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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 67, No. 413, March, 1850
Author: Various
Release date: March 2, 2025 [eBook #75498]
Language: English
Original publication: UK: William Blackwood and Sons, 1850
Credits: Richard Tonsing, 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 Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 67, NO. 413, MARCH, 1850 ***
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCXIII. MARCH, 1850. VOL. LXVII.
CONTENTS.
CIVIL REVOLUTION IN THE CANADAS, 249
A LATE CASE OF COURT-MARTIAL, 269
A FAREWELL TO NAPLES, 279
BARBARIAN RAMBLES, 281
GOLDSMITH. PART II., 296
TO BURNS’S “HIGHLAND MARY,” 309
MY PENINSULAR MEDAL. BY AN OLD PENINSULAR. PART IV., 313
THE GREEN HAND—A “SHORT” YARN. PART IX., 329
CANADIAN LOYALTY. AN ODE, 345
AGRICULTURE, COMMERCE, AND MANUFACTURES: OPENING OF THE SESSION, 347
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;
AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
_To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
ERRATUM.
Page 372, column second, Estimate of Expenditure of Absentees, _for_
£40,000,000 _read_ £20,000,000.
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCXIII. MARCH, 1850. VOL. LXVII.
CIVIL REVOLUTION IN THE CANADAS.
We had intended changing the title of our papers on the Canadas, and
throwing together for the Magazine the results of many years’
experience, and many opportunities of observing the lights and shades of
colonial life. Not that we had a new system of settlement to propound,
or a new art of colonisation to illustrate. Our purpose was simply to
have conducted the reader along the high road of colonial life, and to
have pointed out to him, on the way, houses evidencing comfort,
respectability, and plenty, farms proving wealth and independence, and
barn-yards filled with stock and with grain, belonging to men, who, but
a comparatively short time before, had been labouring in Europe without
a hope beyond their daily bread, or a prospect beyond that of constantly
toiling for others. We had purposed, too, telling the story of how these
men rose; and pointing out, in the same great country, thousands upon
thousands of openings for others to go and do likewise. Nor did we
intend stopping here. There is a large class of men in Great Britain,
who, feeling as men, and wishing to discharge the duties of men, cannot
look very comfortably around them, and see those who owe their existence
to them likely to be left worse off in the world than they were left
themselves; yet who cannot, from the peculiar organisation of society in
Britain, help themselves; and who are often prevented—through family
connexions that bring them no good, and family pride that often sickens
much more than it elevates the heart—even from using those exertions and
efforts that might better their condition. We purposed pointing out the
adaptation of the colonies to such men, and their adaptation to the
colonies. But this to us agreeable undertaking—for we believe it might
be attended with good—we are obliged for the present to abandon, to
consider the state of the colonies with respect to their government and
the institutions of England; and to see if we cannot suggest a plan
whereby those we might induce to settle in them might not lose the
protection, the glory, and the fostering care of their mother country.
The legislation of Great Britain, for the last ten years, is marked by
some peculiar and distinctive features over that of perhaps any other
portion of her legislative history. These are eminently, a studied and
intentional disregard of the teachings and the experience of the past,
in an overweening confidence in the wisdom of present measures, and
their being proof against all future disasters; a sort of supercilious
spurning, in sailing under the new canvass of free trade, of all the old
landmarks which saved England’s power from many a shipwreck, and her
glory from many a stain. It will hardly be denied, that that portion of
Great Britain’s national worth which is made up of her achievements, of
her glory, ever well-earned, and of her fame, ever dearly bought, has
been and is regarded, by the philosophy of the Manchester school of
politicians, as a possession by no means worth its cost, and little
worth the keeping. May it not, in truth, be fairly presumed, from the
movements that have followed the portentous measure of _free trade_, and
from the recent agitations and speeches of its principal promoters, that
they are seeking to establish a new description of glory for Great
Britain; that they are endeavouring to change her whole national
character; that they are, in short, seeking to raze all the former
monuments, sacred to _her_ greatness, in order to construct, in their
stead, monuments sacred to their own? Clearly the spirit of the age, in
so far as they have evoked it, is destructive alike of reverence for the
wisdom, and pride in the achievements, of the past. Neither is it
unnatural, with the views of this school of politicians, that it should
be so. The free-trade movement has ever advanced, in proportion as it
succeeded in converting Great Britain to the belief, that the whole mind
of the past was shrouded in darkness and error. It could not, therefore,
be expected to inspire admiration or reverence, for what it thus
practically taught men to condemn and repudiate. And it may well indeed
seek to establish a new and a great glory for Britain; for assuredly
great is the glory, and great is the national possession of which it is
fast bereaving her. The essential spirit of national patriotism—that
chivalrous feeling of disinterestedness, which once made Britons proud
of forgetting the world for their country, and themselves in its
defence—where is it?—what is now swiftly becoming its doom? Is it not
palpably withering beneath the cold shadow of free-trade philosophy? Are
not the cosmopolitan doctrines of free trade rapidly making Britons
forget their country? Are these doctrines not absorbing all the energies
of the nation in the struggles of avarice? Are they not sinking every
patriotic, every noble national feeling, in the love of gain? Speak now
of a measure involving the glory, the shame, and the interests of
England, or of even a single class in England, and what will be its
probable treatment? The glorious part may have a few advocates, who will
be laughed at for their antiquated notions; or it may serve to evoke a
few bright ideas in a debate—the modern surplusage of great men’s
speeches. The shame part may occasion a feeling of effervescent
indignation for the moment. But the interest portion will instantly call
forth all the energies of the economic mind of Britain, and will soon
accumulate such an avalanche of figures and calculations, as will bear
down and crush every other consideration before it. It was once thought
wise that men should be taught, through the achievements of their
forefathers, the value of their institutions. Free-trade philosophy
calls it wiser to teach them to forget forefathers, achievements, and
all, in a gigantic struggle for pounds, shillings, and pence. “Confound
your acquiring a manly pride by learning your hereditary right to it!”
is the language of this school of politicians, and the language they are
rapidly teaching England. “Give us the pride of money.” “Britain against
the world, as long as Britain pays; but the world against Britain, the
moment she doesn’t,” are the popular and practical lessons of the
Manchester school,—though a nation’s glory, all the world’s experience
teaches us, is the very vitality of its patriotism. A throne or a
republic, without such flowers blooming around it, is a poor, unsightly,
unlovable thing, having nothing for a people’s affections to cling to;
yet are not these flowers fast withering round the throne of England?
Are not the memories of the nation, which nourish and keep them alive,
being obliterated by the all-powerful tendencies of a political
philosophy which recognises no greatness but that of money, and no
pursuit worth following but that of material interests? Are not the
ties, too, which bind subjects together, and the duties which men owe to
each other in a state, of harmonising their interests for the common
good, and of making mutual sacrifices for national unity and great
national destiny, being fast relaxed and forgotten in Great Britain?
The parties ruling the United States of America are at this moment
making sacrifices of the vastest magnitude to each other—sacrifices of
great principles as well as of great interests. And why? Because, did
they not do so, the republic could not hold together perhaps for a
twelvemonth; and, once severed, they know full well what would be the
magnitude of their disaster. Mutual sacrifices and concessions are, in
truth, the ties that bind them together. Let their common glory and
their common destiny, let the knowledge of what they have achieved
united, and what they would become if severed, once fail to produce a
patriotism, or national virtue, powerful enough to cause them to yield
sectional interests for the common good, and to forego great party
principles and objects, for the preservation of their institutions and
the integrity of their government, and glory would soon take leave of
their Israel.
Now in Great Britain, where the operation of free institutions occasions
similar necessities for sacrifices and concessions being made by each
great class in the state to the other, or others, in order to secure
that harmony and unity necessary to all national permanency, and to the
perpetuation of national power, what does the legislation of the last
ten years exhibit? Does it not exhibit one great class struggling for
the giant’s power over another, and, having gained it, using it like a
giant? In the great co-partnery in national property and national
destiny, men owe it to each other to balance their books fairly as to
national advantages. What ruins one large class, though it may
temporarily benefit another, must eventually ruin the nation. A nation
cannot, more than an individual, bear a constantly mortifying limb. Now
it is impossible for an intelligent mind not to see, not to have the
conviction forced upon it, that free trade in Britain is destroying the
great agricultural limb of the state; and that, if the giant’s power is
much longer wielded by the giant, fearful consequences must ensue.
But whether the philosophy of free trade has produced, or is producing,
such great changes as these upon English national character—whether it
is un-Anglifying England to the extent that we have indicated or not, we
can answer, at least, for its training to forgetfulness of Britain the
North American colonies. We can answer for its causing the sinking of
the subject in the avaricious struggler for “material interests” in
America. We can answer for its obliterating all national memories,
obligations, and ties on the part of the colonists, in following the
selfish lessons that have been sent to them from England, “to take care
of themselves, for England no longer cares for them.” Perhaps the seeds
that have been thrown upon the winds by free-trade discussions in
England, have first taken root in the colonies. Perhaps it was designed
that they should. Be this as it may, let England learn from the result
of these on the colonies what it may soon be with herself. Let her
learn, by their example, the effect of the doctrines, that allegiance
may be made wholly subservient to interest, and that love of country
must give way to love of gain.
Twelve years ago, in the month in which we write, the city of Montreal
presented an appearance that no similarly situated city in the world
perhaps ever presented before. Its whole British population, educated to
business, little accustomed to ordinary exercises, least of all to those
of war, were in the short space of a few days literally converted into
an army; for, though they knew not the use of arms, and were incapable
of systematic movements, yet each had the heart to grapple, hand to
hand, with his foe: and in this they were soldiers. Old men of sixty and
seventy years of age, accustomed to ease and luxuries, might have been
seen, at this period, doing duty in the streets of Montreal, in the
middle of a Canadian winter’s night, as common sentinels. Boys, taken
away from their schools, might have been seen doing the same. A regiment
of regulars at the time marched through the city; they struck up, as
they halted, an air as familiar as the rhymes of children. The strains
of the music were drowned in the spontaneous cheers of the people. Women
shed tears of gladness. The air the soldiers played was _God save the
Queen!_ But why this enthusiasm? and why this military display?
Two-thirds of the people of Lower Canada—its French inhabitants—had
taken up arms against the institutions of England. The people of
Montreal were British.
Now this city of Montreal was little, if at all, capable of military
defence. It was so constructed as to have been peculiarly liable to
destruction by fire; and, at the time that the spectacle we have faintly
sketched might have been witnessed, the chances of war were at least two
to one against its determined British inhabitants. Nor should it be
forgotten, that nearly the whole of the property in this city was owned
by these British inhabitants; was the fruits of many years of their
honest toil; and as it is well known that policies of insurance do not
cover losses occasioned by the Queen’s enemies, the loss to them might
have been total had it been burned.
These British inhabitants of Montreal, therefore, without a moment’s
hesitation, in an indefensible city, and with the chances of war as two
to one against them, willingly and even cheerfully perilled their lives,
their families, their hearths, their property, their all, to uphold the
flag of England.
In the month of October last, upwards of twelve hundred persons, in the
space of a few days—one half of whom were the very men who acted in 1838
as we have described—openly and deliberately called upon their fellow
colonists to haul down the flag of Britain upon the continent of
America; and coupled that request with another, that the flag of a rival
power should be put up in its stead.
Now what are the causes of this most extraordinary change? What is it
which has exerted so powerful an influence, as to have caused men
capable of making the noblest sacrifices to uphold the institutions of
their forefathers at one time, capable of making such attempts to
destroy them at another? We answer, emphatically, it was free trade and
its attendant philosophy. It was the injuries it inflicted upon the
colonies—not in the spirit of national compromise or mutual sacrifices,
but in the spirit of the giant using the giant’s power. It was the
lessons, too, that accompanied the injuries. It was the obliterating the
love of country in the pursuits of avarice. It was the ruinous latitude
that free-trade philosophy had to allow to others, in claiming the same
for its own disciples.
To those who have closely observed the opinions expressed regarding the
colonies, in the debates upon free trade, little need be said to prove
that the Manchester school of politicians not only considered their
connexion with Britain as of no importance, but as actually undesirable
in itself. There was no attempt made at harmonising interests with them.
There was no intention expressed of making sacrifices for them, and
incidentally, as we shall show, for England. There was no respect paid
to their love of Britain; for loyalty is not a word in the free-trade
catalogue. But there was a studious and intentional under-rating and
disparaging of them and their country, to subserve the free-trade cause,
and to destroy the force that the argument of their ruin might possibly
have upon the people of England. They were made the subject too of cold,
mercenary calculations, which were enough to insult them into sedition,
and to disgust them out of their connexion with the mother country. When
the disastrous effect that the loss of a protection, to the benefits of
which they had been educated by England for fifty years, and to which
the whole business arrangements of their country were as much adapted
and which they as much required as the very crops in their ground
required sunshine and rain—when these were pointed out in England, how
were they met by the free-trade leaders? Was it not by cold calculations
of how much they consumed per head of this, and how much they consumed,
in comparison with the rest of the world, of that; and how much they
cost for this, and how little they required of that; until, by some
strange mystification of arithmetic, they were made out to be an actual
injury to England. And had the colonies the satisfaction, if they must
needs be injured and crippled, of knowing that one single individual
connected with the free-trade movement had the justice to regret the
injury that was being perpetrated against them, and to say, that England
would endeavour to retrieve it in some other way? We believe we are
justified in saying there was not one. The vilification of the colonies
was an argument in favour of free trade, and they were vilified. And
when the consequences of free trade upon the colonies have been alluded
to; when the shops which had been built, in expectation of the
agricultural interests of the country being stimulated as they had
formerly been, and large quantities of land being taken up and cleared,
as was formerly the case—when these shops became unrequired and useless;
when store-houses, and wharves, and vessels, and steamers, which, before
free trade came into operation, were full of activity, life, and
business, became as so much dead property on the hands of their owners,
and the people connected with them had to seek a livelihood by other
means, and in other places than the colonies: when these disastrous
consequences of free trade were experienced and pointed out, how were
they also met? how were they regarded, and were the colonists
sympathised with on account of them? They were spoken of and accounted
for, by the free-trade leaders, in a spirit similar to the following
paragraph—in a spirit of exaggerated detraction, instead of national
sympathy and management. And we put it to the candour of the English
public, if the succeeding remarks of the _Daily News_ are not a fair
sample of the manner in which the party that paper represents are in the
habit of speaking of the colonies:—
“The argument of the Montreal traders is: ‘The Americans are more
prosperous than we. If our territory was incorporated into the Union,
we would be as prosperous as the Americans.’ The fallacy of this
argument is obvious to dispassionate lookers-on. The superior
prosperity of the Americans was as marked when the late Mr Stuart
visited Canada and the United States as it is now. It has not
originated in the change of British mercantile policy. It has all
along been owing to the superior energy and enterprise of the
Americans. The Canadians were listless, relying upon protection in the
British market; the Americans were active, because they had only their
own enterprise to rely upon. The Americans, in the position of the
Canadians, are not afraid of free competition. The stronghold of the
protectionist party in America is in the sea-board manufacturing
states. If the Canadians would be as prosperous as the Americans, they
must become as active and enterprising as the Americans. The
self-government of the people of the United States promoted the spirit
of enterprise; but, for all essential purposes, Canadians now enjoy
that spring of energy. Canada annexed to the United States would
advance more rapidly than Canada under its former close government and
protective system did; but the advance would be the work of, and its
profits would be reaped by, the hardy emigrants from the United
States. The dreamers who think that their prosperity depends upon
their being subject to this or the other government, not upon their
own exertions, would be driven to the wall before the new-comers.
Their individual plight, be that of the province what it might, would
be worse than ever.”
Now, that the deductions and statements in this paragraph—if they are
intended to apply to the state of Canada before as well as after free
trade, and they certainly seem so intended—are as untrue, ungenerous,
and unjust, towards the colonists—towards the hardy, persevering, and
hard-working people of Great Britain in them—as they are grossly
misrepresentative and unfair with respect to the prosperity of the
country—we here undertake and pledge ourselves to the reader
satisfactorily to prove.
We are no enemies to the American States; and in the incidental
references we have had occasion to make to them, in the course of our
papers upon the colonies, we have candidly and fully admitted their
extraordinary advancement; we have conceded to the fullest the great
impetus their peculiar working of the institutions of Britain—for this
is in reality the true state of the case—has imparted to human progress.
But we are practically and well acquainted with their agricultural
interests, and with much of their great country, and with the comforts
and prosperity enjoyed and gained by its farmers; and we are also well
and practically acquainted with the whole of Upper Canada, and we assert
without fear of question by any man in America who understands the
matter, that, in period of settlement, and prosperity to show for it; in
crops raised from the land, and evidences of good management and good
farming; in stock proving comfort and plenty; in houses, carriages,
dress; in all that establishes that an agricultural people are easy in
their circumstances, and are enjoying comfort and plenty—the farmers of
Upper Canada are behind none in any part of the United States, and are
before them in many.
Now, London, as all the world knows, is a great leviathan city; but its
being so does not prove that individual comfort, happiness, and
prosperity are greater in it than they are in many a small town in
England. The United States, too, have vastly more territory than Upper
Canada has; have many larger and more bustling cities, and have finer
and more gorgeous steamers; but this does not prove, more than London
does as respects England, that this larger territory brings greater
prosperity, health, and comfort, to the farmers in it, than Canada does;
that the business in the larger and bustling cities is more healthy, or
more profitable, than that which is the legitimate offspring of the
people’s wants in Canada; or that the gorgeous steamers pay better, or
are better, than those which are adapted to the purposes, and are
admirably suited to the conveniences and comforts, of the agricultural
population of the Canadas. The question therefore, to any man who has
settled in either country, or who wishes to do so, is not how much
larger one’s territory is over that of the other, but which secures, and
has secured, the greater amount of benefits and prosperity for the same
amount of labour and capital invested in it; and which has by experience
been proved to be the most desirable place for man to live in? Now, that
the only interest which Great Britain has ever fostered or encouraged in
America, and indeed the only interest which, with her policy of
manufacturing for the colonies, she has allowed to grow up in
them—namely, their agricultural interest—was not in Canada, before free
trade withered it, behind its state in any part of America; and that the
Canadas as a country were before any portion of it, we adduce the
conclusive and unquestionable proof, that, distributed over the last
thirty years, twenty-five thousand shrewd and sagacious American
citizens have left the institutions that they so much prized, have
foregone the temptations of their magnificent prairies and valleys that
the world has heard so much of, and have taken leave of all their fine
and prosperous cities, to take up their abode in Upper Canada. As
equally conclusive evidence that the legitimate business of the province
was, in proportion to the requirements of the country, always in a
healthy and prosperous state, we adduce the fact of the invariable
success in every branch of business that they ever engaged in, in Upper
Canada, of these same American citizens. And we here state it as a fact
that will not be denied by a single American farmer in the province,
that, before free trade prostrated its agricultural interests, there was
not a single farmer, American or of other country—with the exception of
the time of the rebellion in 1837–8—who would have been willing to
exchange his property for similar property in any part of the whole
United States. And does not, in truth, the fact that these Americans
came and settled in the province, under their circumstances, and with
their feelings of regard for their own institutions, prove that this
must have been the case? And does not the fact of these men carrying
with them the same energy and industry into Canada that their friends
were possessed of in the States, prove, that in everything that marked
the success of labour in a generous land, Canada could not have been
behind the rest of America? But it is a well-known fact, as the
Americans quaintly observe of themselves, “that they do not love to work
as well as the English, Irish, and Scotch do.” They are, as a nation,
given to speculating; and an American farmer or mechanic would rather at
any time make a dollar by a “trade,” than he would two by hard work. So
that, in the march of improvement in agriculture in the Canadas, and in
the growth of wealth, these American settlers are by no means before
their Canadian neighbours; and, excepting where they have combined some
business with their farming, they have not wherewithal to show that they
have equally prospered with them. Now, these are facts—facts whose force
and justice will not be questioned by a single individual in America who
understands the matter; and we state them, not only with the view of
vindicating our own countrymen against the injustice of those who
wilfully or ignorantly underrate their exertions and the success that
has attended their labours, but we state them to save the Americans
themselves from unjust and unfair comparisons, and in defence of one of
the finest countries that a beneficent Creator ever spread out before
needy humanity—a country teeming with unappropriated wealth; with a
climate pure, bracing, and adapted to the largest development of the
best energies of man, and with millions of openings for poverty to raise
itself out of the ashes of its degradation; and for capital to reproduce
itself to an extent unheard of in Europe.
Now the people living adjacent to Lake Windermere might just as well be
supposed to be an inert, unprosperous race, because their beautiful
little lake has fewer steamers, and sailing craft, and bustle upon it,
than the Thames exhibits near London, as the people of the Canadas, in
comfort and prosperity, can be said to be behind those of the States,
because their towns have less bustle, and their waters fewer steamers
and less trade upon them. The Canadas have been, and are, a purely
agricultural country; and it is in this respect only they can be
compared with the rest of America. Their trade and business is, and
could only have been, such as naturally grew out of their other
interests. If that trade and business was, though less bustling than
that of the States, as it naturally would be from its character, healthy
and paying, no man could expect more of it. Have we not fairly proved
that it must have been so? But if any traveller wishes to judge truly
and justly of Upper Canada and the States, he must not skim over their
borders, and be deceived by the superficial glare. He must learn the
intrinsic value of the thing itself, by going into the interior of the
country. He must see men plough. He must see how deep they plough, and
what sort of cattle they plough with, and how hard they work. He must
examine the farmers’ houses, and learn how they are finished, furnished,
and provisioned. He must hover round their barn-yards, and linger along
their fences. He must witness their harvests, and be fortunate enough
occasionally to be their guests. He must make his observations on their
children; and we would excuse him even coming a little closer to their
young women, although it would be hardly fair to expect him to judge
impartially under such circumstances. But let any man of intelligence do
this with regard to the farmers of Upper Canada, and of any portion of
the American States—we care not which—and if he does not find that
industry has secured as large rewards, and the farmers have as many
comforts, in the British possessions as the American, he is at liberty
to say that our upwards of seventeen years’ practical experience in them
has been of no use to us; or, to use the words of an American friend of
ours upon the subject, “we might be inclined to recommend his friends
not to trust him very far away from home again.”
But now we would put it to the proverbial sense of justice and fairness
of the people of England, if the calling such men “listless, relying
upon protection in the British market,” is a fair way of treating them,
after educating them to the benefits of that protection; and after
checking the manufacturing interests that might have grown up in the
colonies, and placed them on a par with the States, for the express
benefit of the manufacturing interests of Britain? Men who built
vessels, and store-houses, and purchased property in the colonies, upon
the faith that England, having established the system of manufacturing
for them, would continue that of discriminating in their favour in her
markets, have now not only their property in ruin on their hands, but
they are abused because it is in ruins. Farmers who, as we have shown,
and as no man in America will deny, have worked hard, and have
wherewithal to show for it—have achieved that which is no less a credit
to themselves than it is to the country they came from—are vilified
because they complain that England’s policy, in destroying manufacturing
interests in the colonies, has deprived them of a home market such as
the farmers of the United States have got; and England’s free-trade
system, in destroying so much, and injuring so much more property, in
the colonies, has involved them in the general depression and
retrogression. The plain English, and the plain truth of the whole
matter, is this—that the free-trade leaders of England, having
sacrificed the colonies, are desirous of making their former history
harmonise with the picture of the injury and ruin they have brought upon
them. But we trust that we have established, to the satisfaction of
every honest man, what we promised we should—namely, that the attempt is
no less unjust and unfair to the colonists, to their industry, and to
their perseverance, than it is to the country they came from—its
institutions, and its patient, cheerful, and successful labour.
We have dwelt somewhat at length upon this matter; and for two reasons.
The first is, because the reiteration of the same, or similar remarks
and reflections as those contained in the extract we have made from the
_Daily News_, has given a false impression, both in England and America,
of the true state of the Canadas. People, forgetting that they were
settled—at least the great province of Upper Canada was—by the very same
people who have settled the greater portion of the States, and by whose
labour these States have become what they are—people in England,
unknowingly or unthinkingly, have been led to associate the inhabitants
of the colonies with ideas of listlessness, inertness, and poverty,
when, in truth, on the whole continent of America, there is not a
hardier or a steadier working people, or a people whose success,
independence, and comfort would afford a better example to the poor of
Europe. The locomotives by which the farmers of Canada should be judged
of, after all, are their waggons and their teams. The bustle which best
shows their prosperity, is the bustle of their harvest fields. The
business which gives the best proof of success to the world, is that
which can show good balance-sheets, and few bankruptcies. Now, before
free trade overtook the prosperity of these colonies, we can, with the
most perfect safety, challenge any and all America to show a better
state of things in all these several branches of their business and
interests, than the province of Upper Canada did and could exhibit. We
have felt that we owed it to this great province, to this province which
might, and we trust will, be made a great right arm of Britain’s power
and empire, to say thus much in its defence. We owed it to the manly and
hard-working people of England, Ireland, and Scotland, who have settled
in it, and whose industry and skill have made many parts of it the very
gardens of America, to shield them against the unjust representations
that have been sent abroad to the world concerning them, and that have
been the more galling, because they have emanated from home and friends.
Our other reason for going into this matter so fully, is to ask, at this
important juncture, how it is possible to expect that these colonists
will or can continue loyal to Britain long, with vilification and
detraction thus added to the injuries that they have so unquestionably
and undeniably suffered? They point to their vessels lying unused, and
rotting in their harbours; and they point to the lands of the province
not being taken up as they used to be, and those that are cleared not
paying for the labour of tilling them: and they ask themselves, and they
ask America, and they ask England,—Why is it so? And all answer—Free
trade will not make it pay to clear the lands; free trade will not make
it pay to till the lands; free trade has knocked Canadian farming on the
head. Yet free trade, upon hearing this, turns round and asserts it to
be all false, and says that the vessels are decaying because the
Canadians are too indolent to use them, although they have nothing to
carry. Free trade says, that the stagnation of the country, and the
indisposition of people to settle in it, are owing to the country’s own
backwardness, are the result of its inertness; whereas we have shown
that its people, of all others on earth, least deserve such injustice
and insults at the hands of England. Free trade, when driven—for it
sometimes is—to admit that it must inevitably separate Great Britain
from her colonies, then turns round, and charges the colonies with being
an expense and an injury to England. Yet, after all this, free trade
expects the colonies to continue loyal to England. Free trade affects to
be shocked at the effects of the storm which itself palpably, and in a
thousand ways, sowed. Free trade having sickened, weakened, and struck
down the colonies, now literally stands over them, taunting them with
the effects of its own medicines, and, at the same time, affects to
wonder that they should be sick or depressed.
That these effects of free trade upon the colonies have been foreseen
and accurately judged of by the shrewd and far-seeing mind of America,
we may show, by quoting the opinions in point of the great leading
journal of the New England States. This journal, the _Boston Atlas_,
like many of the leading papers in Britain, is occasionally contributed
to by the leading statesmen of the great Whig party in America; and as
we happen to know that the article from which we quote was written by a
gentleman who commands a wide and powerful influence as a statesman and
political economist in the States, his views may be considered entitled
to the greater attention in England:—
“We have said that Canada has been deliberately sacrificed; and we
have too high an opinion of the intelligence of the British ministry
not to suppose that, when they made the sacrifice, they foresaw the
probable ultimate result. We do not believe that they will be
surprised at the movements which are now taking place, or that they
will think of making serious resistance to any step which the
Provinces may decide to take—whether it be for annexation or
independence—though we have no doubt the latter would best suit their
views, for grave reasons upon which we do not now think it necessary
to expatiate.
“As matters now stand, Canada is an agricultural State, paying for all
the manufactures she consumes in the raw productions of the earth. She
has been but a very short time in this position, and yet she already
groans under the free-trade experiment. Her wants are the same; but
the more timber and corn she exports, the less she gets for them.
Instead of growing rich under this beneficent free-trade system, she
is every day getting poorer. She has had enough of free trade, and is
anxiously seeking some way of escape from it. Such is ever the
inevitable result, when the attempt is made to pay for manufactures
with raw productions; and the longer it is continued, the worse will
be the situation of the agricultural state.
“Can she mend her position by adopting the proposed ‘Remedy?’ If her
representatives in parliament happen to be the true representatives of
her interests—which is very far from certain—and if they can persuade
the government to restore the bounty upon her timber and corn—the
answer is, yes. But we see little chance of that, for the situation of
Canada is perfectly well known now by that same government; her case
has been examined in all its bearings, and she has been deliberately
sacrificed to ‘free trade,’—in other words, to the manufacturing
interest of Great Britain; and it will take something more than the
eloquence of a few Canadian orators, admitted to seats in parliament,
to induce that interest to reconsider her case, or to yield a
hair’s-breadth to her claims. She has not been sacrificed through
ignorance, but because she stood in the way of a great theory. She
will look in vain to this source for relief. But if the proposed
consolidation should cause British capital to cross the water and set
up manufacturing establishments, would not the end be gained? Perhaps
so. Of this, however, the chance is small, unless labour is as cheap
in Canada as it is in England, which it never can be until the United
States, ceasing to afford any protection to labour, become parties to
the Free Trade League, and so bring all the labour of North America
down to the level of the labour of Europe. Such a suicidal system can
never be permanently established here, and, therefore, we look upon
this second source of relief as equally visionary with the
first.”—_Boston Atlas._
We had purposed showing that, in addition to the free trade party in
England’s having literally endeavoured to injure and insult the colonies
out of their allegiance to their mother country, they have also been
educating them, by their speeches in parliament and otherwise, to the
same end. But we trust that we have already proved enough to satisfy any
man, not unwilling to believe the truth, that if some men in the
colonies have fallen from their high estate, they have but taken the
course that the free-trade policy of England left open to them; the
course that that policy, if not intentionally, at least inevitably, must
sooner or later compel them to take. If, therefore, England thinks that
those men in the colonies who have looked towards another government
have acted unworthily of themselves and of her, let her lay the blame at
once on those who compelled them to take to the boats by making the ship
no longer a home for them. If their love for their great and glorious
mother country has diminished, it is only, and it is solely, because the
nutriment which supported the affection has been poisoned by men who
have ruled the councils of England. Yet, injured though they were, and
galled and insulted though they unquestionably have been, to palliate
and to justify that injury, still, we believe that the loyalists would
have looked beyond the sway of the free-trade party over England; would
have been willing to trust to England’s justice eventually doing justice
to them, had it not been for the lessons which we have already referred
to as having been diffused by free-trade philosophy with free trade
itself. It is the colonists being practically told, that those who ruled
the councils of the empire would do the best they could for themselves,
and that they must and might do likewise, that made the inroads upon
their loyalty. It is the utter absence of the spirit of compromise—of a
disposition to make a single sacrifice, or to harmonise a single
interest, either to preserve the empire or to save it from humiliation,
by the free-trade party of England, that has taught the colonists
selfishness sufficient to make them say that they would leave Britain
behind for “material interests;” that they too had allowed all memories
of the past to be obliterated in the struggles and aspirations of
avarice. Let England contrast the conduct of these colonies twelve years
ago with what it is now. Let her ask those who have been willing to
forego their connexion with her destiny, and the glory and the safety of
her protection, what it is that causes them to do so; and they will
answer, to a man, it is the teachings and the effects of free trade.
These lessons have been falling upon the colonial mind for years, like
water upon a rock, and they have worn seams and made impressions upon
it, that the swords of many enemies in many years could not have
effected.
But we have now arrived at a point when that plain and straightforward
question, common to Englishmen to ask, may be put to us—and that is,
What is to be done with the colonies, situated as they are? Connected
with this, too, is another question, equally necessary to be answered,
which is—What is Great Britain likely to lose, in possessions, people,
and character, with the Canadas, if she loses them?
With regard to the latter question, which, as it is suggestive of the
consequences to be provided against, it may be better to consider before
that which is suggestive of a remedy—it seems clear enough to us, that
the loss of all the North American colonies would inevitably follow that
of the Canadas. The situation of all of them is the same. Free trade has
affected them nearly equally; and it is a significant fact, that the
agitation upon the subject of “annexation,” without concert, common
interests, or agreement, commenced in all the provinces simultaneously,
though not to the same extent in some as in others. But, apart from
this, if the great province of Upper Canada should take leave of
Britain, the following of the others would be as natural as the limbs
following the dictates of the head. It is indeed useless to waste words
upon a matter that is perfectly self-evident; for if the Canadas
separate from Britain, it must and will go forth to the world, that they
had to do so in order to prosper; and all the colonies being
dissatisfied, and chafing under the same mortifications, and suffering
the same injuries from England’s free-trade policy, would claim, upon
the same grounds, to be relieved of the withering shadow of her power in
America. However uncomplimentary or unjust this may or might be, such
will be the opinion of the world, and Great Britain must prepare to meet
it, or to counteract what will occasion it. As misfortunes, too, do not
come single with a nation more than with an individual, the West Indian
possessions would assuredly follow the North American; and would
certainly not give any more complimentary reasons for doing so. Great
Britain would therefore stand forth before the rest of her colonies and
the world, as having utterly and humiliatingly failed to govern those
she lost with that success which ought to result from her free
institutions, and the freedom of her people. Now this momentous
consideration is clearly bound up with that of what she is to do with
the Canadas. Now, will Great Britain—by whatsoever cause or policy they
may justify their claim for separation, or by whatsoever party in
England it may be or may have been favoured—permit the Canadas to shake
off her power, with these consequences palpably before her eyes? Will
she not the rather prefer coming back to that best of all systems—mutual
sacrifices for common good, and mutual concessions for national
integrity and destiny? Will she not rather endeavour to impart to them
that capital and those people, which would benefit her much, and make
them rich indeed? We think so; and we think she will, because we know
she can devise a plan for doing so, and for governing them in a manner
that will not be attended with the mortifications that have accrued to
both the colonists and the mother country, from all former patchings and
props to a constitutionally bad colonial system. Thinking this, we shall
now proceed briefly to consider—for in the space we have at our command,
it would be impossible fully to show—what great Britain would lose, in
possessions, by losing the Canadas. In this we shall be obliged to lay
under tribute a short but interesting sketch of the Canadas, their value
and extent, by the late Charles Fothergill. He spent many years in the
colonies; knew them well; and his opinions are those of an intelligent
English gentleman, who saw, and made himself practically and thoroughly
acquainted with what he wrote concerning
“THE CANADAS.
“The geographical position of this vast country may be thus generally
stated:—It is bounded on the east by the Gulf of St Lawrence and
Labrador; on the north by the territories of Hudson’s Bay; on the west
by the Pacific Ocean; on the south by Indian countries, which extend
to Mexico, and part of the United States of America—viz., Wisconsin,
Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Vermont,
New Hampshire, the district of Maine, and by the British province of
New Brunswick. These boundaries describe a large and magnificent
portion of the globe we inhabit, large enough for the foundation of an
empire, which may become hereafter the arbitress of the destinies of
the new world, embracing with her mighty arms the whole width of the
great continent of America. Secured in her rear by the frozen regions
of the north, and with such a front as she possesses towards the
south, it is impossible but that, with the adoption of wise and
decisive measures, she must be able, hereafter, to hold a far more
potential influence over the countries of the south, than was ever
held by the Tartars, (in their best days,) over Asia; or by the
northern hordes of Europe over the empire of Rome, at the period of
her overthrow. The foundation stone of this empire has been laid by
England, and it depends on the wisdom of her councils, and on the
loyalty, ambition, temper, skill, industry, bravery, high qualities,
and perseverance of the Canadians, no matter of what origin, how far
the fairy vision which is kindled up in fancy may be realised.
“We have only to cast our eyes slightly over a map of North America,
to be immediately assured of the singularly advantageous situation of
the settled parts of Upper Canada. Seated like a gem in the bosom of a
country that is neither scorched by the sultry summers of the south,
nor blasted by the tardy, bitter, winters of the north; surrounded by
the most magnificent lakes, and possessing the most extensive internal
navigation in the known world, it would be difficult, perhaps
impossible, to find in any other region of the globe a tract of
country of the same magnitude with so many natural advantages, as that
part of Upper Canada which lies between the Lakes Ontario, Erie, and
Huron, and the Ottawa, or Grand River, nine-tenths of the whole extent
of which are calculated for the exercise of almost every description
of agricultural labour, and with such a prospect of success as,
perhaps, no other part of this continent could realise. A part of this
tract of country, commencing in the neighbourhood of Kingston, and
running westward nearly 500 miles to the Sandwich frontier, by a
depth, northward, of from 40 to 100 miles, is, alone, capable of
supplying all Europe with grain; besides being rich in cattle, and
producing silver, lead, copper, iron, lime, marl, gypsum, marble,
freestone, coal, salt, wool, hemp and flax, of the best quality,
tobacco and timber of every description, besides furs, game, fish, and
many other valuable productions.
Much has been said, at a distance, against the climate of this fine
country. Those, however, who have removed to it from Great Britain are
agreeably disappointed in finding it more pleasant, (all things
considered,) than that which they have left, because it is neither so
moist nor so unsettled. It might be said, with no great impropriety,
that the present inhabitants of Canada have but two seasons—summer and
winter—for winter has no sooner disappeared, which generally happens
by the middle of April, than the whole animal and vegetable creation
starts into renewed life, with a rapidity and vigour that leaves the
season of spring with such doubtful limits as to be scarcely
perceptible, or deserving a specific character. Again, in the fall of
the year, the months of September and October are generally so fine
and summerlike, and these being succeeded by what is aptly termed the
Indian summer, in November, (that month which is so gloomy in England,
and said to be so fatal to Englishmen,) that we should have great
difficulty, were it not for an artificial calendar, in saying when it
was autumn. As a proof of the general nature of our climate, and to
show that we have other sources of wealth, by the exercise of domestic
industry, in store, it must not be here forgotten that the culture of
both cotton and indigo has been attempted, on a small scale, in the
western district, with success; that the various species of Mulberry,
necessary for the growth of silk, flourish under the care of those who
have made the experiment in the London and western districts; that
vineyards may be advantageously laid out; and the hop is found in
perfection almost everywhere. It may be readily supposed that, in such
a vast extent of country, every description of soil, and every variety
of surface, as to mountains, hills, valleys, and plains, must occur.
Speaking of the inhabited parts of Canada, the Lower Province is the
most mountainous, and the Upper the most level and champagne; indeed,
from the division line on Lake St Francis to Sandwich, a distance of
nearly six hundred miles, nothing like a mountain occurs, although the
greater part of the country which is passed through, between those
places, is gently undulated into pleasing hills, fine slopes, and
fertile valleys. There is, however, a ridge of rocky and generally
barren country, running south-easterly from Lake Huron, through the
Newcastle district, towards the Ottawa, or Grand River, at the
distance of from 50 to 100 miles from the northern shore of Lake
Ontario, and the course of the River St Lawrence; a ridge which
divides and directs the course of innumerable streams, those on one
side running to the northward or north-east, whilst those on the other
run to the southward, and empty themselves into Lake Ontario or the
River St Lawrence. The base of this ridge has an elevation of not much
less than 200 feet above the level of Ontario, and it is rich in
silver, lead, copper, and iron, and near the Lake Marmora, in white
marble. In the neighbourhood of Gunanoque, a beautifully variegated
marble of green and yellow is found; and, in the vicinity of Kingston,
there is an immense bed of black and also gray marble.
“Farther to the north, beyond the French River, which falls into Lake
Huron, are immense mountains, some of them of great elevation. Many of
the mountains which describe the great valley of the St Lawrence, are
from 2000 to 3000 feet above the level of the river; and that part of
the chain which approaches the city of Quebec, on the northern side of
the river, is worthy the attention of the geologist; and, in a
particular manner, of the mineralogist, from the hope there is every
reason to entertain that these mountains yield several rare and
valuable kinds of earth for pigments, which may hereafter become
articles of commerce. When in Quebec, some years ago, the writer of
this sketch was shown several fine specimens, in the seminary of that
city, which had been procured in those mountains at no great distance
from Quebec; amongst which may be mentioned a rich brown resembling
the Vandyke brown of artists; a yellow, equal to that of Naples, and
an extraordinary fine blue, of a tint between that of indigo and the
costly ultramarine. The subject is mentioned in this place with a view
of exciting further inquiry and experiment; because, at present, the
artists and colourmen of London are principally supplied with their
most valuable pigments from Italy. A scientific gentleman who has
lately explored the coast of Labrador, and the Gulf of St Lawrence,
was very successful in his mineralogical pursuits, particularly in the
neighbourhood of Gaspé, from whence he obtained some new, and many
valuable and beautiful specimens of the quartz family—including a
great variety of cornelians, agates, opals, and jaspers; several of
which have been cut into useful or ornamental articles at Quebec. From
Labrador the same gentleman brought several large and beautiful
specimens of the spar so peculiar to that coast, and which is commonly
known by the name of Labrador spar, of a brilliant cornelian or
ultramarine tint, with others of a green, yellow, red, and one or two
of a singularly fine pearl-gray colour. These specimens were found at
Mingan, imbedded in a rock of granite.
“It may give a just idea of the general richness of the soil to state,
that we have frequently heard of instances where 50 bushels of wheat
per acre have been produced on a farm, even where the stumps (which
would probably occupy one eighth of the surface of the field) have not
been eradicated; and, in the district of Newcastle, many examples may
be found wherein wheat has been raised on the same ground for 16 or 18
years successively, without the application of manure! The general
average of the returns of wheat crops, however, throughout Upper
Canada, is probably not more than 25 bushels per acre, owing to the
space occupied by stumps, and the indifferent skill of some of the
farmers. The winter wheats are found to be the most productive, and
they weigh the heaviest: the best seldom exceeds 64 lb. or 65 lb., to
the Winchester bushel, although we have known several instances of
higher weights.
“Of Indian corn or maize, from 60 to 80 bushels per acre is not an
uncommon return; and of pumpkins, of the largest kinds, we have
instances of more than a cwt. being produced from a single seed. But
there cannot be a more certain indication of the depth and richness of
the soil than the fine growth of the timber which it produces; and we
have not unfrequently measured particular trees of that species of
white oak, which grows in low moist places, and which is usually
called swamp oak, that gave circumferences of sixteen to seventeen and
eighteen feet, and an altitude of from thirty to forty, and even fifty
feet to the first bough. And we have more than once, on the rich lands
to the northward of Rice Lake, found white pine trees, that give a
diameter of five feet, and altitude of two hundred! These are facts
that determine at once the depth, richness, and vegetative power of
the soil, since those giants of the forest are not nourished solely by
the heavens which they pierce, but also by the earth from whence they
spring.
“Vegetation is so rapid in this country, that barley sown in July has
been reaped in the second week of September, for several years
successively, and on land that was deemed poor and exhausted; and a
more abundant crop has been seldom witnessed.
“From every observation and experiment that has been made, no doubt
can be entertained of the great fertility of the soil of this fine
country. Not only does every vegetable production which thrives in
similar latitudes in Europe prosper here, but others, which require
either greater heat or greater care, are found to succeed in Canada,
without any particular attention. The finest melons and cucumbers are
brought to perfection in the open fields, and tobacco is cultivated
with success. Even the wild grapes become ripe by the first or second
week in September; so that there is every reason to believe, if
vineyards were cultivated, the inhabitants of this country might add a
variety of choice wines to their list of articles of home consumption,
and of foreign trade. We have drunk of wine very nearly resembling,
and but little inferior to, that of Oporto, which was made from the
common wild grape of the country.”
Now, we have already shown the prosperity that has attended labour in
these provinces, and the comfort and independence that is enjoyed by
their farmers. Few readers in England—at least it is to be hoped there
are few—have not read something of the life and prosperity of the
thousands who are annually taking possession of the vast prairies of the
western states and the valley of the Mississippi. We have shown that, by
the most adventurous and the shrewdest people in the world, the Canadas
have been preferred to them. If England had the world to select from,
she could not desire a finer country for her poor to prosper in, or for
her poor gentlemen to strike out for themselves in, and to work where
labour is honoured, and where its rewards are the only titles that the
people lay claim to. We have, after some pains and calculation, arrived
at the conclusion, that at least five millions of additional inhabitants
can, by agricultural pursuits alone, prosper, in a manner unknown in
Europe, in the province of Upper Canada; not by the hundreds perpetually
toiling for the tens, but by the hundreds having an opportunity, from
the prodigious extent of the country, of becoming, by industry and
management, the lords of their own, and that an abundant, share of the
soil. Now, will Great Britain let it go forth to the world, that she
cannot keep her flag floating over this great country in prosperity and
peace? We think not. But will she do what may be necessary to make it to
her what it ought to be? and make herself to it what she might, and
should be? We think she will; and we shall now, in so far as our short
space will admit of, point out what the country has suffered from, and
what it requires to make it a credit to England, and a support to her
power, instead of being a source of mortification to her, and an
inglorious field for the employment of her troops.
The country’s whole wants may be comprised in few words. It wants
population—not paupers, without industry, or anything left to engraft a
manly pride upon; but people that the country is by nature adapted to
benefit, and who are by nature adapted to benefit it. It wants capital,
nationality, stability in its institutions, and peace.
Now, will the people of England, under the present colonial system,
which has from the very first been marked by broils, misunderstandings,
and commotions—which have always undermined the credit of the colonies,
which are now worse than ever, and which must soon lead to something
worse still, (for paroxysms such as they have must change for the
better, or the state of the patient will become hopeless,)—will the
people of England, then, who have anything to lose, and who wish to live
in peace, settle in the Canadas in this state of things; and in this
state of hopes, too? We think not.
The same reasons which would prevent people settling in the colonies,
would likewise prevent capital being invested in them; so that, under
the present system, there can be no rational hope entertained of the
colonies having much, if any, capital invested in them.
This brings us to the consideration, then, of this other great and
principal want, upon which, in fact, all the others are mainly
founded—namely, a nationality and stability in their institutions. We
have already, in the October number of the Magazine, pointed out at some
length, that these can only be properly and effectually acquired by the
colonists being represented in the Imperial Legislature, and raised to
the standard, in fact, of British subjects. We have shown—and every
event and circumstance that has transpired since has confirmed us in the
opinion—that it is only by this that the colonies can be, or, indeed,
ought to be, connected with Great Britain. They can never otherwise have
the stamp of permanency put upon their institutions. They can never
otherwise command that credit in the world which they are justly
entitled to. But, above all, they can never otherwise make their
property and worth known to England, or to the world, in such a way as
to secure that attention to it which is absolutely indispensable to the
legitimate prosperity of the country.
We have left ourselves comparatively little space to say much, in
addition to what we said in October, upon this great question. It may in
the end, however, be mainly resolved into this—Would it be better to
have intelligent colonists representing and making known their own
interests in Great Britain, than to have incompetent governors sent out
to the colonies, to keep them in constant broils among themselves, and
in constant collision with the colonial office in England? We are but
too well assured that it would be better. And in forming these great
colonies into an empire, which Great Britain must do if she does them
justice, and which indeed will be done with or without Britain,—the race
that inhabits them must, in the very nature of things, be and become
what they ought to be. But if Great Britain will but undertake to do so,
can any man say that no questions could arise in that empire’s growth
and maturity, upon which her wisdom, experience, and mind might not
exert a salutary influence? Or can any person, willing to take a broad
view of this great question and country, continue in the belief that it
should be, or ought to be crippled, or have its growth longer stunted?
Probably one of the most galling circumstances connected with colonial
residence and birth, is the constantly seeing and feeling that colonial
mind is underrated by England; for no other reason, it would seem, than
because it is colonial; or, if there be another reason, it is the no
less humiliating one, that England deems the mind of the colonies
beneath her attention. Not less injurious, though less disagreeable, is
the indifference constantly displayed by England towards the colonies,
and the almost universal ignorance that prevails there as to their
importance and worth. It was the same with the old colonies. The idea
was ridiculed of “clod-hopping colonists” entering the House of Commons,
and holding up their heads among the collected wisdom of Great Britain.
The unpretending but profound wisdom of Franklin was sneered at and
underrated by men as much higher than him in power as they were lower in
understanding. The powerful and convincing eloquence of Patrick Henry
fell dead upon the English nation; and what has since commanded the
admiration of the world for its originality and boldness, was then
regarded with cold contempt.
Speaking of what should be the treatment of American mind by England,
Adam Smith used the following language; and its complete applicability
to the present state of things, shows that great truths lose nothing by
long keeping. He said—
“By this representation, a new method of acquiring importance, a new
and more dazzling object of ambition, would be presented to the
leading men of each colony. Instead of piddling for the little prizes
which are to be found in what may be called the paltry raffle of a
colony faction, they might then hope, from the presumption which men
naturally have in their own ability and good fortune, to draw some of
the great prizes which sometimes come from the whole of the great
state lottery of British politics. Unless this, or some other method
is fallen upon—and there seems to be none more obvious than this—of
preserving the importance and gratifying the ambition of the leading
men in America, it is not very probable they will ever voluntarily
submit to us; and we ought to consider that the blood we shed in
forcing them to do so, is, every drop of it, the blood of either those
who are, or of those whom we wish to have, for our fellow citizens.”
Before concluding this part of our subject, we cannot avoid comparing
the conduct of the American States towards their distant possessions,
and the feeling of these distant possessions towards them, with that of
Britain towards her colonies, and of her colonies towards Britain. We
could perhaps adduce no better argument in favour of what we are
contending for; and the example of America is well worthy the attention
of a power like Britain, which owes so much of its greatness to its
distant possessions, and so many of its troubles and embarrassments to
their bad management.
California is between five and six months’ passage from New York round
Cape Horn. It is about thirty-five days by way of Panama. It is several
months—and the journey is only at certain seasons accomplishable at
all—by the south pass of the Rocky Mountains; and it is about forty days
by way of the Mexican territory, with many dangers and uncertainties
attending it to even well-protected parties—and somewhat of the most
hazardous to those who are not protected. Now, these distant possessions
of the United States—which are, measuring distance by the time and
difficulties attending the journey, at least four times as far as
Halifax is from Liverpool—these distant possessions, how are they
treated by America? Has their intended application to be received into
the Union, and to bear their share of its burthens, and receive their
share of its benefits and protection, been regarded as dreamy and
utopian? Have the States regarded it as impossible to extend to them
their stability, and the conservative elements of their legislation and
federal government? Have the States had their misgivings, as to
California’s representatives having too much influence in their
government? or have the Californians thought the United States’
government would exercise too much power over them? Whatever they have,
or have not, thought in this respect, the great consideration of their
becoming an integral portion of the United States, of their being
identified with their destiny, and borne along with their prosperity,
has utterly obliterated all others; and there is no doubt but that in a
few years they will bear the same relation to the American Union that
Louisiana and Texas do.
Now, what good reason is there why Great Britain should not regard her
North American colonies and her West Indian possessions in the same way
as the States do California? And why should these colonies and
possessions not look to England as the Californians do to the States—and
seek, in the same way, to identify themselves with her destiny—to share
in her stability—to participate in her glory and greatness—and to enjoy,
as far as they merit it, her vast credit?
But it is not alone in the mutual appreciation of each other’s value, by
the States and their distant possessions, and their mutual willingness
to share in each other’s burthens, and to have an identity of destiny,
that these States and their possessions differ from Great Britain and
her colonies. The two nations, apart from the views of their respective
colonists, differ widely from each other in the most essential point
necessary to the beneficial governmental connexion of any country with
another, be it empire or colony, or distant far or near. And that
difference consists in the people of the United States always becoming
thoroughly acquainted with what they are connected with, and thoroughly
understanding how that connexion may be rendered advantageous; and in
the people of England’s desiring to retain their sway over what they
will not take the trouble to understand, and wishing to combine and
harmonise their interests with those which they seem, and ever have
seemed, determined to be in ignorance regarding. Almost every
intelligent inhabitant of the States, at this present moment, has nearly
as definite and particular a knowledge of the portions of California
that have been explored, as those who live in or have traversed
California for themselves. The value of town lots, their situation and
eligibility in San Francisco are as well understood in New York and
Boston as they are by the man who occupies the next lot to them. There
is not a spot where a village might grow up—there is not a place where a
mill might be advantageously built—that is not known, marked, and
considered, with all its relative bearings and benefits, by thousands in
the States, with just as much intention of taking advantage of it, and,
from the extraordinary enterprise of the people, with just as much
likelihood of being able to do so, as those that are on the spot. The
whole country—its towns, its situations for towns, its valleys, its
hills, its woods, and its want of woods, its crops, and its climate,
are, for all purposes of business, for present and for future advantage
to the States, well and universally understood by the mass of the
people. Its newspapers, published at the immense distance that San
Francisco is from New York and Boston, are largely supported by
subscribers in these cities, and by the people in every direction over
the vast surface of the United States. The advertisements in them of
village lots for sale, are matters of nearly as much interest to
Americans as an auction sale of a bankrupt’s furniture and plate would
be to a Jew in London.
Now, can it be accounted as other than natural, that the legislation of
America should partake of the universality of its mind, and the
largeness of its activity and enterprise?—that, California’s interests,
situation, extent, and value, being well understood by America, America
might wisely legislate for it?—that America might beneficially extend
the mantle of her wisdom and experience over it, and infuse the
conservative elements of her federal government into it, and raise it as
much in the estimation of the world as it benefited it within itself?
Hence the desire of the Californians that the flag of the United States
should not only represent their protection of California, but their
government over it, and their legislation in it, which the world has
associated with success and advancement.
