee,
  Oh! my heart bleeds at sight of thee.

  A laugh thy triumph! and so near
  The closing act, and humble bier;
  This thy ambition? this thy pride?
  Far better thou had'st earlier died!

  Though memory long has own'd decay,
  And dim the intellectual ray,
  Thou toil'st, from many an idle page,
  To cram the feeble brain of age.

  And stiff the old man's arms have grown.
  And scarce his folded hands alone
  Half raised in whisper'd prayer they see,
  To bless the grandchild at his knee.

  But here--'tis action lends a zest
  To the dull, pointless, hacknied jest;
  He saws the air 'mid welcome loud
  Of laughter from the barren crowd.

  A tear creeps down his cheek--with pain
  His limbs the wasted form sustain;
  Ay--weep! no thought thy tears are worth,
  So the Pit shakes with boist'rous mirth.

  And now the bustling scene is o'er,
  The weary actor struts no more;
  And hark, "The old man needed rest,"
  They cry; "the arm-chair suits him best."

  His lips have moved with mutter'd sound--
  A pause--and still the taunt goes round;
  "Oh! quite worn out--'tis doting age,
  Why lags the driveller on the stage?"

  Again the halting speech he tries,
  But words the faltering tongue denies,
  Scarce heard the low unmeaning tone,
  Then silent--as tho' life were flown.

  The curtain falls, and rings the bell,
  They know not 'tis the Player's knell;
  Nor deem their noise and echoing cry
  The dirge that speeds a soul on high!

  Dead in his chair the old man lay,
  His colour had not pass'd away;--
  Clay-cold, the ruddy cheeks declare
  What hideous mockery lingers there!

  Yes! there the counterfeited hue
  Unfolds with moral truth to view,
  How false--as every mimic part--
  His life--his labours--and his art!

  The canvass-wood devoid of shade,
  Above, no plaintive rustling made;
  That moon, that ne'er its orb has fill'd,
  No pitying, dewy tears distill'd.

  The troop stood round--and all the past
  In one brief comment speaks at last;
  "Well, he has won the hero's name,
  He died upon his field of fame."

  A girl with timid grace draws near,
  And like the Muse to sorrow dear,
  Amid the silvery tresses lays
  The torn stage-wreath of paper bays!

  I saw two men the bier sustain;--
  Two bearers all the funeral train!
  They left him in his narrow bed,
  No smile was seen--no tear was shed!




THE CRUSADES.[5]


The Crusades are, beyond all question, the most extraordinary and
memorable movement that ever took place in the history of mankind.
Neither ancient nor modern times can furnish any thing even approaching
to a parallel. They were neither stimulated by the lust of conquest nor
the love of gain; they were not the results of northern poverty pressing
on southern plenty, nor do they furnish an example of civilized
discipline overcoming barbaric valour. The warriors who assumed the
Cross were not stimulated, like the followers of Cortes and Pizarro, by
the thirst for gold, nor roused, like those of Timour and Genghis Khan,
by the passion for conquest. They did not burn, like the legionary
soldiers of Rome, with the love of country, nor sigh with Alexander,
because another world did not remain to conquer. They did not issue,
like the followers of Mahomet, with the sword in one hand and the
"Koran" in the other, to convert by subduing mankind, and win the houris
of Paradise by imbruing their hands in the blood of the unbelievers. The
ordinary motives which rouse the ambition, or awaken the passions of
men, were to them unknown. One only passion warmed every bosom, one only
desire was felt in every heart. To rescue the Holy Sepulchre from the
hands of the Infidels--to restore the heritage of Christ to his
followers--to plant the Cross again on Mount Calvary--was the sole
object of their desires. For this they lived, for this they died. For
this, millions of warriors abandoned their native seats, and left their
bones to whiten the fields of Asia. For this, Europe, during two
centuries, was precipitated on Asia. To stimulate this astonishing
movement, all the powers of religion, of love, of poetry, of romance,
and of eloquence, during a succession of ages, were devoted. Peter the
Hermit shook the heart of Europe by his preaching, as the trumpet rouses
the war-horse. Poetry and romance aided the generous illusion. No maiden
would look at a lover who had not served in Palestine; few could resist
those who had. And so strongly was the European heart then stirred,--so
profound the emotions excited by those events, that their influence is
felt even at this distant period. The highest praise yet awarded to
valour is, that it recalls the lion-hearted Richard; the most envied
meed bestowed on beauty, that it rivals the fascination of Armida. No
monument is yet approached by the generous and brave with such emotion
as those now mouldering in our churches, which represent the warrior
lying with his arms crossed on his breast, in token that, during life,
he had served in the Holy Wars.

The Crusades form the true heroic age of Europe--the _Jerusalem
Delivered_ is its epic poem. Then alone its warriors fought and died
together. Banded together under a second "King of men," the forces of
Christendom combated around the Holy City against the strength of Asia
drawn to its defence. The cause was nobler, the end greater, the motives
more exalted, than those which animated the warriors of the Iliad.
Another Helen had not fired another Troy; the hope of sharing the spoils
of Phrygia had not drawn together the predatory bands of another Greece.
The characters on both sides had risen in proportion to the magnitude
and sanctity of the strife in which they were engaged. Holier motives,
more generous passions were felt, than had yet, from the beginning of
time, strung the soldier's arm. Saladin was a mightier prince than
Hector; Godfrey a nobler character than Agamemnon; Richard immeasurably
more heroic than Achilles. The strife did not continue for ten years,
but for twenty lustres; and yet, so uniform were the passions felt
through its continuance, so identical the objects contended for, that
the whole has the unity of interest of a Greek drama.

All nations bore their part in this mighty tragedy. The Franks were
there, under Godfrey of Bouillon and Raymond of Toulouse, in such
strength as to have stamped their name in the East upon Europeans in
general; the English nobly supported the ancient fame of their country
under the lion-hearted King; the Germans followed the Dukes of Austria
and Bavaria; the Flemings those of Hainault and Brabant; the Italians
and Spaniards reappeared on the fields of Roman fame; even the distant
Swedes and Norwegians, the descendants of the Goths and Normans, sent
forth their contingents to combat in the common cause of Christianity.
Nor were the forces of Asia assembled in less marvellous proportions.
The bands of Persia were there, terrible as when they destroyed the
legions of Crassus and Antony, or withstood the invasions of Heraclius
and Julian; the descendants of the followers of Sesostris appeared on
the field of ancient and forgotten glory; the swarthy visages of the
Ethiopians were seen; the distant Tartars hurried to the theatre of
carnage and plunder; the Arabs, flushed with the conquest of the Eastern
world, combated, with unconquerable resolution, for the faith of
Mahomet. The arms of Europe were tested against those of Asia, as much
as the courage of the descendants of Japhet was with the daring of the
children of Ishmael. The long lance, ponderous panoply, and weighty
war-horse of the West, was matched against the twisted hauberk, sharp
sabre, and incomparable steeds of the East; the sword crossed with the
cimeter, the dagger with the poniard; the armour of Milan was scarce
proof against the Damascus blade; the archers of England tried their
strength with the bowmen of Arabia. Nor were rousing passions, animating
recollections, and charmed desires awanting to sustain the courage on
both sides. The Christians asserted the ancient superiority of Europe
over Asia; the Saracens were proud of the recent conquest of the East,
Africa, and Southern Europe, by their arms; the former pointed to a
world subdued and long held in subjection--the latter to a world newly
reft from the infidel, and won by their sabres to the sway of the
Crescent. The one deemed themselves secure of salvation while combating
for the Cross, and sought an entrance to heaven through the breach of
Jerusalem; the other, strong in the belief of fatalism, advanced
fearless to the conflict, and strove for the houris of Paradise amidst
the lances of the Christians.

When nations so powerful, leaders so renowned, forces so vast, courage
so unshaken in the contending parties, were brought into collision,
under the influence of passions so strong, enthusiasm so exalted,
devotion so profound, it was impossible that innumerable deeds of
heroism should not have been performed on both sides. If a poet equal to
Homer had arisen in Europe to sing the conflict, the warriors of the
Crusades would have been engraven on our minds like the heroes of the
Iliad; and all future ages would have resounded with their exploits, as
they have with those of Achilles and Agamemnon, of Ajax and Ulysses, of
Hector and Diomede. But though Tasso has with incomparable beauty
enshrined in immortal verse the feelings of chivalry, and the enthusiasm
of the Crusades, he has not left a poem which has taken, or ever can
take, the general hold of the minds of men, which the Iliad has done.
The reason is, it is not founded in nature--it is the ideal--but it is
not the ideal based on the real. Considered as a work of imagination,
the _Gerusalemme Liberata_ is one of the most exquisite conceptions of
human fancy, and will for ever command the admiration of romantic and
elevated minds. But it wants that yet higher excellence, which arises
from a thorough knowledge of human nature--a graphic delineation of
actual character, a faithful picture of the real passions and sufferings
of mortality. It is the most perfect example of poetic _fancy_; but the
highest species of the epic poem is to be found not in poetic fancy, but
_poetic history_. The heroes and heroines of the _Jerusalem Delivered_
are noble and attractive. It is impossible to study them without
admiration; but they resemble real life as much as the Enchanted Forest
and spacious battle-fields, which Tasso has described in the environs of
Jerusalem, do the arid ridges, waterless ravines, and stone-covered
hills in the real scene, which have been painted by the matchless pens
of Chateaubriand and Lamartine.

The love of Tancred, the tenderness of Erminia, the heroism of Rinaldo,
are indelibly engraven in the recollection of every sensitive reader of
Tasso; but no man ever saw such characters, or any thing resembling
them, in real life. They are aërial beings, like Miranda in the
"Tempest," or Rosalind in the forest; but they recall no traits of
actual existence. The enchantment of Armida, the death of Clorinda,
belong to a different class. They rise to the highest flights of the
epic muse; for female fascination is the same in all ages; and Tasso
drew from the life in the first, while his exquisite taste and elevated
soul raised him to the highest moral sublimity and pathos which human
nature can reach in the second. Considered, however, as the poetic
history of the Crusades, as the Iliad of modern times, the _Jerusalem
Delivered_ will not bear any comparison with its immortal predecessor.
It conveys little idea of the real events; it embodies no traits of
nature; it has enshrined no traditions of the past. The distant era of
the Crusades, separated by three centuries from the time when he wrote,
had come down to Tasso, blended with the refinements of civilization,
the courtesy of chivalry, the graces of antiquity, the conceits of the
troubadours. In one respect only he has faithfully portrayed the
feelings of the time when his poem was laid. In the uniform elevation of
mind in Godfrey of Bouillon; his constant forgetfulness of self; his
sublime devotion to the objects of his mission, is to be found a true
picture of the spirit of the Crusades, as it appeared in their most
dignified champions. And it is fortunate for mankind that the noble
portrait has been arrayed in such colours as must render it as immortal
as the human race.

If poetry has failed in portraying the real spirit of the Crusades, has
history been more successful? Never was a nobler theme presented to
human ambition. We may see what may be made of it, by the inimitable
fragment of its annals which Gibbon has left in his narrative of the
storming of Constantinople by the Franks and Venetians. Only think what
a subject is presented to the soul of genius, guiding the hand, and
sustaining the effort of industry! The rise of the Mahometan power in
the East, and the subjugation of Palestine by the arms of the Saracens;
the profound indignation excited in Europe by the narratives of the
sufferings of the Christians who had made pilgrimages to the Holy
Sepulchre; the sudden and almost miraculous impulse communicated to
multitudes by the preaching of Peter the Hermit; the universal frenzy
which seized all classes, and the general desertion of fields and
cities, in the anxiety to share in the holy enterprise of rescuing it
from the infidels; the unparalleled sufferings and total destruction of
the huge multitude of men, women, and children who formed the vanguard
of Europe, and perished in the first Crusade, make up, as it were the
first act of the eventful story. Next comes the firm array of warriors
which was led by Godfrey of Bouillon in the second Crusade. Their march
through Hungary and Turkey to Constantinople; the description of the
Queen of the East, with its formidable ramparts, noble harbours, and
crafty government; the battles of Nice and Dorislaus, and marvellous
defeats of the Persians by the arms of the Christians; the long
duration, and almost fabulous termination of the siege of Antioch, by
the miracle of the holy lance; the advance to Jerusalem; the defeat of
the Egyptians before its walls, and final storming of the holy city by
the resistless prowess of the crusaders, terminate the second act of the
mighty drama.

The third commences with the establishment, in a durable manner, of the
Latins in Palestine, and the extension of its limits,--by the subjection
of Ptolemais, Edessa, and a number of strongholds towards the east. The
constitution of the monarchy by the "Assizes of Jerusalem," the most
regular and perfect model of feudal sovereignty that ever was formed;
with the singular orders of the knights-templars, hospitallers, and of
St John of Jerusalem, which in a manner organized the strength of Europe
for its defence, blend the detail of manners, institutions, and military
establishments, with the otherwise too frequent narratives of battles
and sieges. Next come the vast and almost convulsive efforts of the
Orientals to expel the Christians from their shores; the long wars and
slow degrees by which the monarchy of Palestine was abridged, and at
last its strength broken by the victorious sword of Saladin, and the
wood of the true cross lost, in the battle of Tiberias. But this
terrible event, which at once restored Jerusalem to the power of the
Saracens, again roused the declining spirit of European enterprise. A
hero rose up for the defence of the Holy Land. Richard Coeur de Lion
and Philip Augustus appeared at the head of the chivalry of England and
France. The siege of Ptolemais exceeded in heroic deeds that of Troy;
the battle of Ascalon broke the strength and humbled the pride of
Saladin; and, but for the jealousy and defection of France, Richard
would have again rescued the Holy Sepulchre from the hands of the
infidels, and perhaps permanently established a Christian monarchy on
the shores of Palestine.

The fourth Crusade, under Dandolo, when the arms of the Faithful were
turned aside from the holy enterprise by the spoils of Constantinople,
and the blind Doge leapt from his galleys on the towers of the imperial
city, forms the splendid subject of the fourth act. The marvellous
spectacle was there exhibited of a band of adventurers, not mustering
above twenty thousand combatants, carrying by storm the mighty Queen of
the East, subverting the Byzantine empire, and establishing themselves
in a durable manner, in feudal sovereignty, over the whole of Greece and
European Turkey. The wonderful powers of Gibbon, the luminous pages of
Sismondi, have thrown a flood of light on this extraordinary event, and
almost brought its principal events before our eyes. The passage of the
Dardanelles by the Christian armament; the fears of the warriors at
embarking in the mighty enterprise of attacking the imperial city; the
imposing aspect of its palaces, domes, and battlements; the sturdy
resistance of the Latin squares to the desultory charges of the
Byzantine troops; in fine, the storm of the city itself, and overthrow
of the empire of the Cæsars, stand forth in the most brilliant light in
the immortal pages of these two writers. But great and romantic as this
event was, it was an episode in the history of the Crusades, it was a
diversion of its forces, a deviation from its spirit. It is an ordinary,
though highly interesting and eventful siege; very different from the
consecration of the forces of Europe to the rescuing of the Holy
Sepulchre.

Very different was the result of the last Crusade, under Saint Louis,
which shortly after terminated in the capture of Ptolemais, and the
final expulsion of the Christians from the shores of Palestine.
Melancholy, however, as are the features of that eventful story, it
excites a deeper emotion than the triumphant storm of Constantinople by
the champions of the Cross. St Louis was unfortunate, but he was so in a
noble cause; he preserved the purity of his character, the dignity of
his mission, equally amidst the arrows of the Egyptians on the banks of
the Nile, as in the death-bestrodden shores of the Lybian Desert. There
is nothing more sublime in history than the death of this truly
saint-like prince, amidst his weeping followers. England reappeared with
lustre in the last glare of the flames of the crusades, before they sunk
for ever; the blood of the Plantagenets proved worthy of itself. Prince
Edward again erected the banner of victory before the walls of Acre, and
his heroic consort, who sucked the poison of the assassin from his
wounds, has passed, like Belisarius or Coeur de Lion, into the
immortal shrine of romance. Awful was the catastrophe in which the
tragedy terminated; and the storm of Acre, and slaughter of thirty
thousand of the Faithful, while it finally expelled the Christians from
the Holy Land, awakened the European powers, when too late, to a sense
of the ruinous effect of those divisions which had permitted the
vanguard of Christendom, the bulwark of the faith, to languish and
perish, after an heroic resistance, on the shores of Asia.

