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

By Various

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

Author: Various

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Language: English

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                              BLACKWOOD’S
                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
            NO. CCCCLIV.      AUGUST, 1853.      VOL. LXXIV.




                               CONTENTS.


          THE NARCOTICS WE INDULGE IN,                    129
          SOUTH AMERICAN TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE,            140
          NAPOLEON AND SIR HUDSON LOWE,                   159
          NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE,                    181
          THE INSURRECTION IN CHINA,                      203
          LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD—PART VIII.,                220
          THE MARQUIS DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN—FRANCE IN 1853, 245

                               EDINBURGH:
              WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET;
                    AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

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

           SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

           PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.




                              BLACKWOOD’S

                          EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

            NO. CCCCLIV.      AUGUST, 1853.      VOL. LXXIV.




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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                             28,558,753 lb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           “Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould,
           Well-doonged and wrought as a garden-plot should:
           Not far from the water (but not overfloune),
           This lesson well noted, is meet to be knowne.

           The sun in the south, or else southlie and west,
           Is joy to the hop as welcommed ghest;
           But wind in the north, or else northerly east,
           To hop is as ill as fray in a feast.

           Meet plot for a hop-yard, once found as is told,
           Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold;
           Now dig it and leave it, the sun for to burne,
           And afterwards fense it, to serve for that turne.
           The hop for his profit, I thus do exalt:
           It strengthened drink, and favoureth malt;
           And being well brewed, long kep it will last,
           And drawing abide, if ye draw not too fast.”[8]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                SOUTH AMERICAN TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.[10]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Fifteen, besides saddle-horses.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Have you won?’

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

“‘To gamble them?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                   NAPOLEON AND SIR HUDSON LOWE.[15]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The system of discontent, remonstrance, and, we must add,
misrepresentation, was begun. A letter from the “Grand Marshal, Count
Bertrand,” led the way. It protested against everything, and
frequently applied the term “Emperor” to Napoleon. The Admiral’s reply
was fair and manly. It expressed regret for the necessary
inconveniences, and a desire to consult the wishes of General
Bonaparte; but said that he was authorised to apply _no_ title which
had not been given by his Government. This refusal was perfectly
justifiable, though it made one of the clamours of the time. The
custom of European diplomacy is _never_ to acknowledge a new title but
by treaty, and in return, if possible, for some concession on the part
of the claimant. The embarrassments connected with the opposite
practice are obvious. Where is the line to be drawn? If every ruler,
however trifling his territory, or however recent his usurpation, were
to fix his own title, all the relations of public life might be
outraged. The creature of every revolution might be authenticated the
legitimate possessor of sovereignty—an upstart received into the
family of kings, become a living encouragement to political
convulsion. All the declamation which was lavished on the denial of
the Imperial title to Bonaparte, amounted to the maxim, that success
justifies usurpation. If, in general life, no man can bear a title
without the sanction of the laws—to avoid the disturbance of the Civil
order, why should not the same sanction be demanded where the result
of concession without cause might influence the highest interests of
public life? There can be no question that the Imperial title,
continued to Napoleon by the credulity of Alexander, laid the
foundation of the renewed disturbances of France and Europe. It had
placed him within sight of power again; it had fixed the eye of French
conspiracy on him; it had conveyed to all his partisanship the idea
that he still was an object of fear to Europe, and it thus revived the
hope of his restoration. This dangerous concession made him, while at
Elba, the virtual Emperor of France—prompted him to contemplate the
resumption of the sceptre—pointed him out as a rallying point for
disaffection—connected his mock crown with his former sovereignty—and
left the peace of the world to the hazard of the die which was thrown
at Waterloo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sneer at England, as not being a military nation, is at once
answered by the fact, that its whole regular force is an army of
_volunteers_, while all the other armies of Europe are raised by a
_conscription_; that in the French war England had an army of 200,000
men, raised by the military spirit of the country, besides 500,000
militia and yeomanry! The answer to the “want of soldierly
qualification” in the British troops, is given in the fact, that in the
whole war the British army _never_ lost a pitched battle.

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

This is one of the perpetual absurdities of foreigners. England has
_never_ been compelled to an ignominious peace, by losses in war. She
has _never_ seen an enemy in her capital. Loving peace, she willingly
makes peace; but she has _never_ surrendered her sword to make it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                    NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.[16]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                      “like one
            Who having, _to untruth_, by telling of it,” &c.

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

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

                            “They all have met again,
                And _are_ upon the Mediterranean float”—

Or, as the MS. corrector reads it,

               “They _all_ upon the Mediterranean float”—

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

          “There be some sports are painful; but their labour
          Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
          Are nobly undergone: and most poor matters
          Point to rich ends. This my mean task
          Would be as heavy to me as odious; but
          The mistress, which I serve, quickens what’s dead,
          And makes my labours pleasures. Oh, she is
          Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,
          And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove
          Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up
          Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress
          Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness
          Had never like executor. I forget:
          But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
          _Most busy-less, when I do it_.”

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

                    “Most busy, least when I do it.”

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

                    “Most busy, least when I do it;”

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

                   “_Most_ busy,—_least_ when I do.”

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

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

           “That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,
           And deal in her command _without_ her power.”

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

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

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

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

       _Valentine._ That’s on some shallow story of deep love,
       How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.

       _Proteus._ That’s a deep story of a deeper love,
       For he was more than over shoes in love.

       _Valentine._ ’Tis true; _for_ you are over boots in love,
       And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”

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

             “’Tis true; _For_ you are over boots in love,
             And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”

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

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

             “But say, this _weed_ her love from Valentine,
             It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio”—

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

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

             “Madam, I pity much your grievances,
             _And the most true affections that you bear_,
             Which since I know they virtuously are placed,
             I give consent to go along with you.”

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

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

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

  _Proteus._—And what says she to my little jewel?

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

  _Proteus._—But she received my present?

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

  _Proteus._—What! didst thou offer her _this_ from me?

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

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

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.—In _Act II. Scene 1_, the commentators have
all been gravelled by the word “an-heires,” as it stands in all the
early editions in the following passage—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  _Falstaff._—What are they?—let us know.

  _Host._—Ay, come; quick.

  _Simple._—I may not _conceal_ them, sir.

  _Falstaff._—_Conceal_ them, or thou diest.”

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

  “_Falstaff._—What are they?—let us know.

  _Host._—Ay, come quick.

  _Falstaff._—_You_ may not conceal them, sir.

  _Host._—Conceal them, _and_ thou diest.”

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

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

         “Of government the properties to unfold,
         Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,
         Since I am put to know that your own science
         Exceeds in that the lists of all advice
         My strength can give you. Then no more remains
         But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,
         And let them work.”

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

                       “Then no more remains
         But _there to_ your sufficiency as your worth is able,
         And let them work;”

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

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

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

                        “Then no more remains,
          But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is able)
          _You_ let them work.”

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

                      “Then no more remains
        But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is _equal_)
        You let them work.”

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

                     “Then no more remains,
       But that (_as_ your sufficiency _to_ your worth is equal)
       _You_ let them work.”

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

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

            “I have on Angelo imposed my office,
            Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,
            And yet, my nature never in the sight,
            To _do it_ slander.”

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

          “Sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven,
          Showing we would not _spare_ heaven, as we love it,
          But as we stand in fear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                “To seek thy _help_ by beneficial help.”

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

                “To seek thy _hope_ by beneficial help.”

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

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

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

  “_Luciana._—Spake he so _doubtfully_, thou couldst not feel his
  meaning?

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

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

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

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

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

          _Dromio._—No: he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell;
          A devil in an everlasting garment hath him, _fell_;
          One whose hard heart is buttoned up with steel,
          _Who has no touch of mercy, cannot feel_;
          A fiend, a _fury_, pitiless, and rough;
          A wolf, nay worse, a fellow all in buff.”

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

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

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

             “Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
             Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
             My heavy burden are delivered.”

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

           ‘Thirty-three years have I _been_ gone in travail
           Of you my sons, and till this present hour
           My heavy burthens are delivered.’

“Malone gives it thus:—

             ‘Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
             Of you my sons; until this present hour
             My heavy burthen _not_ delivered.’

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

            ‘Thirty-three years have I been gone in travail
            Of you my sons, and _at_ this present hour
            My heavy burthens are delivered.’”

In his edition 1826, Mr Singer reads—

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

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

             “Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
             Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
             My heavy burthen _has_ delivered.”

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

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

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

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

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

             “What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
             Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
             Contempt farewell, and maiden pride adieu!
             No glory lives behind the back of such.”

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

              “No glory lives _behind the back_ of such.”

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

              “No glory lives _but in the lack_ of such.”

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

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

          “For did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
          Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
          Myself would, on the _rearward_ of reproaches,
          Strike at thy life.”

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

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

               “And bid him speak (_to me_) of patience.”

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

           “If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard,
           _And, sorrow wag! cry_, Hem, when he should groan,
           Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk
           With candlewasters, bring him yet to me,
           And I of him will gather patience.”

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

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

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

than under the pseudo-emendation,

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


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

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

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

         “A most acute juvenal, voluble, and free of grace.
         By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face,
         _Most rude_ Melancholy, valour gives thee place.”

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

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

        “Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

        _Forester._ Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

        _Princess._ See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit.
        Oh, heresy in _fair_, fit for these days!
        A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.”

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

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

                        “Black is the badge of hell,
            The hue of dungeons, and the _school_ of night.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “So _pertaunt_-like would I o’ersway his state,
            That he should be my fool, and I his fate.”

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

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

                              “What are they
                That _charge their breath_ against us?”

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

                               ‘What are they
                 That _charge the breach_ against us?’”

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

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

MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM—_Act I. Scene 1._—“Near the end of Helena’s
speech,” says Mr Collier, “occurs this couplet where she is stating her
determination to inform Demetrius of the intended flight of Lysander and
Hermia—

                          ‘And for this intelligence
                If I have thanks, it is a dear expense’—

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

                        ‘And for this intelligence
              If I have thanks, it is dear _recompense_.’”

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

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

The _sight_ of Demetrius, and not his _thanks_, was to be Helena’s
_recompense_.

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

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

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

_Act II. Scene 3._—The alteration of “conference” into “confidence” in
the following lines is an _improvement_, most decidedly, _for the
worse_. Lysander and Hermia are going to sleep in the wood. She says to
him—

        “Nay, good Lysander, for my sake, my dear,
        Lye further off yet, do not lye so near.

        _Lysander._—Oh, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence;
        Love takes the meaning, in love’s _conference_.”

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

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

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

               “Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am
               A lion’s _fell_, nor else no lion’s dam.”

“Fell” means skin. The old reading was—

               “Then know that I, as Snug the joiner, am
               A _lion fell_, nor else no lion’s dam.”

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

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE—_Act I. Scene 1._—In the following passage the
margins make rather a good hit in restoring “when” of the old editions,
which had been converted into “who,” and in changing “would” into
“’twould.”

        “Oh, my Antonio, I do know of these
        That therefore only are reputed wise
        For saying nothing, _when_, I am very sure,
        If they should speak, _’twould_ almost damn those ears,
        Which hearing them would call their brothers fools.”

_Act II. Scene 1._—The Prince of Morocco says—

              “Mislike me not for my complexion,
              The shadowed livery of the _burnished_ sun.”

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

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

       “What many men desire!—that many may be meant
       Of the fool multitude, that chuse by show,
       Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach,
       Which _pries_ not to the interior; but, like the martlet,
       Builds in the weather, on the outward wall.”

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

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

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

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

           “How could he see to do them? having made one,
           Methinks, it should have power to steal both his,
           And leave itself _unfurnished_.”