Now, for upwards of half a century, there has been an extensive
commercial intercourse carried on between Great Britain and her North
American colonies. The province of Upper Canada is all that we have
described it to be—open to five millions of people to settle and become
independent in—open to many more millions of capital being profitably
invested in it. The other colonies ever have been, and are, full of
opportunities for the successful employment of money and enterprise, and
the profitable application of labour. But we would here ask, with such
opportunities on the part of Great Britain of knowing the value of these
magnificent possessions, has she shown anything of the activity of mind
and the universality of enterprise of America? Has she literally done
anything where the Americans have done everything, to render these
possessions valuable to her—to render them a vast boon to her people,
instead of being a perpetual source of confusion and embarrassment to
her government? Who has there been in England, with capital ready to
invest and enterprise ready to undertake, looking out for valuable mill
sites on the magnificent rivers of the Canadas? How many of her
capitalists have been looking over the map of the colonies, and
inquiring into the richness and value of particular lands, adjacent to a
stream, where a village or a town might be formed and grow up? Who in
England have been learning the wealth of her colonies in timber, in
fisheries, in minerals, and in scores of other things, with the view of
profitably employing their capital in them, and making the colonies
while they enriched themselves? Few, very few, indeed. Is it not a fact,
that thousands in Great Britain, whose capital might be of the vastest
use to the colonies, and the colonies the best field in the world for
reproducing it, hardly know whether they lie on the north or the south
side of the St Lawrence; hardly know whether the cities of Hamilton and
Toronto are on lake Ontario or lake Erie; hardly know whether Upper
Canada is a cold, inhospitable region, or possesses the bracing, genial,
and healthy climate it really has? And though it is now but a ten days’
trip from these colonies to Great Britain, and they possess so many
objects of interest and value to her, we believe we might with safety
offer a reward to any person who would find in England, apart from
government officials, news-rooms, and colonial traders, twelve men who
take a Canadian newspaper. Now, is it any wonder that the colonists
would like to get rid of a system of colonial government which has been
productive of no better knowledge or understanding, for this period of
time, of their interests and prosperity than this? Is it any wonder that
they feel that they never can, and never will, be appreciated, valued,
or benefited as they should, and might, and ought to be, as long as the
present system is kept up? Is it any wonder that, knowing their great
country—knowing what it is capable of—and knowing what they as colonists
should be thought of in connexion with it, they should seek in the
parliament of Great Britain to place themselves and their country before
the world in the position that they both should occupy?
As pertinent to this view of the question, we may here mention that the
facilities of communication between Great Britain and the colonies have
now become so great and so perfect, that all the commercial houses of
importance in the colonies send home their agents twice a-year to
purchase goods. Thus these agents go home in January to lay in their
spring and summer stocks. They return to Canada again in the latter end
of March, and make their observations of the trade, and help to sell the
goods they purchased in England. In July, they go home again to buy
their fall and winter stocks, and in October they return to help to
assort and to sell them. The agent for the large importing house of
Buchanan, Harris, & Co., in Hamilton, at the head of Lake Ontario, has
done this for years; and between Hamilton (which is five hundred and
ninety-five miles above Quebec) and Liverpool, since the Canard steamers
have been running, the time occupied on the journey has not varied two
days, the time of performing it averaging but eighteen days. We may add,
too, as a singular fact, that we have seen, in a country village six
hundred and twenty-five miles above Quebec, fashions worn within the
same month in which they first appeared in London!
Now, should these extraordinary evidences of the triumphs of science
over matter not teach legislation to move from its old and crippling
paths, and to keep pace with the spirit and the advancement of the age?
Is it not a fact, pregnant with powerful reasons why the colonies should
represent their own interests in the Legislature of Great Britain, that
commercial houses find it indispensable to their success to be
represented twice a-year in the British markets? Yet the vast property
and interests of the colonies are without any representation in that
legislature, where alone they can be fostered or withered. We have
pointed out the consequences.
Before concluding this paper, it may be expected by the English public,
(and indeed by the Americans,) that we should not pass unnoticed a
movement in the colonies, which, though it might well have been looked
for, from what we have already proved and shown, has still struck the
great body of the people of England with surprise, if not with alarm. We
mean the movement in favour of the “annexation” of the colonies to the
States. It may be proper, in the first place, to say, that though its
name would seem to imply that the consent of the government and people
of the United States had been solicited and obtained, before the “banns”
were published to the world, yet that consent has never been asked, nor
was it either promised or given without the asking. The people of the
United States are quietly and calmly looking on at the dispute between
Great Britain and her colonies, and they are determined to continue so
to do until that dispute is settled. The days of their bitterness and
hostility to England are over. What they may, or what they would do, if
the colonies should be separated from Britain, they reserve to
themselves the right of deciding when the colonies are in a position to
ask for themselves, and to act for themselves. In this we believe we
express the feelings and opinions of the great body of the intelligent
people of the American States—certainly we do of the distinguished
individual at the head of their government, and of the whole of the
respectable portion of the American press. A report may reach England,
that a portion of the money which was collected in the States, to aid
the late unhappy insurrection in Ireland, has been contributed to
establish and support “annexation” newspapers in the Canadas. This
report requires confirmation; and if it were even partially true, it
would only amount to this, that the “Irish Directory” in New York, who
are said to have the money, have been regularly sold; for if they wished
to dismember England, there is nothing they could possibly do that would
more effectually tend to defeat their intentions. The “annexation”
movement rests, in truth, upon the merits or demerits of its own
treason, for treason it assuredly is. Authorised by whomsoever it may
be—justified, occasioned, or palliated by whatever men or measures, in
England or elsewhere—it is clearly a case of attempting to dissolve her
Majesty’s empire in the name of “material interests,” being moved and
instigated thereto by a certain individual called _free trade_.
But can this movement go on and prosper, seditious as it palpably is,
without establishing a most dangerous precedent for England? And can it
be stopped without a waste of life and money, that would bring Great
Britain but little credit, and less advantage?
Whatever may be the danger of the precedent, and whatever may be its
effects upon other colonies, or upon England herself, it seems clear
that a large expenditure of blood and money, to suppress this movement
in the Canadas, is neither desirable, nor, in the present temper of the
British public, might it be possible. And this movement never could be
physically or forcibly put down, without a large expenditure of both
these. The men who have deliberately entered into it are not such as
could be easily driven out of the land, or frightened out of their
convictions in it. They would fight for their opinions, and, considering
all things—loyalists disgusted, and Frenchmen in power—they are
dangerously numerous.
This brings us, then, to consider what is being done in a conciliatory
point of view, by the free-trade party in England—who are answerable for
the difficulty—to take the wind out of this “annexation movement’s”
sails. This is, according to Lord John Russell’s speech—at the dinner
given some months since, for the purpose, it would seem, of discussing
colonial subjects—to give them more liberty. Heaven help us! If Lord
John Russell saw, as we have seen, liberty recently running clean mad in
these colonies; if he saw responsible government playing its “fantastic
tricks before high heaven,” with England’s “dignified neutrality”
looking on, he would hardly be disposed to give them any more rope. But
what is the character of the liberty and privileges they ask? and, being
asked, he would give them? The last small instalment they require is, to
elect their legislative council; and, thinking that the phantom of Great
Britain’s power, called “dignified neutrality,” may be had at a cheaper
rate at home, they propose to elect that also—feeling, too, not without
justice, that they might thereby _neutralise_ the loss to the colonies
of some four thousand pounds annually. But suppose England should waive
the privilege of sending out a phantom, and the legislative lords would
have, like David Crocket, to go about the country electioneering with a
pocket full of _quids_, pray what, after all this, would be left in the
colonies to recognise England by? An Englishman coming to them, like the
man in the farce who had been asleep for a century, would find it rather
difficult to recognise his relations. But, seriously, what is all this
but annexation? And is this the only way the great authors of the
colonial difficulties have of keeping the colonies British?—of making
them a home for men who seek and who claim to live under the
institutions of Britain? Better—infinitely better—would it be to tell
men straightforwardly, and at once, that they must feel the iron enter
their souls of seeing the flag of their forefathers hauled down on the
American continent for ever, than compel them to endure its being thus
slowly and gradually disgraced out of it. And this would and must be the
inevitable result of Lord John Russell’s giving the colonies more rope.
But what other cause or question is there now before the colonies to put
against this “annexation movement?” Of purely colonial questions there
are none. Beyond the true and honest hearts which love Britain, despite
of all her faults; who would, and will, cling to her, although she has
sadly requited their attachment,—she has nothing now to bind her to or
to represent her in America. Her institutions are gone; her government
has ceased to be respected; Lord Elgin has made her power as “the
baseless fabric of a vision.” There is nothing Britain can do; there is
nothing Britain ought to do, but to say, emphatically and at once, to
her North American colonies—We have not understood you—we have not
appreciated you—we have not known your great country as we should have
known it—we have not respected your mind or your interests; but we will
now make you partners in our great legislature—we will impart to you our
credit, our greatness, and our stability—and we will bind you up with
our destiny.
Great Britain has a glorious part to play in America; and she has a
disastrous one. _She has but a short time to decide upon which she will
play._
HAMILTON, CANADA WEST, _Jan. 17, 1850_.
(POSTSCRIPT.)
The very day on which I last wrote you, we received a London morning
paper, containing an announcement that the Whig ministry were prepared
to give up these colonies, and to take upon themselves, before
parliament, the responsibility of the act. Though it seemed unlike that
party—whatever they might privately think, or whatever they might
plainly see must be the inevitable result of their present free-trade
policy—to take so bold, or rather, so frank a step, yet the articles
which have appeared from time to time in the _Times_, and which bore on
the face of them an air of authority, had prepared me to attach some
credence to the statement. These, after all, may be put from the cabinet
as feelers upon the country. They may be but a disingenuous _ruse_ of
men who do not seek to regulate their conduct by what they ought to do
from the dictates of enlightened principle and great national
consideration, but are anxious only to float along with the current of
popular delusion, regardless of the nation’s humiliation and
dismemberment. It is my belief, however, that if the present ministry,
backed by Mr Cobden and the Manchester party, play into the hands of
those here who are struggling to dismember the empire, it will produce a
civil or social war in the colonies. There is a large body of their
British and loyal inhabitants who will cling to Britain, and keep her
flag floating here; and who will, if necessary, part with their lives
ere they part with it. It is possible—nay, is it not certain?—that Sir
Robert Peel, and other statesmen, who have plainly and undeniably placed
the colonies in a situation incompatible with imperial connexion,—may
throw out such hints and suggestions in the approaching session of
parliament, as will agitate and move the colonies to their very heart’s
core,—one party to secure a majority in favour of their “annexation” to
the States, the other to prevent the dismemberment of their mother
country? Sir Robert Peel and others have thrown out such suggestions
before; but, under existing circumstances, if they are again put forth,
they will be regarded by the “annexation movement” party as an
invitation to test the opinions of the colonies—to proselytise them, as
in fact they are now doing, into insurrection, and away from allegiance
to Britain. Meetings will follow; _the stars and stripes_ will be
hoisted by one party; the flag of their forefathers by the other; and,
take my word for it, you will hear of struggles of which God only can
tell the end, and what they may lead to here and elsewhere. Certainly
the world will never have witnessed such a scene. The statesmen, the
cabinet even of Britain playing into the hands of those who would tear
down her flag in America; and her loyal children supporting it against
the influence of many who are, and have been, surrounding the throne.
A long residence in the colonies, and a habit of observing, unbiassed by
colonial party considerations, the character and tendencies of men and
measures, have enabled me to judge, with some accuracy, of the effects
of causes not generally supposed to be pregnant with important results.
At this moment there are, in my judgment, the slumbering elements of a
deadly strife in the colonies. There is but a small remove between a
civil revolution and a physical struggle. The seeds of the national and
revolutionary hurricane are often sown in the peaceful closet, and by
men who could weep over the thought of what they would produce. The
seeds of a wild and fearful hurricane in the colonies, and which must
and will reach England, may be now sowing in many a peaceful closet in
England. Mr Cobden may talk of peace, and denuding Britain of her
national defences, and convincing men against all humanity’s experience;
but he must be, he should be, made aware, that he has not made Britain,
and may not be allowed to unmake her. He has not added these colonies to
her crown; and while he may be in words _twaddling_ about universal
peace, his very speeches may be sowing the seeds here of a deadly
struggle. Let him beware; let others beware of the vanity of free-trade
success. The wisdom of the Manchester school has not been that which has
made Great Britain. Let its vanity and its arrogance not ruin her. If it
arms treason here—if it wings a storm, from which England may learn
much, it may be taught to feel what it has done. The demagogues of
Athens succeeded in banishing the great and the just, but they did not
succeed in destroying greatness or justice—these are immortal. The
free-trade party may denude Britain of her glorious possessions in
America, but these possessions may be the rising, growing, unending
shame of those who caused their loss, and the generation of Britons who
permitted it.
HAMILTON, _30th January 1850_.
A LATE CASE OF COURT-MARTIAL.[1]
“Surely never was so slight a fault visited by so severe a punishment!”
Such is the exclamation which will fall from the lips, or pass through
the mind, we believe, of every one who shall peruse Mr Warren’s _Letter
to the Queen on a Late Court-Martial_. The reader of that letter will
also rise from its perusal with the painful conviction, that, in the
awarding of this heavy punishment, a gross violation of one of the most
ordinary and fundamental laws of jurisprudence has been committed; and
he will probably conclude with Mr Warren, that if this be a fair
specimen of the lax manner in which justice is administered in
courts-martial, some reform is necessary in their structure, or, at all
events, some higher court of appeal ought to be instituted for the
revision of their proceedings.
We have read this admirable letter of Mr Warren’s with unusual interest.
As a literary performance it well comports with, and sustains the
established reputation of its author; but it reflects a high honour upon
him of another and loftier description than that which springs from
literary excellence. It shows him in the light of a warmhearted, zealous
champion of one whom he believes, and with every appearance of reason,
to be an oppressed and injured man. He had assisted Captain Douglas at
his trial before the court-martial, on which he now comments, as his
legal adviser; he had done his duty as counsel for the defendant, so far
as such a court admits of the aid or interference of counsel; he had no
interest to promote, and no obligation to fulfil, by any further
advocacy of his cause. Captain Douglas had been condemned; the great
authorities of the Horse Guards had sanctioned and confirmed the
sentence: a cautious man, and a lover of his ease, would here have
parted company. He would have shaken his mournful client by the hand,
and, with some cold unmeaning words of condolence, have left him with
that troop of summer friends, who have, no doubt, by this time, found
him a most uncompanionable man. The world was now against him; to
volunteer his defence was to oppose constituted authorities; it was to
side with weakness against power—with defeat against triumph. It was to
stand side by side with one in adversity—stricken, and condemned. But
caution and love of ease are evidently motives that have very little
influence on the mind of Mr Warren. As the counsel of Captain Douglas,
he had grown warm in his defence; he could not suddenly cool when he saw
him prostrate, defeated, and dishonoured. He was convinced of the
innocence of his client; he felt persuaded that it was in his power to
show to all mankind that that client had been cruelly dealt with—treated
with a degree of harshness amounting to injustice. His position of
counsel had also given him insight into the whole legal proceedings of
this court-martial, which betrayed to his practised eye a palpable
infraction of one at least of those essential rules by which every
tribunal of justice ought to be governed, or cease to be considered a
tribunal of justice. He knew all this, and the truth _burnt within him_;
he could not sit down in silence; he could not at once dismiss his
sympathy and indignation—his sympathy for an injured man, his
indignation for the rules of justice violated. He had ceased to be the
advocate of Captain Douglas, but he still clung to his cause, for it was
the cause, he was persuaded, of truth and justice.
“Only a great and pressing exigency,” he thus explains himself in the
eloquent exordium of his letter, “could have induced one of the
humblest of your Majesty’s subjects to step forth from his obscurity,
and thus publicly and directly address your Majesty. Even had he not
known, however, the benignant and equitable temper of his sovereign, a
case like the present would have forced him to bring it forward; for
the voice of justice is a sublime one, strengthening the feeblest, and
elevating the humblest, who, hearing, endeavours to obey it.
“He who has thus ventured to beseech the ear of his sovereign,
believes in his conscience that the cause of justice in this country
has recently sustained, through a defective system of military
jurisprudence, a calamitous defeat.
“An officer, an accomplished gentleman, of ancient and honourable
family, in the very flower of his age,[2] after having devoted
thirteen years to the faithful and zealous service of your Majesty in
almost every quarter of your world-wide dominions, has been
ignominiously expelled from that service, branded as a Liar. He stood
on trial before his brother officers with as high vouchers to
character, as could have been presented, had it unfortunately been
rendered necessary by such a casualty as has befallen him, by any one
of themselves. He was, moreover, the eldest son of a general officer
who lately descended to his grave with honour, after half a century
spent in the service of three of your Majesty’s predecessors; leaving
behind him, as his eldest son, the unhappy gentleman to whose case I
earnestly implore the attention of your Majesty....
“That gentleman I believe to be, at this moment, one of the most
deeply-injured men in your Majesty’s dominions. He has been convicted
of misconduct of which he is utterly incapable; and I consider that
conviction to be altogether contrary to law and justice, and to have
proceeded upon an unconscious violation of cardinal and characteristic
rules of British jurisprudence, essential to the safety as well as to
the liberties of your Majesty’s subjects. And what has thus happened
to Captain Douglas may happen to any other gentleman who is now, or
may be hereafter, honoured by bearing the commission of your Majesty.
I think myself able to bring forward facts which are incontrovertible,
and reasonings which appear, if I may be permitted to say it,
conclusive—and that not to myself alone, but to others whose judgment,
were it publicly pronounced, would be deemed entitled to the utmost
deference—to establish the innocence of one, upon whose brow,
nevertheless, stands at this moment, and has stood for eight miserable
months, the brand of ‘infamous and scandalous conduct.’”
He then proceeds to say that her Majesty alone has the power to redress
the wrong of which he comes forward to complain.
“In the present case, the blighting sentence passed upon Captain
Douglas cannot be reviewed in any court of law. It was solemnly
decided, in your Majesty’s Court of Queen’s Bench, on a late occasion,
that it had no power to issue a prohibition to restrain the execution
of the sentence of a court-martial, after that sentence had been
ratified by the king, and carried into execution. And yet, in the
existing state of the law, the unfortunate accused has no means of
knowing the sentence which has crushed him, until it has been so
ratified, carried into execution, and thus declared _therefore_
irrevocable! And that sentence, too, pronounced by a _court of law_,
bound to proceed according to the law of the land—which law it may
have violated in every particular!”
It is hardly necessary to say, that the military law under which our
army has been governed, ever since the Revolution, is as completely
founded upon the statutes of parliament as any other branch of our
jurisprudence. A less technical mode of procedure is recognised as
prevailing in courts-martial, than that which regulates our civil or
criminal courts. But there is nothing of an _arbitrary_ nature in the
sentences they pass. These are determined, so far as this is possible,
by the act of parliament. A judge of the bankruptcy court is not more
bound by the statute, when he grants or withholds the bankrupt’s
certificate, than are the judges of a court-martial when they sentence a
fellow-officer to be cashiered. Let it be granted, therefore, that
Captain Douglas had so far committed himself, in the course of the
events we shall have to record, that it was expedient to bring him
before a court-martial. Let this be granted—an opinion, however, from
which many will dissent—when there, he claims justice! He is under the
protection of the law. He is not to be punished with undue severity; he
is not to be punished illegally.
It is probable that Mr Warren will be thought to have been carried a
little too far, in his vindication of Captain Douglas’s conduct, by his
generous zeal and by the ardour of advocacy. It would be asking too much
to require that he should suddenly assume towards his late client the
coolness of a quite impartial observer. But whilst his argument is that
of an advocate, and is something too much tainted with the logic of the
courts of Westminster, his statement of facts is full and impartial. He
may be a too zealous advocate, but he is a candid historian. It is
hardly necessary to add, that, whenever occasion legitimately permits,
he is a very pleasant and graphic historian.
We do not intend that our account of this case should be a substitute
for the perusal of Mr Warren’s pamphlet; we desire rather to prompt to
such a perusal. It is far, therefore, from our design to enter upon all
the topics it discusses. But the case is one to which, on public
grounds, we would cheerfully assist in calling public attention. In
doing so we shall endeavour, in the first place, to state, with perfect
impartiality, the real and sole offence, or fault, or error, of which it
seems to us Captain Douglas can be justly accused; and, in the second
place, to show with what _illegal severity_ this offence has been
visited. On the first of these topics, we shall, perhaps, be in some
slight degree at variance with our author; on the second, we shall fully
accord with him in his main and leading argument: for we think there
cannot be a doubt that the judgment of this court-martial is
vitiated—not by any merely technical error, but by an error affecting
the very justice of the sentence—by no less an error than the finding a
man guilty of an offence of a certain degree of guilt, and condemning
him to a punishment expressly and solely awarded to an offence of a far
greater degree of criminality—finding him, in short, guilty of the crime
A, and inflicting the penalty decreed only to the crime B.
The life of military men in time of peace presents, as we catch a
glimpse of it here, no very attractive picture. Captain Douglas in
barracks at Longy, in the island of Alderney, with one subaltern, Ensign
Parker, is commanding his detachment. Lieutenant-Colonel Le Mesurier is
commanding at Alderney, under the title of Town Major. Between these
rival potentates disputes arise as to their respective jurisdictions.
Instead of companionship, assistance, co-operation, there is only mutual
repulsion, mutual hostility.
In this cheerless position of affairs, Captain Douglas “went one
day—on Friday the 5th January—about twelve o’clock, for a little
amusement, to practise pistol-firing, at a spot near the Frying-Pan
Battery, as it is called, which was at a distance of two or three
hundred yards from the barracks where he resided. This happened to be
the first and only time of his using firearms during his stay in the
island. No one but himself, indeed, knew even the fact of his
possessing firearms. He ordered his servant Riley to procure some
potatoes, and to follow him with them, and the pistol-case, (which,
however, Riley did not know to be such, nor for what purpose the
potatoes were required,) to the Frying-Pan Battery.”
These circumstances are mentioned to account for the scanty testimony
which Riley afterwards gave; it being supposed that he had withheld
evidence to serve the interest of his master. And certainly it is a
little difficult to believe that Patrick Riley, who was a soldier as
well as the servant of Captain Douglas, did not know what the
pistol-case contained, or for what purpose he carried it and the two
potatoes to the battery. We continue the narrative in the words of Mr
Warren, which we should be very unwise not to adopt, wherever it is in
our power to do so.
“Captain Douglas proceeded to make a target in the wall opposite,
which faced the sea—by putting a potato into the centre of an open
piece of newspaper, and then thrusting it into a crevice in the wall.
This he did to make the mark at which he intended to aim more
distinctly visible. He had selected this particular spot for his
practice because it was retired and safe. It was entirely hid from the
view of the sentry, or any of the men on guard at the barracks....
After firing about twenty or thirty shots, every one of them at the
target in question—standing all the while with his back to the sea,
and against the rampart, and at which stood the pistol-case and
potatoes—he saw Mr Parker approaching. It was a few minutes before one
o’clock when he got there. Having fired two shots, both at the same
target at which Captain Douglas had been shooting, he went down by a
somewhat precipitous descent to the beach, which lay about forty feet
immediately below them, accompanied by his dog—intending to amuse
himself for a few minutes by throwing stones into the sea, and sending
his dog after them; and also desirous of ascertaining whether a hole,
which had caught his eye in descending, was that of a rabbit or a
rat.”
Amusements were scarce at Alderney.
“Neither Captain Douglas nor Mr Parker’s attention was called to the
circumstance of their harmless pistol practice, on the 5th January,
till about three or four o’clock on the ensuing Monday afternoon—the
8th January. During the interval, Captain Henderson had arrived from
Guernsey; and he, Mr Parker, and Captain Douglas were walking together
towards the town, when they met Mr Bains, (a medical gentleman.) After
the ordinary salutations, Captain Douglas asked him, ‘What news was
going on in the town?’ To which Mr Bains answered, laughing, ‘Nothing
new, _since your sport with the bulls of Bashan at Longy_;’ and he
proceeded to say, to the surprise of Captain Douglas and Mr Parker,
‘that he understood a bullock had been shot at or near Longy.’ Captain
Douglas replied with a smile, ‘You surely don’t mean to say that _I_
am charged with having had anything to do with it?’—‘Indeed you are,’
said Mr Bains—‘and you will find the constable at your quarters about
it, on your return! But it is true, is it not, that you and Parker
were ball firing there?’—‘Yes, we were practising,’ replied Captain
Douglas unhesitatingly; ‘but I know nothing about the bullock.’ After
some other observations, Mr Bains, who knew the position in which
Colonel Le Mesurier and Captain Douglas stood towards each other, said
with a smile, ‘Colonel Le Mesurier has gone up to look at the
bullock.’ To this observation Captain Douglas made a brief sarcastic
answer; and shortly afterwards Mr Bains left them.
“The three officers, after continuing their walk for some time longer,
separated, towards five o’clock. Captain Henderson went to Corblets
barracks, to dress for dinner, both he and Mr Parker being engaged to
dine that evening with Captain Douglas; who, with Mr Parker, walked
towards Longy, expecting to meet with the constable spoken of by Mr
Bains. As they went, they conversed on the subject of his
communication, remarking how oddly circumstances seemed to favour the
notion that, if a bullock had really been shot, it must have been by
them; and they also adverted to the fact of Colonel Le Mesurier having
already become acquainted with the matter, and what could have been
his object in going to see the carcase of the animal. After some
consideration they agreed that it would be better, under the
circumstances, _not to admit the fact of their having been firing, but
leave it to be proved by those who seemed disposed to charge them with
having shot the bullock_.”
Here was the fatal error. In this resolution, and the acting on it, lies
the whole moral offence, fault, or delinquency of Captain Douglas. Not
to admit a fact, when questioned on it, is so close upon a denial of the
fact, that no human ingenuity can keep them long separate. His
concealment of an act perfectly innocent was construed into a denial of
that act: it could not well be otherwise, for an evasive answer, which
serves the purpose of concealment, must be understood by the party who
receives it as a denial, or it no longer serves the purpose of
concealment. Yet an evasive answer of this description is permitted by
men of the strictest honour in a thousand instances, and is only visited
with _moral opprobrium_ in those cases where there is an imperative
claim upon the conscience to tell the whole truth. No such imperative
claim can be made out in the present case. We admit, however, that it
was an error. The better rule is never to resort to an evasion unless
there are very strong reasons for so doing. We admit that the adopting
of, and persisting in, this policy, or rather this _impolicy_, of
concealment, was here to some extent blameable. But we can detect no
base or dishonourable motive leading to it. The worst motive we can
divine, is a certain love of a tortuous policy by which some ingenious
persons are afflicted. They like finessing, and will introduce into the
common affairs of life, much to their own and other people’s
embarrassment, what they would describe as a diplomatic dexterity.
The constable, Renier, on the same afternoon, made his appearance at the
house of Captain Douglas. There is much controversy as to the import of
the question which he put to Captain Douglas; whether, when he asked
him, “If he knew anything about it?”—he referred to the shooting of the
bullock, or the firing on the battery. It is plain, from the
circumstances of the case, that both these matters were inextricably
mixed up _in the mind of the constable_; for he came to inquire of the
shooting of the bullock because of the firing on the battery; and into
the firing on the battery, because of the supposed shooting of the
bullock. There is no wonder, therefore, that a man, not accustomed to
analyse his own ideas, should, in giving his evidence before the court,
sometimes state one, and sometimes the other, as the object of his
inquiry. But it is equally plain, from the very nature of the case, that
whatever was stirring in the mind of the constable, his first question
to the Captain would be, whether he knew anything about the death of the
bullock. He would never have thought of coming to the barracks to ask an
officer whether he had been practising with his pistol, without showing
in the first place that he had grounds for making what otherwise would
be a very impertinent inquiry. We feel ourselves, therefore, quite
justified in adopting here the statement of Captain Douglas. According
to that statement, Renier asked him “if he knew anything about shooting
the bullock?” He answered “No,” as he well might. For it is to be
understood at once, and distinctly, that Captain Douglas had nothing
whatever to do with the death of the bullock, and knew nothing about it.
But, unfortunately, the dialogue between them did not stop here. It will
be remembered that Captain Douglas had made use of a piece of a
newspaper, the _Times_, to form his target. This newspaper bore his own
name and address on it. The constable added—“That a _Times_ paper had
been found near the spot, with Captain Douglas’s name upon it.” _This_
remark could have reference only to the question—who had been firing on
the battery? And to this remark Captain Douglas replied—“Possibly so;
there were plenty of his papers about; they went all through the
barracks and into the town, and he had five or six a-week.” With this
answer the constable departed.
The next day a civil court was held, presided over by Judge Gaudion, to
inquire into this affair of the death of the bullock. Captain Douglas
was summoned to attend. A number of witnesses were examined, whose
testimony it is not necessary for our purpose to enter into. Mr Bisset,
the owner of the animal, who had connected its death with the firing
heard upon the ramparts, produced a number of flattened bullets, broken
percussion caps, and pieces of a newspaper addressed to Captain Douglas,
which had been found upon the battery. After the judge had asked Captain
Douglas whether he had any knowledge who had shot the bullock, and had
received the decisive and truthful answer, that “he had not,” he
proceeded—pointing to some pieces of newspaper lying on the table—to put
the following question: “Can you account for the _Times_ newspaper to
your address having been found in the battery, perforated evidently by
ball practice?” To which Captain Douglas answered, “I am not accountable
for my papers, as they travel through the barracks and into the town.”
This absurd policy (for so we should characterise it) of concealment is
adhered to, and with these unfortunate pieces of the _Times_ newspaper
lying before him! His answer is understood as a denial of having been
practising with his pistol on the battery, and there are those tell-tale
fragments “evidently perforated with ball.” It is inconceivably absurd.
He is getting into a scrape, and raising a scandal in the little island
of Alderney, for no intelligible motive whatever.
Mr Warren here defends the conduct of his late client on the legal
principle or maxim, that no man is bound to criminate himself. He stood
there in a court of justice “virtually as an accused party;” the court
throws its shield over persons in such a position, cautions them, and
would protect them even against their own indiscretion. Captain Douglas
was fully justified in availing himself of this well-known privilege—in
evading and warding off a question which he could not answer without
supplying evidence against himself.
Mr Warren will forgive us if we smiled, for a moment, at this instance
of the inveterate habits of the lawyer, overpowering the natural
shrewdness and sagacity of the man. This legal argument is manifestly
inapplicable, and for this simple reason: in the circumstances of the
case, there is nothing sufficiently grave—no impending charge of
sufficient magnitude—to induce or warrant, in any reasonable man, a
departure from, or a concealment of the truth, or any tampering with his
honour. _If_ the evasive statement of Captain Douglas be considered as
tantamount to a denial, and _if_ that virtual denial be considered as in
some degree dishonourable, there can be no shelter for him in this maxim
of law, because the fear of a false accusation of having accidentally
shot a bullock, would not be accepted, by men of honour, as an excuse or
justification.
If Captain Douglas had really shot the bullock, he would have been still
more completely under the shelter of this legal maxim—and his
equivocation would have been a ten times more heinous offence.
As Mr Warren repeats this argument more than once, it may be worth while
to state, in general terms, wherein its fallacy lies. A person is tried
before a court-martial, which partakes of the nature of a court of
honour, for a departure from, or a concealment of truth, considered to
be dishonourable to a gentleman. It is no sufficient answer to plead the
privilege which courts of law throw around a witness, unless you show at
the same time that, in his case, such a privilege could be taken
advantage of without any derogation to his character as a member of
society. A very little reflection will satisfy us that the permission
granted by courts of law to the accused party, or to a witness, to deny
or withhold the truth, _may_ or _may not_ be a valid excuse in the moral
judgment of society—may or may not be such a permission as it would be
honourable to accept.
A man is tried for his life on the charge of murder, or high treason. He
pleads not guilty. Although he is in fact guilty, the most honourable
and fastidious portion of society add nothing to their reprobation of
the accused on account of this plea. The code of honour or of moral
opinion, and the rule of the court of law, are not at variance.
But nothing is easier than to imagine cases in which they would be at
variance, and at variance in all possible degrees, from slight
difference to complete opposition. The accused is being tried on a false
accusation for murder. Titus is a witness. He can by his evidence
establish the innocence of the accused, but in giving that evidence he
will reveal his own guilt. The court allows him to be silent where his
answer to the question would criminate himself. And here, too, the
opinion of society would probably coincide with the rule of the
court,—yet not entirely; many would censure the witness, many would
excuse, none would cordially approve.
Let us now suppose that Titus is innocent, but, in giving his evidence,
he must confess some fact which will excite a strong suspicion against
himself. Here the number of those who would justify his silence would
greatly diminish. Suppose now that the suspicion which would be raised
against him, was of a slight character, one which might be easily
removed; suppose that by his evidence alone could the accused be saved
from the unjust condemnation that hung over him; add to all this, that
the accused and innocent party was the _friend_ of Titus, and had been
his benefactor—and now this witness, “not bound to criminate himself,”
has become the object of execration to all mankind.
This legal maxim is but one of many rules which courts of law, or the
legislature, enact for the better administration of justice,—rules which
cannot be so framed as to be strictly consentaneous, or identical, with
the rules of morality. One who owes a just debt takes advantage of the
forbearance of an indulgent creditor, and pleads the statute of
limitations. The court admits the plea, puts it in his mouth, justifies
him for the use of it. But the use of it has dishonoured him for life.
To return to our case. Mr Bisset, the owner of the bullock, still
associating its death, most erroneously, with the firing heard on the
battery, published a newspaper paragraph in the _Guernsey Comet_, headed
DISGRACEFUL AFFAIR! in which suspicion was thrown upon Captain Douglas
and Ensign Parker, and which terminated with the offer of “A REWARD OF
TWENTY POUNDS, to be paid to any one giving information sufficient to
convict the party or parties who were shooting at the Frying-pan Battery
on Friday the 5th January, between the hours of twelve and three P.M.
Mr Bisset also laid his complaint before Major-General Bell, the
commanding officer at Guernsey. That officer wrote to Captain Douglas,
requiring his explanation of the affair. A great part of the letter
referred distinctly to this pistol-firing on the battery. Now then, the
reader is prepared to say, Captain Douglas will surely lay aside this
needless and silly piece of diplomacy, this concealment of a perfectly
innocent act, which is only strengthening suspicion against him. If he
could permit himself to trifle with Judge Gaudion, and the petty civil
court at Alderney, he will not trifle with his superior officer; he will
not run the risk _here_ of being thought to equivocate. Nearly a month
had now elapsed since the first visit of Constable Renier. Time had been
given him to reflect: and Captain Douglas did reflect. Ensign Parker
lets fall in his evidence that he wrote _two_ letters in answer to this
communication, and pondered some time which he should send. In the one,
he frankly avowed having been firing with his pistol on the battery,
whilst he utterly denied the accusation of having shot the bullock; in
the other, he adhered to his policy of concealment, confined himself to
a denial of the main accusation, and left all that part of the letter
relating to the firing on the battery virtually unanswered. He pondered
which of the two he should send; but the genius of diplomacy
prevailed,—he sent the second!
Major-General Bell, as might be expected, was not satisfied with such a
reply. He instituted a military Court of Inquiry, consisting of Colonel
Le Mesurier, Captain Cockburn, and Captain Clerk, with instructions “to
ascertain whether any person or persons, belonging to the garrison, were
engaged in firing with ball, within or immediately adjoining Longy
Lines, on the day and within the hours specified in several of the
documents laid before them.” It was not till the evening of the second
day on which this court had sat, that Captain Douglas seems to have had
his eyes opened to the perilous manner in which he was compromising
himself. On the evening of that day, he wrote a letter to Judge Gaudion,
stating the whole and simple truth with regard to this pistol-firing;
and the next morning, he repeated the same statement before the military
Court of Inquiry. The confession, it seems, came too late to save him
from the consequences of his unwise, needless, and pertinacious
concealment of an act in itself perfectly innocent. It was thought a
case sufficiently grave to bring before a court-martial.[3]
It will be seen and acknowledged at once, that we have not attempted to
screen Captain Douglas from the degree of blame which an impartial judge
would throw upon his conduct. If the court-martial had reprimanded
Captain Douglas, we should have thought the penalty sufficiently severe,
but neither we, nor perhaps others, would have been disposed to dispute
the propriety of the sentence, or, at least, to call public attention to
the case. But, for this offence, the court has sentenced Captain Douglas
to be _cashiered_!
This sentence—to enter now upon our second topic—is not only cruelly
severe, it is illegal, it is unjust. Our readers need not fear that we
are about to involve them in the technicalities of jurisprudence. It is
no technical matter we have to deal with, but broad principles of
justice. Mr Warren has, indeed, raised a class of legal objections
against the verdict of the court-martial, grounded on its refusal to
admit certain evidence. On these objections we shall not enter. To us it
appears that the president of the court exercised his power in this
matter, in general, very discreetly. But, on these objections, we wish
it to be understood that we give no opinion. We pass at once to what we
deem a fatal error in this verdict—an error, not of form, but of
substance; an error which constitutes it to be an _unjust judgment_.
Captain Douglas was tried upon the following charge,—“for conduct
unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.” Of such conduct
he was found guilty. Now, the article of war under which he was
arraigned, and the only one under which his offence, by any fair
interpretation, could fall, is the 80th, and runs thus:—“Any officer who
shall behave _in a scandalous, infamous manner_, unbecoming the
character of an officer and a gentleman, shall, on conviction thereof
before a general court-martial, be CASHIERED.”[4]
The penalty, under this article, is _peremptorily_ that of cashiering. A
less punishment the court is not competent to pronounce. The article has
for its express object the removal from the service of officers who are
convicted of scandalous and infamous behaviour.
“There is no provision,” says Mr Warren, “in the Articles of War, for
the cognisance of unofficer-like and ungentleman-like conduct,
divested of a tendency to prejudice good order and military
discipline, (so as to bring it within Article 108,) in any degree less
than that involving infamy and scandal. In the year 1801, an officer
was charged before a General Court-martial with scandalous and
infamous conduct, unbecoming the character of an officer and a
gentleman. The Court acquitted the prisoner of ‘scandalous and
infamous behaviour,’ but considering his conduct, nevertheless, as
‘unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman,’ adjudged him
to ‘be suspended from rank and pay for six calendar months.’ His
Majesty King George III. declared the adjudication irregular, and
disapproved the sentence, ‘inasmuch as the Court had acquitted the
prisoner of the only imputation which could bring the business as a
charge before them—namely, of any scandalous and infamous behaviour in
the transaction.’ In another case, which happened in 1814, in India,
an officer was tried by General Court-martial, on the charge of
‘scandalous and infamous conduct, unbecoming the character of an
officer and a gentleman,’ in two instances. The Court acquitted him of
the first, but found him guilty of the criminal acts charged in the
second instance; acquitting him, however, of ‘scandalous and infamous
conduct, unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.’ The
Commander-in-Chief, Earl Moira, declared that ‘he regarded the Court
as having returned a verdict of acquittal generally, and directed the
officer who had been convicted to return to his duty.’ His lordship
observed that ‘the Court, in declaring that the criminal act proved
against the prisoner did not come within the description of
‘scandalous, infamous, and unbecoming the character of an officer and
a gentleman,’ had divested itself of all power to award punishment,
except inasmuch as the acts might be considered to come under the
above specific definition.’ In the present case, the Court _could_ not
have acquitted of scandalous and infamous conduct, because _it was not
charged_.”
The charge quotes a portion of the very words of the article. But that
this portion can be separated from the rest of the sentence, and made to
designate a distinct, substantive offence, would be a monstrous
supposition. The whole stress, the whole meaning lies in the words
“infamous and scandalous;” but because there may be scandalous and
infamous conduct, which does not fall under the cognisance of a
court-martial, it is added as a further definition, that it must be such
misconduct as affects the character of an officer and a gentleman.[5]
The article of war intends to describe such conduct as would make a man
_scandalous and infamous amongst his fellow-officers_.
Suppose it were thought fit to frame similar rules for the medical
profession, and one of these declared, “That any one who shall behave in
a scandalous and infamous manner unbecoming the character of a physician
and a gentleman, shall, on conviction thereof, be expelled from the
profession,” would any one in his senses think it sufficient to adopt
the last qualifying phrase, “unbecoming the character of a physician and
a gentleman,” as descriptive of an offence which, under this rule, would
incur an expulsion from the faculty? Why, it might be thought
“unbecoming” a physician to break rude and silly jests upon his
patients, (as a late celebrated character is accused of doing,) but not
for such offences, we presume, would any one imagine that expulsion from
the profession was provided.
But we shall be told that the proceedings of a court-martial are not
fettered by the same strict rules which preside over the record in a
court of law. This is very true. It is sufficient if the offence is
substantially indicated. Perhaps it will be argued that these words,
“unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman,” must be taken as a part for
the whole, and that the charge _was_ essentially for scandalous and
infamous behaviour.
If so, the court has placed itself in the following dilemma, from which
we do not see any possibility of escape:—_Either_ the charge is to be
understood as substantially for scandalous and infamous conduct—and, in
that case, who will venture to assert that the evidence supports so
heinous an accusation?—who will venture to assert that the concealment
or equivocation proved against Captain Douglas was that falsehood, that
sort of lie, which stamps a man as scandalous and infamous, and drives
him from the society of gentlemen? _Or_ (which is the plain common-sense
view of the case) the charge is what it professes to be—for “unbecoming”
conduct—it is this charge which is present to the minds of the members
of the court-martial—it is on this he is tried, of this which he is
convicted; and _then_, after being found guilty of this all but venial
offence, he is visited with the punishment of a far heavier one—for
behaviour which would make him scandalous and infamous amongst his
brother officers.
We repeat, this is no technical argument—it is gross, palpable
injustice—as palpable injustice as if a man were tried for manslaughter,
convicted of manslaughter, and hanged for murder!
If we ask why the Court awarded so severe a sentence as cashiering on so
trifling an offence, we shall be told that the Court had no power to
pass any less sentence than that which is decreed by the article of war.
We admit the reason. But surely if the Court was bound to inflict the
severe sentence decreed by the article of war, it was bound to convict
of the crime specified by that article. The court-martial which tried
Captain Douglas was scrupulous in passing the right sentence, was _not_
scrupulous in determining whether the crime had been committed for which
alone that sentence is by law awarded.
Mr Warren concludes his “Letter” by some suggestions for the reform of
our military law. These appear to us to be worthy of consideration. But
legal reforms are grave and intricate matters; we would not give a hasty
opinion on them; we would recommend them to the consideration of our
jurists, and the whole pamphlet to the perusal of our readers. They will
also probably find it far more entertaining than, from our meagre
abstract of the case of Captain Douglas, they will expect. There is one
subject which occupies a considerable space, and which, to the
generality of readers, will form the most attractive portion of the
“Letter,” to which we have made no allusion. We refer to a narrative of
facts, which show the hostile attitude in which Colonel Le Mesurier and
Captain Douglas stood towards each other. It is a little history we
could not possibly abridge, and which did not appear to us as absolutely
necessary to an intelligible view of the case. This narrative will be
read with interest, affording as it does a glimpse into real life, and
showing us what very animated contests and controversies a few officers
may contrive to while away their time with, even in the dull quiet
island of Alderney. It is well told, with graphic but _subdued_ power.
Conscious that the author of one of our best and most popular novels
would be watched on such an occasion, and readily suspected of employing
his art as a consummate narrator, Mr Warren has abstained from producing
any startling effects; he has, at least, used no other than that highest
art which conceals art. We have left the whole of this portion of the
pamphlet fresh and untouched, for the perusal of the reader.
In the account we have given of this really very important case, we have
not been able to mention the numerous points on which Mr Warren dwells
for the exculpation of his client. We have been compelled to content
ourselves with the impression which the whole narrative, after careful
and unbiassed perusal, left upon our own minds. We are utterly unable to
imagine, for the conduct of Captain Douglas, any worse motive than what
we have described as a somewhat too diplomatic taste, as a want of a
perfectly straightforward manner of speech. We see in his conduct a very
palpable error in judgment, but we are quite at a loss to fix upon
anything which deserves to be characterised as dishonourable—anything
like such infamous and palpable falsehood as ought to drive a man with
disgrace out of the service.
When we turn from the conduct of Captain Douglas to the sentence passed
upon it, we are utterly amazed at its egregious disproportion and
flagrant injustice. There is an article of war framed for the express
purpose of ridding the service of scandalous and infamous persons. In
order to bring the case of Captain Douglas under this article, he is
first arraigned for “unbecoming conduct,” and by a very severe
construction found guilty of this charge; and then these comparatively
mild and harmless expressions are found to be equivalent to “scandalous
and infamous conduct.” Why, if this be law, if this is a precedent, that
article of war should henceforth be read thus,—“Whoever is guilty of
unbecoming conduct shall be cashiered.” And what a terrible instrument
of injustice such an article of war might be converted into, it is quite
unnecessary to insist upon. If any officer should have made himself
unpopular at the Horse Guards, or amongst his fellow-officers, no matter
by what line of conduct, by being worse or better than the general and
approved standard—it would be strange if his enemies could not fasten
upon some act they could pronounce “unbecoming,” and thereupon expel him
from the service with disgrace and infamy.
A FAREWELL TO NAPLES.
I.
A glorious amphitheatre, whose girth
Exceeds three-fold th’ horizons of the north,
Mixing our pleasure in a goblet wide,
With hard, firm rim through clear air far-descried;
Illumined mountains, on whose heavenly slopes,
Quick, busy shades rehearse, while Phœbus drops,
Dramatic parts in scenic mysteries;
Far-shadowing islands, and exulting seas
With cities girt, that catch, till day is done,
Successive glances from the circling sun,
And cast a snowy gleam across the blue:—
A gulf that, to its lakelike softness true,
Reveres the stillness of the syren’s cell,
Yet knows the ocean’s roll, and loves it well;
A gulf where Zephyr oft, with noontide heat
Oppressed, descends to bathe his sacred feet,
And, at the first cold touch, at once reviving,
Sinks to the wings in joy, before him driving
A feathery foam into the lemon groves;—
Evasive, zone-like sands and secret coves;
Translucent waves that, heaved with motion slow,
On fanes submerged a brighter gleam bestow;
Fair hamlets, streets with odorous myrtles spread,
Bruised by processions grave with soundless tread,
That leave (the Duomo entered) on the mind
A pomp confused, and music on the wind;
Smooth, mounded banks like inland coasts and capes,
That take from seas extinct their sinuous shapes,
And girdle plains whose growths, fire-fed below,
In bacchanal exuberance burst and blow;
A light Olympian and an air divine—
Naples! if these are blessings, they are thine.
II.
Thy sands we paced in sunlight and soft gloom;
From Tasso’s birthplace roamed to Virgil’s tomb.
Baia! thy haunts we trod, and glowing caves
Whose ambushed ardours pant o’er vine-decked waves.
Thy cliffs we coasted, loitered in thy creeks,
O shaggy island[6] with the five gray peaks!
Explored thy grotto, scaled thy fortress, where
Thy dark-eyed maids trip down the rocky stair,
With glance cast backward, laugh of playful scorn,
And cheek carnationed with the lights of morn.
The hills Lactarean lodged us in their breast:
Shadowy Sorrento to her spicy rest
Called us from far with gales embalmed, yet pure;
Her orange brakes we pierced, and ranged her rifts obscure.
Breathless along Pompeii’s streets we strayed
By songless fount, mosaic undecayed,
Voluptuous tomb, still forum, painted hall,
Where wreathed Bacchantes float on every wall;
Where Ariadne, by the purple deep,
Hears not those panting sails, but smiles in sleep;
Where yet Silenus grasps the woodland cup,
And buried Pleasure from its grave looks up.
Lastly, the great Vesuvian steep we clomb;
Then, Naples! made once more with thee our home.
We leave thee now—but first, with just review,
We cast the account, and strike the balance true—
And thus, as forth we move, we take our last adieu.
III.
From her whom genius never yet inspired,
Or virtue raised, or pulse heroic fired;
From her who, in the grand historic page,
Maintains one barren blank from age to age;
From her, with insect life and insect buz,
Who, evermore unresting, nothing does;
From her who, with the future and the past
No commerce holds, no structure rears to last:
From streets where priests and jesters, side by side,
Range the rank markets, and their gains divide;
Where faith in art, and art in sense is lost,
And toys and gewgaws form a nation’s boast;
Where Passion, from Affection’s bond cut loose,
Revels in orgies of its own abuse;
And appetite, from Passion’s portals thrust,
Creeps on its belly to its grave of dust;
Where Vice her mask disdains, where Fraud is loud,
And naught but Wisdom dumb and Justice cowed;—
Lastly, from her who planted here unawed,
’Mid heaven-topped hills, and waters bright and broad,
Lacks heart to gather, and lacks strength to bear,
From these, one impulse of the free and fair;
And, girt not less with ruin, lives to show
That worse than wasted weal is wasted woe,—
We part; forth issuing through her closing gate,
With unreverting faces, not ingrate.
BARBARIAN RAMBLES.[7]
That great geniuses meet, is a saying almost as ancient as the twin
rocks that give a title to Mr David Urquhart’s latest literary
production. But not often is the same country visited and described,
within the short space of two years, by two such distinguished persons
as the member for Stafford and the author of _Monte-Christo_. For the
honour of their presence, the shores of Barbary and Andalusia are
indebted to the chapter of accidents. “I did not visit Morocco or Spain
on any settled plan. I was on my way to Italy by sea, and, passing
through the straits of Gibraltar, was so fascinated by the beauty and
mysteries of the adjoining lands, that I relinquished my proposed
excursion for the explorations which are here recorded.” Thus far the
Celt. Hear the Gaul’s reply to the Bey of Tunis, when questioned as to
the motive of his African excursion,—“I answered, that I had the honour
to be known to the king and princes of France; that I had the misfortune
to be on tolerably bad terms with the father, but the happiness to stand
pretty well with the sons; that one of these sons, of whom he (the Bey)
had doubtless heard speak, and who was dead—M. le Duc d’Orléans—had more
than once deigned to call me his friend; that another son, still better
known to him than the first,—M. le Duc de Montpensier—had inherited his
brother’s friendship for me, and had invited me to his wedding, which
had just taken place at Madrid; that, being at Madrid, I desired to push
on to Algiers, and, once at Algiers, I felt unwilling to quit Africa
without saying a prayer upon the tomb of St Louis, who was, as he surely
knew, a great _marabout_; that I was on my way to perform this duty,
when I heard that he did me the honour to expect me, whereupon I
hastened to pay him my respects.” Such trivial causes lead to great
results! To the Montpensier marriage is the Bey of Tunis indebted for an
interview with the first of French novelists, and the European world for
the narrative of his African travels. We hesitated before associating
the two books that form the theme of this article. We feared to rouse M.
Dumas’ indignation, by coupling him with an author whom he, with his
usual supercilious disesteem of things British, will probably set down
as _un pédant Ecossais_. On the other hand, we thought it possible so
grave and erudite a person as Mr Urquhart might consider his labours
slighted, when linked with the playful superficialities of _Le Véloce_;
and from this apprehension we were relieved, only upon finding him quote
his French cotemporary’s Spanish tour with an air of greater approval
than he usually bestows upon the works of recent writers on Spain. For
it is not the most amiable of his peculiarities, that his references to
brother travellers are generally censorious. He seems to have vowed
opposition and animosity to all who have rambled and written over the
same ground as himself. Blanco White, George Borrow, Richard Ford, and
various others of less note, in turn come in for correction or a sneer.
The last-named is particularly ill-treated. “To Mr Ford’s book, however
disagreeable the task, I had intended to devote a special chapter; but,
understanding that the two volumes are, in the second edition, reduced
to one, I must infer that the author has anticipated my conclusion,—that
the work might be made valuable by cutting out the slang, ribaldry,
opinions, and false quotations.” Should _The Pillars of Hercules_ reach
a second edition, either condensed, or in its present diffuse form, we
advise its author to cut out this passage, or at least to correct its
discourtesy and exaggeration. So harsh and unjust a verdict drives us to
the inference that, owing to some mental idiosyncrasy of Mr Urquhart’s,
the chief merits of the book he decries altogether escape his
perception; and that, whilst dwelling upon an occasional
error—pardonable in a work embracing so great a variety of subject, and
such a mass of detail—and condemning those opinions that are so
unfortunate as to differ from his own, he totally overlooks the racy
humour, the happy illustrations, the felicitous exposition of Spanish
foibles and characteristics, the intimate knowledge of the country and
its customs, which place the author of the _Handbook_ and _Gatherings_
amongst the very highest authorities respecting modern Spain. But we
need not take up the cudgels for Richard Ford, whose works will stand
upon their own bottom, and whose acute and pungent pen is quite able to
defend his literary offspring, should he think it worth his while, even
against his present formidable assailant.
There can be no doubt about the disappointment of those persons who open
_The Pillars of Hercules_ in expectation of finding what the title
promises—a narrative of travel in Spain and Morocco. These countries are
certainly mentioned here and there in the two bulky octavos, but quite
subordinately to a variety of other matters which had perhaps better
been treated elsewhere than in the professed book of travels they cumber
and overload. Mr Urquhart, who has published volumes and pamphlets on
innumerable subjects, social and political, foreign and domestic,
appears to have had by him a heterogeneous mass of essays and
dissertations, which he has now strung, pretty much at random, upon the
slender thread of his Spanish-African ramble. Wearisomely discursive and
desultory, he continually canters off to distant regions, and to
subjects foreign to his text. Thus we have a chapter on the invention
and antiquity of glass; another concerning the magnetic needle; a third
and fourth, in which we are taken to America, Ceylon, China, and other
remote places; one about the celebrated drug hashish, which temporarily
transports its votaries into paradise. This is presently succeeded by a
dissertation on buttered muffins; and shortly thereafter we arrive at a
long essay on the early races of Spain and Mauritania, which we take for
granted to be exceedingly learned and important, and which we are quite
sure is awfully heavy and uninteresting. Etymology is a hobby of this
author’s, and the portions of his work devoted to it would, of
themselves, make a good-sized volume, by whose separation the book would
be greatly lightened and advantaged. On the subject of corporal
purification he grows positively eloquent and impassioned; and so minute
are his descriptions of the scrubbing and scraping processes, by which
alone men become fit to live, that he very rightly deems a prefatory
apology essential. On this head more anon. We pause, for a specimen of
solemn trifling, at Chapter Nine, Book the First, Volume the First.