Nor was it long before the disastrous consequences of these divisions
appeared, and it was made manifest, even to the most inconsiderate, what
dangers had been averted from the shores of Europe, by the contest which
had so long fixed the struggle on those of Asia. The dreadful arms of
the Mahometans, no longer restrained by the lances of the Crusaders,
appeared in menacing, and apparently irresistible strength, on the
shores of the Mediterranean. Empire after empire sank beneath their
strokes. Constantinople, and with it the empire of the East, yielded to
the arms of Mahomet II.; Rhodes, with its spacious ramparts and
well-defended bastions, to those of Solyman the Magnificent; Malta, the
key to the Mediterranean, was only saved by the almost superhuman valour
of its devoted knights; Hungary was overrun; Vienna besieged; and the
death of Solyman alone prevented him from realizing his threat, of
stabling his steed at the high altar of St Peter's. The glorious victory
of Lepanto, the raising of the siege of Vienna by John Sobieski, only
preserved, at distant intervals, Christendom from subjugation, and
possibly the faith of the gospel from extinction on the earth. A
consideration of these dangers may illustrate of what incalculable
service the Crusades were to the cause of true religion and
civilization, by fixing the contest for two centuries in Asia, when it
was most to be dreaded in Europe; and permitting the strength of
Christendom to grow, during that long period, till, when it was
seriously assailed in its own home, it was able to defend itself. It may
show us what we owe to the valour of those devoted champions of the
Cross, who struggled with the might of Islamism when "it was strongest,
and ruled it when it was wildest;" and teach us to look with
thankfulness on the dispensations of that over-ruling Providence, which
causes even the most vehement and apparently extravagant passions of the
human mind to minister to the final good of humanity.

For a long period after their termination, the Crusades were regarded by
the world, and treated by historians, as the mere ebullition of frenzied
fanaticism--as a useless and deplorable effusion of human blood. It may
be conceived with what satisfaction these views were received by
Voltaire, and the whole sceptical writers of France, and how completely,
in consequence, they deluded more than one generation. Robertson was the
first who pointed out some of the important consequences which the
Crusades had on the structure of society, and progress of improvement in
modern Europe. Guizot and Sismondi have followed in the same track; and
the truths they have unfolded are so evident, that they have received
the unanimous concurrence of all thinking persons. Certain it is, that
so vast a migration of men, so prodigious a heave of the human race,
could not have taken place without producing the most important effects.
Few as were the warriors who returned from the Holy Wars, in comparison
of those who set out, they brought back with them many of the most
important acquisitions of time and value, and arts of the East. The
terrace cultivation of Tuscany, the invaluable irrigation of Lombardy,
date from the Crusades: it was from the warriors or pilgrims that
returned from the Holy Land, that the incomparable silk and velvet
manufactures, and delicate jewellery of Venice and Genoa, took their
rise. Nor were the consequences less material on those who remained
behind, and did not share in the immediate fruits of Oriental
enterprise. Immense was the impulse communicated to Europe by the
prodigious migration. It dispelled prejudice, by bringing distant
improvement before the eyes; awakened activity, by exhibiting to the
senses the effects of foreign enterprise; it drew forth and expended
long accumulated capital; the fitting out so vast a host of warriors
stimulated labour, as the wars of the French Revolution did those of the
European states six centuries afterwards. The feudal aristocracy never
recovered the shock given to their power by the destruction of many
families, and the overwhelming debts fastened on others, by these costly
and protracted contests. Great part of the prosperity, freedom, and
happiness which have since prevailed in the principal European
monarchies, is to be ascribed to the Crusades. So great an intermingling
of the different faiths and races of mankind, never takes place without
producing lasting and beneficial consequences.

These views have been amply illustrated by the philosophic historians
of modern times. But there is another effect of far more importance than
them all put together, which has not yet attracted the attention it
deserves, because the opposite set of evils are only beginning now to
rise into general and formidable activity. This is the fixing the mind,
and still more the heart of Europe, for so long a period, on _generous
and disinterested objects_. Whoever has attentively considered the
constitution of human nature as he feels it in himself, or has observed
it in others,--whether as shown in the private society with which he has
mingled, or the public concerns of nations he has observed,--will at
once admit that SELFISHNESS is its greatest bane. It is at once the
source of individual degradation and of public ruin. He knew the human
heart well who prescribed as the first of social duties, "to love our
neighbour as ourself." Of what incalculable importance was it, then, to
have the mind of Europe, during so many generations, withdrawn from
selfish considerations, emancipated from the sway of individual desire,
and devoted to objects of generous or spiritual ambition! The passion of
the Crusades may have been wild, extravagant, irrational, but it was
noble, disinterested, and heroic. It was founded on the sacrifice of
self to duty; not on the sacrifice, so common in later times, of duty to
self. In the individuals engaged in the Holy Wars, doubtless, there was
the usual proportion of human selfishness and passion. Certainly they
had not all the self-control of St Anthony, or the self-denial of St
Jerome. But this is the case with all great movements. The principle
which moved the general mind was grand and generous. It first severed
war from the passion of lust or revenge, and the thirst for plunder on
which it had hitherto been founded, and based it on the generous and
disinterested object of rescuing the Holy Sepulchre. Courage was
sanctified, because it was exerted in a noble cause: even bloodshed
became excusable, for it was done to stop the shedding of blood. The
noble and heroic feelings which have taken such hold of the mind of
modern Europe, and distinguish it from any other age or quarter of the
globe, have mainly arisen from the profound emotions awakened by the
mingling of the passions of chivalry with the aspirations of devotion
during the Crusades. The sacrifice of several millions of men, however
dreadful an evil, was a transient and slight calamity, when set against
the incalculable effect of communicating such feelings to their
descendants, and stamping them for ever upon the race of Japhet,
destined to people and subdue the world.

Look at the mottoes on the seals of our older nobility, which date from
the era of the Crusades, or the ages succeeding it, when their heroic
spirit was not yet extinct, and you will see the clearest demonstration
of what was the spirit of these memorable contests. They are all founded
on the sacrifice of self to duty, of interest to devotion, of life to
love. There is little to be seen there about industry amassing wealth,
or prudence averting calamity; but much about honour despising danger,
and life sacrificed to duty. In an utilitarian or commercial age, such
principles may appear extravagant or romantic; but it is from such
extravagant romance that all the greatness of modern Europe has taken
its rise. We cannot emancipate ourselves from their influence: a
fountain of generous thoughts in every elevated bosom is perpetually
gushing forth, from the ideas which have come down to us from the Holy
Wars. They live in our romances, in our tragedies, in our poetry, in our
language, in our hearts. Of what use are such feelings, say the
partisans of utility? "Of what use," answers Madame De Staël, "is the
Apollo Belvidere, or the poetry of Milton; the paintings of Raphael, or
the strains of Handel? Of what use is the rose or the eglantine; the
colours of autumn, or the setting of the sun?" And yet what object ever
moved the heart as they have done, and ever will do? Of what use is all
that is sublime or beautiful in nature, if not to the soul itself? The
interest taken in such objects attests the dignity of that being which
is immortal and invisible, and which is ever more strongly moved by
whatever speaks to its immortal and invisible nature, than by all the
cares of present existence.

When such is the magnificence and interest of the subject of the
Crusades, it is surprising that no historian has yet appeared in Great
Britain who has done justice to the theme. Yet unquestionably none has
even approached it. Mill's history is the only one in our language which
treats of the subject otherwise than as a branch of general history; and
though his work is trustworthy and authentic, it is destitute of the
chief qualities requisite for the successful prosecution of so great an
undertaking. It is--a rare fault in history--a great deal too short. It
is not in two thin octavo volumes that the annals of the conflict of
Europe and Asia for two centuries is to be given. It is little more than
an abridgement, for the use of young persons, of what the real history
should be. It may be true, but it is dull; and dulness is an
unpardonable fault in any historian, especially one who had such a
subject whereon to exert his powers. The inimitable episode of Gibbon on
the storming of Constantinople by the Crusaders, is written in a very
different style: the truths of history, and the colours of poetry, are
there blended in the happiest proportions together. There is a fragment
affording, _so far as description goes_, a perfect model of what the
history of the Crusades should be; what in the hands of genius it will
one day become. But it is a model _only_ so far as description goes.
Gibbon had greater powers as an historian than any modern writer who
ever approached the subject; but he had not the elevated soul requisite
for the highest branches of his art, and which was most of all called
for in the annalist of the Crusades. He was destitute of enlightened
principle; he was without true philosophy; he had the eye of painting,
and the _powers_, but not the _soul_ of poetry in his mind. He had not
moral courage sufficient to withstand the irreligious fanaticism of his
age. He was benevolent; but his aspirations never reached the highest
interests of humanity,--humane, but "his humanity ever slumbered where
women were ravished, or Christians persecuted."[6]

Passion and reason in equal proportions, it has been well observed, form
energy. With equal truth, and for a similar reason, it may be said, that
intellect and imagination in equal proportions form history. It is the
want of the last quality which is in general fatal to the persons who
adventure on that great but difficult branch of composition. It in every
age sends ninety-nine hundreds of historical works down the gulf of
time. Industry and accuracy are so evidently and indisputably requisite
in the outset of historical composition, that men forget that genius and
taste are required for its completion. They see that the edifice must be
reared of blocks cut out of the quarry; and they fix their attention on
the quarriers who loosen them from the rock, without considering that
the soul of Phidias or Michael Angelo is required to arrange them in the
due proportion in the immortal structure. What makes great and durable
works of history so rare is, that they alone, perhaps, of any other
production, require for their formation a combination of the most
opposite qualities of the human mind, qualities which only are found
united in a very few individuals in any age. Industry and genius,
passion and perseverance, enthusiasm and caution, vehemence and
prudence, ardour and self-control, the fire of poetry, the coldness of
prose, the eye of painting, the patience of calculation, dramatic power,
philosophic thought, are all called for in the annalist of human events.
Mr Fox had a clear perception of what history should be, when he placed
it _next to poetry in the fine arts, and before oratory_. Eloquence is
but a fragment of what is enfolded in its mighty arms. Military genius
ministers only to its more brilliant scenes. Mere ardour, or poetic
imagination, will prove wholly insufficient; they will be deterred at
the very threshold of the undertaking by the toil with which it is
attended, and turn aside into the more inviting paths of poetry and
romance. The labour of writing the "Life of Napoleon" killed Sir Walter
Scott. Industry and intellectual power, if unaided by more attractive
qualities, will equally fail of success; they will produce a respectable
work, valuable as a book of reference, which will slumber in forgotten
obscurity in our libraries. The combination of the two is requisite to
lasting fame, to general and durable success. What is necessary in an
historian, as in the _élite_ of an army, is not the desultory fire of
light troops, nor the ordinary steadiness of common soldiers, but the
regulated ardour, the burning but yet restrained enthusiasm, which,
trained by discipline, taught by experience, keeps itself under control
till the proper moment for action arrives, and then sweeps, at the voice
of its leader, with "the ocean's mighty swing" on the foe.

MICHAUD is, in many respects, an historian peculiarly qualified for the
great undertaking which he has accomplished, of giving a full and
accurate, yet graphic history of the Crusades. He belongs to the
elevated class in thought; he is far removed, indeed, from the
utilitarian school of modern days. Deeply imbued with the romantic and
chivalrous ideas of the olden time, a devout Catholic as well as a
sincere Christian, he brought to the annals of the Holy Wars a profound
admiration for their heroism, a deep respect for their
disinterestedness, a graphic eye for their delineation, a sincere
sympathy with their devotion. With the fervour of a warrior, he has
narrated the long and eventful story of their victories and defeats;
with the devotion of a pilgrim, visited the scenes of their glories and
their sufferings. Not content with giving to the world six large octavos
for the narrative of their glory, he has published six other volumes,
containing his travels to all the scenes on the shores of the
Mediterranean which have been rendered memorable by their exploits. It
is hard to say which is most interesting. They mutually reflect and
throw light on each other: for in the History we see at every step the
graphic eye of the traveller; in the Travels we meet in every page with
the knowledge and associations of the historian.

Michaud, as might be expected from his turn of mind and favourite
studies, belongs to the romantic or picturesque school of French
historians; that school of which, with himself, Barante, Michelet, and
the two Thierrys are the great ornaments. He is far from being destitute
of philosophical penetration, and many of his articles in that
astonishing repertory of learning and ability, the _Biographie
Universelle_, demonstrate that he is fully abreast of all the ideas and
information of his age. But in his history of the Crusades, he thought,
and thought rightly, that the great object was to give a faithful
picture of the events and ideas of the time, without any attempt to
paraphrase them into the language or thoughts of subsequent ages. The
world had had enough of the flippant _persiflage_ with which Voltaire
had treated the most heroic efforts and tragic disasters of the human
race. Philosophic historians had got into discredit from the rash
conclusions and unfounded pretensions of the greater part of their
number; though the philosophy of history can never cease to be one of
the noblest subjects of human thought. To guard against the error into
which they had fallen, the romantic historians recurred with anxious
industry to the original and contemporary annals of their events, and
discarded every thing from their narrative which was not found to be
supported by such unquestionable authority. In thought, they endeavoured
to reflect, as in a mirror, the ideas of the age of which they treated,
rather than see it through their own: in narrative or description, they
rather availed themselves of the materials, how scanty soever, collected
by eyewitnesses, in preference to eking out the picture by imaginary
additions, and the richer colouring of subsequent ages. This is the
great characteristic of the graphic or picturesque school of French
history; and there can be no question that in regard to the first
requisite of history, trustworthiness, and the subordinate but also
highly important object, of rendering the narrative interesting, it is a
very great improvement, alike upon the tedious narrative of former
learning, or the provoking pretensions of more recent philosophy.
Justice can never be done to the actions or thoughts of former times,
unless the former are narrated from the accounts of eyewitnesses, and
with the fervour which they alone can feel--the latter in the very
words, as much as possible, employed by the speakers on the occasions.
Nor will imagination ever produce any thing so interesting as the
features which actually presented themselves at the moment to the
observer. Every painter knows the superior value of sketches, however
slight, made on the spot, to the most laboured subsequent reminiscences.

But while this is perfectly true on the one hand, it is equally clear on
the other, that this recurrence to ancient and contemporary authority
must be for the facts, events, and outline of the story only; and that
the filling up must be done by the hand of the artist who is engaged in
producing the complete work. If this is not done, history ceases to be
one of the fine arts. It degenerates into a mere collection of
chronicles, records, and ballads, without any connecting link to unite,
or any regulating mind to arrange them. History then loses the place
assigned it by Mr Fox, next to poetry and before oratory; it becomes
nothing more than a magazine of antiquarian lore. Such a magazine may be
interesting to antiquaries; it may be valuable to the learned in
ecclesiastical disputes, or the curious in genealogy or family records;
but these interests are of a very partial and transient description. It
will never generally fascinate the human race. Nothing ever has, or ever
can do so, but such annals as, independent of local or family interest,
or antiquarian curiosity, are permanently attractive by the grandeur and
interest of the events they recount, and the elegance or pathos of the
language in which they are delivered. Such are the histories of
Herodotus and Thucydides, the annals of Sallust and Tacitus, the
narratives of Homer, Livy, and Gibbon. If instead of aiming at producing
one uniform work of this description, flowing from the same pen, couched
in the same style, reflecting the same mind, the historian presents his
readers with a collection of quotations from chronicles, state papers,
or _jejune_ annalists, he has entirely lost sight of the principles of
his art. He has not made a picture, but merely put together a collection
of original sketches; he has not built a temple, but only piled together
the unfinished blocks of which it was to be composed.

This is the great fault into which Barante, Sismondi, and Michelet have
fallen. In their anxiety to be faithful, they have sometimes become
tedious; in their desire to recount nothing that was not true, they have
narrated much that was neither material nor interesting. Barante, in
particular, has utterly ruined his otherwise highly interesting history
of the Dukes of Burgundy by this error. We have bulls of the Popes,
marriage-contracts, feudal charters, treaties of alliance, and other
similar instruments, quoted _ad longum_ in the text of the history, till
no one but an enthusiastic antiquary or half-cracked genealogist can go
on with the work. The same mistake is painfully conspicuous in
Sismondi's _Histoire des Français_. Fifteen out of his valuable thirty
volumes are taken up with quotations from public records or instruments.
It is impossible to conceive a greater mistake, in a composition which
is intended not merely for learned men or antiquaries, but for the great
body of ordinary readers. The authors of these works are so immersed in
their own ideas and researches, they are so enamoured of their favourite
antiquities, that they forget that the world in general is far from
sharing their enthusiasm, and that many things, which to them are of the
highest possible interest and importance, seem to the great bulk of
readers immaterial or tedious. The two Thierrys have, in a great
measure, avoided this fatal error; for, though their narratives are as
much based on original and contemporary authorities as any histories can
be, the quotations are usually given in an abbreviated form in the
notes, and the text is, in general, an unbroken narrative, in their own
perspicuous and graphic language. Thence, in a great measure, the
popularity and interest of their works. Michaud indulges more in
lengthened quotations in his text from the old chronicles, or their mere
paraphrases into his own language; their frequency is the great defect
of his valuable history. But the variety and interest of the subjects
render this mosaic species of composition more excusable, and less
repugnant to good taste, in the account of the Crusades, than it would
be, perhaps, in the annals of any other human transactions.