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

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

AS YOU LIKE IT—_Act I. Scene 2._—In opposition to Mr Collier, we take
leave to say that Sir Thomas Hanmer was _not_ right in altering “there
is such odds in the _man_” to “there is such odds in the _men_.” What is
meant to be said is, “there is such superiority (of strength) in the
_man_;” and “odds” formerly signified _superiority_, as may be learnt
from the following sentence of Hobbes—“The passion of laughter,” says
Hobbes, “proceedeth from the sudden imagination of our own _odds_ and
eminency.”[21] Mr Collier’s man, who concurs with Sir Thomas Hanmer, is,
of course, equally at fault.

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

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

              “I will rather subject me to the malice
              Of a _diverted blood, and bloody brother_,”

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

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

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

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

                “Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
                Till that the _very very_ means do ebb?”

The MS. correction is—

              “Till that the very means _of wear_ do ebb.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.—_Induction. Scene I._—We agree with the margins
in thinking that the following line requires to be amended, by the
insertion of “what” or “who.” In the directions given about the tricks
to be played off on Sly, it is said—

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

The MS. corrector reads, properly as we think—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The elder copies read—

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

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

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

           “Mates, maid! how mean you that? No mates for you:
           Unless you were of gentler, milder _mould_.”

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

             “Quas meliore luto _finxit_ præcordia Titan.”

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

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

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

This being scarcely sense, the corrector says—

  “No such jade _to bear_ you, if me you mean.”

Mr Singer says,

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

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

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

  “Thus strangers may be _haled_ and abused.”

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

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL—_Act I. Scene 1._—In Helena’s soliloquy, near
the end of the scene, the corrector, by the perverse transposition of
two words, changes sense into nonsense. She says—

            “The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
            To join like likes and kiss like native things.”

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

            “The mightiest space in _nature fortune_ brings
            To join like likes and kiss like native things.”

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

_Act 1. Scene 3._—Helena says—

            “You know my father left me some prescriptions
            Of rare and proved effects, such was his reading
            And _manifest_ experience.”

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

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

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

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

             ‘If thou engrossest all the griefs _as_ thine
             Thou robbest me of a moiety.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “I see that men make _hopes_, in such _affairs_,
            That we’ll forsake ourselves.”

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

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

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

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

_Act V. Scene 3._—To change the fine expression

           “Natural rebellion done in the _blade_ of youth.”

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

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

               “Her _insuit coming_, and her modern grace
               Subdued me to her rate.”

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

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

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

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

             “And to his image which methought did promise
             Most venerable worth, did I devotion.”

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

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

                “A contract _and_ eternal bond of love.”

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

WINTER’S TALE—_Act I. Scene 2._—We agree with Mr Collier in his remark,
that “there is no doubt we ought to amend the words of the old copies,
‘What lady _she_ her lord’ by reading, ‘What lady _should_ her lord,’”
as given by the MS. corrector.

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

                                “But were they false
              As _o’erdy’d_ blacks, as winds, as waters.”

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

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

                             “He tells her something
                   That makes her blood look on’t.”

There is something obviously wrong here. Theobald proposed—

                             “He tells her something
                   That makes her blood look _out_.”

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

                  “He tells her something
         Which _wakes_ her blood. Look on’t! Good sooth, she is
         The queen of curds and cream.”

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

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

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

                          “Let be, let be,
          Would I were dead; but that methinks already—
          What was he that did make it? see, my lord,
          Would you not deem it breathed, and that those veins
          Did verily bear blood?”

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

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

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

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




                     THE INSURRECTION IN CHINA.[23]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                         LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.


                       PART VIII.—CHAPTER XXXVII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


                             CHAPTER XXXIX.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s lonesome,” said Mrs Greene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


                              CHAPTER XL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


                              CHAPTER XLI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But not disagreeably so,” said Mrs Bruce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


                             CHAPTER XLII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how are the live stock, Frisk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The time when Lady Lee and Orelia were most disposed to be communicative
to each other was the last hour before they went to bed. Both, after
flickering fitfully between dinner and tea, musing, looking into the
fire, sighing, &c., would brighten up into temporary effulgence, before
undergoing the extinction of sleep.

“You are cheerful to-night, Orelia,” said Lady Lee, one night after some
guests had departed. “I am happy to see it, my dear. Come closer,” said
her ladyship, passing her arm round her friend’s waist, and drawing her
on to the sofa beside her. “I want to whisper to you. May I venture to
hope” (this in Orelia’s ear, from which she had brushed back the volume
of black hair that hid it) “that you have forgotten that little romance
of yours?”

Orelia silently turned, and sat facing her with her black eyes, without
answering.

“You never confided in me in that matter,” said her ladyship, still
whispering, though there was nobody but those two in the room, and the
servants had gone to bed. “I shouldn’t speak of it now, only that I
observe some symptoms occasionally which make me still doubt the
direction of your thoughts. Can I help to guide them back to
tranquillity?”

“No, Hester,” said Orelia; “I don’t want any aid. I’ve come to a
resolution of my own accord.”

“Tell it me,” said Lady Lee.

“How can I tell you all?” said Orelia. “You didn’t know him. To you he
was merely what he appeared to the world—to me he was himself—the
manliest, the cleverest, the most independent, the—ah, you smile; but,
had you met him in his true position, you would have thought of him as I
do.”

Lady Lee squeezed the hand of the somewhat indignant enthusiast. “Who so
apt as I to believe,” she said, “that when Orelia Payne admires, the
object is an elevated one? Well, dearest?”

“Well,” said Orelia, “I dreamt at the Heronry a sort of dream—that he
would regain his position in the world, and be all you or any of my
friends could wish. He left me apparently with some such expectation;
but now I see it was fallacious.”

“But a man could scarcely make a very great stride in the world in a
couple of months,” observed Lady Lee.

“’Twill take years, perhaps,” said Orelia, “even if he ever succeeds;
and consider the chances against him. And, except as successful, I shall
never see him—he is prouder than a fallen angel.” Here she paused, and
pondered a little. “But,” she resumed, “I have resolved to think no more
on that subject. Yes, resolved!” (stamping with her foot, while her
colour heightened, and a tear came into her eye). “It can do no good—it
will be vain, weak, idle—it will be wasting life in unreality; therefore
it shall end”—(another little stamp).

Lady Lee looked at her with a kind of serious half smile. “So earnest,
Orelia!—then the cause cannot be slight.”

“It is not,” said Orelia petulantly. “I am ashamed to think how much it
has engrossed my thoughts. And yet—everything considered—so much merit
in so unfitting a position! Had he been placed where he deserves, I
should perhaps have withheld my admiration; but indignation at the way
in which fortune and the world have treated him lent it double force.
Now, Hester, I have been franker than you—for we both had our secrets;
had we not?”

It was Lady Lee’s turn to redden and be silent.

“Hester,” went on Orelia, “what do you think of the men who sometimes
come here? Is there one of them fit to be named with either of those to
whom we gave—I mean to whom we would have given—our hearts? Think for a
moment of the best of them—and then place their images, side by side,
with those I speak of. Don’t they dwindle?—don’t they show like wax-work
beside sculpture, with their fleeting hues of character, their feeble
melting outlines, their stupid conventionalities?”

“You are severe, my dear,” said Lady Lee, without, however, heeding much
her own reply—for Orelia had confused her.

“O, it scatters my patience!” said her impetuous friend. “I think less
of myself when one of them has hinted admiration. Yesterday, that worthy
noodle, Mr Straitlace—he who thinks it good to be wise, but not to be
merry, and whose expressive eyebrows proclaim all pursuits to be vanity
except his own—had the astonishing effrontery to give my hand a kind of
meaning squeeze, at taking leave, muttering something about ‘his
pleasure at recognising a congenial spirit.’ What have I done, Hester,
to deserve that?—the owl!”

“I don’t see the congeniality, certainly,” said Lady Lee, smiling, “more
than between an owl and a—peacock, or any other majestic bird.”

“Then there’s that baronet Sir Dudley (you seem to have an attraction
for baronets, Hester)—that well-dressed Mephistopheles, with crow’s feet
about his eyes and his heart at five and twenty, who has just cleverness
enough to find out the faulty side of everything—he had the impudence,
after looking at you as if he were judging a horse, to pronounce that
‘you had some good points,’ which from him is equivalent, I suppose, to
high praise.”

“I hope he specified the points that struck him,” said Lady Lee,
smiling.

“He hadn’t time,” returned Orelia. “I felt downright savage at the idea
of such a snail as that crawling on your petals. I asked him who had
told him of your merits? for that we all knew him to be slow at finding
them in anything.”

“And what did he say?”

“He turned to his next neighbour and merely said, ‘Shut up, by Jove!’
Why, compared with these people, Major Tindal grows respectable; for
though he has but one side to his character, ’tis a manly and decided
one.”

“Poor, misguided Major Tindal,” said Lady Lee; “to think that he should
have taken the trouble to come all the way here” (the Major hadn’t been
able to forbear singeing his wings again), “just to do hopeless homage
to a girl who talks of him in that way.”

“Certainly he had better have stayed at Doddington,” said Orelia. “But,
now, Hester, tell me—could you admire, or ever be induced to love, any
of our present acquaintances, after having seen others so much
worthier?”

“I will go farther than that,” said Lady Lee, resuming her habitual tone
of melancholy, which she had relinquished for one of assumed gaiety,
merely to cover the confusion that Orelia’s home-thrust had caused her;
“I will say that we never could have admired or loved them in any case.”

“And yet they are not below the average of those we shall meet in our
pilgrimage,” said this severe censor; “and that brings me to a subject I
have for some time thought of. You and I can never link our lives to
people of that sort.”

“Never,” said Lady Lee, fervently.

“Neither will we spend them in vain regrets,” said Orelia. “In men that
would be unmanly, and in us ’twould equally be unwomanly. We will drive
out thought—we will leave it no avenue to enter—we will place a quickset
round our hearts. Some do this by openly relinquishing the world, and
taking vows; our resolutions shall be none the weaker because we only
take our vows privately, and to one another.”

Lady Lee looked at her friend inquiringly.

“Why should we have done with life because we have been disappointed in
one of its objects?” said Orelia. “Why should we languish or let
ourselves rust because those we prefer are withheld from us? _We_ could
not be content to go lingering and dreaming all our lives.”

“Not content, certainly,” said Lady Lee. “But what are we to do?”

“Make business for ourselves in the world,” said Orelia. “Be of use—turn
our energies to account. How many women younger than we quit a life of
ease without our provocation, and devote themselves to one of active
usefulness! We might be the founders of an unprofessed sisterhood. What
do you say, Hester? When shall we begin?”

“When?” said Lady Lee. “My dear, such a thing requires thought.”

“Say a week,” said Orelia.

“A week!” cried Lady Lee—“a year you mean. Nuns have a noviciate.”

“And a contemptible thing it is,” said Orelia, “that hovering between
two worlds, as it were—that lingering on the bridge, shilly shally. No,
Hester; we won’t show any such want of confidence in ourselves—we will
begin after a week’s trial. We must commence by closing up all paths to
thoughts that might unsteady us—lay aside at once poetry, romance,
music, except anthems and oratorios. We will prescribe for ourselves a
simple dress and a uniform and disciplined life. Come, are you not
anxious to begin?”

“I _do_ almost catch a gleam of your enthusiasm,” said Hester. “To
relinquish my present life will be no privation” (with a sigh). “But we
must mature the idea before acting on it. We must not begin lightly.”

“Lightly!” said Orelia. “I’ve been thinking of it these four days. And,
for our plan—feeding the poor—educating the ignorant—comforting the
sick—there is a field! So much for our duty towards our neighbour—for
ourselves, we will improve and occupy our minds with study, and I was
going to say meditation; but I’m not so sure whether our meditations
would be always on profitable subjects, at least not just yet. When nuns
turn out not so good as they might be, who knows what share meditation
may have had in it? We’ll act now, Hester, and put off meditation till
we grow older.”