Nominally an “Excursion round the Straits,” it is actually an essay on
costume, commencing with Spanish petticoats, giving a passing glance to
the history and origin of lace, asserting the identity of the Moorish
and Highland garb, and closing with an argument in favour of the
importance and moral influence of a national dress. The chapter opens
with praises of Cadiz, a city so long accustomed to rhyme with “ladies,”
that it will hardly feel surprise or annoyance at Mr Urquhart’s
attributing its charm less to the beauty of its buildings than to the
“swarm of women,” with “fluttering eyes,” and “silk blonde tresses,”
covering the floor of the cathedral. From tresses to dresses the
transition is easy, and he proceeds to discourse upon the mantilla: not
a very novel subject certainly, but one upon which he, nevertheless,
contrives to cast some new lights—lights that would, we suspect, rather
dazzle and astonish the amiable Gaditanas, whose habits and habiliments
he professes to describe. Whilst stigmatising as “a bagged hood” the
most graceful and elegant description of mantilla—that, namely, composed
entirely of lace, and which is in fact the only kind worn by the higher
classes of Spanish women—he informs us that “in windy weather the
mantilla is secured against the cheek by the tip of the fan.” We laugh
horribly as we summon up, at this conjuror’s bidding, a procession of
mantilla-draped dames and damsels tripping the Alameda on a breezy day,
each one of them with the extremity of her fan poked into her dexter
jaw. Spanish women know better how to use that active little instrument
of flirtation. Passing over these and other slight absurdities, we
arrive at the hair-dressing department. Here Mr Urquhart is at first
rather puzzled. But he will not be baffled, and goes to the very roots
of the capillaries. “The hair is dressed in two styles. One is called
_sarrano_. The only explanation I could get for this name was, that
_sierra_ means mountain, and that the mountaineers dress in this way.
But neither does it seem to be the style of the sierra, nor does the
word _sarrano_ mean mountain: there is, indeed, no such word in
Spanish.” When ascertaining this last fact by reference to his
dictionary, it is strange that our traveller did not stumble upon the
word “_Serrano_, subs. mountaineer; adj. pertaining to mountains,” and
which is, in fact, the very word applied to the style of head-dress in
question, his ear having doubtless misled him as to the _e_ and _a_.
This guides us to two derivations. First, the one furnished him by the
natives, that the style in question is or was particularly affected by
the dwellers in the Andalusian sierras, as it still is by the
mountaineers of Catalonia. A second explanation may be found in the form
of the comb that accompanies this mode of head-dress, (but of which Mr
Urquhart makes no mention,) and whose turreted or dentated crest, rising
full four inches perpendicularly from the crown of the head, may have
suggested the term _serrano_, by its elevation and imaginary resemblance
to a row of hill-tops. But such interpretations as these are far too
simple and vulgar to suit Mr Urquhart, who loves to journey by
roundabout roads, and would make, like Monkbarns, a Roman sacrificing
vessel out of a kail-supper’s ladle. He bores and proses away till he
proves, quite to his own satisfaction, that “sarrano head-dress means
neither more nor less than Tyrian head-dress. Such an etymology is by no
means far-fetched.” Certainly not, when compared with others scattered
through the book, although even this one may be considered rather _tiré
par les cheveux_: and, moreover, the whole fabric is overthrown by the
word proving to be serrano. But the hunting after derivations is a
passion with Mr Urquhart, and leads him to the unearthing of affinities
which nobody else would suspect. We confess ourselves so overwhelmed by
the flux of erudition, by the multiplicity of languages brought to bear,
and by the extraordinary etymons assigned to words with which they have
nothing visible in common, that we resign ourselves to believe in
Urquhart, and are prepared to admit, at his dictation, the old
derivation of cucumber from Jeremiah King as perfectly valid, and
consonant to all received laws. So fond is the honourable gentleman of
this grubbing for roots, that, when once he stumbles on a derivation, he
goes on through a whole alphabet of them; like a child who, having begun
to run down hill, is unable to stop till it reaches the plain, or falls
exhausted by the road-side. We doubt if many of his readers will share
the avidity with which he pursues his dry and long-winded
investigations, which would be more in place in a dictionary of
derivations than in a narrative of travel.
Our intention, in bringing Messrs Dumas and Urquhart into juxtaposition,
is by no means to compare them, or to exalt either at the expense of the
other. Their books form the strongest possible contrast. In one respect
only do they agree—in a propensity to ramble from their subject. We have
hinted at the crotchets that lead the Highlander from his track; the
Frenchman strays in quest of the dramatic and romantic, and is beguiled
by his prodigious vanity into the most divertingly egotistical details.
The one is an eccentric dogmatist, full of crotchets, but unobtrusive of
his individuality; the other never loses sight of himself, nor will
suffer his reader to do so. He is always in the foreground of the
picture, the chief character on the canvass, the hero of his own comedy;
or, if for a moment he retires from the foot-lamps, it is that their
light may shine upon his son and heir, Alexander the younger, a _grand
garçon blond_, and one of the half-score artists and literati who
compose the suite of the illustrious Monte-Christo. When the travellers
arrived at Cadiz, in November 1846, Mr Dumas junior was suddenly
discovered to be missing. Fascinated by the bright eyes of a Cordovan
maiden, he had given his friends the slip. Although somewhat uneasy, his
father contented himself with detaching one of his staff in quest of the
truant, and went on board the war-steamer Véloce, which had been placed
at his disposal by the Minister of Public Instruction. Some of our
readers may remember that, about three years ago, this circumstance gave
rise to a discussion in the French Chamber, when some doubt was thrown
upon the fact of M. Dumas being intrusted with a government mission.
This seems to have annoyed the distinguished dramatist, who repeatedly
refers to the subject, gives a copy of his passport and of certain
official letters; and upbraids M. Guizot, whom he at last, however,
magnanimously forgives, declaring he has forgotten his name. He then
protests against the envy of which his eminent position has rendered him
the object, and concludes his remarks, made in a tone of dignified and
chastened indignation, with the following striking passage:—“The steamer
thus placed at my disposal has made me more enemies than _Antony_ and
_Monte-Christo_, which is saying not a little. It was in 1823 or 1824, I
believe, that Sir Walter Scott, being then in bad health, expressed a
wish to make a voyage to Italy. The English admiralty placed its finest
frigate at the disposal of the author of _Ivanhoe_; and England
applauded, and the two houses of parliament applauded, and the very
newspapers clapped their hands approvingly. And it was well done; for,
for the first time perhaps, the flag with the three leopards was saluted
in every port of the Mediterranean by the enthusiastic acclamations of
the people. Were those acclamations for the flag, or for the man of
genius it sheltered? for the unknown captain of the frigate, whose name
I never heard, or for Sir Walter Scott? True, I may be told that I am
not Sir Walter Scott; but to this I reply, that it is the great
misfortune of living men in France not to know what they are, so long as
they _are_ living.”
How very good is this quiet assertion of merit and anticipation of
posthumous appreciation by an ungrateful country. “The steamer,”
continues the possible future rival of Scott, “was granted me—be it as a
matter of favour, or as an act of justice; and Government consented to
expend for me some sixteen thousand francs’ worth of coal. It is right
the world should know that this voyage, which caused such an outcry,
cost the Government sixteen thousand francs. Just half what it cost me!”
A paltry eight hundred napoleons! Can France regret it, when applied to
the service of her brightest literary ornament? Let her read the
_Véloce_, and take shame for her shabbiness. Astride upon his fiery
charger, the giant commenced his cruise. Need we say that all eyes were
upon him as he boarded the steamer, and that he took by assault the
hearts of the entire ship’s company, whom he seized an early opportunity
to convince that his skill was as great with the fowling-piece as with
the pen. “The Véloce was surrounded by a flock of sea-fowl; on
approaching the vessel, desirous to give our future companions a
specimen of my dexterity, I fired my two barrels at a brace of gulls,
both of which fell. The yawl pulled to pick them up; and, after this
brilliant feat, we proceeded triumphantly to the steamer.” This is the
first and least considerable of a series of “brilliant feats” of the
same kind, recorded by M. Dumas of himself in the pages of _Le Véloce_.
At Tangiers, his first landing-place in Africa, he goes out shooting,
and encounters an Arab, the first he has seen. This meeting furnishes a
chapter—a sort of parody of scenes in Scott and Cooper, the parts of
Robin Hood and Leatherstocking by M. Alexandre Dumas. He has just shot a
small bird, when the Arab appears and doubts his having killed it on the
wing. A trial of skill ensues between the Parisian and the Bedouin, the
former promising the latter, who is unwilling to waste his powder, six
charges for every one he fires away. The Arab fires at a plover and
misses. M. Dumas brings down a snipe. The Arab smiles.
“‘The Frenchman shoots well,’ he said; ‘but a true hunter uses not shot,
but a ball.’ The janissary translated his words to me.
“‘’Tis true’ I replied; ‘tell him I quite agree with him, and that, if
he will fix upon a mark, I engage to do what he does.’
“‘The Frenchman owes me six charges of powder,’ quoth the Arab.
“‘True again,’ I replied; ‘let the Arab hold out his hand.’ He held it
out, and I emptied into it about a third of the contents of my flask. He
produced his horn, and poured in the powder to the very last grain. This
done, he would evidently have been well-pleased to depart; but that
would not answer the purpose of Giraud and Boulanger, who had not yet
finished their sketches. Accordingly, at the first movement he made,
“‘Remind your countryman,’ said I to El-Arbi-Bernat, ‘that we have each
of us to send a bullet somewhere, whithersoever he pleases.’
“‘Yes,’ said the Arab. He looked about and found a stick, which he
picked up, and then again set himself to seek for something. I had in my
pocket a letter from one of my nephews, employed on His Majesty’s
private domain: this letter reposed peaceably in its square envelope,
adorned with a red seal; I give it to the Arab, suspecting he was
looking for it, or for something like it. The letter was the very thing
for a target. The Arab understood at once; he split the end of the stick
with his knife, stuck in the letter, planted the stick in the sand, and
returned to us, counting twenty-five paces. Then he loaded his gun. I
had a double-barrelled rifle, ready loaded; an excellent weapon, made by
Devisme: in each of its barrels was one of those pointed bullets with
which one kills a man at fifteen hundred metres, (an English mile; well
done, M. Dumas!) I took it from Paul, its usual bearer, and I waited.
“The Arab took aim with a care which showed the importance he attached
to not being vanquished a second time. He fired, and his bullet carried
off a corner of the envelope. Masters of themselves as Arabs generally
are, ours could not restrain a cry of joy as he pointed to the rent in
the paper. I made sign that I saw it perfectly well. He addressed to me
a few animated words.
“‘He says it is your turn,’ interpreted the janissary.
“‘Certainly,’ I replied; ‘but tell him that in France we do not fire at
so short a distance.’ I measured fifty paces. He watched me with
astonishment. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘tell him that, with the first shot, I will
hit the target nearer the centre than he has done; and with the second I
will cut the stick that sustains it.’
“In my turn I took a careful aim; I had not come to Africa to leave a
wrong prospectus; and, having declared my game, I was bound to play it
well. The first ball sped, and broke the seal. The second followed
almost immediately, and cut the stick. The Arab threw his gun on his
shoulder, and walked away, without claiming the six charges of powder he
was entitled to. It was evident he felt crushed under the weight of his
inferiority, and that, at that moment, he doubted of everything, even of
the Prophet. He followed the circular road along the beach, leading to
Tangiers, and reached the town, I am certain, without having once turned
his head. Two or three Arabs, who in the meanwhile had crossed the Oued,
and who had witnessed the trial of skill, departed as silently, and
almost in as great consternation, as their countryman. All Morocco was
humiliated in the person of its representative.”
Mr Urquhart and Mr Dumas each made some stay at Tangiers, but, as will
easily be understood, they employed their time very differently, and
have scarcely an idea in common on the subject. The one talks politics,
dissects languages and makes antiquarian investigations; the other,
after the shooting match above detailed, and some rather high-flown
attempts at description of scenery, goes fishing and boar-hunting,
attends a Jewish wedding, and purchases half the stock in trade of David
Azencot, an honest Israelite, and a wealthy dealer in sabres, burnous,
scarfs, lamps, chibouks, and a thousand and one other Moorish
curiosities. The Scot is didactic and dull; the Frenchman frivolous, but
amusing. Of course they both visit Gibraltar, and devote a chapter to
that remarkable fortress; and here we must say that M. Dumas carries it
hollow, as far as pleasant tone and good taste go. As is customary with
him, he is flippant and good-humouredly impertinent; but he shows
himself grateful for a hospitable reception, and does not rake up old
stories to the disadvantage of the dead. He begins with the notable
discovery that Gibraltar has a foggy atmosphere. The English, he says,
being used to a fog in their own country, have manufactured one, by the
help of sea-coal, upon the coast of Spain. The English, he affirms,
strive against and vanquish nature herself. “They have produced dahlias
that smell like pinks, cherries without stones, gooseberries without
grains, and they are now rearing oxen without legs. Behold, for
instance, those of the county of Durham; they have but one joint, and
walk almost upon their belly. Soon they will have no joints at all, and
will walk quite upon their belly. Thus it is with the fog. There was no
fog at Gibraltar before it belonged to the English; but the English were
accustomed to fog, they missed it, and they made it.... On entering
Gibraltar, I felt that I quitted Spain. Tangiers, which we had just
left, was much more Spanish than Gibraltar. Hardly had we passed the
gate, when we were transported into England. No more pointed pavements,
no more latticed houses and green _jalousies_, no more of those charming
_patios_, with marble fountains in the midst of the shops: but
clothiers, cutlers, armourers, hotels with the arms of Great Britain,
flagged footpaths, fair women, red officers, and English horses. Tom
Thumb had lent us his boots, and each step we had taken from the deck of
the Véloce had carried us seven leagues. We entered a _restaurant_. We
ate raw beefsteaks, sandwiches, butter, moistening them with ale and
porter; but when, after breakfast, we asked for a glass of Malaga, they
were obliged to send out for it. On the other hand, the tea was
irreproachable.” This is a very fair skit on the Englishman’s habit of
carrying his country’s usages into climates for which they are totally
unadapted. Although feeling, according to his own account, far from at
his ease in this British military colony, of whose warlike aspect and
regulations he sketches a ludicrous caricature, M. Dumas would not leave
it without paying a visit to the governor; and, lest the anonymous lady
to whom his African letters are addressed should be unable to comprehend
this unusual (?) desire on his part to make the acquaintance of those in
high places, he beguiles the time, till the governor returns from his
ride, by telling the story of Lavalette. No matter that it has been
pretty often told; related _à la Dumas_, that is to say, with a
superabundance of detail, it covers a few pages, and explains his wish
for an interview with the English general. “Sir Robert Wilson, a
magnificent old man, sixty-six or sixty-eight years of age, who still
breaks his own horses, and rides ten leagues every day, gave me a
charming reception. I was so imprudent as to express my admiration of
some Moorish pottery-wares upon his sideboard, and I found them in my
cabin on returning to the Véloce. If anything could have induced me to
remain another day at Gibraltar, it would have been the pressing
invitation Sir Robert Wilson was kind enough to give me. Impressed with
a lively sentiment of admiration, I left this noble and loyal-hearted
man. May God grant long and happy days to him, to whom another man was
indebted for long days of happiness.” All his admiration of Lavalette’s
saviour was insufficient to detain him in Gibraltar, which he declares
himself to have quitted with as strong a sensation of relief as
Napoleon’s ex-aide-de-camp can have felt when, thanks to Sir Robert
Wilson’s chivalry, he safely set foot across France’s frontier. French
and English are now well used to each other’s jocular sarcasm, and are
never the worse friends for it, because it is the interest of both to
remain in amity. There is no venom in M. Dumas’ playful satire, which
one glances over with a smile, quitting it with regret for the croakings
of Mr Urquhart. This gentleman has some very peculiar notions respecting
Gibraltar, whose restoration to Spain he strongly advocates, and to
whose retention by Great Britain he ascribes a frightful catalogue of
evils, including sundry European wars, fifty-five millions sterling
unprofitably sunk, and the undying hatred of Spain towards this
country—bringing no less a witness than Napoleon to the truth of this
last assertion. The fifty-five millions are “suggested as a rough guess”
at the actual outlay; and besides them, we are assured, hundreds of
millions have been spent on wars entailed by our possession of
Gibraltar. All this is too vaguely put, seriously to challenge argument
or refutation; and as to the “undying hatred,” why, the anti-English
party in Spain may occasionally bluster about the hole in the national
honour, and so forth; but the great majority of the nation never bestow
a thought upon the matter, and the smuggling portion of the community—no
uninfluential class—find Gibraltar exceedingly convenient for their
contraband traffic. But Mr Urquhart’s statements on this head are very
loose, and some of them very fallacious; and he attains the climax of
absurdity and misrepresentation when he says, that “the fiscal
regulations of Spain, which sustain this (contraband) traffic, would
long since have fallen but for its (Gibraltar’s) retention by England.
We therefore lose the legitimate trade of all Spain, for the smuggling
profits (which go to the Spaniards) at this port.” The sort of jingle of
plausibility in these sentences will impose only upon persons profoundly
ignorant of the subject. The assertion is made in the teeth of notorious
facts, and is opposed alike to truth and to common sense. The more
difficult, dangerous, and expensive smuggling could be rendered, the
less would be its injurious effect on the Spanish revenue, and the less
likely would be a reduction of duties. The smuggling facilities afforded
by Gibraltar, by the Portuguese frontier and the Pyrenean line, (Mr
Urquhart, it has been seen, wholly ignores the two latter channels, and
lays the high-duty system entirely at the door of Gibraltar,) have, by
limiting the custom-house receipts to the merest trifle, contributed,
more than any other cause, to fix the attention of the Spanish
government on the advantage to be derived from reductions in their
monstrous tariff—reductions which the last four months have beheld
carried out, although as yet but to an exceedingly limited extent. This
subject, however, has of late been so fully discussed in our pages that
we shall not here pursue it further, particularly as it is evident that
Mr Urquhart has still to become acquainted with its rudiments. It were
more amusing, although scarcely more profitable, to dwell upon a
subsequent chapter, where, reverting to Gibraltar, the honourable
gentleman tilts at its late governor, and raises the Russian bugbear—a
goblin which he would doubtless always manage to evoke, in whatsoever
part of the world he chanced to find himself. In portentous italics he
tells us as how “a Russian steam-vessel of war was admitted to the quay
of her Majesty’s vessels to get coal, which was furnished her from the
royal stores, while French men-of-war were allowed no such indulgence;
on departing she _was saluted by the fortress with twenty-one guns_!
This I witnessed with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. The
assembled crowd said, ‘_Es loco_’—‘he is mad.’” Is Mr Urquhart certain
to whom the crowd’s exclamation referred? His pet crotchet is by this
time pretty generally recognised; and even his best friends, and a few
partial admirers, cannot choose but smile at the tenacity of his
monomania, and at the moonshine illumination he throws upon Russian
designs and their British abettors. Truly he is a dead hand at a mare’s
nest. With a scuttle of coals and a blank cartridge, he would build up a
powder-plot, and talks darkly and ominously about “the system of
government (in England) by secresy and intrigue.” We do think, however,
he would have done more gracefully to let Sir Robert Wilson alone.
“Since the above was written,” he says, “Sir Robert Wilson has
disappeared from the scene. I do not on that account suppress what I
have written, as I have not brought any charge against him.” No new
charge; but he has revived and dragged forth an old one, wellnigh
forgotten under the moss of years and the laurels of the departed
veteran. It is no generous hand that will approach, otherwise than
kindly and with reverence, the memory of the gallant soldier of the
Peninsula, the brave defender of Portugal, the stout fighter by Dresden,
of whom it has so truly been said, that “he ever was foremost where
danger was to be encountered or glory won.”[8]
Totally dissimilar in character as are the two works under examination,
the transitions from the one to the other are yet astonishingly easy.
Thus Mr Urquhart’s Muscovite nightmare leads us, in the most natural
manner possible, to a tale of a cotton nightcap, related by his witty
contemporary. At Tunis, M. Dumas was quite confounded by the prevalence
of this unpoetical but comfortable head-dress, which he constantly met
with in the streets and on the quays. Puzzled at its naturalisation in a
clime so remote from its native country, (an honour which he claims for
France,) and being of an inquisitive turn of mind, he instituted
inquiries, and received for explanation an anecdote, which we shall here
transcribe, as nearly as possible, in his own phraseology. We feel that
we neglect Mr Urquhart, and ought by right to give precedence of extract
to his muffin-investigation; but really the nightcap story is much more
amusing, and quite as important, although it may possibly owe more to
its narrator’s imagination.
About twenty years ago, according to M. Dumas, under the reign of a
former Bey, a ship bound from Marseilles to Gibraltar, with a cargo of
cotton nightcaps, was driven by a gale into Tunis roads. At that period
a duty was levied on vessels availing themselves of the port of Tunis;
and this duty, depending on the caprice of the Raïa-marsa, or captain of
the port, was very arbitrary. The Marseilles captain was naturally
subjected to this impost; still more naturally the Raïa-marsa fixed it
at an exorbitant sum. There was, however, no alternative but to pay: the
unlucky speculator in nightcaps lay beneath the paw of the lion. With
the loss of part of his skin, he slipped between the beast’s claws, and
ran to throw himself at the feet of the Bey. The Bey hearkened to the
complaint of the Giaour. When he had heard it, and had satisfied himself
that the amount of extortion had been rightly stated by its victim, he
said:—
“Do you desire Turkish justice or French justice?”
After long reflection, the Marseillese, with a confidence that did
honour to the legislation of his native land, replied:
“French justice.”
“’Tis good,” replied the Bey; “return to thy ship and wait.”
The seaman kissed his highness’s papooshes, returned to his ship, and
waited. He waited one month, two months, three months. At the end of the
third month, finding the time rather long, he went ashore, and watched
for the Bey to pass by. The Bey appeared: the captain threw himself at
his feet.
“Highness,” said he, “you have forgotten me?”
“By no means,” replied the Bey; “you are the captain of the French ship
who complained to me of the Raïa-marsa?”
“And to whom you promised justice!”
“Yes; but French justice.”
“Certainly.”
“Well, of what do you now complain?”
“Of having waited three months for it.”
“Listen,” said the Bey. “Three years ago your consul treated me with
disrespect; I complained to your king, claiming justice at his hands,
and three years have I waited for it: come back in three years, and we
will see.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed the captain, who began to understand; “and is
there no means of abridging the delay, your highness?”
“You asked for French justice.”
“But if I had asked for Turkish justice?”
“That were different: it had been done you on the instant.”
“Is it too late to change my mind?”
“It is never too late to do wisely.”
“Turkish justice then, highness—grant me Turkish justice!”
“’Tis good. Follow me.”
The captain kissed the Bey’s papooshes, and followed him to his palace.
Arrived there: “How much did the Raïa-marsa exact from you?” inquired
the Bey.
“Fifteen hundred francs.”
“And you consider that sum too large?”
“Highness, such is my humble opinion.”
“Too large by how much?”
“By at least two-thirds.”
“’Tis just; here are fifteen hundred piastres, making exactly a thousand
francs.”
“Highness,” said the captain, “you are the balance of divine justice,”
and he kissed the papooshes of the Bey, and was about to depart. The Bey
stopped him.
“Have you no other claim to prefer?” he said.
“One I certainly have, highness, but I dare not.”
“Dare, and speak.”
“It seems to me that I deserve compensation for the time I have lost,
whilst awaiting the memorable decision your highness has just
pronounced.”
“’Tis just.”
“The rather,” continued the captain, emboldened by the Bey’s
approbation, “that I was expected at Gibraltar in the beginning of the
winter, which is now over, and the favourable season for the sale of my
cargo is past.”
“And of what does thy cargo consist?” demanded the Bey.
“Highness, of cotton nightcaps.”
“What are cotton nightcaps?”
The captain took from his pocket a specimen of his goods, and presented
it to the Bey.
“For what purpose is this utensil?” said the latter.
“To cover the head,” replied the captain. And joining example to
precept, he put on the nightcap.
“It is very ugly,” quoth the Bey.
“But very comfortable,” retorted the captain.
“And you say that my delay to do you justice has occasioned you a loss?”
“Of ten thousand francs, at least, highness.”
The Bey called his secretary. The secretary entered, crossed his hands
upon his breast, and bowed to the ground. Then he took his pen, and the
Bey dictated to him a few lines, which, being in Arabic, were totally
unintelligible to the captain. When the secretary had done writing:
“’Tis good,” said the Bey; “let this decree be proclaimed throughout the
city.” Again the secretary crossed his hands upon his breast, bent
himself to the earth, and departed.
“Craving your highness’s pardon,” said the captain, “may I venture to
inquire the substance of that decree?”
“Certainly; it is an order to all the Jews in Tunis to cover their
heads, within twenty-four hours from this time, with a cotton nightcap,
under penalty of decapitation.”
“Ah! _tron de l’air_!” exclaimed the Marseillese; “I understand.”
“Then if you understand, return to your ship, and make the best profit
you can of your goods; you will soon have customers.” The captain threw
himself at the feet of the Bey, kissed his papooshes and returned to his
ship. Meanwhile, by sound of trumpet, and in all the streets of Tunis,
the following proclamation was made.
“Praises to Allah, the universal, to whom all things return!
“The slave of Allah glorified, who implores his pardon and absolution,
the Mouchir Sidi-Hussein-Pacha, Bey of Tunis:
“Forbids every Jew, Israelite, or Nazarene, to appear in the streets of
Tunis without a cotton nightcap upon his accursed and infidel head.
“This, under pain of decapitation.
“Giving to the unbelievers twenty-four hours to provide themselves with
the said covering.
“To this order all obedience is due.
“Written under date of the 20th April, in the year 1243 of the Hegira.
(Signed,) “SIDI HUSSEIN.”
You may fancy the sensation excited in Tunis by such a proclamation
as this. The twenty-five thousand Jews who compose the Israelite
population of the city looked aghast, and asked each other what was
this eighth plague which thus descended upon the people chosen of
the Lord. The most learned Rabbis were appealed to, but not one of
them had a clear notion of what a cotton nightcap was. At last a
_Gourni_—it is thus the Leghorn Jews are named—remembered to have
once seen the crew of a Norman ship enter that port with the
head-dress in question. It was something to know the article
required; the next thing to be ascertained was, where it could be
procured. Twelve thousand cotton nightcaps are not to be picked up
at every street corner. The men wrung their hands, the women tore
their hair, the children ate the dust upon the highway. Just when
the cries of anguish were most piercing, and the desolation at its
climax, a report spread through the multitude. It said that a ship
laden with cotton nightcaps was then in the port. Inquiry was made.
It was, said rumour, a three-master from Marseilles. The question
was, would there be nightcaps enough? Were there twelve thousand of
them—a cotton nightcap for everybody? There was a rush to the water
side; in an instant a flotilla of boats, crowded almost to sinking,
covered the lake, and it was a hot race out to the roads. At the
Goulette there was fouling, and four or five boats were capsized;
but as there are but four feet of water in the lake of Tunis, nobody
was drowned. They cleared the narrow passage, and approached the
good ship _Notre Dame de la Garde_, whose captain was upon deck
expecting their arrival. Through his telescope he had beheld the
embarkation, the race, the accidents—everything in short. In less
than ten minutes three hundred boats surrounded his vessel, and
twelve thousand throats vociferated, “Cotton nightcaps! cotton
nightcaps!” The captain signed with his hand for silence, and the
noisy mob were mute as mice.
“You want cotton nightcaps?” said he.
“Yes! yes! yes!” was the reply on every side.
“All very well,” said the captain; “but you are aware, gentlemen, that
cotton nightcaps are just now in great request. My letters from Europe
advise a rise in the article.”
“We know that,” said the same voices—“we know that, and ve vill make a
sacrifice.”
“Listen to me,” said the captain; “I am an honest man.”
The Jews trembled. The captain’s words were their invariable exordium
when about to rob a Christian.
“I will not take advantage of your position to impose upon you.”
The Jews turned pale.
“The cotton nightcaps cost me two francs apiece, one with the other.”
“Vell, it ish not too dear,” muttered the Jews in their beards.
“I will be satisfied with a hundred per cent profit,” continued the
captain.
“Hosannah!” cried the Jews.
“At four francs apiece, cotton nightcaps!” said the captain, and twelve
thousand hands were extended. “Order!” he continued; “come up on the
larboard side, and go down on the starboard.” Every Jew crossed the
vessel in turn, carried away a nightcap, and left four francs. The
captain’s receipts were forty-eight thousand francs, whereof thirty-six
thousand were clear profit. The twelve thousand Jews returned to Tunis,
every man plus a cotton nightcap, and minus four francs.
The next day the captain presented himself at the palace of the Bey, at
whose feet he prostrated himself, and kissed his papooshes.
“Well?” said the Bey.
“Your highness,” said the captain, “I come to thank you.”
“You are satisfied?”
“Delighted.”
“And you prefer Turkish justice to French justice?”
“There is no comparison between them.”
“This is not all,” said the Bey. And, turning to his secretary, he bade
him take his pen and write at his dictation. The writing was a second
decree, forbidding the Jews, under pain of death, to appear in the
streets of Tunis with cotton nightcaps on their heads, and granting them
twenty-four hours to dispose of their recent purchases as advantageously
as possible.
“Do you understand?” said the Bey to the captain.
“Oh, highness!” cried the Marseillese in an ecstasy of delight, “you are
the greatest of all Beys, past, present, and to come.”
“Return to your vessel, and wait.”
Half an hour later, the trumpets sounded in the streets of Tunis, and
the town’s-people thronged to the unusual summons. Amongst the listeners
the Jews were easily recognised by their triumphant air, and by their
cotton nightcaps cocked over one ear. The decree was read in a loud and
intelligible voice. The Jews’ first impulse was to throw their nightcaps
into the fire. On reflection, however, the head of the synagogue saw
that twenty-four hours were allowed to get rid of the proscribed
articles. The Jew is essentially a calculating animal. The Jews of Tunis
calculated that it was better to lose one half, or even three quarters,
than to lose the whole. Having twenty-four hours to turn in, they began
by driving a bargain with the boatmen, who on the previous occasion had
abused their haste, and overcharged them. Two hours later, the French
ship was again surrounded by boats.
“Captain! captain!” cried twelve thousand voices. “Cotton nightcaps to
shell! cotton nightcaps to shell!”
“Pooh!” said the captain.
“Captain, itsh a bargain; captain, you shall have them sheap.”
“I have received a letter from Europe,” said the captain.
“Vell! vell!”
“It advises a great fall in cotton nightcaps.”
“Captain, ve vill looshe upon them.”
“So be it,” said the captain. “I can only give you half price.”
“Ve vill take it.”
“I bought them at two francs. Let those who will give them for one come
on board by the starboard gangway, and depart by the larboard.”
“Oh, captain!”
“It’s to take or to leave, as you like.”
“Captain.”
“All hands to make sail!” shouted the captain.
“Vat are you doing, captain? vat are you doing?”
“Lifting my anchor, to be sure.”
“Ah now, captain, can’t you shay two francs?”
The captain continued to give orders for sailing.
“Vell, captain, ve must shay thirty sous.”
The mainsail expanded its folds, and the capstan began to creak.
“Captain, captain! ve vill take your franc!”
“Stop,” cried the captain.
One by one the Jews ascended the starboard side and descended to
larboard, leaving their cotton nightcaps, and receiving a franc apiece.
For a miserable three francs they had twice saved their heads: it was
not dear. As to the captain, he had got back his goods, and made a clear
profit of thirty-six thousand francs. As he was a man who knew how to
behave, he put eighteen thousand francs in his boat, went ashore, and
presented himself before the Bey, at whose feet he again prostrated
himself, and whose papooshes he once more kissed.
“I come to present my humble thanks to your highness.”
“Are you satisfied?”
“Overjoyed.”
“Do you consider the indemnity sufficient?”
“Too much. And I come to offer your highness half my net profit of
thirty-six thousand francs.”
“Nonsense!” said the Bey. “Have you forgotten that I promised you
Turkish justice?”
“I perfectly remember.”
“Well, Turkish justice is done gratis.”
“_Tron de l’air!_” cried the captain: “in France a judge would not have
been contented with half; he would have taken at least three quarters.”
“You mistake,” said the Bey; “he would have taken the whole.”
“Aha!” exclaimed the captain, “I see you know France as well as I do.”
And once more he went down into the dust to kiss the Bey’s papooshes,
but the Bey gave him his hand. The captain returned to his ship, and a
quarter of an hour later he left the African coast under press of sail.
He feared lest the Bey might change his mind.
Their brief experience of the nightcap convinced the Tunisian Jews of
its superiority to the yellow caps and black turbans with which they
were wont to cover their infidel heads; and upon the death of the Bey
they obtained permission from his successor to adopt the cotton
covering, whose wear previously entailed decapitation. Such, at least,
is the explanation given by the ingenious M. Dumas of the naturalisation
of Paris nightcaps on the Barbary coast.
Incidentally, and rather as things told him than of his own knowledge,
Mr Urquhart gives some brief details of the celebrated French campaign
against Morocco, in which Marshal Bugeaud won his dukedom, and Admiral
Joinville immortalised his name. His account of the affair of Isly is
contemptuous enough, and will assuredly entail upon him the indignation
of France, or at least of that portion of Frenchmen who believe, or
affect to believe, that there was a battle and a victory—not a surprise
and a scamper, unexpected by the assailed, and bloodless to the
assailants. “On the 14th August,” says Mr Urquhart, “the son of the
sultan is awakened by an alarm, ‘_The French army is in sight_.’ He
tells his people the marshal is coming to pay him a visit, before his
departure; and after giving orders for a tent to be pitched, and
coffee—which he knew the French liked—to be sought for and prepared, he
again assumed, to use the phraseology of Antar, ‘the attitude of
repose.’ He is again awakened—‘_The French are on us_’—and the French
_were_ on them—found _the coffee ready_, and, instead of drinking, spilt
it. The loss of the Moors was eight hundred men by _suffocation_.”
Compare this statement with the reflection of Alexander Dumas, on
approaching the mountains of Djema-r’ Azaouat. “Behind yonder hills,” he
fervently exclaims, “are two great mementos, equal to Thermopylæ and
Marathon—the combat of Sidi-Ibrahim, and the battle of Isly.” Funny Mr
Dumas! how gravely he says these droll things. How many persons, out of
France, remember to have heard of this modern Thermopylæ? We seriously
suggest to Mr Dumas, whose indefatigable pen, although more particularly
devoted to romance and the drama, occasionally flies at history, to
write that of the conquest and colonisation of Algeria, in which would
naturally be included the episode of the campaign against the Moors. We
are quite sure his account of the battle of Isly will differ widely from
that of Mr Urquhart: as widely as, or still more so than that of Admiral
Bruat, which was addressed to the inhabitants of the Society Islands, in
a proclamation quoted as a note to _The Pillars of Hercules_, and which
Mr Urquhart declares, with much truth, to be highly deserving of a place
in history. M. Dumas seems to us to be exactly cut out for the historian
of his countrymen’s African exploits. The razzias and crop-burnings, the
bloody skirmishes of Zouaves and Bedouins, the constant pursuit and many
narrow escapes of the Emir, will acquire additionally romantic interest
from the picturesque handling of the author of the _Mousquetaires_, who
declares, in the pages of _Le Véloce_, that he is not only a soldier’s
son, but himself a soldier at heart. With what glowing eloquence will he
refute the various charges brought against his countrymen in Africa! “If
Abd-el-Kader,” says Mr Urquhart, “had not been playing a game, at all
events a game was played in his person. He was necessary to the French
military system of Algiers. He is known to have been three times in
their hands, and to have been suffered to escape.” This accusation has
frequently been brought against the French generals in Africa. If such
collusion existed, it was not subscribed to, according to M. Dumas, by
Colonel Montagnac, who commanded, in the year 1845, the garrison of
Djema-r’ Azaouat, and who had repeatedly sworn to take the Emir or lose
his life. One day an Arab presented himself at the colonel’s quarters.
He came from the chief of the neighbouring tribe of Souhalias, who was,
he said, more devoted than ever to the French cause; and who sent word
that, if the garrison would make a sortie, and place themselves in
ambuscade on the territory of his tribe, he engaged to deliver
Abd-el-Kader into their hands. Confiding in the Arab’s promise,
Montagnac issued forth at the head of four hundred and eight men and
twelve officers, including sixty-five cavalry. But on the second day he
found he was betrayed, and that the promised capture was but a bait to
lure him from his stronghold. The little band retraced their steps, and
were within five leagues of Djema-r’ Azaouat, when they were menaced by
an overwhelming force of Arabs and Kabyles; and in the distance the Emir
himself, his banner displayed at the head of his regulars, was seen
descending the hills. Two companies of French riflemen remained to guard
the baggage; and the others, with the cavalry, advanced against the foe.
After a desperate struggle, the main body was cut to pieces, or made
prisoners; and a company, advancing from the bivouac to its support, was
surrounded and exterminated. Of these combats, Mr Dumas gives a minute
account, introducing dramatic dialogues between the men and officers,
and imparting to the whole scene his usual vivid and animated colouring.
Thus, when the company from the baggage-guard is marching up, only sixty
strong, to the assistance of its comrades, and is suddenly surrounded,
we find the following graphic account of its proceedings:—
“The commanding officer had but just time to order formation of square.
The manœuvre was executed under the fire of ten thousand Arabs (!) as it
would have been in the Champ-de-Mars. Of all these men, only one showed
signs of regret—none of fear. This was a young rifleman, twenty years
old, named Ismaël.
“‘Oh, _commandant_!’ he exclaimed, ‘we are lost!’
“The commandant smiled upon the poor lad; he understood that at twenty
years of age he knew so little of life that he had a right to regret it.
“‘How old are you?’ he asked of the young soldier.
“‘One-and-twenty,’ was the reply.
“‘Well, you will have eighteen years less to suffer than I have had;
look at me, and learn how to die with firm heart and head erect.’
“He had scarcely spoken, when a bullet struck his forehead, and he fell
as he had promised to fall. Five minutes later, Captain Burgaud had
likewise fallen.
“‘Come, my friends,’ said the non-commissioned adjutant Thomas, ‘one
step forward: let us die upon the bodies of our officers.’
“These were the last distinct words that were heard; the death-rattle
followed them, then the silence of the grave. In its turn, the second
company had disappeared. All that now remained was the company under
Captain de Géreaux, left in charge of the camp.”
Mr Dumas’ habit of writing melodrama renders him very effective in this
sort of romantic military chronicle, which is pretty well received in
France, where people are used to the style. It is compounded upon the
plan of all his historical romances and romantic histories, with the
sole difference that, in these, he frequently audaciously perverts
historic truth; whilst the African business is so recent that he cannot
venture to be unfaithful to the outline, and confines himself to filling
up and extending with his own fantastic details. Having been on the
spot, and one of the first to welcome the few survivors of the prisoners
taken in the above bloody affair, when they were ransomed from the
Arabs, he doubtless picked up a number of the tales that always
circulate in such cases; and these he has very cleverly amalgamated and
patched up into a consecutive narrative—perhaps the most amusing section
of those two volumes of _Le Véloce_ which alone as yet have reached us.
His account of the fate of the last company—the one that stopped with
the baggage—is the best bit of all, although certainly very French, and
strongly impregnated with that peculiar flavour of theatrical
fanfaronade which is inseparable from the character of our vain and
volatile neighbours, which they cannot see, and consequently are not
likely to lose, and which stirs the gall of prejudiced and untravelled
Englishmen, and brings a smile to the lip of those who, with greater
justice and in a better spirit, will not allow peculiarities of tone and
manner to blind them to the good qualities of a gallant and ingenious
nation, whose soldiers, although of late years they have more than once
been employed in wars and expeditions unworthy of their prowess, have
never lost an opportunity of proving that, in valour at least, they are
no way degenerate from their fathers who fought under the banners of
Napoleon the Great. And although one cannot but be amused at the
ambitious comparison with Thermopylæ, the affair of Sidi-Ibrahim was
unquestionably most honourable to the handful of brave fellows who
defended the Marabout of that name against fifty times their number. The
term _Marabout_ is applied, in Africa, not only to a saint, but to the
small, round-roofed, stone edifice which serves as his mausoleum after
death, and, not unfrequently, as his habitation during life. In a
building of this description, after driving out the Arabs that occupied
it, and when the cessation of the musketry warned them that their
comrades were slain or prisoners, the last company of Colonel
Montagnac’s ill-fated detachment took refuge, under the orders of its
captain, de Géreaux, and there withstood the fierce and reiterated
attacks of a host of Arabs and Kabyles. Abd-el-Kader himself approached
the little fortress, and was wounded in the cheek by a French bullet. He
offered quarter on surrender: it was refused. Thrice he summoned the
handful of beleaguered warriors, who spurned his proposals, and would
not trust themselves to the word of an Arab. Then the combat recommenced
and lasted till night, whose arrival found the French still in
possession of their post. At daybreak, hostilities were resumed, and
continued till ten o’clock in the forenoon, when Abd-el-Kader took his
departure, and the Arabs, whose loss was very heavy, converted the siege
into a blockade. Night returned, and Captain de Géreaux, who was on the
watch, saw an Arab creeping stealthily towards the Marabout. He awoke Dr
Rosagutti, the interpreter; they called to the Arab, who came to them;
they gave him all the money they had about them, and a letter to take to
the camp of Lalla Maghrnia. The Arab was faithful; he delivered the
letter; but none knew the signature of Captain de Géreaux; a stratagem
was suspected, and no relief was sent. Hope of succour, however, buoyed
up the spirits of the besieged of Sidi-Ibrahim, and they waited another
day, without bread or water, almost without ammunition, their gaze fixed
in the direction of Lalla Maghrnia. But the next morning at six o’clock,
despairing of relief, they resolved to sally forth and cut their way to
Djema-r’Azaouat. There were four leagues to get over, and thousands of
Arabs were echeloned along the route. With desperate courage, the
fifty-five or sixty Frenchmen repulsed numerous attacks, forming square
when hard pressed, receiving many wounds, marking their track with
corpses, but still, by their steadiness and deadly fire, keeping the
undisciplined Arabs at bay. Some five-and-twenty succeeded in arriving
within half a league of Djema-r’Azaouat, but then their ammunition was
expended; the Arabs pressed upon them, and a volley at twenty paces
stretched half their number, including the brave de Géreaux, lifeless in
the dust. The remainder dispersed, and sought concealment and safety
amongst the copsewood and bushes. Three of them reached the lines of
Djema-r’Azaouat, told the sad tale, and died, unwounded, of mere
exhaustion. A sortie was made, and five or six men, who had escaped the
Kabyle sabres, were brought in. Eight men were all that survived of the
gallant eighth battalion of the Chasseurs of Orleans. The disaster,
however, was signally revenged. The Arabs who had brought it about, by
the false message sent to Colonel Montagnac—the tribe of the
Beni-Snanen—were cooped up by General Cavaignac on a narrow projection
of the coast, and driven into the sea or put to the sword, to the number
of four or five thousand. “The furious soldiers gave no quarter,” adds
M. Dumas, “and General Cavaignac perilled his popularity with the army
by saving a remnant of this unfortunate tribe. The trumpeter, Roland,
the only survivor of the massacre of the m’Louïa, (when the prisoners
taken by Abd-el-Kader were put to death in cold blood,) was in this
affair: he had a terrible revenge to take, and he took it, and declared
himself satisfied, for he had slain with his own hand more than thirty
Arabs.”
Great as is the press of more important matter, and prolonged though
this paper has been by the extracts to which the diverting Dumas has
tempted us, we yet cannot close it without a glance at Mr Urquhart’s
remarkable chapter, entitled “THE BATH.” On this subject his notions and
prepossessions are completely Oriental. His residence in the East has
given him a distaste for the modes of washing customary in Western
Europe, and which he styles “dabbling in dirty water.” Nothing less than
the running stream can come up to his standard of cleanliness. And as it
is not always practicable to have fountains in dwelling-houses, he tells
us how he manages without one. “I find the most convenient substitute a
vase holding about two gallons of water, with a spout like that of a
tea-urn, only three times the length, placed on a stand about four feet
high, with a tub below: hot or cold water can be used; the water may be
very hot, as the stream that flows is small. It runs for a quarter of an
hour or twenty minutes.” This is his plan in the West, we understand;
but when the member for Stafford gets amongst Mussulmans, oh, how he
revels in the shampoo! The gusto of his descriptions positively makes us
shudder. The bathman, we are told, “stands with his feet on the thighs
and on the chest, and slips down the ribs; then up again three times;
and, lastly, doubling your arms one after the other on the chest, pushes
with both hands down, beginning at the elbow, and then putting an arm
under the back and applying his chest to your crossed elbows, _rolls on
you across till you crack_. You are now turned on your face, and, in
addition to the operation above described, he works his elbow round the
edges of your shoulder-blade, and with the heel plies hard the angle of
the neck; he concludes by hauling the body half up by each arm
successively, while he stands with one foot on the opposite thigh. You
are then raised for a moment to a sitting posture, and a contortion
given to the small of the back, and a jerk to the neck by the two hands
holding the temples.” This has rather a dislocating, formidable, and
certainly a most disgusting sound; but Mr Urquhart assures us the
process is delightful, and particularly gentle compared with the mode of
operation in a Moorish bath, where, practised bather though he is, he
shrieked under the rough usage of his manipulator. The conclusion of
this latter bath he describes as follows:—“Thrice taking each leg and
lifting it up, he placed his head under the calf, and raising himself,
scraped the leg as with a rough brush, _for his shaved head had the
grain downwards. The operation concluded by his biting my heel._” We
should like to see any human being, whether Turk, Pagan, Jew, or
Christian, attempt such revolting liberties with our person. By the
bones of Belshazzar! we would brain him with the bath-brush. The member
for Stafford should be ashamed of himself. He positively makes us
scunner. We have a firm and wholesome faith in the efficacy and
cleanliness of a British spunging-bath and rough towel; we repel with
abhorrence Mr Urquhart’s manipulatory innovations, and feel intense
disgust at the Mahometan kneading, pummelling, trampling, sweating,
soaping, and scraping, which he dwells upon with such nauseous
minuteness, and whose results he describes as so wonderfully salubrious
and delightful. We really hesitate at transferring to our page any more
of his nasty details. We venture, however, to present him to our readers
in the character of Marsyas, undergoing the flaying process which, it
appears, forms an essential stage of the Turkish bathing operation. With
a glove of camel’s hair, the bathman “commences from the nape of the
neck in long sweeps down the back till he has started the skin; _he
coaxes it into rolls_, keeping them in and up, till within his hand they
gather volume and length; he then successively strikes and brushes them
away, and they fall right and left as if spilt from a dish of macaroni.
The dead matter which will accumulate in a week forms, when dry, _a ball
of the size of the fist. I once collected it and had it dried—it is like
a ball of chalk._” Well may the honourable gentleman declare the human
body “a fountain of impurities,” when he can back the assertion by such
a startling statement of the weekly amount of his own cuticular
incrustations. No wonder he commiserates the condition of the unwashed
portion of his countrymen, and urges the establishment of public baths
on a scale more magnificent than practicable. Cleanliness is so nearly a
virtue, that all deserve well of their country who efficaciously promote
its spread amongst classes by whom it is too often neglected. But the
carrying out of such plans must devolve upon philanthropists of a more
practical stamp than this fantastical theorist and crotchety M.P. It
were ridiculous to suppose that all the advantages would be realised
which he predicts, from the adoption in this country of a universal
system of bathing; but so manifold and enormous are they, that, if only
a tithe of them were guaranteed, it would suffice to make us sigh for
the days when in London there should be “no gin palaces, but a thousand
baths!”
GOLDSMITH.
PART II.
From the character of the man, we turn to the character of the
author—from the life to the works of Goldsmith. What we said of the
well-known events of his career would apply equally to his writings; it
would be a tedious and superfluous office to pass in formal review
performances so familiar, and which appear to be as justly appreciated
as they are widely circulated. All that we propose doing, is to add a
few miscellaneous observations, hints, and fragments of criticism, which
may be interesting to those who like to examine also, as well as to
admire. For these we could find no space in our previous Number: we
throw them together here in the best order their miscellaneous nature
permits.
In the _Citizen of the World_, Goldsmith tells us of a man who earned
his livelihood by making wonders—curiosities of nature or of art—and
exhibiting them to the world. “His first essay in this way was to
exhibit himself as a wax-work figure, behind a glass door at a
puppet-show. Thus, keeping the spectators at a proper distance, and
having his head adorned with a copper crown, he looked extremely
natural, and very like the life itself.” This would be no bad
illustration of what his critics have often pointed out as Goldsmith’s
own proceeding, in the manufacture of his literary wonders and
curiosities. When he wanted a fictitious character for his novel, or his
play, he sate himself down behind the glass door, with some copper
crown, or other slight disguise upon his head, and all the world
confessed that it “looked extremely natural, and very like the life
itself!”
His Good-natured Man, in the comedy of that name; Young Marlow in _She
Stoops to Conquer_, the Philosopher Vagabond, the Man in Black, and
others that could be named, are all Goldsmith sitting behind the glass
door. There is a strong personal resemblance in all his characters; they
are portraits of himself, drawn with the features widened into broad
humour, or elongated into saturnine wisdom. His Beau Tibbs seems to have
been created by looking at, and magnifying, some of his own foibles; his
Dr Primrose, by drawing forth those grave and kindly feelings, which,
notwithstanding those foibles, lay, he knew, at the bottom of his heart.
The incidents of his life, too, supplied very often the plot or story;
and memory took the place of invention. Yet, in this respect,
considering the varied and adventurous nature of his life, we are rather
surprised that he did not draw more copiously from himself, and from his
past history. We should have thought that the curious scenes he must
have witnessed in that wild journey of his—footing it through Europe,
now as medical student, now as itinerant musician, at one time playing
the tutor (he the tutor!) to some junior scapegrace; at another,
furbishing up all the Latin and logic he was master of, to dispute at
Padua for bed and supper—would have supplied him with many an incident
for a novel. We are persuaded, that if he had lived in these days, when
the value of an incident is better known, and it is more the fashion
than it was formerly to put to literary profit the experience and events
of private life, he would have made much greater use than he has done of
such materials.
But it is not only thus that we trace the life of Goldsmith in his
writings. We trace the influence of his career in the formation of his
intellectual character. Travel had stood with him in the place of
philosophy. It had enlarged his sphere of thought, had broken up
national prejudices, and given him an insight into many a matter which
otherwise would never have attracted his attention. But travel is far
more effective in dispersing error or prejudice, than in lending
assistance to the formation of settled opinions. It confirmed him in a
desultory mode of thinking, uncertain and undecided. His horizon was
extended, but his vision was not distinct. Yet as Goldsmith was never
devoted to the discipline of philosophy, and would never, perhaps, have
pursued any systematic study, he was, upon the whole, a great gainer by
his varied vagrant life, and the cosmopolitan temper it had generated. A
philosopher he never would have been: it was something to feel as a
citizen of the world.
Goldsmith was of a quick apprehensive intellect, open to receive
impressions, with ready faculty to give them forth again; but to
continuous thought, to close and prolonged examination of any subject,
he was by no means addicted. With him the philosophers were more talked
of than read. Abstract thinking and severe reasoning were not his
vocation. It thus happens that the solitary observation, simply
asserted, is often excellent, and carries with it our cordial assent. He
only discovers his weakness when he undertakes to convince us by his
reasoning. On those occasions when he puts forth a thesis, and solemnly
begins to demonstrate it, his thesis may be good, but it will stand none
the firmer for his argument.
Let us give an instance of this from the _Vicar of Wakefield_. Nothing
could be more just, or more happily expressed, than the opening
observation we are about to quote. The reasoning which follows, and is
intended to support it, is as weak and fantastical as, on so beaten a
subject, it well could be.
“And it were highly to be wished,” says the Vicar, “that legislative
power would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity;
that it would seem convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is
not by making punishment familiar, but formidable. Then instead of our
present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches
for the commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive,
fitted for the perpetration of thousands—we should see, as in other
parts of Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused
might be attended by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or
new motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increasing
punishment, is the way to mend a state.”
Now, if the good Vicar had stopped here, he would have expressed a truth
much needed at the time, in a simplicity and elegance of language which
could not be improved. But the Vicar enters into abstract reasoning to
prove his thesis, grows argumentative, and, at the same time, grows
weak.
“Nor can I,” he continues, “avoid even questioning the validity of
that right which social combinations have assumed of capitally
punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder their right
is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence,
to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for the life of another.
Against such all nature rises in arms; but it is not so against him
who steals my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his
life, as by that the horse he steals is as much his property as mine.
If, then, I have any right, it must be from a compact made between us,
that he who deprives the other of his horse shall die. _But this is a
false compact; because no man has a right to barter his life any more
than to take it away, as it is not his own. And, besides, the compact
is inadequate, and could be set aside even in a court of modern
equity, as there is a great penalty for a trifling inconvenience,
since it is far better that two men should live than that one man
should ride._ But a compact that is false between two men is equally
so between a hundred and a hundred thousand; for as ten millions of
circles can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot
lend the smallest foundation to falsehood.”
Logic such as this, even if set forth in Latin, would hardly have earned
him his supper and his bed in the University of Padua.