As a specimen of our author's powers and style of description, we
subjoin a translation of the animated narrative he gives from the old
historians of the famous battle of Dorislaus, which first subjected the
coasts of Asia Minor to the arms of the Crusaders.

     "Late on the evening of the 31st of June 1097, the troops arrived
     at a spot where pasturage appeared abundant, and they resolved to
     pitch their camp. The Christian army passed the night in the most
     profound security; but on the following morning, at break of day,
     detached horsemen presented themselves, and clouds of dust
     appearing on the adjoining heights, announced the presence of the
     enemy. Instantly the trumpets sounded, and the whole camp stood to
     their arms. Bohemond, the second in command, having the chief
     direction in the absence of Godfrey, hastened to make the necessary
     dispositions to repel the threatened attack. The camp of the
     Christians was defended on one side by a river, and on the other by
     a marsh, entangled with reeds and bushes. The Prince of Tarentum
     caused it to be surrounded with palisades, made with the stakes
     which served for fixing the cords of the tents; he then assigned
     their proper posts to the infantry, and placed the women, children,
     and sick in the centre. The cavalry, arranged in three columns,
     advanced to the margin of the river, and prepared to dispute the
     passage. One of these corps was commanded by Tancred, and William
     his brother; the other by the Duke of Normandy and the Count of
     Chartres. Bohemond, who headed the reserve, was posted with his
     horsemen on an eminence in the rear, from whence he could descry
     the whole field of battle.

     "Hardly were these dispositions completed, when the Saracens, with
     loud cries, descended from the mountains, and, as soon as they
     arrived within bowshot, let fall a shower of arrows upon the
     Christians. This discharge did little injury to the knights,
     defended as they were by their armour and shields; but a great
     number of horses were wounded, and, in their pain, introduced
     disorder into the ranks. The archers, the slingers, the
     crossbow-men, scattered along the flanks of the Christian army, in
     vain returned the discharge with their stones and javelins; their
     missiles could not reach the enemy, and fell on the ground without
     doing any mischief. The Christian horse, impatient at being
     inactive spectators of the combat, charged across the river and
     fell headlong with their lances in rest on the Saracens; but they
     avoided the shock, and, opening their ranks, dispersed when the
     formidable mass approached them. Again rallying at a distance in
     small bodies, they let fly a cloud of arrows at their ponderous
     assailants, whose heavy horses, oppressed with weighty armour,
     could not overtake the swift steeds of the desert.

     "This mode of combating turned entirely to the advantage of the
     Turks. The whole dispositions made by the Christians before the
     battle became useless. Every chief, almost every cavalier, fought
     for himself; he took counsel from his own ardour, and it alone. The
     Christians combated almost singly on a ground with which they were
     unacquainted; in that terrible strife, death became the only reward
     of undisciplined valour. Robert of Paris the same who had sat on
     the imperial throne beside Alexis, was mortally wounded, after
     having seen forty of his bravest companions fall by his side.
     William, brother of Tancred, fell pierced by arrows. Tancred
     himself, whose lance was broken, and who had no other weapon but
     his sword, owed his life to Bohemond, who came up to the rescue,
     and extricated him from the hands of the Infidels.

     "While victory was still uncertain between force and address,
     agility and valour, fresh troops of the Saracens descended from the
     mountains, and mingled in overwhelming proportion in the conflict.
     The Sultan of Nice took advantage of the moment when the cavalry of
     the Crusaders withstood with difficulty the attack of the Turks,
     and directed his forces against their camp. He assembled the elite
     of his troops, crossed the river, and overcame with ease all the
     obstacles which opposed his progress. In an instant the camp of the
     Christians was invaded and filled with a multitude of barbarians.
     The Turks massacred without distinction all who presented
     themselves to their blows; except the women whom youth and beauty
     rendered fit for their seraglios. If we may credit Albert d'Aix,
     the wives and daughters of the knights preferred in that extremity
     slavery to death; for they were seen in the midst of the tumult to
     adorn themselves with their most elegant dresses, and, arrayed in
     this manner, sought by the display of their charms to soften the
     hearts of their merciless enemies.

     "Bohemond, however, soon arrived to the succour of the camp, and
     obliged the Sultan to retrace his steps to his own army. Then the
     combat recommenced on the banks of the river with more fury than
     ever. The Duke Robert of Normandy, who had remained with some of
     his knights on the field of battle, snatched from his
     standard-bearer his pennon of white, bordered with gold, and
     exclaiming, '_A moi, la Normandie!_' penetrated the ranks of the
     enemy, striking down with his sword whatever opposed him, till he
     laid dead at his feet one of the principal emirs. Tancred, Richard,
     the Prince of Salerno, Stephen count of Blois, and other chiefs,
     followed his example, and emulated his valour. Bohemond, returning
     from the camp, which he had delivered from its oppressors,
     encountered a troop of fugitives. Instantly advancing among them,
     he exclaimed, 'Whither fly you, O Christian soldiers?--Do you not
     see that the enemies' horses, swifter than your own, will not fail
     soon to reach you? Follow me--I will show you a surer mode of
     safety than flight.' With these words he threw himself followed by
     his own men and the rallied fugitives, into the midst of the
     Saracens, and striking down all who attempted to resist them, made
     a frightful carnage. In the midst of the tumult, the women who had
     been taken and delivered from the lands of the Mussulmans, burning
     to avenge their outraged modesty, went through the ranks carrying
     refreshments to the soldiers, and exhorting them to redouble their
     efforts to save them from Turkish servitude.

     "But all these efforts were in vain. The Crusaders, worn out by
     fatigue, parched by thirst, were unable to withstand an enemy who
     was incessantly recruited by fresh troops. The Christian army, a
     moment victorious, was enveloped on all sides, and obliged to yield
     to numbers. They retired, or rather fled, towards the camp, which
     the Turks were on the point of entering with them. No words can
     paint the consternation of the Christians, the disorder of their
     ranks, or the scenes of horror which the interior of the camp
     presented. There were to be seen priests in tears, imploring on
     their knees the assistance of Heaven--there, women in despair rent
     the air with their shrieks, while the more courageous of their
     numbers bore the wounded knights into the tents; and the soldiers,
     despairing of life, cast themselves on their knees before their
     priests or bishops, and demanded absolution of their sins. In the
     frightful tumult, the voice of the chief was no longer heard; the
     most intrepid had already fallen covered with wounds, or sunk under
     the rays of a vertical sun and the horrors of an agonizing thirst.
     All seemed lost, and nothing to appearance could restore their
     courage, when all of a sudden loud cries of joy announced the
     approach of Raymond of Toulouse and Godfrey of Bouillon, who
     advanced at the head of the second corps of the Christian army.

     "From the commencement of the battle, Bohemond had dispatched
     accounts to them of the attack of the Turks. No sooner did the
     intelligence arrive, than the Duke of Lorraine, the Count of
     Vermandois, and the Count of Flanders, at the head of their
     corps-d'armée, directed their march towards the valley of Gorgoni,
     followed by Raymond and D'Adhemar, who brought up the luggage and
     formed the rear-guard. When they appeared on the eastern slope of
     the mountains, the sun was high in the heavens, and his rays were
     reflected from their bucklers, helmets, and drawn swords; their
     standards were displayed, and a loud flourish of their trumpets
     resounded from afar. Fifty thousand horsemen, clad in steel and
     ready for the fight, advanced in regular order to the attack. That
     sight at once reanimated the Crusaders and spread terror among the
     Infidels.

     "Already Godfrey, outstripping the speed of his followers, had come
     up at the head of fifty chosen cavaliers, and taken a part in the
     combat. Upon this the Sultan sounded a retreat, and took post upon
     the hills, where he trusted the Crusaders would not venture to
     attack him. Soon, however, the second corps of the Christians
     arrived on the field still reeking with the blood of their
     brethren. They knew their comrades and companions stretched in the
     dust--they became impatient to avenge them, and demanded with loud
     cries to be led on to the attack; those even who had combated all
     day with the first corps desired to renew the conflict. Forthwith
     the Christian army was arranged for a second battle. Bohemond,
     Tancred, Robert of Normandy, placed themselves the left; Godfrey,
     the Count of Flanders, the Count de Blois, led the right: Raymond
     commanded in the centre; the reserve was placed under the order of
     D'Adhemar. Before the chiefs gave the order to advance, the priests
     went through the ranks, exhorted the soldiers to fight bravely, and
     gave them their benediction. Then the soldiers and chiefs drew
     their swords together, and repeated aloud the war-cry of the
     Crusades, 'Dieu le veut! Dieu le veut!' That cry was re-echoed from
     the mountains and the valleys. While the echoes still rolled, the
     Christian army advanced, and marched full of confidence against the
     Turks, who, not less determined, awaited them on the summit of
     their rocky asylum.

     "The Saracens remained motionless on the top of the hills--they did
     not even discharge their redoubtable arrows; their quivers seemed
     to be exhausted. The broken nature of the ground they occupied
     precluded the adoption of those rapid evolutions, which in the
     preceding conflict had proved so fatal to the Christians. They
     seemed to be no longer animated with the same spirit--they awaited
     the attack rather with the resignation of martyrs than the hope of
     warriors. The Count of Toulouse, who assailed them in front, broke
     their ranks by the first shock. Tancred, Godfrey, and the two
     Roberts attacked their flanks with equal advantage. D'Adhemar, who
     with the reserve had made the circuit of the mountains, charged
     their rear, when already shaken by the attack in front, and on both
     flanks. This completed their route. The Saracens found themselves
     surrounded by a forest of lances, from which there was no escape
     but in breaking their ranks and seeking refuge among the rocks. A
     great number of emirs, above three thousand officers, and twenty
     thousand soldiers fell in the action or pursuit. Four thousand of
     the Crusaders had perished, almost all in the first action. The
     enemy's camp, distant two leagues from the field of battle, fell
     into the hands of the Crusaders, with vast stores of provisions,
     tents magnificently ornamented, immense treasures, and a vast
     number of camels. The sight of these animals, which they had not
     yet seen in the East, gave them as much surprise as pleasure. The
     dismounted horsemen mounted the swift steeds of the Saracens to
     pursue the broken remains of the enemy. Towards evening they
     returned to the camp loaded with booty, and preceded by their
     priests singing triumphant songs and hymns of victory. On the
     following day the Christians interred their dead, shedding tears of
     sorrow. The priests read prayers over them, and numbered them among
     the saints in heaven."--_Hist. des Croisades_, i. 228-233.

This extract gives an idea at once of the formidable nature of the
contest which awaited the Christians in their attempts to recover the
Holy Land, of the peculiar character of the attack and defence on both
sides, and of the talent for graphic and lucid description which M.
Michaud possesses. It is curious how identical the attack of the West
and defence of the East are the same in all ages. The description of the
manner in which the Crusading warriors were here drawn into a pursuit
of, and then enveloped by the Asiatic light horse, is precisely the same
as that in which the legions of Crassus were destroyed; and might pass
for a narrative of the way in which Napoleon's European cavalry were cut
to pieces by the Arab horse at the combat at Salahout, near the Red Sea;
or Lord Lake's horse worsted in the first part of the battle of Laswaree
in India, before the infantry came up, and, by storming the batteries,
restored the combat. On the other hand, the final overthrow of the
Saracens at Dorislaus was evidently owing to their imprudence in
_standing firm_, and awaiting in that position the attack of the
Christians. They did so, trusting to the strength of the rocky ridge on
which they were posted; but that advantage, great as it was, by no means
rendered them a match in close fight for the weighty arms and the
determined resolution of the Europeans, any more than the discharges of
their powerful batteries availed the Mahrattas in the latter part of the
battles of Assaye and Laswaree, or, more recently, the Sikhs in the
desperate conflict at Ferozepore in the Punjaub. The discovery of
fire-arms, and all the subsequent improvements in tactics and strategy,
though they have altered the weapons with which war is carried on, yet
have not materially changed the mode in which success is won, or
disaster averted, between ancient and modern times.

Our author's account of the storming of Jerusalem, the final object and
crowning glory of the Crusades, is animated and interesting in the
highest degree.

     "At the last words of the Hermit Peter the warmest transports
     seized the Crusaders. They descended from the Mount of Olives,
     where they had listened to his exhortations; and turning to the
     south, saluted on their right the fountain of Siloë, where Christ
     had restored sight to the blind; in the distance they perceived the
     ruins of the palace of Judah, and advanced on the slope of Mount
     Sion, which awakened afresh all their holy enthusiasm. Many in that
     cross march were struck down by the arrows and missiles from the
     walls: they died blessing God, and imploring his justice against
     the enemies of the faith. Towards evening the Christian army
     returned to its quarters, chanting the words of the Prophet--'Those
     of the West shall fear the Lord, and those of the East shall see
     his glory.' Having re-entered into the camp, the greater part of
     the pilgrims passed the night in prayer: the chiefs and soldiers
     confessed their sins at the feet of their priests, and received in
     communion that God whose promises filled them with confidence and
     hope.

     "While the Christian army prepared, by these holy ceremonies, for
     the combat, a mournful silence prevailed around the walls of
     Jerusalem. The only sound heard was that of the men who, from the
     top of the mosques of the city, numbered the hours by calling the
     Mussulmans to prayers. At the well-known signals, the Infidels ran
     in crowds to their temples to implore the protection of their
     Prophet: they swore by the mysterious House of Jacob to defend the
     town, which they styled 'the House of God.' The besiegers and
     besieged were animated with equal ardour for the fight, and equal
     determination to shed their blood--the one to carry the town, the
     other to defend it. The hatred which animated them was so violent,
     that during the whole course of the siege, no Mussulman deputy came
     to the camp of the besiegers, and the Christians did not even deign
     to summon the town. Between such enemies, the shock could not be
     other than terrible, and the victors implacable.

     "On Thursday, 14th July 1199, at daybreak, the trumpets resounded,
     and the whole Christian army stood to their arms. All the machines
     were worked at once: the mangonels and engines poured on the
     ramparts a shower of stones, while the battering-rams were brought
     up close to their feet. The archers and slingers directed their
     missiles with fatal effect against the troops who manned the walls,
     while the most intrepid of the assailants planted scaling-ladders
     on the places where the ascent appeared most practicable. On the
     south, east, and north of the town, rolling towers advanced towards
     the ramparts, in the midst of a violent tumult, and amidst the
     cries of the workmen and soldiers. Godfrey appeared on the highest
     platform of his wooden tower, accompanied by his brother Eustache
     and Baudoin du Bourg. His example animated his followers: so
     unerring was their aim, that all the javelins discharged from this
     platform carried death among the besieged. Tancred, the Duke of
     Normandy, and the Count of Flanders, combated at the head of their
     followers: the knights and men-at-arms, animated with the same
     ardour, pressed into the _mêlée_, and threw themselves into the
     thickest of the fight.

     "Nothing could equal the fury of the first shock of the Christians;
     but they met every where the most determined resistance. Arrows and
     javelins, boiling oil and water, with Greek fire, were poured down
     incessantly on the assailants; while fourteen huge machines, which
     the besieged had got time to oppose to those of the besiegers,
     replied with effect to the fire of the more distant warlike
     instruments. Issuing forth by one of the breaches in the rampart,
     the Infidels made a sortie, and succeeded in burning some of the
     machines of the Christians, and spread disorder through their army.
     Towards the end of the day, the towers of Godfrey and Tancred were
     so shattered, that they could no longer be moved, while that of
     Raymond was falling into ruins. The combat had lasted eleven hours,
     without victory having declared for the Crusaders. The Christians
     retired to their camp, burning with rage and grief: their chiefs,
     and especially the two Roberts, sought in vain to console them, by
     saying that 'God had not judged them as yet worthy to enter into
     his Holy City, and adore the tomb of his Son.'

     "The night was passed on both sides in the utmost disquietude:
     every one deplored the losses already discovered, and dreaded to
     hear of fresh ones. The Saracens were in hourly apprehension of a
     surprise: the Christians feared that the Infidels would burn their
     machines, which they had pushed forward to the foot of the rampart.
     The besieged were occupied without intermission in repairing the
     breaches in their walls; the besiegers in putting their machines in
     a condition to serve for a new assault. On the day following, the
     same combats and dangers were renewed as on the preceding one. The
     chiefs sought by their harangues to revive the spirits of the
     Crusaders. The priests and bishops went through their tents
     promising them the assistance of Heaven. On the signal to advance
     being given, the Christian army, full of confidence, advanced in
     silence towards the destined points of attack, while the clergy,
     chanting hymns and prayers, marched round the town.