Now, there was something in Orelia’s proposal that was not unpleasing to
Lady Lee. To banish thought which she found so wearisome—to occupy time
that hung so heavy—to labour with an object and obtain a result—these
were what she had long desired in a dreamy sort of way, and, now that
the more energetic Orelia had struck out the path, she was ardent to
follow it. Thus the mind would be provided for; and, for the heart, why
shouldn’t she and Orelia, her chosen friend, be all in all to each
other? which last idea was, perhaps, even more brilliant than the other.

Accordingly the noviciate commenced forthwith. They had, in Hester’s
maiden days, studied together French and Italian; they now began a
spirited attack upon the German language. Mathematics was desirable, as
it required attention, exercised the mind, and did not excite the
imagination, and they plodded away at Euclid and algebra with a
perseverance praiseworthy in an ambitious freshman, but, in them,
lamentable to behold. The piano remained unopened, the harp untouched,
except on Sunday, when they performed a piece out of Handel. Lady Lee’s
copy of _Corinne_ was put in the fire by Orelia, who had never
particularly admired the work; and, indeed, a great part of their
library underwent such a weeding as Don Quixote’s suffered at the hands
of the barber and curate. Both were dressed in mourning before for
Julius, so no great change was needed in their attire. To crown all,
they discovered, in a couple of days, some babies in the smallpox and
croup, three distressed families with the fathers out of work, and a
pair of rheumatic old women, so that their charitable resolutions were
not likely to fail for want of objects.

It is very well known that heroines of respectability ought to be
naturally benevolent. They ought, moreover, to have a happy knack of
winning the hearts of all who experience their bounty. I would with
pleasure bestow on my heroines all the good attributes that belong to
them, but I have already said they were far from faultless, and, to say
the truth, the line they had chosen was not their forte. Lady Lee’s
fastidious taste was speedily revolted by misery, whose pathos was
impaired by selfishness or coarseness; and Orelia, after a visit to one
of the rheumatic patients, left a sovereign for the sufferer, and vowed
she would never go near that horrid old grumbler again. In fact, this
was one of the points in which they were both of them inferior to Rosa.
Their benevolence sprang from a sense of duty, and was artificial in
expression, like the conversation of one who has learnt a foreign tongue
grammatically; while Rosa’s was natural, and fluent in the happiest
idioms of goodness.

However, they persevered, and, though they were striving against nature,
their conduct was quite natural. Women are never so enthusiastic about
their duties as when they have just been disappointed in love. Your
pretty Puritans are sure to have had an attachment blighted, and
Devotion is called in, like a Beguine, to dress the wounds made by that
rascal Cupid.

But yet, reader, if Hester and Orelia should really persist in their
project, what a glimpse of the possible is here opened! Let imagination
hold up the curtain for a moment.

Methinks I see Orelia, aged say about thirty-five; severe of aspect, and
with what novelists call “the traces of former beauty,” though the arch
of the nose has strengthened to Roman firmness, the mouth is quite stern
in its decision, and the fire of the eyes has some fierceness in its
sparkle. Irreproachable, but not amicable—unsparing to the indiscretion
of others, and having none of her own—rigid in the performance of
duties, as well as in exacting them—I see her, in fact, become that
formidable being, an exemplary woman, and I should like to see anybody
make love to her now.

Lady Lee, too, now getting on for forty, has changed from what we knew
her. She is not called, like Orelia, an exemplary woman, but is
stigmatised by the equally opprobrious epithet, a superior person. Her
eyes, dimmed with long perusing of good wearisome books through a veil
of tears, are still beautiful in their melancholy, but the rest of her
charms have withered. She does not discharge her duties with the
unfailing spirit of the more energetic Orelia, but requires a new weary
effort for the performance of each; and when the old obstinate question
recurs of what her business in the world may be, she silences it by a
contemplation of the indurated virtues of her friend, which she nerves
herself to imitate. There are no more confidences or confessions of
weakness between herself and Orelia, but a friendship such as might have
subsisted between the Mother of the Gracchi and Mrs Fry. They are
punctual in ——, but, as Sterne says, when the idea of his captive
becomes too painful, “I cannot sustain the picture that my fancy has
drawn.” Fane—Onslow—to the rescue!




                  THE MARQUIS DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN.[25]


                            FRANCE IN 1853.

The name of Larochejaquelein is not an obscure one. It was once familiar
to the world. It was known and venerated wherever stainless honour,
fidelity proof against all temptations and suffering, chivalrous valour,
and patient courage amid dangers that do not try the nerves less that
they want the excitement which sustains the soldier on the battle-field,
were held in reverence. The two brothers who covered that name with
glory of the purest kind were noble specimens of the old chivalry of
France, when chivalry had well-nigh passed away; and the chronicler of
their romantic gallantry and their heroic death was the gentle female
who bore their name, and who bore it high, and who shared in their
sufferings, their triumphs, and their defeats. We know of few
compositions more interesting than the narrative of the Marchioness de
Larochejaquelein, who, we are happy to find, still survives, her form
bowed by age, but her heart as true as when, in early youth and beauty,
she traversed on foot the ravines of the Bocage, or forded the canals of
the Marais, and witnessed the sanguinary wars waged by the insurgents of
La Vendée during the wildest period of the French Republic. It is
curious that the most attractive records of the great revolutions which
convulsed the two kingdoms of England and France, at periods so distant
from each other, should respectively be the production of a female pen.
The memoirs of Mrs Hutchinson and the narrative of Madame de
Larochejaquelein are companions fit to be placed side by side with each
other; and though the character of the two works is different, the
interest they excite is identical. They both possess all the fascination
of romance, but they are valuable in a degree which few romances can
pretend to. It has been remarked, that until their publication the world
was strangely in error on many of the important events to which they
relate, and that they have been singularly useful in diminishing a great
deal of the prejudice, and in dissipating the ignorance which had
existed, particularly with reference to some of the principal actors in
these terrible scenes. The character of the English heroine is shadowed
forth in her history; it is more unbending, more masculine, more stern,
perhaps, and commands admiration which the mind cannot refuse. But the
heart is led away by the tenderness of the Frenchwoman; and her pathetic
touches, while they add to the interest of her story, impart to it the
impress of truth.

The nobleman who has just published a defence of his own political
career during the eventful changes which France has again witnessed, is
the son of that lady by a second marriage. His lineage is an ancient and
honourable one. Sprung from the old house of Vergier de
Larochejaquelein, he counts among his ancestors a Crusader whose arms
form one of the many ornaments of the rich gallery of Versailles; two
warriors who fell on the hard-fought field of Pavia, when “all was lost
except honour;” a brother in arms and tent-companion of Henry IV., who
was left “with his back to the field and his feet to the foe” on the
plains of Arques; a _mestre-de-camp_, who met his death while in the act
of boarding a pirate off St Domingo. His uncle was the general-in-chief
in the Vendean army, and it was this gallant gentleman, on whose history
Froissart would have loved to linger, who spoke this last address to his
army, which is still remembered by the peasants of the Morbihan—“If I
advance, follow me; if I retreat, slay me; if I fall, avenge me!”
Another of this heroic family was a dashing officer of carabineers under
the Empire; and on the battle-field of the Moskowa he maintained the old
valour of the house of Larochejaquelein. Count Louis, the father of the
present Marquis, refused to serve under Napoleon. When the flight from
Elba roused Europe again from its brief tranquillity, the peasant
soldiers of La Vendée gathered once more round the white banner of their
chief. The insurrection was, however, soon put down, and
Larochejaquelein, while in the act of leading on his men against the
Imperial troops, fell with a bullet in his heart. This is an ancestry of
which any man may be proud.

The present Marquis is the son of the Royalist chief of the Hundred
Days, who had married the widow of his old companion in arms, the
Marquis de Lescure. He was born in 1804, and at the early age of eleven
was created a peer of France, under what is called the Second
Restoration. He entered the military service in 1821, joined the army
under the Duke d’Angoulême in 1823, and made the campaign of Spain. He
was captain in the horse grenadiers of the Royal Guard in 1828, and,
inheriting the military ardour which characterised his family,
petitioned the king to be allowed to serve in the Greek war of
independence, but was refused. He was permitted, however, to join the
Russian army as a simple volunteer in the campaign of the Balkan against
the Turks, “having nothing better to do,” as he himself said on one
occasion in the Chamber of Deputies. Though a peer of France, he had not
taken his seat in the Upper House when the revolution of 1830 broke out;
and refusing to accept place, favour, or honours at the hands of the
revolutionary government of July, he resigned his functions as peer of
France. Endowed with remarkable activity of mind, he devoted himself for
some time, and with much energy, to industrial pursuits, and gave up
politics till 1842, when he was named a member of the Chamber of
Deputies by the electoral college of Ploermel, in the Morbihan. During
his parliamentary career he did not remain idle. He took a prominent
part in most of the stormy discussions of the time: the various projects
of replies to the addresses from the throne, the conscription reform
law, prison reform, railroad bills, electoral reform, liberty of
instruction, all found in him a ready, fluent, and vigorous, if not an
eloquent debater. On all occasions he spoke out his mind frankly and
boldly; and though on many occasions in opposition to his own party, as
well as to the government, it is said that he never had a personal enemy
in the Chamber. His conduct, when the paltry attempt was made by the
servile adherents of the new régime to affix infamy on the Royalists who
paid their homage to the descendant of their former master, on the
occasion of the Count de Chambord’s visit to London in 1842, is beyond
all praise. He rejected, with scornful indignation, the stigma attempted
to be fixed on him by the Orleanists, who did not feel the sentiment of
honour, and were incapable of appreciating it in others. He at once
resigned his seat as deputy, and appealed from the outrage offered him
by the Philippists to the judgment of the electors. The electors
answered the appeal, and Ploermel sent him back to the Chamber, where he
persevered in the same independent course. When the base arts of
corruption employed by the government of July were to be dragged to the
light of day, Larochejaquelein was never silent. “A corrupting and
degrading selfishness pervades all parts of society,” he said, in the
discussion of the budget in 1845. “I have, in common with the rest of
the nation, given up all illusions about the constitutional forms of the
state, and I have no longer any faith in their independence. On all
sides, in all places, I behold the triumph of the base over the
generous, of evil over good; and each day that passes by brings us
nearer to a tremendous crisis—the future is indeed dark and
threatening!” These prophetic words were destined to be soon
realised—sooner, perhaps, than the speaker himself imagined.

We have said that M. de Larochejaquelein was a frequent and a forcible
speaker on important occasions. Without much claim to what is termed
oratory, his language is fluent and full of energy; and he has scarcely
uttered a few sentences, when you feel that he is a man of profound
convictions—and this we hold to be a great, as it is a rare, merit in
times like the present. His portly presence, open brow, and flowing
hair—his quick, earnest, and impassioned gesticulation, remind you of
the tribune of revolutionary days. The haughty movement of his head, and
the scornful expression of his eye, when repelling some unjust
accusation, give him an appearance of pride, which certainly is not
characteristic of him, for in private life no one can be gentler or more
unaffected. You see before you the gentleman of the old _souche_, not
the marquis of the _salon_, or that trifling race which the wit of
Molière has perpetuated. Had the Marquis de Larochejaquelein not been
born an aristocrat, he would have been a tribune of the people. Whatever
be his merits or demerits as a speaker or a politician, he possesses, at
all events, the courage, the audacity of his opinions. He was devoted to
the Bourbons of the elder branch (and they have not always paid his
devotedness with gratitude), not for interest, but for honour, from
family traditions; and were not the days of chivalry all but extinct in
what was once a nation of cavaliers, and were men again to combat for
dynasties in France, we are inclined to think that he would be among the
first to place his lance in rest, as his ancestors did before him; and
yet, if we are to judge from recent events, neither the hereditary
devotedness of his family to the cause which was so often sealed with
their blood, nor the sacrifices (and we are informed they are not few)
which he himself has made to it, have won him the favour of the court of
Frohsdorf. On the contrary, we believe that he has been exposed to all
the persecution that petty malignity can set at work; and we know that
attempts have, on many occasions, been made to ruin him among the
primitive peasantry of La Vendée and the Morbihan. His position with
reference to his own party became so intolerable, that he has considered
it necessary to publish, in a small volume, a review of the state of
parties in France in 1853, and which is, at the same time, a vindication
of his own conduct.