We are told that at Dublin University Goldsmith manifested great
repugnance to the study of mathematics. The conduct towards him of the
mathematical tutor did not tend to diminish this aversion. In one of his
miscellaneous essays, he thus revenges himself on the science and on its
professors:—
“A youth incapable of retaining one rule of grammar, or of acquiring
the least knowledge of the classics, may nevertheless make great
progress in mathematics; _nay, he may have a strong genius for the
mathematics without being able to comprehend a demonstration of
Euclid_; because his mind conceives in a peculiar manner, and is so
intent upon contemplating the object in one particular point of
view, that it cannot perceive it in any other. We have known an
instance of a boy who, while his master complained that he had not
capacity to comprehend the properties of a right-angled triangle,
had actually, in private, by the power of his genius, _formed a
mathematical system of his own_; discovered a series of curious
theorems, and even applied his deductions to practical machines of
surprising construction.”—_Essay on Taste._
But although Goldsmith could commit the most surprising blunders when he
invades the region of abstract or severe reasoning, yet the credit must
be given to him of _thinking for himself_. With undisciplined powers,
and but slenderly equipped for the task, we still see him engaging in
the solution of social and political problems. He does not merely repeat
from books the ideas of others; nor is he a thoughtless spectator of the
world. One subject especially our homeless wanderer, who had looked up
at society from the last round of the ladder, is frequently observed to
be canvassing. His opinions on it are far from settled; his conclusions
are often diametrically opposed; his reasonings never very clear; but he
is, at all events, seen from time to time pondering it with great
interest. It is the subject of luxury—the gratifications and pleasures
of the wealthy in a state of civilisation. The rule admits of
exceptions; but, in general, he condemns luxury in his poetry, and
defends it in his prose. In neither case is he very successful in his
reasonings. When he assails, he appears to be under the influence of a
mere sentiment; when he defends it, he seems to be dealing with a
half-learned philosophy, and such as is generally understood to be
rather a native of France than of England.
“Examine,” says the _Citizen of the World_, “the history of any
country remarkable for opulence and wisdom, you will find that they
would never have been wise had they not been first luxurious: you will
find poets, philosophers, and even patriots, marching in luxury’s
train. The reason is obvious. _We then only are curious in knowledge,
when we find it connected with sensual happiness._ The senses ever
point out the way, and reflection comments upon the discovery. Inform
a native of the desert of Kobi of the exact measure of the parallax of
the moon, he finds no satisfaction at all in the information; he
wonders how any could take such pains, and lay out such treasures, in
order to solve so useless a difficulty; but connect it with his
happiness by showing that it improves navigation—that by such an
investigation he may have a warmer coat, a better gun, or a finer
knife, and he is instantly in raptures at so great an improvement. In
short, we only desire to know when we desire to possess; and, whatever
we may talk against it, luxury adds the spur to curiosity, and gives
us a desire of becoming more wise.”—Letter XI.
Not true, Dr Goldsmith!—only a mere fragment of the truth; and your
astronomical illustration singularly unfortunate. For the science of
astronomy has been all along a labour of love—from the time when
Chaldæan shepherds, quite heedless of navigation, watched the stars, and
marked out the planet (the _wanderer_) amongst the fixed and stationary
lights, to these our own days, when the profound _mathematician_,
calculating, in the midst of revolutionary Paris, his disturbances on
the remote boundaries of our planetary system, writes to the skilful
_observer_, and bids him direct his great tube to a certain spot in the
heavens, and he will find a new _wanderer_ there, as yet unseen and
unsuspected. The observer points his telescope as he is told, and
discovers it that very night, in that very spot.
Still less will his reasoning hold together, or prove
“refutation-tight,” when, as in the _Deserted Village_, he finds that
the wealth of our merchants has occasioned the desertion of the country,
and the depopulation of the land. “In regretting,” he says, in the
preface to that poem, “the depopulation of the land, I inveigh against
the increase of our luxuries.” Happily no one, in reading that poem,
thinks of the political economy of the _Deserted Village_. Happily,
also, there is often a greater truth in the poet’s general enunciations,
than he himself is able to explain, or accurately to develop. The reader
may adopt his language, and apply it to a more correct conception than
was present to the author’s mind. The very paragraph which might be
quoted for its manifest blunder in the rudiments of political science,
opens with these admirable lines, which every one, in a sense of his
own, will readily adopt:—
“Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay,
’Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.”
What follows will not easily bear a wise interpretation. Goldsmith
speaks of commerce as if ships came in laden with nothing but gold—with
“loads of freighted ore”—and finds that this imported wealth converts
the ploughed fields into parks and pleasure-grounds. The writer of a
history of England might have called to mind the Forest Laws, and the
wide tracts of country kept waste, and, in some cases, _laid waste_ by
our rude ancestors, for their rude sports.
There is amongst the essays of Goldsmith a tale or allegory, which our
readers may remember to have read in their youth, in some Speaker, or
collection of Elegant Extracts. We are quite sure they have no
acquaintance with it of a later date. This tale we will venture to
revive. It belongs to so old-fashioned a species of literature, that it
must needs be a novelty. We would quote it as an instance illustrative
of the remarks we have made on the intellectual character of Goldsmith.
It is wrong—argumentatively and logically wrong—yet no man would say
that he was a mere repeater of other men’s words, who wrote _Asem, an
Eastern Tale; or a Vindication of the Wisdom of Providence in the moral
government of the World_. No one can read it without being prompted to
think, which is good proof that the author thought when he wrote
it—though he did not think very accurately.
In the time of Goldsmith, the fashion was not extinct of seeing moral
visions, and dreaming sagacious dreams. Wisdom delighted to speak in
allegory. There were still to be found in those days, here and there,
retired hermits, with long beards, hiding in solitary caves, and living
on the simplest herbs—cold water and a salad; and there were still
lingering on the earth genii, or other stupendous and supernatural
beings, who occasionally visited these favoured mortals, teaching them
surpassing wisdom, and illustrating their lessons in the most marvellous
manner. Asem was such a hermit. Yet, all hermit and Mussulman as he was,
he bears a strong resemblance to the Goldsmith family. “From the
tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all his fortune in relieving
the wants of the distressed.” Having reduced himself to want, he is
shocked to find that one who comes to beg, is not so welcome as when he
came to give. Accordingly, he turns with wrath from an ungrateful world.
“He began to view mankind in a very different light from that in which
he had before beheld them; he perceived a thousand vices he had never
before suspected to exist; wherever he turned, ingratitude,
dissimulation, and treachery contributed to increase his detestation
of them. Resolved, therefore, to continue no longer in a world which
he hated, and which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired
to a region of sterility, in order to brood over his resentment in
solitude, and converse with the only honest heart he knew—namely, his
own.”
But the contemplation of this only honest heart was not sufficient
consolation for that prospect of a wicked world which perpetually
haunted him, and which filled him with doubts on the wisdom or the
beneficence of Allah. He finally resolved on suicide. He was about to
plunge into the lake, when—
“He perceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of the
water, and approaching the bank on which he stood!
“‘Son of Adam!’ cried the Genius, ‘stop thy rash purpose: the Father
of the Faithful has seen thy justice, thy integrity, thy miseries, and
hath sent me to afford and administer relief. Give me thine hand, and
follow without trembling wherever I shall lead. In me behold the
Genius of Conviction, kept by the Great Prophet, to turn from their
errors those who go astray, not from curiosity, but a rectitude of
intention. Follow me, and be wise!’”
Such an invitation, and from so imposing a personage, was not to be
declined. The Genius of Conviction conducts Asem along the surface, and
to the centre of the lake: here the waters open, and close on them; they
descend into another world, where human foot had never trod before.
“‘The rational inhabitants of this world,’ the Genius tells him, ‘are
formed agreeably to your own ideas; they are absolutely without vice.
If you find this world more agreeable than that you so lately left,
you have free permission to spend the remainder of your days in it.’
“‘A world without vice! Rational beings without immorality!’ cried
Asem in a rapture. ‘I thank thee, Allah!—thou hast at length heard my
petitions: this—this, indeed, will produce happiness, ecstasy, and
ease. Oh for an immortality to spend it among men who are incapable of
ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other crimes
that render society miserable!’
“‘Cease thine exclamations!’ replied the Genius. ‘Look around thee.’
“They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, and entered the
country inhabited by men without vice; and Asem anticipated in idea
the rational delight he hoped to experience in such an innocent
society. But they had scarcely left the confines of the wood, when
they beheld one of the inhabitants flying with hasty steps, and terror
in his countenance, from an army of squirrels that closely pursued
him. ‘Heavens!’ cried Asem, ‘why does he fly? What can he fear from
animals so contemptible?’ He had scarcely spoken, when he perceived
two dogs pursuing another of the human species, who, with equal terror
and haste, attempted to avoid them. ‘This,’ cried Asem to his guide,
‘is truly surprising; nor can I conceive the reason for so strange an
action.’—‘Every species of animals,’ replied the Genius, ‘has of late
grown very powerful in this country; for the inhabitants, at first,
thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying them,
they have insensibly increased, and now frequently ravage their
harmless frontiers.’ ‘But they should have been destroyed!’ cried
Asem: ‘you see the consequence of such neglect.’—‘Where is then that
tenderness you so lately expressed for subordinate animals?’ replied
the Genius, smiling; ‘you seem to have forgot that branch of justice.’
‘I must acknowledge my mistake,’ returned Asem. ‘I am now convinced
that we must be guilty of tyranny and injustice to the brute creation,
if we would enjoy the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe
the duty of man to these irrational creatures, but survey their
connexions with one another.’
“As they walked farther up the country, the more he was surprised to
see no vestiges of handsome houses, no cities, nor any mark of elegant
design. His conductor, perceiving his surprise, observed, that the
inhabitants of this new world were perfectly content with their
ancient simplicity; each had a house, which, though homely, was
sufficient to lodge his little family; they were too good to build
houses, which would only increase their own pride and the envy of the
spectator; what they built was for convenience, and not for show. ‘At
least, then,’ said Asem, ‘they have neither architects, painters, nor
statuaries in their society; but these are idle arts, and may be
spared. However, before I spend much more time here, you should have
my thanks for introducing me into the society of some of their wisest
men: there is scarcely any pleasure to me equal to a refined
conversation; there is nothing of which I am so much enamoured as
wisdom.’—‘Wisdom!’ replied his instructor; ‘how ridiculous! We have no
wisdom here, for we have no occasion for it: true wisdom is only a
knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of others to us; but of what
use is such wisdom here? Each intuitively performs what is right in
itself, and expects the same from others. If by wisdom you should mean
vain curiosity and empty speculation, as such pleasures have their
origin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them.’
‘All this may be right,’ said Asem, ‘but I think I observe a solitary
disposition prevail among the people; each family keeps separately
within their own precincts, without society, or without
intercourse.’—‘That, indeed, is true,’ replied the other; ‘here is no
established society, nor should there be any: all societies are made
either through fear or friendship; the people we are among are too
good to fear each other; and there are no motives to private
friendship, where all are equally meritorious.’ ‘Well, then,’ said the
sceptic, ‘if I am to spend my time here—if I am to have neither the
polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friendship in such a world, I should be
glad, at least, of an easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts,
and to whom I may communicate mine.’—‘And to what purpose should
either do this?’ says the Genius. ‘Flattery or curiosity are vicious
motives, and never allowed of here; and wisdom is out of the
question.’
“‘Still, however,’ said Asem, ‘the inhabitants must be happy; each is
contented with his own possessions, nor avariciously endeavours to
heap up more than is necessary for his own subsistence; each has,
therefore, leisure for pitying those that stand in need of his
compassion.’ He had scarcely spoken when his ears were assaulted by
the lamentations of a wretch who sat by the way-side, and, in the most
deplorable distress, seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. Asem
immediately ran to his relief, and found him in the last stage of a
consumption. ‘Strange,’ cried the son of Adam, ‘that men who are free
from vice should thus suffer so much misery without relief!’—‘Be not
surprised,’ said the wretch who was dying; ‘would it not be the utmost
injustice for beings who have only just sufficient to support
themselves, and are content with a bare subsistence, to take it from
their own mouths to put it into mine? They never are possessed of a
single meal more than is necessary; and what is barely necessary
cannot be dispensed with.’ ‘They should have been supplied with more
than is necessary,’ cried Asem. ‘And yet I contradict my own opinion
but a moment before: all is doubt, perplexity, and confusion.’”
After some other attempts to find happiness in this world without vice,
Asem exclaims—“Take me, O my Genius! back to that very world I have
despised!” And hereupon the triumphant Genius, “assuming an air of
terrible complacency, called all his thunders around him, and vanished
in a whirlwind.” Asem found himself at the very place, and (with such
rapidity had these scenes passed in review) almost at the very instant
of time, in which the Genius had at first accosted him. “His right foot
was still advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet
withdrawn.”
Who would dare to contend with the _Genius of Conviction_?—who venture
to prescribe laws of reasoning to so majestic a being,—one who walks
upon the waters, calls his thunders about him, and has a whole
subterranean world wherewith to demonstrate his theory of morals?
Nevertheless, if we were quite sure that the Genius were out of hearing,
we should be disposed to question whether he had ever framed an accurate
definition of virtue. If, in a virtuous world, men must be chased by
squirrels, and devoured by dogs, live in penury, and let their
neighbours starve, either we, or the Genius of Conviction, have been in
error all this time as to what virtue really _is_.
As a critic, it is confessed on all hands that Goldsmith lamentably
failed. As a politician, he had this honourable peculiarity, that his
speculations had very little reference to the party feuds of the day. He
had contracted, probably from his Continental travels, a bias in favour
of monarchical power. He seems to have embraced the opinion which Burke
combated in his _Thoughts on the Present Discontents_; namely, that the
houses of parliament, or the aristocracy through their influence in
these houses, were dangerously encroaching on the royal prerogative. At
least this is the best explanation we can give of the expressions that
he, from time to time, throws out upon this subject.
The only grudge we owe his politics is, that they occasioned the
introduction of the weakest and most confused passage in his noble poem
of _The Traveller_. When discoursing upon foreign countries—on Holland,
France, or Italy—he naturally and wisely restricts himself to certain
general characteristics of the people and of their governments—general
views which admit of vigorous and poetic enunciation, and are not likely
to raise cavil or controversy. But when he lands upon his native
country, these home politics beset him, and he gets entangled in a train
of thought but half made out, of too controversial a character, and
which does not easily lend itself to the harmony of verse, and the
simple force of poetic expression.
“Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast approaching danger warms:
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,
Contracting regal power to stretch their own;
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom, when themselves are free;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;
The wealth of climes where savage nations roam,
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home;
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;
_Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne_.”
Yet the whole passage must be forgiven for the sake of the two last
lines. Of these the second is repeatedly quoted; but there is much
significance and extreme felicity of expression in the preceding line—
“——half a patriot, half a coward grown.”
It is a pity they should be so often separated.
Having mentioned _The Traveller_, let us turn at once to this and to its
exquisite companion—the two poems which give to Goldsmith his secure and
eminent position in the literature of England. Our few detached
criticisms on these old favourites shall not, at all events, be
wearisome by their length. His comedies we design to leave untouched;
they cannot be criticised without some review, however rapid, of the
literature of the stage, and for this we have at present neither space
nor inclination. A glance at _The Citizen of the World_ and _The Vicar
of Wakefield_ will bring our subject to its conclusion.
Every one remembers the anecdote connected with the first line of _The
Traveller_—
“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.”
Mr Irving shall relate it for us.
“The appearance of _The Traveller_ at once altered Goldsmith’s
intellectual standing in the estimation of society; but its effect
upon the club, if we may judge from the account given by Hawkins, was
almost ludicrous. They were lost in astonishment that a ‘newspaper
essayist,’ and a ‘bookseller’s drudge,’ should have written such a
poem. On the evening of its announcement, Goldsmith had gone away
early, after ‘rattling away as usual;’ and they knew not how to
reconcile his heedless garrulity with the serene beauty, the easy
grace, the sound good sense, and the occasional elevation of his
poetry. They could scarcely believe that such magic numbers had flowed
from a man to whom in general, says Johnson, ‘it was with difficulty
they could give a hearing.’ ‘Well,’ exclaimed Chamier, ‘I do believe
he wrote this poem himself; and, let me tell you, that is believing a
great deal.’
“At the next meeting of the club, Chamier sounded the author a little
about his poem. ‘Mr Goldsmith,’ said he, ‘what do you mean by the last
word in the first line of your _Traveller_, “remote, unfriended,
melancholy, _slow_?” Do you mean tardiness of locomotion?’—‘Yes,’
replied Goldsmith inconsiderately, being probably flurried at the
moment. ‘No, sir,’ interposed his protecting friend Johnson, ‘you did
not mean tardiness of locomotion; you meant that sluggishness of mind
which comes upon a man in solitude.’—‘Ah!’ exclaimed Goldsmith,
‘_that_ was what I meant.’ Chamier immediately believed that Johnson
himself had written the line, and a rumour became prevalent that he
was the author of many of the finest passages.”
With due deference to the great critic, and to the author himself, he
_did_ mean tardiness of movement; but the epithet, joined as it is with
others, tells us also that this slowness of motion was the result of
heaviness of heart, and indicative of a sad and pensive spirit. It means
all that Dr Johnson said; but it means also, and first of all, the slow
pace of the solitary poet. Goldsmith was more probably “flurried at the
moment,” when he so readily adopted the interpretation of Dr Johnson,
than when he gave his first natural answer. He found the passage
explained for him so authoritatively, and so much to the satisfaction of
those present, that he could not hesitate in accepting the explanation.
But had he taken time and _courage_ to reflect a moment, he would have
seen that there was no discrepancy between his own answer and what Dr
Johnson had added. Take away the image of the slow moving poet, and you
take away all _picture_ from the passage. The pensive sadness is
depicted in what Captain Chamier calls, in seeming imitation of the
great man he is conversing with, “tardiness of locomotion.”
“Remote—unfriended—melancholy—slow.”
Every word comes from the heart. Many a time, without a doubt, had our
wandering poet, at a distance from his country, walked by the side of
some foreign stream—alone—unfriended—with nothing for his portion upon
earth but genius and poverty.
“We cannot, for our part, see the point of Captain Chamier’s question.
He might, with just as much reason, have put the same query to Petrarch,
who opens one of his sonnets in a very similar manner.
“Solo e pensoso, i più deserti campi
Vo misurando, a passi tardi e lenti.”
He would have found here also “tardiness of locomotion,” and the languor
of the pensive man, united in the same description.
“Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.”
The same image is made use of in the _Citizen of the World_. The reader
may like to contrast the prose with the poetic version. “The farther I
travel,” says Lien Chi Altangi to his correspondent, “I feel the pain of
separation with stronger force; those ties that bind me to my native
country and you, are still unbroken. _By every remove I only drag a
greater length of chain._” We prefer the prose. Indeed the metaphor is
not so much to our taste as that we should have thought it worth using a
second time, and in the greater work. It suited Lien Chi Altangi very
well, and with him it might have remained. It is too cumbrous—too
material. What are we to do with this “lengthening chain” which he
“drags” along the earth? and where, in imagination, are we to fasten it?
To his ankle? It would make a felon of him. To his waist? Ridiculous!
But, you will say, we are not to see the chain at all—only to hear it
clank a little in the verse—only to have some dim idea of lengthening
ligature. Very good; and thereupon we honestly respond—if, whilst
reading the line you feel no irresistible tendency to look down upon the
ground for this chain—if you do not see it at all, then to you the
metaphor is quite unobjectionable.
“And find no spot of all the world my own!”
The natural feeling of the homeless, unprovided wanderer, looking over a
great stretch of country. How finely is it contrasted with the sentiment
which follows! No spot his own! It is all his! He has taken sympathetic
possession of the whole.
“Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crowned;
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale—
For me your tributary stores combine;
_Creation’s heir, the world, the world is mine!_”
Having thus wrought himself into proper mood for his philosophic
purpose, the poet commences his survey of the several regions of the
earth, and nations of mankind. The train of thought is, at starting,
somewhat perplexed, from the author being occupied with two separate
reflections, which, until they are closely examined, appear
contradictory. We have them in close juxtaposition in the following
lines:—
“Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish amidst the scene to find
_Some spot to real happiness consigned_,
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.
But where to find that happiest below—
Who can direct, when _all pretend to know_?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own.”
&c., &c.
So far, then, from the hoard of happiness being small, every country
proclaims itself to be specially and pre-eminently blest. The
philosophic poet has no reason for his sorrow: he wanted one happy spot,
and he has found every spot is happy—supremely happy.
But the apparent incongruity vanishes on a closer examination. Each
nation boasts its pre-eminence over other nations; but man nowhere
boasts much of being man. Every people is proud and self-congratulatory
whilst it compares itself with other people; but its pride and
gratulation are only sustained by this comparison. Every congregation of
men who merely contemplate themselves as with the earth beneath them,
and the sky above, are heard to fill the air with lamentations and
discontent. So that the philosopher, notwithstanding these several
vaunts of every nation, civilised and savage, may still search, if he
thinks fit, for the spot “to happiness consigned.”
Our poet seems to find an equal proportion of good and evil in every
clime, people, and government. Sometimes he is guilty of a little
overcharge in this or that particular, in order to keep the balance
even. Only thus can we account for the very severe language with which
he takes leave of Holland. He had found the people of that country so
very comfortable that it was absolutely necessary to abuse them as—
“A land of tyrants and a den of slaves,”
or the due proportion of evil would not have been preserved.
It is observable, and characteristic of the age in which Goldsmith
wrote, that, beautiful as are his descriptions of the several countries
of Europe, there is very little in them which betrays that he himself
had ever visited those countries. There are few of those picturesque
circumstances which the eye of an observer detects, and which the
memory, or the note-book, preserves. Unfortunately, it was the habit of
the day to trust more to the knowledge acquired from books than to the
eyesight: _learning_ had not lost that undue influence which it
naturally acquired at the restoration of letters; poets chose rather to
describe what had been described before, and adhere to traditional
feelings and classical models, than to consult their own experience. The
descriptions of scenery in _The Traveller_ are so general, and consist
of broad outlines so well known to all educated men, that they might
have been written in Green Arbour Court, by one who had lived there all
his life. Switzerland itself does not provoke him to quit the beaten
track of broad generalities. He even describes what he did _not_ see,
because it harmonises with the ideas obtained from books. Thus,—
—“The bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread;
No produce _here_ the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword.”
Switzerland has been long celebrated for the mercenary troops she
supplied to foreign courts; but there is no country where less is seen
of the soldier and his sword; nor can “scanty bread” be said to be the
lot of those who cultivate its soil.
While our eye is on this part of the poem, can we possibly resist
quoting the following half-a-dozen lines? They are perfect:—
—“Those ills that round his mansion rise
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast—
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.”
Perhaps the happiest of all these national portraits is that of France.
He sympathised with the French; his pen is often employed in defending
them from absurd attacks, and combating the prejudices of the John Bull
of his day. The concluding lines are peculiarly happy: there is a
refinement of analysis expressed in the most graceful diction.
—“Honour
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic through the land;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They please, are pleased; _they give to get esteem_,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.”
His praise of England we must not appear so deficient in patriotism as
to quarrel with. But just as one is curious to know where an artist
stood who has taken some captivating sketch of an old familiar spot,
which never appeared to us so very charming before—so one might feel a
little curious to discover where it was, in town or country, that
Goldsmith took his stand when he saw—
“The lords of human race pass by;
Intent on high design—a thoughtful band.”
Was it on London Bridge or at Temple Bar that he read the marks of “high
design” in the “thoughtful band” that we were rushing past him like a
mill-stream? Or was he far off in the country, and did the squire and
his tenantry sit for the picture?
We already find in _The Traveller_ that strange hallucination which
seems to have haunted him, and which he more fully expressed in the
subsequent poem of _The Deserted Village_—that England was being
depopulated! What could have conducted him to a conclusion so utterly at
variance with the fact, it is useless to inquire. It was his crotchet.
He had probably seen decay in some places, and took no calculation of
the more than proportionate increase of others. For Goldsmith did not
limit himself to the mistaken notion, which many had expressed, that the
towns were growing large at the expense of the country, but
entertained—what to us must seem the strangest of paradoxes—entertained
the conviction that the population of the whole country was wasting
away.
Happily, as we have already remarked, no one thinks of the theory of
depopulation, or over-population, or any other theory of political
economy, whilst reading _The Deserted Village_. We have all learned to
love “Sweet Auburn” long before any idea connected with so crabbed and
distressful a subject entered our minds. Indeed the village, with all
its accessories, is brought with such distinctness before us, that even
the decay of Auburn itself, is not the most prominent impression which
the poem produces. The deserted Auburn is made to live again so vividly
in the imagination, that the desolation in which it lies only occurs
occasionally to the mind, throwing a feeling of sadness and melancholy
over the picture. For ourselves, we can well remember that when we first
became acquainted with the village of Auburn, we always thought of
it—notwithstanding the use of the past tense—as somewhere still
existing. It existed, at all events, very palpably in the imagination.
The scene is English: it is, in the main, a description of an English
village; but because the poet has also drawn materials from the
recollections of his early home, some of his critics have been resolved
to place Auburn in Ireland, and to identify what is clearly an ideal
picture with the definite locality of Lissoy. On this ground they have
even proceeded to convict him of an error for introducing the
nightingale in one of his descriptions, there being no such bird in
Ireland.
This line, in which the nightingale is introduced, we should venture to
quarrel with on quite another ground. Here is the passage. No one will
object to read it again, though he has read it fifty or twice fifty
times.
“Sweet was the sound when oft, at evening’s close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften’d from below:
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog’s voice, that bayed the whispering wind;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
_These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made_.”
Have not our readers already felt how much better the description would
have been if the last couplet had been omitted? This nightingale takes
us by surprise. We thought we were listening to the sounds of the
distant village, and find that we have been attending to the song of the
nightingale, and that these had only filled up the pauses of her song.
What had been the chief and prominent subject is suddenly reduced to
this subordinate part. But, what is more to the purpose, the description
becomes unfaithful, and ceases to reflect a real experience, when this
nightingale is introduced. If that shy bird were heard singing while the
milkmaid and the schoolboy were still audible, there would be no
pleasing, but a very displeasing effect produced by the mingling of
sounds of so very different a nature. They would by no means harmonise.
We should listen with pleasure to the milkmaid and to the distant
schoolboy, (he must be very distant,) and we should listen with pleasure
to the nightingale, but with very little pleasure to all these at once.
Goldsmith was a genuine lover of nature; but nevertheless he had not
quite escaped that taste of the day which often led to the sacrifice of
the truthfulness of a picture to what was deemed the perfection of the
verse. He too can sometimes desert the _sense_ for the _sound_. And this
word _sound_ reminds us of rather an amusing instance where he
introduces some geographical names for no earthly reason except the
array of sonorous syllables they present. “Farewell,” he exclaims to
poetry,—
“Farewell, and oh! where’er thy voice be tried,
_On Torno’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side_.”
Had we been in Captain Chamier’s place at the club, and wished to puzzle
our friend Goldsmith, we should have asked him why he sent the muse to
Pambamarca? and where, indeed, Pambamarca lay? We suspect that Goldsmith
must have answered, that he knew nothing about it, except that it was a
great way off, and sounded very majestically.
There is one instance where the poet has introduced a reminiscence from
Ireland, which we do not recollect to have seen noticed. In the
inimitable description of the village schoolmaster, he says,—
“Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e’en the story ran—_that he could gauge_.”
Now the rustics of an English village were not at all likely to select
this accomplishment of gauging as one to bestow upon their prodigy of
learning. We were tempted to explain this choice in the poet by the
necessity of rhyme, which too often has manifestly determined him in the
selection of his epithets, till it occurred to us that his mind had been
travelling back to the _Irish_ village, where the illicit still may have
brought even to the ragged urchins of the place some rumours of the
science of the exciseman.
In the whole range of English heroic verse, there is nothing more
beautiful or more complete than the description of the village pastor,—
——“The man to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year.”
Indeed, of the entire poem, it may be deliberately said, that it has
more tenderness and pathos, gives more of picture to the eye, and of
feeling to the heart, than any other in the language which is written in
the same verse or metre. The polished couplets of Pope are nowhere else
seen united with so much of the genuine essence of poetry. How perfect,
in every way, are such lines as these,—
“But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he pray’d and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.”
One more remark, one other brief quotation, and we quit this most
fascinating poem, which nestles deeper in the English heart than perhaps
any other. What a bland, gentle, loving humour it is which occasionally
steals over the picture of _The Deserted Village_, giving here and there
charming touches, as of gay sunshine breaking out upon the several
points of a shaded landscape, yet never disturbing the sweet serenity
and sadness of the whole. Never did humour wear so gentle an aspect. We
go from the pastor’s house, and the pastor himself, to the village inn,
and there is no abruptness in the transition. What a quiet, observant,
tolerant humour it is that sees those—“broken tea-cups, _wisely kept for
show_.” What else could they serve for? And they may still do to be
looked at.
“Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Observe it sinks, nor shall it more impart
_An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart_.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,
No more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
_Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear_.”
But why continue the quotation, when half our readers could complete it
from their own memory?
We proposed to ourselves a glance at _The Citizen of the World_ and _The
Vicar of Wakefield_. It can only be a glance.
Is this really the same—we are tempted to ask ourselves—is this really
the same _Citizen of the World_ that, on our first introduction to the
acquaintance of books, we read, amongst the _British Essayist_, with so
grave attention, and so implicit a faith? Yes, it is the same; for here
is the Man in Black, and here is the unmistakeable Beau Tibbs. Can we
possibly forget the invitation to dinner—on the first floor down the
chimney—something elegant, a turbot or an ortolan, which finally
resolves itself into “a nice little piece of ox-cheek, piping hot, which
Mrs Tibbs shall dress herself with that sauce the Duke dotes upon,”—and
which dinner, if his hungry guest will but wait, shall be “ready in at
least two hours.” Yes, here is Beau Tibbs as full of life as ever. But
the Chinese philosopher—he is gone;—there is left of _him_, or of China,
nothing but his name, and the suspicious name of his correspondent,
“Fum, the son of Fo.” Instead thereof, we have Oliver Goldsmith writing
his series of clever _Idlers_ and _Spectators_.
Pity this Chinaman ever made his appearance. All the humour and satire
of the piece might have been preserved, if some simple Englishman, some
Parson Adams or Dr Primrose, had been the writer of the letters; and we
should have been spared the constant incongruity of a Chinese who is not
only a palpable European, but a European of the literary class. So
completely versed is this Chinese philosopher in the feuds and vexations
of critics and authors, that we must suppose him commissioned by the
Grub Street of Pekin, to inquire into the condition of distressed poets
and discontented playwrights amongst the “outer barbarians.” We should
have been spared also those episodes, or adventures, which _his_ Eastern
correspondents detail to him, and which, indeed, are neither European
nor Eastern, but very tedious stories.
In vain does the Chinaman assume the prejudices of his country: he may
amuse us; but he cannot even get a momentary credit for the outlandish
taste he affects. He cannot disparage the beauty of Englishwomen,
without insinuating his praise of them. There is as much flattery as
abuse, when he says:—
“I shall never forget the beauties of my native city of Nanfew. How
very broad their faces! how very short their noses! how very little
their eyes! how very thin their lips! how very black their teeth. Here
a lady with such perfections would be frightful: Dutch and Chinese
beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but Englishwomen are entirely
different; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness,
are not only seen here, but wished for; and then they have such
masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking.”
That which constitutes the greatest charm of the work is the subdued and
chastened satire one occasionally meets with. Not a rude and boisterous,
a cutting or malicious satire, but such as requires to be read with some
attention before the full force of its sly inuendos, and of slight
circumstances mentioned as if in passing, is fully perceived. Take the
following instance, and note how the effect is heightened by a number of
little details, thrown in as if by accident.
“A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, I could not avoid
stopping in order to listen to a dialogue which I thought might afford
me some entertainment. The conversation was carried on between a
debtor through the grate of his prison, a porter who had stopped to
rest his burden, and a soldier at the window. The subject was upon a
threatened invasion from France, and each seemed extremely anxious to
rescue his country from the impending danger. ‘For my part,’ cries the
prisoner, ‘the greatest of my apprehension is for our freedom: if the
French should conquer, what would become of English liberty? My dear
friends, liberty is the Englishman’s prerogative; we must preserve
that at the expense of our lives: of that the French shall never
deprive us; it is not to be expected that men who are slaves
themselves, would preserve our freedom should they happen to conquer.’
‘Ay, slaves,’ cries the porter; ‘they are all slaves, fit only to
carry burdens, every one of them. Before I would stoop to slavery, may
this be my poison, (and he held the goblet in his hand,) may this be
my poison—but I would sooner list for a soldier.’
“The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, with much awe
fervently cried out, ‘It is not so much our liberties as our religion
that would suffer by such a change: ay, our religion, my lads. May the
devil sink me into flames (such was the solemnity of his adjuration)
if the French should come over, but our religion would be utterly
undone.’ So saying, instead of a libation, he applied the goblet to
his lips, and confirmed his sentiments with a ceremony of the most
persevering devotion.”
There are some works so simple in their structure, and so highly
popular, that on both grounds they defy criticism. Their faults lie so
open and undisguised, that the critic who would pertinaciously insist
upon them, would get neither credit nor thanks for his pains. In this
category is _The Vicar of Wakefield_. To expose its improbabilities of
plot or character would be an easy and most ungracious task. We love the
good Vicar, and he shall be allowed to tell his tale to the end of time
just as he pleases. To be sure, this odd notion he entertains, that a
clergyman ought by all means to marry once, and by no means more than
once, is very like a monomania. He is so staunch a _monogamist_, as he
calls it, as to be resolved on convincing his old friend and
fellow-clergyman, Mr Wilmot, who has been married three times. But this,
and all the wonderful things which the Thornhills, nephew and uncle,
contrive to do, who cares to cavil at? The genuine feelings of human
nature are portrayed in the novel,—kind, homely, unpretending feelings
which all can sympathise with—and when the attention is once fixed by
this species of truth, a thousand improbabilities may pass without
challenge. It is always thus. The writer of fiction, whether it be fable
or romance, and whether he deal with man or monster, or spirit of the
air, has always found that if he can present a faithful reflexion of the
human heart, he may give almost any conceivable license to the
imagination.
What most struck us on a late perusal of _The Vicar of Wakefield_, was
the very low level, in point of refinement, on which all the female
characters are placed. The love and the courtship are of the rudest
sort, without the least trace of sentiment or the poetry of the passion.
Mrs Primrose, notwithstanding the excellence of her gooseberry wine, and
the liberality with which she dispenses it, is, we are sorry to say,
decidedly a vulgar personage. That her learning and accomplishments were
those which we should now assign to the housekeeper, rather than to the
wife of a wealthy vicar, (for such is Dr Primrose when we are first
introduced to him,) is no part of our objection; this the difference of
times and systems of education may sufficiently explain. Mrs Primrose is
vulgar _at the heart_. She lacks those feelings of refinement which
sometimes grow up spontaneously even in the peasant’s hut.
Recall to mind the manner in which she receives back her unfortunate
daughter Olivia. Let it be remembered that she had been practising her
petty blundering artifices, her most visible palpable manœuvres, to
catch the rich young squire. It was her plot, her scheme for elevating
the family; in which scheme her daughter was of course to co-operate.
Yet this is her speech upon the occasion. It is true human nature, but
it is human nature of a very vulgar description. “Ah, Madam,” cried her
mother, “this is but a poor place you are come to after so much finery.
My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons
who have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy,
your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope
Heaven will forgive you.”
This Olivia herself is not made interesting to us by any one trait in
her character. Her beauty, and the cruel treatment she meets with from
her coarse and brazen seducer, is all she has to depend upon for any
claim to our sympathy. Affliction has its worst effect upon her, the
effect it has on the selfish and unrefined. “Every tender epithet
bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart, and a tear to her
eye; and as one vice, when cured, ever plants others where it has been,
so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jealousy and
envy behind.” It is just as well we do not get more intimate with the
female part of the family, for it is evident that in proportion as we
knew them better, we should like them less.
Had the life of Goldsmith brought him acquainted with no higher
specimens of the sex? Had his fair cousin Jane, the daughter of good
Uncle Contarine, with whom he used to practise music, and talk poetry,
left with him no more refined impression of female society than we see
reflected in _The Vicar of Wakefield_? Or, must we understand his
portraits as fair specimens of the women of his time? Or, shall we seek
a third explanation in the want of refinement in the literature of that
period? We suspect the last has much to do with it.
Here we must bring to a conclusion our necessarily detached and
desultory criticisms on the works of Goldsmith. As a _prose_ writer, it
would be in vain for any too partial biographer or critic to elevate him
to the rank of those who guide or confirm opinion, and teach us to
reason and to judge. But how many a familiar truth has he clothed in
clear and graceful diction! How often, too, the isolated observation,
thrown out as if by happy chance, stimulates the mind to reflection!
What a master he is of _form_—of the pleasing art which moulds the
style! But his two principal _poems_ are the works which raise him to
the rank of _the immortals_. We can easily understand that many ardent
admirers of our contemporaneous poetry—replete as it is with the
philosophic speculations of the age, its subtle and ambitious
thinking—may be disposed to look down with an air of condescension, and
a sort of gentle disdain, upon the poetry of Goldsmith. But time passes
on, and brings new modes of philosophising; the subtleties of one age do
not always charm the next; and it may happen that much which is now held
in highest repute, as the most _poetical_ of poetry, shall have grown
dim and obsolete, whilst mothers shall be still teaching to their
children, and old men still repeating to themselves, the descriptions of
_The Traveller_ and of _The Deserted Village_.
TO BURNS’S “HIGHLAND MARY.”
I.
O loved by him whom Scotland loves,
Long loved, and honoured duly
By all who love the bard who sang
So sweetly and so truly!
In cultured dales his song prevails,
Thrills o’er the eagle’s aëry,—
Ah! who that strain has caught, nor sighed
For Burns’s “Highland Mary?”
II.
I wandered on from hill to hill,
I feared nor wind nor weather;
For Burns beside me trode the moor,
Beside me pressed the heather.
I read his verse—his life—alas!
O’er that dark shades extended:—
With thee at last, and him in thee,
My thoughts their wanderings ended.
III.
His golden hours of youth were thine—
Those hours whose flight is fleetest;
Of all his songs to thee he gave
The freshest and the sweetest.
Ere ripe the fruit, one branch he brake,
All rich with bloom and blossom;
And shook its dews, its incense shook,
Above thy brow and bosom.
IV.
And when his Spring, alas, how soon!
Had been by care subverted,
His Summer, like a god repulsed,
Had from his gates departed;
Beneath the evening star, once more,
Star of his morn and even!
To thee his suppliant hands he spread,
And hailed his love “in heaven.”
V.
And if his spirit in “a waste
Of shame” too oft was squandered,
And if too oft his feet ill-starred
In ways erroneous wandered;
Yet still his spirit’s spirit bathed
In purity eternal;
And all fair things through thee retained
For him their aspect vernal.
VI.
Nor less that tenderness remained
Thy favouring love implanted;
Compunctious pity, yearnings vague
For love to earth not granted;
Reserve with freedom, female grace
Well matched with manly vigour,
In songs where fancy twined her wreaths
Round judgment’s stalwart rigour.
VII.
A mute but strong appeal was made
To him by feeblest creatures;
In his large heart had each a part
That part had found in Nature’s.
The wildered sheep, sagacious dog,
Old horse reduced and crazy,
The field-mouse by the plough upturned,
And violated daisy.
VIII.
In him there burned that passionate glow,
All Nature’s soul and savour,
Which gives its hue to every flower,
To every fruit its flavour.
Nor less the kindred power he felt,
That love of all things human,
Whereof the fiery centre is
The love man bears to woman.
IX.
He sang the dignity of man,
Sang woman’s grace and goodness;
Passed by the world’s half-truths, her lies
Pierced through with lance-like shrewdness.
Upon life’s broad highways he stood,
And aped nor Greek nor Roman;
But snatched from heaven Promethean fire
To glorify things common.
X.
He sang of youth, he sang of age,
Their joys, their griefs, their labours;
Felt with, not for, the people; hailed
All Scotland’s sons his neighbours:
And therefore all repeat his verse—
Hot youth, or graybeard steady,
The boat-man on Loch Etive’s wave,
The shepherd on Ben Ledi.
XI.
He sang from love of song; his name
Dunedin’s cliff resounded:—
He left her, faithful to a fame
On truth and nature founded.
He sought true fame, not loud acclaim;
Himself and Time he trusted:
For laurels crackling in the flame
His fine ear never lusted.
XII.
He loved, and reason had to love.
The illustrious land that bore him:
Where’er he went, like heaven’s broad tent
A star-bright Past hung o’er him.
Each isle had fenced a saint recluse,
Each tower a hero dying;
Down every mountain-gorge had rolled
The flood of foemen flying.
XIII.
From age to age that land had paid
No alien throne submission,
For feudal faith had been her Law,
And freedom her Tradition.
Where frowned the rocks had Freedom smiled,
Sung, mid the shrill wind’s whistle—
So England prized her garden Rose,
But Scotland loved her Thistle.
XIV.
The land thus pure from foreign foot,
Her growing powers thus centred
Around her heart, with other lands
The race historic entered.
Her struggling dawn, convulsed or bright,
Worked on through storms and troubles,
Whilst a heroic line of kings
Strove with heroic nobles.
XV.
Fair field alone the brave demand,
And Scotland ne’er had lost it:
And honest prove the hate and love
To objects meet adjusted.
Intelligible course was hers
By safety tried or danger:
The native was for native known—
The stranger known for stranger.
XVI.
Honour in her a sphere had found,
Nobility a station,
The patriots’ thought the task it sought,
And virtue—toleration.
Her will and way had ne’er been crossed
In fatal contradiction;
Nor loyalty to treason soured,
Nor faith abused with fiction.
XVII.
Can song be mute where hearts are sound?
Weak doubts—away we fling them!
The land that breeds great men, great deeds,
Should ne’er lack bards to sing them.
That vigour, sense, and mutual truth
Which baffled each invader,
Shall fill her marts, and feed her arts,
While peaceful olives shade her.
XVIII.
Honour to Scotland and to Burns!
In him she stands collected.
A thousand streams one river make—
Thus Genius, heaven-directed,
Conjoins all separate veins of power
In one great soul-creation;
And blends a million men to make
The Poet of the nation.
XIX.
Honour to Burns! and her who first
Let loose the abounding river
Of music from the Poet’s heart,
Borne through all lands for ever!
How much to her mankind has owed
Of song’s selectest treasures!
Unsweetened by her kiss, his lips
Had sung far other measures.
XX.
Be green for aye, green bank and brae
Around Montgomery’s Castle!
Blow there, ye earliest flowers! and there,
Ye sweetest song-birds, nestle!
For there was ta’en that last farewell
In hope, indulged how blindly;
And there was given that long last gaze
“That dwelt” on him “sae kindly.”
XXI.
No word of thine recorded stands;
Few words that hour were spoken:
Two Bibles there were interchanged,
And some slight love-gift broken.
And there thy cold faint hands he pressed,
Thy head by dewdrops misted;
And kisses, ill-resisted first,
At last were unresisted.
XXII.
Ah cease!—she died. He too is dead.
Of all her girlish graces
Perhaps one nameless lock remains:
The rest stern Time effaces—
Dust lost in dust. Not so: a bloom
Is hers that ne’er can wither;
And in that lay which lives for aye
The twain live on together.
MY PENINSULAR MEDAL.
BY AN OLD PENINSULAR.
PART IV.—CHAPTER X.
Next morning, I commenced my regular attendance at the office; all hands
employed in counting money.
“Well, Mr Y—,” said my commanding officer, “I fear you find the
gentleman with whom you lodge rather dull company.”
“Particularly lively, sir; never met with a more pleasant person.”
“Thought he was rather morose,” replied Mr Q—. “That’s the character he
bears amongst his acquaintance here.”
“Quite cheerful and obliging, sir; sings a good song. Yesterday he
invited a couple of friends to meet me at dinner. Does all he can to
make me comfortable, even to his own inconvenience. Last night, as we
were short of blankets, he forced me to take his greatcoat, which he
generally puts upon his own bed. Offered, as a favour, to sell it me, as
I am going up to the army. Only asks ten dollars.”
“Yes, yes; he’s always trying to bargain. That’s what has got him such a
bad name here. Constantly on the look-out to turn a penny. Well, do you
buy the pony?”
“Yes, sir,” said I; “we settled about that this morning at breakfast.
Shall have to trouble you for the needful, as he would like to be paid
in the course of the day.”
“In the course of the day? Oh, very well. The cashier may as well give
it you at once. Stop; I’ll write you an order. At the same time, I feel
it my duty to say this to you; mind and take a receipt. How much will
you draw?”
“I suppose, sir, the usual allowance granted by Government, eighty
dollars. That, he said, of course.”
“What! Eighty dollars for that beast of a pony? Why, Mr Y—, one would
think you had come out direct from England! Saddle and bridle in? Of
course.”
“No, sir; we are to settle about the saddle and bridle to-morrow. Said
he didn’t know what he _ought_ to ask for them.”
“Ought!—a rascal! He knows very well, when you’ve got the pony, you
_must_ have the saddle and bridle. Don’t know of a saddle that would
suit Sancho, in all Passages. Well, Mr Y—; I feel it my duty to say this
to you—it’s a regular take-in. Sixty dollars I should call a high
figure, saddle and bridle included. If you can sell at headquarters for
forty, you may think yourself well off.”
“Hadn’t I better go and pitch into him, sir?”
“Pitch into him? Nonsense. That won’t do here, Mr Y—. Besides, a
bargain’s a bargain, you know. If you have said eighty, it must be
eighty. Have you looked out for a fresh billet?”
“Didn’t know there was any occasion, sir.”
“You don’t expect to pass another night in your present quarters, after
you have paid for Sancho? If you complete the purchase this morning,
depend upon it, you’ll have to get other accommodation before bed-time.”
“I’m rather at a loss how to proceed, sir.”
“Why, let me see. I must consider. Go and tell him—yes—go and tell him,
for that money you ought to have saddle and bridle in. Tell him so, from
me. We must try and be a match for this gentleman. Don’t think it right
that your uncle’s nephew, the moment he joins, should be pigeoned at
this rate. Stop—tell him, at the same time, you can’t purchase till the
day you’re off. Under all the circumstances of the case, I feel it my
duty to say this to you; till then, I shall keep the eighty dollars in
the military chest. While you’re here, he may as well have the bother of
keeping Sancho as you. And, besides, while the bargain’s open—don’t you
see?—you won’t be disturbed in your quarters. If you lose them, the
place is so crowded, ten to one I shall be forced to accommodate you
_myself_.”
Charged with what promised to prove an awkward negotiation, I walked off
to find my friend. Nothing of the kind. He took it all with the greatest
good-humour; consented with alacrity to throw in the saddle and bridle;
and as to the money, why, if it wasn’t forthcoming at once, he could
wait till it was.
Three hands of us, counting dollars till dinner-time, did a good stroke
of work:—only that plaguy “small mixed” was a serious addition to our
labours. Fancy a bag of small silver, a thousand dollars in amount, shot
out before you on the table; a heap of mingled coin, specimens of every
fraction of a dollar, that ever issued in silver from the Spanish mint;
the whole lot to be sorted, counted, and made right. A single bag took
us often two or three hours. As to counting a bag of whole dollars, that
was a far easier job. Count ten; set them on the table in a pile. Ten
such piles in a row make a hundred; ten such rows in a square make one
thousand:—the bag is counted. Unluckily, though, your last pile is
sometimes nine, or eleven, instead of ten. Ah, you’re a greenhorn;
you’ve counted wrong. Then down goes your nose to the edge of the table;
your eye glances over the summit of the piles. Discover, if you can, a
pile higher or lower than the rest: the error is then detected. Should
you fail, there’s no remedy: “Mr Snooks, you had better count the whole
again.” Still wrong? then some older hand is set to count. Can’t he get
it right? Why, then, the bag is wrong. Set it on one side and count
another. Fingers sore, about the third day. With the first day’s
counting they get a little black; on the second, rough, and painful;
third, cracked, and begin to bleed. About this time comes a thundering
letter, blowing up the whole department sky high, for not having the
money ready to pay the troops. What your fingers are, if the counting
goes on a day or two longer, especially with the encouraging
accompaniment of a rap on the knuckles, I leave you to guess. We had a
military guard; four Germans, one of them a corporal. The man on duty as
sentry walked up and down in the passage, while the other three sat over
a small fire in an adjoining room. They could sing in parts—sang well.
One of them struck up, the others followed, the sentry joined in as he
paced the lobby. Sometimes it was a national song, sometimes a hymn.
Nothing, in sacred music, like those German hymns. But then, take
notice, you must have German voices to do them justice. The men of our
guard were quiet, sober, well-conducted fellows; always willing to make
themselves useful; rendered us great assistance in helping the carpenter
to open and close the boxes, and in lifting the bags from the boxes to
the table, and _vice versâ_. Mr Q—, as an acknowledgment, made a
handsome addition to their supper.
Our dinner was strictly departmental, very much to my taste; quite a
sort of family party. No one was present save the gentlemen of our own
office at Passages. Mr Q—, I rather suspect, wanted to give me some idea
of my duties, in the responsible charge of conducting treasure to
headquarters through the enemy’s country. Perhaps he thought a little
chat amongst ourselves would be the best mode of instruction.
Towards the close of the evening, as we sat talking over departmental
matters, each with his tumbler before him—hot,—our conversation was
interrupted by a tap at the door. “Come in,” said Mr Q—.
The door opened; and in the doorway appeared one of our German guard.
With an earnest but somewhat vacant look, and his hand spread out upon
his breast, he stood erect, his appearance that of a man who wants
words, but is very anxious to speak. At length he began: “_Mine haarrt
ist folle._” Just at that moment the corporal appeared behind, seized
the orator by the shoulders, and cut short his harangue by spinning him
round into the passage, and closing the door. “Oh, I see how it is,”
said Mr Q—. “The extra allowance has got into his head. He wants to
return thanks for his supper; that’s all.”
Presently there was a scuffle outside. Again the door opened; and again
the same individual made his appearance, commencing as before, with
pathos and much gravity, “_Mine haarrt ist folle._” The corporal
interposed once more; but another scuffle ensued in the passage,
followed by a third visit, with similar results.
“Better get him to turn in,” said Mr Q—; but that was more English than
the corporal understood. Recollecting a few German words, I contrived to
make the command intelligible; and partly by force, partly by
persuasion, our grateful friend was stowed away for the night; still
exclaiming, from time to time, “_Mine haarrt ist folle_,” and making
strenuous efforts to break away from his comrades, come back, and finish
his oration. When all was quiet, I took my leave for the night. The
sound of my footsteps caught his ear, and set him off again. His voice
grew louder as my distance increased; and “_Mine haarrt ist folle_”
resounded in the street. Next morning he came up to me, looking very
sheepish and compunctious; and commenced a long discourse in German,
expressive of his profound regret. This at his request I interpreted, as
far as able, to his “Excellenz” the “Haupt.”
At length arrived the day, the important day, of my departure to join
the army. It was arranged that the treasure should be conveyed up the
harbour in boats to the bridge of Oyarzun, with a guard of soldiers. At
Oyarzun we were to sleep the first night; and there, also, we were to
meet the rest of our escort, and the mules intended to convey the money.
My friend and I had arranged it together, that he was to bring Sancho to
the office in the course of the morning, saddled and bridled. I was then
to pay the purchase-money, and the pony would be mine. My friend was
punctual to his time; Sancho stood at the door; and I applied to Mr Q—
for the eighty dollars.
“Oh yes, of course,” said he; “may as well give it you at once. Is the
pony at Oyarzun?”
“No, sir; he’s here, at the door.”
“Here at the door? Then how do you mean to get him to Oyarzun?” I had
never thought of that.
“Can’t he go with us, in one of the boats, sir?”
“Oh yes, certainly; yes, yes. If they were horse-boats, of course he
could. But as they are common ship-boats, borrowed for the occasion from
the transports in harbour, how will you get him in, and how will you get
him out? Not to mention that he might take to kicking; and kick out a
plank from the bottom of the boat, as you were pulling up the harbour.
In that case, the treasure would have a short voyage, and you too.”
“Hadn’t I better mention it to my friend, sir?”
“Why, yes; I think you had. Stop; let me see. Suppose you request him to
step in. I’ll speak to him myself.”
I invited my friend into the office. He entered smiling—rubbed his
hands—looked sleeky and resigned—evidently thought he was going to
realise.
“Well, sir,” said Mr Q—, addressing my friend, “this is an awkward
business about the pony. I don’t see how the purchase can be completed.”
“Completed, sir?” said my friend, rather taken aback, and losing his
temper. “I thought it _was_ completed, all but paying the money.”
“Very true, sir,” said Mr Q—; “but that, you know, makes all the
difference. The money is not paid; and, more than that, it’s not issued.
And, sir, under all the circumstances of the case, I feel it my duty to
say this to you; unless I see everything straight, I don’t intend to
issue it.”
“Well, sir,” said my friend, “I conceive everything _is_ straight, so
far as I am concerned. There stands the pony, at the door.”
“Yes, I know he does. But how is he to be got to the head of the
harbour?”
“Of course I supposed Mr Y— would ride him, sir.”
“No, no; that’s out of the question. The treasure goes by water; and of
course, being in charge, Mr Y— must go with it.”
“Well, sir,” replied my friend, “if that’s all, my servant shall take
the pony.”
“Oh, very well, sir,” said Mr Q—, “if you think you can trust your
servant to receive and bring back the purchase-money.”
“No occasion for that, sir; I can receive it here, sir, if you’ve no
objection.”