     "The first shock was terrible. The Christians, indignant at the
     resistance they had experienced on the preceding day, combated with
     fury. The besieged, who had learned the near approach of the
     Egyptian army, were animated by the hopes of approaching succour. A
     formidable array of warlike engines lined the tops of their
     ramparts. On every side was heard the hissing of javelins and
     arrows: frequently immense stones, discharged from the opposite
     side, met in the air, and fell back on the assailants with a
     frightful crash. From the top of their towers, the Mussulmans never
     ceased to throw burning torches and pots of Greek fire on the
     storming parties. In the midst of this general conflagration, the
     moving towers of the Christians approached the walls. The chief
     efforts of the besieged were directed against Godfrey, on whose
     breast a resplendent cross of gold shone, the sight of which was an
     additional stimulus to their rage. The Duke of Lorraine saw one of
     his squires and several of his followers fall by his side; but,
     though exposed himself to all the missiles of the enemy, he
     continued to combat in the midst of the dead and the dying, and
     never ceased to exhort his companions to redouble their courage and
     ardour. The Count of Toulouse directed the attack on the southern
     side, and stoutly opposed his machines to those of the Mussulmans:
     he had to combat the Emir of Jerusalem, who bravely animated his
     followers by his discourse, and showed himself on the ramparts
     surrounded by the _élite_ of the Egyptian soldiers. On the northern
     side, Tancred and the two Roberts appeared at the head of their
     battalions. Firmly stationed on their moving tower, they burned
     with desire to come to the close combat of the lance and sword.
     Already their battering-rams had on many points shaken the walls,
     behind which the Saracens were assembled in dense battalions, as a
     last rampart against the attack of the Crusaders.

     "Mid-day arrived, and the Crusaders had as yet no hope of
     penetrating into the place. All their machines were in flames: they
     stood grievously in want of water, and still more of vinegar, which
     could alone extinguish the Greek fire used by the besieged. In vain
     the bravest exposed themselves to the most imminent danger, to
     prevent the destruction of their wooden towers and battering-rams;
     they fell crushed beneath their ruins, and the devouring flames
     enveloped their arms and clothing. Many of the bravest warriors had
     found death at the foot of the ramparts: most of those who had
     mounted on the rolling towers were _hors de combat_; the remainder,
     covered with sweat and dust, overwhelmed with heat and the weight
     of their armour, began to falter. The Saracens who perceived this
     raised cries of joy. In their blasphemies they reproached the
     Christians for adoring a God who was unable to defend them. The
     assailants deplored their loss, and believing themselves abandoned
     by Jesus Christ, remained motionless on the field of battle.

     "But the aspect of affairs was soon changed. All of a sudden the
     Crusaders saw, on the Mount of Olives, a horseman shaking a
     buckler, and giving this signal to enter the town. Godfrey and
     Raymond, who saw the apparition at the same instant, cried aloud,
     that St George was come to combat at the head of the Christians.
     Such was the tumult produced by this incident, that it bore down
     alike fear and reflection. All rushed tumultuously forward to the
     assault. The women even, with the children and sick, issued from
     their retreats, and pressed forward into the throng, bearing
     water, provisions, or arms, and aiding to drag forward the moving
     towers. Impelled in this manner, that of Godfrey advanced in the
     midst of a terrible discharge of stones, arrows, javelins, and
     Greek fire, and succeeded in getting so near as to let its
     drawbridge fall on the ramparts. At the same time a storm of
     burning darts flew against the machines of the besieged, and the
     bundles of straw piled up against the last walls of the town took
     fire. Terrified by the flames the Saracens gave way. Lethalde and
     Engelbert de Tournay, followed by Godfrey and his brother Everard,
     crossed the drawbridge and gained the rampart. Soon with the aid of
     their followers they cleared it, and, descending into the streets,
     struck down all who disputed the passage.

     "At the same time, Tancred and the two Roberts made new efforts,
     and on their side, too, succeeded in penetrating into the town. The
     Mussulmans fled on all sides; the war-cry of the Crusaders, "Dieu
     le veut! Dieu le veut!" resounded in the streets of Jerusalem. The
     companions of Godfrey and Tancred with their hatchets cut down the
     gate of St Stephen, and let in the main body of the Crusaders, who
     with loud shouts rushed tumultuously in. Some resistance was
     attempted by a body of brave Saracens in the mosque of Omar, but
     Everard of Puysave expelled them from it. All opposition then
     ceased; but not so the carnage. Irritated by the long resistance of
     the Saracens, stung by their blasphemies and reproaches, the
     Crusaders filled with blood that Jerusalem which they had just
     delivered, and which they regarded as their future country. The
     carnage was universal. The Saracens were massacred in the streets,
     in the houses, in the mosques."

The number of the slain greatly exceeded that of the conquerors. In the
mosque of Omar alone ten thousand were put to the sword.

     "So terrible was the slaughter, that the blood came up to the knees
     and reins of the horses; and human bodies, with hands and arms
     severed from the corpse to which they belonged, floated about in
     the crimson sea.

     "In the midst of these frightful scenes, which have for ever
     stained the glory of the conquerors, the Christians of the Holy
     City crowded round Peter the Hermit, who five years before had
     promised to arm the West for the deliverance of the faithful in
     Jerusalem, and then enjoyed the spectacle of their liberation. They
     were never wearied of gazing on the man by whom God had wrought
     such prodigies. At the sight of their brethren whom they had
     delivered, the pilgrims recollected that they had come to adore the
     tomb of Jesus Christ. Godfrey, who had abstained from carnage after
     the victory, quitted his companions, and attended only by three
     followers, repaired bareheaded and with naked feet to the Church of
     the Holy Sepulchre. Soon the news of that act of devotion spread
     among the Christian army. Instantly the fury of the war ceased, and
     the thirst for vengeance was appeased; the Crusaders threw off
     their bloody garments, and marching together to the Holy Sepulchre,
     with the clergy at their head, bareheaded and without shoes, they
     made Jerusalem resound with their groans and sobs. Silence more
     terrible even than the tumult which had preceded it, reigned in the
     public places and on the ramparts. No sound was heard but the
     canticles of repentance, and the words of Isaiah, 'Ye who love
     Jerusalem, rejoice with me.' So sincere and fervent was the
     devotion which the Crusaders manifested on this occasion, that it
     seemed as if the stern warriors, who had just taken a city by
     assault, and committed the most frightful slaughter, were cenobites
     who had newly emerged from a long retreat and peaceful
     meditations."--_Hist. des Croisades_, i. 440-446.

Inexplicable as such contradictory conduct appears to those who "sit at
home at ease," and are involved in none of the terrible calamities which
draw forth the latent marvels of the human heart, history in every age
affords too many examples of its occurrence to permit us to doubt the
truth of the narrative. It is well known that during the worst period of
the French Revolution, in the massacres in the prisons on Sept. 2, 1792,
some of the mob who had literally wearied their arms in hewing down the
prisoners let loose from the jails, took a momentary fit of compunction,
were seized with pity for some of the victims, and after saving them
from their murderers, accompanied them home, and witnessed with tears of
joy the meeting between them and their relations. We are not warranted,
after such facts have been recorded on authentic evidence in all ages,
in asserting that this transient humanity is assumed or hypocritical.
The conclusion rather is, that the human mind is so strangely compounded
of good and bad principles, and contains so many veins of thought
apparently irreconcilable with each other, that scarce any thing can be
set down as absolutely impossible, but every alleged fact is to be
judged of mainly by the testimony by which it is supported, and its
coincidence with what has elsewhere been observed of that strange
compound of contradictions, the human heart.

In the events which have been mentioned, the Crusaders were victorious;
and the Crescent, in the outset of the contest, waned before the Cross.
But it was only for a time that it did so. The situation of Palestine in
Asia, constituting it the advanced post as it were of Christendom across
the sea, in the regions of Islamism, perpetually exposed it to the
attack of the Eastern powers. They were at home, and fought on their own
ground, and with their own weapons, in the long contest which followed
the first conquest of Palestine; whereas the forces of the Christians
required to be transported, at a frightful expense of life, over a
hazardous journey of fifteen hundred miles in length, or conveyed by sea
at a very heavy cost from Marseilles, Genoa, or Venice. Irresistible in
the first onset, the armament of the Christians gradually dwindled away
as the first fervour of the Holy Wars subsided, and the interminable
nature of the conflict in which they were engaged with the Oriental
powers became apparent. It was the same thing as Spain maintaining a
transatlantic contest with her South American, or England with her North
American colonies. Indeed, the surprising thing, when we consider the
exposed situation of the kingdom of Palestine, the smallness of its
resources, and the scanty and precarious support it received, after the
first burst of the Crusades was over, from the Western powers, is not
that it was at last destroyed, but that it existed so long as it did.
The prolongation of its life was mainly owing to the extraordinary
qualities of one man.

It is hard to say whether the heroism of Richard Coeur de Lion has
been most celebrated in Europe or Asia. Like Solomon, Alexander the
Great, Haroun El Raschid, Charlemagne, and Napoleon, his fame has taken
root as deeply in the East as in the West, among his enemies as his
friends; among the followers of Mahomet as the disciples of the Cross.
If he is the hero of European romance,--if he is the theme of the
Troubadour's song, he is not less celebrated among the descendants of
the Saracens; his exploits are not less eagerly chanted in the tents of
the children of Ishmael. To this day, when an Arab's steed starts at a
bush in the desert, his master asks him if he expects to see Richard
issue from the covert. He possessed that surprising personal strength
and daring valour which are so highly prized by warriors in all rude
periods, and united with those qualities that singleness of heart and
_bonhommie_ of disposition, which, not less powerfully in the great, win
upon the hearts of men. His chief qualities--those which have given him
his deathless fame--undoubtedly were his heroic courage, extraordinary
personal strength, and magnanimity of mind. But if his campaigns with
Saladin are attentively considered, it will appear that he was also a
great general; and that his marvellous successes were as much owing to
his conduct as a commander as his prowess as a knight. This is more
particularly conspicuous, in the manner in which he conducted his then
sorely diminished army on Acre to within sight of Jerusalem, surrounded
as it was the whole way by prodigious clouds of Asiatic horse, headed by
the redoubtable Saladin. Beyond all doubt he would, but for the
defection of Philip Augustus and France, have wrested Palestine from the
Infidels, and again planted the Cross on Mount Calvary, despite the
whole forces of the East, led by their ablest and most powerful sultans.
His grief at not being able to accomplish this glorious object, is well
described by Michaud--

     "After a month's abode at Bethnopolis, seven leagues from
     Jerusalem, the Crusaders renewed their complaints, and exclaimed
     with sadness, 'We shall never go to Jerusalem!' Richard, with heart
     torn by contending feelings, while he disregarded the clamours of
     the pilgrims, shared their grief, and was indignant at his own
     fortune. One day, that his ardour in pursuing the Saracens had led
     him to the heights of Emmaus, from which he beheld the towers of
     Jerusalem, he burst into tears at the sight, and, covering his face
     with his buckler, declared he was unworthy to contemplate the Holy
     City which his arms could not deliver."--_Hist. des Croisades_, ii.
     399.

As a specimen of the magnitude of the battles fought in this Crusade, we
take that of Assur, near Ptolemais--

     "Two hundred thousand Mussulmans were drawn up in the plains of
     Assur, ready to bar the passage of the Christian army, and deliver
     a decisive battle. No sooner did he perceive the Saracen array,
     than Richard divided his army into five corps. The Templars formed
     the first; the warriors of Brittany and Anjou the second; the king,
     Guy, and the men of Poitou the third; the English and Normans,
     grouped round the royal standard, the fourth; the Hospitallers the
     fifth; and behind them marched the archers and javelin men. At
     three o'clock in the afternoon, the army was all arranged in order
     of battle, when all at once a multitude of Saracens appeared in
     rear, who descended from the mountains which the Crusaders had just
     crossed. Amongst them were Bedouin Arabs, bearing bows and round
     bucklers; Scythians with long bows, and mounted on tall and
     powerful horses; Ethiopians of a lofty stature, with their sable
     visages strangely streaked with white. These troops of barbarians
     advanced on all sides against the Christian army with the rapidity
     of lightning. The earth trembled under their horses' feet. The din
     of their clarions, cymbals, and trumpets, was so prodigious, that
     the loudest thunder could not have been heard. Men were in their
     ranks, whose sole business it was to raise frightful cries, and
     excite the courage of the Mussulman warriors by chanting their
     national songs. Thus stimulated, their battalions precipitated
     themselves upon the Crusaders, who were speedily assailed at once
     in front, both flanks, and rear--enveloped by enemies, say the old
     chronicles, as the eyelashes surround the EYE. After their arrows
     and javelins were discharged, the Saracens commenced the attack
     with the lance, the mace, and the sword. An English chronicle aptly
     compares them to smiths, and the Crusaders to the anvil on which
     their hammers rang. Meanwhile, the Franks did not for a moment
     intermit their march towards Assur, and the Saracens, who sought in
     vain to shake their steady ranks, called them 'a nation of iron.'

     "Richard had renewed his orders for the whole army to remain on the
     defensive, and not to advance against the enemy till six trumpets
     sounded--two at the head of the army, two in the centre, two in the
     rear. This signal was impatiently expected; the barons and knights
     could bear every thing except the disgrace of remaining thus
     inactive in presence of an enemy, who without intermission renewed
     his attacks. Those of the rear-guard had already began to reproach
     Richard with having forgotten them; they invoked in despair the
     protection of St George, the patron of the brave. At last some of
     the bravest and most ardent, forgetting the orders they had
     received, precipitated themselves on the Saracens. This example
     soon drew the Hospitallers after them; the contagion spread from
     rank to rank, and soon the whole Christian army was at blows with
     the enemy, and the scene of carnage extended from the sea to the
     mountains. Richard showed himself wherever the Christians had need
     of his succour; his presence was always followed by the flight of
     the Turks. So confused was the _mêlée_, so thick the dust, so
     vehement the fight, that many of the Crusaders fell by the blows of
     their comrades, who mistook them for enemies. Torn standards,
     shivered lances, broken swords, strewed the plain. Such of the
     combatants as had lost their arms, hid themselves in the bushes, or
     ascended trees; some, overcome with terror, fled towards the sea,
     and from the top of the rocks precipitated themselves into its
     waves.

     "Every instant the combat became warmer and more bloody. The whole
     Christian army was now engaged in the battle, and returning on its
     steps, the chariot which bore the royal standard was in the
     thickest of the fight. Ere long, however, the Saracens were unable
     to sustain the impetuous assault of the Franks. Boha-Eddin, an
     eyewitness, having quitted the Mussulman centre, which was put to
     the route, fled to the tent of the Sultan, where he found the
     Sultan, who was attended only by seventeen Mamelukes. While their
     enemies fled in this manner, the Christians, hardly able to credit
     their victory, remained motionless on the field which they had
     conquered. They were engaged in tending their wounded, and in
     collecting the arms which lay scattered over the field of battle,
     when all at once twenty thousand Saracens, whom their chief had
     rallied, fell upon them. The Crusaders overwhelmed with heat and
     fatigue, and not expecting to be attacked, showed at first a
     surprise which bordered on fear. Taki-Eddin, nephew of Saladin, at
     the head of the bravest enemies, led on the Turks, at the head of
     whom were seen the Mameluke guard of Saladin, distinguished by
     their yellow banner. So vehement was their onset, that it ploughed
     deep into the Crusaders' ranks; and they had need of the presence
     and example of Richard, before whom no Saracen could stand, and
     whom the contemporary chronicles compare to a reaper cutting down
     corn. At the moment when the Christians, again victorious, resumed
     their march towards Assur, the Mussulmans, impelled by despair,
     again attacked their rear-guard. Richard, who had twice repulsed
     the enemy, no sooner heard the outcry, than, followed only by
     fifteen knights, he flew to the scene of combat, shouting aloud the
     war-cry of the Christians--'God protect the Holy Sepulchre!' The
     bravest followed their king; the Mussulmans were dispersed at the
     first shock, and their army, then a third time vanquished, would
     have been totally destroyed, had not night and the forest of Assur
     sheltered them from the pursuit of the enemy. As it was they lost
     eight thousand men, including thirty-two of their bravest emirs
     slain; while the victory did not cost the Christians a thousand
     men. Among the wounded was Richard himself, who was slightly hurt
     in the breast. But the victory was prodigious, and if duly improved
     by the Crusaders, without dissension or defection, would have
     decided the fate of Palestine and of that Crusade."--_Hist. des
     Croisades_, i. 468-471.