The work is curious and instructive. It notices the events which have
recently occurred in France; and though the causes which led to that
very decided act of vigour known as the _coup-d’état_ of December 1851,
have been long since known to the public, and appreciated by impartial
men, a narrative bearing the impress of truth, and penned by one of the
actors in the drama, cannot fail to be interesting. We do not concur in
all the views of M. de Larochejaquelein, nor do we agree in all his
deductions; but we readily admit the truth of his sketch of political
parties in France previous to the month of December, of the intrigues of
the Orleanist faction, their hypocrisy and selfishness, their utter
recklessness of consequences, provided but a chance was afforded them,
no matter at what cost to the country, of recovering the power for which
they had shown themselves unfit, and of which they were deprived almost
without an effort. In all this we agree; and we confess we are not a
little pleased at finding the opinions we have already had occasion to
express on these points fully borne out by one who has so intimate a
knowledge of affairs. We believe that the French press has, with one or
two exceptions, passed over in silence the work of M. de
Larochejaquelein; and we are not much surprised at that silence. It is
some time since all political intercourse has ended between him and the
persons who compose the court of Frohsdorf. These persons, we fear, too
truly represent the extravagant opinions and the intolerant conduct of
the men who contributed by their evil counsels to the overthrow of the
legitimate monarchy. They are the same of whom it has been said, and
said truly, that they returned from their long exile, having learned
nothing and forgotten nothing; and were the Count de Chambord to be
restored to the throne of his ancestors, their policy would again lead
to its overthrow. We desire to speak with respect of the present chief
of the house of Bourbon. We admire the dignity of his bearing; the
position he has assumed with respect to the Orleans family; the proud
refusal to make any sacrifice of what he considered to be a principle,
even though that sacrifice increased the number of his partisans; the
firmness with which he maintains his superiority over those who
despoiled him—the innocent victim of base intriguers, and a successful
insurrection—of his rights. But we fear that he allows himself to be too
much influenced in certain matters by a coterie composed of persons of
antiquated notions, and who do not appear to have any conception of the
progress made in the social and political world during the last
half-century. The errors of that coterie are exposed by M. de
Larochejaquelein; and that exposure will not narrow the distance which
separates him from his party, or rather from the court of Frohsdorf. The
unpalatable truth he tells will not easily be forgiven; and the
Legitimist organs of the press have considered it more prudent to pass
them over without notice or contradiction. The organs of what is called
the _Fusion_ have been equally discreet, and with one or two exceptions
the other journals have imitated their discretion, either because they
considered his sketch not sufficiently Buonapartist to merit unqualified
praise, or too much so for censure. The object of the Marquis de
Larochejaquelein, who still professes to be a Legitimist in principle,
is to show that he has been guilty of no inconsistency in giving in his
adhesion to the imperial government, and that he has not discarded the
opinions he always professed; that he has not denied the name he bears,
nor renounced the political faith in which he was brought up, by
accepting that régime, and taking, as a member of the Senate, the oaths
of allegiance to the Emperor and the constitution. It is principally in
this respect that the interest of the book consists, and we have noticed
briefly and impartially the conduct of the writer, and that of a certain
number of his fellow-Legitimists who have, equally with himself,
comprehended the imminent danger their common country was exposed to,
and availed themselves of the only means of safety left at their
disposal.

The offence committed by M. de Larochejaquelein, and which the more
intolerant of the Royalist party do not pardon, is not of recent date.
He was a Legitimist, it is true, but he was also attached to
constitutional government. He preferred a sovereign who inherited a
crown from his ancestors, but he was likewise the supporter of
representative institutions. But so many catastrophes—so many
revolutions had passed over France—so many governments had been
overthrown and institutions subverted, that all notions of right and
justice, as of government, were completely lost. The actors in the first
Republic denounced all monarchical forms, as not only incompatible with
human rights, but actually opposed to common sense itself—in fact,
something monstrous and unnatural. After convulsing all Europe, and
utterly changing the country where it first broke into mad violence,
that Revolution became exhausted from its very excesses; the Republic
fell into contempt; but the terror inspired by it was such, that then,
as in more recent days, people were glad to take shelter in any
government that promised security to life and property. The great object
of the Consulate, as of the Empire, was to obliterate the last traces of
a system which had cost France so dear. That régime was so great and so
dazzling that the loss of liberty was soon forgotten; and the yoke that
pressed on the nation was the less galling because it was concealed in
glory; and Frenchmen consoled themselves for not being free, because
their master was a hero.

That brilliant meteor, after blinding the world with its splendour,
and awing it by its power, fell into darkness. The ancient line was
restored; and the Restoration in turn began by proclaiming the
imperial rule as a usurpation; and Louis XVIII., in the charter of
1814, dated his reign, not from his return to France and the fall of
Napoleon, but from the death of his nephew, the son of Louis XVI.;—as
if the imperial epoch, with all its marvellous events, had never
existed, and as if the account popularly, but erroneously, attributed
to the famous Father Loriquet, was exact, that there had been no such
government as the Republic, and that the man who was generally
believed to have ruled the French nation despotically, but not
ingloriously, for fourteen years, was in reality only Monsieur le
Marquis de Buonaparte, lieutenant-general in the service of his most
Christian Majesty.

Next came the Revolution of July, which proclaimed that Charles X. had
forfeited his right to the crown, for himself and his heirs—who,
however, were admitted to have done nothing to merit that forfeiture—by
the manner in which he interpreted the 14th article of the charter,
which, nevertheless, authorised him “to make regulations and ordinances
necessary for the execution of the laws and the safety of the
state.”—(_Charte Constitutionnelle de 1814._) Republican writers
(_Dictionnaire Politique_, p. 216) admit that the aforesaid article left
to the king “the dangerous privilege of being the sole judge of the
necessity of the case;” though they refused to recognise that or any
other article of a charter which had been _octroyée_, or issued by royal
authority alone. The responsible advisers whom Charles X. consulted,
were of opinion that his conduct in issuing the famous ordinances was
legal. The Orleanist revolution denounced that act as a violation of the
charter, and declared that Charles X. had broken some imaginary compact
between him and his people, and had forfeited the crown. This was
admitting, to all intents and purposes, the right of armed insurrection.
The principle thus admitted by the new régime was often turned against
itself; and the right of overthrowing the government was many times
tried during the reign of Louis Philippe. Various insurrections broke
forth, which were successively put down; but had any of them succeeded,
Louis Philippe would long before 1848 have been accused, on equally just
grounds, of a violation of the new charter, and consequent forfeiture of
the crown, as his predecessor. At length _his_ turn came; and at the
very moment that most people believed the throne of July to be fixed on
the surest basis, the insurrection of February in a few hours overthrew
that which had already triumphed over so many previous dangers. Louis
Philippe rose to power on the barricades of July;—that power was laid
prostrate by the same means. He, in turn, was proclaimed a usurper of
the people’s rights, a violater of public liberty, and condemned to
execration. It is not strange, therefore, if the minds of men became
bewildered amid so many conflicting doctrines. There no longer appeared
any fixed standard by which to judge of authority. Monarchy in its
absolute form was decried by some; constitutional monarchy by others.
Monarchy under any denomination, or under any form whatever, was
denounced by many as an outrage on human reason. Some maintained that a
republican rule was hateful to the immense majority of the nation, and
that France only desired a fair opportunity to declare its will. Under
such circumstances what was to be done? The Royalists did not conceal
that they only _endured_ the Republic until an occasion offered for
re-establishing their own form of government. Each party maintained that
it, _and it alone_, represented the wants and wishes of the people;
while the unhappy people, in whose name, and on whose behalf, all this
had been done, stood by in silent dismay, and bent to the yoke which
each faction that got uppermost imposed upon it. All was confusion,
anarchy, chaos;—and the country, whose wellbeing was the pretext,
rapidly approached the brink of ruin.

Under such circumstances, we again ask, what was to be done? The Marquis
de Larochejaquelein thought that the only way of solving the problem was
by an appeal to the very people in whose name every outrage was
successively perpetrated; and calling upon it to declare, once for all,
frankly and freely, what form of government it preferred—whether
monarchy legitimate or constitutional, or a republic. From the day he
took his seat in the Chamber of Deputies until the 2d December, when the
National Assembly was dissolved by the _coup-d’état_, such was his
constant theme. He denied the legitimacy of the Orleans monarchy of
July, and refused to recognise the right of two hundred deputies, a
portion of only one branch of the legislature, to exceed the terms of
their mission, and to bestow sovereign power on any one. He expressed
his belief that France would, if an occasion offered, return to the
government of her legitimate sovereign, and he did not conceal that such
was the motive for his appeal; but at all events he demanded that France
should be consulted, and he pledged himself to abide by the issue. By
such conduct he incurred the hatred of Legitimists and Orleanists;—of
the former, because his doctrine was inconsistent with the principle of
divine right; and of the latter, because the admission of such an appeal
vitiated, _ab initio_, the right of the sovereign whom the two hundred
deputies had, of their own sole act, given to the nation. We offer no
opinion as to whether M. de Larochejaquelein would have attained his
object had his plan been carried into effect, nor on the abstract
fitness of such an appeal; but in so complete a dissolution of authority
of every kind, and amid such a confusion of all ideas of government, it
would be difficult to suggest any other experiment whereby the right of
those who founded their claim on the will of the nation could be tested.

The first great offence committed by M. de Larochejaquelein consisted,
as we have just seen, in his having so far deviated from the principle
of divine right, as to recommend an “appeal to the nation;”—but the
crime for which he can hope for no forgiveness from the court of
Frohsdorf, is his having recognised the imperial government, and
accepted the office of senator under it. M. de Larochejaquelein is of
opinion, that after so many revolutions there was no chance for monarchy
in France otherwise than by means of universal suffrage, by which the
present government has been elected. He thought that the Legitimists,
who had always maintained that they, and they alone, were acceptable to
the nation, would run no risk in abating something of their _amour
propre_, and in meeting the reaction half-way. If they were right, there
was no fear of the result of such an appeal. The Orleanists, who were
few in number and factious in conduct, would indeed be justified in
shrinking from such an ordeal as the ratification of the act of two
hundred deputies of the opposition; but in any case he despaired of a
monarchical government in any form that attempted to establish itself on
a narrower basis. “Let us now suppose,” he says (p. 190), “that monarchy
were proclaimed in France otherwise than by universal suffrage, which no
accredited leader of the old Royalist parties admitted. Of the three
monarchical parties, two would have been in open hostility with the
government, and would, as now, rely for aid on the Republicans—this time
in open hostility, and with much more reason. It is, perhaps, from a
feeling akin to paternal weakness that I invariably recur to this
article of my political faith—If the question of _Monarchy_ or
_Republic_ had been frankly put to the country under the Republican
government, under the Republican constitution, all dynastic pretensions
would vanish before traditional right, and the majority of the
Republicans themselves would have submitted to the declared will of the
nation. But no!—it was thought better to carry on intrigues up to the
very day when the _coup-d’état_ of the 2d December became a social and
political necessity; instead of cherishing carefully that liberty which
we claimed for the national will, the parties I refer to preferred
reserving themselves for chances which had only the effect of prolonging
our intestine divisions.”