“None whatever, when I know that the pony is delivered at Oyarzun. Not
before delivery, of course.”
My friend was seized with a fit of musing;—looked rather at a loss. At
length he found his tongue.
“The long and the short of it is, I think, sir, I had better ride the
pony to Oyarzun myself, and make the delivery in person.”
“Very well, sir,” said Mr Q—. “I think so too. Then, on receiving the
pony at Oyarzun, Mr Y— will pay you the eighty dollars. Will you favour
us with your company? We are just going to lunch.”
“Thank you, sir; much obliged. Think I had better be off at once. Mr Y—
will not reach Oyarzun till late; and it’s out of the question my
returning to Passages after dark, especially on foot, and with a lot of
dollars.”
“Oh, certainly; and by such a horrid, cut-throat, out-of-the-way road,
too. You’d certainly be robbed and murdered; that is, if you get safe
there. Better secure a night’s lodging at Oyarzun, if there’s one to be
had, sir.”
“Yes, and come back to-morrow by daylight. Well, the sooner I’m off the
better. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, sir.” My friend mounted Sancho at the door, and set off
forthwith to Oyarzun.
Mr Q—, laughing heartily, then handed me my route, made out in due form.
While I was making the necessary arrangements for my start in the
afternoon, Mr Q— summoned me into his private apartment. He had doffed
his blue frock with black velvet collar, and now appeared in full fig,
departmental coat, epaulet on his shoulder, staff-hat on the table. His
manner was serious, but friendly.
“You are probably aware, Mr Y—,” said he, “that the Allied army is not
likely to resume active operations for some days.”
“So I have understood, sir,” said I.
“I presume, however, you are not acquainted with the cause of this
temporary inactivity.”
“Can’t say I am, sir.”
“It is, I believe I may venture to inform you, principally the want of
money. That deficiency your arrival will supply. You will readily
perceive, then, how much depends on your conducting the treasure safely,
and delivering it by the time when it is looked for. Your route lies
through the enemy’s country; but the population is now comparatively
quiet; the date of your departure is known at headquarters, and, I have
no doubt, every requisite arrangement has been made to secure the safety
of your convoy. All such arrangements, however, proceed, and must
proceed, on one supposition—namely, that the officer in charge is, on
his part, competent to the task committed to him, obeys his orders, and
does his duty properly. You will readily perceive, then, that some
measure of responsibility rests upon your own shoulders.”
“Yes, sir; and, in the course of the last few days, I have been thinking
on that subject more than once.”
“All the better. Mr Y—, if you had ever discharged this duty before, I
should now merely wish you a pleasant journey, and send you off. But
this is your first expedition; it is one, to speak candidly, of greater
risk than any that has hitherto fallen to our department. The army is
considerably in advance in the French territory; you have before you six
or seven days’ march upon French ground; it will, of course, be
discovered that you carry money—there is no concealing that; a convoy
like yours will naturally excite the cupidity of partisans and
marauders; from St Jean de Luz to headquarters you will not find a
single officer of our department to give you the benefit of his
experience; and, under all the circumstances of the case, I feel it my
duty to say this to you—mind what you are about; on no account separate
from your convoy; let nothing induce you to deviate from the written
route; always reach the specified station at the specified time; keep
your escort sober, if you can; keep your muleteers in good-humour; keep
your mules well together on the line of march; and, if you are asked
questions, don’t be lavish of information. The French, Mr Y—, though an
inquisitive people, are not apt to interrogate official persons out of
mere curiosity. If, therefore, any individual should pester you with
inquiries, depend upon it he has a motive.”
“I suppose, sir,” said I, “in such a case, it will be as well to return
some sort of a general reply, just to avoid the appearance of mystery.”
“Exactly that,” said Mr Q—. “When a gentleman makes an inquiry, you are
bound, by etiquette, to give him a _reply_. Whether you give him an
_answer_ is optional, and a matter of discretion.
“By the bye,” added Mr Q—, after a pause, “I shouldn’t wonder if you
missed the pony, after all—no great harm if you do. To be sure, you must
march on foot, the first day or two; but you won’t mind that; and you
will have your eighty dollars. Put twenty to them, and I shouldn’t
wonder if you pick up a very tolerable mule, which will answer your
purpose far better. Then, if at headquarters you wish to come out well
mounted, and choose to buy a horse, a mule, you know, will always fetch
its value.”
“I hope, sir,” said I, “we shall have a good escort.”
“Oh, yes—the escort. That is one of the subjects I wish to mention.
Well, Mr Y—, you must do the best you can with them. Your escort
consists of twenty men; not, I am sorry to say, twenty men of any one
corps, but twenty men of twenty different regiments; men who have been
in hospital at Vittoria, sick or wounded—have recovered, and are now on
their return to headquarters—not exactly the guard I should have wished
to provide, but the best I could get for you. The worst is, I have seen
the officer who is to command them, and don’t like him at all. Hope you
will like him better than I do. Hope he won’t give you trouble, or prove
incompetent. Should he turn out not quite the person you wish, or should
your escort appear insufficient, say nothing till you reach St Jean de
Luz, up to which point I consider you as safe as if travelling in
England. Then wait upon old Colonel B—, the commandant; state your case
to him; and he, I have no doubt, will make the best arrangements in his
power, for the security of your subsequent progress. Come, Mr Y—, after
dinner, we’ll see you into the boat.”
“Perhaps, sir,” said I, “you will oblige me with a line to the
commandant, to be presented if the case requires.”
“No need of that,” said he, “I wrote to the Colonel yesterday, after
seeing the gentleman who goes with you.”
Before leaving the room, I very heartily thanked my commanding officer
for all his good advice, forethought, and kind attentions. We then shook
hands upon it, in the usual English style; and I held by the paw as
worthy a little man as ever trod shoe-leather, and as smart an officer
as ever drew rations.
The dinner was again departmental, and so was the talk. “It is the boast
of our department,” said Mr Q—, “that, since we have served in the
Peninsula under our present commander-in-chief, no treasure in our
keeping, not even a single mule’s load of specie, has ever been captured
by the enemy. Recollect that, Mr Y—, and keep up our character.”
“Didn’t we once lose a box of papers, sir?” said one of my
fellow-clerks.
“We did,” said Mr Q—; “but, two days after, it was recaptured, and all
the papers found right. That was on the retreat, subsequent to the
battle of Talavera. I see nothing of the boats,” he added, rising, and
walking to the balcony. “Hope they’ll be here in time.”
“Get him to tell about that campaign,” whispered the senior of my
fellow-clerks, winking to the junior. “Did you ever hear him tell it, Mr
Y—?”
“I think, sir, in the course of that campaign,” said the junior,
addressing Mr Q—, on his return to the table, “the whole department
together, chest and all, had a narrow escape from being captured.”
“Not exactly,” said Mr Q—, “because we obeyed orders. Had we not, we
should have had no escape at all: we must have been taken, every man of
us. The boats are not in sight, so I’ll just tell you how it was.
Gentlemen, try this Madeira. We halted one evening, after a weary march,
in a village. The rain was coming down in torrents. We unloaded the
treasure, and housed it, glad enough to get a little rest. Just at that
moment, Mr Y—, an order came to your uncle, to load again, and be ready
to move on at a moment’s warning, but not to stir till further notice.
Well, sir, we made ready again, with all expedition; the night closed
in; the rain fell, heavier than ever; and an anxious time we had of it.
Parties of stragglers, one after the other, came hurrying through the
village—one set assuring us the enemy were close at their heels, another
telling us we had better be off, another warning us, if we stayed there,
we should all be taken, and serve us right. I own I felt rather nervous;
but the Governor would not budge. He had got his directions, he said,
not to proceed without further orders; and there he should wait,
treasure and all, till the orders came. Presently, in a mighty bustle,
up rode a general officer. Begged to know, in a tone of authority, why
we were waiting there. The Governor replied as before. ‘Well, but it was
perfectly absurd. The enemy were close at hand—on our flanks, right and
left.’ Couldn’t move the Governor. The general grew angry, swore, almost
threatened. ‘Will you move on, sir, or will you not?’ Then clapped spurs
to his horse, in a towering passion, and rode away with a wave of his
hand, as if saying, ‘I leave you to your fate.’ Well, gentlemen, we
waited, waited till midnight. No order came. Waited on till morning
dawned. Then, at length, came a staff-officer, with a message from his
lordship, directing us to proceed. We did so; and found the general
quite right in one thing—the French had been on our flanks. But not only
that; they had been in our front. During the night, they had occupied in
force the very road by which we were to pass. Had we started sooner, we
should have walked right into them.”
The boats now made their appearance, and were soon alongside the jetty.
A working party embarked the treasure, packed, as before, in boxes. I
then said farewell, and took my seat. With three boat-loads of treasure,
and a guard of a corporal and six soldiers, we pulled away for the
bridge of Oyarzun. There we found three individuals expecting our
arrival—Captain Rattler, who was appointed to command our escort, my
friend, and Sancho.
I completed the purchase of Sancho, by handing over to my friend the
eighty dollars, and receiving an acknowledgment of the same, which he
had brought in his pocket. Just at that moment, my attention was called
from my friend, by something in the boats. The next instant I turned, to
resume our conversation—he had vanished! By the dim ray of evening at
length I caught sight of him in the distance, walking down the road
towards the town. My friend! My jolly, good-humoured, hospitable friend!
My friend, who could sing a good song! My friend, who laughed
indiscriminately and immoderately at all my jokes! He had got his money.
It was all he wanted. He was off, without staying to say “Good night!”
CHAPTER XI.
The departure of my friend was soon followed by that of the boats. The
treasure was then placed in security for the night, in charge of two
sentries; and Captain Rattler politely offered me accommodation in his
quarters, as well as stable-room for Sancho. We accordingly started
together, I leading the pony; when one of the soldiers stepped up, and,
saluting in due form, took hold of the bridle. “Well,” said I, “just
lead him to the stable, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” said he smartly; “and take care on him too, sir. Git across
him, sir, if you’ve no objections, sir. Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”
Suiting the action to the word, and not waiting for leave, he then
mounted the pony, or, as he had more graphically described the process,
“got across” him. That is, laying hold with both hands, he took a
spring, and brought the pit of his stomach upon the saddle; then,
wriggling forwards, got one leg over, dug his heels into Sancho’s side
before he was well in his seat, and started off at a trot, his legs
dangling, and the stirrups too. As he mounted and rode away, I noticed a
hard, droll sort of leer, on the weather-beaten countenances of his
comrades. Jones, it soon became apparent, was both the wag and the butt
of the whole escort.
The corporal, meanwhile, was receiving his instructions from Captain
Rattler. “Fraser of the 42d?” said the captain. “Oh, very well. You will
see to the whole party. We haven’t another corporal in the escort. Turn
them out to-morrow in good time; and be sure to have them here by eight
o’clock, when we load the mules.”
While the captain and I were seated at our tea, Jones entered without
knocking, twitched his forelock, and with a savage look made a plunge at
my boots, and walked away with them. Jones, it was clear, had made up
his mind to be my personal attendant, as long as I and he marched in
company. That being the case, I here beg leave to give you his
character,—though I fear it would not gain him admittance into your
service.
Jones went among his comrades by the name of Taffy, and certainly was
not wronged by the legend, which says “Taffy was a thief.” Take a trait.
On the march, he stole a Dutch cheese, sold it me for a dollar, and ate
it himself. He was conversable, and couldn’t keep his own counsel: _e.
g._ not satisfied with realising both dollar and cheese, he
ostentatiously pleaded guilty to the original theft, walking by the side
of my pony. Jones was no raw recruit:—had served in the Peninsula, if
his word was to be trusted, through five successive campaigns; got his
wound at Pampeluna, and was now returning from hospital to join his
regiment. In active service, he had acquired all the good and bad
qualities of an old campaigner; united with which were some of both
sorts, that were properly his own. His oddities he did not attempt to
hide, though they constantly exposed him to the jeers of his comrades.
He was susceptible, touchy, testy—not quarrelsome. Felt ridicule very
acutely; if laughed at, complained bitterly—expostulated—but was not to
be laughed out of his own ways. He was somewhat undersized; a smart,
wiry, hard-featured light-infantry man: had, to an excess, that wriggle
in his gait, which was imparted to our foot-soldiers by the awkward set
of their accoutrements—straightening their back, stretching their neck,
fixing their head, projecting their chin, and throwing all the action,
in walking, into their loins, thighs, and shoulders. His first
appearance was by no means a letter of recommendation. He carried the
gallows in his countenance,—in short, had that sort of look which helps
to get “oudacious” boys a “larrupping;” desperate, dogged, abject, and
impudent at the same time. He was capable of any sort of atrocity:—you
might turn him by a word. Had a perpetual wolf—yet didn’t care much for
eating, when he could get drink. Never refused a tumbler of wine—but
preferred something short. His tact was considerable. He soon found out
just what I disliked, and what I liked—accommodated his likings to mine.
With a constant eye to self, was my intensely devoted humble servant.
Never resisted—always gave up a point at once, when he couldn’t carry
it—yet often contrived to have his own way. Much preferred riding to
walking: seldom suffered a day to pass, without finding more than one
opportunity to “get across” Sancho in the course of the march. If I was
off, he was on. Took an amazing liking to “the pony,”—and sold his corn.
Hated the French, but not so much as he hated our own horse-soldiers.
Jones, often offended, was never saucy. Took a jobation as a matter of
course. Looked savage at the moment; the next, was larking with the
muleteers. The muleteers took to him amazingly. For endless neglects and
trespasses, he had one plea, always ready—“Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”
Next morning, just as we had done breakfast, Corporal Fraser entered to
announce the men ready, the mules arrived, and all prepared for loading.
The captain and I proceeded to the spot, and the loading commenced.
Corporal Fraser made himself universally useful; I soon discovered that,
in him, we had an acquisition. Leaving the superintendence, for a
moment, to the captain and him, I stepped back to the billet, for the
purpose of stowing, in my already overcharged portmanteau, a lot of
loose dollars, part of my own ready cash, which I found a drag. Just as
I had piled them on the table, to the number of forty, and was forcing
them in amongst shirts, shaving materials, and portable dictionaries,
who should enter but the captain? “Ah!” said he, “don’t trouble
yourself; you haven’t room. You’ll ruin your things. Here; my
portmanteau is open.” So saying, he laid hands on the dollars, counted
thirty, and whipped them into his box. “Thirty,” said he—“there, they’ll
go safe. Remember. Thirty.” It was done in the twinkling of an eye.
“Rather cool,” thought I; “but of course it’s all right.”
We returned together. A few of the soldiers were placed as sentries. The
rest had piled their arms, and stood waiting about, ready to fall in and
march when the mules were loaded. Something out of the usual course was
evidently going on: the men were all on a broad grin. I walked into a
sort of court-yard, and at once discovered the cause of the general
mirth. On a money-box sat Jones, and before him stood a goat. “Purty
creatur!” said Jones. “Purty thing—isn’t she, sir?” He held out a bit of
biscuit. She playfully made a show of butting, advanced, and took
it—“It’s mine, sir,” said he: “follows me about like a dog, sir.”
“No wonder,” said I, “so long as the biscuit lasts.”
“No, sir; ’tisn’t that, sir,” replied Jones. “It’s ’cause I speaks to
her as goats understands, sir; same as we speaks to ’em in the
Principality, sir. Only see, sir.”
Jones then knelt down, put his nose close to nanny’s, and, with a
coaxing voice and a most affectionate look, gave utterance to a few low
guttural sounds, in a language to me unknown. Nanny rose on her hind
legs, and again made play with her head; then, just as I expected to see
Jones punched and prostrate, arched her neck gracefully on one side,
descended on her fore-feet, stepped back, cut a caper, ran up to Jones
again in a butting attitude, and, instead of knocking him over, put her
nose close to his, and uttered a short bleat. “There, sir,” said Jones;
“see that, sir?—understands me every word, sir.” It certainly did look
very much as if nanny understood Welch.
“Well, what did you say to her?”
“Why, I said this, sir. ‘Nanny,’ says I, ‘we’re off directly instant,’
says I; ‘and you must come along with us,’ says I; ‘and I’ll milk you
morning and evening,’ says I. ‘And then the cappn, and this here
hommerble jeddleham what’s present,’ says I, ‘won’t never not want milk
for their tea,’ says I, ‘nor yet for their breakfast nayther,’ says I.”
“Well, and what does nanny say?” asked I, almost laughing at this stroke
of generalship.
“Please, sir,” replied Jones, “she says she’s quite agreeable, sir; that
is, if you are, sir. That’s what she says, sir.”
“Oh, very well.” Had Jones and I been better acquainted, I might have
felt it needful to ask first, how nanny had passed into his possession.
“Thank yer honour,” said Jones, springing on his feet. “That’s jest the
very thing as I was a-going to aast yer honour. Much obleeged to yer
honour. Purty creatur! Nothing to her, a day’s march, sir. Won’t mind it
the least in the world, sir. Come in quite fresh, sir.” As I was walking
out of the yard, Jones ran after me,—“Please, sir, if the cappn makes
any objections, when he siz nanny coming on along with us, sir, please
just tell him she’s a nanny, sir; that is, I means to say, a femmel,
sir, and giz milk, sir. Then he won’t have nothing to say against her,
sir.”
Nanny did actually accompany our march to headquarters; and not only
gave us milk, regularly twice a-day, but on one occasion rendered us a
far more important service. She became the pet of the men, and soon
knocked up an acquaintance with the pony. Sancho and nanny travelled
side by side; except that nanny’s line of march was now and then
excursive; on which occasions the pony expressed his uneasiness by
turning his head to look, with an impatient snort. Nanny was certainly
not undeserving of Jones’s commendations of her beauty. Not one of that
homebred race, of vulgar aspect, ungainly form, and short, coarse coat,
so common both in this country and abroad—a race that lose all their
sprightliness when they cease to be kids, and become full-grown
goats;—in form she resembled the antelope; her step was that of goats
that haunt the precipice, the pinnacle, and the glacier; elegance was in
all her movements; and her hair, fine, flowing, and luxuriant—in colour
a beautiful light orange-tawny, softening into an amber yellow, pale and
delicate—with its snow-white fringe almost sweeping the ground. A dainty
hussy, too, was Miss Nanny. She had her luxuries, and scorned to browse
on common grass: culled her tidbits by the road-side, as she trotted
along—a nibble here, and a nibble there; was partial to biscuit broken
small, and wouldn’t refuse a crumb of cheese. Didn’t care for bread,
except when she could steal it—her only vice—off the table before
dinner; an object which she easily effected, by raising herself on her
hind-legs. At the end of the march, as Jones had predicted, she always
came in as fresh as she started; and proved it, wherever we were, by
commencing an immediate perambulation of the house and premises, in
search of anything she could pick up. This sometimes brought her into
odd positions, and gave us trouble.
Where are we? Oh, loading the money for our start from Oyarzun. Just as
I was coming out of the court-yard, a soldier entered it, with a look of
execration, muttering. Didn’t at all like appearances, when I got into
the road. All the men looked sulky; the muleteers, perfectly vicious.
The loading was going on, but without method, and not by any means with
despatch. Of all the party, the only man that didn’t show ill blood was
Corporal Fraser. He was doing his best, but looked serious, and somewhat
nonplussed. The cause of all was soon apparent. The captain, for some
reason or other, had worked himself into a perfect fury, to which he was
giving expression in a regular stream of abuse and imprecations;
discharging it indiscriminately on the muleteers and the escort, in
Portuguese, Spanish, and English, as though he had rifled and ransacked
the vocabularies for every bullying and blasphemous expression in the
three languages. He had already got matters into a little bit of a
mess—was ordering, counter-ordering—bothering the whole party out of
their wits—in short, obstructing everything, and thereby indefinitely
delaying our departure. This particularly enraged the muleteers: for you
must know, first, they take the packing upon themselves, understand
their business, and like to be let alone at it; secondly, they have a
notion that nothing ruins their mules like keeping a beast standing,
when once he has got his load on his back; and some of the first loaded
were a couple of hours in this predicament, before we got off. We
started at last, and passed through Oyarzun in no very military order:
soldiers, mules, and muleteers, all jumbled together, like beef, pork,
onions, and mutton-chops, in a Saturday’s pie. Fraser’s smartness saved
us more than once from a jam, as we threaded the narrow street; and at
length we emerged on the high road to St Jean de Luz.
Although, in our transition to French from Spanish ground, we mounted
not to the regions of perpetual snows, we did certainly pass over some
very high ground, both before and after crossing the Bidassoa; and our
second elevation gave us a splendid prospect of the fertile plains of
France. “Shan’t want for nothing to eat, sir,” said Jones, “when we gits
down there, sir. Shocking bad country, Spain, for poor soldiers, sir.
Starvation country, I calls it, sir. Nothing but lean ration beef, as
tough as hides, sir; and couldn’t always get that, sir. Dreadful hard
work up these hills, sir. Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”
Beyond Irun, we passed over an irregular eminence, which had been the
scene of a sharp conflict with the enemy. Nothing, however, now
indicated the field of combat, save a few dead horses, that lay
scattered on the bare side of a hill. “What are those smaller animals,”
said I to Jones, “lying about there, among the horses? Can’t be goats,
can they?”
“Thim’s dogs, sir,” said Jones. “They goes and gits a good blowout off
the horses, sir; then they crawls a little way off, and lies down a bit,
jest to choe the quid, sir; and then they goes back again, and takes
another pull, sir. That’s jest how three or four on us did at Vittoria,
sir, when we come upon the Frinch Ginneral’s dinner, sir, which he
hadn’t time to stop and eat sir. Please sir, it’s not correct, what the
men jeers me about the goats where I comes from, sir. Niver see’d nobody
a-riding of a goat in the Principality, sir; nayther man, nor yet woman,
sir; no, nor a babby nayther, sir; let alone a clergyman, sir.”
Perhaps, my dear reader, as this is our first day on the road, I may as
well give you here a description of our regular order of march; that is,
so far as we marched in any order at all. We had eighty mules, then, in
twenty strings, of four mules each. The muzzle of the second mule was
connected with the _albarda_ (or pack-saddle) of the first, by a thong
of leather. The third mule was attached to the second in like manner,
and the fourth to the third. Each of these strings of mules had its own
muleteer—twenty muleteers in all. The twenty were divided into two
parties of ten; and over each of these ten was a sort of
master-muleteer, called a Capataz. Of the four mules in each string,
three carried money, and the fourth carried nothing but his _albarda_.
We had thus twenty unloaded mules, and sixty charged with treasure: that
is, fifty-eight with dollars, and two with doubloons. Now, as each mule
carried two boxes, and each box contained two bags of a thousand, I
think you will find, reckoning the dollar at only 4s. 6d. (the value at
which it was issued to the troops,) and reckoning sixteen dollars to the
doubloon, that we were marching to headquarters to the tune of
eighty-one thousand pounds sterling. If, however, you prefer calculating
the dollar at what it was then and there worth in buying bills on
England—say from 6s. 6d. to 7s. 6d.—why then, of course, the value of
our load comes to so much the more. What a catch for a Frenchman—one of
our mules!
Supposing us, then, to march in due order, the mules proceed in single
file, each string of four attended by its own muleteer. Of the soldiers,
some precede the line of march, others follow it, and others, again,
march at intervals on the flanks: and so we walk on at mules’ pace,
which is steady and uniform, convenient for marching, and gets over the
ground at a very satisfactory rate; so that we cover our sixteen or
twenty miles a-day with tolerable facility, going straight on from end
to end. But we don’t always get on so pleasantly. If, not keeping the
single file, one string of mules comes up abreast of that next in
advance, then there is a thronging, which soon leads to confusion. Or if
the load of one of your mules gets wrong, then there is a stoppage.
Those in the rear come crowding up, and are brought to a halt; those in
advance walk on. Thus a division takes place, your line is broken, and
your cavalcade of mules (“bad English!”—It’s good Portuguese,) no longer
kept well together as it ought to be, becomes extended over an undue
length of road, and cannot be looked after and kept regular. Should you
ever march with such a convoy, you will soon make the discovery that
order, though excellent in theory, is not always reducible to practice.
It won’t at all mend the matter, if you happen to have such a commander
as ours was: a battered dandy of forty, a military _roué_, who carried
in his countenance the marks of rough weather and hard drinking—for his
face was not only bronzed by the elements, but pimpled with brandy—and
whose continual language, all through the march from starting to
halting, was just nothing but one stream of oaths, vituperations, and
contradictory orders. And yet this same officer, I make no doubt, had we
been placed in a position of real danger, would have conducted himself
with coolness, energy, and judgment. As it was, he started us in
confusion, and kept us in it all day. The muleteers, who set out in
ill-temper, hadn’t one chance given them of recovering their amiability.
The soldiers first walked along in dogged silence—then, finding what
sort of a gentleman they had to deal with, began to take things easy,
joked among themselves, talked loud, and, when he commanded them with an
oath to hold their tongues, all but laughed in his face. Discipline was
gone. One fellow, a Yorkshire lad, almost amused me with his provoking
insolence. He was a red-faced chap with flaxen hair, white eyebrows, and
a merry but malevolent eye;—could look, in a moment, either impudent or
sedate—just kept himself steady under the captain’s immediate
inspection; the moment it was off him, recommenced his antics—was clown,
harlequin, and scaramouch, all in one—cut the double-shuffle, winked,
twisted his mouth, broke out singing, and was dumb in a moment; cracked
jokes, raised a roar, made believe to quarrel, kicked up every devisable
sort of row. At length he deliberately disobeyed orders, and the captain
put him under arrest; in other words, he was deprived of his musket.
Whispered audibly, “It was just what he wanted; now one of the mules
could shoulder arms”—set half-a-dozen fellows laughing. Yet this man
afterwards, when we were differently commanded, was as well-conducted as
any soldier of the escort.
We at length reached St Jean de Luz, after a long, and, to me, very
anxious march—the more so as it was my first. Towards our journey’s end,
the question was uppermost in my thoughts, “Is it thus we are to march,
when the road is insecure?” Marching as we did now, far from being
prepared to meet Marshal Soult, I should have felt it far from agreeable
to meet another distinguished commander that shall be nameless. There
certainly were periods, during the day, when a few resolute assailants
might easily have driven off part of our convoy, money and all; nay,
when one or other of our own muleteers, had they been so disposed, might
have slipped down one of the cross-roads with his string of mules, and
made his escape among the hills. These uneasy reflections brought to my
mind the advice given me at Passages by Mr Q—; and I resolved to wait on
the commandant immediately on my arrival, in the hope of effecting some
more satisfactory arrangement for our subsequent progress.
We reached a large house assigned to our department on the outskirts of
St Jean de Luz, stowed the treasure in safety under a guard, and
dismissed the rest of the men to their quarters; Jones only excepted,
who remained in charge of the pony. Captain Rattler took his leave, with
a polite “_Au revoir._” Having seen the moneyboxes all right, secured
accommodation for the mules and muleteers, and ascertained that dinner
would be ready in half-an-hour, I stepped on at once to the
commandant’s, and found him in his office.
“I have waited on you, sir, to announce my arrival from Oyarzun, with a
convoy of treasure for headquarters.”
“Oh yes; Mr Y—, I presume. Mr Y—, pray take a chair. Happy to see you,
Mr Y—, especially on such an occasion. If you arrive safe, I trust we
shall all get a little of it; for it’s what we’re all in want of. Can I
render you any assistance, Mr Y—?”
“Should feel much obliged, sir, if you could increase the strength of
our escort. For eighty mules, twenty men will hardly be sufficient.”
“Why, no; certainly not, Mr Y—, if you don’t happen to find the country
quiet. Well, what sort of an addition would you like to have?”
“At Passages, sir, we had a guard of Germans; so steady and
well-conducted, I should be very glad to have some more like them. As to
number, I would leave that to you, sir.”
“Sorry to say we have no Germans going up at present, Mr Y—.”
“Well, sir, we have with us a Scotch corporal, decidedly the steadiest
man in our party. Perhaps you could give me some Scotsmen.”
“My dear sir, I’d go with you myself, if I could, with the greatest
pleasure. Unfortunately, though, we have no Scotch regiment in the
place. Suppose I could give you—say twenty or thirty men, heavy
cavalry.”
“Well, sir, I think cavalry, joined with our infantry, would be the best
escort we could have.”
“Very good, sir. Well, now you’ll want an officer to command them.”
“Why, sir, the truth is, I wished to consult you on that subject. The
present commander of our party is Captain Rattler.”
“Your present? Say your late. He’s off.”
“He was with me within the last half-hour, sir. Said nothing about
leaving.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about that. All I know is this—he was here
just before you; got his route changed. By this time, I should think,
he’s on his way to St Jean Pied de Port. Very well, Mr Y—. Load
to-morrow, and start with your present escort. At what hour may I expect
you to pass here, in your way through the town?”
“Probably about ten o’clock, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Y—. Then, to-morrow morning, by ten o’clock, I’ll have
your additional escort here in readiness for you. As to the officer
that’s to command the party, we’ll talk about that when we meet. Let me
see. I hardly know how to settle it. At present, I have only one that’s
going to join, and he’s young—your junior, I should say, by three or
four years; has never seen service—a cornet, fresh from England. Well,
if you can’t have another, you know, you must have him. Very well, Mr
Y—; to-morrow morning, if you please, at ten o’clock.”
I withdrew, satisfied with the result of my visit, not at all sorry to
have got rid of the captain by his own act, and without any complaint on
my part—a little surprised, however, at the precipitancy of his retreat,
especially after his last words, “_Au revoir._” Suddenly a thought came
plump—“My thirty dollars! The caitiff! he’s off, and I am once more a
victim!”
It didn’t turn out quite so bad as it looked, though. On my return to
our office, I was met by Jones, who, with a face of famine, announced
“dinner ready,” and handed me the following letter:—
“ST JEAN DE LUZ, _March 1814_.
“Dear Sir—As unexpected circumstances have induced me to alter my route,
I adopt this hurried method of wishing you a safe and pleasant journey
to headquarters. It would have afforded me much gratification to
accompany you, or at any rate to have said farewell in person. You will,
however, I am sure, pardon the little omission, as I am compelled to
start without delay.
“I have thirty dollars belonging to you in my portmanteau. _They are_
_safe._ I was about to forward them by the bearer of this, but, not
feeling entire confidence in such a mode of conveyance, I beg to
enclose you an order on England for the amount. Believe me to remain,
dear sir, faithfully yours,
“R. RATTLER.
“P.S.—Excuse haste.
G. Y—, Esq.,
Army Pay Department, St Jean de Luz.”
“_Au revoir!_” Never, from that time forward, have I and the captain
met. Sly rogue! His _modus operandi_, how dashing, yet how cool! To say
nothing of his walking off with my dollars in his box, and thus securing
a little hard cash at my expense, when cash was so scarce, how civilly
he took leave of me at the door of our office! Thence he must have cut
away direct to the commandant’s, resolved to be off forthwith—in plain
English, to bolt! “Excuse haste!” And then in the morning, too, at
Oyarzun, how smartly he whipped up my dollars, stowed them in his own
portmanteau without asking my leave, and locked them up before my eyes.
“_Au revoir!_” Yes; “_they are safe!_”
Well, the less said about my dinner, that day, the better. In the course
of the afternoon, though, Miss Nanny-goat thought fit to indulge herself
in a bit of a spree. She walked, in search of varieties, into an old
gentleman’s garden. Jones pursued—wanted to milk her for tea. The
proprietor followed; I joined the chase. Nanny, for the fun of the
thing, sprang on the wall, walked up the roof of the summer-house, ran
along the ridge, pedestalled herself on the gable-end which rose in a
peak, and there stood, looking down on us in defiance, her four little
feet gathered up within the compass of a crown-piece. Jones called,
coaxed, spoke Welsh, held out successively cabbage-leaf, lettuce-leaf,
vine-leaf, all in vain. “Ah!” said the old Frenchman; and, toddling off
to his geraniums, culled a scarlet cluster of aromatic flowers. That was
irresistible. One jump brought Nanny down upon the wall, another landed
her easy on the ground. Before you could say Jack Robinson, she was
nibbling the nosegay out of the Frenchman’s hand. Next morning he loaded
us, when we took leave, with a blushing bouquet of geraniums—shed tears,
poor old gentleman, when Nanny departed—put his arms round her neck—a
true Frenchman—and, _hi oculi viderunt_, kissed her.
The morning after our arrival at St Jean de Luz, I rose betimes,
breakfasted, and descended into the road to superintend the loading of
the mules—a much more expeditious process without the captain’s aid than
with it. We got off with the convoy in good time, and soon reached the
commandant’s. In that part of the town the street widened into a sort of
“place;” and there, drawn up and awaiting our arrival, I had the
pleasure of discovering a party of dragoons, in number four-and-twenty.
Being fresh from winter-quarters, they had turned out in capital order;
presentable, as to dress and accoutrements, at a Windsor review; their
horses, too, in good condition, though rather undersized for the men,
none of them being English. At the door of the commandant’s office stood
two horses, held by a groom, both of them serviceable, and rather showy
animals, apparently recent arrivals from home. I alighted, and ascended
to the office.
“Punctual to your time,” said the commandant. “This, Mr Y—, is the
officer who will command your party—the Hon. Mr Chesterfield.” Did the
introduction in due form.
In the military undress of his regiment—viz. cap with tassel and gold
band, said cap hiding one side of the head and face, and leaving the
other bare, long greatcoat, redundant in frogs, belt and sabre, enormous
boots, and formidable spurs—I saw before me a youth of eighteen, slight
in form, elegant in manner, who quietly returned my salutation, and,
shortly after, walked down stairs and mounted. “I have explained to Mr
C. the nature of the duty,” said the colonel. “He is quite fresh from
England; but he seems to have no nonsense about him; and, at any rate, I
trust you will find the change for the better. Well, Mr Y—, we mustn’t
keep the mules standing; so I now wish you a pleasant journey.”
“Thank you, sir. Much obliged to you for this arrangement. Good morning,
sir.”
It soon became apparent, as we proceeded on our march, that matters were
greatly mended since the day before. Our new commander said little; but,
young as he was, seemed to know what he was about; and all went on much
to my satisfaction. He never interfered needlessly; and his directions,
when given, were much to the purpose. Managed the cavalry himself, and
the infantry through Corporal Fraser. Things began to grow right of
their own accord, and a great load was taken off my mind. The men,
finding they were now _commanded_, were orderly and well-conducted. Even
our jolly Yorkshireman behaved himself—that is, with the exception of an
occasional caper or grimace when he felt himself safe. Nothing more was
said about his arrest. Consequently he had to carry his musket through
the rest of the march; for, seeing what kind of a person he now had to
deal with, he was too wise to try over again the game of the day before.
The muleteers, too, recovered their good-humour. Muleteers are like live
lobsters—very tractable, if you know how to handle them. The delays were
now few. And though, with such a mixture of men and mules, we could not
keep perfect order, if anything got wrong, it was soon set right.
We reached at length that point in our march where a lane struck off to
the left, from the high road which we were following, and which led
direct to Bayonne. Our route, with official brevity, assigned Bayonne as
our halting-place for the night. But as Bayonne happened just then to be
occupied by the French, we proposed directing our course toward the
headquarters of Sir John Hope, who commanded the besieging army. The
aforesaid lane to the left soon brought us out on a heathy eminence,
covered with fieldworks completed or in progress, and affording us a
splendid view of the beleaguered city, of the river Adour, and of the
bridge of boats thrown across it near the sea. Headquarters were at a
small hamlet, on the right or opposite bank of the river.
Yes, we saw that famous bridge. The Duke was always great in passing
rivers. Witness his services in India. Witness the Douro, the Bidassoa,
the Nivelle, the Nive, and now the Adour. Sufficient attention, perhaps,
has not been directed to this subject. Take two feats out of the number,
and view them together—the passage of the Adour, and the passage of the
Bidassoa: both original ideas; both ideas that no mere tactician would
have conceived or brought to bear; and both vindicating their claim to a
distinguished record, by taking an able, gallant, and vigilant opponent
by surprise. Who, but the Duke, would have dreamed of passing the
Bidassoa at its mouth, without a bridge? Who, but the Duke, would have
dreamed of passing the Adour at its mouth, by such a bridge as we now
beheld? One thing is clear: _Soult_ did not dream of either one passage
or the other. Obs. 1.—The execution, in each case, was off-hand,
dashing, and daring. The preparation, in both, was deliberate, mature,
and secret. Obs. 2.—The distinguishing excellence of the Duke’s strategy
did not, however, consist in the mere exploit of throwing an army across
a wide and rapid stream, in the face of an enemy assembled in
force—though this, in itself, is among the most difficult operations of
war; but in the combined, extensive, and successful movements which
uniformly attended the achievement. In short, the subject claims a
distinct volume. All the Duke’s passages of rivers, effected in the face
of the enemy, should be brought into one view, and studied together.
Such a work, properly executed, would merit a place in every military
library. However, don’t think I’m going to inflict on you a detailed
description of the oft-described bridge which we had now to pass.
Suffice it to say, the bridge consisted of small vessels, moored side by
side, all across the river. These vessels answered the purpose of piers;
that is, they supported the gangway of planks, which formed the passage
across.
It may be deemed extraordinary, that this idea of floating piers has not
been more generally adopted. But I suppose the real objection is an
inconvenience, to which the method is unavoidably liable, and which we
experienced on the present occasion, in passing with our mules and
moneyboxes; namely, the variation of the bridge’s altitude, with the
rise and fall of the water. This, in the Adour, at spring-tides, is
fourteen feet. You must know, the river was now low. The consequence
was, that the level of the bridge was considerably beneath the level of
the banks on each side; while its two extremities were two boarded
slopes, connecting the higher level with the lower. It was a ticklish
business, passing these two slopes with our mules four in a string—one
of them light, three loaded. In going _down_-hill, to get on the bridge,
the mules managed admirably—let them alone for that. Seeing that this
part of the process was proceeding satisfactorily, I left an injunction
with Senhor Roque, the chief Capataz, not to send on the mules too
fast—for this might have led to a jam, which would probably have
consigned some of our boxes to the bottom of the Adour—and pushed on for
the opposite bank, to be ready to superintend the ascent. This was the
real bother, the going _up_-hill. In coming to the rise, which was
somewhat abrupt, the first mule of the first string stumbled and fell.
The muleteer got him on his legs again—his load happily not
unshipped—and, taking him by the head, was about to lead him up. But
this, it was clear, wouldn’t do. The beast had sense to see it wouldn’t,
and declined moving. It might have answered very well for a single mule;
but was no security for the ascent of the other three, that followed in
the same category; and, unless all ascended together, we were undone.
Under these circumstances, the leading mule, not choosing to compromise
himself, refused the ascent. Meanwhile, the other strings of mules came
crowding up; and we should soon have had them all of a heap, shouldering
one another into the water. It was a nervous moment. I shouted to the
muleteer, “_Anda para detraz, homem, e falla_”—(Old fellow, go behind,
and speak to them.) “Si, si, Senhor,” said he, catching the idea at
once, and promptly adopting it. The moment the mules heard, behind them,
the well-known “_árre_” of their driver, they bolted simultaneously;
and, scrambling up like cats, soon reached the summit of the slope, and
stood on _terra firma_. Thus, though they could not have done it
walking, they did it with a run. The other muleteers, as they came up in
succession, adopted the same expedient each with his own team; and thus
we effected the passage of the Adour, without either jam, crowding,
confusion, or capsize.
Before we go any further, though, I must let you into the use of that
magical word “_árre_,” which, on the present occasion, effected so much
in our favour. It is the word used by drivers to their beasts, to set
them off, or increase their speed. Please to pronounce it with a
lengthened rattling of the _r_—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re. Only remember this:
pronounce it ever so correctly, you yourself can never do anything with
it: for, if twenty persons sing out ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re, neither horse,
mule, nor donkey will move the faster, till they hear the
ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re of their own driver. This they distinguish among a
hundred, and bolt forthwith. The knowledge of this singular fact in
animal psychology tends greatly to enliven an Almada or Cintra
donkey-party. Upon an occasion of this kind, my friend John G—, being
the longest fellow of the party, thought fit to appropriate the tallest
donkey. This was deemed a usurpation, and, as such, meriting
castigation. A hint was therefore given to the driver of his (John’s)
donkey. John was suffered to get one foot quietly into the stirrup; but,
before he had got the other over the Albarda, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re was
heard behind; away went the donkey through the village of Almada; and
away went John, one hand holding by the Albarda, the other by an ear—one
toe in the stirrup, the other now hopping along the ground, now
describing circles aloft, in vain attempts to get across. John, how
unjustly I need not say, imputes the Almada exhibition to my
contrivance, and bides his time. Presently we enter a sandy lane—John
warns me I shall be in the dust ere we get out of it—advises to take
feet out of stirrups. Advice followed, in defiance. Again the cry is
heard, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re; but now in a different key. This time, it is
my driver. Donkey bolts—away we go—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re is heard once
more—donkey can gallop no faster, so begins to kick. I stoop forward—hug
him round the neck; both donkey and rider are soon rolling in the dust.
“Now,” says John, as he trots exulting by, “you and I are quits.” “Yes,”
says Frank Woodbridge, passing at a canter; “one Johnny has avenged the
other.” _Mem._—As, in an English donkey-race, no one rides his own
donkey, and the donkey last in wins; so, in those Almada donkey-parties,
each paid another man’s driver, no man paid his own. That driver got
most whose donkey spilt his rider oftenest.
To proceed. All our party having passed the bridge, I was viewing with
some satisfaction the train of mules, as they walked off from the river
towards the hamlet, cheerily switching their tails—the animals’ usual
practice after accomplishing any extraordinary _tour de force_—when I
noticed, not far from the bridge-head, in a long military frock-coat,
quietly eyeing me with folded arms, a stately officer of the engineers.
Who, do you think?—who, but my fellow-passenger from England a year
before, Captain Gabion? We exchanged greetings with mutual cordiality.
“Much obliged to you, Mr Y—,” said he; “you have saved me some trouble.”
“Happy to hear it, sir: don’t exactly understand how, though.”
“Why, the fact is,” replied the Captain, “I was here waiting to see the
convoy safe over—if needful, to render assistance. But really you got
them so handily up the bank, I had no occasion to interfere. Famous
plan, that, of sending them up with a run: shan’t soon forget it. That
ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re starts them capitally,—acts like a brad-awl.”
“Were you not on the bridge just now, towards the other side of the
river, sir?”
“Yes, yes; but I saw you were getting them on well; so I came over to
this end, to see how you would get them off.”
“What I most feared,” said I, “was their crowding up, in passing the
bridge.”
“No, no,” said the captain, “no danger of that. Had I seen the least
tendency to confusion, I should have passed a command by signal.
Effectual means would then have been taken at once, to keep back those
coming on, till those in front were clear. Well, what do you think of
our bridge?”
“I was thinking how I could destroy it—that is, if I was General
Thouvenot, shut up in Bayonne with thirteen or fourteen thousand men.
That’s what I began to think of, as soon as I saw it; and that’s what
I’ve been thinking of ever since.”
“Destroy it?” said the Captain; “destroy the bridge? Come, that’s a good
one. Destroy it, indeed! I should like just to know, now, how you would
go to work to do that. Why, Thouvenot did come down and attack, on our
first arrival here; got well pounded, though. Don’t think it very
probable he’ll try that again.”
“Now, it’s too late, perhaps. Besides, he committed two great mistakes;
he attacked with an insufficient force, and he came down only on one
side of the river. If, instead, when the bridge was first thrown over,
he had come down on both sides, and that with adequate—”
“Going up with the treasure to headquarters, Mr Y—?”
“That’s our destination, sir. This afternoon, though, we halt where we
are.”
“What, halt here?” said the Captain. “Let me look at your route.”
“Our route says Bayonne, sir; but of course we came here.”
“Yes, yes; very right; exactly; just so. Sorry to say, though, Mr Y—, I
fear you’ll find no accommodation where you are. Every house, every
cottage, every shed, is as full as it can cram. If it was only yourself,
pony, and goat, I would give you accommodation most willingly. I sleep
on a deal table. Would give you half with pleasure. But such a lot of
you—about seventy bipeds, I guess, and more than a hundred
quadrupeds—why, where could we put you all?”
“Well, then,” said I, “we must make a bivouac of it, I suppose.”
“Bivouac? Nonsense!—bivouac! How would those fine fellows stand a
bivouac, I wonder, with their white gloves and horsehair plumes?
Besides, it’s beginning to rain. Bet you a dollar, it rains all night.
Besides that, where would you put your money? If General Thouvenot
should take your advice, ‘come down on both sides,’ and find your boxes
ranged along that bank by the road-side—and that’s the only place to put
them I know of—a pretty catch he’d make of it. No, no, Mr Y—; your only
plan is to go on. Follow the lane till it brings you back into the high
road above Bayonne. You will then soon find a village, which will afford
you accommodation for the night.”
“Very well, sir. I suppose, then, the sooner we move the better. Will
you have the goodness, though, to put me in the way of getting the men
their rations?”
“Oh yes,” said the Captain; “yes, yes: I’ll set all that straight for
you, in no time. I see you’re rather a young campaigner; and the officer
of your escort, I suspect, is younger still. You can’t stay here
to-night, that’s certain. Better see the General, though, before you
move on; just report yourself, you know, and hear what he says about it.
Step on to his quarters, that small house with a white front, and I’ll
be after you directly.”
I turned to remount; but what had become of Sancho? Two minutes before,
I held his bridle in my hand. Now, he was nowhere to be seen. At length,
in the distance, I caught sight of Jones’ legs, dangling from the pony’s
side, as he trotted off towards the houses, with Nanny cantering after
him.
THE GREEN HAND.
A “SHORT” YARN.
PART IX.
“More than once that night,” resumed Captain Collins, “I woke up with a
start, at thought of our late adventures in the river Nouries—fancying I
was still waiting for the turn of tide to bring down the boats or the
schooner, and had gone to sleep, when that horrible sound through the
cabin skylight seemed full in my ears again. However, the weltering wash
of the water under the ship’s timbers below one’s head was proof enough
we were well to sea; and, being dog-tired, I turned over each time with
a new gusto:—not to speak of the happy sort of feeling that ran all
through me, I scarce knew why; though no doubt one might have dreamt
plenty of delightful dreams without remembering them, more especially
after such a perfect seventh heaven as I had found myself in for a
moment or two, when Violet Hyde’s hand first touched mine, and when I
carried her in after she had actually saved my life. The broad daylight
through our quarter-gallery window roused me at last altogether; and on
starting up I saw Tom Westwood half dressed, shaving himself by an inch
or two of broken looking-glass in regular nautical style—that’s to say,
watching for the rise of the ship—as she had the wind evidently on her
opposite beam, and there appeared to be pretty much of a long swell
afloat, with a breeze brisk enough to make her heel to it; while the
clear horizon, seen shining through the port to north-westward, over the
dark blue heave of water, showed it was far on in the morning. “Well,
Ned,” said Westwood, turning round, “you seemed to be enjoying it, in
spite of the warm work you must have had last night on board here! Why,
I thought you had been with us in the boats, after all, till I found, by
the good joke the cadets made of it, that that puppy of a mate had left
you still locked up, on account of some fancy he had got into his head
of your being in partnership with the schooner! For heaven’s sake,
though, my dear fellow, wash your face and shave—you look fearfully
suspicious just now!” “No wonder!” said I: and I gave him an account of
the matter, leaving out most of what regarded the young lady; Westwood
telling me, in his turn, so much about their boat expedition as I didn’t
know before from the planter. Everything went to certify what I believed
all along, ’till this sudden affair in the river. The schooner’s people
had plainly some cue in keeping hold of our passengers, but hadn’t
expected to see us so soon again, or perhaps at all—as was shown by
their hailing the boats at once in a pretended friendly way, whenever
they came in sight up the creek; while Ford and the rest shouted with
delight, off her bulwarks, at sound of the mate’s voice.
“I tell you what, Collins,” continued Westwood, “this may be all very
well for _you_, who are continually getting into scrapes and out of
them, and don’t seem to care much whether you ship on board an Indiaman
or a corn-brig—you can always find something to do—but to me the service
is _everything_!” “Well, well,” said I hastily, “I’m much mistaken if we
don’t find something to do in India, Tom,—only wait, and that uncle of
yours will make all right; for all we know, there may be news from
Europe to meet us, and I must say I don’t like the notion of being born
too late for turning out an admiral! I’m sure, for my part, I wish old
Nap well out of that stone cage of his!” “No, no, Ned,” said Westwood,
“I ought to clear myself at home first, and sorry I am that I gave in to
you by leaving England, when I should have faced the consequences
whatever they were. Running only made matters worse, Collins!” “No
doubt,” I said; “and as it was my fault, why, deuce take me, Tom, if I
don’t manage to carry you out scot-free! Depend on it, Captain
Duncombe’s friends would have you strung up like a dog, with the
interest he had, and sharp as discipline is just now.” Westwood
shuddered at the thought. “I fear it would go hard with me, Ned,” said
he, “and I shan’t deny that these few weeks have brought me back a taste
for life. But, in spite of all, I’d deliver myself up to the first
king’s ship we speak, or go home in some Indiaman from the Cape—but for
one thing, Collins!” “Ah!” said I, “what’s that?” Westwood gave me a
curious half look, and said—“One _person_, I mean, Ned—and I shouldn’t
like _her_ to hear of me being—” “Yes, yes,” said I stiffly, “I know.”
“It must have been by guess, then!” answered he. “Often as we’ve talked
of her during the voyage, I thought you didn’t know we had met
frequently in London before you came home, and—and—the fact is, I wasn’t
sure you would like _me_ to—” “Westwood,” said I quickly, “Tom
Westwood—what I have to ask is—do you love her?” “If ever a man loved a
woman, Ned,” was his answer, “I do _her_; but if _you_—” “Have you any
chance, then?” I broke out. “Ay, true—true enough, you have the best of
chances—your way is as clear as could be, Westwood, if you knew it! Only
I _must_ know if she is willing—does she—” “I got leave to write to her
in London,” answered Westwood, “and I did so pretty often, you may be
sure; but I only had one short little note in answer to the last, I
think it was—which I had in my breast that morning on Southsea beach,
when I expected the bullet would come through it!” Here Westwood stooped
down to his trunk, and took out a rose-coloured note wrapped in a bit of
paper; I standing the while fixed to the deck, not able to speak, till
he was handing it to me. “No, no!” said I, turning from him angrily, and
like to choke, “that’s too much, Mr Westwood—pray keep your own
love-letters for your own reading!” “There’s nothing particular in it,
Ned,” answered he, flushing a little, “only there’s a few words in it
I’d like you to see—don’t look at it just now, but tell me afterwards
what you think—you ought to see it, as the matter seems to depend on
you, Ned; and if _you_ object, you may be sure, so far as I’m concerned,
’tis all over!” Somehow or other, the look of the little folded piece of
paper, with the touch and the scent of it, as Westwood slipped it into
my hand, made it stick to me. I caught one glance of the address on the
back, written as if fairy fingers had done it, and I suppose I slipped
it into my coat as I went out of the berth, meaning to go aloft in the
foretop and sicken over the thought at my leisure, of Violet Hyde’s
having ever favoured another man so far, and that man Tom Westwood. The
strangeness of the whole affair, as I took it, never once struck me; all
that I minded was the wretched feeling I had in me, as I wished I could
put the Atlantic betwixt me and them all; in fact a hundred things
before we sailed, and during the passage, seemed all at once to agree
with what I’d just heard; and I’d have given thousands that moment it
had been some one else than Westwood, just that I might wait the voyage
out coolly, for the satisfaction of meeting him at twelve paces the
first morning ashore.
On the larboard side of the berth-gangway, opposite our door, I saw the
old planter’s standing half open, and Mr Rollock himself with his shirt
and trousers on, taking in his boots. “Hallo, Collins, my boy,” he sang
out eagerly, “come here a moment, I’ve got something to show you!”
“Look,” said he, standing on tiptoe to see better through the half-port,
“there’s something new been put in my picture-frame here overnight, I
think—ha! ha!” The first thing that caught my eye, accordingly, was the
gleam of a sail rising from over the swell to windward, far away off our
larboard quarter; seemingly rolling before the south-easter; while the
Indiaman hove her big side steadily out of water, with her head across
the other’s course, and gave us a sight of the strange sail swinging to
the fair wind, every time we rose on the surge. “What is it, eh?” said
the planter turning to me, “back or face, Collins? for, bless me, if I
can distinguish tub from bucket, with all this bobbing about—great deal
of capital indigo wasted hereabouts, my dear fellow!” “Why, you may make
out the two breasts of her royals,” said I—“a brig, I think, sir.” “Not
that abominable schooner in her first shape again, I hope!” exclaimed
he, “perhaps bringing back the Yankee.” “Too square-shouldered for that,
Mr Rollock,” I said; “in fact she seems to be signalling us; yes, by
Jove! there’s the long pennant at her fore-royal mast-head—she’s a brig
of war. They’re surely asleep, on deck, and we shall have a shot
directly, if they don’t look sharp!” “You’d better say nothing about the
Yankee’s absence, Collins,” put in the planter, “till we’re fairly away.