These extracts convey a fair idea of M. Michaud's power of description
and merits as an historian. He cannot be said to be one of the highest
class. He does not belong to the school who aim at elevating history to
its loftiest pitch. The antiquarian school never have, and never will do
so. The minute observation and prodigious attentions to detail which
their habits produce, are inconsistent with extensive vision. The same
eye scarcely ever unites the powers of the microscope and the telescope.
He has neither the philosophic mind of Guizot, nor the pictorial eye of
Gibbon; he neither takes a luminous glance like Robertson, nor sums up
the argument of a generation in a page, like Hume. We shall look in vain
in his pages for a few words diving into the human heart such as we find
in Tacitus, or splendid pictures riveting every future age as in Livy.
He is rather an able and animated abridger of the chronicles, than an
historian. But in that subordinate, though very important department,
his merits are of a very high order. He is faithful, accurate, and
learned; he has given a succinct and yet interesting detail, founded
entirely on original authority, of the wars of two centuries. Above all,
his principles are elevated, his feelings warm, his mind lofty and
generous. He is worthy of his subject, for he is entirely free of the
grovelling utilitarian spirit, the disgrace and the bane of the age in
which he writes. His talents for description are very considerable, as
will be apparent from the account we hope to give in a future Number of
his highly interesting travels to the principal scenes of the Crusades.
It is only to be regretted, that in his anxiety to preserve the fidelity
of his narrative, he has so frequently restrained it, and given us
rather descriptions of scenes taken from the old chronicles, than such
as his own observations and taste could have supplied. But still his
work supplies a great desideratum in European literature; and if not the
best that could be conceived, is by much the best that has yet appeared
on the subject. And it is written in the spirit of the age so finely
expressed in the title given by one of the most interesting of the
ancient chroniclers to his work--

  "Gesta DEI per Francos."[7]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: Michaud: _Histoire des Croisades_.]

[Footnote 6: Porson.]

[Footnote 7: "The doings of God by the Franks."]




THE BURDEN OF SION.

BY DELTA.

     [This Ode, composed by Judas Hallevy bar Samuel, a Spanish Rabbi of
     the twelfth century, is said to be still recited every year, during
     the Fast observed in commemoration of the Destruction of Jerusalem.
     The versifier has been much indebted to a very literal translation,
     from the original necessarily obscure Spanish of the Rabbi, into
     excellent French, by Joseph Mainzer, Esq., a gentleman to whom the
     sacred music of this country is under great and manifold
     obligations.]


    Captive and sorrow-pale, the mournful lot
  Say, hast thou, Sion, of thy sons forgot?
  Hast thou forgot the innocent flocks, that lay
  Prone on thy sunny banks, or frisk'd in play
  Amid thy lilied meadows? Wilt thou turn
  A deaf ear to thy supplicants, who mourn
  Downcast in earth's far corners? Unto thee
  Wildly they turn in their lone misery;
  For wheresoe'er they rush in their despair,
  The pitiless Destroyer still is there!

    Eden of earth! despisest thou the sighs
  From the slave's heart that rise
  To thee, amid his fetters--who can dare
  Still to hope on in his forlorn despair--
  Whose morn and evening tears for thee fall down
  Like dews on Hermon's thirsty crown--
  And who would blessed be in all his ills,
  Wander'd his feet once more even on thy desert hills!

    But not is Hope's fair star extinguish'd quite
  In rayless night;
  And, Sion, as thy fortunes I bewail,
  Harsh sounds my voice, as of the birds that sail
  The stormy dark. Let but that star be mine,
  And through the tempest tremulously shine;
  So, when the brooding clouds have overpast,
  Rejoicing, with the dawn, may come at last,
  Even as an instrument, whose lively sound
  Makes the warm blood in every bosom bound,
  And whose triumphant notes are given
  Freely in songs of thanksgiving to Heaven!

  Bethel!--and as thy name's name leaves my tongue,
  The very life-drops from my heart are wrung!
  Thy sanctuary--where, veil'd in mystic light,
  For ever burning, and for ever bright,
  Jehovah's awful majesty reposed,
  And shone for aye heaven's azure gates unclosed--
  Thy sanctuary!--where from the Eternal flow'd
  The radiance of his glory, in whose power
  Noonday itself like very darkness show'd,
  And stars were none at midnight's darkest hour--
  Thy sanctuary! oh _there!_ oh _there!_ that I
  Might breathe my troubled soul out, sigh on sigh,
  _There_, where thine effluence, Mighty God, was pour'd
  On thine Elect, who, kneeling round, adored!

    Stand off! the place is holy. Know ye not,
  Of potter's clay the children, that this spot
  Is sacred to the Everlasting One--
  The Ruler over heaven, and over earth?
  Stand off, degraded slaves, devoid of worth!
  Nor dare profane again, as ye have done,
  This spot--'tis holy ground--profane it not!

  Oh, might I cleave, with raptured wing, the waste
  Of the wide air, then, where in splendour lie
  Thy ruins, would my sorrowing spirit haste,
  Forth to outpour its flood of misery!--
  There, where thy grandeur owns a dire eclipse,
  Down to the dust as sank each trembling knee,
  Unto thy dear soil should I lay my face,
  Thy very stones in rapture to embrace,
  And to thy smouldering ashes glue my lips!

    And how, O Sion! how should I but weep,
  As on our fathers' tombs I fondly gazed,
  Or, wistfully, as turn'd mine eye
  To thee, in all thy desolate majesty,
  Hebron, where rests the mighty one in sleep,
  And high his pillar of renown was raised!
  There--in thine atmosphere--'twere blessedness
  To breathe a purer ether. Oh! to me
  Thy dust than perfumes dearer far should be,
  And down thy rocks the torrent streams should roam
  With honey in their foam!

    Oh, sweet it were--unutterably sweet--
  Even though with garments rent, and bleeding feet,
  To wander over the deserted places
  Where once thy princely palaces arose,
  And 'mid the weeds and wild-flowers mark the traces,
  Where the ground, yawning in its earthquake throes,
  The ark of covenant and the cherubim
  Received, lest stranger hands, that reek'd the while
  With blood of thine own children, should defile
  Its heaven-resplendent glory, and bedim:
  And my dishevell'd locks, in my despair,
  All madly should I tear;
  And as I cursed the day that dawn'd in heaven--
  The day that saw thee to destruction given,
  Even from my very frenzy should I wring
  A rough, rude comfort in my sorrowing.

    What other comfort can I know? Behold,
  Wild dogs and wolves with hungry snarl contend
  Over thy prostrate mighty ones; and rend
  Their quivering limbs, ere life hath lost its hold.
  I sicken at the dawn of morn--the noon
  Brings horror with its brightness; for the day
  Shows but the desolate plain,
  Where, feasting on the slain,
  (Thy princes,) flap and scream the birds of prey!

    Chalice from Marah's bitterest spring distill'd!
  Goblet of woe, to overflowing fill'd!
  Who, quaffing thee, can live? Give me but breath--
  A single breath--that I once more may see
  The dreary vision. I will think of thee,
  Colla, once more--of Cliba will I think--
  Then fearlessly and freely drink
  The cup--the fatal cup--whose dregs are death.

    Awake thee, Queen of Cities, from thy slumber--
  Awake thee, Sion! Let the quenchless love
  Of worshippers, a number beyond number,
  A fountain of rejoicing prove.
  Thy sorrows they bewail, thy wounds they see,
  And feel them as their own, and mourn for thee!
  Oh, what were life to them, did Hope not hold
  Her mirror, to unfold
  That glorious future to their raptured sight,
  When a new morn shall chase away this night!
  Even from the dungeon gloom,
  Their yearning hearts, as from a tomb,
  Are crying out--are crying out to thee;
  And, as they bow the knee
  Before the Eternal, every one awaits
  The answer of his prayer, with face toward thy gates.

    Earth's most celestial region! Babylon
  The mighty, the magnificent, to thee,
  With all the trappings of her bravery on,
  Seems but a river to the engulfing sea.
  What are its oracles but lies? 'Tis given
  Thy prophets only to converse with Heaven--
  The hidden to reveal, the dark to scan,
  And be the interpreters of God to man.
  The idols dumb that erring men invoke,
  Themselves are vanities, their power is smoke:
  But, while the heathen's pomp is insecure,
  Is transient, thine, O Sion! shall endure;
  For in thy temples, God, the only Lord,
  Hath been, and still delights to be, adored.

    Blessed are they, who, by their love,
  Themselves thy veritable children prove!
  Yea! blessed they who cleave
  To thee, with faithful hearts, and scorn to leave!
  Come shall the day--and come it may full soon--
  When thou, more splendid than the moon,
  Shalt rise; and, triumphing o'er night,
  Turn ebon darkness into silver light:
  The glory of thy brightness shall be shed
  Around each faithful head:
  Rising from thy long trance, earth shall behold
  Thee loftier yet, and lovelier than of old;
  And portion'd with the saints in bliss shall be
  All who, through weal and woe, were ever true to thee!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: "The doings of God by the Franks."]




RHYMED HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS.

     [This species of versification, consisting of rhymed Hexameter and
     Pentameter lines, we do not remember to have seen before attempted,
     and we now offer it as a literary curiosity. It is, perhaps,
     subject to the objection that applies against painted statuary, as
     combining embellishments of a character not altogether consistent,
     and not adding to the beauty of the result. But we are not without
     a feeling that some additional pleasure is thus conveyed to the
     mind. The experiment, of course, is scarcely possible, except in
     quatrains of an epigrammatic structure. But the examples are
     selected from the most miscellaneous sources that readily
     occurred.]


HIS OWN EPITAPH.

BY ENNIUS.

       Adspicite, O cives! senis Ennii imagini' formam;
         Hic vostrum panxit maxuma facta patrum.
       Nemo me lacrumis decoret, nec funera fletu
         Faxit. Cur? volito vivu' per ora virûm.

  See, O citizens! here old Ennius's image presented,
    Who to your forefathers' deeds gave their own glory again.
  Honour me not with your tears; by none let my death be lamented:
    Why? still in every mouth living I flit among men.


ON GELLIA.

FROM MARTIAL.

       Amissum non flet, cum sola est, Gellia patrem;
         Si quis adest, jussæ prosiliunt lacrymæ.
       Non dolet hic, quisquis laudari, Gellia, quærit;
         Ille dolet verè qui sine teste dolet.

  Gellia, when she's alone, doesn't weep the death of her father;
    But, if a visitor comes, tears at her bidding appear.
  Gellia, they do not mourn who are melted by vanity rather;
    They are true mourners who weep when not a witness is near.


TO CECILIANUS.

FROM MARTIAL.

       Nullus in urbe fuit totâ qui tangere vellet
         Uxorem gratis, Cæciliane, tuam,
       Dum licuit: sed nunc positis custodibus ingens
         Agmen amatorum est. Ingeniosus homo es.

  Nobody, Cecilianus, e'er thought of your wife (she's so ugly!)
    When she could gratis be seen, when she was easily won.
  Now that, with locks and with guards you pretend to secure her so snugly,
    Crowds of gallants flock around: faith, it is cleverly done.


ON A BEE INCLOSED IN AMBER.

FROM MARTIAL.

       Et latet et lucet Phaëthontide condita guttâ,
         Ut videatur apis nectare clausa suo.
       Dignum tantorum pretium tulit illa laborum:
         Credibile est ipsam sic voluisse mori.

  Lucid the bee lurks here, bright amber her beauty inclosing!
    As in the nectar she made seems the fair insect to lie.
  Worthy reward she has gain'd, after such busy labours reposing:
    Well we might deem that herself thus would be willing to die.




THE SURVEYOR'S TALE.


Good resolutions are, like glass, manufactured for the purpose of being
broken. Immediately after my marriage, I registered in the books of my
conscience a very considerable vow against any future interference with
the railway system. The Biggleswades had turned out so well, that I
thought it unsafe to pursue my fortune any further. The incipient
gambler, I am told, always gains, through the assistance of a nameless
personage who shuffles the cards a great deal oftener than many
materialists suppose. Nevertheless, there is always a day of
retribution.

I wish I had adhered to my original orthodox determination. During the
whole period of the honeymoon, I remained blameless as to shares. Uncle
Scripio relinquished the suggestion of "dodges" in despair. He was, as
usual, brimful of projects, making money by the thousand, and bearing or
bulling, as the case might be, with genuine American enthusiasm. I
believe he thought me a fool for remaining so easily contented, and very
soon manifested no further symptom of his consciousness of my existence
than by transmitting me regularly a copy of the Railway Gazette, with
some mysterious pencil-markings at the list of prices, which I presume
he intended for my guidance in the case of an alteration of sentiment.
For some time I never looked at them. When a man is newly married, he
has a great many other things to think of. Mary had a decided genius for
furniture, and used to pester me perpetually with damask curtains,
carved-wood chairs, gilt lamps, and a whole wilderness of household
paraphernalia, about which, in common courtesy, I was compelled to
affect an interest. Now, to a man like myself, who never had any fancy
for upholstery, this sort of thing is very tiresome. My wife might have
furnished the drawingroom after the pattern of the Cham of Tartary's for
any thing I cared, provided she had left me in due ignorance of the
proceeding; but I was not allowed to escape so comfortably. I looked
over carpet patterns and fancy papers innumerable, mused upon all manner
of bell-pulls, and gave judgment between conflicting rugs, until the
task became such a nuisance, that I was fain to take refuge in the
sacred sanctuary of my club. Young women should be particularly careful
against boring an accommodating spouse. Of all places in the world, a
club is the surest focus of speculation. You meet gentlemen there who
hold stock in every line in the kingdom--directors, committeemen, and
even crack engineers. I defy you to continue an altogether uninterested
auditor of the fascinating intelligence of Mammon. In less than a week
my vow was broken, and a new _liaison_ commenced with the treacherous
Delilah of scrip. As nine-tenths of my readers have been playing the
same identical game towards the close of last year, it would be idle to
recount to them the various vicissitudes of the market. It is a sore
subject with most of us--a regular undeniable case of "_infandum
regina_." The only comfort is, that our fingers were simultaneously
burned.

Amongst other transactions, I had been induced by my old fiend Cutts,
now in practice as an independent engineer, to apply for a large
allocation of shares in the Slopperton Valley, a very spirited
undertaking, for which the Saxon was engaged to invent the gradients.
This occurred about the commencement of the great Potato Revolution--an
event which I apprehend will be long remembered by the squirearchy and
shareholders of these kingdoms. The money-market was beginning to
exhibit certain symptoms of tightness; premiums were melting perceptibly
away, and new schemes were in diminished favour. Under these
circumstances, the Provisional Committee of the Slopperton Valley
Company were beneficent enough to gratify my wishes to the full, and
accorded to me the large privilege of three hundred original shares. Two
months earlier this would have been equivalent to a fortune--as it was,
I must own that my gratitude was hardly commensurate to the high
generosity of the donors. I am not sure that I did not accompany the
receipt of my letter of allocation with certain expletives by no means
creditable to the character of the projectors--at all events, I began to
look with a milder eye upon the atrocities of Pennsylvanian repudiation.
However, as the crash was by no means certain, my sanguine temperament
overcame me, and in a fit of temporary derangement I paid the deposit.

In the ensuing week the panic became general. Capel-court was deserted
by its herd--Liverpool in a fearful state of commercial coma--Glasgow
trembling throughout its Gorbals--and Edinburgh paralytically shaking.
The grand leading doctrine of political economy once more was recognised
as a truth: the supply exorbitantly exceeded the demand, and there were
no buyers. The daily share-list became a far more pathetic document in
my eyes than the Sorrows of Werter. The circular of my brokers, Messrs
Tine and Transfer, contained a tragedy more woful than any of the
conceptions of Shakspeare--the agonies of blighted love are a joke
compared with those of baffled avarice; and of all kinds of consumption,
that of the purse is the most severe. One circumstance, however, struck
me as somewhat curious. Neither in share-list nor circular could I find
any mention made of the Slopperton Valley. It seemed to have risen like
an exhalation, and to have departed in similar silence. This boded ill
for the existence of the £750 I had so idiotically invested, the
recuperation whereof, in whole or in part, became the subject of my
nightly meditations; and, as correspondence in such matters is usually
unsatisfactory, I determined to start personally in search of my
suspended deposit.