M. de Larochejaquelein explains why he has given his adhesion to the
present government, elected, as it has been, by means of that very
appeal to the nation which he had, with certainly the hope of a
different result, always advocated. “If I am asked,” he says (p. 214),
“the reason of the humble support I give to the present government, my
answer is very simple: I see before me a strong government, which has
rendered real service to my country, and at this moment I do not see any
other that can possibly succeed to it. The faults that have been
committed are so numerous—revolutions have so exhausted our
strength—events have such complete power over us—that, I confess, my
reason forces me to accept the vote of eight millions of my
fellow-citizens. Nevertheless, I have never been more convinced than I
now am, of the excellence of the hereditary principle. Let us suppose
the Emperor to have issue—he has also relations. Let us suppose the
Count de Chambord to have issue—but the princes of the house of Orleans
are numerous. Under such circumstances, France would be exposed for
centuries to the danger resulting from the dissensions of the
monarchical parties disputing among each other the possession of the
crown. Hereditary right, respected by France for her own sake, saved her
from the evils which perhaps were the fate of future generations, and
spared us the repetition of those trials which we have already so
severely felt. I will be frank. The reason that many Legitimists support
the government is, that they do not wish on any account, or any terms,
either Orleanism or anarchy—the one being, in their opinion, the
consequence of the other. Were there no other motive than to destroy the
chance of either, the persons I speak of are of opinion that they ought
not to refuse taking part in the affairs of their country. Europe is
equally interested with us that the principle of the Revolution should
not be represented on the throne of France by a new family usurpation,
for there is no sovereign that such usurpation should not alarm.”

The reign of Louis Philippe was the reign of the _bourgeoisie_—of the
revolutionary shopkeepers of Paris. The scepticism of the eighteenth
century had extended to morals—the mockery that assailed religion
gradually undermined society—and all notions about virtue, honour,
independence, were destroyed by a blighting incredulity. We are no
believers in what is termed the perfectibility of human nature, but we
do not think that, even with the most mercantile people of the world, a
love of gain is incompatible with ideas of personal and national honour.
The all-powerful _bourgeoisie_ of the Orleanist régime was not a good
specimen of that class; it carried into political life the
characteristics of its social life. Insolent and overbearing in
prosperity, it was fawning and mean in adversity. A difference is always
observable between the bearing of a gentleman—and by the term we refer
as much to moral as to social superiority, as the gentleman of nature
may be found in all classes—and the mere upstart, and in France it was
perhaps more striking than elsewhere. Dignified humility, lofty
submission, obedience that implies no forgetfulness, no sacrifice of
self-respect, loyalty which cannot be degraded even in political
servitude, a sense of personal honour which despotism cannot wound, are
far different from the pertness of the _parvenu_, the nervous pedantry
of the _doctrinaire_, or the fawning of the sycophant. The one inclines
low, with a consciousness of just subordination to high station; but
after so inclining he stands up with erect face: the other falls to the
dust prostrate. The aristocratic courtier will offer the incense of his
adulation, but his censer is not rudely flung in the eyes of his royal
master, and his homage is not without grace and dignity. His words may
be soft and insinuating, but he will not change his nature. To use the
language of one who knew both classes well, he may stoop to pick up his
master’s hat or handkerchief, but it is the act of polite attention to
superior rank, and not the mercenary subserviency of a valet; and there
is an air of equality about it which shocks no one, and does not offend
the personage to whom it is paid. We rather think that, generally
speaking, a prince prefers selecting his ministers from the class of
plebeians, because he believes he shall be served by them as mere
mercenaries; while the others he must treat as servants of his crown,
and no otherwise. It is mentioned as one of the anecdotes of the Court
of Louis Philippe, whose fault was want of dignity, that, one day,
wishing to gain over to some project of family interest, on which he had
set his heart, one of his ministers, he offered him, in a familiar,
off-hand, and half-contemptuous manner, a portion of the fruit he was at
the moment eating. The minister appeared much flattered, bowed low, and
accepted the royal gift. We are not aware whether the bribe produced the
effect intended, but we much doubt if the citizen-king would have
treated with such disdainful familiarity a Montmorency, a Noailles, or a
Molé.

The effect produced by the exclusiveness of the July régime was such as
might have been expected. It was inculcated that the primary object of
man’s existence was the gratification of his meaner passion;—success in
the pursuit of wealth without any close examination as to the means by
which it was acquired, was regarded as the _summum bonum_; the
_enrichissez-vous_ so often repeated in the banquet and electioneering
speeches of even the most eminent of Louis Philippe’s ministers (though
we readily admit that no such incentive influenced the person who so
spoke) were the leading maxims of that system. Fidelity to principles,
faith in high and noble aspirations, were rather sneered at as the
ravings of the imagination, suited perhaps to the age of romance; and
strong attachment to traditions was referred to as a folly unworthy of
men of sense. The _bourgeois_ were often assured that they alone were
the sovereign; that they alone were eminent in eloquence and in thought;
that to them alone belonged the gifts of the earth; that they alone,
provided they were men of substance, were superior in the social as in
the moral scale; that to them belonged all distinctions as a matter of
right; that they only were fit to occupy eminent posts in every branch
of the administration, and in fact that in their hands were exclusively
placed the destinies of the state. They who thus extravagantly exalted
the pursuit of mere material interests, were destined to pay dearly for
the lessons they had taught. Faith and reverence for the past had been
held up to contempt by the new school of statesmen; but the doctrines
that had been inculcated for the overthrow of the former dynasty, were
equally applicable to the modern one, and the Revolution of February was
the consequence. Empty and dogmatic, the real _bourgeois_—the
_bourgeois_ whose stupidity or conceit makes him sure good material in
the hands of the revolutionists—has nevertheless pretensions to nothing
less than universal knowledge. Jealous of all superior to him in social
position, and insolent to those below him, he would drag down the former
to his own level, but would not permit the latter to rise to it. With
the examples yet before him, and the preceptors he had to guide him, he
could not be a _bourgeois_ such as July encouraged, without being
somewhat of an infidel. The reverence for religious forms that
characterised his fathers, was in his opinion fit for times of
ignorance, but not for the enlightened nineteenth century. He had dipped
here and there into the _Philosophical Dictionary_ of Voltaire; he could
sneer at the Mosaic chronology; be witty on the description of Noah’s
Ark; was incredulous about the Deluge; and laughed outright at the
Passage of the Red Sea. He had read the _Origine de tous les Cultes_ of
Dupuis, and could quote whole pages from Volney. He was therefore a
philosopher. With those severer studies he mingled the lighter graces of
wit and poetry, and for these accomplishments he was indebted to the
doggrel of the “philosopher of Ferney” in _Joan of Arc_; the _Guerre des
Dieux_ of Parny, and the looser songs of Beranger. To show that he
thoroughly appreciated these great masters, and that he was superior to
popular prejudice, he would not enter the doors of a church, as the
observances of religion were only fit for women and children. To prove
his independence, and to give “a lesson to the government,” he would not
pay the just respect, which degrades no man, to the accredited
representative of authority; but he would fall on his knees to worship
the merest political mountebank. He incessantly clamoured about
_equality_, and decried the aristocracy if he happened to see a
carriage, with a coronet or armorial bearings, roll by him; but his
pride was up if a struggling artist or poor man of letters addressed him
otherwise than with cap in hand. The noisy advocate of social and
political liberty, there was no greater despot in his domestic circle.
His house-porter crouched before him, and his servants grew dumb when
they heard the creak of his shoe. Railing against the “upper classes,”
his ambition was to scrape acquaintance with some decayed viscount, some
equivocal marquis; and if he had a visit from some one who bore a title,
the coroneted card lay for whole months in full view on the central
table of his drawing-room, or was stuck in the most conspicuous part of
the looking-glass frame. His personal pomposity was increased the more
he was disposed to corpulence, and his boldness was decisive proof of
the superiority of his intellect. Our worthy _bourgeois_ was rather hard
to be pleased. When the political world was tranquil, he passed his
leisure hours in running down the government; and though no one had more
experienced the mischief of agitation, he generally voted for its most
dangerous adversaries: not because he approved of their principles, or
that the ministerial candidates were not honourable men, but because he
was determined to let no opportunity pass of making the king and his
government feel that he, M. St Godibert, was not pleased with them, and
would “give them a lesson.” These lessons occasionally cost the teacher
very dear; and when agitation, warmed by himself into incipient
insurrection, grew dangerous, he was sure to be the first to accuse the
government of having excited it for its own special purposes. When
insurrection was defeated, he again blamed the government for excessive
lenity in the punishment of those who disturbed the public peace; and
when all peril was over, and a complete lull ensued, then he accused the
same government of excessive cruelty to those who a day or two before
were the _infame canaille_, but who now were his _frères egarés_—his
deluded brethren and fellow-citizens.

These were the men who served as the instruments to bring about the
Revolution of July, and these were they who were feasted and flattered
until they were led to believe themselves the only beings on earth
worthy of consideration. Such specimens were of course to be met with as
_employés_ in the various ministerial departments. Nothing could be more
insolent, or more griping, than the general run of those underlings. The
recommendation “_enrichissez-vous_,” coming, as it did, from the first
minister of the crown, was not forgotten;—he was one of the few who did
not carry out for himself his own theory; but we fear that the love of
power, which was in him a passion, induced him to tolerate, or at least
not to prevent, the scandalous jobbing which it was known was going
on—for it is not credible that such things could be done in secret. A
government where such men enjoy, in consequence of their position, a
great though underhand influence, is humiliating for an honourable man
to live under. There is something more respectable in the audacity with
which the insurgent flings out his crimson flag, and eyes, as he passes
through the richest quarters of Paris, the trembling _bourgeois_, whose
fine mansion he has already marked out, than in the system which admits
as its principal instruments the rapacious and insolent underlings, who
too often had the ministerial ear under the Orleans régime.

As for the representative system in France during the period of which we
speak, it was a farce. Two hundred thousand electors, for a population
of thirty-three or thirty-four millions, was not much better than an
oligarchy, and the worst of all oligarchies, for its corruption was its
bond of union, as was proved by the disclosures made to the world
towards the conclusion of Louis Philippe’s reign, when some of the
highest functionaries were dragged before the tribunals for
mal-practices; and we believe that there were other persons who did not
regret that the Revolution of February came to save them from public
disgrace. A minister who wishes to be regarded as a philosopher and a
statesman, should try to purify his age rather than corrupt it; and it
is as immoral as impolitic to encourage the baser passions of men in
order to keep yourself in power, however clean your own conscience, and
virtuous your purposes. Such things might be palliated in so loose a
politician as Walpole; but they would shock and disgust were they, by
the remotest chance, to be found in so austere a moralist as Guizot.