For my part, I really have no notion of waiting for any one—particularly
a fellow who _must_ have some go-ahead scheme in his noddle, which we
Indians don’t want. Quietly speaking, my dear fellow, I shall be glad if
we’re rid of him!” On my mentioning what sort of “notions” were found in
Mr Snout’s berth, and the drowning of his heathen images, the worthy
planter went into perfect convulsions, till I thought I should have to
slap him on the back to give him breath. “What the deuce!” said he at
last; “Daniel must really have something worth his while to expect,
before he’d fail to look after such a treasure!” “Ah,” said I, not
attending to him, as I heard a stir on deck, “there we go at last,
cluing up the topsails, I suppose.” “Seriously, now,” continued Mr
Rollock, “I can _not_ fathom that vessel and her designs; but I bless my
stars at getting clear off from the company of that tall Frenchman with
his mustache—can’t bear a mustache, Collins—always reminds me of those
cursed Mahrattas that burnt my factory once. Couldn’t the man shave like
a Christian, I wonder? I defy you to enjoy Mulligatawny soup and not
make a beast of yourself, with ever so much hair over your mouth. By the
way, Collins,” added he, eyeing me, “since I saw you last, you’ve let
your whiskers grow, and look more like one of your nauticals than Ford
himself!—should scarce have known you! Any of it owing to the fair one
up yonder, eh?” And the jolly old chap, whose own huge white whiskers
gave him the cut of a royal Bengal tiger, pointed with his thumb over
his shoulder towards the roundhouse above, with a wink of his funny
round eye, that looked at you like a bird’s. “What do you suppose the
Frenchman to be then, sir?” asked I, gloomily. “Oh, either a madman, a
spy, or something worse! Just guess what he asked me suddenly one
morning,—why, if I weren’t a distinguished _savant_, and wouldn’t like
to study the botany of some island! ‘No, Monsieur, not at all,’ replied
I, in fearfully bad French. ‘The geology, then?’ persisted he, with a
curious gleam in his fierce black eyes—‘does the research of Monsieur
lie in that direction?’ ‘Why no,’ I answered carelessly, ‘I don’t care a
_sacre_ about stones, or anything of the kind, indeed; indigo is _my_
particular line, which may be called botany, in a way—I’m perhaps
prejudiced in favour of it, Monsieur!’ The Frenchman leant his tufted
chin on his hand,” continued Mr Rollock, “meditated a bit, then glanced
at me again, as if he didn’t care though I were studying sea-weed in the
depths of the ocean rolling round us, and stalked down stairs. Then he
took to Mrs Brady again, and lastly to the Yankee, whose conversations
with him, I fancy, had a twang of both commerce and politics.” “What do
you think of it all, Mr Rollock?” inquired I, rather listlessly. “It
didn’t strike me at the time,” said the planter, “but now, I just ask
you, Collins, if there ain’t a certain great personage studying geology
at present in a certain island, not very far away, I suppose, where
there’s plenty of it, and deuced little botany, too, I imagine?” To this
question of the old gentleman’s I gave nothing but a half stupid sort of
stare, thinking as I was at the same time of something else I cared more
about.
“By Jupiter! though,” cried I on a sudden, “instead of heaving the ship
to, I do believe we’ve set topmast-stu’nsails, judging from the way she
pitches into the water; there’s the brig nearing the wind a point or two
in chase, too;—why, the fellow that has charge of the deck must be mad,
sir!” Next minute the fire out of one of her bow-chasers flashed out
behind the blue back of a swell, and the sudden _thud_ of it came
rolling down to leeward over the space betwixt us, angrily, so to speak;
as the brig’s fore-course mounted with a wave, the sun shining clear on
the seams and reef-points, till you caught sight of the anchor hanging
from one bow, and the men running in her lee stu’nsail-booms upon the
yardarms. The planter and I went on deck at once, where we found a fine
breeze blowing, far out of sight of land, the Indiaman rushing ahead
stately enough; while our young fourth officer appeared to have just
woke up, and the watch were still rubbing their eyes, as if every man
had been “caulking it,” after last night’s work. Even Mr Finch, when he
came hastily up, seemed rather doubtful what to do, till the salt old
third-mate assured him the brig was a British sloop-of-war, as any one
accustomed to reckoning sticks and canvass at sea could tell by this
time; upon which our topsails were clued up, stu’nsails boom-ended, and
the ship hove into the wind to wait for the brig.
When the brig’s mainyard swung aback within fifty fathoms of our
weather-quarter, hailing us as she brought to, I had plenty to think of,
for my part. There she was, as square-countered and flat-breasted a
ten-gun model as ever ran her nose under salt water, or turned the
turtle in a Bahama squall; though pleasant enough she looked, dipping as
we rose, and prancing up opposite us again with a curtsey, the brine
dripping from her bright copper sheathing, the epaulets and gold bands
glancing above her black bulwark, topped by the white hammock-cloth;
marines in her waist, the men clustering forward to see us, and
squinting sharp up at our top-hamper. It made one ashamed, to take in
the taunt, lightsome set her spars had, tall and white, with a rake in
them, and every rope running clean to its place; not a spot about her,
hull or rig, but all English and ship-shape, to the very gather of her
courses and top-gallant sails in the lines, and the snowy hollow her two
broad topsails made for the wind, as they brought it in betwixt them to
keep her steady on the spot. “His Britannic Majesty’s sloop Podargus!”
came back in exchange for our mate’s answer; and though ’twas curious to
me to think of meeting the uniform again in five minutes, I saw plainly
this was one of the nice points that Westwood and I might have to
weather. Your brig-cruisers are the very sharpest fellows alive, so far
as regards boarding a merchant craft; if they find the least smell of a
rat, they’ll overhaul your hold to the very dunnage about the keelson;
and I knew that, if they made out Westwood, they’d be sure to have me
too; so you may fancy that, during the short time her boat took to drop
and pull under our quarter, I was making up my mind as to the course. In
fact, I was almost resolved to leave the ship at any rate, feeling as I
did after what I’d heard; but while most of the passengers were running
about and calling below for their shoes, and what not, the Judge and his
daughter came out of the roundhouse, and I caught a single glance from
her for a moment, as she turned to look at the brig, that held me at the
instant like an anchor in a strong tideway. I kept my breath as the
lieutenant’s hand laid hold of the manrope at the head of the
side-ladder, expecting his first question; while he swung himself
actively on deck, looking round for a second, and followed by another;
the wide-awake-looking young middy in the boat folding his arms, and
squinting up sideways at the ladies with an air as knowing as if he’d
lived fifty years in the world, instead of perhaps thirteen.
The younger of the lieutenants took off his cap most politely, eyeing
the fair passengers with as much respect as he gave cool indifference to
the cadets; the other, who was a careful-like, working first luff, said
directly to Mr Finch—“Well, sir, you seemed inclined to lead us a bit of
a chase—but I don’t think,” added he, smiling from the Indiaman to the
brig, “you’d have cost us much trouble after all!” Here Finch hurried
out his explanation, in a half-sulky way, when the naval man cut him
short by saying that “Captain Wallis desired to know” if we had touched
at St Helena. “May I ask, sir,” went on the officer, finding we had
preferred the Cape, “if _you_ command this vessel—or is the master not
on deck—Captain—Captain Wilson, I think you said?” The mate said
something in a lower voice, and the lieutenant bared his head more
respectfully than before, seeing the Company’s ensign, which had been
lowered half-apeak while the boat was under our side; after which Finch
drew him to the capstan, telling him, as I guessed, the whole affair of
the schooner, by way of a great exploit, with hints of her being a
pirate or suchlike. The brig’s officer, however, was evidently too busy
a man, and seemingly in too great a hurry to get back, for listening
much to such a rigmarole, as he no doubt thought it; they had been at
the Cape, and were bound for St Helena again, where she was one of the
cruisers on guard; so that what with Finch’s story, and what with the
crowd round the second lieutenant, all anxious to get the news, I saw it
wouldn’t cost Westwood and me great pains to keep clear of notice. There
were some riots in London, and three men hanged for a horrid murder, the
Duke of Northumberland’s death, not to speak of a child born with two
heads, or something—all since we left England. Then there was Lord
Exmouth come home from Algiers, and Fort Hattrass, I think it was, taken
in India, which made every cadet prick up his ears; Admiral Plampin was
arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, too, in the Conqueror, seventy-four,
and on his way steering for St Helena, to take Sir Pulteney Malcolm’s
place. All of a sudden, I heard the young luff begin to mention a
captain of a frigate’s having been shot two months ago, by his own first
lieutenant, on Southsea Beach, and the lieutenant being supposed to have
gone off in some outward-bound ship. “By the bye,” said the officer to
Mr Rollock, “you must have left about that time—did you touch at
Portsmouth?” “Why, yes,” answered the planter, “we did. What were the
parties’ names?” I edged over to Westwood near the head of the
companion, and whispered to him to go below to our berth, in case of
their happening to attend to us more particularly; and the farther apart
we two kept, the better, I thought. The officer at once gave Captain
Duncombe’s name, but didn’t remember the other, on which he turned to
his first lieutenant with, “I say, Mr Aldridge, d’you recollect the
man’s name that shot the captain of the N’Oreste, as they called her?”
“What, that bad business?” said the other; “no, Mr Moore, I really
don’t—I hope he’s far enough off by this time!” My breath came again at
this, for it had just come into my mind that Finch, who was close by,
had got hold of the name, although he fancied it mine. I was sauntering
down the stair, thinking how much may hang at times on a man’s good
memory, when I heard the first lieutenant say, “By the bye, though, now
I recollect, wasn’t it Westwood?” “Yes, yes, Westwood it was!” said the
other; then came an exclamation from Finch, and shortly after he and the
first lieutenant stepped down together, talking privately of the matter,
I suppose; to the cuddy, where I had gone myself. The lieutenant looked
up at me seriously once or twice, then went on deck, and a few minutes
afterwards the brig’s boat was pulling towards her again, while the
passengers flocked below to breakfast. I saw the thing was settled; the
mate could scarce keep in his triumph, as he eyed me betwixt surprise
and dislike, though rather more respectfully than before. As for
Westwood, he sat down with the rest, quite ignorant of what had turned
up; notwithstanding he threw an uneasy look or two through the cuddy
port at the brig, still curveting to windward of us, with her mainyard
aback: for my part, I made up my mind, in the meanwhile, to bear the
brunt of it.
’Twas no matter to me _now_ where I went; whereas, with Westwood, it was
but a toss-up betwixt a rope and a prison, if they sent him back to
England. No fear of _my_ being tried in his place, of course; but if
there had been, why, to get away both from him and _her_, I’d have run
the chance! There was a bitter sort of a pleasure, even, in the thought
of taking one’s-self out of the way—to some purpose, too, if I saved a
fellow like my old schoolmate from a court-martial sentence, and a man
far worthier to win the heart of such a creature than myself; while the
worst of it was, I was afraid I’d have come to hate Tom Westwood, if we
had staid near each other much longer. Accordingly, I no sooner heard
the dip of the gig’s oars coming alongside again, than one of the
stewards brought me a quiet message from Mr Finch, that he wanted to see
me on deck; upon which I rose off my chair just as quietly, and walked
up the companion. The fact was—as the fellow could scarce have ventured
to look his passengers in the face again after a low piece of work like
this—’twas his cue to keep all underhand, and probably lay it to the
score of my actions aboard, or something; however, he couldn’t throw any
dust of the kind in the second lieutenant’s eyes, who gave him a cold
glance as he stepped on deck, and, picking me out at once where I stood,
inquired if I were the person. The first mate nodded, whereupon the
brig’s officer walked towards me, with a gentlemanly enough bow, and, “I
regret to have to state, sir,” said he, “that Captain Wallis desires to
see you, _particularly_, aboard the brig.” “Indeed, sir,” answered I,
showing very little surprise, I daresay, gloomy as I felt; “then the
sooner the better, I suppose.” “Why, yes,” said the lieutenant,
seemingly confused lest he should meet my eye, “we’re anxious to make
use of this breeze, you—you know, sir.” “Hadn’t Mr Collins—this
gentleman—better take his traps with him, Lieutenant Moore?” said Finch,
free and easy wise. “No, sir,” said the young officer, sternly, “we can
spare time to send for them, if necessary; of course you will keep the
Indiaman in the wind, sir, till the brig squares her mainyard.” I gave
Finch a single look of sheer contempt, and swung myself down by the
manropes from the gangway into the boat; the lieutenant followed me, and
next minute we were pulling for the brig’s quarter. The moment I found
myself out of the Seringapatam, however, my heart nigh-hand failed me,
more especially at sight of the quarter-gallery window I had seen the
light from, on the smooth of the swell, that first night we got to sea.
I even began to think if there weren’t some way of passing myself clear
off, without hauling in Westwood; but it wouldn’t do. Before I well
knew, we were on board, and the lieutenant showing me down the after
hatchway to the captain’s cabin.
The captain was sitting with one foot upon the carronade in his outer
cabin, looking through the port at the heavy Indiaman, as she slued
about and plunged in the blue surge, with all sorts of ugly ropes
hanging from her bows, dirty pairs of trousers towing clear of the water
when she lifted, and rusty stains at her hawse-holes. A stout-built,
hard-featured man he was, with bushy black eyebrows, and grizzled black
hair and whiskers, not to speak of a queer, anxious, uneasy look in the
keen of his eyes when he turned to me. However, he got half up on my
coming in, and I saw he was lame a little of one foot, while he
overhauled me all over with his eye. “I’m sorry to have to send for you
in this way, sir,” said he, rather surprised at my rig,
apparently—“curst sorry, sir, and no more about it; but I can’t help it,
confound me—_must_ do my duty.” “Certainly, sir,” I said. “In fact,”
said Captain Wallis, “the Admiral ordered us to see after you—_him_,
that’s to say—at the Cape, you know.” “Ay, ay, sir,” said I, watching
the Indiaman’s poop-nettings through the port over his head, as he sat
down. “Pooh, pooh,” continued he, “you can’t be the man—just say you
don’t belong to the service—confound it, I’ll pass you!” “Why, sir,”
said I, “I can’t exactly say _that_.” “I hear you’re Westwood of the
Orestes, though,” said he; “now I don’t ask you to say _no_, sir—but
everybody knew the Orestes, and I don’t like the thing, I must say—so
perhaps you’re able to swear _he_ is not aboard the Indiaman—just now,
you know, sir, _just now_, eh?” This tack of his rather dumfoundered me,
seeing the captain of the brig meant it well; but deuced unlucky
kindness it was, since I couldn’t swear to the very thing he fancied so
safe, and his glance was as quick as lightning, so he caught the sense
of my blank look in a moment; as I fancied, at least. “The fact is,
sir,” added he, “the surgeon told me just now he knows Lieutenant
Westwood well enough by sight, so they locked him up! You see we could
have made you out at any rate, sir—however, we’ll let the doctor stay
till we’re clear of the Indiaman, I think!” “Then you take me for the
gentleman you speak of, Captain Wallis?” asked I faintly; for at the
same moment I could see a light-coloured dress and a white ribbon
fluttering on the Seringapatam’s poop, the look of which sent the blood
about my heart. ’Twas hard to settle betwixt a feeling of the kind, and
fear for Westwood; it struck me Captain Wallis wasn’t very eager in the
affair, and ’twas on my lips to assure him I wasn’t the man. “Harkee,”
broke in he, with almost a wink, and a smile ready to break out on his
mouth, “the short and the long of it is, I’ll take _you_! We must have
somebody to show in the case; though now I remember, there was some one
else said to’ve gone off with you—but we won’t trouble _him_! If we’ve
brought away the wrong man, why, hang it, so much the better! If you’re
Westwood, I can tell you, they’ll run ye up to a yardarm, sir! Much more
comfortable than ten years or so in a jail, too, as—as no one knows
better than _I_ do myself.” Here the captain’s face darkened, his eye
gleamed, and he rose with a limp to ring a hand-bell on the table.
“White,” said he to the marine that put his head in at the door, with
his hand up to it, “Desire the first lieutenant, from me, to send a boat
aboard for this gentleman’s things.” “I’m afraid, sir,” continued he
gravely to me, “you’ll have to reckon yourself under arrest,—but you’ll
find the gentlemen in the gun-room good company, I hope, for a day or
two, till we make St Helena.” I saw the captain’s mind was made up, and
for the life of me I didn’t know what to say against it; but speak I
could not, so with a stiff bow and a sick sort of a smile I turned out
of the door, and walked along to the gun-room, which was empty. I could
see the boat soon after under the ship’s side, dipping and rising as
they handed down my couple of portmanteaus to the man-o’-war’s-men; the
young reefer came down again as nimble as a monkey, with some letters in
his hand, took off his cap to some ladies above, and sang out to give
way; five or six flashing feathers of the oars in the sunlight, and they
were coming round the brig’s stern. The brig was just squaring away her
mainyard at the whistle from the boatswain’s mates, when the whole run
of the Indiaman’s bulwarks was crowded with the passengers’ and men’s
faces, watching the brig gather way to pass ahead; I could hear the
officers on deck hail the India mates, wishing them a good voyage; the
ladies bowing and waving their handkerchiefs to the British union-jack.
Some sort of confusion seemed to get up, however, about the ship’s
taffrail, where Rollock, Ford, and some others were standing together;
the planter jumped up all at once on the quarter-mouldings nearest the
brig, then jumped down again, and his straw hat could be seen hurrying
toward the quarterdeck. Next I caught a bright glimpse of Violet Hyde’s
face, as the sun shot on it free of the awnings—her eyes wandering with
the brig’s motion, I fancied, along the deck above me; till suddenly she
seemed to start, and Westwood appeared behind her. The next thing I saw
was the black-faced figure-head of the Seringapatam rising below her
bowsprit, about sixty yards from the gun-room port where I was, and down
she went again with a heavy plash, as Tom Westwood himself leapt up
between the knight-heads at the bow, hailing the brig’s deck with a
voice like a trumpet, “Ahoy!—the Podargus ahoy!—for mercy’s sake heave
to again, sir!” he sung out; “I’m the man you want!” “The Indiaman
ahoy!” I heard Captain Wallis himself hail back, “what d’ye say?” The
creak of our yards, with the flap of the jib, and the men’s feet,
drowned Westwood’s second hail, as it came sharp up to windward; the
sailors in the Indiaman’s bows were grinning at him behind, while the
first lieutenant of the brig shouted gruffly that she had no time to
wait for more letters; and I heard the gun-room steward say to the
marine, on going out with the dirty breakfast cloth, he wondered if
“that parson cove thought the Pedarkis vanted a chapling!” or was only
“vun of these fellers that’s so troublesome to see the French Hemperor!”
“Well,” said the marine, “’twas pretty queer if he took the Pedarkis for
the ship to carry him there! I don’t think the captain would let a rat
into the island, if he could help it!” “Not he,” said the steward;
“plenty of ’em in already, Vite, my man—I do think they used to swim off
on board here, by the way the cheese vent!” All this time I never
stirred from the port, watching with my chin on the muzzle of the gun
till the Indiaman was half a mile to windward of us, her big hull still
rising and falling on the same swells, topped with clusters of heads;
her topsails lowered in honour of the flag, the ensign blowing out
half-mast high for the death of Captain Williamson: a long wash of the
water ran outside the brig’s timbers, surge after surge, and the plunge
at her bows showed how fast she began to run nor’-westward before the
wind. You may well fancy my state, after all I’d done for weeks; in
fact, one scarce knew the extent of what he’d felt, what he’d looked
forward to, till he found himself fairly adrift from it: ’twould even
have been nothing, after all, could I just have thought of Violet Hyde
as I’d done two hours ago, on waking, with last night in the river on my
mind. As it was, ’twould have taken little to make me jump out of the
port into the sweep of blue water swelling toward the brig’s counter;
the Seringapatam being by this time astern. I couldn’t even see her, or
aught save the horizon, to windward; but at this moment the young second
lieutenant came below, and, seeing me, he began in a polite enough way,
with a kindly manner about it, trying to raise my spirits. “I suppose,
sir,” said I, rather sulkily, I daresay, “I can have a berth just now?”
“Oh, certainly,” said he, “the steward has orders to see to it at once.
Will you come on deck a minute or two, in the meantime, sir?”
I looked back from the ship astern to the brig-of-war’s clean white
decks, flush fore and aft, with the men all forward at their stations,
neatly dressed in regular man-o’-war style, every one alike—a sight that
would have done me good at another time, small as she was by comparison;
but the very thought of the Indiaman’s lumbering poop and galleries was
too much for me—’twas as if you’d knocked out those two roundhouse doors
of hers, and let in a gush of bare sky instead. The ship-shape
man-o’-war cut of things was nothing, I fancied, to the snug spot under
those top-gallant bulwarks of hers, and the breezy poop all a-flutter
with muslin of an evening, where you found books and little basket
affairs stuck into the coils of rope: I thought the old Seringapatam
never looked so well, as she commenced trimming sail on a wind,
beginning to go drive ahead, with a white foam at her bows, and her
whole length broadside-on to us. All at once we saw her clue up courses
and to’-gallant sails, till she was standing slowly off under the three
topsails and jib; the two lieutenants couldn’t understand what she was
about, and the captain put the glass to his eye, after which he said
something to the second lieutenant, who went forward directly. The next
thing I saw was the Indiaman coming up in the wind again for about a
minute; she had her stern nearly to us, when the moment after, as she
rose upon a long sea, you saw something flash white off her lee-gangway
in the sunlight, that dropped against it into the hollow of a wave. The
next minute she fell off again with her topsails full, and the first
shower of spray was rising across her forefoot, when the flash of a gun
broke out of her side, and the sound came down to us; then a second and
a third. The brig gave her the same number in answer, and as soon as the
smoke betwixt us had cleared away, the ship could be seen under full
sail to the south-westward by west. “_That’s_ her poor skipper’s hammock
dropped alongside, gentlemen!” said Captain Wallis to his officers; “God
be with him!” “Amen!” said the first lieutenant, and we put our caps on
again. “Set stu’nsails, Mr Aldridge,” said the captain, limping down the
hatchway: as for me, I leant I don’t know how long over the brig’s
taffrail, watching the ship’s canvass grow in one, through the width of
air betwixt us; my heart full, as may be supposed, not to say what
notions came into my head of what might happen to her under Finch’s
charge, ere she reached Bombay. No one belonging to the brig spoke to
me, out of kindness, no doubt; and the ship was hull-down on the
horizon, to my fancy with somewhat of a figure like _hers_, when she
stood with the Cashmere shawl over her head in the dusk. Then I went
gloomily down to my berth, where I kept close by myself till I fell
asleep, though the gun-room steward was sent more than once to ask me to
join the officers.
It wasn’t till the next day, in fact, when I went on the quarterdeck at
noon, wearied for a fresher gulp of air, that I saw any of them; and the
breeze having fallen lighter that morning, they were too busy trimming
sail and humouring her to give me much notice. I must say I had seldom
seen a commander seem more impatient about the sailing of his craft, in
time of peace, than the captain of the Podargus appeared to be; walking
the starboard side as fast as the halt in his gait would let him, and
the anxious turn of his eyes plainer than before, while he looked from
the brig’s spread of stu’nsails to the horizon, through the glass,
which, I may say, he never once laid down. From where the brig spoke the
Indiamen, to St Helena, would be about two or three days’ sail with a
fair wind, at the ordinary strength of the south-east trade; though, at
this rate, it might cost us twice the time. I noticed the men on the
forecastle look to each other now and then knowingly, at some fresh sign
of the captain’s impatience; and the second lieutenant told me in a low
voice, with his head over the side near mine, Captain Wallis had been
out of sorts ever since they lost sight of the island. “You’d suppose,
sir,” said he, laughing, “that old Nap was his sweetheart, by the way he
watches over him; and now, I fancy, he’s afraid St Helena may be sunk in
blue water while we were away! In fact, Mr Westwood,” added he, “it
looks devilish like as if it had come up from Davy Jones, all standing;
so I don’t see why it shouldn’t go down to him again some day; I can
tell you it’s tiresome work cruising to windward there, though, and we
aren’t idle at all!” “Did you ever see the French Emperor yourself,
sir?” asked I—for I must say the thought of nearing the prison such a
man was in made me a little curious. “Never, sir, except at a mile’s
distance,” said the second lieutenant; “indeed, it’s hard to get a pass,
unless you know the governor. But I’ve a notion,” continued he, “the
governor’s carefulness is nothing to our skipper’s! Indeed, they tell a
queer story of how Sir Hudson Lowe was gulled for months together, when
he was governor of Capri island, in the Mediterranean. As for the
captain, again, you’d seek a long time ere you found a better
seaman—he’s as wide awake, too, as Nelson himself—while the curious
thing is, I believe, he never once clapped eyes on Bonaparte in his
life! But good cause he has to hate him, you know, Mr Westwood!”
“Indeed,” said I, taking a moment’s interest in the thing; and I was
just going to ask the reason, when the first lieutenant came over to
say. Captain Wallis would be glad if I would dine with him in the cabin.
At dinner-time, accordingly, I put on a coat, for the first time, less
like those the cadets in the Seringapatam wore, and went aft, where I
found the first lieutenant and a midshipman with the captain. He did his
best to soften my case, as I saw by his whole manner during dinner;
after which, no sooner had the reefer had his one glass of wine, than he
was sent on deck to look out to windward. “Well, sir,” said Captain
Wallis thereupon, turning from his first luff to me, “I’m sorry for this
disagreeable business! I believe you deny being the person at all,
though?” “Why, sir,” said I, “I am certainly no more the first
lieutenant of the Orestes than yourself, Captain Wallis! ’Twas all owing
to a mistake of that India mate, who owed me a grudge.” “Oh, oh, I see!”
replied he, beginning to smile, “the whole matter’s as plain as a
handspike, Mr Aldridge! But I couldn’t do less, on the information!”
“However, sir,” put in the first lieutenant, “there’s no doubt the real
man must have been in the ship, or the mistake could not have happened,
sir!” “Well—you look at things too square, Aldridge,” said the captain.
“All _you_’ve got to do, I hope, sir, is just to prove you’re not
Westwood; and if you want still to go out to the East Indies, why, I
daresay you won’t be long of finding some outward-bound ship or other
off James Town. Only, I’d advise you, sir, to have your case over with
Sir Pulteney, before Admiral Plampin comes in—as I fear he would send
you to England.” “It matters little to me, sir,” I answered; “seeing the
reason I had for going out happens to be done with.” Here I couldn’t
help the blood rising in my face; while Captain Wallis’s steady eye
turned off me, and I heard him say in a lower key to the lieutenant, he
didn’t think it was a matter for a court-martial at all. “Pooh,
Aldridge!” said he, “some pretty girl amongst the passengers in the
case, I wager!” “Why,” returned Aldridge, carelessly, “I heard Mr Moore
say some of the ladies were pretty enough, especially one—some India
judge or other’s young daughter—I believe he was in raptures about,
sir.” This sort of thing, as you may suppose, was like touching one on
the raw with a marlin-spike; when the captain asked me, partly to smooth
it over, maybe,—“By the bye, sir, Mr Aldridge tells me there was
something about a pirate schooner, or slaver, or some craft of the kind,
that frightened your mates—that’s all stuff, I daresay—but what I want
to know is, in what quarter you lost sight of her, if you recollect?”
“About nor’west by north from where we were at the time, sir,” said I.
“A fast-looking craft was she?” asked he. “A thorough-built smooth-going
clipper, if ever there was one,” I said. At this the captain mused for a
little, till at last he said to his lieutenant—“They daren’t risk it; I
don’t think there’s the Frenchman born, man enough to try such a thing
by water, Aldridge?” “Help _him_ out, you mean, sir?” said the luff;
“why, if he ever got as far as the water’s edge, I’d believe in
witchcraft, sir!” “Give a man time, Mr Aldridge,” answered the captain,
“and he’ll get out of anything where soldiers are concerned—every year
he’s boxed up, sharpens him till his very mind turns like a knife, man!
It makes one mad on every point beside, I tell you, sir—whereas after
he’s free, perhaps, it’s just on _that only_ his brain has a twist in
it!” “No doubt, Captain Wallis,” said Aldridge, glancing over to me, as
his commander got up and began walking about the cabin, spite of his
halt. “D’ye know,” continued he, “I’ve thought at times what I should
like best would be to have _him_ ahead of the brig, in some craft or
other, and we hard in chase—I’d go after that man to the North Pole,
sir, and bring him back! Without once going aboard to know he was there,
I’d send word it was Jack Wallis had him in tow!” “What is Bonaparte
like, then, after all, sir?” I asked, just to fill up the break. “I
never saw him, nor he me,” replied Captain Wallis, stopping in his walk,
“but every day he may have a sight of the brig cruising to windward; and
as for the island, we see plenty of _it_, I think, Aldridge?” “Ay, ay,
sir,” said Aldridge, “that we do! For my part, I can’t get the ugly
stone steeples of it out of my head!” “Well,” continued the captain, “at
times, when we’re beating round St Helena of a night, I’ll be hanged if
I haven’t thought it began to loom as if the French Emperor stood on the
top of it, like a shadow looking out to sea the other way,—and I’ve gone
below lest he’d turn round till I saw his face. I’ve a notion, Mr
Aldridge, if I once saw his face I’d lose what I feel against him,—just
as I used always to fancy, the first five years in the _Temple_, if he
were only to see _me_, he would let me out! But they say he’s got a
wonderful way of coming over every one, if he likes!” After this,
Captain Wallis sat down and passed the decanters, the first lieutenant
observing he supposed Bonaparte was a great man in his way, but nothing
to Nelson. “Don’t tack them together, Aldridge!” said his commander,
quickly; “Nelson was a man all over,—he’d got the feelings of a man, and
his faults—but I call _him_, yonder, a perfect demon let loose upon the
world! To my mind all the blood those republicans shed, with their
murdered king’s at bottom of it, got somehow into him, till he thought
no more of human beings, or aught concerning ’em, than I do of so many
cockroaches! But the terrible thing was, sir, his infernal schemes, and
his cunning—why, he’d twist you one country against another, and get
hold of both, like a man bending stun-sail halliards—there were men grew
up round him quick as mushrooms, fit to carry out everything he wanted;
so one could’nt wonder at him enough, Mr Aldridge, if it was only
natural! I can’t tell you anything like what I felt,” he went on, “when
I was in Sir Sidney Smith’s ship, cruising down Channel, and we used to
see the gunboats and flat-bottoms he got together for crossing the
straits—or one night, with poor Captain Wright, that we stood in near
enough to get a shot sent at us off the heights—the whole shore about
Boulogne was one twinkle of lights and camp-fires, and you heard the
sound of the hammers on planks and iron, with the carts and
gun-carriages creaking—not to speak of a hum from soldiers enough, you’d
have thought, to eat old England up! And where are they now?” “I don’t
know, sir, indeed,” said the first lieutenant gravely, supposing by the
captain’s look, no doubt, that it was a question. “What, Captain
Wallis!” exclaimed I, “were you with Captain Wright, then, sir?” Of
course, like every one in the service, I had heard Captain Wright’s
story often, with ever so many versions; there was a mystery about his
sad fate that made me curious to hear more, of what gave the whole navy,
I may say, a hatred to Bonaparte not at all the same you regard a fair
enemy with.
“_With_ him, say you, sir?” repeated the captain of the Podargus, “ay
was I! I was his first lieutenant, and good cause I had to feel for the
end he came to,—as I’ll let you hear. One night Captain Wright went
ashore, as he’d often done, into the town of Beville, dressed like a
smuggler; for the fact was the French winked at the smuggling, only I
must say _we_ used to land men instead of goods. I didn’t like the thing
that night, and advised him not to go, as they’d begun to suspect
something of late; however, the captain by that time was foolhardy,
owing to having run so many risks, and he was bent on going in before we
left the coast; though, after all, I believe it was only to get a letter
that any fisherman could have brought off. The boat was lying off and on
behind a rocky point, and we waited and waited, hearing nothing but the
sound of the tide making about the big weedy stones, in the shadow from
the lights of the town; when at last the French landlord of the little
tavern he put up at, came down upon the shingle and whistled to us. He
gave me a message from Captain Wright, with the private word we had
between us, saying he wanted me to come up to the town on a particular
business. Accordingly, I told the men to shove out again, and away I
went with the fellow. No sooner did I open the door of the room,
however, than three or four gens-d’-armes had hold of me, and I was a
prisoner: as for Captain Weight, I never saw him more. The morning broke
as they brought me up on horseback in the middle of them, along the road
to Paris, from whence I could make out the cutter heeling to the breeze
a mile or two off the land, with two or three gunboats hard in chase.”
“Well, sir, at Paris they clapped me into a long gloomy-like piece of
mason-work called the Temple, close alongside of the river, where plenty
of our countrymen were; Captain Wright and Sir Sidney Smith himself
among the rest, as I found out afterwards. The treatment wasn’t so bad
at first; but when you climbed up to the windows, there was nothing to
be seen but the top of a wall, and roofs of houses all round, save where
you’d a glimpse of the dirty river and some pig-trough of a boat. One
day I got a letter from Captain Wright—how they let me have it I don’t
well know—saying he was allowed a good deal of comfort in the mean time,
but he suspected some devilish scheme in it, to make him betray the
British government, or something of the kind; that he’d heard one of the
French royalist generals had choked himself in his prison, but never to
believe he’d do the same thing, though every night he woke up thinking
he heard the key turn in the door. The next thing I heard of was that
Captain Wright had made away with himself, sir!” Here Captain Wallis got
up again, walking across the cabin, seemingly much moved. “Well, after
that I slept with the dinner-knife in my breast, till the jailer took it
away; for I thought at the time that poor Wright had been murdered,
though I found cause to change my mind when I knew what loneliness does
with a man, not to speak of the notion being put before him to take his
own life. For a while, too, Captain Shaw was in the same cell; by which
time we had such bad food, and so little of it, that one day when a
pigeon lighted on the window, which used to come there for a crumb or
two every afternoon, right along with the gold gleam of the sun as it
shot over the dark houses to that window—I jumped up and caught it. Shaw
and I actually tore it in bits, and eat it raw on the spot; though ’twas
long ere I could get rid of the notion of the poor bird fluttering and
cooing against the bars, and looking at me with its round little soft
eye as it pecked off the slab. But what was that to the thought of my
old father that had hurt himself to keep me in the navy, and me able,
now, to make his last days comfortable—or the innocent young girl I had
married the moment I got my commission of first lieutenant, expecting to
be flush of prize-money! It even came into my head often, when I sat by
myself in the cell they afterwards put me into, alone,—how that little
blue pigeon might have carried a letter to England for me—at any rate it
was the only thing like a chance, or a friend, I ever saw the whole time
I was there,—and foolish as the notion may look, why the window was too
high in a smooth wall, for me once to reach it. I heard all Paris
humming round the thick of the stone, every day, and sometimes the sound
of thousands of soldiers tramping past below, over the next bridge, with
music and suchlike—no doubt when the First Consul, as they called him,
went off to some campaign or other: then I’d dream I felt the deck under
me in a fresh breeze at night, till the soul sickened in me to wake up
and find the stones as still as before, and now and then hear the
sentries challenging on their rounds.
“Well, one day a fellow in a cloak, with a slouch hat over his forehead,
was let in to try, as I thought, if there was anything to be got out of
me, as they tried two or three times at first; some spy he was,
belonging to that police devil, Fouché. What did he offer me, d’ye
think, after beating about the bush for half an hour, but the command of
a French seventy-four under the Emperor, as he was by that time, and, if
I would take it, I was free! On this I pretended to be thinking of it,
when the police-fellow sidled near me, to show a commission signed with
the Emperor’s name at the foot.
“In place of taking hold of it, however, I jumped up and seized the
villain’s nose and chin before he saw my purpose, stuffed the parchment
into his mouth by way of a gag, and made him dance round the cell, with
his cloak over his head and his sword dangling alongside of him, to keep
his stern clear of my foot; till the turnkey heard the noise, and he
made bolt out as soon as the door was opened. You’d wonder how long that
small matter served me to laugh over, for my spirit wasn’t broken yet,
you see; but even then, in the very midst of it, I would all of a sudden
turn sick at heart, and sit wondering when the exchange of prisoners
would be made, that I looked for. The worst of it was, at times a horrid
notion would come into my head of the French seventy-four being at sea
at the moment, and me almost wishing they’d give me the offer over
again—I fancied I felt the very creak of her, straining in the trough of
a sea, and saw the canvass of her topsails over me, standing on her poop
with a glass in my hand,—till she rose on a crest, and there were the
Agamemnon’s lighted ports bearing down to leeward upon us, till I heard
Nelson’s terrible voice sing out, “Give it to ’em, my lads!” when the
flash of her broadside showed me his white face under the cocked hat,
and it came whizzing over like a thirty-two pound shot right into my
breast, as I sunk to the bottom, and found myself awake in the prison.
“I don’t know how long it was after, but they moved me to another berth,
where a man had shot himself through the head, for we actually met his
body being carried along the passage; and more than that, sir, they
hadn’t taken the trouble to wash his brains off the wall they were
scattered on! There I sat one day after another, watching the spot
marked by them turn dry, guessing at everything that had gone through
them as long as he was alive in the place, till my own got perfectly
stupid; I was as helpless as a child, and used to cry at other times
when the jailer didn’t bring me my food in time. I fancied they’d forget
all about me in England; and as for time, I never counted it, except by
the notion I had been two or three years in. At last the turnkey got so
used to me, thinking me no doubt such a harmless sort of a poor man,
that he would sit by and talk to me, giving accounts of the Emperor’s
battles and victories, and such matters. I must say I began to feel as
if he was some sort of a God upon earth there was no use to strive
against, just as the turnkey seemed to do, more especially when I heard
of Nelson’s death; so when he told me, one time, it wouldn’t do for
Fouché or the Emperor to let me out yet, I said nothing more. “Will the
Emperor not let me out _now_?” asked I, a long time after. “Diable!”
said the man, “do you think his Majesty has time to think of such a poor
fellow as you, amongst such great matters? No, no, pauvr’ homme!”
continued he; “you’re comfortable here, and wouldn’t know what to do if
you were out! No fear of your doing as your Capitaine _Ourite_ did,
since you’ve lived here so long, monsieur!” “How long is it, now, good
Pierre?” asked I, with a sigh, as he was going out at the door; and the
turnkey counted on his fingers. “Ulm—Austerlitz—Jena,” said he slowly;
“oui, oui—I scarcely thought it so much—it wants only six or seven
months of ten years!” and he shut to the door. I sprang up off the bed I
was sitting on, wild at the thought—I may say, for a day or two I was
mad—ten years! ten years!—and all this time where was my poor innocent
Mary, and the child she expected to bear, when I left Exeter—where was
my old father? But I couldn’t bear to dwell on it. Yes, Aldridge, by the
God above, they had kept me actually _ten years_ there, in that cursed
Temple, while _he_ was going on all the time with his victories, and his
shows, and his high-flown bulletins! Yet he wasn’t too high, it seems,
to stoop to give out, through his tools, how Wright and I had both
killed ourselves for fear of bringing in the British government—nor to
offer me a seventy-four in a dungeon—_me_, a man used to wind and water,
that loved a breeze at sea like life! ’Twas the very devil’s temptation,
sir; but I’ll tell you what, both Captain Wright and myself had been
with Sir Sidney Smith at Acre, when _he_ was baffled for the first time
in his days—_that_ was the thing, I believe from my soul, that he hated
us for! _I_ had a right to be exchanged ten times over, though he might
have called Wright a spy; but what was my poor wife and her newborn
baby, or my old father’s grey hairs, to _him_, and his damnable ambition
to make everything his own—and when the very thought of me in my hole at
the Temple would strike him in the midst of his victories, where he
hadn’t time, forsooth, to trouble himself about a poor man like me! The
fact was, I could tell how he offered a British seaman, that had had a
finger in nettling him, the command of one of his seventy-fours, which
he had nobody fit to manage—and that in a prison where I’d be glad even
of fresh air!
“’Twas then, in fact, the purpose rose firmer and firmer in me, out of
the fury that was like to drive me mad, how I’d get out of his clutches,
and spend my life against the very pitch of his power I knew so well
about. Till that time I used to look through the bars of the window at
the Seine, without ever fancying escape, low down as it was, compared
with my last cell. There was a mark in the stone floor with my walking
back and forward, since they put me in; and by this time I had the
cunning of a beast, let alone its strength, in regard of anything I took
into my head: often I used to think I saw the end of my finger, or the
corner of a stone, more like the way a fly sees them, than a man. The
turnkey, Pierre, would never let me have a knife to eat my food with,
lest I should do as he said all we English were apt to do—kill
myself—which, by the way, is a lie; and I think that fiend of an Emperor
yonder must have taught them to blame us with their own crime! However,
latterly he let me have a fork for half an hour at dinner; and for a
quarter of an hour every day, except those when he staid to talk to me
as I ate it, did I climb up and work with that fork at the top and
bottom of one of the window-bars, taking care not to break the fork, and
jumping down, always, in time to finish the meal. It took me four whole
months, sir, to loosen them! Such deadly fear as I was in, too, lest
he’d find it out, or lest they moved me to another cell—you’d have
thought I was fond of the walls round the place, where hundreds of men
before me had scrawled their last words; and the one that shot himself
had written, “_Liberté—anéantissement!_ Liberty—annihilation!” just over
where the spatter of his brains had stuck when he laid his head to the
spot! If Pierre had noticed what I’d been about, my mind was made up to
kill him, and then make the trial before they missed him; but _that_ I
had a horror of, after all, seeing the man had taken a sort of liking to
me, and I knew he had a wife.
“Well, at last, one day I had the thing finished; when midnight came I
trembled like a leaf, till I began to fear I couldn’t carry it through:
I tore my shirt and the blanket in strips, to twist into a line, got out
the bar by main force, squeezed through, and let myself down. The line
was just long enough to let me swing against the cold wall, over a
sentry’s head going round the parapet below; as soon as he was past I
dropped on the edge of the wall, and fell along it, my fingers scraping
the smooth stone to no purpose, till I was sliding off into the dark,
with the river I didn’t know how far below me, though I heard it lapping
against some boats at the other side. For a few moments I was quite
senseless, from the fall into the water; the splash roused the
sentinels, and three or four bullets whizzed into it about me, as I
struck out for the shore. Still the night was thick enough to help me
clear off among the dark lanes in the city;—and the upshot of it was,
that I found out some royalists, who supplied me with a pedlar’s dress;
till, in the end, after I can’t tell you how many ticklish chances,
where my luck hung upon a hair, I reached the coast, and was taken off
to a British frigate. At home, sir—at home, I found I’d been given up
long ago for a dead man in Bonaparte’s prisons, and—and—the old man had
been buried seven years, Aldridge—but not so long as my—wife. The news
of my taking my own life in the Temple saved her the rest—’twas too much
for her at the time, Aldridge—both she and her little one had lain in
the mould nine years, when I stood looking at the grass under Exeter
Cathedral! I was a young man almost, still; but my hair was as grizzled
when I got out of the Temple in 1813, as you see it now, and I’ll never
walk the deck fairly again. Aldridge,” added the captain of the
Podargus, turning round and standing still, with a low sort of a deep
whisper, “’tis a strange thing, the Almighty’s way of working—but I
never thought—in the Temple yonder, longing for a heave of the water
under me—I little thought John Wallis would ever come to keep guard over
his Majesty, the Emperor Napoleon!”
When Captain Wallis stopped, the long send of the sea lifting the brig
below us, with a wild, yearning kind of ripple from her bows back to her
counter, and weltering away astern,—one felt it, I may say, somewhat
like an answer to him, for the breeze had begun to freshen: it had got
all of a sudden nearly quite dark, too, as is the case inside the
tropics, without the moon. “Let’s go on deck, gentlemen,” said the
captain, coming to himself; “now clap on those other topmost stuns’ls,
Mr Aldridge, and make her walk, sir!” “No saying,” I heard him mutter,
as he let us go up before him—“no saying what the want of the Podargus
might do, off the island, these dark nights—with water alongside, one
can’t be sure—I warrant me if _that man’s_ dreams came true, as mine
did, he would be at the head of his thousands again, ruining the whole
world, with men rotting out of sight in dungeons while the wind blows!
Ay, dreams, young gentleman!” said he to me as we stood on deck; “I’ll
never get rid of that prison, in my head, nor the way that dead man’s
brain seemed to come into mine, off the wall! But for my part, off St
Helena, ’tis Napoleon Bonaparte’s dreams that enter into my head. If
you’ll believe it, sir, I’ve _heard_ them as it were creeping and
tingling round the black heights of the island at dead of night, like
men in millions ready to break out in war music, as I used to hear them
go over the bridge near the Temple—or in shrieks and groans; we all the
time forging slowly ahead, and the surf breaking in at the foot of the
rocks. I know then, _who’s_ asleep at the time up in Longwood!”
The brig-of-war was taking long sweeps and plunges before the wind; the
Southern Cross right away on her larboard quarter, and the very same
stars spread all out aloft, that I’d watched a couple of nights before,
close by Violet Hyde. The whole of what I’d just heard was nothing to me
in a single minute, matched with the notion of never seeing her more.
Everything I’d thought of since we left England was gone, even one’s
heart for the service; and what to do now, I didn’t know. I scarce
noticed it commence to rain, till a bit of a squall had come on, and
they were hauling down stu’nsails; the dark swells only to be seen
rising with the foam on them, and a heavier cover of dull cloud risen
off the brig’s beam, as well as ahead; so that you merely saw her
canvass lift before you against the thick of the sky, and dive into it
again. ’Twas just cleared pretty bright off the stars astern of us,
however, wind rather lighter than before the squall, when the captain
thought he made out a sail near about the starboard beam, where the
clouds came on the water-line; a minute or two after she was plain
enough in the clear, though looming nearly end-on, so that one couldn’t
well know her rig. Thinking at first sight it might be the schooner,
Captain Wallis was for bracing up, to stand in chase and overhaul her;
but shortly after she seemed either to yaw a little, or fall off again
before the wind like ourselves, at any rate showing three sticks on the
horizon with square canvass spread, and evidently a small _ship_. “Some
homeward-bound craft meaning to touch at the island!” said Captain
Wallis, telling the first lieutenant to keep all fast; by which time she
was lost in the dusk again, and I wasn’t long of going below. A fancy
had got hold of me for the moment, I can’t deny, of its being the
Seringapatam after us, on Westwood’s owning himself; whereupon I
persuaded myself Captain Wallis might perhaps take the risk on him of
letting us both go. For my part, I felt by this time as if I’d rather be
in the same ship with _her_, hopeless though it was, than steer this way
for the other side of the Line; and I went down with a chill at my heart
like the air about an iceberg.
Not being asleep, however, a sudden stir on deck, an hour or two after
that, brought me out of my cot, to look through the scuttle in the side.
The brig had hauled her wind from aft onto her starboard quarter, making
less way than _before_ it, of course; I heard the captain’s voice near
the after-hatchway, too; so accordingly I slipped on my clothes, and
went quietly up. The Podargus was running through the long broad swells
usual thereabouts, with her head somewhere toward north-east; the
officers all up, the whole of the crew in both watches clustered beyond
the brig’s fore-course, and the captain evidently roused, as well as
impatient; though I couldn’t at first make out the reason of her being
off her course. As soon as she fell off a little, however, to my great
horror I could see a light far ahead of us, right in the gloom of the
clouds, which for a moment you’d have supposed was the moon rising red
and bloody, till the heave of the sea betwixt us and it showed how both
of us were dipping: and now and then it gave a flaring glimmer fair out
from the breast of the fog-bank, while the breeze was sending a brown
puff of smoke from it now and then to leeward against the clouds;
through which you made a spar or two licking up the flame, and a rag of
canvass fluttering across on the yard. ’Twas neither more nor less than
a ship on fire—no doubt the vessel seen abeam of us that evening—a sight
at which Captain Wallis seemingly forgot his hurry to make St Helena, in
the eagerness shown by all aboard to save the poor fellows. Suddenly
there was another wild gleam from the burning craft, and we thought it
was over altogether, when up shot a wreath of fire and smoke again, then
a fierce flash with a blue burst of flame, full of sparks and all sorts
of black spots and broken things, as if she had blown up while she
heaved the last time on the swell. Everything was pitch dark next minute
in her place, as if a big blot of ink had come instead; the brig-of-war
herself rolling with a flap of her headsails up against the long heavy
bank of cloud that blocked the horizon. “Keep her away, sirrah!” shouted
Captain Wallis, and the Podargus surged ahead as before, all of us
standing too breathless to speak, but counting the heads of the waves as
they flickered past her weather beam. “God’s sake!” exclaimed the
captain at last, “this is terrible, Aldridge. If I had only overhauled
her, as I meant at first, we might have helped them in time; for no
doubt the fire must have been commenced when we noticed her yawing
yonder a couple of hours ago, sir.” “I think not, sir,” said his
lieutenant, “_we_ were against the clear; and if they’d been in danger
_then_, she’d have fired a distress-gun. There couldn’t have been much
powder aboard, sir—more likely rum, I think!”
“For heaven’s sake!” continued the captain, “let’s look about—she must
surely have had boats out, or something, Mr Aldridge? The best thing we
can do is to fire a few times as we bear down—see that bow-gun cleared
away, Mr Moore, and do it!”
We might have been about a mile, as was guessed, from where she was last
seen, when the brig fired a gun to windward, still standing on under
everything. At the second flash that lighted up the belly of the clouds,
with the black glitter of the swells below them, I fancied I caught a
moment’s glimpse of something two or three miles away. It was too short
to say, however; and soon after the twinkle of a light, seemingly
hoisted on a spar, was seen little more than half a mile upon the brig’s
lee-bow, dipping and going out of sight at times, but plain enough when
it rose. Down went the Podargus for the spot, sending the foam off her
cut-water; and it was no long time before a wild hail from several
voices could be made out almost close aboard. Ten minutes after she was
brought to the wind, heaving a rope to the men on a loose raft of casks
and spars, as it pitched alongside of her, with the sail hauled down on
a spar they had stuck up, and a lantern at the head of it; after which
the raft was cast off, and the poor fellows were safe on board.
Two of them seemed to be half-drowned, the one wrapped up in a wet
pilot-coat, his face looking white and frightened enough by the glimmer
of the lanterns; the other darker a good deal, so far as I could make
him out for the crowd about him, and he didn’t seem able to speak;
accordingly, both of them were taken at once below to the surgeon. The
rest were four half-naked blacks, and a little chap with ear-rings and a
seaman’s dress, who was the spokesman on the quarterdeck to the
captain’s questions—plainly American by his snuffling sort of drawl.
“Are there no more of you afloat?” was the first thing asked, to which
the Yankee sailor shook his head. She was an American bark, he said,
from a voyage of discovery round the two Capes; he was mate himself, and
the skipper, being addicted to his cups, had set a cask of rum on fire;
so, finding they couldn’t get it under, besides being wearied at the
pumps, on account of an old leak, the men broke into the spirit-room and
got dead drunk. He and the blacks had patched up a raft in a hurry for
bare life, barely saving the passenger and his servant who had jumped
overboard: the passenger was a learned sort of a man, he said, and his
servant was a Mexican. Most of this I found next day, from the gun-room
officers: however, I heard the mate of the burnt barque inquire of the
captain whereabouts they were, as the skipper was the only man who could
use a chronometer or quadrant, and the last gale had driven them out of
their reckonings a long way. “Somehow south of the Line, I guess?” said
he; but, on being told, the fellow gave a bewildered glance round him,
seemingly, and a cunning kind of squint after it, as I fancied. “Well,”
said he, “I guess we’re considerable unlucky—but I consider to turn in,
if agreeable!” The man had a way, in fact, half free-and-easy, half
awkward, that struck me; especially when he said, as he went below, he
supposed “this was a war-brig,” and hoped there “wasn’t war between the
States and the old country?” “No, my man,” said the captain, “you may
set your mind at ease on that point—but I’m afraid, nevertheless, we’ll
have to land you at St Helena!” “What, mister?” said the American,
starting, “that’s where you’ve got Boneyparty locked up? Well now, if
you give me a good berth for a few, mister, I guess I’ll rayther ship
aboard you, till I get a better! What’s your wage just now, if I may
ask, captain?” “Well, well,” said the captain, laughing, “we’ll see
to-morrow, my man!”—and the American went below. “Set stu’nsails again,
Mr Aldridge,” continued Captain Wallis, “and square yards. Why, rather
than have such a fellow in the ship’s company, Aldridge, I’d land him
without Sir Hudson’s leave!”
“For my own part, next day, I should have given more notice to our new
shipmates while the brig steered fair before the wind—the blacks and the
mate leaning about her forecastle, and the other two being expected by
the surgeon to come pretty well round before night, though the captain
had gone to see them below; but a thing turned up all at once that threw
me once more full into the thought of Violet Hyde, till I was perfectly
beside myself with the helpless case I was in. The note Tom Westwood had
shown me was still in the pocket of my griffin’s coat, though I hadn’t
observed it till now; and what did I feel at finding out, that, instead
of one from her to Westwood, it was a few words from my own sister,
little Jane, saying in a pretty, bashful sort of a way, that her brother
Ned must come home before she could engage to anything! You may fancy
how I cursed myself for being so blind; but a fellow never thinks his
own sister charming at all—and what else could I have done at any rate?
All I hoped for was to get aboard of some Indiaman at St Helena, and
there was nothing else I wearied to see the island again for. I may say
I walked the brig’s lee quarterdeck till daybreak; but anyhow the
look-out from the foreyard had scarce sung out “St Helena on the
weather-bow!” when I was up, making out the round blue cloud in the
midst of the horizon, with a white streak across it, like a bird afloat
in the hazy blue, with the clear gleam from eastward off our starboard
quarter running round to it.”
CANADIAN LOYALTY.
AN ODE.
[Written at Sunrise on New Year’s Morning of 1850, at the head of Lake
Ontario, in Western Canada.]
As gleams the sunrise on the deep,
And on yon cliffs where eagles sweep,
And on the circling forests deep,
This morn, which owns the New Year’s birth,—
Is there no gratulating strain
To hail the advent of thy reign,
Thou latest link of Time’s long chain
Let down from heaven to this our earth?
Of Britain be that strain;—for she,
Stretching her empire o’er the sea,
Exalts the lowly, and sets free
From thraldom’s bonds the fettered slave;
For ever may her children share
The smiles of her maternal care;
For ever may her vessels bear
St George’s standard o’er the wave!