I did not know a single individual of the Slopperton Provisional
Committee, but I was well enough acquainted with Cutts, whose present
residence was in a midland county of England, where the work of railway
construction was going actively forward. As I drove into the town where
the Saxon had established his headquarters, I saw with feelings of
peculiar disgust immense gangs of cut-throat looking fellows--"the
navies of the nations," as Alfred Tennyson calls them--busy at their
embankments, absorbing capital at an alarming ratio, and utterly
indifferent to the state of the unfortunate shareholders then writhing
under the pressure of calls. Philanthropy is a very easy thing when our
own circumstances are prosperous, but a turn of the wheel of fortune
gives a different complexion to our views. If I had been called upon two
months earlier to pronounce an oration upon the vast benefits of general
employment and high wages, I should have launched out _con amore_. Now,
the spectacle which I beheld suggested no other idea than that of an
enormous cheese fast hastening to decomposition and decay beneath the
nibbling of myriads of mites.

I found Cutts in his apartment of the hotel in the unmolested enjoyment
of a cigar. He seemed fatter, and a little more red in the gills than
when I saw him last, otherwise there was no perceptible difference.

"Hallo, old fellow!" cried the Saxon, pitching away a pile of estimates;
"what the mischief has brought you up here? Waiter--a bottle of sherry!
You wouldn't prefer something hot at this hour of the morning, would
you?"

"Certainly not."

"Ay--you're a married man now. How's old Morgan? Lord! what fun we had
at Shrewsbury when I helped you to your wife!"

"So far as I recollect, Mr Cutts, you nearly finished that business. But
I want to have a serious talk with you about other matters. What has
become of that confounded Slopperton Valley, for which you were
engineer?"

"Slopperton Valley! Haven't you heard about it? The whole concern was
wound up about three weeks ago. Take a glass of wine."

"Wound up? Why, this is most extraordinary. I never received any
circular!"

"I thought as much," said Cutts very coolly. "That's precisely what I
said to old Hasherton, the chairman, the day after the secretary bolted.
I told him he should send round notice to the fellows at a distance,
warning them not to cash up; but it seems that the list of subscribers
had gone amissing, and so the thing was left to rectify itself."

"Bolted! You don't mean Mr Glanders, of the respectable firm of Glanders
and Co?"

"Of course I do. I wonder you have not heard of it. That comes of living
in a confounded country where there are neither breeches nor
newspapers--help yourself--and no direct railway communication. Glanders
bolted as a matter of course, and I can tell you that I thought myself
very lucky in getting hold of as much of the deposits as cleared my
preliminary expenses."

"Cutts--are you serious?"

"Perfectly. But what's the use of making a row about it? You look as
grim as if there was verjuice in the sherry. You ought to thank your
stars that the thing was put a stop to so soon."

"Why--didn't you recommend me to apply for shares?"

"Of course I did, and I wonder you don't feel grateful for the advice.
Every body thought they would have come out at a high premium. I would
not have taken six pounds for them in the month of September; but this
infernal potato business has brought on the panic, and nobody will table
a shilling for any kind of new stock. It was a lucky thing for us that
we got a kind of hint to draw in our horns in time."

"And pray, since the concern is wound up, as you say, how much of our
deposit-money will be returned?"

"You don't mean to say," said Cutts, with singularly elaborate
articulation--"You don't mean to say that you were such an inconceivable
ass as to pay up your letter of allotment? Well--I never heard of such a
piece of deliberate infatuation! Why, man, a blacksmith with half an eye
must have seen that the game was utterly up a week before the calls were
due. I don't think there is a single man out of Scotland who would have
made such a fool of himself; indeed, so far as I know, nobody cashed up
except a dozen old women who knew nothing about the matter, and ten
landed proprietors, who expected compensation, and deserved to be done
accordingly. You need not look as though you meditated razors. The
Biggleswade concern will pay for this more than thirty tines over."

"I'll tell you what, Cutts," said I in a paroxysm, "this is a most
nefarious transaction, and I'm hanged if I don't take the law with every
one connected with it. I'll make an example of that fellow Hasherton,
and the whole body of the committee."

"Just as you like," replied the imperturbable Cutts. "You're a lawyer,
and the best judge of those sort of things. I may, however, as well
inform you that Hasherton went into the Gazette last week, and that you
won't find another member of the committee at this moment within the
four seas of Great Britain."

"And pray, may I ask how _you_ came to be connected with so
discreditable a project? Do you know that it is enough to blast your own
reputation for ever?"

"I know nothing of the kind," said the Saxon, commencing another cigar.
"I look to the matter of employment, and have nothing to do with the
character of my clients, beyond ascertaining their means of liquidating
my account. The committee required the assistance of a first-rate
engineer, and I flatter myself they could hardly have made a more
unexceptionable selection. But what's the use of looking sulky about it?
You can't help yourself; and, after all, what's the amount of your loss?
A parcel of pound-notes that would have lain rotting in the bank had you
not put them into circulation! Cheer up, Fred, you've made at least one
individual very happy. Glanders is going it in New York. I shouldn't be
surprised if half your deposit money is already invested in
mint-juleps."

"It is very easy for you to talk, Mr Cutts," said I, with considerable
acrimony. "Your account, at all events, appears to have been paid.
Doubtless you looked sharply after that. I cannot help putting my own
construction upon the conduct of a gentleman who makes a direct profit
out of the misfortunes of his friends."

"You affect me deeply," said Cutts, applying himself diligently to the
decanter; "but you don't drink. Do you know you put me a good deal in
mind of Macready? Did you ever hear him in Lear,

  'How sharper than a serpent's thanks it is
  To have a toothless child?'"

You're remarkably unjust, Fred, as you will acknowledge in your cooler
moments. I am hurt by your ingratitude--I am," and the sympathizing
engineer buried his face in the folds of a Bandana handkerchief.

I knew, by old experience, that it was of no use to get into a rage with
Cutts. After all, I had no tenable ground of complaint against him; for
the payment of the deposit money was my own deliberate act, and it was
no fault of his that the shares were not issued at a premium. I
therefore contrived to swallow, as I best could, my indignation, though
it was no easy matter. Seven hundred and fifty pounds is a serious sum,
and would have gone a long way towards the furnishing of a respectable
domicile.

I believe that Cutts, though he never allowed himself to exhibit a
symptom of ordinary regret, was internally annoyed at the confounded
scrape in which I was landed by following his advice. At all events he
soon ceased comporting himself after the manner of the comforters of
Job, and finally undertook to look after my interest in case any
fragment of the deposits could be rescued from the hands of the
Philistines. I have since had a letter from him with the information
that he has recovered a hundred pounds--a friendly exertion which shall
be duly acknowledged so soon as I receive a remittance, which, however,
has not yet come to hand.

By the time we had finished the sherry, I was restored, if not to
good-humour, at least to a state of passive resignation. The Saxon gave
strict orders that he was to be denied to every body, and made some
incoherent proposals about "making a forenoon of it," which, however, I
peremptorily declined.

"It's a very hard thing," said Cutts, "but I see it's an invariable rule
that matrimony and good-fellowship can never go together. You're not
half the brick you used to be, Fred; but I suppose it can't be helped.
There's a degree of slow-coachiness about you which I take to be
peculiarly distressing, and if you don't take care it will become a
confirmed habit."

"Seven hundred and fifty pounds--what! all my pretty chickens and
their"----

Don't swear! It's a highly immoral practice. At all events you'll dine
with me to-day at six. You shall have as much claret as you can
conscientiously desire, and, for company, I have got the queerest fellow
here you ever set eyes on. You used to pull the long bow with
considerable effect, but this chap beats you hollow."

"Who is he?"

"How should I know? He calls himself Leopold Young Mandeville--is a
surveyor by trade, and has been working abroad at some outlandish line
or another for the last two years. He is a very fair hand at the
compasses, and so I have got him here by way of assistant. You may think
him rather dull at first, but wait till he has finished a pint, and I'm
shot if he don't astonish you. Now, if you will have nothing more, we
may as well go out, and take a ride by way of appetizer."

At six o'clock I received the high honour of an introduction to Mr Young
Mandeville. As I really consider this gentleman one of the most
remarkable personages of the era in which we live, I may perhaps be
excused if I assume the privilege of an acquaintance, and introduce him
also to the reader. The years of Mr Mandeville could hardly have
exceeded thirty. His stature was considerably above the average of
mankind, and would have been greater save for the geometrical curvature
of his lower extremities, which gave him all the appearance of a walking
parenthesis. His hair was black and streaky; his complexion atrabilious;
his voice slightly raucous, like that of a tragedian contending with a
cold. The eye was a very fine one--that is, the right eye--for the other
optic was evidently internally damaged, and shone with an opalescent
lustre. There was a kind of native dignity about the man which impressed
me favourably, notwithstanding the reserved manner in which he
exchanged the preliminary courtesies.

Cutts did the honours of the table with his usual alacrity. The dinner
was a capital one, and the vine not only abundant but unexceptionable.
At first, however, the conversation flowed but languidly. My spirits had
not yet recovered from the appalling intelligence of the morning; nor
could I help reflecting, with a certain uneasiness, upon the reception I
was sure to meet with from certain brethren in the Outer House, to whom,
in a moment of rash confidence, I had entrusted the tale of my dilemma.
I abhor roasting in my own person, and yet I knew I should have enough
of it. Mandeville eat on steadily, like one labouring under the
conviction that he thereby performed a good and meritorious action, and
scorning to mix up extraneous matter with the main object of his
exertions. The Saxon awaited his time, and steadily circulated the
champagne.

We all got more loquacious after the cloth was removed. A good dinner
reconciles one amazingly to the unhappy chances of our lot; and, before
the first bottle was emptied, I had tacitly forgiven every one of the
Provisional Committee of the Slopperton Railway Company, with the
exception of the villainous Glanders, who, for any thing I knew, might,
at that moment, be transatlantically regaling himself at my particular
expense. His guilt was of course inexpiable. Mandeville, having eat like
an ogre, began to drink like a dromedary. Both the dark and the
opalescent eye sparkled with unusual fire, and with a sigh of
philosophic fervour he unbuttoned the extremities of his waistcoat.

"Help yourselves, my boys," said the jovial Cutts; "there's lots of time
before us between this and the broiled bones. By Jove, I'm excessively
thirsty! I say, Mandeville, were you ever in Scotland? I hear great
things of the claret there."

"I never had that honour," replied Mr Young Mandeville, "which I
particularly regret, for I have a high--may I say the highest?--respect
for that intelligent country, and indeed claim a remote connexion with
it. I admire the importance which Scotsmen invariably attach to pure
blood and ancient descent. It is a proof, Mr Cutts, that with them the
principles of chivalry are not extinct, and that the honours which
should be paid to birth alone, are not indiscriminately lavished upon
the mere acquisition of wealth."

"Which means, I suppose, that a lot of rubbishy ancestors is better than
a fortune in the Funds. Well--every man according to his own idea. I am
particularly glad to say, that I understand no nonsense of the kind.
There's Fred, however, will keep you in countenance. He say--but I'll be
hanged if I believe it--that he is descended from some old king or
another, who lived before the invention of breeches."

"Cutts--don't be a fool!"

"Oh, by Jove, it's quite true!" said the irreverent Saxon; "you used to
tell me about it every night when you were half-seas over at Shrewsbury.
It was capital fun to hear you, about the mixing of the ninth tumbler."

"Excuse me, sir," said Mr Mandeville, with an appearance of intense
interest--"do you indeed reckon kindred with the royal family of
Scotland? I have a particular reason personal to myself in the inquiry."

"Why, if you really want to know about it," said I, looking, I suppose,
especially foolish, for Cutts was evidently trotting me out, and I more
than half suspected his companion--"I do claim--but it's a ridiculous
thing to talk of--a lineal descent from a daughter of William the Lion."

"You delight me!" said Mr Mandeville. "The connexion is highly
respectable--I have myself some of that blood in my veins, though
perhaps of a little older date than yours; for one of my ancestors,
Ulric of Mandeville, married a daughter of Fergus the First. I am very
glad indeed to make the acquaintance of a relative after the lapse of so
many centuries."

I returned a polite bow to the salutation of my new-found cousin, and
wished him at the bottom of the Euxine.

"Will you pardon me, Mr Cutts, if I ask my kinsman a question or two
upon family affairs? The older cadets of the royal blood have seldom an
opportunity of meeting."

"Fire away," said the Saxon, "but be done with it as soon as you can."

"Reduced as we are," continued Mr Mandeville, addressing himself to me,
"in numbers as well as circumstances, it appears highly advisable that
we should maintain some intercourse with each other for the preservation
of our common rights. These, as we well know, had their origin before
the institution of Parliaments, and therefore are by no means fettered
or impugned by any of the popular enactments of a later age. Now, as you
are a lawyer, I should like to have your opinion on a point of some
consequence. Did you ever happen to meet our cousin, Count Ferguson of
the Roman Empire?"

"Never heard of him in my life," said I.

"Any relation of the fellow who couldn't get into the lodging-house?"
asked Cutts.

"I do not think so, Mr Cutts," replied Mandeville, mildly. "I had the
pleasure of making the Count's acquaintance at Vienna. He is, apprehend,
the only heir-male extant to the Scottish crown, being descended from
Prince Fergus and a daughter of Queen Boadicea. Now, you and I, though
younger cadets, and somewhat nearer in succession, merely represent
females, and have therefore little interest beyond a remote contingency.
But I understand it is the fact that the ancient destination to the
Scottish crown is restricted to heirs-male solely; and therefore I wish
to know, whether, as the Stuarts have failed, the Count is not entitled
to claim in right of his undoubted descent?"

I was petrified at the audacity of the man. Either he was the most
consummately impudent scoundrel I ever had the fortune to meet, or a
complete monomaniac! I looked him steadily in the face. The fine black
eye was bent upon me with an expression of deep interest, and something
uncommonly like a tear was quivering in the lash. Palpable monomania!

"It seems a very doubtful question," said I. "Before answering it, I
should like to see the Count's papers, and take a look at our older
records."

"That means, you want to be fee'd," said Cutts. "I'll tell you what, my
lads, I'll stand this sort of nonsense no longer. Confound your
Fergusons and Boadiceas! One would think, to hear you talk, that you
were not a couple of as ordinary individuals as ever stepped upon
shoe-leather, but princes of the blood-royal in disguise. Help
yourselves, I say, and give us something else."

"I fear, Mr Cutts," said Mandeville, in a deep and chokey voice, "that
you have had too little experience of the vicissitudes of the world to
appreciate our situation. You spoke of a prince. Know, sir, that you see
before you one who has known that dignity, but who never shall know it
more! O Amalia, Amalia!--dear wife of my bosom--where art thou now!
Pardon me, kinsman--your hand--I do not often betray this weakness, but
my heart is full, and I needs must give way to its emotion." So saying,
the unfortunate Mandeville bowed down his head and wept; at least, so I
concluded, from a succession of severe eructations.

I did not know what to make of him. Of all the hallucinations I ever had
witnessed, this was the most strange and unaccountable. Cutts, with
great coolness, manufactured a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, which
he placed at the elbow of the ex-potentate, and exhorted him to make a
clean breast of it.

"What's the use of snivelling about the past?" said he. "It's a
confounded loss of time. Come, Mandeville, toss off your liquor like a
Trojan, and tell us all about it, if you have any thing like a rational
story to tell. We'll give you credit for the finer feelings, and all
that sort of nonsense--only look sharp."

Upon this hint the Surveyor spoke, applying himself at intervals to the
reeking potable beside him. I shall give his story in his own words,
without any commentary.

"I feel, gentlemen, that I owe to you, and more especially to my
new-found kinsman, some explanation of circumstances, the mere
recollection of which can agitate me so cruelly. You seemed surprised
when I told you of the rank which I once occupied, and no doubt you
think it is a strange contrast to the situation in which you now behold
me. Alas, gentlemen! the history of Europe, during the last half
century, can furnish you with many parallel cases. Louis Philippe has,
ere now, like myself, earned his bread by mathematical exertion--Young
Gustavson--Henry of Bourbon, are exiles! the sceptre has fallen from the
hands of the chivalrous house of Murat! Minor principalities are changed
or absorbed, unnoticed amidst the war and clash of the great world
around them! Thrones are eclipsed like stars, and vanish from the
political horizon!

"Do not misunderstand me, gentlemen--I claim no such hereditary honours.
I am the last representative of an ancient and glorious race, who cut
their way to distinction with their swords on the field of battle. Roger
de Mandeville, bearer of the ducal standard at the red fight of
Hastings, was the first of my name who set foot upon English ground.
Since then, there is not an era in the history of our country which does
not bear witness to some achievement of the stalwart Mandevilles. The
Crusades--Cressy--Poitiers--and--pardon me, kinsman--Flodden, were the
theatres of our renown.