Some time previous to the _coup-d’état_ of 1851, a new scheme was formed
by the Orleanists, who were tired of the forced leisure to which the
successful imitation, in February 1848, of the example set by themselves
in 1830, condemned them. The object of this new project was the complete
reconciliation of the elder and younger branches of the Bourbon family,
and of the two important sections of the Royalist party, with a view to
a restoration, on the expiry of the presidential power in May 1852, by a
_coup-d’état_ on the part of the majority of the National Assembly, a
successful rising of the people or the army, or, in fact, any other
means that offered. None of those eventualities were, it is true,
expressed in the journals that acted as organs of the party, but they
were so understood by all the initiated. Each party looked forward to
the term fixed by the constitution for Louis Napoleon to lay down his
power, for the triumph of its cause. The Mountain took no pains to
conceal its designs; and not unfrequently, amid the stormy debates which
raged in the Assembly, the “second Sunday in May” 1852 was declared to
be the date when full vengeance was to be exacted from Legitimists,
Orleanists, Buonapartists, and “reactionists” of every kind and colour.
As that fatal term approached, the Orleanists, who surpass all others in
intrigue, and such of the Legitimists as were credulous enough to trust
them, and simple enough to be led by them, did their utmost to rouse the
revolutionary demon in the Chamber, and on several occasions openly
coalesced with the Terrorists. The Republicans suspected, as every one
who knew him must have suspected, the sincerity of M. Thiers; and though
they were fully aware of his real motive for seeking admittance into
their ranks, their passions would not allow them to refuse the
co-operation of any ally, and they relied, besides, on their own courage
and energy against treachery when the important moment arrived. On the
other hand, the Royalists were full of confidence in their success, if
the preliminary and indispensable condition of reconciliation were
adopted, and they agreed that France would not again submit to the
brutal tyranny of some three hundred Socialists. Their ordinary language
was, that, even at the worst, the “promised land” would at length be
reached through the Red Sea—the “promised land” being, of course, the
Royalist restoration; and the “Red Sea” the massacre and pillage it
would be necessary for France to traverse before it was attained. The
leaders of the Royalists, superior in all the arts of intrigue to their
more brutal rivals, were vastly inferior to them in energy of action.
During a brief régime of terror they would disappear, if necessary, and
remain in some place of safety until France, exhausted and
panic-stricken, threw herself into their arms, when they would at once
establish a dictatorship. Louis Napoleon was, in their opinion, the
obstacle easiest to be got rid of; they would leave his account to be
settled by the Republicans, in case they themselves had not previously
got him out of the way. As for any difficulties on this latter point,
they considered that it was absurd to think of them. Louis Napoleon had,
according to them, fallen into such contempt with the army and the
nation, that not a finger would be raised to save him. M. Thiers, and
other great statesmen like him, had, not merely in the saloons of Paris,
and in his own particular circle, but openly in the _Salle des pas
Perdus_, and the corridors of the National Assembly, sneered at him as
“a poor creature;” and the redoubted General Changarnier himself—on
whom, by the way, the eyes of the whole world were fixed—had more than
once insulted him in the Chamber, and in his official quarters in the
Tuileries. Louis Napoleon, therefore, was so utterly scorned as to be
made the butt for continual sarcasm in the saloons of an old foreign
_intriguante_, long resident in Paris; and this was his last
degradation. The only doubt was, whether imprisonment at Vincennes would
not be investing such a miserable being with too much importance. The
ditch of Vincennes would be much better, and if a few ignorant persons
thought him of consequence, why, an ounce of lead would quiet their
fears. Some of the more judicious and far-seeing of the political
leaders of the day, very properly considered that the main object they
had in view would be materially advanced, if, as we have said, a
reconciliation could be effected between the partisans of the Count de
Chambord and the Orleanists. The idea originated with the latter. A
meeting was held of about a dozen persons at first, in order to explain
the plan which had been formed, and to organise what was termed a
“fusionist agitation.” Other meetings, more numerously attended, were
held at brief intervals; and it was resolved to send out agents to
influential persons in the departments to win them over to the cause of
the _fusion_—the _fusion_ having for object the restoration of the
Bourbons; and the parties who were engaged in it were precisely the same
men who, in the press and in the Assembly, expressed their preference
for the government as established in February, and who denounced the man
who was _suspected_ of an intention to attack the immaculate purity of
the young and as yet innocent Republic. The first step of the
_fusionists_ was directed to the chief of the house of Bourbon and the
princes of Orleans. But the Count de Chambord refused to sacrifice a
particle of what he considered to be his just rights. He was King of
France, and the only representative of legitimate royalty of his family,
and he would consent to no divided allegiance. The princes of Orleans
had been princes of the blood before their father had usurped the crown,
and they must remain so. Past wrongs and injuries he was not unwilling
to forgive; he would not be very exacting in matters of secondary
importance, but on the great principle that the sovereignty resided in
him since the abdication of the Duke d’Angoulême, which followed that of
Charles X., he would hear of no compromise. On the other hand, the
princes of Orleans would not admit of any act which had the effect of
making their father a usurper; they were the more induced to do so that
they were receiving from their agents in France, and particularly in
Paris, assurances that great popular sympathy existed for them; and in
fact, that to the house of Orleans alone the nation was looking for
salvation! At the same time it was known that the Prince de Joinville
was doing something on his own account with reference to the presidency
of the Republic. Relying on the popularity he enjoyed to a greater
degree than any of his family, he seems to have entertained some hopes
of success. With the prudence which characterised his father, he would
not, however, commit himself to any declaration; would neither deny nor
admit that he was a candidate for the presidency; would neither avow nor
disavow the acts of his friends; he might profit by their exertions, but
if they failed, he would leave them to all the consequences of their
defeat, and, in the latter case, would very probably disavow them. This,
it will be admitted, was not very frank, or straightforward, or
princely. It can scarcely be believed that the Prince de Joinville had
all at once become a Republican; and it is not unfair to conclude, that,
if successful, he would have employed his position as President to the
restoration of his family. The mistrust of the house of Orleans that had
characterised the elder Bourbons—and its history proves how their
mistrust was justified—was increased by that conduct; and the Count de
Chambord was disgusted with the policy which permitted, without
disavowal, the name of his cousin to be spoken of by his partisans in
Paris as the candidate for the future presidency of the Republic. M.
Thiers did not, after all, approve of the fusion. It was sufficient that
the suggestion of a reconciliation had proceeded from a rival of whom he
had been always jealous, for that clever and restless intriguer to set
his face against it. His utmost energies were devoted to secure the
establishment of a _regency_ in the person of the Duchess of Orleans,
mother of the Count de Paris, whose confidential adviser he was, and
whose minister he hoped to be. A restoration by means of the fusion
would seriously interfere with his private plans, and he gave it
therefore his most decided opposition. To secure at any cost the
services of the man who at that time commanded the army of Paris, and
whose influence over the vast military force of the Republic was long
believed to be unbounded, was a great object. That man had
unquestionably rendered services to order. But his head had been turned
by adulation arising from gratitude for past and hopes of future
services; and he at length came to believe that on him alone depended
the fate of France. He was flattered with the idea that the part of Monk
was reserved for him; and to enhance the value of his co-operation, he
coquetted with both parties, and affected an air of mysterious reserve,
which rendered him equally impenetrable to all. That reserve was carried
on so long that it began to be whispered that General Changarnier would,
when matters came to the point, declare neither for the one party nor
the other, but would offer himself as candidate for the Presidency. This
rumour was absurd; and the silence of the general, who was Legitimist by
tradition rather than from principle, and an Orleanist from interest and
habit, was nothing more than the usual coquetry in which he apparently
took much delight. In fact, he remained dreaming away till the
_coup-d’état_ rudely woke him and others from their slumber. Of the
possibility of a fusion of interests between these parties, or of a
sincere reconciliation between the elder and younger branches of the
royal family, we entertain very serious doubts.

The house of Orleans had been, from the time of the Regent, of infamous
memory, fatal to the elder Bourbons. It was the evil genius that haunted
them from the cradle to the grave. The government of Louis Philippe
repaid the benefits conferred on the house of Orleans with ingratitude.
One of its earliest acts was the introduction of a measure for the
perpetual banishment of the elder Bourbons, and for the compulsory sale
of the property they held in France. They who have been shocked, and, we
readily admit, _justly_ shocked, at the decree of the 22d January 1852,
confiscating to the state the appanages which, according to the usages
of the French monarchy, should have reverted to the state at the
accession of a prince of the royal family, and at the compulsory sale of
the Orleans property, may have forgotten that that decree was but an
imitation of the legislative enactment of the 10th April 1832. We
condemn, on principle, such acts of confiscation; they are replete with
injustice; but we cannot help feeling that the decree of the 22d January
1852, all bad as it was, was an act of retribution. Signal ingratitude
is seldom left unpunished; and while we reprobate the conduct of Louis
Napoleon, we cannot say that the house of Orleans was wholly undeserving
of the treatment it met with. The sentence of perpetual exile, and
confiscation of property, was passed by the Restoration on the
Buonaparte family. That family owed no gratitude to the Bourbons; but
the princes of Orleans were bound by the strongest ties of gratitude to
them. On the 10th April 1832, the law was promulgated relative to the
elder branch of the Bourbons and the family of Napoleon. The law bore,
of course, the signature Louis Philippe, and the counter-signature of M.
Barthe, Louis Philippe’s Minister of Justice. The 1st, 2d, 3d, and 6th
articles were as follows: “1st, The territory of France and of its
colonies is interdicted _for ever_ to Charles X., deposed as he is from
the royal dignity in virtue of the declaration of the 7th August 1830;
it is also interdicted to his descendants, and to the husbands and wives
of his descendants. 2d, The persons mentioned in the preceding article
shall not enjoy in France any civil rights; they shall not possess any
property real or personal; they shall not acquire any, gratuitous or
otherwise. 3d, The aforesaid persons are bound to sell, in a definitive
manner, the whole of the property, without exception, which they possess
in France. That sale shall be effected, for the unencumbered property,
within the year dating from the promulgation of the present law; and for
the property susceptible of liquidation, within the year dating from the
period at which the right of possession shall have been irrevocably
fixed. 6th, The provisions of the first and second articles of the
present law are applicable to the ascendants and descendants of
Napoleon, to his uncles and aunts, his nephews and nieces; to his
brothers, their wives and their descendants; to his sisters and their
husbands.” This law against the benefactors and the kinsmen of Louis
Philippe was not enacted in the first heat of animosity, and the first
impulse of revenge for real or fancied wrongs, which, immediately
following a great revolution, might have been alleged as a palliation.
It was enacted one year and nine months after the Revolution of July,
when the passions of political parties, so far as they affected the
unfortunate Charles X. and his family, had time to cool down. A
high-minded man would have preferred forfeiting even the crown of
France, glorious though it be, to putting his signature to such a
document. The public and private virtues of the Orleans family have been
enlarged upon even to satiety. State reasons may be alleged as an excuse
for things which morality condemns; but the vaunted qualities of that
family should have placed them above any such justification. State
reasons may be alleged for the perpetration of any enormity. We have no
doubt that Catherine II. could allege them for the partition of Poland;
and the Emperor Nicholas justifies his present conduct towards the
Ottoman Empire quite as satisfactorily. Pretensions to virtues far
superior to those of ordinary men should, however, place those who are
so gifted out of ordinary rules. We have said that we reprobate the
decree of the 22d January 1852, but we have no doubt that Louis Napoleon
justified that arbitrary act by the law of 1832. The house of Orleans
renewed the sentence of perpetual banishment against the family of
Napoleon, and of incapability to possess property in the French
territory. Louis Philippe owed a heavy debt of gratitude to Charles X.
and his family; we have seen how that debt was paid off; no such
obligation bound the Buonapartes to the house of Orleans.

But there existed another obstacle in the way of reconciliation between
the elder and younger branches of the Bourbons—another outrage which it
is scarcely in human nature to forget. The Orleanist party had protested
in 1820 against the legitimacy of the present Count de Chambord. In that
year a document appeared in London, entitled “Protest of the Duke of
Orleans.” It was headed as follows: “His Royal Highness declares that he
protests formally against the minutes of the 29th September last, which
pretend to establish that the child named Charles Ferdinand Dieu-Donné
is the legitimate son of the Duchess of Berri. The Duke of Orleans will
produce, in fitting time and place, witnesses who can prove the origin
of that child and its mother. He will produce all the papers necessary
to show that the Duchess of Berri has never been _enceinte_ since the
unfortunate death of her husband, and he will point out the authors of
the machination of which that very weak-minded princess has been the
instrument. Until such time as the favourable moment arrives for
disclosing the whole of that intrigue, the Duke of Orleans cannot do
otherwise than call attention to the fantastical scene which, according
to the above-mentioned minutes, has been played at the Pavilion Marsan
(the apartment of the Duchess of Berri at the Tuileries.)” The paper
then repeats the whole of the account of the _accouchement_ as it
appeared in the _Journal de Paris_, the confidential journal of the
government, and shows the alleged contradictions in it, with the view of
proving that the whole was an imposture. The Protest and the
accompanying details to which we have alluded, were republished in the
_Courrier Français_ of the 2d August 1830; and the _Courrier Français_
was devoted to the Orleanist dynasty.