Droop not! Although dark tempests may
Obscure awhile the potent ray
That to these o’er-sea realms brought day,
And Treason walk secure the scene;
A second morning o’er the deep
Shall call us jubilee to keep,
And to old strains each heart shall leap—
“God save Britannia’s noble Queen!”
“God save Britannia’s noble Queen!”—
Shout it aloud! that strain hath been
From east to west, in every scene,
Heard by the nations, like a hymn
Wafted along from clime to clime,
To succour truth, to startle crime,
And, with an influence all sublime,
To brighten what before was dim.
Hark! ’tis Britannia’s morning gun
Heralding thee, thou glorious sun;
And, if it peal when daylight’s done,
Doth she not well that honour claim?
For wheresoe’er thy beams light earth,
Thou seest her wisdom and her worth;
Glories that own to her their birth,
And Trophies of her deathless fame!
From Zembla’s snows to India’s sun,
To her the faint, the feeble run,
They who Oppression’s grasp would shun,
Or Superstition’s horrors blind:
There exiles find a country—there
Monarchs and serfs alike repair,
And, underneath her guardian care,
A sure and safe asylum find!
Then think not, demagogues! on whom
Strike these first rays which now illume
Our land, that, with this year, in gloom
Shall Britain’s power eclipsed be seen.
No! if she wills it, hearts are here
That glory in her high career,
That from her side will sunder ne’er,
But proudly own one common Queen!
Methinks there glows in Britain yet
A feeling, that would grieve to let
Thee, sun! upon her empire set,
While shouts of rival nations rose:—
Our fathers were her sons, and we
Are but her offspring o’er the sea;
Aye undivided let us be—
We scorn to link us with her foes!
Methinks her subjects, side by side,
Will long her burdens just divide,—
Will long maintain, in matchless pride,
Her flag, which aye hath honoured been:—
And many a great deed yet be done,
And many a glorious field be won,
Ere of her empire set the sun.
“God save Britannia’s noble Queen.”
AGRICULTURE, COMMERCE, AND MANUFACTURES:
OPENING OF THE SESSION.
It rarely happens that the proceedings which occur in parliament,
immediately after its reassembling, are so intrinsically important as to
sustain the interest invariably excited in the public mind by the
approach of the legislative season. Such at least is the case whenever
men can predict, almost with certainty, what topics will be alluded to
and what avoided in the royal address; what policy Ministers are
determined to pursue; and what amount of support they may confidently
count on receiving from political friends and auxiliaries. From the
opening of the session of 1850 little novelty was to be augured. The
Free-traders, having had everything their own way, could not be expected
to express any misgiving as to the working of a system which they had so
deliberately adopted. The cry of distress from without, loud and general
as it was, had not shaken the equanimity of the secret divan of Downing
Street; nor perhaps was the complaint deemed as yet articulate enough to
require more than a casual notice. The storm might be brewing, but it
was not at its height, and there would be time enough to meet it
hereafter. What her Majesty’s Ministers had to do was to make out a fair
case of prosperity for the present, and to hold out a still brighter
prospect for the future. They had plausible materials for doing so.
Bullion was plentiful in the vaults of the Bank of England; the exports
for the past year had increased largely in amount; the revenue was in no
bad condition. Abroad, there was a lull in those hostilities which for
the last two years have frightened Europe from its propriety; and,
though the victory had not declared itself on the side of those whom the
Whigs favoured with their approbation, still tranquillity was something.
It gave an augmented market to our manufacturers, and removed those
hindrances which threatened to become serious interruptions to commerce.
With such materials at command, no one but a most sorry artificer could
have failed in constructing a plausible prosperity address. The state of
the home market was evidently a subject for future discussion.
Notwithstanding various rumours as to meditated organic changes, it was
pretty evident that Ministers had no intention to undertake the conduct
of a new Reform bill. Of all the men who ever attempted to ape the
character of Peter the Hermit, Sir Joshua Walmsley is at once the
dullest and the most self-sufficient. Any crusade, under the auspices of
such a preacher, could not be otherwise than abortive: indeed, he failed
signally in the first and easiest quality of an agitator—that of
enlisting a considerable share of popular sympathy on his side. Nor was
finance reform likely to be seriously taken up by the Whigs, inasmuch as
one of the earliest effects of such a scheme would necessarily be the
reduction of their official salaries. That is a point, however, which
they cannot long hope to evade; and it will be forced upon them, sorely
against their will, as the inevitable consequence of low prices. They
must prepare themselves to submit to a reduction similar to that which
has been practised upon the officials of the Great Western Railway, who
are put upon a short allowance in consequence of “the reduced prices of
the necessaries of life.” The rule admits of general application, and
doubtless will be rigidly carried out in the highest as in the lowest
places. At present we shall not discuss that matter: we merely refer to
it as a sufficiently intelligible reason why financial reform formed no
part of the programme of her Majesty’s Ministers. No man expected that
it would do so.
Apart from such topics as these, there was little to be looked for in
the speech: and accordingly, when it appeared, the speech was as meagre
and unsuggestive as such documents usually are. Nor should we have
thought it necessary to make it the subject of comment, save for one
passage, which may be said to contain its kernel, in so far as the
prospects of the home population are concerned:—
“Her Majesty has great satisfaction in congratulating you on the
improved condition of commerce and manufactures. It is with regret
that her Majesty has observed the complaints which, in many parts of
the kingdom, have proceeded from the owners and occupiers of land. Her
Majesty greatly laments that any portion of her subjects should be
suffering distress; but it is a source of sincere gratification to her
Majesty to witness the increased enjoyment of the necessaries and
comforts of life which cheapness and plenty have bestowed upon the
great body of her people.”
Here there is no distinct admission of agricultural distress. Such
distress may or may not exist: all that is known on the subject is, that
complaints are made. But, supposing these complaints to be well founded,
the great body of the people is reaping the benefit of that cheapness
which is the cause of the distress of others. That is the language of
the speech.
We think it is much to be regretted that, on an occasion like this,
Ministers should have avoided the open and manly course. If they do not
believe in the actual existence of such distress, but are of opinion
that the great agitation which at present is spread over England, is
either an unfounded panic or a factious clamour, it would have been well
to have met the statements of their adversaries with a broad and
unequivocal denial. If, on the contrary, they are convinced that
distress actually does exist, and that it is likely to prove permanent,
they have placed themselves in a strange and unprecedented position with
regard to the class so complaining. For, in that view, the terms of the
speech will hardly admit of any other interpretation, than that it is
matter of congratulation to find, that one section of the British public
is prospering upon the ruin of another. We do not, of course, believe
that the Ministry intended to lay down any such principle; for, if once
adopted and carried out, it must lead to the entire disorganisation of
society. We think that their peculiar position affords us the true key
to their language. On the one hand, they cannot deny that distress
actually does exist: on the other, they cannot, in the face of the
commercial principles which they have adopted, and the precarious nature
of their majority, venture to suggest a remedy. Her Majesty is not even
allowed to express sympathy, because sympathy implies suffering—and that
admission Ministers are by no means, as yet, prepared to make.
Turning from the speech itself to the addresses, and the reported
subsequent debates, we find this view of the matter sufficiently borne
out. The Earl of Essex, the mover of the address in the House of Peers,
expressed himself in the following terms:—
“Her Majesty had also expressed her deep sympathy with the distress
_stated to exist_ in many of our agricultural districts. No man could
regret the existence of that distress more than he did; but, in
expressing that regret, he must also state his conviction—a conviction
which was shared by many wealthy merchants, and by many, he would not
say a majority, of landlords—that that distress was not of a
permanent, but of a temporary character.”
Lord Methuen, the seconder, took nearly the same view. The Earl of
Carlisle said:—
“The degree of his alarm would be somewhat proportioned to the
apprehended nature of the distress. If it were temporary, and produced
by special and exceptional causes, not liable continually to prevail
or constantly to recur, then it would be plain that agriculture was
only subject to that variation which every other pursuit, every other
profession and branch of industry, every source of emolument, seemed,
by a law of the universe, to undergo—that change from which
agriculture, in a marked degree, whether protected or unprotected, had
never been exempt.”
And again:—
“What he contended was, that, with so very circumscribed limits for
the experiment, and with such a marked interference of special and
exceptional causes, during the progress of the experiment, it would be
altogether preposterous to assume that the experiment had been tested,
that it was exhausted, and that a change in the policy of the country
ought to be considered, and forthwith entered upon. Neither could he
think they were in a situation to pronounce what were the permanent
fruits of the great experiment they had agreed to make. It would be
impossible to say at what cost corn could be permanently grown in this
country, or whether the same amount of foreign importations would
always prevail. His own feeling was not one of despondency or despair
on the subject. He had no right, on these points, to palm his own
opinion on their lordships. All he contended was, that they were not
in a condition to determine the questions he had indicated. He could
not honestly stop there, however; he could not confine himself to
these ambiguous and hypothetical limits: he was bound to tell their
lordships that, even if he were convinced that the average price of
corn could never ascend higher, still he was not prepared to reverse
the policy they had entered upon.”
Finally, the Marquis of Lansdowne said:—
“Adverting to the subject of the amendment, regret must be felt when
distress affected any large class of her Majesty’s subjects. When the
noble lord (Stanley) went on to say he was convinced the distress,
which to a certain degree affected the owners and occupiers of land,
was shared by the agricultural community at large, including the
labourers, he met the noble lord distinctly with the assertion that,
throughout England, the condition of the labourers was generally
better.”
Lord Lansdowne then went on to state facts regarding the importation of
foreign corn; from which, we presume, he wished his hearers to infer
that such importation was on the wane.
“With respect to the importation of foreign corn, it had diminished
almost to nothing at present. In the last three months of last year,
ending January 5th, the importation was reduced considerably below the
importation of the corresponding period in the previous year. He had a
return of the importation for the first four weeks of January. In the
first four weeks of last year, the importation of all sorts was
1,118,653; for the last four weeks of this year, ending January 28th,
only 336,895 quarters had been imported.”
A valuable addition to the above statistics would have been a note of
the range of the thermometer during the periods referred to, especially
at the Baltic ports. In conclusion, Lord Lansdowne, whilst maintaining
the impossibility of any recurrence to the protective system, remarked:—
“He considered the experiment as finally made; but, if he were to see
a quantity of acres thrown out of cultivation, and a number of
labourers without employment, he would not hesitate to confess himself
in the wrong, and he hoped others would not hesitate to do the same.
He was not now, however, prepared to go back to their past policy, and
to uphold what he believed to be a delusion, or to lay a foundation
for that ill feeling and acrimony which had distinguished the
discussion of the question out of doors.”
These extracts, from the debate in the House of Lords on the first night
of the session, deserve to be recorded for the sake of fixture
reference. Every one of the speakers on the Ministerial side proceeded
on the assumption that agricultural distress, if it existed, was only
temporary, and not permanent, in its character—and, such being the case,
that there was no room, or, at all events, no occasion for a remedy.
Turning to the debate in the House of Commons, we find a bolder tone
assumed. In their selection of the gentleman who had the honour of
moving the address to her Majesty, Ministers gave a very strong
indication of their deliberate views. Amongst those who annually renewed
the motion for the repeal of the corn laws in the House of Commons,
there was one who, with more candour or more discrimination than the
rest, had the courage to acknowledge that the result of such a measure
must be the “annihilation” of the small farmers. That gentleman, Mr
Villiers, was selected as the fittest person to reciprocate to the royal
message. We are far from reflecting upon the taste and feeling which
suggested such a choice—indeed, we are not sure whether a better one
could have been made; for, if the agriculturists are to understand that
under no possible circumstances can our recent policy be changed, that
assurance could hardly be conveyed more authoritatively than from the
lips of the honourable member for Wolverhampton; and accordingly Mr
Villiers does not mince the matter. He speaks out loud and bold, and
tells the farmers that no amount of distress will make him withdraw one
inch from his original position.
“He did not deny that distress existed among the occupiers of the
land, and he deeply regretted it; but they were not precluded from
retiring from that pursuit with which they were not satisfied. He
thought it was some consolation to know that land now fetched as high
a value in the market as it ever had brought in the history of this
country; that there never was a farm vacant but there were numerous
candidates for the tenancy; and that the agricultural labourers,
instead of being worse off, were much better off than usual. If ‘the
worst come to the worst,’ and the landed proprietor and the occupier
should be obliged to proceed in the same business-like way in
conducting their pursuits as persons in other businesses in this
country, they would have this consolation, that there was no advantage
possessed over them by other countries in the raising agricultural
produce. The only thing that he (Mr Villiers) could discover,
distinguishing the agriculturist here from those of other
countries—and that was one which he had under his own control—was the
price of land. It certainly was higher here than on the Continent. But
in many respects his advantages were great; and the inferiority, where
it existed, could be counteracted.”
Statements of this kind carry with them an antidote as well as a bane.
We are not sorry to find the foremost champion of the League, and the
mover of the address, thus openly setting at defiance physical fact,
common sense, and the results of practical experience. He tells the
British agriculturist that he is in every respect, except in the price
of land, on an equality with the foreign producer. So, then, his climate
is as constant, his soil is as rich, the labour he employs is as cheap,
his direct burdens are as low, his luxuries are as moderately taxed! He
is exposed to no restrictions; there is no malt-tax; he may have his
bricks at prime cost; he may grow his own tobacco; he may distil his own
spirits; he is not chargeable with income-tax, irrespective of his
drawing one shilling of profit from his farm! So says Mr Villiers: and,
if this be true, not one of us has a right to complain. But is it true?
We shall not insult the intelligence of our readers by entering on a
deliberate refutation.
Let us next hear the Chancellor of the Exchequer:—
“He admitted that in some respects, and in several parts of the
country, the agricultural interest had suffered; but it was all a
question of degree. He did not deny that the degree was considerable,
but he did not think it existed to anything approaching the extent
that had been represented; and he denied, therefore, that they ought
to retrace the steps of their policy; for, though distress existed, he
relied on the industry and the energy of the British farmer.”
Then come general opinions, almost amounting to assertions, that the
present low price of corn cannot be permanent; and these opinions are
fortified by a comparison of the importations in January 1849 with those
in January 1850, no notice being taken of any difference between the
seasons! Sir Charles Wood next put forth an authority, to which we crave
attention:—
“The _Mark-Lane Express_ stated that the price of corn in the Baltic
was so high that it would not pay to send it to this country; and the
only country from which corn was at present sent to us was France,
which, in ordinary years, was not an exporting country. There was good
reason to suppose, therefore, that the permanent price of wheat in
this country would not range so low as at the present time. Prices
were not at present remunerative to the importer, and importation had
received a most signal check. The farmer need not, therefore,
apprehend that ruin from the operation of free trade which he at
present anticipated from prices under 40s. a quarter. What the future
price of corn in this country would be, it would be wrong in him (the
Chancellor of the Exchequer) to attempt to state, after the mistakes
that the most practical and wisest men had fallen into with regard to
the importation of corn. But it was worth observing, that at present
no importation could take place from those countries from which
importation had been most feared, and that the greatest quantities of
corn recently received had come from those countries from which no one
had anticipated any importation whatever. An honourable member had
expressed an opinion that 44s. a quarter was the average price that
might be expected to prevail for wheat. Now, he could not agree with
those who held the opinion that the agriculturist would be ruined by
such a price.”
Here there are two distinct propositions, with regard to which we have a
word to say. 1st, Sir Charles Wood, on the authority of the _Mark-Lane
Express_, an authority which he afterwards admits will not be disputed,
says that the importations are checked, and will be checked, on account
of the high price of corn in the Baltic, and, therefore, that the price
of wheat in this country will rise. 2d, He thinks that the home
agriculturist can carry on production with wheat at 44s. per quarter.
Well, then, let us see what has since been told us on the authority of
the _Mark-Lane Express_, so lately as 11th February:—
“The value of wheat having receded, without a check, from week to week
since the commencement of the year, has fallen to a point at which
growers are very unwilling to sell; and within the last eight days the
deliveries have fallen off more or less, which circumstance, and the
probability of short supplies during the time farmers shall be engaged
preparing the land for the reception of the spring crops, appear to
have led to the belief that quotations will not for the present
undergo any farther reduction. That a temporary rally may take place
is not improbable; but we are by no means sanguine on the subject, and
regard any improvement of moment as wholly out of the question.
Whatever may be said to the contrary, we maintain that prices of wheat
are at present higher on the continent of Europe than is warranted by
the result of the last harvest. With average crops, such as those
secured in 1849 in most of the large grain-growing countries of
Europe, a very considerable surplus must have been produced for
export; and as there appears to be no chance of France, Holland, or
Belgium requiring supplies from the Baltic, and as our markets hold
out little encouragement for calculating on higher prices, the value
of the article must, we think, inevitably come down in Russia, Poland,
and Germany. Any argument founded on what has occurred in bygone times
is no longer applicable, the alteration in our corn laws placing the
matter in an entirely new position. For the past to be serviceable in
affording materials to form a judgment of the probable future, it is
necessary to have a parallel instance; and all calculations founded on
what prices have been in years when a different order of things
existed, are more likely to mislead than instruct. It is not probable
that prices will fall to so low a point as they have done on former
occasions, when England has required comparatively small supplies, the
removal of our import duties and the repeal of the Navigation Laws
being greatly in favour of the foreign grower; but, on the other hand,
it may be easily foreseen that with wheat at 35s. per quarter in many
of our home markets, British merchants will not purchase abroad on
such terms as have been hitherto asked for spring delivery.
Speculation may for a time support prices at Dantzic, Rostock, &c.,
but the value must ultimately be regulated by prices here; and we feel
perfectly satisfied that supplies on a much larger scale than we are
likely to want will reach us from the Baltic, Black Sea, &c., later in
the year.”
Nowhere can be discerned any symptom which might justify us in believing
that prices are likely, for any length of time, to take an upward
tendency. The importations of last year principally consisted of the
yield of an inferior Continental crop—that of 1848. The large crop of
1849 is preparing for us; and how is it possible to suppose that this
will be kept back unless an augmented price is given for it? Even the
frozen state of the Baltic ports has had no effect in raising prices at
home. On the contrary, they are still declining. The average of wheat in
the Haddington market of 8th February, was 34s. 1d. The Berks
correspondent of _Bell’s Weekly Messenger_ writes thus on the 4th:—“The
corn markets are gradually getting lower, and, taking all the sorts of
grain together, they are now lower than they have been since the
memorable year 1822; and there is, we are sure, less money in
circulation in the country than there has been for many years. The
occupiers of the soil seem to be the first class doomed to be ruined;
but it must be recollected that the farmers will not be the only class.”
But it is of little use for us at present to discuss a point which the
experience of a few months must necessarily solve. Sir Charles Wood’s
statement, if intended to influence the division, has already served its
purpose. Inasmuch, therefore, as the prospects of importation are
concerned, we need not speculate farther.
But when Sir Charles assumes a price of 44s. as remunerative for the
grower of wheat, he takes his position on other ground. We shall not
reiterate our own opinions on this subject, or those of any writer who
may be supposed to be favourable to protection. The evidence of
adversaries may be more valuable; and the first whom we shall cite is
Sir Robert Peel. In 1842, the late Premier indicated his opinion that
the remunerative price ranged from 54s. to 58s., and he never wished to
see it lower than the former sum. Sir Charles Wood, however,
courageously fixes his estimate 10s. beneath that of Sir Robert Peel;
and we doubt not that, if the fall should still continue, we shall find
him averring hereafter that 34s. per quarter is a price amply
remunerative to the British grower.
Our next witness is a gentleman whose testimony must be valuable in the
eyes of political economists. We quote from a work originally published
in 1839, entitled, _Influences of the Corn Laws_, by JAMES WILSON, Esq.
now M.P. for Westbury, and Secretary of the Board of Control. It is a
treatise on which we set so much store, that we propose, in an early
number of Maga, to subject it to a deliberate review, for the purpose of
pointing out the singularly felicitous realisation of the leading
prophecies therein contained, and the intimate knowledge displayed by
the writer of the subject with which he was dealing. At present we shall
confine ourselves strictly to one point.
“This may therefore be called the rate which is fixed by our own
internal competition and resources; 52s. 2d. per quarter may be called
the prime cost of wheat to the consumer, and that sum, reduced by the
charges enumerated, may be called the remunerating price to the landed
interest to the exact extent to which they have been remunerated.”—p.
53.
Again:—
“As we shall afterwards show, we take 52s. 2d. to be the proper price
for wheat, at which an exactly sufficient amount of production would
be kept up, it having been the average price for the last seven years;
we therefore take it as the standard price at which wheat can be sold
to the consumer. It must be clear that whatever average annual price
the farmer receives in any year above that price, he obtains so much
profit beyond the average rate; _and that whatever average annual
price he receives in any year less than that standard price, he makes
so much distinct loss_; and therefore the difference between the
profit derived from the higher prices and the loss from the lower
prices must show the balance in favour or against the home grower.”—p.
41.
Mr Wilson’s argument we leave for the present untouched; we merely found
upon his statement that 52s. 2d. is the proper standard price for
British wheat, and that any lower rate of price must entail a loss on
the grower. So far, therefore, his views are utterly irreconcilable with
those of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Lord John Russell, who addressed the House last, on the Ministerial
side, was not very distinct in his admission as to the existence of
distress. If there was any, he seemed to think it was caused by corn
speculation, and he rang the changes on the old topic of periods of
transition and depression. The division was in entire accordance with
the debate, for it resulted in the rejection of the amendment on the
address, proposed in the following terms, “But humbly to represent to
her Majesty that, in many parts of the United Kingdom, and especially in
Ireland, the various classes of her Majesty’s subjects connected with
the cultivation of the soil are labouring under severe distress, mainly
attributable, in our opinion, to recent legislative enactments, the
operation of which is aggravated by the severe pressure of local
taxation.”
That such an amendment was called for on the part of those who are
opposed to the free-trade policy, we think will be generally admitted.
It was but right and reasonable that the case of the agriculturist
should be brought under the notice of parliament at the very earliest
opportunity; not with the view of forcing on an immediate reversal of
the national policy, but to obtain, if possible, a distinct
acknowledgment of the position in which the most important section of
the community is placed. That acknowledgment has not been given. It
would almost seem as if the Free-traders, in the intoxication of their
headlong career, already considered the great agricultural interest as
completely prostrated as the colonies, with regard to which no notice
whatever was vouchsafed in the royal speech. Mr Cobden is perfectly
furious that the point should be again mooted. He considered protection
as defunct, and the ghost of it laid in the Dead Sea; and now, when it
starts up before him, a living, thriving, and withal a formidable
reality, he has recourse to language unmeet for the mouth of any
respectable conjuror. Lord John Russell can do little more than utter a
feeble and wholly inapplicable descant upon the advantages of the
station of an English gentleman—forgetting all the while that such a
station implies the performance of certain duties, of which not the
meanest are the advocacy of the rights of the British labourer, and the
maintenance of the British constitution. The amendment, as every one
anticipated, was rejected; but, notwithstanding, it has served its
purpose. It has elicited opinions, a commentary on which will be
valuable before the present session is over; it has shown the
agricultural interest how little they have to expect from the present
Parliament; it has laid the foundation for distinct propositions
regarding the equalising and proper adjustment of taxation, which no
doubt will be brought forward _seriatim_, and submitted to the
consideration of the Commons. If these are rejected, as they probably
will be, and if every measure of relief is met by a direct or a virtual
negative, it will then be time for the defenders of British interests to
lay their complaint at the foot of the throne, and to ask for a
dissolution of the present Parliament, in order that the constituencies
of Great Britain may have an opportunity of recording their votes for or
against the continuance of the present policy.
We shall, of course, be told that the point has been already settled.
What is settled? Have not our fiscal regulations been altered year after
year; and was there not a settlement disturbed by the repeal of the Corn
Laws, at least as deliberate as that which is now assumed to be
inviolable? How long is it since “the experiment,” to which we were
entreated to give a fair trial, lost its experimental character, and
became a law, fenced against repeal as closely as a statute of Darius?
Is there a single free-trade prophet who can hold up his head and say
that his vaticinations have been fulfilled? Mr M’Gregor prophesied that
the nation would become richer, at the ratio of two millions a-week. Mr
Economist Wilson prophesied augmented prices to the agriculturist,
adding this ingenuous commentary,—“that there is no better evidence of a
prosperous community or country, _than the existence of a high average
price of provisions_, when the condition of the labourer, as is the case
in this country, is relatively better than in other countries; and that,
on the contrary, there is no stronger evidence of a miserable and
impoverished country, than the existence of low prices of provisions,
where the condition of the labourer is comparatively and infinitely
worse than in other countries where prices are higher.” Mr Cobden
prophesied thus in 1843 and 1844, not once but many times,—“The
landlords will (with free trade) have better rents.” “Give us a free
trade, and land will be as valuable as it is now.” “I believe that land
would be more valuable in this country if you had at once an entire
abolition of the Corn Laws.” We could cite similar testimony, uttered by
a host of prophets as numerous as those of Baal, but we think the above
instances may suffice; and it is on the faith of such vaticinations that
we are peremptorily desired to consider the late ruinous measures as
fixed and unalterable! The railway and the free-trade delusion reached
their highest point in one and the self-same year. We have seen the
quacks, impostors, and swindlers of the one system, scouted by the
unanimous voice of public reprobation already; the leading partisans of
the other cannot long hope to escape the infliction of a similar doom.
It has been said, in various quarters, that we have taken too gloomy a
view of the future agricultural prospects of Great Britain. It may be
so; but, at all events, we are borne out, and even exceeded, by Mr
Villiers. If any man has doubts as to the depression of the agricultural
interest, let him peruse carefully the following statement of the mover
of the address:—
“He (Mr Villiers) had made a calculation of the saving effected by the
people of this country, in consequence of the present reduced price of
food. He found that the average price of wheat in 1847 was 69s. 5d.;
on the 29th of December 1849, it was 39s. 4d.; the average price of
barley in 1847 was 43s., and, in 1849, 25s.; of oats, in 1847, 28s.,
and in 1849, 15s.; and there had been a corresponding reduction in
beans and peas. The usual calculation was, that our population of
30,000,000 consumed one quarter of corn to each person annually; but,
taking a low estimate of consumption, and calculating that the
population annually consumed 20,000,000 quarters of each of these
descriptions of grain, he found that the saving effected by the
difference of prices between 1847 and 1849, amounted to £61,000,000.
He had also estimated, on the same moderate scale, the saving effected
by the difference in the prices of meat, butter, cheese, potatoes, and
other articles, in 1847 and 1849, and he found that it amounted to
£30,000,000 more; so that there had been a total saving in the
expenditure of the people upon food of £91,000,000 between 1847 and
1849. This was the result of free trade _in the very first year of its
operation_. And when so large an amount was saved for expenditure on
other articles than food, he thought it was no matter of astonishment
that the general condition of the people had improved, and that the
country was in a flourishing condition.”
We shall not investigate the accuracy of this calculation, nor shall we
discuss the soundness of the conclusions. It is enough for us that Mr
Villiers holds it to be matter of congratulation that, in one year, “the
very first year of the operation of free trade,” agricultural produce
has been depreciated to the amount of £91,000,000. This is worth a
little consideration. Messrs Cobden, Bright, & Co., have taken much
pains of late to impress upon the farmers that the present struggle is
“a mere landlord’s question;” that the tenantry have nothing earthly to
do with it; and that their sole object ought to be a speedy lowering of
the rents. Our statistics, published in the Magazine, although certified
by a large body of the leading agriculturists in nearly every district
of Scotland, have been designated as “cooked,” by Cockneys who never saw
a blade of wheat grow except on a Sunday excursion to Thames Ditton, and
by pseudo-political economists, who, when detected in deliberate
falsification, have not even the grace to tender a lame apology. The
gravity of an insult depends upon the respectability of those who utter
it. Foul language from the mouth of a cabman does not excite any
rancorous feeling in the bosom of the man who is favoured with the abuse
of Jehu; and, therefore, our correspondents, in number more than
thirty—gentlemen of the highest respectability and character in
Scotland—need not be disturbed by any imputations emanating from the
quarters which we are reluctantly compelled to notice. But, since our
opponents affect to disbelieve the accuracy of our views and
calculations, let them deal with those of Mr Villiers. He puts down the
amount of saving in food at £91,000,000, for a single year. The net
rental of Great Britain and Ireland is £58,753,615:[9] and it therefore
follows, that _supposing no rent whatever to have been paid_, the
tenantry must have suffered loss or diminution of profits to the extent
of £22,246,385! These are the free-trade calculations—not ours. We do
not wonder that the _Times_ did not lose a day in casting discredit upon
a statement which, though cheered on the Ministerial side of the house,
was, in reality, a more damnatory exposition of free trade than the most
ingenious Protectionist could have devised. For our part, we shall not
venture to say whether Mr Villiers was right or wrong. A calculation, of
this extended nature, might tax the powers of the ablest actuary; but,
if it be correct, surely we stand acquitted of all exaggeration; and,
what is of far greater importance, no one can henceforth venture to
assert that this is a mere “landlord’s question;” since, if all rent
were abandoned, the loss to the tenantry, in a single year, would be
twenty-two and a quarter millions!
But let us pass in the meantime from the agricultural case, and see what
real ground exists for the self-gratulations of ministers on the general
prosperous state of the country at the opening of the present session.
We quote the paragraph from the royal speech:—“Her Majesty has great
satisfaction in congratulating you on the improved condition of commerce
and manufactures.” We shall consider the two interests separately.
First, as to commerce, and its main branch, the shipping and
shipbuilding interest. The repeal of the Navigation Laws having been
effected in the course of last year, it might be premature to form a
decided judgment on the working of the new system. Most certainly we
have not done so; and we think it would have been only decent had her
Majesty’s Ministers exercised a similar discretion. But in order to make
out a case of prosperity, the commerce of the country could not be
overlooked; and facts, (when they _are_ facts,) however slight, are too
valuable to be dispensed with on such an occasion as this. Accordingly,
we are told that the shipping interest never was in a state of greater
activity and prosperity than now. Mr Villiers opened thus:—
“It was rather early, perhaps, to express any opinions of what would
be the general results of that great change; but there was reason to
believe that all the anticipations of its advocates would be
infinitely more than realised, and that all the fearful predictions of
its opponents would be falsified. _The interest most affected by these
changes had not been for some years in such a state of activity as it
presented at this moment._ In the Thames and Tyne, in the Wear and
Clyde, the business of the shipbuilder or shipowner exhibited a more
cheering aspect. _From all our dockyards the reports were equally
satisfactory_; and many of the gentlemen who had been most prominent
in foretelling ruin and destruction from the change, admitted the
advantages they were deriving from it.”
The Chancellor of the Exchequer entirely acquiesced in this statement:
“At the present moment no one could find fault with the change which
had taken place in the Navigation Laws, if he took the trouble to look
at the state of the great shipbuilding ports of this commercial
country. He might mention one port, which, above all others, should be
regarded as indicating the condition of the shipbuilding interest
throughout the seaports of England, namely, Sunderland; but he might
also mention Liverpool and the Scotch ports, where the shipbuilding in
the year 1849 went on with more rapidity than in any former period;
and not only was the quantity of shipping built at these places
greater than in any former year, but a better class of vessels was
built, vessels calculated and fitted for the long voyage.”
Mr Labouchere, the President of the Board of Trade, was even stronger in
his averments:
“He confidently appealed to every member of that house who had
considered the subject, and, above all, to the representatives of the
great shipping ports of this country, whether it was true to say that
the industry of the dockyards had been paralysed by the measure of
last session. On the contrary—and this was a subject on which he
naturally felt the greatest interest, and which he had looked into
with the utmost care—he had never made an assertion in that house with
greater confidence, _and he challenged contradiction on the part of
any mercantile man or gentleman interested in shipping_, than when he
stated his belief that the industry of shipbuilding, that the
confidence of the mercantile public in shipowning, that the whole
business of the country connected with shipbuilding and shipowning,
were in a state most satisfactory and most encouraging to those who
did not believe that they were paralysing that important branch of
industry by the measures of last session. He believed the fact to be
that there were at least as many ships building at this moment as at
any period within the last twenty years in this country.”
In the face of such unqualified averments and challenges, on a point
necessarily statistical, and in opposition to the President of the Board
of Trade, who, from his official position, was the man of all others
most likely to be furnished with full and accurate information, it would
have been rash in any individual member to have hazarded a flat
contradiction. But a question of such vital importance as this is sure
to be thoroughly investigated; and we are indebted to that excellent
paper, the _Shipping and Mercantile Gazette_, for an elaborate and
complete refutation of the whole case so ostentatiously paraded by
Government. Our contemporary, we are sure, will not quarrel with us if
we transfer into our columns a good deal of the valuable information
obtained by so much industry and perseverance, for which the thanks of
the whole community are justly due.
“We are prepared,” says the editor of the _Shipping and Mercantile
Gazette_, in his leading article of the 31st January, “to prove that
the depression in our shipping—in building as well as in freights—has
not been so great for years as it is at the present time; in short,
that it is _depression_, and not improvement, which is UNIVERSAL, with
scarcely ‘the exception of a few ports.’
“With regard to shipbuilding, it is necessary to bear in mind that
shipbuilders cannot stop their business all at once; they have yards
on lease—materials on hand—and apprentices to maintain; therefore they
must be doing a little at almost any risk.
“With a view to obtain correct information upon the subject, we have
procured authenticated returns from accredited correspondents at all
the ports, which we shall proceed to lay before our readers; merely
premising that, as the foreign and colonial trade diminishes in
profit, it drives ships into the coasting trade, which, as it will be
seen, is suffering severely from the depreciating effects.”
The following are a few of the returns, inserted alphabetically:—
“ABERDEEN, _Feb. 2, 1850_.
“It is vain to try to conceal the very depressed state of the shipping
interest at this port at present, everything around us having a dreary
and most discouraging aspect. Our docks are full of vessels of every
class and size, and nothing for them to do. Freights offering (and
they are very few indeed) are not, by any means, at remunerative
rates: 30s. to 33s. per load timber from Quebec, or 67s. 6d. per ton
guano from Peru, will never pay the shipowner, while he pays the
present rate of wages, and gives the usual rations to his seamen. If
freights are to be kept down by foreign competition, the British
sailor must be brought down to the level of the foreigner; but such a
state of things, we hope, will still, by some means or other, be
averted.
“Notwithstanding the justly high character our shipbuilders here have
attained in the construction of their ships, and the great perfection
they have come to in the construction of vessels with the clipper-bow,
and which are now making such unparalleled rapid voyages, we believe
they have few, if any, orders on hand; and in the absence of such have
been building on speculation, and have at this moment a few vessels on
the stocks for sale, superb specimens of naval architecture, and no
immediate prospect of purchasers. One of our local papers was holding
out to us the other day that we need not fear foreign competition,
having vessels of such great sailing and carrying qualities. This
would be all very well, if guaranteed to this country alone; but it
will soon be found that foreigners will get improved vessels as well
as we, and, most probably, get our carpenters to go from this country
to build them.
“The number of seamen at this port is about 2330, of which at present
there are about 280 unemployed. Vessels laid up, 45—a greater number
than was ever known in any previous year.”
“BOSTON, _Jan. 26, 1850_.
“Our harbour-master here, who has been upwards of forty years master
of vessels out of this port, states that HE NEVER KNEW THE SHIPPING
INTEREST AT SO LOW AN EBB AS AT THE PRESENT TIME; and he firmly
believes the future prospects are very discouraging. The majority of
our vessels are _now_ worked by the masters at _thirds_, and many of
them have lost money during the past year—that is, have not made the
former wages of £5 per month; in fact, many of them have not made
mate’s wages—viz., £3, 5s. per month, who have not reduced their pay
more than 5s. per month, and ordinary seamen at the same rate.”
“CAERNARVON, _Jan. 29, 1850_.
“Ours is nearly altogether a coasting trade, engaged principally in
the export of slates, which averages about 91,000 tons per annum.
During the year 1849 the export declined to 79,000 tons, and at
present there are no prospects of its revival. The shipping belonging
to the port is in a _most depressed_ condition; freights are very
difficult to be had; and when they are offered, the rate is ruinously
low—say 9s. per ton to London, 4s. and 5s. to Liverpool, and so on in
proportion. Masters of our coasters are remunerated out of the profits
of the vessels they command; and so small have been their earnings of
late, that some are giving up _the command_, and shipping as _able
seamen_, inasmuch as they earn better wages in the latter capacity!
Shipbuilding is almost at an end here; no one will invest capital in
coasting vessels now, so depressed are freights, and so clouded is the
future.”
“CORK, _Jan. 29, 1850_.
“I subjoin a statement of freights, &c., at this port:—
Per load timber.
Freights, Quebec, 1847 40s.
„ „ 1848 32s.
„ „ 1849 30s.
per ton.
„ W. C. So. America 1848 £4 5 0
„ „ beginning of 1849 3 17 6
„ „ end of 1849 3 7 6
“The other freights are in the same proportion.
“The wages of shipmasters have been reduced _one-third_. A few years
back we generally had six or eight vessels on the stocks at this port,
AT PRESENT ONLY ONE, and that is an iron screw-steamer, building for the
Cork Steam-ship Company. The great majority of the vessels now belonging
to this port are colonial built.
“Shipmasters have been obliged to accept of reduced wages in order to
obtain employment to enable them to support their families. Several of
them who were fortunate in having a little money saved, have commenced
_tailoring_, rope-making, acting as coasting pilots, &c. &c.”
“DROGHEDA, _Feb. 1, 1850_.
“There are no ships building here, although we have a good dockyard;
nor are there any repairing, although we have an excellent patent
slip: there are four or five ships laying up, which the owners will
not repair. They would willingly sell, but no person can be got to
purchase: in fact, were it not for the purpose of giving employment to
the masters and crews, I do think that our vessels would be laid up,
for they are not earning one shilling for their owners. It is also my
firm belief that, in seven years, one half of our ships will drop
away, and what was once a nursery for our navy, will not be so, for in
a little time the coasting trade will almost cease to exist, as we
have to contend with railways, steamboats, and foreigners driven into
our trade by the late change in the law.
“As regards our sailors, they are to be seen every day walking about
our quays, anxious to procure employment, but, from the complete
annihilation of our trade, they are unable to procure any;
consequently they and their families are in a most wretched
condition.”
“LIVERPOOL, _Jan. 29, 1850_.
“The shipping trade is exceedingly depressed here, and freights are
wholly unremunerative. A Manchester house has just chartered an
American ship from Calcutta, at £2, 15s. 6d.
“FREIGHTS ARE AT LEAST 15 PER CENT LOWER, ON THE AVERAGE, THAN THEY
WERE LAST YEAR.”
“MARYPORT, _Jan. 29, 1850_.
“Cumberland has long been famed for its celebrity in shipbuilding, its
vessels being known to, and appreciated by, the merchants in every
region of the globe; but I am sorry to observe that, at the present
moment, owing to the unwise repeal of the Navigation Laws, THE SEVERAL
SHIPBUILDERS AT MARYPORT, WORKINGTON, AND WHITEHAVEN ARE WITHOUT ANY
CONTRACTS—a circumstance strangely at variance with the account which
lately appeared in some of the Free-trade journals at Manchester. It
was then stated that several eminent merchants of that locality were
desirous of building a large amount of tonnage in England; but, owing
to the several builders being so full of contracts, they were
necessarily obliged to go abroad to build their vessels. It would,
however, seem that these gentlemen had entirely forgotten the
geographical position of Cumberland, or else we must suppose that they
would have deemed it their interest to have made contracts there;
unless, indeed, they found, as I strongly suspect they did, that the
Continental builder could build cheaper.”
“PLYMOUTH, _Feb. 2, 1850_.
“The shipping interest of this port is in a very depressed state, many
vessels being laid up; and, consequently, their crews are out of
employment, and our quays quite deserted by shipping. The vessels in
actual service are principally employed in the coal trade, and by the
owners only, at very reduced freights—at from 5s. to 5s. 6d. from
Wales, and from 6s. to 6s. 6d. from the north; others sailing out of
other ports at anything but remunerating freights. There are nine
shipwrights’ yards in this port, in one of which only one vessel is
building for a shipowner; and one sold from another. Two vessels have
been for sale for many months past. In each of the others, vessels,
varying from 100 to 300 tons, are being built on speculation, but
progress very slowly. From a want of that enterprising spirit evinced
in times past, there are not half the shipwrights kept in the yards
now, and a reduction has already taken place in the wages. Many
masters and sailors are also walking the quays unemployed; but we are
told, by those who use the old adage of the pinching shoe, that a man
may get as much for 10d. now as he could have got for double that sum
some time since. Where is the use of things being _so very cheap_,
when the poor man is deprived of the means of employment? Our exports
are very trifling: manganese at about 6s. to 10s. to Liverpool and
Scotland; lead and copper ores 3s. to 7s. per ton! Our
imports—principally timber from Quebec, hemp, tar, fruit, &c. The
former was 30s. to 32s. per load last year; what it will be this it is
impossible to tell, now the foreigner goes into the trade. Six of our
vessels (Quebec ships) are gone to Sierra Leone, thereby leaving the
trade open to the foreigner. The average wages are from 30s. to 40s.
for seamen in the coasting trade, 40s. foreign; £4 to £8 for masters,
£2, 10s. to £3 mates, at per month, which are much lower.”
“RUNCORN, _Feb. 1, 1850_.
“The number of vessels belonging to the port of Runcorn is about 70,
of the total burthen of about 6500 tons, most of them engaged in the
coasting trade. Freights to and from this port are very scarce, and
when any are offered they are at a miserably low rate. We should say
that freights are, at the least, 25 per cent less than they were in
the years 1845, 1846, and 1847. Nearly all the vessels belonging to
this port are sailed by the shares—that is, the master takes one half
the freight after all port charges are deducted from it, and he has to
pay out of his share seamen’s wages, and also to find victuals; the
owner has the remaining half, out of which he has to pay all expenses
for wear and tear. But the present rates of freight are so very low
that the masters cannot keep out of debt, let alone earn anything for
themselves, and the owner’s share is not sufficient to keep the vessel
in efficient working order. THE SHIPBUILDING TRADE HERE IS IN A MANNER
DESERTED: there are only two vessels on the stocks; one has been
partially finished for the last twelve months, and the other for the
last six months. There is not the slightest inducement for persons to
lay out their capital in shipping, there being no certainty of the
smallest return.”
“SUNDERLAND, _Feb. 1, 1850_.
“Various statements having lately been published relative to the state
of shipbuilding at this port, it is desirable that those interested in
knowing how far the statements alluded to are correct, should be made
acquainted with the real facts. It is true that at the close of last
year there were about 92 ships on the stocks at this port; since that
time several of them have been launched: many of them were larger than
the average of ships built here, and about two-thirds of them were
sold from the builders. Be it, however, understood that of the
two-thirds sold, say 60 out of 92, upwards of 30 were purchased by
outfitters, or ship-jobbers, who purchase the hulls of ships in order
to have the outfit; _they are therefore still in the market_. Many of
the shipbuilders, and also outfitters, had great stocks of timber and
other materials on hand twelve months ago, previous to the ships in
question being put on the stocks. It was then the opinion of the
shipbuilders that the project to repeal the Navigation Laws, and grant
foreign-built ships British registers, would not be carried, from the
general manifestation of feeling against that measure evinced by
practical men generally, who best understood the subject.
Shipbuilders’ stocks were therefore kept up, and in many instances
increased, and remunerating prices for ships were maintained. Since
the act was passed which repealed the Navigation Laws, prices have
been gradually on the decline. Within the last two years the average
price for a ship, A 1 eight years classed, was from £10, 10s. to £11
per ton; now the price for a ship of that character, is from £8, 10s.
to £9 per ton. The most respectable shipbuilders of this port freely
declare that their trade appears fast hastening to the destructive
state of agriculture; and that, if the present line of policy is
pursued, all who are engaged in their trade must be great sufferers.”
Letters to the same effect are given by the editor of _The Shipping
Gazette_, from correspondents at Aldborough, Bude, Dundalk, Kinsale,
Maldon, Padstow, Pwllheli, Strangford, Torquay, Westport, and
Woodbridge; so that from the ports all round the British Islands, the
cry of distress, caused by the crushing effect of free trade upon the
body of British industry, is arising. And this is what our Whig rulers
call unexampled prosperity!
From the leading Plymouth journal of 31st Jan. we extract the following
letter, which we would venture to recommend to the earnest attention of
Mr Labouchere. It contains some statements of a very different
complexion from those which appear to have passed through the hands of
the officials of the Board of Trade.
“_To the Editor of the West of England Conservative._
“SIR,—My attention having been called to a paragraph in your journal,
which states that the shipwrights in one of the principal firms in
Plymouth had struck for wages, I have to inform you that the firm is
mine.
For several years past I have paid my men 18s. per week on new work,
and 21s. per week on old work; and they never lost any time, but by
their own fault.
For some time past I have had complaints from many shipowners, that,
as their returns were greatly reduced by freights constantly lowering,
we, the shipbuilders, must reduce our charges, or they would be
compelled to take their ships to other ports. Added to this, a friend
of mine, Captain Shapcott, for whom I built a ship two years since,
and with which he was so much pleased that he wished me to give him a
price for another, of about 230 tons burthen. I accordingly did so;
she was to be a first-class vessel, and entitled to class A 1 twelve
years, at Lloyd’s. My proposals were sent to a merchant in London,
whom Captain Shapcott wished should be the principal owner. This
gentleman (Mr Brooking) replied, that as everything was coming down,
wages, and materials for shipbuilding, must come down also; and that,
unless I would engage to build for £10 per ton, and find a very large
number of articles more than I had for the former vessel, he would not
contract at all. He also said, that he had been in treaty for a ship
to be built for him in Prussia, which he found he could do for £3 per
ton cheaper than he could have one in England. I was obliged to
decline engaging to build on such terms, as would have occasioned me a
loss of some hundreds of pounds.
On Friday, the 18th January, on paying my men, I gave them a
memorandum, stating these particulars, and that I imagined they must
have been expecting, for some time, that wages would be reduced, not
only from what they must know themselves, but also from the great
reduction in the price of provisions and clothing. I, at the same
time, offered them 17s. per week on new work, and 19s. per week on old
work, telling them that, as their labour was their own property, if
they could do better, I should have no objection whatever. They all,
29 in number, refused to work; and, I believe, the greater part of
them have not been employed since, as I have seen them walking the
streets.
Not pretending to be a politician, I can only give my own opinion of
the acts of the Legislature; and, from the first, I believed that the
abrogation of the Navigation Laws must have the effect of depriving
thousands of Englishmen of employment.
Put this case to myself. I have employed more than 100 persons in
building and fitting ships; every other class, such as rope-makers,
sail-makers, block-makers, boat-builders, coopers, painters, glaziers,
chain and anchor makers, provision merchants, and others engaged in
putting a ship to sea, have all employ here. A merchant goes abroad
and builds (which he will do) at, it may be, a less price, and see the
consequence—the foreigner is employed, and our artisans must be idle;
it is the natural result. As to the bugbear of Free trade, it will
ruin England,—can I compete with a foreigner? He has his timber, his
labour, and materials for fitting out his ship infinitely cheaper than
I have; he is not oppressed by heavy Government and local taxation;
and when his ship comes to England, she has all the privileges of a
ship of the first class, which it is in my power to build; and
further, by the manner in which Lloyd’s class ships, she will fully
stand A 1 with mine.
I contend that it is the duty of Government so to legislate that their
artisans should have employment, and any act which deprives them of
it, must be detrimental to the nation. That is my firm belief. I must
apologise for occupying your columns, but, as you first mentioned the
circumstance of my workmen, I thought it right to state the reasons. I
am, sir, yours,
WM. MOORE, Shipbuilder.”
There is more than this. Messrs. Lindsay & Co. have published a table of
freights for the last four years, which exhibits an average decline
ranging from thirty-five to fifty per cent. The following are a few
notable instances:—
s. d. s. d.
Singapore, from 105 0 to 60 0
Calcutta, 117 6 77 6
Hong Kong, 105 0 55 0
(last quotation from there)
Bombay, 95 0 60 0
Ceylon, 95 0 70 0
Mauritius, 84 0 60 0
Callao, 95 0 63 0
Havannah, 85 0 47 6
Odessa, 95 0 42 6
Alexandria, 12 0 5 6
Cronstadt, 32 6 19 0
Quebec, 47 6 32 0
This decline of freights deeply concerns the agriculturist, since it
unsettles even those loose and incorrect calculations, which were
brought forward by the Free-traders for the purpose of proving that high
freights must necessarily act as a powerful check to the importation of
foreign corn, in the event of the abolition of the duties.
The challenge so confidently made has been accepted in another quarter.
At the great Wiltshire meeting held at Swindon on the 6th February, Mr
George Frederick Young spoke as follows:—
“Another point which has been taken as a kind of _cheval de
bataille_—a sort of hobby-horse which the Ministers were determined to
ride—I am somewhat familiarly acquainted with; I allude to the
shipping interest. As they have brought that interest so prominently
before parliament, I may, perhaps, be allowed to correct their
statements when they are at fault. What were we told about the
shipping interest in the House of Lords? I thought that they might
have managed to get up returns, to answer the purpose of the occasion,
of a somewhat specious character, extending over a large surface,
before they asked the house to come to a conclusion. But what did they
do? They said that the shipbuilding interest is in a most prosperous
state; and that it is prosperous, they deduced from the fact that
there were 90 ships building in the port of Sunderland on the 31st of
December last. It is the truth that that was the case at that time,
but it is not the whole truth; and the whole truth is, that though
there were 90 ships building in that great shipbuilding port, 24 of
them only were sold, whilst 66 were standing, 31 of them being ready
to launch, but could not get purchasers. I find also, that out of 251
ships which were building at the several shipbuilding ports at that
date, there were but 66 sold, making nearly 200 out of the 250 that
could not obtain purchasers, (hear, hear.) Is that fair? (cries of
‘no,’ and cheers.) Is that the way in which a great public question is
to be supported by the Ministers of the Crown? Yet these gentlemen
have not thought it to be beneath them to stoop to such paltry
prevarication for the purpose of misleading the parliament, (great
cheering.) But I will give you yet another instance, which is even
more pregnant still. In the course of the debate on the Address in the
House of Commons, Mr Labouchere made use of these words in reference
to the shipping interest:—‘This was a subject in which he naturally
felt the greatest interest, and which he had looked into with the
utmost care. He had never made an assertion in that house with greater
confidence, and he challenged contradiction’—most unusual on the part
of a Minister of the Crown—‘on the part of any mercantile man, or
gentleman interested in shipping, when he stated his belief that the
industry of shipbuilding—that the confidence of the mercantile public
in shipowning—that the whole business of the country connected with
shipbuilding and shipowning, was in a state the most satisfactory and
encouraging to those who did not believe that they were paralysing
that important branch of industry by the measures of last session.’ I
will not affect to conceal the part which I took upon reading these
words. I viewed the statement with indignation. I knew that it was not
a fact; and on Saturday morning, the instant I had seen it in the
paper, I drew up this declaration, which was advertised in all the
daily journals of London on Monday morning:—
“‘We the undersigned shipowners and others connected with the building
and equipment of ships in the port of London, having observed with
much surprise that in the debate on the Address in the House of
Commons on the 1st inst., the right hon. the President of the Board of
Trade confidently stated, and ‘challenged contradiction on the part of
any gentleman interested in shipping, that the whole business of the
country connected with shipbuilding and shipowning was in a state the
most satisfactory and encouraging,’ consider it a duty to declare our
conviction that the statement of the right honourable gentleman must
have proceeded from misinformation, and is entirely erroneous. We
declare that the shipping interest is, on the contrary, at this moment
in a state of great depression, no employment being obtained for
British ships offering any reasonable prospect of remuneration for the
capital embarked and the expenses to be incurred; that the accounts
from all the great shipping ports of the world announce a
superabundance of tonnage and extremely low rates of freight,
rendering the prospect for the present year most discouraging, and
that the various trades connected with shipping consequently and
necessarily participate in the general depression; and we make this
declaration without any party or political motive, and entirely
without reference to the causes that have produced the depression we
describe, in the desire alone that the legislature and the public
should be truly informed as to the real facts of this important
question, which appear to be misunderstood by her Majesty’s
Government.’
“I will tell you the result. That declaration was advertised to lie at
the London Tavern on Monday, Tuesday, and to-day; and upon the very
first day it received the signatures of several hundreds of the most
eminent men connected with this branch of our national industry, and
from among whom I will undertake to say I can pick out twelve names of
men who are owners of not less than 100,000 tons of British shipping
(cheers.) That the President of the Board of Trade should venture to
make such a statement, and challenge contradiction from any one, is, I
think, most extraordinary. Is it not calculated to produce this
effect—that statements made by the Ministers of the Crown, with
whatever confidence, will be received with a little doubt and
distrust, and that though they come even from so upright and
honourable a man as Mr Labouchere, it will be necessary to
substantiate them by something better than mere assertions of belief?”
We are sorry that Mr Labouchere should have committed himself so far.
His personal character is beyond suspicion; and we do nothing more than
express the universal feeling of his political opponents when we say,
that no one will prefer against him the charge of having made a wilful
misrepresentation of this nature. But it is the curse of men high in
office, that they are surrounded by subordinates, whose share of
honourable scruple is of the most convenient elasticity, and who
sometimes have a substantial interest in the verification of their
hazarded opinions. To this kind of influence Mr Labouchere is peculiarly
subjected. The returns on which he founded, with so rash a confidence,
had evidently passed through the hands of some veteran statist and
figure-monger, and been adapted to suit an immediate purpose, rather
than to conform to the actual truth. On no other hypothesis can we
account for so strange a perversion of fact; for we believe that, after
the evidence cited above, no man, whatever may be his political
opinions, will hold that the commerce of the nation is not materially
depressed, instead of being, as Ministers represented it, flourishing
beyond all precedent.