"I dare not trust myself to speak of the broad lands and castles which
we once possessed. These have long since passed away from us. A
Birmingham artisan, whose churl ancestor would have deemed it an honour
to run beside the stirrup of my forefathers, now dwells in the hall of
the Mandeville. The spear is broken, and the banner mouldered. Nothing
remains, save in the chancel of the roofless church a recumbent marble
effigy, with folded hands, of that stout Sir Godfrey of Mandeville who
stormed the breach of Ascalon!

"I was heir to nothing but the name. Of my early struggles I need not
tell you. A proud and indomitable heart yet beat within this bosom; and
though some of the ancient nobility of England, who knew and lamented my
position, were not backward in their offers, I could not bring myself in
any one instance to accept of eleemosynary assistance. Even the colours
which were spontaneously offered to me by the great Captain of the age,
were rejected, though not ungratefully. Had there been war, Britain
should have found me foremost in her ranks as a volunteer, but I could
not wear the livery of a soldier so long as the blade seemed
undissolubly soldered to the sheath. I spurned at the empty frivolity of
the mess-room, and despised every other bivouac save that upon the field
of battle.

"In brief, gentlemen, I preferred the field of science, which was still
open to me, and became an engineer. Mr Cutts, whose great acquirements
and brilliant genius have raised him to such eminence in the
profession"--here Cutts made a grateful salaam--"can bear testimony to
the humble share of talent I have laid at the national disposal; and if
you, my kinsman, are connected with any of the incipient enterprises in
the north, I should be proud of an opportunity of showing you that the
genius of a Mandeville can be applied as well to the arts of peace as to
the stormy exercises of war. But even Mr Cutts does not know how
strangely my labours have been interrupted. What an episode was mine! A
year of exaltation to high and princely rank--a year of love and
battle--and then a return to this cold and heavy occupation! Had that
interval lasted longer, gentlemen, believe me, that ere now I should
have carried the victorious banners of Wallachia to the gates of
Constantinople, plucked the abject and besotted Sultan from his throne,
and again established in more than its pristine renown the independent
Empire of the East!"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Well said Mandeville!" shouted Cutts. "I like
to see the fellow who never sticks at trifles."

"No reality, sirs, could have prevented me: but I fear my preface is too
long. About two years ago I was requested by the projectors of the great
railway between Paris and Constantinople to superintend the survey of
that portion which stretches eastward from Vienna. I accepted the
appointment with pleasure, for I longed to see foreign countries, and
the field abroad appeared to me a much nobler one than that at home. I
had personal letters of introduction to the Emperor, who treated me with
marked distinction; for some collateral branches of my family had done
the Austrian good service in the wars of Wallenstein, and the heroic
charge of the Pappenheimers under Herbert Mandeville at Lutzen was still
freshly and gratefully remembered. It was in Vienna that I made the
acquaintance of our mutual kinsman, Count Ferguson, whose claims to
hereditary dignity, I trust, you will reflect on at your leisure.

"Do either of you, gentlemen, understand German?--No!--I regret the
circumstance, because you can hardly follow me out distinctly when I
come to speak of localities. But I shall endeavour to be as clear as
possible. One evening I was in attendance upon his majesty--who
frequently honoured me with these commands, for he took a vast interest
in all matters of science--at the great theatre. All the wealth, beauty,
and talent of Austria were there. I assure you, gentlemen, I never gazed
upon a more brilliant spectacle. The mixture of the white and blue
uniforms of the Austrian officers, with the national costumes of the
nobility of Hungary, Wallachia, Moldavia, Transylvania, and the Tyrol,
gave the scene the appearance of a studied and gorgeous carnival. The
glittering of diamonds along the whole tier of the boxes was literally
painful to the eyes. Several of the Esterhazy family seemed absolutely
sheathed in jewel armour, and I was literally compelled to request the
Duchessa Lucchesini, who was seated next me, to lower her beautiful arm,
as the splendour of the brilliants on her bracelet--I, of course, said
the lustre of the arm itself--was so great as to obstruct my view of the
stage. She smilingly complied. The last long-drawn note of the overture
was over, the curtain had risen, and the _prima donna_ Schenkelmann was
just trilling forth that exquisite _aria_ with which the opera of the
_Gasthaus_ begins, when the door of the box immediately adjoining the
imperial one opened, and a party entered in the gay Wallachian costume.
The first who took her place, in a sort of decorated chair in front, and
who was familiarly greeted by his Majesty, was a young lady, as it
seemed to me even then, of most surpassing beauty. Her dark raven hair
was held back from a brow as white as alabaster by a circlet of gorgeous
emeralds, whose pale mild light added to the pensive melancholy of her
features. I have no heart to describe her further, although that image
stands before me now, as clearly as when I first riveted these longing
eyes upon her charms!--O Amalia!

"Her immediate companion was a tall stalwart nobleman, beneath whose
cloak glittered a close-fitting tunic of ring-mail. His looks were
haughty and unprepossessing; he cast a fierce glance at the box which
contained the Esterhazys; bowed coldly in return to the recognition of
the Emperor; and seated himself beside his beautiful companion. I
thought--but it might be fancy--that she involuntarily shrank from his
contact. The remainder of the box was occupied by Wallachian ladies and
grandees.

"My curiosity was so whetted, that I hardly could wait until the
Schenkelmann had concluded, before assailing my neighbour the Duchessa
with questions.

"'Is it possible?' said she. 'Have you been so long in Vienna,
chevalier, and yet never seen the great attraction of the day--the
Wallachian fawn, as that foolish Count Kronthaler calls her? I declare I
begin to believe that you men of science are absolutely born blind!'

"'Not so, beautiful Lucchesini! But remember that ever since my arrival
I have been constantly gazing on a star.'

"'You flatterer! But, seriously, I thought every one knew the Margravine
of Kalbs-Kuchen. She is the greatest heiress in Europe--has a
magnificent independent principality, noble palaces, and such diamonds!
That personage beside her is her relation, the Duke of Kalbs-Braten, the
representative of a younger branch of the house. He is at deadly feud
with the Esterhazys, and the Emperor is very apprehensive that it may
disturb the tranquillity of Hungary. I am sure I am glad that my own
poor little Duchy is at a distance. I wish he would not bow to me--I am
sure he is a horrid man. Only think, my dear chevalier! He has already
married two wives, and nobody knows what has become of them. Poor Clara
von Gandersfeldt was the last--a sweet girl, but that could not save
her. They say he wants to marry his cousin--I hope she won't have him.'

"'Does he indeed presume!' said I, 'that dark-browed ruffian, to aspire
to such an angel?'

"'I declare you make me quite jealous,' said the Lucchesini; 'but speak
lower or he will overhear you. I assure you Duke Albrecht is a very
dangerous enemy.'

"'O that I might beard him!' cried I, 'in the midst of his assembled
Hulans! I tell you, Duchessa, that ere now a Mandeville'----

"'_Potz tausend donner-wetter!_' said the Emperor, good-humouredly
turning round; 'what is that the Chevalier Mandeville is saying? Why,
chevalier, you look as fierce as a roused lion. We must take care of you
old English fire-eaters. By the way,' added he very kindly, 'our
Chancellor will send you to-morrow the decoration of the first class of
the Golden Bugle. No thanks. You deserve it. I only wish the order could
have been conferred upon such a field as that of Lutzen. And now come
forward, and let me present you to the Margravine of Kalbs-Kuchen, whose
territories you must one of these days traverse. Margravine--this is the
Chevalier Mandeville, of whom I have already told you.'

"She turned her head--our eyes met--a deep flush suffused her
countenance, but it was instantly succeeded by a deadly paleness.

"'_Eh, wass henker!_' cried the Emperor, 'what's the meaning of
this?--the Margravine is going to faint!'

"'Oh no--no--your Majesty--'tis nothing--a likeness--a dream--a
dizziness, I mean, has come over me! It is gone now. You shall be
welcome, chevalier,' continued she, with a sweet smile, 'when you visit
our poor dominions. Indeed, I have a hereditary claim upon you, which I
am sure you will not disregard.'

"'_Hagel und blitzen!_' cried his Majesty--'What is this? I understood
the chevalier was never in Germany before.'

"'That may be, sire,' repeated the Margravine with another blush. 'But
my great-grandmother was nevertheless a Mandeville, the daughter of that
Field-marshal Herbert who fought so well at Lutzen. His picture, painted
when he was a young cuirassier, still hangs in my palace, and, indeed,
it was the extreme likeness of the chevalier to that portrait, which
took me for a moment by surprise. Let me then welcome you, cousin;
henceforward we are not strangers!'

"I bowed profoundly as I took the proffered hand of the Margravine. I
held it for an instant in my own--yes!--by Cupid there was a gentle
pressure. I looked up and beheld the dark countenance of the Duke of
Kalbs-Braten scowling at me from behind his cousin. I retorted the look
with interest. From that moment we were mortal foes.

"'_Unser Ritter ist im klee gefallen_--the chevalier has fallen among
clover,' said the Emperor with a smile--'he has great luck--he finds
cousins every where.'

"'And in this instance,' I replied, 'I might venture to challenge the
envy even of your Majesty.'

"'Well said, chevalier! and now let us attend to the second act of the
opera.'

"'You are in a critical position, Chevalier de Mandeville,' said the
Lucchesini, to whose side I now returned. 'You have made a powerful
friend, but also a dangerous enemy. Beware of that Duke Albrecht--he is
watching you closely.'

"'It is not the nature of a Mandeville to fear any thing except for the
safety of those he loves. _You_, sweet Duchessa, I trust have nothing to
apprehend?'

"'_Ah, perfide!_ Do not think to impose upon me longer. I know your
heart has become a traitor already. Well--we shall not be less friends
for that. I congratulate you on your new honours, only take care that
too much good fortune does not turn that magnificent head.'

"I supped that evening with the Lucchesini. On my return home, I thought
I observed a dark figure following my steps; but this might have been
fancy, at all events I regained my hotel without any interruption. Next
morning I found upon my table a little casket containing a magnificent
emerald ring, along with a small slip of paper on which was written
'_Amalia to her cousin--Silence and Fidelity_.' I placed the ring upon
my finger, but I pressed the writing to my lips.

"On the ensuing week there was a great masquerade at the palace. I was
out surveying the whole morning, and was occupied so late that I had
barely half an hour to spare on my return for the necessary
preparations.

"'There is a young lady waiting for you up-stairs, Herr Baron,' said the
waiter with a broad grin; 'she says she has a message to deliver, and
will give it to nobody else.'

"'Blockhead!' said I, 'what made you show her in there? To a certainty
she'll be meddling with the theodolites!'

"I rushed up-stairs, and found in my apartment one of the prettiest
little creatures I ever saw, a perfect fairy of about sixteen, in a
gipsy bonnet, who looked up and smiled as I entered.

"'Are you the Chevalier Mandeville?' asked she.

"Yes, my little dear, and pray who are you?'

"'I am Fritchen, sir,' she said with a courtesy.

"'You don't say so! Pray sit down, Fritchen.'

"'Thank you, sir.'

"'And pray now, Fritchen, what is it you want with me?'

"'My mistress desired me to say to you, sir--but it's a great
secret--that she is to be at the masquerade to-night in a blue domino,
and she begs you will place this White Rose in your hat, and she wishes
to have a few words with you.'

"'And who may your mistress be, my pretty one?'

"'Silence and Fidelity!'

"'Ha! is it possible? the Margravine!'

"'Hush! don't speak so loud--you don't know who may be listening. Black
Stanislaus has been watching me all day, and I hardly could contrive to
get out.'

"'Black Stanislaus had better beware of me!'

"'Oh, but you don't know him! He's Duke Albrecht's chief forester, and
the Duke is in _such_ a rage ever since he found my lady embroidering
your name upon a handkerchief.'

"'Did she, indeed?--my name?--O Amalia!'

"'Yes--and she says you're so like that big picture at
Schloss-Swiggenstein that she fell in love with long ago--and she is
sure you would come to love her if you only knew her--and she wishes,
for your sake, that she was a plain lady and not a Princess--and she
hates that Duke Albrecht so! But I wasn't to tell you a word of this, so
pray don't repeat it again.'

"'Silence and fidelity, my pretty Fritchen. Tell your royal Mistress
that I rest her humble slave and kinsman; that I will wear her rose, and
defend it too, if needful, against the attacks of the universe! Tell
her, too, that every moment seems an age until we meet again. I will not
overload your memory, little Fritchen. Pray, wear this trifle for my
sake, and'----

"'O fie, sir! If the waiter heard you!' and the little gipsy made her
escape.

"I had selected for my costume that night, a dress in the old English
fashion, taken from a portrait of the Admirable Crichton. In my hat I
reverently placed the rose which Amalia had sent me, stepped into my
fiacre, and drove to the palace.

"The masquerade was already at its height. I jostled my way through a
prodigious crowd of scaramouches, pilgrims, shepherdesses, nymphs, and
crusaders, until I reached the grand saloon, where I looked round me
diligently for the blue domino. Alas! I counted no less than thirteen
ladies in that particular costume.

"'You seen dull to-night, Sir Englishman,' said a soft voice at my
elbow. 'Does the indifference of your country or the disdainfulness of
dark eyes oppress you?'

"I turned and beheld a blue domino. My heart thrilled strangely.

"'Neither, sweet Mask; but say, is not Silence a token of Fidelity?'

"'You speak in riddles,' said the domino. 'But come--they are beginning
the waltz. Here is a little hand as yet unoccupied. Will you take it?'

"'For ever?'

"'Nay--I shall burden you with no such terrible conditions. _Allons!_
Yonder Saracen and Nun have set us the example.'

"In a moment we were launched into the whirl of the dance. My whole
frame quivered as I encircled the delicate waist with my arm. One hand
was held in mine, the other rested lovingly upon my shoulder. I felt the
sweet breath of the damask lips upon my face--the cup of my happiness
was full.

"'O that I may never wake and find this a dream! Dear lady, might I dare
to hope that the services of a life, never more devotedly offered,
might, in some degree, atone for the immeasurable distance between us?
That the poor cavalier, whom you have honoured with your notice, may
venture to indulge in a yet dearer anticipation?'

"I felt the hand of the Mask tremble in mine--

"'The White Rose is a pretty flower,' she whispered--'can it not bloom
elsewhere than in the north?'

"'Amalia!'

"'Leopold!--but hush--we are observed.'

"I looked up and saw a tall Bulgarian gazing at us. The mask of course
prevented me from distinguishing his features, but by the red sparkle of
his eye I instantly recognised Duke Albrecht.

"'Forgive me, dearest Amalia, for one moment. I will rejoin you in the
second apartment'----

"'For the sake of the Virgin, Leopold--do not tempt him! you know not
the power, the malignity of the man.'

"'Were he ten times a duke, I'd beard him! Pardon me, lady. He has
defied me already by his looks, and a Mandeville never yet shrunk from
any encounter. Prince Metternich will protect you until my return.'

"The good-natured statesman, who was sauntering past unmasked, instantly
offered his arm to the agitated Margravine. They retired. I strode up to
the Bulgarian, who remained as motionless as a statue.

"'Give you good-evening, cavalier. What is your purpose to-night?'

"'To chastise insolence and punish presumption! What is yours?'

"'To rescue innocence and beauty from the persecution of overweening
power!'

"'Indeed! any thing else?'

"'Yes, to avenge the fate of those who trusted, and yet died before
their time. How was it with Clara of Gandersfeldt? Fell she not by thy
hand?'

"'Englishman--thou liest!'

"'Bulgarian--thou art a villain!'

"The duke gnashed his teeth. For a moment his hand clutched at the hilt
of his poniard, but he suddenly withdrew it.

"'I had thought to have dealt otherwise with thee,' he said, 'but thou
hast dared to come between the lion and his bride. Englishman--hast thou
courage to make good thy injurious words with aught else but the
tongue?'

"'I am the last of the race of Mandeville!'

"'Enough. I might well have left the chastising of thee to a meaner
hand, and yet--for that thou art a bold fellow--I will meet thee. Dost
thou know the eastern gate?'

"'Well.'

"'A mile beyond it there is a clump of trees and a fair meadow land. The
moon will be up in three hours: light enough for men who are determined
on their work. Dost thou understand me--three hours hence on horseback,
with the sword, alone?'

"'Can I trust thee, Bulgarian?--no treachery?'

"'I am a Wallachian and a duke!'

"'Enough said. I shall be there;' and we parted.

"I flew back to Amalia. She was terribly agitated. In vain did I attempt
to calm her with assurances that all was well. She insisted upon knowing
the whole particulars of my interview with her dreaded cousin of
Kalbs-Braten, and at last I told her without reserve.