But those are not the only humiliations which the elder Bourbons have
suffered from the family of Orleans; and when we are told that the son
of the Duchess of Berri is about to take to his bosom the sons of the
man who laid bare to the world’s mockery the weakness of his mother, we
are called upon to believe that that son has become lost to every manly
sentiment. We doubt much if this be the case. There can be no sincerity
on the part of the Orleanists who first suggested the _fusion_. They
well know that, in the event of a Legitimist restoration, the men who
overthrew the throne of his grandfather and drove him into exile, who
resisted all attempts to restore them to their country, can never be his
advisers—if he be what we hope he is. Could the Duchess of Berri receive
at her levee the purchasers of the Jew Deutz, or those who signed and
gave to publication the medical report of Blaye? It is a vile intrigue,
got up for the sole benefit of the Orleanists. It was not out of love
for the house of Bourbon, but from hatred to Louis Napoleon, that the
fusion originated; and we agree with M. de Larochejaquelein when he says
that “the Orleanists and Legitimists, not being able to effect a fusion
of love, try to effect one of hatred, with the predetermined resolution
to tear each other to pieces hereafter, and with a violence all the
greater from the consciousness that one party was tricked by the other,
if indeed both were not tricked.”

The Legitimists are no match for their rivals in cunning—in the lower
arts of Machiavellism—in what is vulgarly but expressively termed _la
politique de cuisine_. In 1848 the former occupied a much better
position than the latter. The régime they had combated for eighteen long
years was at length overthrown, and the comparison between the fall of
_their_ sovereign and that of the “citizen” king was infinitely in
favour of the former.

Charles X. retired slowly before his enemies, and with all the dignity
of a defeat which is not dishonourable, nor dishonouring. In the most
critical moments, and when menaced with great danger, he never forgot
who and what he was. He assumed no disguise; he put on no menial livery;
and to the last moment of his embarkation for the land of his exile, his
friends had no cause to blush for him. He was throughout a king—“Ay,
every inch a king!” Whatever the faults he may have committed when on
the throne—and we are free to admit that his rule was far from
faultless—there was no loss of personal dignity in his descent from it.
If the revolution of February succeeded without the co-operation of the
Legitimists, it was not against them that it was directed, nor was it
the Legitimists who were to be conquered. And yet, in the course of a
very few months, the party became completely subordinate to their more
clever and more unscrupulous rivals. It is true that in the first
movement, when anarchy was wildest, the instinct of self-preservation
from the evils which menaced society itself, bound all men of order,
without reference to party, against the common enemy, Socialism. But it
is difficult to understand, when the impossibility of a Republican
system was recognised, when the necessity of substituting another form
of government was evident to all, how the Legitimists allowed themselves
to be seduced by their enemies. A snare in the form of the “fusion” was
laid for them, and they easily fell into it. It would be a waste of time
to detail all the manœuvres, the negotiations, the conferences, the
schemes for the realisation of that idea. There was nothing positive or
real at bottom. Everything was left to chance. It was soon evident that
neither of the parties was sincere; each tried to deceive the other.
Some of the more confident, or the more audacious, suggested that
propositions should be made to Louis Napoleon himself; and among the
Legitimists there were found persons silly enough to believe that he
would, notwithstanding all the chances in his favour, derived from the
spontaneous election of the 10th December 1848, gladly co-operate in the
restoration of a prince of the house of Bourbon. The name of General
Changarnier was proposed as the person to whom the dictatorship was to
be intrusted until such time as the Royalist restoration was
accomplished. A dictatorship was the great object with all parties: the
Socialists, in order that France should be regenerated according to
their peculiar ideas; the “moderate Republicans” would have selected
General Cavaignac, as they did after the insurrection of June, and would
have tried once more to force their system on a terrified population;
the Legitimists and Orleanists looked to a dictatorship as the surest
means toward a Royalist restoration, though it was not decided among
them who was to be the future sovereign. The Orleanists counted much on
their cleverness to beat their allies out of the field—allies in the
moment of uncertainty and danger, but foes to be got rid of at any cost
when the booty came to be divided. “In 1849,” says M. de
Larochejaquelein, “I was one of those who wished at least to maintain
the Republic, in order to insure the union of all that was reasonable
and patriotic in the country; to call on France to put an end, once for
all, to revolutions; and our object was to form the electoral committee,
known afterwards by the name of the Committee of the _Rue de Poitiers_.
I had been chosen by the Legitimists; but when we met, I requested to
have it explained to me for what reason the committee was only composed
of Orleanists and Legitimists. It appeared to me fitting and proper that
the more judicious and moderate Republicans should form at least a third
part of our committee, as we had at heart hopes of a different kind. I
was told that the committee did not wish for Republicans, simply because
it did not wish for the Republic. I demanded why, out of sixty members
of the committee, forty-five belonged to the Orleanists, and only
fifteen to the Legitimist party. An ex-minister replied that, though the
party of legitimacy was, no doubt, honourable, yet that it formed a very
small minority, while the other was in fact the nation. Not being of
that opinion, I withdrew, and I declined being made use of as an
instrument for the restoration to the throne of France of the
revolutionary monarchy of 1830.” The division and weakness of those
parties is further illustrated in this passage: “There remained another
means of which the intimate confidants of the Count de Chambord were
dupes—a plan which was never admitted except by them, and the
impossibility of which was evident—namely, to bring about a restoration
through the instrumentality of the Legislative Assembly itself. Without
understanding what they were doing, the parliamentary Legitimists of
1850 directed all their efforts to renew the act of 1830, when 219
deputies, without right of any kind, and with the most flagrant
disregard of their duty, presumed to change the form of Government. The
Assembly was divided into so many parties that it was in vain to hope
for a majority for that object. It is true that towards the close of the
Assembly all parties made a desperate attempt to combat Buonapartism;
but the moment that a serious proposition was made to substitute a
government for that of the President, it was found that concord did not
and could not exist between two of the great parties who composed that
Assembly.”

M. de Larochejaquelein gives some interesting details of the secret
intrigues of the Orleanists to win over the Legitimists to the “fusion;”
and it is amusing to find how both parties were deeply engaged in the
duty of allotting crowns and imposing conditions on pretenders, up to
the very eve of the _coup-d’état_. We had already become acquainted,
through the channel of the public press, with the intrigues which made
the presidency of Louis Napoleon one continued agitation, and we are not
sorry to have the testimony of one who was an eye and an ear witness of
the whole. “I appeal,” says M. de Larochejaquelein, “to the good faith
of all political men—Is it, or is it not, true, that the idea of the
most confidential advisers of the house of Orleans was to induce the
Count de Chambord to abdicate in favour of the Count de Paris? Is it, or
is it not true, that they urged the adoption of the Count de Paris by
the Count de Chambord, even to the prejudice of the issue of the latter,
supposing that he had any? Is it, or is it not true, that on the eve of
the 2d December, certain persons who were the most influential, who
stood highest in favour at Claremont, made that monstrous proposition in
the _Salle des Conferences_ of the National Assembly, and that it
produced a great effect on the Legitimist members of the Assembly? Is
it, or is it not true, that the _Sceptics_ of the party replied, with
surprising impertinence, Yes, no doubt we earnestly desire the fusion!
What then? But it is not our interest to oppose it. You (the
Legitimists) have for a long time kept yourselves apart from public
affairs. The country belongs to us. _Your_ principle is the best; we do
not dispute the fact; but, above all, it is certain that your principle
(legitimacy) is necessary for us to adopt. _Your_ prince (the Count de
Chambord) may return with _our_ royal family. _He_ is its chief; agreed.
But at the end of six months he will see what his position really is. He
will see that it is impossible for him to govern with _you_, and without
_us_. He has no children; he has too deep a sense of religion to be
ambitious; he loves France too much to wish her to be given up to
commotions which would expose her to new revolutions. He will prefer the
castle of Chambord as a residence to the Tuileries. You may be certain
that we shall treat him well, and we shall all be contented. The
principle itself will be respected, and _we_ shall govern France.” Such
were the propositions, and such the language of the partisans of the
Orleans family to the Legitimists. Not a word, of course, was said of
Louis Napoleon; and these profound statesmen were thus disposing in sure
confidence of the fruit of their schemes only a few hours before they
were scattered like chaff before the wind by the man on whom they
disdained even to pass a thought! The Orleanists were still tormented by
one fear; they trembled lest the proposition so often presented to the
Assembly by M. de Larochejaquelein should again be renewed at that
critical moment which preceded the expiration of the presidency of Louis
Napoleon. The President of the Assembly, M. Dupin, the principal agent
of the Orleans family, urged, and with more than usual energy, that body
to refuse its authorisation for the printing of M. Leo de Laborde’s
proposition, namely, that France should, at the important moment when
every faction was struggling for supremacy, be consulted as to whether
she desired, or not, the re-establishment of her traditional monarchy.
M. Dupin treated the question as if it were one of life or death to
himself. He threw off all restraint, and resisted with his utmost
efforts any measure resembling an appeal to the nation, or embodying the
principle of legitimacy. “And even at the present moment,” says M. de
Larochejaquelein, “the language of the Orleanists is this: ‘We find that
the _fusion_ is the best instrument of hostility against the government
of Louis Napoleon, and for that object we must effect it. But if the
Count de Chambord should ever become a widower, he must not think of
forming a new matrimonial engagement. Should he happen to have children,
he must no longer count on our support.’”

One of the hallucinations under which the Orleanists laboured was, that
Louis Napoleon was in his heart devoted to them exclusively; and that
when the _fusion_ was consummated, he would transfer his power to them.
That delusion survived even the _coup-d’état_. M. de Larochejaquelein
admits, in common with all rational men, that the _coup-d’état_ was the
salvation of society itself, and they who were loudest in their applause
of it were the Orleanists. “The most ardent in their approbation,” the
noble writer remarks, “were the Orleanists, because they were convinced
that the President was, perhaps without meaning it, working for them.
The decrees of the 22d January undeceived them. From that moment they
became divided into two camps, that of the extreme opponents, and that
of the men who accept the government, but who yet cherish a spirit of
hostility to it, more or less openly declared.”

We have often thought it extraordinary why those Legitimists who had
freely taken the oaths of allegiance to Louis Philippe refused them to
Louis Napoleon; and on what grounds those who yielded prompt obedience
to a revolutionary system, established by some two hundred deputies,
should, while demanding an appeal to the people, decline to recognise a
power which is the issue of the national will. M. de Larochejaquelein
professes to be unable to account for the fact. “It would be curious,”
he says, “to find out the reasons on which they found that refusal. I
confess that I cannot explain a proceeding of the kind, and which is so
advantageous to the revolution of July. It is true that the Legitimists
must be pained at seeing their hopes baffled once more; but were it only
in a social point of view, they ought to give their co-operation to the
government. By keeping apart, they leave the place open to the men whom
they had for so many years combated, and they commit the injustice of
placing on an equality the usurpation of 1830 with the election of the
Emperor successively by six, by seven, and by eight millions of
suffrages. Prince Louis Napoleon had overthrown nothing which was
endeared to us; it was not he who had persecuted the princes who were
the object of our reverence and of our devotedness; it was not he who
placed the revolution on a throne; but it was he who combated the
revolution. He had, in the opinion of the immense majority of the
people, rendered a signal service to France by effacing beforehand the
fatal term of May 1852. He made an appeal to all honest men, without
distinction of party, to aid him in saving the country. The majority of
Legitimists could not well disregard the will of the nation; they
submitted to the verdict without sacrificing their principles.” We need
not say that we approve of the policy which has preferred the good of
their country to the mere gratification of party feeling or personal
ambition; and we see no inconsistency in the accepting a government that
has fulfilled the conditions which, in the eyes of these persons, alone
justified their adhesion.