We next come to the manufacturing interest, which assuredly ought to be
in a most prosperous condition. In the course of the bygone year,
tranquillity was restored on the Continent, and the interrupted markets
were opened with every prospect of a fair demand. Notwithstanding the
fall of prices, it might have been supposed that agricultural depression
had hardly time to react upon the home market; and food was cheaper than
perhaps it has been in Britain within the memory of man. Yet, with all
these advantages, it is by no means certain that our manufactures are in
a sound condition. The official tables indeed exhibit a large increase
of exports, but these tables are quite useless as exponents of actual
value. No later than last session, Sir Robert Peel gave a decided
testimony on this point.
“Let me observe,” said he, “that nothing can be more unsafe than any
inference drawn from the returns which give the declared value of
manufactures imported. Owing to the manner in which the accounts of
imports and exports are prepared, arguments drawn from that source
must be exceedingly fallacious.”
The _Liverpool Standard_, applying itself to the statistics of the
cotton trade, has done good service in exposing the nature of the export
returns. According to the official statement, there would appear to be
an increase of nearly £4,210,000 in the exports of cotton manufactures
and yarn; but the _Standard_, going to the fountainhead, has shown that
the increase in the entire quantity of cotton _spun_ in Great Britain in
1849, was only a little over one-twelfth of the previous year’s
consumption. The conclusions of our contemporary are very forcible:—
“_We place no confidence whatever now in these customs reports. Since
the abolition of the half per cent duty on exports_, there is nothing
in the world to prevent goods being entered at any prices the shipper
pleases. A bale of cotton and other goods may be valued at £5 or £500,
without incurring a farthing of increased charges at our ports; and,
without imputing to any party the wish to do a moral wrong, and to
make out a favourable case in behalf of a particular policy, it is
enough to throw discredit upon returns, thus left unprotected against
error, to know that extensive malversation can be carried on.”
When we turn for information to the manufacturing districts, we find
some mills working on short time, and less employment generally diffused
than might be expected in an average year. We hear of nothing but the
most gloomy anticipations, contrasting very strangely, indeed, with the
triumphant language of Ministers. The depression is not confined to the
remoter towns; it exists in Manchester itself, as will be seen from the
following statement—the last which has reached us—from the great
manufacturing capital:—
(From the _Manchester Guardian_.)
“MANCHESTER, Tuesday, Feb. 12.—We have had a spiritless and rather
drooping market. The merchants have shown a growing indisposition for
business; looking upon prices as, for the most part, too high to
warrant further exports in the present state of supplies in foreign
markets. The letters received this morning from Germany give
quotations of prices which afford no encouragement for the immediate
resumption of operations. There has been some inquiry from the Greeks,
but with little result. As to the home dealers, seldom have they been
so little seen in the warehouses of the manufacturers. There is
evidently a diminished confidence among all classes of buyers as to
the maintenance of prices; and a determination to proceed cautiously,
buying only for the supply of the most pressing wants, is become
general. The business of the day has, consequently, fallen in amount
below that of any Tuesday for some time back. Under these
circumstances, those spinners and manufacturers whose contracts are
drawing to a close have shown a willingness to make some concession in
price rather than suffer an offer to pass by them. Water twist may be
quoted ⅛d. to ¼d. lower; and in mule yarn the buyer has some advantage
in price, except as to fine counts, from No. 60’s upwards. In printing
cloths, there is a giving way of about 1½d. per piece, and 3d. in
shirting. There is a difference in point of firmness, however, among
spinners and manufacturers, and a corresponding irregularity is
observable in the quotations. The spinners of water twist, and the
manufacturers of domestics, T’s, and some other stout cloths, are so
much discouraged by the little prospect there is of an improvement in
the unfavourable trade they have so long experienced, that many of
them are seriously intending to diminish their production. One or two
establishments in Manchester have either stopped altogether or
resorted to short time, and an attempt is being made to induce a
general adoption of the latter measure in these branches of
manufacture. At Rochdale two or three mills have taken one or other of
the above courses; and we have before us the names of seven firms at
Heywood who have limited the hours of work in their mills.
“STATE OF TRADE.—MANCHESTER, Thursday.—We have no improvement since
Tuesday. The demand, whether for cloth or yarn, is not equal to the
production, and prices, consequently, tend still in favour of the
buyer. Indeed, no considerable sales could be effected without
material concessions in price.”
Reading such an account as this, we feel perplexed as to the meaning
which the Ministry attach to their favourite term prosperity. We are
almost tempted to suppose that they consider want of employment the
greatest possible blessing which can befall the labouring man.
This account, it will be observed, is dated posterior to the opening of
Parliament. We may therefore be told that the depression had no
existence at the time when the royal speech was framed. Such was not the
case. The depression was felt much earlier, as appears by the following
extract taken from a favourite organ of the Free-traders. On 1st
December last, the _Economist_ thus spoke of the cotton trade—
“At the beginning of this year, great expectations were entertained of
our home demand. It was argued, and with good reason, that we never
yet had a year of general employment and low prices of provisions
combined, which was not also a year of very large domestic consumption
of manufactured fabrics. This year labour has been in very brisk
request, and food has never been so cheap and plentiful since 1836.
Yet our expectations from these facts have not been fully answered.
The sellers of printing-cloths and medium shirtings report that their
home demand has, on the whole, been good; the sellers of domestics
report, on the contrary, a decidedly dull business, worse than that of
last year; but we believe that all agree that the anticipations with
which they began the year have by no means been realised. We suspect
the cause to be this:—The depreciation in railway property, the
effects of the Irish famine, and the commercial crash in 1847, have
impoverished all classes of the community to a much greater extent
than has been allowed for in the calculations of our tradesmen. We
question whether ‘the power of purchase,’ on the part of the British
community, is nearly equal to what it was in 1845.”
We here perfectly coincide in opinion with the _Economist_. The power of
purchase, on the part of the British community, is not nearly what it
was in 1845; and for that diminution of power, he may thank the
operation of the free-trade system. If the calculations of Mr Villiers
are correct—if agricultural produce has depreciated to the extent of
£91,000,000—there is no necessity whatever for recurring to Irish
famine, railway losses, or commercial embarrassment, for an explanation
of the unhealthy state of the home market. If we divide the population
of the British islands, between agriculture and manufactures, in
proportion to the ascertained number of those employed in either
pursuit, we shall find that rather more than 18,700,000 are dependent on
agriculture; whilst the number of those directly and indirectly drawing
their livelihood from manufactures is short of 8,100,000.[10] Any blow
levelled at the larger interest must perforce materially affect the
lesser; and our decided conviction is, that the manufacturers have yet
to learn, through adversity, a wholesome lesson. They have been taught
to look to the foreign, or exporting trade, as their chief source of
gain; and, in doing so, they have had to face a competition with other
countries, which, in the course of a few years, has lowered their
profits fully 50 per cent. They are still willing to go on, in the pure
reckless spirit of gambling, caring nothing what social mischief they
occasion, so long as they can deluge the markets of the world with their
bales of calico and cotton. For this end, by an unholy and unprincipled
combination, they have contrived to substitute foreign in place of
British agricultural labour, whilst, with unparalleled selfishness, they
reject all proposals for an equitable distribution of taxation.
The annual amount of the manufacturing productions of this country is
estimated at £178,000,000; and it is said that last year we have
exported £58,000,000. If this be the case, there remain goods to the
value of £120,000,000, to be consumed at home; and the amount of the
actual consumption mainly depends upon the consumers’ power of purchase.
Mr Villiers tells us that £91,000,000 have been _lost_ to the
agricultural classes—for depreciation is neither more nor less than
direct loss. It is an obvious fallacy to assume, as Mr Muntz does, that
this sum is merely to be considered as transferred from one pocket of
the community to another, as a note for five pounds might be. In the
latter case, the capital represented by the note is not destroyed; in
the former, the agricultural produce having been purchased and consumed
at two-thirds of its productive cost, there is clearly a direct loss to
the producing party. The annual amount of agricultural produce in this
country was estimated, according to former average prices, at
£250,000,000; and if this be accepted as true, or even an approximation
to the truth, the estimate of Mr Villiers will show a depreciation of
more than a third of the value. To that extent, therefore, the power of
purchase in the home market is lessened; for if £120,000,000 of
manufactures are made to be consumed at home, and the means of the
consumers are reduced by £91,000,000, how is it possible that trade can
remain in a prosperous condition?
If the dependence of the prosperity of manufactures on the amount of the
demand existing in the home market is admitted—and no man yet has
attempted to deny that intimate relationship between the agricultural
and the manufacturing classes—it will follow, as a clear deduction, that
to curtail the means of the consumer is tantamount to limiting the
demand. No body of men understood this more clearly than the leading
agitators of the League. They knew perfectly well, that agricultural
distress must react fearfully upon that numerous section of the
manufacturers, who look solely to the home market for the regular
consumption of their produce, and who supply the greater number of the
retail dealers and shopkeepers, whose means of livelihood depend on
their intervention between the makers of the fabric and the buyers.
Those leading agitators were independent of the home trade. Their
interest lay in pushing exports to the utmost, and in maintaining their
hold of the foreign and distant markets, in spite of a fierce
competition with France, Germany, and America. That competition had
latterly become so serious and formidable, that, in order to maintain
their ground, they found it necessary to devise some means whereby
operative labour, already brought down to the lowest point of monetary
wage, might be stimulated and sustained; and the only scheme available
to them was the breaking up of the corn laws, which, in this
highly-taxed country, with the accumulated burdens of more than a
century and a half pressing upon it, afforded a necessary protection to
the British agricultural labourer. For no one can deny that the
producers of corn are, like all others, subject to taxation; and all
taxation, whether direct or indirect, must be added to the price of the
fruits of labour. This was just what the corn laws effected. The
consumer paid for the taxation when he purchased the article; and in no
branch of industry or trade is another rule recognised. There is a
natural price, and an artificial price. The natural price of corn is
that for which it can be grown in this country, deducting labour and the
grower’s profit, but without any burdens of taxation at all. The
artificial price is that which is charged for the produce to the
consumer, when the taxation falling upon the land, for state purposes,
is added to the natural price. By the repeal of the corn laws, the
consumer escaped this taxation, and the whole burden was thrown on the
producer and the labourer, who, in consequence of superior natural
advantages possessed by the foreigner, can be undersold by him even at
the natural price, and who yet are called upon to bear the whole of the
artificial cost.
Such a scheme as this—one so manifestly unjust, not only to the
agriculturists, but to the manufacturers and the shopkeepers, whose
whole dependence was on the home consumers—would never have been carried
into execution, had its inevitable results been honestly laid before the
public. But there was no honesty in these men. They were fighting a
desperate game, without regard to the general interest of the country,
so that they could be the individual gainers; and they fought it, as
gamblers will do, unscrupulously, falsely, and dishonestly. They durst
not have hinted that the immediate effect of the repeal of the corn laws
would be a large and permanent depreciation of the value of agricultural
produce. Had they done so, the tradesmen and retail dealers whom they
chiefly aimed to dupe—because the electoral influence of that class is
immensely large—would at once have seen, that, by limiting the general
power of their customers to purchase, they were, in fact, depriving
themselves of so much of their former profit. Shopkeepers and tradesmen
do not live by the export trade: they maintain themselves and their
families by distributing the products of labour among the community; and
their gains, as well as those of the artisan, are measured by the amount
of custom which they receive. Any legislative change, therefore, which
could have the effect of diminishing that custom in a serious degree,
would necessarily be most detrimental to the interests of this class—a
proposition so clear, that no effort of political jesuitry could
disguise it. The corn-law repealers knew this, and accordingly they
rested their case on different grounds. They maintained that the
abolition of the duties on corn would not, and could not, have the
effect of curtailing the means or the revenue of the producer. They
professed that their sole object was to prevent extravagant fluctuations
in price; and they were quite as touching and lachrymose in the pictures
which they drew of the evils certain to arise from a range of low
prices, as in those descriptive of the opposite extreme. Let us again
refresh ourselves with a few sentences from the work of Mr James
Wilson—sentences which afford good ground for hope that, upon the next
agricultural division, we may find the member for Westbury using his
best endeavour to repair some of the mischief which recent legislation
has inflicted. The reader will bear in mind that Mr Wilson distinctly
enunciated 52s. 2d. to be the proper price for wheat, at which an
exactly sufficient amount of production would be kept up.
“It never can be advantageous for the community at large that they
should consume the produce of any one party below the cost of
production; for a period is not very far distant when the consequences
must react, and infallibly produce high prices and great scarcity; and
we will show that the evils of the reaction are far greater than any
advantage derived from the low prices.”—_Influences of the Corn Laws_,
p. 28.
Again:
“Our belief is, that the whole of these generally received opinions
are erroneous; that if we had had a free trade in corn since 1815, the
average price of the whole period, actually received by the British
grower, would have been higher than it has been; that little or no
more foreign grain would have been imported; and that if, for the next
twenty years, the whole protective system shall be abandoned, _the
average price of wheat will be higher than it has been for the last
seven years_, (52s. 2d.,) or than it would be in the future with a
continuance of the present system; but with this great difference,
that prices would be nearly uniform and unaltering from year to year;
that the disastrous fluctuations would be greatly avoided, which we
have shown in the first proposition to be so ruinous under the present
system.”—P. 56.
Perhaps we cannot better illustrate this part of our subject, than by
transcribing the second “proposition” laid down by the present Secretary
of the Board of Control. It is so unambiguous in its terms that we are
saved the necessity of a commentary. Mark, and perpend!
“PROPOSITION THE SECOND.—That the agricultural interest has derived no
benefit, but great injury, from the existing laws; and that the fears
and apprehensions of the ruinous consequences which would result to
this interest by the adoption of a free and liberal policy with
respect to the trade in corn, are without any foundation: THAT THE
VALUE OF THIS PROPERTY, INSTEAD OF BEING DEPRECIATED, ON THE AGGREGATE
WOULD BE RATHER ENHANCED, AND THE GENERAL INTERESTS OF THE OWNERS MOST
DECIDEDLY BENEFITED THEREBY.”
We presume that we need go no further in illustration of the line of
argument adopted by the exporting manufacturers and their adherents, for
the purpose of persuading the tradesmen and artisans that the repeal of
the corn laws could not in any way affect the consumers’ power of
purchase.
In dealing with the state of the manufacturing interest, we must never
lose sight of the fact, that enlarged exports furnish no proof whatever
of the prosperity of the home trade. We shall not go the length of
adopting a hypothesis, plausibly enough put forward, that increased
exports are a natural result of deficiency in the home demand; that
where any sudden stimulus is given to a market abroad, goods originally
intended for British consumption, but not taken out of stock, are
shipped on speculation, and thus augment the declared value of the
exports. We shall not make any averment of the kind, however probable it
may be—simply because it is not in our power, or that of any man in the
country, to prove such an allegation as the general rule. But so far as
we can gather, from the voice of the public press, there would appear to
be little room for exultation in the present prospects of manufactures.
The agricultural depression is yet recent, and its reaction on
manufactures, though it began in 1849, will probably not be felt in its
real intensity until the present year is well advanced. In estimating
the prosperity of manufactures, what we must look to are the wages and
the condition of the labourer. The individual profits of the masters are
secondary to this consideration; and we shall now proceed to examine
whether cheap food has fulfilled its chief recommendation in bettering
the condition of the operatives.
In a single number of the _Birmingham Mercury_ for 2d February, now
lying before us, we find four separate letters upon this important
subject. The first is from the operatives’ committee of the glass-trade,
in which they state that “never was there more flint glass manufactured
than there is at the present time, and never did the operatives receive
less than they do at present for the quantity of work made.” The second
is from a person engaged in the pin-trades, also complaining of low
wages. The third is an indignant remonstrance from an operative against
recent prosperity-statements, in which he says, “the condition of the
workmen is such at the present time, that it is important to them to
have their condition truly represented, devoid of that colouring which,
while it would please some manufacturers, would to the workmen possess
no charm whatever. Where a writer’s heart is, there also will his
leaning be; and I feel convinced that no operative in this town could
fail to see which way these articles incline. Obtaining information from
masters about men, and publishing it like accounts from a house
proprietor about his houses, or from a farmer about his cows, does not
suit those workmen who think, and feel, and wish to be treated in a
manner due to their position as producers of articles ministering to the
comforts and conveniences of mankind at large.” The fourth proceeds from
the committee of the gun-trade, stating that “the year 1849 has perhaps
been unparalleled in the history of our trade; for the general
depression of our prices, and the suffering of the working men, with the
shortness of work, and the very low price at which that work has been
done, have reduced us to the most pitiable condition which working and
industrious men could be brought to.” Surely these letters are
inconsistent with the statement of Mr Villiers, that “when he looked to
the working classes, he was gratified to find that both manufacturing
and agricultural labourers were either receiving a higher rate of wages,
or were able to command a better supply of the comforts of life with
their former wages.” Within ten days after that speech was made, an
operative strike began at Nottingham. The following letter, addressed
to, but not published in, the _Times_, appeared lately in the _Morning
Herald_, and remains, so far as we know, uncontradicted:—
“_To the Editor of The Times._
“Sir,—I have read with great interest your able exposures of the
butchers and other tradesmen of the metropolis. Will you, with your
usual impartiality, give the following facts for free-traders a corner
in your journal:—The wages paid in the factory of Messrs Marshal, at
Shrewsbury, before and after free trade came into operation, are as
follows:—
1846. 1849.
Protection. Free Trade.
Mechanics, £1 5 0 £0 18 0
Overlookers, 1 0 0 0 14 0
Thread-polishers, 0 12 0 0 8 0
Boys, 0 8 0 0 6 0
Female reelers, 0 6 0 0 4 8
“Messrs Marshal are among the most extensive manufacturers in the
kingdom, and this may be taken as a fair specimen of what has been
generally done. I should be sorry to make one comment on these facts,
but leave it to the judgment of the public to decide whether the
operatives of this country, or the manufacturers who employ them, have
reaped the benefit of that cheap bread which they promised to the
labouring population; and whether what they gave with one hand in the
shape of bread, they do not more than take with the other by so large
a reduction of wages.—I am, Sir, your obedient Servant,
JOHN PHILLIPS.
“Winsley, near Shrewsbury, Jan 22.”
As to the condition of the agricultural labourers, it would really
appear to be needless to enter upon that point. The cry of suffering and
distress is universal throughout the length and breadth of the land. How
can it be otherwise, when every cargo of foreign grain sent to our
shores is in effect so much untaxed foreign labour introduced to beat
down the wages of the working man? Mr Bonnar Maurice, at a late meeting
at Welshpool, thus described the present condition of the agricultural
labourers of England:—
“But there was another class—from their numbers a very important
class—and if they took (as they might fairly do) the well or ill doing
of that class as an indication of the prosperity or otherwise of the
country generally, it was indeed a _most_ important class—he meant the
labouring class. They were promised that free trade was to bring
within their reach comforts and luxuries which they had not even
dreamt of. How was it now with them? Take first the agricultural
labourer. A short time ago he was earning 9s. or 10s., or in some
counties 12s. a-week; his wife could earn 5s. or 6s., and his boy (if
he had one eleven or twelve years of age) about the same. Now numbers
are without employment at all; numbers can obtain only occasional
employment; and those who are in constant work must be satisfied with
7s. or 8s., and in some places with not more than 6s. a-week, and with
little or no aid from their wives and families. With other labourers
the case is no better—their employment is becoming more and more
scarce; the effects of an unfair competition are reducing the means of
giving employment; and those who are suffering from such effects are
accordingly lessening the number of their labourers, and reducing
their establishments. Thus, scarcity of employment, combined with
reduction of wages, is the blessing which free trade brings to the
labourer. And so it must be; for what is the real principle of free
trade but the unfair encouragement of the foreigner at the expense of
the British labourer, the taking away employment from the labourers of
our own country, and the giving that employment to the foreigner?”
In Scotland matters are no better. We have many instances of proprietors
compelled by the decline of rents to abandon the improvement of their
estates, and to relax that employment which was formerly given to
labour. This is a great calamity; since it must inevitably tend to swell
the poor-rate, already augmenting alarmingly. In the western districts
the labour of Irish emigrants, forced from their own country by the same
cause, and willing to work at the lowest possible rate of wage which
will suffice to sustain existence, is supplanting that of our Scottish
peasantry; and as the farmers are nearly driven to the wall by the
unprecedented decline in the value of both corn and cattle, they cannot
be blamed for putting into practice the noxious free-trade dogma, and
availing themselves of labour at the cheapest rate. If this state of
matters is to continue, the results may be terrible indeed. The
legislature is bound to look to it in time; and, for the general safety,
to take heed that the power of labour of the working man, which is his
sole capital, is not tampered with too far. We cannot refrain from
making another extract from the pages of Mr Wilson, who deprecates
agricultural depression upon the express ground of its pernicious effect
upon the condition and morals of the labourer. Any fall below 52s. 2d.
per quarter of wheat, Mr Wilson estimates as depression. The present
averages are under 40s., with no prospect of a rise:—
“It must be obvious that the tendencies experienced by the farmer must
immediately influence the labourers he employs. In his successful or
advancing years, a good demand exists for labour, and either attracts
or retains more to this pursuit than on an average it is capable of
maintaining; and thus we find, when the period of diminished
cultivation arrives, the strongest evidences of surplus labour, as of
surplus stock—distress to a painful degree becomes the lot of the
hard-working tiller of the ground, whose only desire is for ‘_leave to
toil_;’ but, like his master, he had already toiled too much, and too
unprofitably. Ignorant of the real causes of his distress, driven to
pinch and want, he becomes too readily the victim of vicious and
designing men, and has recourse to many acts of violence and
injustice, which, instead of mending his case, can only tend to make
it still worse.
“No one can have forgot the terror and dismay which, from this cause,
spread through our usually quiet and peaceful rural districts a few
years ago, when the agricultural interest was severely depressed; the
awful and mysterious midnight fires, which frequently lighted up a
whole district at the same moment, consuming the very means of
subsistence; anonymous letters followed up by all their threatenings;
secret societies to fan and inflame the worst passions; highway
robberies and personal attacks; outrages of every description; and all
perpetrated by men whose ignorance and misery (from causes over which
they had no control) were really much more apt to excite our pity than
our blame. But how insensibly all these evidences have vanished with a
return to prosperity, although it is impossible that they have not
left behind a population of a lower and more debased standard of
morals! They are now as quiet as ever, _but the return of distress to
their employers will not fail to reduce them once more to a similar
condition_.
“It should also be remarked, _that this distress cannot fail naturally
to increase the poor-rates_, and the charges of maintaining good
order, which must act as a distinct cause of reducing the rents and
income of farmer and landlord. In some instances these charges have
pressed so heavily at particular times, as to consume the whole rent,
and to render land of little or no value, which would otherwise have
let at a fair average rate.”
We also learn from Mr Wilson, that extreme cheapness is the reverse of a
benefit to the manufacturing operative, inasmuch as it induces habits of
luxury which are by no means suited to his welfare. It is not impossible
that this view may have led to that salutary reduction of wages, which
seems, at the present moment, to be taking place throughout the
manufacturing districts of England, and that the diminished supply of
money is intended to check that inordinate appetite for cheap loaves and
bacon, which is naturally enough engendered by the foreign untaxed
supplies pouring in to supersede the production of the home labourer,
and to drive him gradually to the workhouse. The member for Westbury
says:—
“With the manufacturing labouring classes similar effects occur at
opposite periods, when the necessaries of life are pressed to the
highest point: they are introduced, _in the years of ruinous
cheapness_, to habits of comparative luxury and consumption which
their labour cannot, on an average, command; and they, therefore, feel
much more the want occasioned by extreme high prices, when they cannot
command so much as their labour should produce to them. So the effect
is, that _in cheap years his labour commands too much agricultural
labour_, and he thus anticipates a part of what should be the
consumption of a future day; and in dear years his labour commands too
little agricultural labour, and he is obliged to receive
proportionably as much too little as before he received too much.”
We are decidedly of opinion that there is much sound sense in the above
extract. We never have known a year so characterised by _ruinous
cheapness_ of all kinds of provisions as that which has just gone by;
the present year holds out no prospect of improvement, but rather
indicates a farther decline; and therefore we are not without hope that
this important point may be worked out at greater length in the columns
of the _Economist_.
The question of wages has led us into a slight digression. Our immediate
topic was the dependence of the manufacturers, or at least a large
section of them, upon the purchase power of the community; and we have
already shown, by the evidence of our opponents, that, in so far as the
agriculturists are concerned, their aggregate produce, which constitutes
their means, has been diminished by one-third. Now, it must be
remembered that _the cost of production_ falls to be deducted altogether
from the remaining two-thirds; and that, in the lost third was contained
the greater part of the surplusage or profit, which afforded the means
of commanding luxuries and superfluities. Of course any diminished power
of purchase must tell against the manufacturers, by keeping up their
stocks in hand, and lessening the necessity for production. But many of
them, failing the home trade, have the chance of a market, though it may
be a less profitable one, elsewhere. They can export on consignation if
not on order; and late accounts from San Francisco, where bales of
British goods are stated to be lying unwarehoused, and exposed to the
weather without finding purchasers, show that the export mania may be
carried beyond the verge of average recklessness. But the shopkeepers
and tradesmen have no such alternative resource. They depend solely upon
the consumers of Britain, and any material lowering of the value of home
produce reacts upon them in the shape of lessened demand for all
articles of luxury in which they deal, and upon the artisan in the form
of diminished employment. It may be useful to lay before our readers Mr
Spackman’s estimate of the total productions of this country, calculated
on the most authentic data _before_ the commencement of the depression.
ANNUAL PRODUCTION OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Annual value of agricultural productions, £250,000,000
Annual value of manufacturing productions, £177,184,292
From which deduct value of raw material, 50,000,000
———————————— 127,184,292
Annual value of product of mining interest, 36,121,000
Annual value of profits of shipping interest, 3,637,231
Annual income from Colonies, about 15,000,000
Annual income from foreign trade, 15,000,000
Annual income from fisheries, about 3,000,000
————————————
Total, £449,942,523
————————————
This constitutes the whole product of our national wealth. It is the
substance of Britain, and from one or other of the above sources does
every individual in the land derive his means of support. Out of these
all taxation is paid: from these, all professional men, tradesmen,
artisans, and dealers, derive their profit and their means. Hitherto, by
all wise legislators, the interests of the two leading classes of
producers have been considered indissolubly united. The agriculturist
supplied the manufacturer with food, and to a considerable extent with
raw material; and in return he took annually two-thirds of the
manufactured productions. Our exports were exchanged for luxuries, or
for articles which could not be produced at home, and the balance in our
favour constituted the yearly increment of our wealth. What free trade
proposes to do, and, indeed, has partially effected, is the dissolution
of the dependence of the two great classes on each other. The
manufacturer is invited to seek his food and raw material from the
cheapest foreign source; the agriculturist to do the same with respect
to foreign manufactures. But the two classes are not upon a par. The
agriculturist cannot export any considerable portion of his produce,
because he is greatly undersold by the cheap growers of the Continent
and America. We observe that, last year, the whole of the exports which
can be termed agricultural, were as follows:—
Butter, £210,604
Cheese, 24,912
Wool, sheep and lambs, 535,801
————————
£771,317
This, it will be seen, is an infinitesimally small portion of our whole
products. The manufacturer can export, though not to an extent
corresponding to his powers of production. Manufactures have been
cheapening year by year, in consequence of augmented foreign
competition, and that struggle is likely to go on for years as fiercely
as ever. To maintain the export trade in a competition which cannot end
otherwise than disastrously, we have been called upon to sacrifice
everything. This is the true secret of the lowered tariffs, of the
unnatural policy which we have pursued towards our colonies, of the
clamour for financial reform which has been so industriously raised.
Without speculating as to future operations, which probably will include
a direct attack upon the Monarchy and the National Debt, we shall simply
draw the attention of our readers to this fact, that, for the sake of
increasing the bulk of our exports by the annual value of three, four,
or ten millions, (which we have _not achieved_, our exports last year
being lower than those of 1845,) we have lowered the annual value of our
home productions by ninety-one millions! And the men who have done this
call themselves statesmen, and congratulate each other on the results of
their singular sagacity!
But, let the manufacturers do what they can, two-thirds of their
produce, in round numbers £120,000,000, must still be consumed at home.
The shopkeepers are the brokers of this amount of produce. And how is it
to be consumed, if the great agricultural interest is to be broken up?
No Free-trader alive can answer that question. We perfectly understand
the virulence of their organs, and their wrath and rage at the
unanswerable case which we have laid before the public in former papers;
but no rage or wrath will extricate the Free-traders from their dilemma.
They must now explain to the tradesmen and artisans the profitable
nature of their scheme. They may take credit, if they please, for
increased exportations to the amount of ten millions—let them debit
themselves _per contra_ with ninety-one millions of decrease in the
power of the home consumers to purchase, and then account to us for the
defalcation. We have a high authority behind whom we shall retire for
shelter, if again assailed. That redoubted political economist, Mr James
Wilson, must in common consistency put forth his ægis before us, and
defend, lion-like, his original proposition, “that _individuals_,
_communities_, or _countries_, can only be prosperous in proportion to
the prosperity of the whole.”
There are other considerations connected with the permanent depreciation
of landed property in Great Britain, which are personal to almost every
man belonging to the higher and middle classes of society. It has been
far too hastily assumed that this is a mere proprietor’s question, or at
least one in which the mercantile and professional classes have no
direct interest. We propose, towards the conclusion of this article, to
examine that matter minutely: in the mean time we shall direct our
attention to the official tables of the exports and imports for the last
year, which have been thought so favourable to free trade, as almost to
justify the celebration of a national jubilee.
In 1848, our exports were short of forty-nine millions; this year they
exceed fifty-eight. Such is their declared value; and though we must
still hold with Sir Robert Peel, that these tables cannot be entirely
relied on for accuracy, we shall consider them simply as they are given
us.
In order to estimate the real advantage which the country has derived
from the adoption of free trade, it is necessary to revert to the
condition in which we stood _before_ the Corn and Navigation Laws were
repealed. No one, who reflects upon the state of the Continent in 1848,
can be surprised that our exports have been augmented materially by the
restoration of tranquillity. That augmentation has nothing whatever to
do with free trade. The question which we must now consider is this—have
we been materially benefited, or benefited at all, or the reverse, by
the substitution of free trade instead of our former system? In order to
ascertain that, we must institute a comparison between our situation
anterior to free trade, and that which is now made the ground of
Ministerial triumph. We shall, therefore, compare the exports and
imports of the year 1845, the last protection year, with those of 1849.
The fairness of this comparison will not, we presume, be disputed. And
first, as to the exports:
From Mr Porter’s Tables, (page 358 of the new edition,) we learn that
the real or declared value of British and Irish produce and
manufactures, exported in 1845, was £60,111,081. The Government tables,
just published, give us the total declared value of the exports for 1849
at £58,848,042. There is, therefore, a deficit of £1,263,039 in 1849, as
compared with 1845. Mr M’Gregor, it will be remembered, told us that we
were to have _an increase of two millions a-week_: the Government tables
show us that we have a decrease of a million and a quarter a-year,
comparing the one year with the other! We understand that the whole of
the exports are included in the statement just issued. We can form no
other conclusion from the large increase of the items inserted, and the
small amount of some of them—for example, stockings—which are estimated
at £1494 in 1849, in comparison with £39 in 1848; indeed, the words
“total declared value,” admit of no other construction. So, then, our
exports in the aggregate have not increased, but, on the contrary, have
fallen off. We find the declared value of our principal textile exports
to be as follows:—
1845. 1849.
Cotton manufactures, £19,172,564 £18,834,601
—— yarn, 6,962,626 6,701,920
Linen manufactures, 3,062,006 3,073,903
—— yarn, 1,051,303 737,650
Woollen manufactures, 7,674,672 7,330,475
—— yarn, 1,067,056 1,089,867
——————————— ———————————
£38,990,227 £37,768,416
The imports, however, are more valuable for our consideration. No idea
of their comparative value can be formed from the tables; but the amount
is set forth in bulk and number, and we believe our readers will feel
astonished at the results. We shall first enumerate those articles which
have been brought in to displace British produce.
Animals living, viz.— 1845. 1849.
Oxen and bulls, 9,782 21,751
Cows, 6,502 17,921
Calves, 586 13,645
Sheep, 15,846 126,247
Lambs, 112 3,018
Swine and hogs, 1,598 2,653
—————————— ——————————
Total animals, 34,426 185,235
Bacon, cwt., 64 384,325
Beef, salted, not corned, 3,540 144,638
— fresh, or slightly salted, 651 5,279
Pork, salted, 1,461 347,352
— fresh, 133 924
Hams, 2,603 9,460
—————————— ——————————
Total of meats, cwt., 8,452 891,978
—————————— ——————————
Butter, cwt., 240,118 279,462
Cheese, 258,246 390,978
Eggs, number, 75,669,843 97,884,557
—————————— ——————————
Corn—
Wheat, qrs. 135,670 4,509,626
Barley, 299,314 1,554,860
Oats, 585,793 1,368,673
Rye, 23 256,308
Peas, 82,556 285,487
Beans, 197,919 483,430
Indian corn or maize, 42,295 2,249,571
Buckwheat, 1,105 308
Beer or bigg, 1,749
—————————— ——————————
Total grain, qrs., 1,344,675 10,710,012
—————————— ——————————
Wheat meal or flour, cwt., 630,255 3,937,219
Barley meal, 224
Oatmeal, 2,224 40,055
Rye meal, 24,031
Pea meal, 300
Bean meal, 2
Indian corn meal, 102,181
Buckwheat meal, 1,095
—————————— ——————————
Total flour and meal, cwts., 632,479 4,105,107
These are the free-trade importations which are ruining the British
agriculturist. This is the kind of competition which he is called upon
to face, with a heavier load of taxation pressing upon him than is known
in any other country in the world.
We shall probably be told, however, that this enormous supply of cheap
food has enabled the people to extend their consumption of articles of
luxury to a large extent. Let us see how that matter stands. We select
the common luxuries, which are next to necessaries, for
illustration,—and we also add another column, showing the quantities
entered for consumption in 1848. By this our readers will be enabled to
ascertain the increasing rate of demand for these articles.
1845. 1848. 1849.
Coffee, lb., 34,318,095 37,107,279 34,431,074
Tea, 44,183,135 48,735,696 50,024,688
Tobacco and snuff, 26,323,944 27,305,134 27,685,687
Wine, gallons, 6,986,846 6,369,785 6,487,689
It will be observed, that of these articles there is no great additional
consumption. We have excepted sugar from the above list, on account of
the alteration of the duties since 1845. There was, however, less
entered for home consumption in 1849 than in 1848, by 240,067 cwt.
There appears to be nothing else in these tables which calls for special
remark. They establish the fact that, under the operation of free trade,
we have not yet been able to export as large an amount of manufactures
as left this country in the last year of protection; a fact very
suggestive, when we regard the enormous increase of the imports. The
foreigner is supplanting our agricultural industry, without taking in
return an augmented quantity of the produce of our manufacturers.
We cannot, therefore, see that these returns afford us any ground for
congratulation. We can draw no good augury for the future from the
figures which appear on the import side of the account: on the contrary,
they appear to us ominous of calamity and disaster.
The large amount of bullion contained in the vaults of the Bank of
England has been triumphantly referred to by the Free-traders as a
proof, almost conclusive in itself, that the country is flourishing
under the system of unrestricted importations; and the Protectionists
have been taunted with the failure of their prediction, that a large
import of foreign grain would drain the gold from Britain. These
assumptions rest upon a most superficial view of the causes which have
combined to restore bullion to the Bank during the last two years; and
they argue a total forgetfulness of the calamitous monetary panic of
1847, occasioned by the demand for gold to meet the large importations
of foreign grain consequent upon the famine. The ruinous effects of the
adverse state of the foreign exchanges upon our commercial and
manufacturing classes, in 1847 and 1848, are matters of history; and the
unprecedented advice given by the Government to the Bank, to charge
_eight per cent_ on its advances, as well as the virtual abrogation of
the Bank Act of 1844, are incidents in our mercantile annals too
startling to be soon forgotten. It is not difficult, if we keep these
things steadily in view, and also take into account the disturbed state
of Europe for the last two years, to understand the reason why the
returns of bullion have been so great.
The principal sources of the steady accumulation of gold during the last
two years, in the face of continued large imports of grain and
provisions, may be enumerated as follows:—
1st, The sale of foreign investments by parties in this country, and the
stringent enforcement of all moneys due to them abroad.
2d, Forced sales and consignments of British goods at prices ruinously
low to the producers.
3d, A considerable reduction in the stock of raw material.
4th, A diminution in the quantity of gold coin required to carry on the
internal trade and domestic expenditure of the country. This diminution
has been caused by the fall of prices, whereby the same quantity of
commodities is represented by less money—by the sudden limitation of the
employment of labour—and by the reduced means of the people for ordinary
expenditure.
5th, Remittances from foreign countries, caused by the revolutionary
movements in most of the Continental states.
6th, The return of the absentees from abroad, whose expenditure has been
estimated as high as £20,000,000. Allowing this to be a great
exaggeration, and estimating it even at a third of the amount, the
result becomes most important.
7th, By other minor causes, amongst which we may particularise the
return of sovereigns to this country from Belgium, in consequence of the
alteration in the law which regulates the currency there.
When we look to the operation of these causes, some of them being, from
their nature, mere temporary expedients, and others arising from
political movements over which we had no control, the existence of a
large _balance_ of bullion in the coffers of the Bank of England ceases
to be an index of the legitimate operations of trade. It is, in fact,
nothing more than a balance. Without accurate data as to the quantities
of the gold which have been sent into and again exported from this
country during the last two years—data which our opponents have no wish
whatever to see produced—it would be fallacious to assume that our
increased imports of commodities have been met by our extended exports.
Indeed, the Government accounts distinctly demonstrate that such is not
the case. They prove that our imports are augmenting at a ratio to which
the exports bear no manner of proportion; and no man, who will take the
pains of considering dispassionately the foregoing tables, can doubt
this. How, then, is the balance paid? Not certainly in goods; and if not
in goods, in what other shape than money?
The maintenance of the stock of bullion in the Bank depends solely upon
the continuance or the recurrence of such unusual accidents as we have
enumerated above. We have been large sellers of foreign funds and
investments; and we have received from other countries, for the sake of
security, important remittances of the precious metals. But until we can
restore the balance of trade by raising our exports to the level of the
imports, or by restricting the latter, which we are bound to do in every
case where large branches of native industry can be affected, we cannot
hope permanently to retain the treasure, except at a frightful
sacrifice. Further sales and further deposits may combine to keep it
here, even for a considerable period; but so soon as confidence is
restored abroad, we must look for a steady drain. If our imports shall
constantly exceed our exports, which is the tendency of our recent
legislation, we shall be forced to correct the balance of trade by
drawing upon the accumulations of our more prudent ancestors, who acted
on different principles; and so long as the foreign investments of their
wealth last us, we may be enabled to continue our spendthrift course,
consuming more than we produce. But this must evidently have an end;
and, long before that period, the annual diminution of our national
means would be felt by all classes of society, and the war between the
great bulk of the community and the money power would commence in
terrible earnest.
There are, we know, many people who, in spite of all the testimony which
has been adduced, and the solemn declaration of the farmers that they
cannot carry on cultivation at present prices, refuse to believe that
the agricultural interest is virtually doomed to extinction. They say
that the farmers are habitual grumblers, and they insinuate that this
may be a false alarm. Now, as to grumbling, we suspect it would be
impossible to find any body of men, who are exposed to constant
fluctuations in the value of their produce, exempt from such a
propensity; and we have heard, ere now, something worse than grumbling
proceed from the throats of the manufacturers. But we ask those
gentlemen whether, supposing America were to carry her avowed purpose
into execution, and to stimulate her own population by converting the
raw material of cotton into fabrics, instead of sending it four thousand
miles across the Atlantic to be spun in Manchester,—and supposing that,
in consequence, American calicoes could be offered in the British market
at a price lower than the cost of the production of a similar article
would be to Mr Cobden or Mr Bright—they imagine that the machinery of
Manchester, Rochdale, and Staley Bridge, would still continue in motion?
Does not common sense—does not all experience tell us, that a losing
trade must be abandoned? And in order to show that agriculture is a
losing trade, we need have recourse neither to farmers’ statistics nor
to pamphlets, however valuable. We prove it out of the mouths of our
adversaries. Here they are:—
SIR ROBERT PEEL, in February 1842, estimated the proper remunerative
price of wheat in this country, “allowing for natural oscillations,” as
between 54s. and 58s.—on the average, 56s.; and stated, that he, “for
one, would never wish to see it vary beyond these two specified values.”
Mr JAMES WILSON, M.P. for Westbury, writing in 1839, stated it as his
opinion, that the proper price of wheat was 52s. 2d.; and that, whatever
average annual price the farmer received in any year less than that
standard price, he made “so much distinct loss.”
Sir CHARLES WOOD, Chancellor of the Exchequer, stated in January 1850,
that he did not think “the agriculturist would be ruined with wheat at
44s. a quarter.”
THE AVERAGE PRICE OF WHEAT AT THE HADDINGTON MARKET, ON 8TH FEBRUARY,
WAS 34S. 1D.
We know, moreover, that sales of good wheat have been made in Scotland,
since that time, at even lower prices.
But is this state of things to continue? We say it must. It is a simple
labour and taxation question. You expect the British labourer, who, in
every commodity he consumes, pays taxes to Government, to compete with
foreign serfs, who pay no taxes at all. You expect the British farmers
and landowners to work a worse soil, in a more variable climate, to as
much advantage as the foreign grower; and, moreover, to discharge a
great portion of the public burdens of the state, to pay their full
share of the interest arising from the expenses of every war in which
Britain has been engaged since the Revolution of 1688; to support the
national church, and to pay an undue proportion for the maintenance of
the poor. The cost of cultivating 100 acres of British soil, in
Hertfordshire, is estimated at £545—£1 per acre being allowed for rent.
The cost of cultivating the same area, in Denmark or the northern states
of Germany, is £324, 3s. 4d.—being £220, 16s. 8d., or 40 per cent,
cheaper than in England. In this way, if we assume 50s. as the
productive cost of British wheat, on an expenditure of £545, for the
average here assumed, it will be seen that the expenditure of £324, 3s.
4d. gives 29s. 8d. as the productive cost of German wheat; that the
difference in the price of barley between the countries will be as 30s.
to 18s.; and of oats, as 20s. to 12s.[11]
This comparison is favourable to our opponents, because, in estimating
the cost of British cultivation, a remarkably low rent is assumed;
whilst, on the other hand, the wages of labour and other charges are
greatly higher in Denmark and North Germany than in Russia, Poland,
Wallachia, or Moldavia, from which countries we draw large supplies of
grain. What hope is there of a rise of prices? Corn has been brought to
its present low ebb by the importation, last year, of enormous supplies
from the deficient Continental harvest of 1848. This year we are about
to receive the discharge of a cornucopia filled to the very brim, in
consequence of an unusually luxuriant crop. We have had experience of a
bad year, and we are about to have experience of a good year, heralded
by the following significant fact:—“_Bell’s Weekly Messenger_ states, on
unquestionable authority, that, a few days ago, one of the principal
City houses chartered several vessels at a freight of 6s. per qr., to
load wheat at Odessa at 24s. per qr., free on board.” How long is this
to go on? Is it proposed, by this precious Ministry of ours, that
nothing is to be done until the whole capital of the tenant-farmers is
squandered, and the soil has gone out of cultivation? Or are we to
understand that nothing whatever will be done, should prices fall lower
than now, or even remain at their present level? If the land goes out of
cultivation, a large proportion of the whole annual production of Great
Britain, giving at present employment to many thousands, must be
directly sacrificed; the manufacturers would, in that event, be
compelled to close their establishments for the want of a home market;
and we should have no revenue left to pay the expenses of the cheapest
kind of provisional government, far less the interest of the national
debt. Are the Ministry really aware of what they are doing? According to
their own admissions—according to the calculations of their
supporters—according to the estimates of the leading Free-traders, the
tenant-farmers are at this moment cultivating the soil at a prodigious
annual loss. No possible reduction of rent can suffice to cure the evil,
even if a reduction of rent, which would throw hundreds of thousands out
of employment, were no evil in itself. And yet, in this state of
matters, the Whigs have thought proper to issue a prosperity address,
almost without qualification, in the name of their gracious Sovereign!
We shall now entreat the attention of our readers to a point in which
almost every man of ordinary means in this country is vitally
interested. For a great many years the benefits to be derived from LIFE
INSURANCE, as the best means of providing portions for families, have
been acknowledged and largely sought. All classes have participated in
these Assurances; and we believe that, in Scotland, it would be
difficult to find any considerable number of professional persons, or
tradesmen, who do not contribute to the funds of some of the numerous
societies. We are not exactly aware what may be the method practised in
England, but in Scotland by far the greater portion of the accumulated
funds of these societies, amounting to many millions sterling, is lent
on the security of the land. The value of the land, as every one knows,
must in the aggregate depend on its productive power; and, if present
prices are to rule, (and why they should not do so, under present
legislation, no mortal man can tell us,) great tracts of the land of
this country must go out of cultivation, and consequently be depreciated
in value. In that case, how will the creditor fare? There is already a
disposition shown, in some quarters, to make the creditor participate in
the reduced income of the landed debtor. So hints Lord Drumlanrig, and
he is not quite singular in his opinion. This is just repudiation; for
could the idea be carried into effect, it would be necessary to apply
the same rule to the principal as to the interest, and to provide that
the lender of £100 under protection, should not be entitled to claim
from his debtor more than £67 under the benign, just, and wholesome
operation of free trade. Were this view to be adopted, and the
adjustment made on the supposition that rents were only lowered by a
third, the family of the man who has insured his life for £100, and
regularly paid the premium, would lose rather more than £33. But a
reduction of the whole rental of Great Britain and Ireland, to the
extent of one-third, would amount to little more than £19,500,000,—a sum
utterly insufficient to meet the depreciation, if we adopt the figures
of Mr Villiers, or even if we make the largest allowance for
exaggeration. The merest tyro in political science knows that land
incapable of cultivation is comparatively worthless in price: we have a
practical instance of that at present before us in Ireland, where
estates have been actually abandoned by their owners. Now, if land at
present under tillage should go out of cultivation, on account of the
sale of the produce being inadequate to its cost—a catastrophe to which
our northern districts are fast approaching—it must become, to all
intents and purposes, waste; and the creditor who has lent money on its
security will find that, instead of grain-bearing acres, he can take
possession of nothing save a wilderness of heather and furze.
Every man, therefore, whose life is insured, has a direct interest in
the maintenance of the agricultural prosperity of the country. If _that_
is not maintained, the provision which he has prudently made for his
family is placed in extreme jeopardy, and free-trade legislation may
utterly neutralise his thrift. Nor let him quarrel with the security,
for there is none better. If the land goes down, the tenure of the
existence of the Funds is worse than precarious. If the imports of
foreign corn and provisions shall augment materially during the next two
years, and if “the great experiment,” as it has been called, shall be
persevered in so long, the fortunes and apparent destiny of this great
country must be materially and radically altered. In any case, there
must be a change, and a change of an important description. The
unprincipled Currency Act of 1819 has yet to undergo a revision. In
spite of _dilettante_ arrangements, and financial hocus-pocus,
sedulously invented to blind the eyes of the community to the rottenness
and peculation of our present monetary system, that matter must be
thoroughly probed and examined by the aid of a clearer light than the
lamp of the Jew Ricardo. But, for the present, it would be unwise to
complicate the immediate question. Our stand is taken upon the broad
basis of justice to native industry. We care not in what form or shape
that industry is developed—whether it be applied to agriculture, trade,
or manufactures—so long as it is industry seeking but its own, and
disclaiming the selfish and sordid end of making an individual profit at
the expense, and from the ruin, of other classes of the community.
Sometimes, in calmly considering the course of our legislation for the
last few years, this reflection irresistibly obtrudes itself—whether men
have altogether lost the old feeling of patriotism and devotion, which,
more than anything else, placed Britain in her proud position in the
scale of the European nations? Certainly, when we read the speeches and
harangues of the Free-traders, there is no trace of any such sentiment.
They are cosmopolitans, not Britons: and, discarding the landmarks of
the Almighty, they seem to hope that the laws of nature will be
abrogated, and the doom of Babel reversed, by their own miserable
efforts. Their sympathy is of a curious kind. They estimate foreign
nations upon a scale founded on the consumption of calico; their notions
of liberty undergo a material change, whenever raw cotton or cheap sugar
become elements of the calculation of profit. They must have slavery
abolished in the West Indian colonies: and yet, having ruined the
planters, they are ready to take sugar on the cheapest terms which they
dare offer from foreign slave-growing states, and to furnish them with
clothing and machinery. Their capital, Manchester, and their principal
seats of manufacture, depend for their existence on the continuance of
Negro slavery in America, and not a man of these cosmopolitans dare
raise his voice to denounce it. Why should he? He can gain popularity
cheaper, by retailing gross falsehoods against unreciprocating European
states, in every instance where Red Republicanism has reared its head,
and been, most fortunately, suppressed. The British labourer has none of
his sympathy—he cares not for him in his capacity of a fellow-subject.
If the labourer is an agriculturist, our generous philanthropist would
rather see him and his family condemned to the union-workhouse, than
throw any obstacle in the way of increased serfage in Russia or in
Poland. If the labourer is a manufacturer, the cosmopolitan spurns the
laws enacted by the gentlemen of England for the protection of the women
and children; and, availing himself of a verbal error, claims his right
to work human beings, by relays, like cattle in his mill! And these are
the men who now regulate the movements, and almost dictate the words, of
our British statesmen! In the pages of British history, we meet with
instances of degradation which we fain would see cancelled. We know that
Charles II. was an acquiescent pensioner of the crown of France, and was
content to remain so, at the hazard of the national honour. But we shall
search history in vain for so mean a pandering as that which we have
seen by Ministers to the interests of an upstart oligarchy—founded on
the most perishable basis—scarcely disguising their hostility to the
religion and the constitution of the land—trampling on the rights of the
poor—denying the claims of Native Industry—and doing their utmost to
make these great and glorious kingdoms the habitation of only two
classes—one of them being the master-manufacturers, and the other, the
operatives, whom they may tread at pleasure under their heel.
_Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh._
-----
Footnote 1:
_A Letter to the Queen on a Late Court-Martial._ By SAMUEL WARREN,
F.R.S. Barrister-at-Law. “I was constrained to appeal unto Cæsar.”
Footnote 2:
“Captain Douglas delivered his defence, before the court-martial which
cashiered him, on his thirtieth birth-day.”
Footnote 3:
In justice to Captain Douglas, we must here state, that he clearly
proved before the court-martial, that he withheld his statement for
two days before the Court of Inquiry, still under the impression that
it might be used to damage him in the proceedings before the civil
court. That he was justified in doing so is shown by an order from the
Horse Guards, 3d July 1809, expressly acknowledging the “right” of any
party, before a court of inquiry, “of declining to answer any
question, or to make any statement, which might, in his opinion, have
proved prejudicial to him in the course of any ulterior inquiry into
his conduct.” On the 28th November last also, we may remark that Sir
Charles Napier, in an order to the Indian Army, says, in reference to
a Court of Inquiry—“If any person happens to be accused of misconduct,
he is called on for his statement of the matter in hand, like any
other person: he may either appear or refuse to appear, as he pleases,
unless ordered by superior authority; and _either answer_ any
questions put to him, or _refuse_ to answer.”
If, in the face of these two orders, an officer is to be arraigned
before a court-martial for conduct “unbecoming the character of an
officer and a gentleman, in having omitted and neglected to make a
statement before a Court of Inquiry” which he thought would injure
himself, we must say they are a _snare and a delusion for the unwary_,
and ought to be expunged forthwith from the Order-books of the army.
Footnote 4:
The only article of war, beside this, which could be supposed, for a
moment, to embrace the case, is the 108th, which says, that—“All
crimes not capital, and all disorders and neglects which officers and
soldiers may be guilty of, _to the prejudice of good order and
military discipline_, though not specified in the foregoing cases, or
in our Articles of War, shall be taken cognisance of by
courts-martial, according to the nature and the degree of the
offence.” But it is evident that this article applies to matters of a
military nature. If the merely moral delinquency of which Captain
Douglas is charged might be described as affecting “good order and
military discipline,” there is no act of a man’s life that might not
be designated in the same manner.
Footnote 5:
“In the old articles of war the language used was scandalous and
infamous conduct, _such as is_ unbecoming the character of an ‘officer
and a gentleman.’”
Footnote 6:
Capri.
Footnote 7:
_The Pillars of Hercules; or, a Narrative of Travels in Spain and
Morocco in 1848._ By DAVID URQUHART, Esq. M.P. 2 vols. 8vo. London:
1850.
_Le Véloce; ou Tanger, Alger, et Tunis._ Par ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Vols. I.
and II. Paris: 1849.
Footnote 8:
Alison.
Footnote 9:
Spackman’s _Tables_, p. 185.
Footnote 10:
SPACKMAN’S _Occupations of the People_. _Vide_ Synoptical Table.
Footnote 11:
We are indebted for these calculations to a pamphlet entitled
_Observations on the Elements of Taxation, and the Productive Cost of
Corn_, by S. SANDARS, which we strongly recommend to the notice of our
readers, as one of the most able treatises on the subject which has
yet appeared.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Erratum item was corrected.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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