"'You must not go, Leopold,' she cried, 'indeed you must not. You do not
know this Albrecht. Hard of heart and determined of purpose, there are
no means which he will not use in order to compass his revenge. Believe
not that he will meet you alone: were it so, I should have little dread.
But Black Stanislaus will be there, and strong Slavata, and Martinitz
with all his Hulans! They will murder you, my Leopold! shed your young
blood like water; or, if they dare not do that for fear of the Austrian
vengeance, they will hurry you across the frontier to some dreary
fortress, where you will pine in chains, and grow prematurely grey,
far--far from your poor Amalia! Oh, were I to lose you, Leopold, now, I
should die of sorrow! Be persuaded by me. My guards are few, but they
are faithful. Avoid this meeting. Let us set out this night--nay, this
very hour. Once within my dominions, we may set at defiance Duke
Albrecht and all the black banditti of Kalbs-Braten. I have many friends
and feudatories. The Hetman, Chopinski, is devoted to me. Count Rudolf
of Haggenhausen is my sworn friend. No man ever yet saw the back of
Conrad of the Thirty Mountains. We shall rear up the old ancestral
banner of my house; give the Red Falcon to the winds of heaven; besiege,
if need be, my perfidious kinsman in his stronghold--and, in the face of
heaven, my Leopold, will I acknowledge the heir of Mandeville as the
partner of my life and of my power!'

"'Dearest, best Amalia! your words thrill through me like a trumpet--but
alas, it may not be! I dare not follow your counsel. Shall it be said
that I have broken my word--shrunk like a craven from a meeting with
this Albrecht;--a meeting, too, which I myself provoked? Think it not,
lady. Poor Mandeville has nothing save his honour; but upon that, at
least, no taint of suspicion shall rest. Farewell, beautiful Amalia!
Believe me, we shall meet again; if not, think of me sometimes as one
who loved you well, and who died with your name upon his lips.'

"'O Leopold!'

"I tore myself away. Two hours afterwards I had passed the eastern gate
of Vienna, and was riding towards the place of rendezvous. The moon was
up, but a fresh breeze ever and anon swept the curtains of the clouds
across her disk, and obscured the distant prospect. The cool air played
gratefully on my cheek after the excitement and fever of the evening; I
listened with even a sensation of pleasure to the distant rippling of
the river. For the future I had little care, my whole attention was
concentrated upon the past. I felt no anxiety as to the result of the
encounter; nor was this in any degree surprising, since, from my
earliest youth, I had accustomed myself to the use of the sword, and was
reputed a thorough master of the weapon. Neither could I believe that
Duke Albrecht was capable, after having given his solemn pledge to the
contrary, of any thing like deliberate treachery.

"I was about halfway to the clump of trees, which he of Kalbs-Braten had
indicated, when a heavy bank of clouds arose, and left me in total
darkness. Up to this time I had seen no one since I passed the sentry;
but now I thought I could discern the tramping of horses upon the turf.
Almost mechanically I loosened my cloak, and brought round the hilt of
my weapon so as to be prepared. When the moon reappeared, I saw on
either side of me a horseman, in long black cloaks and slouched hats,
which effectually concealed the features of the wearers. They did not
speak nor offer any violence, but continued to ride alongside,
accommodating their pace to mine. The horses they bestrode were large
and powerful animals. There was something in the moody silence and even
rigid bearing of these persons, which inspired me with a feeling rather
of awe than suspicion. It might be that they were retainers of the duke;
but then, if any ambuscade or foul play was intended, why give such
palpable warning of it? I resolved to accost them.

"'Ye ride late, sirs.'

"'We do,' said the one to the right. 'We are bent on a far errand.'

"'Indeed! may I ask its nature?'

"'To hear the bat flutter and the owlet scream. Wilt also listen to the
music?'

"'I understand you not, sirs. What mean you?'

"'We are the guardians of the Red Earth. The guilty tremble at our
approach; but the innocent need not fear!'

"'Two of the night patrole!' thought I. 'Very mysterious gentlemen,
indeed; but I have heard that the Austrian police have orders to be
reserved in their communications. I must get rid of them, however.
Good-evening, sirs.'

"I was about to spur my horse, when a cloak was suddenly thrown over my
head as if by some invisible hand; I was dragged forcibly from my
saddle, my arms pinioned, and my sword wrested from me. All this was the
work of a moment, and rendered my resistance useless.

"'Villains!' cried I, 'unhand me--what mean you?'

"'Peace, cavalier!' said a deep low voice at my ear; 'speak
not--struggle not, or it may be worse for you; you are in the hands of
the Secret Tribunal!'"

During the course of his narrative, Mr Mandeville, as I have already
hinted, by no means discontinued his attentions to the brandy and water,
but went on making tumbler after tumbler, with a fervour that was truly
edifying. Assuming that the main facts of his history were true, though
in the eye of geography and politics they appeared a little doubtful, it
was still highly interesting to remark the varied chronology of his
style. A century disappeared with each tumbler. He concentrated in
himself, as it appeared to me, the excellencies of the best writers of
romance, and withal had hitherto maintained the semblance of strict
originality. He had now, however, worked his way considerably up the
tide of time. We had emerged from the period of fire-arms, and
Mandeville was at this stage mediæval.

Some suspicion of this had dawned even upon the mind of Cutts, who,
though not very familiar with romance, had once stumbled upon a
translation of Spindler's novels, and was, therefore, tolerably up to
the proceedings of the _Vehme Gericht_.

"Confound it, Mandeville!" interrupted he, "we shall be kept here the
whole night, if you don't get on faster. Both Fred and I know all about
the ruined tower, the subterranean chamber--which, by the way, must have
looked deucedly like a tunnel--the cord and steel, and all the rest of
it. Skip the trial, man. It's a very old song now, and bring us as fast
as you can to the castle and the marriage. I hope the Margravine took
Fritchen with her. That little monkey was worth the whole bundle of them
put together!"

The Margrave made another tumbler. His eye had become rather glassy, and
his articulation slightly impaired. He was gradually drawing towards the
chivalrous period of the Crusades.

"Two days had passed away since that terrible ride began, and yet there
was neither halt nor intermission. Blindfold, pinioned, and bound into
the saddle, I sate almost mechanically and without volition, amidst the
ranks of the furious Hulans, whose wild huzzas and imprecations rung
incessantly in my ears. No rest, no stay. On we sped like a hurricane
across the valley and the plain!

"At last I heard a deep sullen roar, as if some great river was
discharging its collected waters over the edge of an enormous precipice.
We drew nearer and nearer. I felt the spray upon my face. These, then,
were the giant rapids of the Danube.

"The order to halt was given.

"'We are over the frontier now!' cried the loud harsh voice of Duke
Albrecht; 'Stanislaus and Slavata! unbind that English dog from his
steed, and pitch him over the cliff. Let the waters of the Danube bear
him past the castle of his lady. It were pity to deny my delicate cousin
the luxury of a coronach over the swollen corpse of her minion!'

"'Coward!' I exclaimed; 'coward as well as traitor! If thou hast the
slightest spark of manhood in thee, cause these thy fellows to unbind my
hands, give me back my father's sword, stand face to face against me on
the greensward, and, benumbed and frozen as I am, thou shalt yet feel
the arm of the Mandeville!'

"Loud laughed he of Kalbs-Braten. 'Does the hunter, when the wolf is in
the pit, leap down to try conclusions with him. Fool! what care I for
honour or thy boasted laws of chivalry? We of Wallachia are men of
another mood. We smite our foeman where we find him, asleep or awake--at
the wine-cup or in the battle--with the sword by his side, or arrayed
in the silken garb of peace! Drag him from his steed, fellows! Let us
see how lightly this adventurous English diver will leap the cataracts
of the Danube!'

"Resistance was in vain. I had already given myself up for lost. Even at
that moment the image of my Amalia rose before me in all its beauty--her
name was on my lips, I called upon her as my guardian angel.

"Suddenly I heard the loud clear note of a trumpet--it was answered by
another, and then rang out the clanging of a thousand atabals.

"'Ha! by Saint John of Nepomuck,' cried the Duke, 'the Croats are upon
us--There flies the banner of Chopinski! there rides Conrad of the
Thirty Mountains on the black steed that I have marked for my second
charger! Hulans! to your ranks. Martinitz, bring up the rear-guard, and
place them on the right flank. Slavata, thou art a fellow of some
sense'----

"'Ay, you can remember that now,' grumbled Slavata.

"'Take thirty men and lead them up that hollow--you will secure a
passage somewhere over the morass--and then fall upon Chopinski in the
rear. Let two men stay to guard the prisoner. Now, forward, gentlemen;
and if you know not where to charge, follow the white plume of
Kalbs-Braten!'

"I heard the cavalry advance. Maddened by the loss of my freedom at such
a moment, I burst my bonds by an almost supernatural exertion, and tore
the bandage from my eyes. To snatch a battle-axe from the hand of the
nearest Hulan, and to dash him to the ground, was the work of a
moment--a second blow, and the other fell. I leaped upon his horse,
shouted the ancient war-cry of my house--'Saint George for Mandeville!'
and dashed onwards towards the serried array of the Croats, which
occupied a little eminence beyond.

"'For whom art thou, cavalier?' cried Chopinski, as I galloped up.

"'For Amalia and Kalbs-Kuchen!' I replied.

"'Welcome--a thousand times welcome, brave stranger, in the hour of
battle! But ha!--what is this?--that white rose--that lordly mien--can
it be? Yes! it is the affianced bridegroom of the Margravine!'

"With a wild cry of delight the Croats gathered around me. 'Long live
our gracious Margravine!' they shouted 'long live the noble Mandeville!'

"'By my faith, Sir Knight,' said the Count Rudolf of Haggenhausen, an
old warrior whose seamed countenance was the record of many a fight--'By
my faith, I deemed not we could carry back such glorious tidings to our
lady--nor, by Saint Wladimir, so goodly a pledge!'

"'May I never put lance in rest again,' cried Conrad of the Thirty
Mountains, 'but the Margravine hath a good eye--there be thewes and
sinews there. But we must take order with yon infidel scum. How say you,
Sirs--shall this cavalier have the ordering of the battle? I, for one,
will gladly fight beneath his banner'----

"'And so say I,' said Chopinski, 'but he must not go thus. Yonder, on my
sumpter-mule, is a suit of Milan armour, which a king might wear upon
the day he went forth to do battle for his crown. Bring it forth,
knaves, and let the Mandeville be clad as becomes the affianced of our
mistress.'

"'Brave Chopinski,' I said, 'and you, kind sirs and nobles--pardon me if
I cannot thank you now in a manner befitting to the greatness of your
deserts. But there is a good time, I trust, in store. Suffer me now to
arm myself, and then we shall try the boasted prowess of yonder giant of
Kalbs-Braten!'

"In a few moments I was sheathed in steel, and, mounted on a splendid
charger, took my station at the head of the troops. Again their applause
was redoubled.

"'Lord Conrad,' said I to the warrior of the Thirty Mountains, 'swart
Slavata has gone up yonder with a plump of lances, intending to cross
the morass, and assail us on the rear. Be it thine to hold him in
check."

"'By my father's head!' cried Conrad, 'I ask no better service! That
villain, Slavata, oweth me a life, for he slew my sister's son at
disadvantage, and this day will I have it or die. Fear not for the rear,
noble Mandeville--I will protect it while spear remains or armour holds
together!'

"'I doubt it not, valiant Conrad! Brave Chopinski--noble
Haggenhausen--let us now charge together! 'Tis not beneath my banner you
fight. The Blue Boar of Mandeville never yet fluttered in the Wallachian
breeze, but we may give it to the winds ere-long! Sacred to Amalia, and
not to me, be the victory! Advance the Red Falcon of Kalbs-Kuchen--let
it strike terror into the hearts of the enemy--and forward as it pounces
upon its prey!'

"With visors down and lances in rest we rushed upon the advancing
Hulans, who received our charge with great intrepidity. Martinitz was my
immediate opponent. The shock of our meeting was so great that both the
horses recoiled upon their hams, and, but for the dexterity of the
riders, must have rolled over upon the ground. The lances were shivered
up to the very gauntlets. We glared on each other for an instant with
eyes which seemed to flash fire through the bars of our visors--each
made a demi-volte"----

"I say, Cutts," said I, "it occurs to me that I have heard something
uncommonly like this before. Our friend is losing his originality, and
poaching unceremoniously upon Ivanhoe. You had better stop him at once."

"I presume then, Mandeville, you did for that fellow Martinitz?" said
Cutts.

"The gigantic Hulan was hurled from his saddle like a stone from a
sling. I saw him roll thrice over, grasping his hands full of sand at
every turn."

"That must have been very satisfactory. And what became of the duke?"

"Often did I strive to force my way through the press to the spot where
Kalbs-Braten fought. I will not belie him--he bore himself that day like
a man. And yet he had better protection than either helm or shield; for
around him fought his foster-father, Tiefenbach of the Yews, with his
seven bold sons, all striving to shelter their prince's body with their
own. No sooner had I struck down one of them than the old man
cried--'Another for Kalbs-Braten!' and a second giant stepped across the
prostrate body of his brother!

"Meanwhile, Conrad of the Thirty Mountains had reached the spot where
Slavata with his cavalry was attempting the passage of the morass. Some
of the Hulans were entangled there from the soft nature of the ground,
the horses having sunk in the mire almost up to their saddle-girths.
Others, among whom was their leader, had successfully struggled through.

"Conrad and Slavata met. They were both powerful men, and well-matched.
As if by common consent, the soldiers on either side held back to
witness the encounter of their chiefs.

"Slavata spoke first. 'I know thee well,' he said; 'thou art the
marauding baron of the Thirty Mountains, whose head is worth its weight
of gold at the castle-gate of Kalbs-Braten. I swore when we last met
that we should not part again so lightly, and now I will keep my oath!'

"'And I know thee, too,' said Conrad; 'thou art the marauding villain
Slavata, whose body I intend to hang upon my topmost turret, to blacken
in the sun and feed the ravens and the kites!'

"'Threatened men live long,' replied Slavata with a hollow laugh; 'thy
sister's son, the Geissenheimer, said as much before, but for all that I
passed this good sword three times through his bosom!'

"'Villain!' cried Conrad, striking at him, 'this to thy heart!'

"'And this to thine, proud boaster!' cried Slavata, parrying and
returning the blow.

"They closed. Conrad seized hold of Slavata by the sword-belt. The
other"----

"He's off to Old Mortality now," said I to Cutts. "For heaven's sake
stop him, or we shall have a second edition of the Bothwell and Burley
business."

"Come, Mandeville, clear away the battle--there's a good fellow. There
can be no doubt that you skewered that rascally duke in a very
satisfactory manner. I shall ring for the broiled bones, and I beg you
will finish your story before they make their appearance. Will you mix
another tumbler now, or wait till afterwards? Very well--please
yourself--there's the hot water for you."

"They led me into the state apartment," said Mandeville, with a kind of
sob. "Amalia stood upon the dais, surrounded by the fairest and the
noblest of the land. The amethyst light, which streamed through the
stained windows, gorgeous with armorial bearings, fell around her like a
glory. In one hand she held a ducal cap of maintenance--with the other,
she pointed to the picture of my great ancestor--the very image, as she
told me, of myself. I rushed forward with a cry of joy, and threw myself
prostrate at her feet!

"'Nay, not so, my Leopold!' she said. 'Dear one, thou art come at last!
Take the reward of all thy toils, all thy dangers, all thy love! Come,
adored Mandeville--accept the prize of silence and fidelity!' And she
added, 'and never upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry be
placed.'

"She placed the coronet upon my head, and then gently raising me,
exclaimed--

"'Wallachians! behold your PRINCE!'"

Mr Mandeville did not get beyond that sentence. I could stand him no
longer, and burst into an outrageous roar of laughter, in which Cutts
most heartily joined, till the tears ran plenteously down his cheeks.
The Margrave of Wallachia looked quite bewildered. He attempted to rise
from his chair, but the effort was too much for him, and he dropped
suddenly on the floor.

"Well," said I, after we had fairly exhausted ourselves, "there's the
spoiling in that fellow of as good a novelist as ever coopered out three
volumes. He would be an invaluable acquaintance for either Marryat or
James. 'Tis a thousand pities his talents should be lost to the public."

"There's no nonsense about him," replied Cutts; "he buckles to his work
like a man. Doesn't it strike you, Freddy, that his style is a great
deal more satisfactory than that of some other people I could name, who
talk about their pedigree and ancestors, and have not even the excuse of
a good cock-and-bull story to tell. Give me the man that carves out
nobility for himself, like Mandeville, and believes it too, which is the
very next best thing to reality. Now, let's have up the broiled bones,
and send the Margrave of Wallachia to his bed."

_Edinburgh, Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes, Pauls Work._








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