As for the Orleanists, they began in intrigue, have continued in it, and
we have no reason to suppose that they will ever change. Place and power
are, with very few exceptions, their object. The Palais Royal was,
during the Restoration, the favourite resort, the headquarters of all
the malcontents of the day: all who stirred up opposition to the
government, all who intrigued against Louis XVIII. or Charles X., were
welcome to the palace of “our cousin of Orleans.” They were not true
even to the government of their own choice; they had overthrown one
dynasty, and because M. Thiers or M. Odillon Barrot wanted the place,
which M. Guizot preferred exposing the country to convulsion rather than
be torn from, another dynasty was flung down after it. The tactics of
the party have been always pretty much the same; revolution was evoked
by them to the hypocritical cry of _Vive la Charte_, or _Vive la
Constitution_. They were the men who organised, in 1829, the formidable
associations against the payment of the taxes. At that time, also, as
twenty years later, banquets were got up; and at one of those scenes of
feasting, 221 crowns, in honour of the 221 deputies of the opposition,
adorned the hall; and that nothing should be wanting to complete the
resemblance, it was M. Odillon Barrot who made the speech on the 4th
July 1830, which was the prelude to the fall of Charles X.—the same
great citizen whose banquettings and whose orations helped to destroy
the throne of Orleans in 1848—the same demagogue whose conceit led him
to suppose that _he_ alone could lay the fiend he had evoked. There was
nothing too low for them to stoop to, no instrument too mean for them to
reject. It was that faction that brought about the revolution of July,
it was the same that helped on that of February, and it was the
coalition of the _fusionists_ with the Mountain that provoked the
_coup-d’état_ of December 1851. Where were all those eminent statesmen,
those solemn orators, those sour pedants, those profound thinkers, those
philosophers, those great citizens, when the widowed Duchess of Orleans
faced the mob, who had been rendered infuriate by the men who were
afterwards unable or afraid to control them?

It has been made a matter of reproach to Louis Napoleon, that the
persons who enjoy his confidence, or preside at his councils, are
obscure adventurers, of no moral or social influence; and that no man of
eminence, worth, or standing, will accept either power or place in a
government so degraded. This, we rather think, is too sweeping an
assertion. We should like to know what was the social, moral, or
political eminence of M. Thiers, when the Revolution of July brought him
first into notice. If we cast our eye over the list of senators under
the imperial régime, we find names there that may stand a comparison
with many in the late Chamber of Peers; and as for corruption, we may
point to the events that immediately preceded the Revolution of
February, when some of the highest had to answer for acts which were
anything but moral. It is true that some of the leading men who directed
the policy of the country under Louis Philippe have taken no active part
in public affairs under the imperial government. But when we hear all
this talk about “eminent men” refusing office, and declining all
participation in the government of the day, we are tempted to ask how
had those “eminent men” managed the business of the country when they
had its sole direction and control? Their government, with immense
resources at its command, and after eighteen years of profound peace,
was upset in a few hours by a contemptible street row.

We are not aware that M. de Larochejaquelein has been answered by any of
the parties whose intrigues he has exposed. We think it would be
difficult to answer him; his sketch carries with it internal evidence of
its correctness. It is no answer, so far as the truth of his allegations
is concerned, that he has abandoned the party with which he had been
connected. We believe that he has had to undergo the petty persecutions
of the _coterie_ of Frohsdorf, who have resorted to every stratagem to
destroy whatever influence his name may still carry with it in La
Vendée; and, judging from his present production, he is of opinion that
that _coterie_ is not worth any man’s making any extraordinary
sacrifices for them. But whatever be the motives that have influenced
his conduct, or whatever the value of his “appeal to the people,” we are
bound to admit, that so far he has acted consistently with his theory.


           _Printed by William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh._

-----

Footnote 1:

  _The Elements of Materia Medica and Therapeutics._ By JONATHAN
  PEREIRA, M.D., F.R.S. Third Edition. London, 1849–50. Pp. 1538.

Footnote 2:

  _The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater._ Fifth Edition. London.

Footnote 3:

  _M‘Culloch’s Commercial Dictionary_, edit. 1847, p. 1314.

Footnote 4:

  Madden, _Travels in Turkey_, vol. i. p. 16.

Footnote 5:

  The effects, real or imaginary, of this “juice” are thus described:—

                     “Sleeping within mine orchard,
             My custom always of the afternoon,
             Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
             With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
             And in the porches of mine ears did pour
             The leperous distilment: whose effect
             Holds such an enmity with blood of man,
             That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through
             The natural gates and alleys of the body;
             And, with a sudden vigour, it doth posset
             And curd, like eager droppings into milk,
             The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine;
             And a most instant tetter bark’d about,
             Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust,
             All my smooth body.”—_Hamlet_, Act i. scene v.

Footnote 6:

  Pereira, p. 1427.

Footnote 7:

  English edition, p. 278, quoted in M‘Culloch’s _Commercial
  Dictionary_, p. 1314.

Footnote 8:

  _Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry._ London edition of 1812, p.
  167.

Footnote 9:

  _Ale_ was the name given to unhopped malt liquor before the use of
  hops was introduced. When hops were added, it was called _beer_, by
  way of distinction, I suppose, because we imported the custom from the
  Low Countries, where the word beer was, and is still, in common use.
  Ground ivy (_Glechoma hederacea_), called also alehoof and tunhoof,
  was generally employed for preserving ale before the use of hops was
  known. “The manifold virtues in hops,” says Gerard in 1596, “do
  manifestly argue the holesomeness of _beere_ above _ale_, for the hops
  rather make it physicall drink to keep the body in health, than an
  ordinary drink for the quenching of our thirst.”

Footnote 10:

  _Voyage dans le Nord de la Bolivie, et dans les parties voisines du
  Perou._ Par H. A. WEDDELL, M.D., &c. &c. Paris, Bertrand; London,
  Baillière. 1853.

  _Scènes et Récits des Pays d’Outre-Mer._ Par THÉODORE PAVIE. Paris,
  Lévy. 1853.

Footnote 11:

  _Blackwood’s Magazine_, No. CCCCXXX., for August 1851.

Footnote 12:

  The occupants of the pit at a theatre are called in Spain the
  _mosqueteria_.

Footnote 13:

  “Be not so well pleased, Juana, to see how I suffer for thee; that
  which is my fate to-day, to-morrow may chance to be thine.”

Footnote 14:

  This arm, which the _gauchos_ throw to a distance of twenty paces,
  consists of three balls fastened to the same number of cords. The one
  held in the hand is longer than the two others.

Footnote 15:

  _History of the Captivity of Napoleon at St Helena._ By JOHN FORSYTH,
  M.A. 3 vols. London: Murray.

Footnote 16:

  _Notes and Emendations to the Text of Shakespeare’s Plays, from Early
  MS. Corrections in a Copy of the Folio, 1632, in the possession of J.
  Payne Collier, Esq., F.S.A.; forming a Supplemental Volume to the
  Works of Shakespeare, by the same Editor._

  _The Text of Shakespeare vindicated from the Interpolations and
  Corruptions advocated by J. P. Collier, Esq., in his Notes and
  Emendations._ By SAMUEL WELLER SINGER. 1853.

  _Old Lamps or New? A Plea for the Original Editions of the Text of
  Shakespeare, forming an Introductory Notice to the Stratford
  Shakespeare._ Edited by CHARLES KNIGHT. 1853.

  _A Few Notes on Shakespeare, with Occasional Remarks on the
  Emendations of the MS. Corrector in Mr Collier’s Copy of the Folio,
  1632._ By the Rev. ALEXANDER DYCE. 1853.

  _A Few Remarks on the Emendation “Who smothers her with Painting,” in
  the Play of Cymbeline, discovered by Mr Collier in a Corrected Copy of
  the Second Edition of Shakespeare._ 1852.

  _New Illustrations of the Life, Studies, and Writings of Shakespeare,
  supplementary to all Editions._ By JOSEPH HUNTER. In 2 vols. 1845.

Footnote 17:

  _A Few Notes on Shakespeare_, &c., p. 22.

Footnote 18:

  This expression, “to cry aim,” occurs, in a serious application, in
  the following lines from “King John,” _Act II. Scene 1_:—

         “_K. Philip._—Peace, lady; pause or be more temperate:
                      It ill beseems this presence, _to cry aim_
                      To these ill-tuned repetitions”—

  that is, to give encouragement to these ill-tuned wranglings.

Footnote 19:

  _A Few Notes_, &c., p. 50.

Footnote 20:

  _The Text of Shakespeare Vindicated_, &c., p. 24.

Footnote 21:

  Molesworth’s edition, vol. iv. p. 46.

Footnote 22:

  See _New Illustrations_, &c., vol. i. p. 356.

Footnote 23:

  _L’Insurrection en Chine, depuis son Origine jusqu’à la Prise de
  Nankin._ Par MM. CALLERY et YVAN. Avec une Carte topographique, et le
  Portrait du Prétendant. Paris: 1853.

Footnote 24:

  Painted upon the bucklers of the Chinese soldiers are all manner of
  ferocious animals;—the tiger is the one most frequently seen, hence
  the surname. On behalf of his Celestial friend, and in extenuation of
  this ridiculous custom, Dr Yvan maintains that, in many of our
  European military equipments, the same intention of terrifying by a
  fierce aspect is manifest—as, for instance, in the bear-skin caps of
  grenadiers, hussars, &c. The Spaniards, who bear little love to any
  foreigners, and who are particularly given to laughing at their
  Portuguese neighbours, assert that there was formerly in use, in the
  Portuguese army, the word of command, “_Rosto feroz a o
  enimigo!_”—Ferocious face to the enemy!—upon receiving which, the
  soldiers looked excessively savage, showed their teeth, and made a
  threatening gesture. This must have been a base imitation of the
  Chinese. To this day the _tigers_, who are often faint-hearted enough,
  go into action making horrible grimaces. Dr Yvan gives a very curious
  account of the Chinese army, in which sound of gong is used instead of
  word of command, and the officers are stationed behind their men to
  prevent their running away—an exercise to which they are extremely
  addicted. Silence in the ranks is far from being enjoined; on the
  contrary, when approaching an enemy, the tigers and other wild beasts
  roar in character—their sweet voices, with a gong accompaniment,
  combining in a discord that is truly infernal. There exists a Chinese
  treatise on the art of war, in twenty-four volumes, entitled
  Ou-Pi-Tche. Its perusal is not allowed to civil mandarins below the
  third rank, or to military mandarins below the fourth, nor, of course,
  to persons of inferior degree. It is not admitted in China that a
  private person, a literary man, a merchant, an agriculturist, can have
  any good motive in studying such a work. Booksellers are permitted to
  keep but one copy at a time, and are compelled to register the names
  of purchasers. “Before beginning the war with the Celestial Empire,”
  Dr Yvan says, “the English procured several copies of this treatise.
  One day, at Canton, an American merchant mentioned this fact to a
  mandarin of very high rank. The mandarin struck the palm of his left
  hand with his fan: ‘I no longer wonder,’ he cried, ‘that the
  red-haired barbarians vanquished us!’”—_L’Insurrection en Chine_,
  chap. ix. pp. 119–124.

Footnote 25:

  _La France en 1853._ Par Le Marquis DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. Paris: 1853.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
     chapter.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





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